Not all those who wonder are lost

You and Jason know each all too well to know that when you say you’re going out, you don’t actually mean that you’re going out. Why leave the house when you can indulge in nonsensical chatter with your best-friend-turned-roommate? Jason doesn’t see the point in this.

You take a deep breath before saying, “It could be fun! We can check out that karaoke bar I told you about.”

“Bold of you to assume that I’m doing karaoke on tonight of all nights.”

“Bold of you to say that before getting a couple drinks in you.” You say, turning to him and raising your eyebrows. He can’t deny that look.

He wishes he could protest, but he settles on a quiet, “Fine.”

The two of you just sit there in silence for a moment, both silently begging for the will to get up. The silence between you is filled with Leonard Cohen’s ‘Suzanne.’ When Jason thinks about it too much, the song almost reminds him of you.

He can’t help but remember the short dissertation you’ve given him about the song over dinner many of nights ago. Of all of his songs, for a matter of fact. There was nothing but a look of love in his eyes as you went on and on and on.

To stop that reoccurring thought, he swiftly gets up with a small grunt. He extends his hand, offering to help you off the couch. You reach out and take his hand, adjusting from your position on the couch until you’re upright and on your feet. You mutter a small, “Thanks.”

Your hand lingers on his for a second too long. A second that if anyone saw, they’d realize what was truly going on between you two. The feelings that neither of you are bold enough to reveal.

You drop his hand and give him a small, flat smile before heading off to your room to get ready for the night. Jason’s eyes follow you as you walk away. He quickly looks down as if he did something wrong.

Moments like this aren’t extremely rare between the two of you. It always starts with a strangely domestic act. And it never fails to end with one of you running off before things can get too real. And best believe that they’re never acknowledged after.

The two of you rush to get ready, in hopes to get there at least an hour or two before the bar closes. You spend as much time as you can picking out your outfit, hoping that it’ll get you at least one free drink.

When you’re finally ready, you step out of your room and see Jason already standing in the common area, looking bored as ever. He’s wearing exactly what he was when you left to get ready.

“Didn’t feel like getting all dolled up tonight?” You joke.

“Ha ha.” He says sarcastically, all while taking in your outfit. You notice his lingering gaze.

“You like it?” You say while doing a little spin before continuing, “Do you think it’s enough to get me a free drink?”

He ignores the first question. “A free drink? All your drinks are free, I pay for them.”

You playfully roll your eyes, knowing he kind of has a point. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure I do. Let’s go.” He says jokingly, before turning to head for the door.

The walk to the bar is anything but silent. You’re trying to decide what songs you should sing at karaoke, all while telling Jason what songs he’s going to sing.

Before you step into the bar, you turn towards Jason and say, “I think we should get fucked up tonight.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Why not?” And with that, you make a pointed turn and walk into the bar. He follows your lead.

The bar is obnoxiously loud. From loud chatter in every corner of the room, to someone very terribly covering, ‘Mr. Brightside.’ Nevertheless, you immediately make your way to the bar. You order two shots each for the both of you, just to start you off, of course.

Once you both down the shots, you make your way to the stage to watch these poor people humiliate themselves. You’ve never been so eager to look a mess.

You turn towards Jason, “Should I go next?” You say with a laugh.

“Oh, definitely.” He says smugly.

“Okay but, I’ll only go if you do.”

“I don’t think I’m drunk enough yet.”

And that’s how the two end up on stage singing a terrible rendition of Whitney Houston’s, ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody.’ Jason couldn’t help but look at you as you were hitting all the wrong notes. So much so, that he wasn’t even embarrassed anymore. He was just there. With you. He’s never felt so alive.

When the songs over, you two head to the bar once again. Jason gets a whiskey neat, and you get some fancy margarita. You two are enjoying your drinks, until you hear an unknown voice come up from behind you.

“Quite a voice you got there.” The voice says. You turn around, and you’re met with an attractive-enough-man. Sure, he’s not what you truly want, but he’ll do just fine. Guess the outfit worked its magic.

He extends his hand, “Trevor.” You meet his hand shake and give him your name. All while turning to Jason and wiggling your eyebrows. This Trevor guy continues, “Can I buy you a drink?”

You give him the fakest, yet sweetest smile you can, “Of course you can, Trevor.”

Jason has never been more miserable than he is in this moment. The only things that can compare is all the other times this has happened. And it almost makes Jason sick every time.

Jason puts his hand on your shoulder, muttering a quick, “I’ll leave you to it,” before walking off.

Trevor takes in the interaction, and then finally asks, “That’s not your boyfriend, right?”

You’re far too used to the question at this point. Every guy asks it eventually. And it almost makes you swoon every time. Like every interaction before, you dramatically say, “No— no! Not at all. He’s my roommate.”

Jason keeps a close eye on this conversation from across the bar. After all, his main focus is keeping you safe. If this was on his terms, that would mean keeping you away from guys like Trevor. Sure, he might not know the guy but he already knows that he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t know you. Not like Jason doe—

He quickly downs his drink to subside his thoughts. But something in him just can’t stand another guy making a move on you. That should be him. It was in this moment that Jason realized how tipsy he’s getting. To mend that thought, he goes to the bar and orders yet another shot.

Now in your vicinity again, he feels the need to down it and order another. All while you’re sipping on your second drink bought by Trevor. You look over Trevor’s shoulder and see Jason. He looks… unamused to say the least.

He looks up, as he feels your gaze on him. You shoot him a soft smile and in that moment, it truly lights him up. A sight for sore eyes, some would say. But the moment ends a little too quick for Jason’s liking. It’s not long before you’re back to being immersed in whatever-the-fuck this Trevor dude’s saying.

This goes on for what feels like hours for Jason. In reality, you were talking to him for maybe 15 minutes until Jason decided that he’s the one that should have your attention right now. He tries to brainstorm all the ways in which he can earn your undivided attention.

He can pretend to be your boyfriend? Like all the countless times before when creepy guys try to buy you drinks. Is that what Trevor is? A creepy guy? He looks at you as you playfully smack Trevor’s shoulder. Yeah, probably not.

Maybe he can pretend to fall and get hurt or something. Yeah, he’s not drunk enough for that yet. He looks at the karaoke stage as someone sings a god awful rendition of Carly Rae Jepson’s ‘Call Me Maybe.’ Although the sound is something like nails on a chalk board, it strikes up his best (maybe worst) idea yet. Karaoke. He is drunk enough for this.

As the person on stage hits their last ear-piercing note, Jason makes his way to the stage before anyone can steal his soon to be spotlight. As he steps on stage, he almost can’t stand all the eyes on him. But the one pair of eyes that aren’t on him are the ones that matter most. Yours.

As he tries to choose his song, his mind is at a loss. He drunkenly fumbles through the catalog, but none of these songs are good enough for you. That is, until he sees Leonard Cohen’s, ‘I’m Your Man.’ This should do it.

As you hear that first note, your head whips to the stage, revealing a very, very, drunk Jason on stage. Now completely tapped out of your conversation with Trevor, you mutter a, “No fucking way.”

You make your way closer to the stage. Without Trevor, Jason notices. Jason’s eyes are on you the entire time, as he starts singing the first line.

“If you want a lover, I’ll do anything you ask me to.”

His words are pointed, as he looks into your eyes throughout the entire song. It almost feels… intimate. If you were literally anywhere else, this is one of those moments where you would run away. But you don’t. You can’t. Honestly, you don’t even want to this time.

As the song ends, Jason drunkenly walks off the stage. Now with him standing right in front of you, you give him a genuine laugh and say, “Jason Todd. You are drunk.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“Indeed, it is. Let’s go.”

His eyes stay on you as you walk away. On the way you constantly look back at him, to make sure he’s okay. The way your hips sway— No. This is exactly why he didn’t want to get drunk tonight. It always ends with him questioning everything he’s ever known. Because of you.

The fresh breeze hits Jason’s face in just the right way as you two walk outside. It almost clears his mind completely. Until he looks at you once again. The sight of you recks his mind completely. If only you knew how he truly felt.

His thoughts are interrupted by you snapping in his face, “Jason! Are you okay?” You say, all while holding out one of your earbuds to him. As he takes it, he says, “Yeah— yeah. Sorry. I think I got too drunk.”

“Obviously. C’mon. Let’s get some food in you.”

The walk to the burger joint is filled with a comfortable silence between you two as you listen to the soft romantic songs playing through your headphones. It’s not long before Leonard Cohen’s, ‘If I Didn’t Have Your Love’ comes on.

As the song plays, Jason just can’t help but drunkenly cling to you. He wraps both of his arms around your shoulders and leans almost all of his weight on you. As you almost tumble, you say, “Geez, what has gotten into you?” with a soft laugh.

“I didn’t like that Trevor guy.”

“I could tell. Honestly, I didn’t either,” you turn to him, now with his face directly in yours, “But I got like, two free drinks. I consider that a win.”

“I bought you more drinks than he did.”

“Didn’t know it was a competition”

“It is.”

You’re almost taken aback by his sudden boldness. But as you approach the burger joint, you jokingly push him off of you, “Okay, Romeo. We’re here.”

You two quickly put in your orders and sit down as you wait for your food. It isn’t long before Jason lets his thoughts consume him once again.

He takes a deep breath before speaking, “Y’know, you look very beautiful tonight. No wonder that Trevor guy was all over you.”

You give him a soft smile as you dip your head, “Thanks. And he wasn’t all over me, by the way.”

“Might as well have been. Guys like that don’t deserve your attention.”

“Then who does?”

“Someone that knows you better. Someone that knows you in and out.”

If you thought too much about it, you would think he’s talking about himself. But your thoughts are interrupted by the employee calling your order number. You quickly scramble to get up.

After grabbing your order, you walk back to the table and extend your hand to Jason. He takes it as he gets up, stumbling a little as he does so.

You two walk hand in hand back to your apartment, with your head resting on his arm. There’s somewhat of an awkward silence now, no longer having music to fill the void. That is, until Jason speaks up.

“I’m glad you’re with me again. I couldn’t stand your attention not being on me.”

“Codependent much?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I’m messing with you. That little stunt you pulled definitely got my attention.” You say, referring to his little karaoke moment.

As you guys approach your apartment, you release the lock of your hands, as you dig in your purse in hopes to find your keys. Jason opens the door for you before you can find them.

When you two walk into the shared space, Jason immediately flops down onto the couch. You walk over to him, kneeling down next to him, food in hand.

You drunkenly say, “Jason. Get up.”

“Can’t.” He mumbles with his face pushed into the cushions.

“You need to eat, Jay.”

He can’t argue with you when you call him that. He slowly tosses and turns until he’s upright. You take the burgers out of the bag and hand him his. As he’s eating, he realizes how good of an idea food was. As he’s sobering up a bit, he thinks about all the things he said to you in his drunken haze. He hopes you’ve already forgotten all of it.

Of course, his wishes don’t work out in his favor, as you say, “You feeling better? You were talking a lot of game earlier.”

He puts down his empty burger wrapper and puts his head in his hands. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that.”

“How could I?”

He decides it’s best to just be honest at this point. “I meant what I said, by the way.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

You gather up all of your drunken confidence to quietly say, “Were you talking about yourself earlier? When you were talking about what I deserve, I mean.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Stop being so coy, Jason. Say what you mean.”

“Yes. I was. Are you… okay with that?”

“I think I just might be,” you say with a shy smile, “But I also think that we should sleep on it and talk in the morning.”

“You’re not wrong.”

With that, you get up, and head to your room. Not without turning back and giving Jason another smile, though. He stays exactly where he is.

After getting ready for bed, you walk back out to the living room to clean up the remnants of food wrappers. As you walk out, you see Jason fast asleep on the couch. The sight of him so peaceful almost makes your heart melt.

You have a sudden realization that you should stay out here with him in case he gets sick or something. So, you grab a pillow and blanket from your room and settle onto the floor right beside the couch. You fall asleep thinking about the conversation that’s to come in the morning.

Did he really mean all those things he said? Is tomorrow finally going to be the long awaited day that you don’t run away at the sudden intimacies? You’d never tell him, but that night you dreamt the sweetest dream of you and Jason. It’s like your subconscious was telling you that you’re meant to be.

The next day, Jason wakes up only seconds before you do. His headache consumes him as he looks over to his left, seeing you on the floor beside him. His heart flutters at the sight. How sweet can one person possibly be?

As he’s looking at you, you stir awake. The first thing you see is his gaze on you.

You mutter a soft, “Morning.”

“Morning. You feeling okay?”

“Barely.”

“Yeah, same here.” He says as he flops back down onto the couch.

It’s just then that both of you start to think about your actions of last night. It seems as though there’s a silent understanding that neither of you should talk about it.

Jason drowns out his thoughts by slowly getting up and muttering, “I’ll make breakfast. Just get some more rest.”

Of course, you don’t listen, as you immediately get up to follow him to the kitchen. All he does is laugh.

You sit on the counter carefully watching him as he makes breakfast. The way he swiftly maneuvers around the kitchen. How he cooked your eggs for longer since you don’t like them runny. Maybe you don’t want to run away from the intimacy any longer.

“Can we talk about last night?” You mutter out as he’s finishing up the meal.

“Sure. Let’s sit.”

He carries both plates to the table and places them at seats directly next to each other. He then pulls your chair out for you, and then says, “Let’s talk.”

The freshly made breakfast should consider itself long forgotten. You two have more important business to tend to.

But honestly, you don’t have enough words to tell him how you really feel. So, you kiss him. The kiss says everything you’ve been itching to say for years. As you pull away, looking into his eyes, you say, “Too much?”

“Not at all.”

You make the brave decision to go in for seconds. This time, the kiss speeds up. You place your hands on his shoulders, as his hands are on the curve of your waist. He pulls you into his lap. You put your hands on the bottom hem of his shirt, testing the waters.

“Go ahead.” He says, giving you a tap on your waist, as you pull his shirt over his head.

You pull away with a smile, saying, “I think I might love you, Jason Todd.”

“I think I could say the same about you,” he lands a kiss on your lips, “I” another kiss, “Love” and another, “You.”

Yeah, breakfast could definitely consider itself long forgotten.

He shakes his head, even though he yawned. The moon casts a glow inside the room that’s enough for me to keep working, I wouldn’t want to turn on the lights and wake everyone up. I say, “You’re tired, George, go back to sleep.” 

“I’m not tired.” he protests, and his eyes blink slowly. It’s been this way ever since I can remember. Every night before they go off to Hogwarts, we have a sleepover, and every night, I can’t sleep, my heart aching from the idea of missing my friends so much, and George would sneak in downstairs, eyes droopy and force himself to stay awake. 

“We send each other letters everyday.” I say, reminding him that we would still be close, and maybe reminding myself too. He lays his head on the back of the sofa and he hums, “It’s not the same.” 

“I wish you could come to Hogwarts with us,” he muses, and I try not to think about it too hard. My friends, my closest friends every year would go off and spend the entire school year far away from here, all the way in Scotland where they would learn magic and I would stay at home, missing them. He says, “Remember when mom and dad found out that you knew about us?” 

I chuckle, remembering the memory fondly. It’s forbidden in the Wizarding World for a muggle to know about magic, but one day, when I was I think eight or nine, I was wondering outside my home, and I noticed a tall large house that was leaning so slightly, and I can’t remember why but I went towards that house, only to be flung backwards by a mysterious force. 

George and Fred had stolen their older brothers’ wands and a spell had gone haywire. They rushed to help me, and they couldn’t hide from me the magic that I just experienced, maybe because they knew that I’d tell my parents who would eventually talk to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley who would then ground them for the rest of their lives. 

“We kept it a secret for a long time.” I add, it took them years to find out, and maybe it would’ve taken them longer if I hadn’t slipped up. George laughs, “If only you wouldn’t have mentioned Hogwarts.” 

“I was sad you were leaving! What was I supposed to do?” I exclaim, but my voice still low trying to be mindful of the rest of the members of the Weasley family that were sleeping upstairs. George shuffles closer to me and he repeats, the corners of his lips turned down, “I wish you could come with us this year especially.” 

We’ve done this five times before, but it doesn’t get easier each year. Why couldn’t summer vacation be longer than just six weeks? I mirror his actions, placing my hoop beside me and moving closer to him, our thighs almost touching. I ask, “why this year especially?” 

“I heard from Charlie that there will be something special happening, a tournament, other wizarding schools coming too…” he trails off, his eyes unfocused before adding in a low voice, “a Ball…” 

“A Ball? You’ve never had a Ball at Hogwarts before.” I note, surprised, from their stories Hogwarts didn’t seem like a place for such festivities, they always had to be the ones to liven the place up with their brilliant pranks. Another thought enters my mind, a ball is basically a fancy dance, and a dance means that he’ll have to ask someone. I avoided his eyes, trying to sound as casual as I could. I inquired, “Do you have anyone in mind…for that?” 

“Not really…I was thinking Fred and I could go solo,” he hums. I don’t think about the relief that I feel and I chuckle, “As if Fred would pass up an opportunity like this with Angelina.” 

He chuckles as well. Fred has never been one to be shy when talking about the girls he likes. He has been going around flirting with their entire Quidditch team, first it was Spinnit, then Bell, and this year it’s Angelina. I do think this time it’s different though, he couldn’t stop talking about her gorgeous hair all summer. 

“That is, if Charlie isn’t bluffing. He could be finally trying to get back at us, besides, I think this year I want to focus on our jokes more,” he says, moving the topic of conversation, and I’m grateful for the switch. The image of George dancing the night away with someone other than me, gets me all jittery. I ask, “what prank are you going to start with?” 

“Hmm I don’t know, but I was thinking we finally do the fake knife thing you mentioned.” he suggests, and I clap my hands excitedly, and I move closer to him on the sofa. I add, “The one where you and Fred fake a fight in the Great Hall and he ends up ‘stabbing’ you in front of everyone?” 

He nods, “I’m sure it’ll give everyone a big scare, especially the professors. Fred and I just have to figure out what to fight about, and set the scene well. If we’re doing this, then we’re going to do it well.” 

“Ohh, I wish I could see it.” I say, before I have the time to process my words. George doesn’t mind it, he reaches over to grab my hand, he says, “I’ll make sure that you get a video.” 

“How? I thought muggle stuff wasn’t allowed in Hogwarts.” I say, remembering the time when I tried to give George a pager so we could talk while he’s at Hogwarts, but it exploded as soon as they arrived inside the castle. He says, “Yes, but there’s this kid in Ginny’s year, and he always walks around with this camera of his, I’ll tell him about the prank before and I’ll tell him to take a video of it.” 

“I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.” 

“You wouldn’t be ruining a thing, besides, It would be worth it so you can see it.” he mumbles, and his cheeks flush. I’m sure mine are the same. I try to not move my body so he doesn’t realise that he’s still holding my hand. He whispers, “I’m really going to miss you.” 

“I’m going to miss you too.” 

***

I’m laying on the grass in the middle of the field in front of the Weasley’s house. Bill and Charlie are visiting this year and I decided to pop in to say hello. I always visit Mrs. Weasley throughout the year, she says it gets lonely without everyone around. I have to agree with her, the quiet during the school year is eerie and uncomfortable compared to the joy and noise during the summer and winter breaks.

Spring has only just started a few weeks ago, but the flowers are already blooming to their fullest. I close my eyes and breathe in the soft air that blows from above the hill. A shadow covers my face, blocking me from the sun. I open my eyes softly and see a mop of ginger hair standing over me. It must be Bill or Charlie, no wait, it’s- I ask, “Fred?”  

“In the flesh,” he says with a smile on his face. I quickly stand up and grin. I ramble, “You’re back, you’re back! You’re back early! What are you doing here, it’s the end of April? You still have a lot of weeks left in school.” 

“We left, we quit!” Fred cheers, he explains, “Couldn’t stand Umbridge in the slightest and we don’t need the degrees anyways, we won’t need them for our joke shop.”

“Ugh, it’s so great that you’re here.” I exclaim, clapping my hands together. Their new professor was an awful person, the things they told me about in their letters is simply unforgivable. I feel better now that they’re both away from her. I look around a bit, and I find that George isn’t anywhere near the field where we’re standing. I pout and ask, “Where’s George?” 

“At least act like you’re happy to see me a bit more than that before asking for the love of your life.” he teases me, a large laugh erupting from his throat mid way. My cheeks heat up, and I playfully punch his arm. I say, “I am happy to see you, and besides he’s not the love of my life-” 

“Who’s not the love of your life?” George says, as soon as he appears in front of me in a flash. I stumble back and place my hand on my chest, in surprise. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to his apparating thing that they do. My cheeks turn even more red as I wave him off, “Nothing, no one.” 

He turns to Fred in question but Fred only shrugs his shoulders, and sends me a subtle wink when George gives him his back. George finally looks at me and he smiles. He closes the space between us, and he covers me with his arms. I wrap my arms around him in a hug. I inhale the smell of cinnamon and fireworks and his cologne. He whispers in my ear, sending goosebumps over my neck, “we’re back…I just couldn’t wait to see you.” 

“You liar, Fred told me that you quit school.” I say, pulling back from the hug, and Fred interrupts the private moment, he says, “I don’t think he’s entirely lying, love.” 

George’s head snaps to his brother and he glares at him. A terrifying voice booms from the bottom of the hill, a terrifying voice that I know all too well. We all tense as we hear Mrs. Weasley shout out the twins' name. I ask, “I take it you didn’t talk to her about this before you left.” 

“I’ll go talk to her. You two catch up.” Fred says, while walking down the hill and towards the burrow. Mrs. Weasley starts shouting again, but the voices quiet down as they close the door behind them, taking the conversation inside. George sinks down to the grass, his knees close to his chest and his hands covering his face. 

“It’s going to be okay, George.” I reassure him, but honestly, I have no idea. Mrs. Weasley has often expressed her distaste for their liking for jokes and pranks and especially when they decided they want to pursue it as their jobs. I do think they can make a career out of it, but I don’t know if Mrs. Weasley will support them. 

I sat down beside him, our hips flushed together. I repeat my thoughts, “I fully support your dreams, George, no matter what.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he replies. He uncovers his face and the sun shines its bright rays across his face, making his beautiful brown eyes glimmer. My breath hitches. I only now notice the large scar on the bag of his hand with the words ‘I must not tell lies’. I reach out and grab his hand gently, looking over at it with concern in my eyes. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” George says, trying to make it seem like it’s nothing. It looks like someone carved the words into his hands with a knife. I grave the cut over with my thumb, holding his hand gently. The words are cut in deep too. I sigh, “George, this is terrible.” 

“Don’t worry, we rub an ointment on it every day, so it only hurts a little now,” his words offer little comfort as I gasp, “It still hurts?” 

The scar looks like it’s been there for a long time, it’s already started to heal. It’s no longer a deep red but rather a softer sort of pink. He chuckles nervously, trying to soften the blow, “I mean, no it doesn’t hurt, of course it won’t fade but-” 

“It’s going to be this way, forever?” I exclaim, and I take in a deep breath looking off into the distance. I always remember that as magical as their world is, it’s also very dangerous. I shouldn’t have to worry about them when they’re just at school, but I am, and with the things they’re telling me, with what’s coming. I haven’t been this worried since they were attacked at the big Quidditch game last year. George doesn’t answer and that’s all the confirmation I need. 

“I don’t want you to worry.” he says, and I look at him incredulously. Tears appear in my eyes, I wish I’d been there when this all happened, so I could’ve helped, but what help can I be with magical problems when I’m not magical? He pulled me into his chest, and I said, “How can I not?” 

“At least I’ll get to see you all the time now.” George says with a coy grin on his face. Yes! No more of them leaving for ten out of twelve months a year. No more weird letters appearing out of nowhere that catch my parent’s attention. I could even see them everyday. I laugh, “That is a good consolation prize.” 

I snuggle deeper into his chest, ignoring the way he tenses up first before wrapping his arms around my stomach. The blades of grass and the flowers all bend to the side as the gusts of wind wooshes through. I sigh, “I’m really happy you’re here, George.” 

“Can I ask you a question?” he says, and I nod my head, of course, he can ask me anything. He scratches the back of his neck, anxious, and he stutters a bit before tilting his head towards the burrow, he says, “When I was inside…Bill told me something.” 

Oohh no, what did Bill say now? All the Weasleys are such nosey people, I hope he didn’t tell George about how I’m madly in love with him. This could ruin everything. I say nothing, and it urges him to continue, “he said that you were dating someone, some guy named Rick or something.”

Ah yes, Rick, the guy from my A-level English class. He was almost nothing, I only told Bill because Rick once sent me a message when I was at the Burrow, and as previously mentioned, the Weasleys are nosey. I explain, “It wasn’t anything too important, it was a two week thing, at most.” 

George just hums, his chest hitches from behind me. He asks, “Do you…like him?” 

No, oh god, no I do not. I have not liked anyone other than George, but how can I say that, how can I say that to him without ruining everything. We’ve been friends for over a decade, just because I feel like I might die whenever he mentioned that he went to the Yule Ball with Spinnit or that I get so happy whenever he’s around and because I want to kiss him, always. That’s not a good enough reason to say anything that might ruin this, unless he gives me a sign-

“I really hope you don’t.” 

My head snaps to his face, my heart in my chest. He couldn’t mean… could he? I know George better than I know anyone else, and I don’t understand a single thing that’s happening. Why is he looking at me like that? My stomach tumbles like I’m riding a rollercoaster, oh, George would love going on a rollercoaster. I stutter, “No, I-I don’t like him.” 

“Oh?” he hums, and he’s not looking at my eyes anymore, he’s looking at my lips. I feel like I might throw up, my heart is beating so fast. He licks his lips, and I add, with very little courage in me but with a lot of hope, “I like someone else.” 

“Anyone I know?” George muses, and he tugs me closer to him by my waist. Our legs tangled up like some unorganised wires together. I place my shaking hands on his chest, and he looks back at me, waiting. I know exactly what that look is now. Before I hesitate, and while my heart beat is right in my ears, I say, “Just kiss me already, George.” 

And he does. 

***

It’s been two hours while I wait at the Burrow. The lights closed and the only thing shining was the moonlight. I’d open the lights but I can’t get myself to move from my spot on the sofa. The spot where I was when George explained to me that the entire Weasley family were going to go fight an evil wizard, never mind that the last time they ‘faced’ them, the Burrow was burned down. 

Nothing could make him stay, not begging and not tears. The dark and grim atmosphere is a sharp contrast to the usual happy mood of the burrow. I sat there for hours with one eye on the clock and the other eye on the Weasley family clock, each hand on the clock representing a member of the Weasley family. All the clocks pointing at Hogwarts and all of them still hanging on. 

Another hour passes, and I start pacing, maybe I should clean up a bit? The brooms and the dishes usually do their work with magic, but I’m sure I can still use them. I pick up the broom and start out with George and I’s room, where we’re staying when we’re at the Burrow. As soon as I walk in, I’m hit with a wave of nausea, looking at all the picture frames and the messed up bed that we were too lazy to make in the morning, staying in bed for just a little bit longer. 

The pictures of George at Hogwarts with the Quidditch team, pictures of our first date, and second and our apartment together with Fred above the shop, where I’m legally allowed to be, but that never stopped us. A helpless sob escapes from my mouth, what if something happens to him? He already lost an ear a few months ago, what if he dies? What if any of them die? 

This is a horrible idea, I close the door to the room and go back downstairs, I’ll clean up here instead. I clean like I’ve never cleaned before. Vacuuming, cleaning all the stairs, washing the walls, and dusting and anything I can possibly think of. I do the dishes and I look back at the clock. It's been three hours already, and nothing. They will be hungry when they all come back, I should make them something to eat. 

I should make something sweet and salty. I’ll make muffins and I should probably also make a casserole, or maybe they’d want something lighter to eat. Should I make eggs? But eggs don’t taste well after they sit for a long time, but why would they sit for a long time? They should all be back any minute now. 

Another hour passes. 

This one I spent crying, everyone in this family was a major part of my life. Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Weasley who have been my second parents ever since I was eight. Ginny who is the little sister I never had. Will I ever get to see Ron and Hermione admit their feelings for each other? Bill who finally moved back home after years and Fleur who I only started to get to know better. Charlie who actually tried to give me a dragon egg when I was ten because I wanted one so bad before Percy took it away because how reckless is it to give a ten year old a dragon egg. Fred who has been my best friend for years and only finally started to live his dreams. And George- 

I keep crying until another hour passes. I hear a stumble outside the door of the burrow, and at lightning speed, I rush to see who it is. I swing the door open and outside it is Fred with bruised skin and blood splattered over his clothes and body. I sob and rush over to hug him. He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. 

“Come on, I have to get you somewhere?” Fred announces, and he takes his wand out of his jeans and takes my hand. I look between his face and the wand that’s in his grip and the horror goes through me. Where’s George? I’m just about to say it when Fred says, “This is going to feel weird.” 

And it did feel weird. My body contorts and swirls and flips through space, and in a flash I’m in a new place, I almost throw up, the bile rising up to my mouth and I have to force it back down while clutching my stomach. How did they apparate as often as this did? This is awful. I regain my composure and I feel the gust of wind, and I notice that I’m standing in front of a castle that’s covered in ruins, I almost throw up again when I notice all the blood and a few bodies just a few metres away. 

Fred is smiling, that means that nothing bad could’ve happened, right? He motions for me with his finger to turn around, and I furrow my eyebrows before spinning to look behind me. It’s George. With all his limbs and only a broken lip, and some bruises up his arms, and his clothes covered in dirt and dust. I close the gap between us and hug him. I start crying again, and he tightens his grip around me, squeezing me tight. I sob, “you’re okay, you’re okay.” 

“I know this isn’t the best of circumstances but I wanted you to see it.” George says, and he nods his head towards the castle. I turn to look at it, the words clicking, this must be Hogwarts. It’s so much more grand than the photos. I imagine it must’ve looked better even before all this. He says, “I always wanted you to see it before…” 

He trails off, and I pull myself back closer to him, the distance unbearable now. I urged him on, “Before?” 

He clears his throat, and he starts another sentence, “I was going to wait, do it at a better time, but I- this day was not good-” he chuckles, he always finds joy even in the worst moments, but why was he talking like this? Is everything okay? Is he going to die? He continues before I break down again, “The entire time we were fighting I just kept thinking, Merlin, I’d be an idiot if I died without marrying you.” 

It stops me in my tracks, my mouth parts open. No way, right? No way. He takes a step from me, and I keep my arms linked to his before he releases it. He starts to lean down, my heart is lurching in my throat, no way. He sinks down on one knee with his back straighted, plucking a small velvet box out of his pocket. I hear a cheer and I turn around to fit every Weasley family member watching behind us; including Harry and Hermione. 

I chuckle and tears start to fall from my eyes. I wipe them quickly and a smile graces my face. They’re all okay. George clears his throat, and grins, he starts, “Will you-” 

“Yes.” 

“Let me finish.” George chuckles and a few echo from behind us the same laughter. I bite down on my bottom lip and George shakes his head fondly, he repeats, “Will you marry-” 

“Yes!” I interrupt again and lurch forward into his arms. The box almost falls from his hands as he catches me on the ground. He laughs and shrugs his shoulders towards his family, he whispers, “Close enough-” 

“Hey, Walls,” you called out, catching the attention of the speedster who’d been hovering around the kitchen. He stood to attention, coming towards where you’d asked for him, standing at the countertop. “Help me with the drinks?”

“Anything you want, beautiful,” he flashed you a smile, leaning heavily over you as you manoeuvred a bunch of cups into his hand, while you held two tall pitchers of ice tea. He took in your outfit, dressed in shorts and a tank top, your hair pushed away from your face to combat the heat.

You looked over your shoulder, bright smile on your face. “Coming?”

Snapping out of his daze, Wally sped up to join you, setting down the cups next to the pitchers and sliding into the seat next to you.

Before he could open his mouth, possibly shove his foot in there by letting out another flirtatious comment, you speak up.

“Hello, handsome.”

Wally blinks, once, slow. Did he hear you correctly? Was he finally out of—

“Hi there, gorgeous.”

Dick.

Of fucking course it was Dick Grayson. The boy had sidled himself next to you, leaning into your personal space, and worst of all, you’re letting him. Wally looked up, you were preening under the charming smile the raven haired boy had put on. Preening, and Dick had his chest puffed out like a fucking peacock, thanking you for taking care of the team.

“You’re so nice to me.”

Wally knew that voice, the fucking low and gravelly tone swaying any girl into one Dick Grayson’s arms. The very arms that were way too close to you while in nothing but a wifebeater, muscles fully on display. The ginger huffed.

“Of course, can’t have you fainting on me from the heat,” you patted Dick’s thigh heavily, and Wally swears if he could switch powers he’d steal Superman’s heat-vision eyes—or as Wally would prefer to put it: laser-beams-that-melt-off-hands eyes—the moment Dick placed his hand over yours.

He busied himself with pouring a glass of ice tea, all but shoving it in front of you. “Didn’t you say you were thirsty earlier, babe?”

You frowned, confused, but gratefully accepted the drink he was holding out. It was hot outside. You opened your mouth to speak and Wally was waiting for. . . something, maybe pretty boy at least if not handsome (clearly, that was reserved for Richard).

“Thanks, Walls.”

“Of course, beautiful, anytime.”

You grinned, once again turning to Dick who was telling you some story, hands waving animatedly as he stole every bit of your attention.

Walls.

Wally swore he could feel the ground swallowing him whole as you laughed loudly at the story he’d heard a million times before. Fucking Alfred and his infamous cookies that made everyone act like animals. Fuck Dick too while you’re at it, he grumbled under his breath, slumping into the couch.

.

Okay, so maybe he was overreacting.

You have always been flirty and Dick hasn’t been nothing if not a very willing recipient (and active participant) of someone beautiful hitting on him. Hell, Wally was sure Dick would flirt with anything breathing if they were actually interested. Which, looking at the Wayne heir, anyone would be. But did it have to be you?

Sighing, Wally moved through the tower in a breeze, reaching the training room in record time where you were going to spar with him, like always. “Sweetheart, sorry I’m late, was running low on fuel.”

“It’s alright, Walls,” you chuckled, wiping the chalk dust from your palms, the one that Dick used when he was doing his bendy gymnastics stuff. Since when had you decided to pick it up? Were you making a career switch to an acrobat?

“So, you er, you’re doing. . . gymnastics?”

Your lips pursed at the way his voice squeaked out at the end, confused before nodding softly. “Yeah, Dick’s been teaching me some stuff.”

Cool, just two teammates helping each other out. You were the best at hand to hand combat on the team, so maybe you just wanted to find someone new to learn something from, and apparently that someone is not Wally.

“You guys hang out now?”

“Uh, yeah? Figured I’d learn something new.” You chuckled, the two of you now circling around the mat. You crouched low, eyes locked on Wally in a smile so sinisterly cocky the speedster could feel his mind going fuzzy. God, you looked good.

Before Wally could even open his mouth, you’d pounced. The young speedster barely noticed you before zooming to the other side of the mat. You raised a brow and he smiled, sheepish, apologetic. Right, no powers.

Taking a deep breath, Wally blocked the hit you were aiming at his neck, forearm pushing you off, and then suddenly he can smell you, the scent deep and warm before he had his arm twisted behind his back.

“Stop zoning out Walls,” your voice was hot on the back of his neck. He could feel his face heating up, the red creeping around his freckled face up to the tips of his ears. You let go of him as he leaned his weight into your hold to signal for him to be let loose.

“Getting distracted—“

“—gets you killed.”

You smiled at Wally when he completed your statement. Gesturing, you took your position on the other side of the mat, Wally copying you.

This time, Wally went first. Instead of aiming high like you’d done, the speedster goes low, head tucked into his chin as he grabs you by the waist, using the momentum to swing the two of you on the ground. You let out a soft sound at the impact, but it sounded more like you were amused. When he looked up, he saw the taunting look in your eye, a lazy, smug look tugging at the corners of your mouth. Without even huffing at the effort, you pushed your hips up into his, making him lose balance as you flipped the two of you over, hands now pinning him down, arm stretched across his chest as you held him down on to the mat.

“Nice one,” you grinned, blowing your hair away from your face. You leaned in closer, chest pressed against his, and Wally could swear his heartbeat was the loudest soundtrack he could ever hear. “You almost got me there.”

“Next time,” he rasped out, puffing out a breath of air, hoping it didn’t smell of the Cheetos he’d eaten before training. The movement made the stubborn strand in front of your eyes sway. You smiled, a genuine one, and somehow his heartbeat just rang louder. “I’ll get you next time.”

“I’m counting on it.”

And then you got off of him, holding out your hand for him to stand up. Sucking in a lungful of air, Wally took it, pulled up to stand close enough where he could see every shade of colour in your eyes. They were endless pools of warmth he could fall into forever, and they were looking at him. Right at him. “Walls?”

Clearing his throat, the speedster stepped back, letting go of your hand to ruffle the hair at the top of his head. “Shall we go again?”

“You sure? You seem distracted today.”

“I’m fine, just don’t think my pre-sparring snack was the best one I’ve had.”

You laughed, the sound bright as you got back to the mat. Wally followed suit, the two of you once again circling each other. “Ready?”

You had that smile again, the low, dangerous look in your eyes, the one he saw out on the field. The one Dick held in his smile after he’d seen how it unnerved your opponents. Fucking Dick and his ability to charm everyone. Wally struck out, his body moving before he could catch up, hand coming straight for your face, and before he could even think about how foolishly impulsive the move was, he was face down on the mat, your knee pinning him down as you bent his arm back, not enough to hurt, but just enough to where he could feel a strain.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

You’d let him go, pulling him to stand at his full height as you grabbed a water bottle, tossing it to the speedster, the shocking pink a contrast against the muted green of his tank. “Yeah I’m fine. Just. . . lost in thought I guess.”

“Penny for them?” you asked, now sitting next to him on the floor. Wally shrugged, handing you the bottle when you held your hand out for it, eyes watching your mouth as it used the sucker on the bottle (where Wally had his mouth moments before), tracing down the column of your throat as you drank greedily.

“I’m good.”

“Promise?” You held out your pinky, Wally smiling as he linked his to yours, the two of you kissing each of your hands as if to seal the pact.

“Promise,” he murmured, mouth hidden by his hand, but he could see you smile behind yours as you murmured a ‘good’ against it.

You pressed your lips one last time to your linked hands for good measure, letting the speedster copy you before the two of you sat up, hands still linked in the silence of the training room, catching your breaths.

God, you had no idea what you did to him.

.

Dick caught up with you as you left the training room, having just walked out of the showers attached next to it, the one Wally had gone into not too long ago. The former Batman sidekick had a towel slung low across his waist, water not yet fully wiped off of him. He smiled as he noticed you.

“Hi, beautiful.”

You grinned, standing up from where you’d been cleaning up after the sparring session between you and Wally. “Hey there, pretty boy. Took a long time in the showers I see.”

Dick fell in step with you, walking out of the training room as you slung a wet towel across your shoulders, water bottle in hand. “Well maybe I was waiting on you.”

“Is that so?” you looked up at him, brow raised. Dick just shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. His lips were pulled into a cocky smile, tongue peeking out to wet his lower lips.

“Yeah.”

You hummed. “Is that why you’re following me around in just a towel?”

Dick blinked, slowing to a halt outside the door of your room. You watched his skin flush a deep rouge, the heat spreading across his chest and up his cheeks. “I uh, I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, alright,” you laughed, watching as he stepped back a couple steps before spinning on his feet and heading a couple steps down towards his room. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck as he reached the door, turning around once to wink at you—despite the colour in his face, before shutting the door.

“Aren’t you something,” you murmured, eyes still on the spot he left.

“Who’re you talking to, weirdo?”

You jumped, startled as you stood up straight, leaning away from the doorframe. Wally was standing next to you, now smelling fresh and clean from his shower. “Nobody. Hey, you wanna watch a movie? I’ve got the new Fast and Furious.”

Wally nodded, eyes glancing once more at the door next to yours—where Dick stayed when he was at the Titans Tower—before following you into your door, the lock clicking softly as it shut behind him.

.

Wally swore Dick was everywhere.

The stupid bird themed superhero seemed to spawn around you whenever the speedster wanted to hang out, and he was seconds away from transporting his best friend to the South Pole to live with the penguins (not you, of course, he knew you hated the cold— the ex-sidekick to Gotham’s very own Batman, however. . . ).

The beach was empty as you guys had set up a blanket on the sand, the grains warm but soothing as you dug your toes under the piles. The team had decided to have a little sunset campfire and sing-a-long at the beach, simply to celebrate the hard work of a successful week of leading double lives (in yours, Dick’s and Wally’s cases), and also for being really good at your side job of beating up bad guys.

“I’ve got the drinks,” Roy cheered, plopping down with a six pack, and some other sodas and assortments of both alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages that were sloshing around in the portable cooler in his hand. “Here.”

He tossed a chill bottle of beer he’d pulled out of it, and Wally caught it. You grinned as Roy passed one to you as well, much nicer in his handling. “Thanks, speedy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Roy narrowed his eyes playfully at you as Wally and you laughed next to each other. You giggled, leaning into your best friend as you moved the bottle to your mouth, digging your teeth under the metallic cap, and with a slight pressure, you heard the pop and fizz of it coming off.

You looked up, catching the ginger boy watching your every move, eyes tracking your mouth as if he’d zeroed in on something that deserved his attention. You.

You licked your lips, trying to calm the sudden dryness in your throat. Wally’s eyes seemed to darken even more, the flames dancing in them tantalisingly as he copied you. You could hear your heart beating irratically.

“Sweetheart, I need your help.”

Blinking, you turned to look at Dick, mind sluggish as it tried to clear from the haze you had found yourself in. Sitting close enough to the two of you that you could feel his warmth, Dick was holding out his own bottle of beer, making you roll your eyes.

“If you wanted me to watch me use my mouth for you, you could’ve just said so,” you repeated your actions, the pop! of the metal cap opening making Dick grin as he watched you.

“But that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Wally cleared his throat, watching the two of you lean into each other, teasing smiles and eyes burning with a sort of emotion he’d never seen in you. Were you actually falling for Dick Grayson?

“I’m thinking of starting on the s’mores,” he gestured next to you guys where Kori, Donna and Roy had set up the fire, the flames curling in reckless abandon. The three of them had settled into the sand. You smiled, squeezing his hand as you grabbed it.

“We’ll come with.”

The three of you moved towards your friends, and as you sat down next to Donna, the two of you trying to tell Kori about some new music the two of you were obsessed with currently, he wondered when did you and Dick Grayson become a ‘we’. And why was he so bothered that he wasn’t a ‘we’ to you?

.

It was official.

Dick Grayson was at the top of his hit list.

Wally swore that he could find him everywhere, even in places where he didn’t think possible: like his fucking university campus.

“And then he was telling me how Tim changed every one of Bruce’s codes to. . .”

The two of you were walking through the hallways, and ever since summer, all you’d been gabbing to him was about your new best friend Richard Grayson. The first day back to school and apparently Dick had called you in the night to talk. Yeah, right, Wally thought to himself, everyone has a conversation at 11 in the night.

He caught himself before he could roll his eyes.

“Walls?” You were snapping your fingers in front of his face. When he jolted, you frowned, curious as to what was happening. “Dude, you alright? You went AWOL on me there.”

Wally coughed, nodding. “Yeah I’m fine, long night.”

“Really? With whom?”

You sounded off, somehow not as cheery as you did just moment’s prior when you told him about how Tim had hacked into the programming in the Batcave to play a prank of the Batman. Wally tilted his head towards you as you stopped swinging your joined arms, no longer moving him around while you rambled.

What was it about Dick that had you so drawn to him?

“Nothing, just couldn’t get sleep.”

You frowned, squeezing his hand. During the academic year, Wally would end up walking around with the worst dark circles known to man, all because of his tendency to not get any sleep at night, especially since the two of you didn’t go on patrol as often during the school year. You suspected it had something to do with his powers, his inability to actually stay still and his energy that’s always contagious, always overflowing with so much life that you can’t help but be drawn towards him. But this was early, even for Wally. Usually, it’d take at least a week for him to start complaining about it, and then showing up at your window in the night.

“You want to come over tonight?” You squeezed his hand again, smiling softly in a way that had Wally’s heart thump-thump-thumping hard against his chest.

“What about Dick?”

“What about him?”

The earnest confusion in your voice made him look at you, eyes searching your face. Your brows were furrowed and lips were pursed in an adorable pout that Wally could almost dream of pressing his mouth again and devouring, but what stood out most to him was one simple thing: you weren’t thinking about Dick.

“I just— nothing,” Wally rubbed the back of his neck, lips pulling into a smile when you squeezed his hand (that was still holding yours), “what time should I be there?”

“Come over right after patrol, I’ve got your sweats washed. Couldn’t get that stain out though.”

“It’s fine.”

Wally laughed, letting you drag him around to your next class before the bell rang (he had a free period in his schedule). You hated being late.

.

By the time the two of you fell onto the floor through your open bedroom window, Wally was spent. He’d starfished across the soft carpet, still in his Kid Flash costume, and you’d fallen right on top of him with an undignified oomph!

“Move your fat ass out of the way, Walls,” you poked him in his side where you knew he was ticklish, making him jerk at the sudden movement, as you got up.

“I’m good,” his voice was once again muffled, face down in the carpet, “I’ll just stay here.”

You laughed, pulling yourself up as Wally turned over to look at your grinning face staring down at him. “Do you plan on making yourself comfortable there or shall I keep space in bed for you?”

Wally could feel his heart in his throat as he nodded towards your bed. Swallowing harshly, he cleared his throat. “I can’t pass on that beauty.”

Chuckling, you headed towards the bathroom, calling out over your shoulder as you grabbed the door handle.

“Clothes are in the drawer and mom got extra snacks if you’re hungry. Just change first!”

And then Wally heard the lock click shut, the sound of the shower running beyond the wooden door. Sighing, he stood up, gravitating towards your closet to grab some spare clothes he could change into after a shower and setting them aside, somewhat of a proud smile on his face. At least Dick didn’t have an entire section in your closet for his clothes.

By the time you’d come back from your shower, Wally had sprawled himself once again on your fuzzy carpet, now filled with half the snacks in your pantry and a couple of cookies your father had baked earlier in the night.

“Hey, brought up some cookies, your parents have gone to bed.”

You grinned, bee-lining to the nightstand where Wally had left your treasure, while the redhead moved towards the shower. “What would I do without you, Wally?”

“Be boring and lonely— ow!”

Wally glared at you, trying hardest to be mad as he rubbed the spot where you’d punched him for his comment but he could feel his mouth fighting against him at your cheeky smile. Your eyes were shining with mischief and warmth and Wally couldn’t help but mirror your grin as you fell onto your mattress. “Save one for me.”

“You already ate so many!”

You looked up at him with bright eyes, and Wally could feel his heart soaring at how open and vulnerable you seemed. You were still smiling, even as he flicked you on the forehead before moving swiftly aside to dodge your counterattack.

“Yeah well, I’m your best friend. It’s in the rules: guests get more food.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyeing the boy who had a impish look on his face. “Please you stopped being a guest since you were six.”

You rolled your eyes as Wally mocked you, finally heading into the shower while you fell back on your bed, cheeks still warm from the smile on your face. That boy had no idea what he did to you.

.

Steam curled out of the bathroom as Wally stepped out, sweatpants loose on his hips and a towel he used to dry his hair. You were on your back now, reading a book as you waited on him.

“Here, saved you the last one.”

“I knew you loved me,” he grinned, snatching it up as you rolled your eyes at him, all fond and warm. You really did love him.

Wally plopped down gracelessly onto the bed next to you, laughing when you whacked him complaining about crumbs (he’d made sure to not let a single one fall, he knew you didn’t like eating in bed) and snuggled into his side of the bed.

You propped yourself up into his eyeline, watching him drink you in like he always did, like he was clawing for air only you could offer. He only hoped it wasn’t as obvious to you. “So, what d’ya wanna do?”

Wally hummed, hand coming back up to brush against the bruise on your cheek, the one that you’d gained earlier in the night during patrol after narrowly missing a fist aimed at your face. You’d managed to grab the hand before it swung into bone, but the brass knuckles that decorated it had left a blooming red score on your cheekbone. “Does it hurt?”

“Not even a little bit,” you murmured, head nuzzling into his palm like you wanted to burrow yourself in it.

Wally could see the way your eye twitched ever so slightly at the point closest to your eye when he brushed the purpling bruise, but other than that, you were still smiling down at him with such warmth he could feel himself sinking into comfort.

You turned your head to kiss his palm once, gently lacing your fingers through his to pry it off your face as you leaned over to press your lips to his cheek, and Wally’s eyes fluttered close at the contact without hesitation.

“Go to sleep, West. You look like a troll I dragged out from under my bed.”

Wally guffawed, eyes wide open as you chortled, falling onto him upon looking at the wide eyed offence on his face, your body wrecked with unabashed laughter as you shook in his grasp. “You think you’re so hilarious, don’t you?”

You nodded against him, the humour bubbling out of you seeping into him at the points where you were connected (his hands on your back, holding you close to where you’d pressed yourself into his chest), his chest rumbling with laughter under you.

“Fine, let’s call it a night, sleeping beauty.”

The two of you tucked yourself under your covers without moving, the little night light you left on your bedside table the only sign of life in the dead of the night as sleep overcame the two of you.

.

The tower was quiet when you stepped inside. You shouldered your way through the door of your bedroom in the building, finally sliding off the wet coat and shoes that had collected the rainwater from the impromptu shower that the heavens had unleashed upon you.

“Oh hey, sweetheart.”

Before you could even catch up on the reason the voice was so familiar, you’d swung around, clipping the man behind you with your wet coat, the metal of the zipper clinking hard against his face.

“Richard Grayson, don’t you know better than to sneak up on people like that.”

You glared at the cheeky smile he sported, still standing comfortably in the middle of your room as you dragged your jacket away from his face and the matching red mark you’d left on the right side of his cheekbone, mirroring the one you had on your left.

“Great you see you too, darling.”

You rolled your eyes, shimmying out of the oversized Central City University sweatshirt, now feeling overly warm in the blooming heat of the building. Your tank top stuck to your skin from the water as you let your hair fall down your back, limp and wet, droplets tracing rivulets down your spine.

“Did you need something?”

“You wound me,” the raven haired boy grabbed his chest as if you’d physically hurt him, even stumbling back to sell his theatrical pain. You shook your head at him, rainwater clinging onto his face from the close proximity as he chuckled. “I just came to check on you cause of the rain.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint but I didn’t drown.”

“Can’t have my girl drowning on me,” he grinned, pulling you into his side to warm you up, and you gratefully leaned towards the heat of his (entirely too expensive) wool jumper, wet head of hair tucked into his chin as you placed your cold hands on the back of his neck, making him yelp. “Get away from me you heathen!”

“I thought I was your girl?” you mocked him, head tilted to one side as he kept you close enough to warm your hands against his. It was no secret you hated the cold.

“Yeah you are, sweetheart.”

“Am I interrupting?”

You jumped away from Dick as if you’d been burned, the warmth of his body turning ice rigid in your veins as Wally stood at your open door, looking in at the two of you. You cleared your throat as Dick, ever the one to be able to bring in levity in pungent silence, spoke up.

“Not at all, she’s all yours.”

And then, squeezing your hands one last time (that had gone limp in his reach the moment his best friend had walked in), Dick glanced at you one last time, impish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he moved to leave the room, patting Wally on the back while he did.

Wally watched as you glared at the broad shoulders that disappeared from the doorframe, before taking in your appearance. You shuffled, suddenly aware of not just how unkempt your hair was, but the fact that you’d been standing in front of Dick and now Wally, in a shirt thin enough to see your bra through. If only you’d had the foresight to wear a nicer one, maybe this wouldn’t be half as awkward.

“I erm. . . I got caught in the rain,” you supplied helplessly, tugging at the end of your cotton tank top, spinning around as you went to the drawer to grab dry clothes.

“I can see that.”

Wally still sounded far away: when you glanced over your shoulder after finding a dry shirt, you found him still standing in the doorway, his stance stilted and wound tight like he couldn’t decide whether he should enter or not.

”You’ve seen me in my bra before, just get in already,” you chuckled, waving him in, only noticing him hesitate for a second before nodding, following your instructions and shutting the door behind him. “Your group project finally got situated?”

Wally had stayed back at Central City University for some project he had for his Physics 301 class while you’d left earlier, having decided on working at the Tower instead. And lucky for him, he’d managed to get all the luck with the weather because it was finally sunny outside again.

Wally cleared his throat as you pulled your shirt over your head. “So, you and Dick. . .”

“What about Dick and I?”

Pulling your head through the neck hole of a dry shirt, to find him still hovering like he didn’t know how to exist in your space, a place he’d inhabited since the two of you were five and playing in the sandbox. You frowned, watching him glance around like he’d lost the right to be in there without you asking for him first.

“. . . Is everything alright?”

”Yeah, I just. . . I’m happy for Dick and you.”

You blinked, trying to figure out what exactly was happening. Did he seriously think that Dick was the one that had you losing all sense?

”I’m just going to—“ he pointed behind him, and before you could even stop him, he’d phased through the shut door. You rushed after him, trying to find the speedster as you pulled your door open with urgency.

”Wally—“

The hallway was empty.

.

It had always felt like breathing. At least, that’s how Wally thought about it.

Since the first time you’d met, Wally had found himself in tune with you, like a wavelength honing in on a frequency that it needed in order to function. You’d been giggly and had a chip in your front tooth from where you’d hit your face on while jumping off the swing and doing a flip you’d just learned in gymnastics. You’d never even cried about it, the grin of showing off to your new friend still plastered even as the corner of your lip started bleeding and your mother came rushing towards you. You’d simply grabbed Wally’s hand and told him you’d teach him how to do it too.

That was the first time he’d met you, and since then you’d been a stronghold in his life, someone he’d come to know inside out, maybe even better than he’d known himself. You’d been the first person he’d found after getting his powers, after he found out how his uncle was The Flash, the trials that came with having powers, you’d been standing beside him, always with a snack (apples crusted with peanut butter, to make sure he was both eating healthy but also had something to satiate his sweet tooth) and a smile that disarmed every bit of distaste he felt towards himself for not being good enough. You’d been there for the first ever time he’d had his heart broken, a girl he’d seen only a few months in high school, but you’d been there to cheer him up, mend the parts that he never knew could break.

Wally had known it’d only be a matter of time before Dick and you finally got together, it’d be stupid to think otherwise, but god he didn’t realise just how much it would sting being second place to Dick.

He’d learned early on that being Wally West meant being able to learn you and love you, and he’d made his peace with it. You’d were singular in every way and it wasn’t surprising that everyone around you noticed; you tended to do that, draw people into an orbit that made them feel like they were at home, because that’s what you did to him at age five with a toothy grin. He just needed to make peace with the fact that you’d found someone else.

“What’re you doing here?”

Blinking, Wally saw Roy walk up to him, the former Green Arrow sidekick dressed up as if he had somewhere to be.

“Where’re you off to?”

“Had a date,” Roy grinned, patting Wally on the shoulder as he vaulted over the couch, settling into the one that wasn’t occupied by the speedster. “Now why are you sulking? Trouble in paradise?”

Wally’s eyes narrowed. Roy, amongst other things, was a big gossip, especially when around Donna and you, the three of you always knee deep in random news you’d heard (four if K’ori wasn’t off-world). Half of it of course came from the type of vigilantes Roy and you happened to be, but the other half was simply pure curiosity. Wally had never met a man both so brilliant and downright ready to binge an entire season’s worth of reality television.

“What paradise? There’s no paradise.”

Roy simply looked at him, a stray strand of red hair falling over his forehead from his man bun—the only person Wally had seen ever pull off that style so well—and shook his head, a low chuckle emitting from his throat. “Yeah right, I’m not blind dude.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Uh huh, and we’re all just happy go lucky adults with no issues at all,” Roy nodded, and Wally could tell that the archer was taking the piss out of him, but god he couldn’t help it. “Seriously dude, just talk to her.”

“I can’t— I can’t just talk to her!”

“Yes you can, you just open your mouth and form words.”

Wally walloped him with a pillow as Roy laughed at his red face, tossing the decorative piece right back at the speedster, who simply grabbed it and placed it down next to him with more force than required.

“I can’t, she’s going out with Dick now.”

Roy raised a brow, now settled into the couch as he folded his arms across his chest. “Huh, I didn’t see that coming.”

“Tell me about it,” Wally slumped into the cushioning, hands running over his face.

He could feel Roy’s eyes burning into the side of his skull as he stayed hidden behind his fingers, trying to press them into his skull like it would press away the way he needed you into the back of his mind, to be left untouched and forgotten as time would pass by.

“My advice is you talk to her, what’s the worst that could happen?”

And with that, Wally could hear the sound of fading footsteps as Roy headed out towards his room, once again leaving the redhead to stew in his own feelings, the night sky greeting him as he stared out the window, trying to figure out just when he’d found himself so helpless to the way he loved you.

The crickets chirped faintly in the background as the hum of the city started falling asleep.

.

Wally had begun trying to find ways to avoid you. It’d started small, with not being free during the week to study together in the Central City University library like the two of you usually did. He’d been working everyday this week on some or the other assignment, or was hanging out with friends from his classes, who you had met barely in passing to actually know, which meant that you’d spent more time with his parents than him, feeling bad about only showing up on their doorstep to ask about their son. You played poker with his father as you waited, but Wally never returned home, only zooming by you on your interconnected patrol routes. Hell, it’d gotten to the point where you’d not trained together either. No matter what, Wally never missed sparring sessions with you.

You wondered what could’ve possibly happened for him to ignore you. Hooking your penknife into the latch of his window, you jiggled it around, trying to catch the grove that would help you unlock it, and after a few moments, you heard the sound of your success, the click of the mechanic registering as you slid open the window, toppling through gracefully and face first into wooden flooring.

“What are you doing?”

You stood up, brushing yourself off as Wally leaned against the doorway of his bathroom, eyeing you down with confusion. “You were ignoring me all week.”

“So you break into my room?”

”Obviously,” you chuckled, closing the gap between you as you moved into the room. You only stopped when he spoke up again.

”Why?”

Wally looked genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t expected you to fix whatever it was that had gone so wrong that he’d decided forgetting about you was better than talking with you.

You could feel your lips tug into a frown at the idea of never having access to Wally— selfishly, you needed him around, if nothing else then as your best friend. He’d been an extension of you since you’d first met him, trying (and succeeding) at impressing him enough to become your friend in the sandbox. Even at five years old, you could tell he was important, and not because he was the first boy you’d befriended. Wally had a way of making everything around you brighter, like you’d become Midas-touched gold, forever shining as long as he looked at you. He’d brought laughter out of you when your grandfather died; when you’d started crying over Marley and Me and he’d promised he’d find a way to make the dog the two of you got together live forever; when you had first killed a man on the job (an accident, and he was the bad guy, but that didn’t mean it didn’t flash behind your eyelids for over a month) but struggled to wash off the blood until Wally held your shaking hands to do it for you. . .

“Are we okay?”

The question came out quieter than you wanted it to, like punching it out of your lungs expelled all the fear you had about it, into the open where Wally could grab onto it, grab it and do whatever he pleased with the worry you held for him, for the two of you.

Wally shrugged, hands shoved into his sweatpants. He’d moved out of the bathroom now, the door clicking shut softly behind him. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat at the impassive callousness in his voice. Your tongue felt heavy, pinned down as you called out his name. “Wally. . .”

“Baby, ’m fine, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Baby, the word sunk heady into your heart, something you’d wished to hear from him, but not like this. Wally had his arms crossed over his chest, standing next to his bed now as he watched you watch him. You cursed as you could feel your eyes shine with watery tears that were beginning to form. Why did he think you didn’t care about him? All you ever did was worry about ways Wally could live a life that he was proud of, one that he wouldn’t have to hide in the future from whoever he was around (and in the most dangerous dreams you had about it, it was you by his side).

“Why wouldn’t I worry about you?” You scoffed, biting back the tears as you stared at the redhead who was watching you intently. “Do you think I don’t care?”

“No you— you do, I know that. . . but with Dick around now, you’ll—“

“What does Dick have to do with you not talking to me?”

Wally ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the tuff of it where it connected to his neck, feet moving as he began pacing. “Doesn’t everything lately have to do with him? I’m happy for you guys, truly. But I can’t be around you, not while I. . .”

“While you, what?” You asked, watching as Wally went still, eyes bugging wide when you repeated yourself. “While you what, Wallace?”

He winced when you used his actual name, not even Walls or Wally, instead shaking his head as he pointed at his window. “You should go.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” you huffed, now your arms crossed as you stared down the boy you’d loved since the beginning of high school.

Wally sucked in a sharp breath like the idea of telling you the truth caused a physical wound in him, and you desperately needed to know it was something you could fix. Because you couldn’t stand the idea of not having Wally anywhere except next to you: it’s what you’d always known, the only thing you’d been sure of since you were a little girl.

When he opened his mouth, you could feel yourself slipping into that hope that finally you’d gotten through to him. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You could feel the air expunge itself from your lungs as Wally turned to fidget with his bedding. He didn’t even look back as you whispered a goodnight Walls over his windowsill, body halfway out. Swallowing harshly, you balanced on the edge of the roof to the West house before dropping down, crouching low to the ground once you landed on the grass of their backyard.

In the quiet of the night, you walked yourself back to your apartment building (which was closer than the tower), eyes red by the time you found yourself in bed, tucked into the duvet that was still the same pastel green that you and Wally had picked together back when you were just children.

.

“Woah, you alright sweetheart?”

Dick and Donna came into your line of sight, the Wayne heir grinned good naturedly while Donna watched you curiously.

Huffing, you landed another hit on the sandbag, the chain swinging from the impact. Donna caught it as it neared her, “what’s going on?”

”Wally, he’s just. . . God, boys can be so frustrating!”

You punched the bag once again as Donna let it go, the Amazonian stepping aside right as the bag swung off the hook in the ceiling. Dick raised his hands in surrender as if he were the one in the line of fire.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

You eyed Dick, who was still standing far enough to not get hit, and watching you with concern written into the crease of his brows and the corners of his mouth before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, I’ll— I’ll talk to him. . . Besides, I don’t think you’ll get through him this time.”

Dick frowned, but nodded. And you understood why; Wally and Dick had been inseparable when the two of you joined the team back in the day, as children who still had hope and dreams of a world that seemed much nicer than it actually is. Wally had found a brother in Dick, and so did the former Robin, you knew that the idea of Wally not listening to Dick would hurt him, but you didn’t want whatever it was that had Wally hurting because of Dick be an issue, not until you could at least figure it out first.

Donna stepped forward, tying her hair back as she did. “Want to spar for a bit? Take your mind off of that idiot?”

“Sure,” you chuckled, shaking your head. Donna always knew how to make you feel better. If you couldn’t talk it out, you’d get out whatever it was with a fight. She’d been much the same way since she’d joined the team as well. “What would I do without you, my love?”

“Be moping,” Dick called out, now hanging off of one the beams, practicing his flips and tricks from a life he no longer had. You looked up and he was grinning from cheek to cheek. “Your emo teenage angst shit is filling this room.”

You rolled your eyes. “Dickhead.”

“That’s me,” he called, swinging his body through the maze of support beams and other bars that had been installed specifically for him.

You turned to Donna, who was grinning as well. “Well, shall we?”

“Why, of course.”

Donna crouched low, waiting on your move. You took the first step.

.

By the time you’d entered your room, it’d been past midnight. Patrol had been long, even longer when Wally wasn’t there to trade jokes with you, or attempt to guess what exactly you’d end up finding while on your rounds.

You’d barely shut your door, still in your suit as you flopped onto the bed when you could feel the familiar hum of frequency outside your door before a loud knock echoed against it.

“Get inside, Wally.”

“Can you. . . Can you open the door?”

Sighing, you dragged yourself up, pulling open the door to see Wally, still in his yellow and red costume, goggles tucked into his hair and freckles on display as the face piece to his suit was pushed back. The boy shuffled on his feet, as if surprised to see you standing in front of him. “Hi.”

“Can you not phase through shit anymore?” You asked, opening the door wider as he stepped in at your gesture for him to do so, stopping just beyond the threshold. You shut the door softly behind him.

“I’m sorry.”

And without meaning to, laughter spilled out of you, the sound more hollow and mean than Wally had ever heard out of you. “You’re sorry? That’s new. I thought you were too busy ignoring me.”

You strode towards your closet, wanting to change out of the suit that stuck to your skin, the suffocating feeling of having Wally so close to you after two weeks of him trying to erase himself from your life practically felt like you’d lose air the longer you were constricted in it. Wally grabbed your hand before you could move far away.

“I mean it, I was being a dick about well. . . Dick,” he winced, brows scrunching even further when you didn’t laugh even the slightest at the unintentional joke, something you always did. Sucking in a harsh breath, he carried on, “if you’re happy with him, I’ll make my peace with it. I just want my best friend back.”

“If I’m happy with whom, Walls?”

You looked genuinely confused, as if Wally hadn’t been there to see Dick and you fall for each other these past few months.

“Dick.”

“What?”

And to Wally’s surprise, you were laughing. You were bent over the waist, nearly falling into him at the image he’d given you. “What’s so funny?”

“Dick and I— there’s nothing. . . Oh my god, did you think I was going out with Dick?”

You had tears coming out of your eyes as you looked at him, as if the idea of anybody wanting to be with Dick Grayson was absurd. He knew the two of you were perfect together, and would look the part too in Gotham’s socialite papers and photographs.

“Please, Dick has his eye set on a redhead at all times,” you chuckled, wiping at the corner of your eyes, “he’s more likely to go for you.”

And at Wally’s shock, at his mouth that fell open, unable to find words, you’d found yourself laughing again. “Wait, so you and Dick aren’t—“

“We never were,” you shook your head, head tilting as if you’d found something out. Your eyes were swimming with curiosity, a sort of finality he’d only seen in you when you’d cracked a particularly difficult case. He’d seen it when you’d found the answer that had stumped you during your criminology courses, when you’d found out whatever Wally had hidden from you (like the surprise parties he tried throwing for your birthday, only for you to find him out five times in a row before he gave up). But now, they looked ever more sure, and Wally hoped he hadn’t been found out.

You took a step forward, now facing him as you closed the distance. “Hey, Walls?”

Wally hummed, eyes darting all over your face, close enough that he could see every shade and hue in your eyes, the way your mouth was pulled into a smile, something sly but that also said you wanted to know something, as your eyes fixed on his mouth.

“What up?”

“Don’t panic.”

“I— what? What do you mean—“

You’d grabbed him by the collar, lips slotting against his that were still sealed shut. The surprise of the impact had him opening his eyes, before reality caught up to him. You were kissing him. You were kissing him. Before he could fully return the fervour, you’d pulled back.

“That’s why.”

Wally was staring at you, eyes wide. “You kissed me.”

”I did,” you grinned, closing the gap to the point where Wally could feel your body pressed up against his, and instinct dictated that he steady you, his hands falling on your waist. “Now are you just going to stand there and gawk, or will you kiss me again?”

When Wally made no move to respond, still glued to the fact that you’d kissed him and it wasn’t a dream, you made to move out of his embrace. “Maybe I should go ask Dick if he wants to— mmph!”

”Shut up,” Wally murmured, pressing his lips to yours again, hands moving to circle around you as he pulled you closer to him, but he was grinning now. You couldn’t help mirror it as you pulled him closer to you, tugging on his hair as you did.

Wally let out a low sound, shuffling back as you hit the edge of your desk, his palms flash against your hips as he set you on top of it. The fireproof material of Wally’s suit bunching in your hands as you dragged him closer, his hands steadying you, still kissing you as if he couldn’t stop. He moved away when you hooked one leg to pull him closer.

”Wait— hold on, what does this mean?”

You blinked, the sluggish euphoria that had filled your veins, sparking a fire in your system slowed into a small flame as you finally realised what he was saying. You looked up into deep greens as they studied you, trying to figure you out, the way they always did.

”I don’t want to do this if it’s just something casual, I don’t— I can’t do that, not with you.”

You loosened your grip on his collar, smoothening it as you tried to figure out how to put it in a way that made him understand just how selfishly you needed him. “That’s the last thing I want with you.”

”Good, because I want this,” he was drawing circles into your waist, still close like he couldn’t bear to be any further from you, eyes scanning every inch of your face. “I want you, all of you.”

You smiled, heart thump-thump-thumping so wild you were sure he could feel it with how close the two of you were. “You have me.”

And Wally’s smile was blinding, the flame in your veins burning brighter just at the way he was looking at you.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice soft and wrecked with emotion.

”Yeah.”

Wally’s mouth slotted against yours against, messy and teeth clashing with how brightly he was smiling, tongue licking at your bottom lip as you dragged him into you, letting him take and take and take everything he wanted. His hands slid into your hair as he tilted your head back, lips moving across every inch of skin he could access, your legs hooking around his hips to sit flush with yours.

”I can’t wait to tell Dick you thought that I was in love with him when you’re here.”

Wally groaned against your pulse point, the spot behind your ear, the sound low and gravelly that had your eyes fluttering shut as you fought to keep your teasing for longer. He pulled away, just enough to speak.

”You won’t let me live that down, will you?”

”I can be convinced,” you teased, breath hitching as he already started tracing a path across your skin again, willing you to forget his stupidity, hands already latching onto the zipper in the front of your tactical suit. “Fuck, baby. . .”

”Say that again,” he hummed, mouthing at your collarbone and you had no choice but to acquiesce his demand.

”Wally, babe, don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” you whimpered as his hips pressed hard into yours again, the pressure only causing the fire curling low in your belly to burn harder as you met his actions and desire.

“God, you have no idea what you do to me, darlin’.”

The low drawl had you pulling him up, his eyes not only having a slither of green as they gazed up at you in hunger.

“I have an idea,” you mumbled, dragging him into you again, his body following yours with no resistance.

“Now, now,” Slughorn drew the attention of students just walking in with barely concealed excitement. “A special lesson, just in time for the season of romance! Today, we’ll be studying the most powerful love potion—,” a ripple of giggles spread across the room, “—in existence,” he finished with a grin.

“Purely academic, of course,” Slughorn had declared, lip twitching along with his mustache in delight as he presented the shimmering contents of his cauldron he had prepared himself before the beginning of class. “One must understand the theory of such things in order to defend against them. Amortentia, my dears — the most powerful love potion in existence. Banned to distribute in Hogwarts, naturally, but perfectly permissible to brew under supervision according to the curriculum.”

As if that was a plausible excuse.

The potion glimmered like liquid mother-of-pearl on the wooden workbench, spirals rising from it in hypnotic coils. One by one, the students (mostly consisting of girls) leaned over to inhale, unable to help but be pulled in — as was the nature of the brew. Amortentia carried a different scent to each person. You watched some of your classmates continue to crowd around it eagerly, faces flushing, expressions turning curious. Some laughed whilst some went oddly quiet in consideration.

You didn’t think much of it personally, staying in your seat, wafts of clean linen and chocolate drifting in your direction. Love potions were rather grotesque things — manufactured obsession masquerading as affection. There was something fundamentally wrong about them, no matter how pretty they looked or how good they smelled. You still felt it was wrong that they weren’t outlawed, or that they were sold in shops at all, making them accessible to the public.

Knowing how reckless some teenagers were and how insidious the minds of some worked, it made itself an easy solution in order to prey on the vulnerable. It was — “naturally” — a recipe for disaster.

Completely and utterly barbaric, in your opinion.

Now, the classroom buzzed with chatter and the scrape of ladles against cauldrons as students got to work. Your peers talked over one another, arguing over measurements or comparing notes in low voices.

The potions professor wandered around the room, observing each student at work and complimenting a few on his way through. His waistcoat strained over his stomach as he waddled between tables. “Observe the pearlescent sheen — yes, exactly! That’s what we’re aiming for. And the steam should rise in spirals. Spirals, Mister Avery, not— oh dear.”

You wiped your hands on a cloth and leaned over your own brew. The cauldron in front of you shimmered faintly, the surface of the Amortentia swirling with a soft, luminous glow. It was beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. You leaned in closer despite yourself. The steam brushed your face, warm and sweet with notes you were very pleased with.

Decadent and creamy white chocolate, the scent of cleanliness, your favorite perfume, sugar, and obviously more sugar. Your mouth curved slightly, both in satisfaction at your successful potion making skills and amusement at the predictability. You liked simple comforts. You liked things that made you feel safe.

You swallowed and straightened at the insidious prospect of that.

“I bet you smell a candy shop,” your best friend, Cadence, murmured from where she stood beside you, leaning over your shoulder.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m saying,” she smirked, “that anyone who ends up giving you sweets may have a chance,” she sang.

“Or they could try a conversation,” you shot back lightly, throwing Cadence an unimpressed look and an arch of the brow.

“Ah, yes. Conversation. How revolutionary.”

You rolled your eyes. Around you, students were murmuring and nudging one another. Giggles broke out near the Hufflepuffs. A Ravenclaw boy turned pink to the ears as he stirred quietly. Even a few Slytherins were smirking more than usual as they hovered close near their cauldrons, unable to resist the temptations. No one seemed particularly concerned about the fact that what they were brewing was so dangerous that it was prohibited to use inside of these walls. There were different types of love potions, but Amortentia was the most potent.

“Honestly,” muttered a flushed Gryffindor, stubbornly, in hearing range. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she peered into her cauldron, “what possessed him to teach this now? It’s practically Valentine’s.”

What possessed him indeed. Slughorn was clearly having way too much fun with this lesson, doing rounds and asking each student what they smelled, smiling knowingly at the flustered ones who stumbled over their words as if this all had been a ploy, a gentle nudge to some to confront their feelings for a special someone right before the holiday of love — which he would deny and deem it was for research purposes only, of course.

“I think it’s romantic,” the Gryffindor girl’s seat mate sighed almost dreamily.

You almost snorted. Romantic wasn’t the word you would’ve chosen. Your potion reached completion faster than you expected. You glanced up, searching for Slughorn to signal that you were finished. The man was currently bent over another station, fussing over someone’s “almost adequate” consistency before going to the next batch, circling like a pleased bee.

Your gaze wandered mindlessly now that you were done with your brew, and you knew it’d be a while before Slughorn made his way over here. So, you slowly dragged your eyes over the students around you before they collided directly with another’s.

Across the room, through rising steam and flickering torchlight, a boy stood at his station. His sleeves were neatly rolled to his forearms, revealing pale skin and long, steady fingers guiding the ladle through his potion. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes immaculate as always. There wasn’t a single fleck of ingredient out of place near him. Even here, in the damp heat of the dungeon, he looked composed — untouched by the chaos around him.

And he was staring at you.

Tom Riddle was staring at you.

His expression was calm, almost blank, a void that sent shivers down your spine. It was unlike any expression you’ve ever seen him make, completely unnatural on a face as handsome as his — not that you’ve watched him much. His eyes did not falter even when you met his unblinking gaze, not flustered whatsoever at being caught gawking so noticeably.

Riddle didn’t look away. The steam rose between you like a thin veil and still — he held your gaze.

The noise of the classroom seemed to dull, your pulse stuttering. For a moment, you forget to breathe, his dead stare like a hand on your throat.

This look wasn’t one of interest in the way other boys sometimes looked at girls. There was something unnerving there unlike the easy charm he wore so well, the one that he showed professors and students alike.

This felt almost… predatory.

Creepy.

Your fingers tightened and whitened around the edge of your desk, body frozen from the uneasiness that washed over you. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked away. Riddle adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron with a smooth, unwavering movement as if he’d merely been lost in thought, face now taut in concentration.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, though you weren’t sure why.

He probably zoned out, you told yourself. People stare without realizing it. It doesn’t mean anything, right? Why would he be looking at you? It was easy to drift in a class like this. And you had never spoken more than a passing word to him. You weren’t one of the girls vying for his attention. You didn’t trail after him in corridors or sigh when he walked into a room.

If anything, you made a point not to. You barely paid him mind beyond the general awareness everyone had of him. It was impossible not to at least notice someone like him. Riddle was top of every class. Professors adored him. Students either worshipped him or resented him for numerous reasons.

And yes — he was handsome. Painfully so. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But admiration from afar was one thing; interest was another. You preferred to know someone before you decided how you felt about them.

Even if he had dark hair that fell just slightly yet perfectly over his forehead. Blessed with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and tiny beauty marks on pale skin that added to his devilish looks. Pink lips that seemed permanently on the verge of a polite, measured smirk that made girls swoon. Riddle was the kind of boy that had them whispering and preening and inventing foolish excuses just to brush arms with him in corridors.

But at that moment, he looked like he was out for your blood. Like you were nothing more than an animal in the wild and he was the hunter, pinning his sights on you.

You had better things to think about. So, you forced your attention back to your station, exhaling slowly and capping the flame beneath your cauldron. You willed your shoulders to relax with the release of breath before you frowned faintly to yourself.

You wondered, annoyingly, how long he had been staring before you had even noticed.

Across the room, Professor Slughorn beamed, hovering near Riddle like always.

“Splendid, Tom! Simply splendid. Textbook perfection. A natural talent, as always. Twenty points to Slytherin!”

Different reactions swept the room — admiration and heart eyes from some, irritation and jealousy from others. Riddle only inclined his head modestly, unbothered by all the attention. “Thank you, sir.”

His voice was smooth, distinct from everyone and anyone else’s, and positively heart throbbing in itself. You risked another glance at Riddle, just to reassure yourself that you’d been mistaken.

He was no longer looking at you, thankfully. Slughorn stood at his side while Riddle wore that soft smile that made people melt. He nodded his head at precisely the right moments, listening attentively as the professor praised the clarity of his brew of Amortentia, how it was the perfect viscosity and shade. He didn’t even seem all that delighted, more so expectant like he was used to it and confidently knew he would’ve had the best one in the room before walking in; like clockwork.

Nothing about his demeanor suggested he had just been staring at you like he wanted to devour you alive. You felt faintly foolish for thinking like that. Perhaps, you hadn’t seen him properly? After all, the abundant amount of steam in the room did make it rather difficult.

Lost in your thoughts, you briefly think about what Riddle must have smelled. Tom Riddle had never shown any interest in dating anyone in all his time at Hogwarts, much to the dismay of many pretty girls. Maybe he had a muggle girlfriend outside of school?

You remembered, faintly, a memory from a few months ago.

A girl you knew, Wendy, had asked him out and like always, he politely let her down. He had declined each and every love confession he had ever received with courtesy. And yet, people still had the audacity to be slighted, as if they were entitled to him and his feelings.

She had regaled to you and a few other girls the story in the library. You were all supposed to be studying, but the topic eventually drifted, like always — to boys.

“And then he said, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m occupied.” Occupied with what?!” Wendy scoffed, clearly hurt that she decided it’d be better to gossip badly about Riddle, red in the face.

“Honestly, he acts like he’s above everyone. It’s exhausting. And not natural.” Then, her eyes widened in realization. “You don’t think he’s… you know?”

It had bothered you, what she said.

You don’t know why to this day. Maybe it’s because you imagined a boy talking about you like that just because you didn’t feel the same way, and how it wouldn’t sit right with you, how it wouldn’t be fair for them to speculate. That you shouldn’t be forced to like specific people because that’s what was socially acceptable.

So, you defended him without thought.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to go out with you specifically,” you mutter, flipping a page.

Three heads turned toward you.

“That’s not the point,” Wendy scoffed, offended by your words but trying not to show it. “It’s rude. He acts like no one’s good enough for him.”

“Or,” you started, “he isn’t obligated to entertain you.”

“You defending Riddle now?” A familiar voice asked in an amused tone after a moment of silence — your best friend, you realized, when looking up from your book at last.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call someone arrogant for having boundaries.”

“We’re just talking,” another one of them snapped, some girl you didn’t know the name of to this day.

“So talk,” you replied calmly. “Just don’t act like he owes you his attention.”

A few of them exchanged glances. One shrugged. Then, the conversation shifted.

You shook your head faintly, dismissing your thoughts. It wasn’t your concern.

The bell chimed faintly in the corridor beyond the door just in time — five minutes to the end of class. Slughorn clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Time, my dears! Cap your potions, label them, and leave them on this table right here. And remember — no sneaking a sample. I’ll know.”

That resulted in a few groans and bits of laughter.

Students began tidying their stations, including you — corking bottles and wiping spills. Slughorn’s back turned as he hurried to inspect a few remaining students brews of the love potion. In the chaos — with robes swishing, chairs scraping against the floor, chatter rising — no one paid attention to Tom Riddle.

His back was angled toward the class, body shielding his cauldron from view. Slughorn was still preoccupied, none the wiser.

Tom moved with hurried precision, covered by the ruckus and cluster of students. One hand slipped into the inner pocket of his robes. The other lifted his ladle. A small, glass vial appeared between his deft fingers. He tilted the utensil ever so slightly and a thin ribbon of pearlescent liquid slid into the container. Not enough to be obvious and change the level in the cauldron, the right amount for him to take.

He corked it carefully and quietly before it vanished into his robes. By the time Slughorn turned back around, Tom busied himself with packing up his things unhurriedly; entirely innocent. He gathered his books neatly, cleaned up his area with a flick of his yew wand, and stood waiting for dismissal like the exemplary student everyone believed him to be — even bidding a polite farewell to the Professor like he does at the end of every class, receiving an oblivious smile from the man in return.

Slughorn clearly did not know.

Soon enough, you’re next to step out into the corridor with your friends.

As you walked with them, curling a strand of hair behind your ear whilst complaining about your next class — behind you, footsteps followed at a distance.

Tom Riddle was staring at you again.

And you walked away, unaware.

Valentine’s Day arrived like a fever spreading inside Hogwarts.

The dormitory had been awake before dawn. You awoke to whispers around you and the rustle of tissue paper. The sharp, sweet scent of perfume clouded the air. Ribbons were tied, taken down, and then retied into hair to perfection. Girls were already sitting cross-legged on their beds in silk nightgowns and perfectly brushed hair, opening velvet boxes and parcels tied in satin ribbon. One girl squealed while another flushed and tried to pretend she hadn’t been waiting for this day all week when opening her package. Someone even shrieked when an owl tapped the window with a parcel of sugared candies.

You rolled onto your back with a sigh, lying still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above your bed as you listened to the excitement around you.

It wasn’t that you cared about today or longed for a boy. It was your decision, countless times, to not have a boyfriend. And you wouldn’t want just any boy approaching you today with trembling hands and a rehearsed declaration of love. In fact, the thought of a public decree made your stomach tighten since you would have to gently decline — and that was humiliating enough for one party. You had no desire in entertaining feelings you did not share like some of your acquaintances.

Still.

It would have been… nice. To be chosen.

You smiled when appropriate as other girls showed off their Valentine’s gifts; a small, traitorous pang in your chest. Ridiculous. You weren’t interested in anyone. You shook it off, rising from the mattress to wash up in the restroom and get dressed for classes that day.

Your uniform was pristine like always, white blouse pressed and colored tie straightened. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs, stockings reaching just below the knee, shoes polished. You brushed your hair until it shone and left it down before fastening your cloak. You dabbed a faint touch of your everyday perfume on your wrists because for you, it was just another day.

When you made your way into the common room, you saw girls clutching bouquets of all different types of colors and chocolates wrapped in boxes.

The corridors were no different, buzzing like a beehive. And by the time you reached the staircases, the castle was alive more than it has ever been — even during the Christmas holidays. Enchanted cupids flitted about and abundant laughter echoed against the stone walls of the castle.

You adjusted the strap of your satchel and eventually met up with your friends at your usual spot, walking towards the Great Hall together, their chatter echoing around you about the latest drama: who got what and from who or who hadn’t gotten anything and ended up splitting on today of all days. You tuned them out until a different name cut through the noise.

“Did you see him?” a pair of Slytherin girls hissed in hushed excitement as you passed. “With a whole bouquet of flowers, I swear! And chocolates too — the expensive kind.”

“Who?”

“Tom Riddle.”

Your steps faltered before you could stop yourself.

The other girl gasped. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not! He was coming up from the dungeons. He had them transfigured so it wasn’t obvious, but I know what I saw.”

You didn’t turn your head. You kept walking before you could linger too long and appear obvious. You had no right to be curious. You barely spoke to him. And you most certainly were not one of the girls who trailed after him like moths to a flame.

Tom Riddle with roses.

With chocolates.

It was almost absurd.

It sounded absurd.

You truly hadn’t meant to listen, truly. Riddle had never shown interest in anyone publicly. He seemed the private type and further more, was single to the point he had never even been rumored to have dated anyone because everyone would know it to be untrue in a heartbeat. But, perhaps he did have someone this entire time. Someone worth keeping a secret of.

You found, to your irritation, that you were curious. It must be someone in school, then.

But who? Who had finally stolen his heart and had the Tom Riddle so enamored?

The Great Hall doors opened to an alive spectacle of owls swooping low through the high windows and dropping parcels into waiting hands, charmed doves fluttering between floating hearts that drifted lazily beneath the enchanted ceiling which had been charmed to a pale pink sunrise with pearly light despite the real one outside being dull and grey like it had been for the last few days, anticipating a storm.

The House tables were louder than usual, scattered with unwrapped sweets and floral arrangements that clashed with everything else in a nearby vicinity.

You scanned the Slytherin table without meaning to.

Riddle wasn’t there.

You exhaled harshly through your nose, annoyed with yourself for searching.

You took your usual place at your table — the same bit of bench you had claimed since first year with your friend group, the same place anyone could find you in the mornings. Predictable. Safe. Like everything you choose. You spooned whipped cream onto your waffles, adding sliced strawberries and a drizzle of syrup on them.

Cadence lightly nudged you with her elbow, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “If someone asks you to be their Valentine today — hypothetically — you’re saying yes, aren’t you?”

“I would hypothetically decline,” you retort dryly, cutting through your waffle.

“How cruel you are to every boy who would be lucky to have you.”

You lifted an unimpressed brow. “I have standards.”

She laughed. “You’ll end up alone at this rate.”

“I’m not afraid of being alone.”

That much was true.

You were about to take your first bite when a shadow fell across your plate.

You looked up, pulse jumping.

A Slytherin boy stood there. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him before. Cute, but not your type. And he looked… nervous. His fingers flexed at his sides with a kind of strained urgency. For a fleeting, mortifying second, you imagined him clearing his throat and announcing — loudly — that he would be honored if you would accompany him today. In front of all these people.

Your heart gave one uncomfortable thud.

Please don’t let him do this here.

“Yes?” you asked slowly, lips drawn in a tight line, already preparing the polite apology on your tongue.

He swallowed. “Er— sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your fork hovering midair, frozen like a statue as you wait for the inevitable.

“Professor Slughorn would like to see you.”

Relief washed over you instantly, your features softening and shoulders relaxing. Thankfully, it wasn’t a love confession. Still, your brows knit together. “Now?”

“Yes. In the courtyard.”

You glanced instinctively towards the staff table. Slughorn wasn’t there. Though, a flicker of doubt continued to brush against your mind.

“What for?” you asked, turning your head back to the boy.

He hesitated. “I-I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

Your friend chimed in. “That’s odd.”

You agreed.

Still, there was no obvious reason to refuse. You hadn’t done anything wrong. And if it were truly important, you couldn’t very well ignore it. Maybe it was about schoolwork. You set your fork down with visible reluctance, eyeing your plate with mild mourning and a pout. The whipped cream was already softening into the waffle, syrup pooling at the edges.

A waste.

“If I’m not back in ten minutes, eat that,” you told your friend, gesturing with a tilt of your chin.

“So selfless,” one of them replied solemnly.

“I know.”

You rose, smoothing your skirt, adjusting your cloak over your shoulders before leaning down to grab your bag from the wooden seat and hook it around your shoulder. The boy stepped aside at once to let you pass, relief evident in his posture — as if he had been afraid you might refuse. Though, you can’t imagine what was so frightening about Slughorn that made him tremble so.

The corridors beyond the Great Hall were quieter now, the morning frenzy thinning out as you stepped out into them.

Chatter faded behind you, replaced by the echo of your own footsteps against the stone hallways of the castle. Light filtered through the high windows as best it could with dark skies as you walked further down. When you made your way to the courtyard however, your steps slowed at the sight that greeted you.

You stepped through the arched doorway into the open space. The cold bit at you at once, stealing the warmth from your cheeks. The fountain at the center trickled faintly as water spilled over marble into its basin. Grey clouds sagged overhead, heavy with unshed rain, the stones beneath your shoes damp.

It was completely vacant.

There was always a student or two loitering around, but now, it was unnaturally silent. Not like the peaceful kind you preferred. And there was no Professor Slughorn bustling about. You frowned, uneasiness coiled low in your stomach and sliding beneath your ribs. The courtyard was never empty — even on a day like this.

You shifted your satchel higher on your shoulder, glancing toward the archways as if the professor might appear from behind a column.

You found yourself almost turning back. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you wished you were still at your table in the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends, scarfing down sugary waffles. Thunder clapped overhead like a bad omen.

“I’m glad you came.”

You startled violently despite yourself, breath catching, spinning around too quickly. It unsettled you more than you cared to admit that you hadn’t heard him approach at all.

That voice was unmistakable.

Tom Riddle stood a few paces behind you as though he had always been there. Your heart leapt traitorously in your chest.

Riddle looked striking and flawless as always. Dark hair combed neatly with a curl falling deliberately over his forehead. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes falling straight and sharp along his lean, slightly muscular frame. The faintest flush from the cold touched his pale skin, but he did not seem to feel it.

In one hand, he held a box of chocolates wrapped in ribbon. In the other — a bouquet.

Your favorite flowers.

Your breath caught.

It could be coincidence, you told yourself. Flowers were flowers. Anyone could like them. Perhaps he had chosen them at random. Perhaps he was waiting for someone else and you had merely wandered into the scene by accident. Your mind scrambled for reasons because you had a feeling this situation was headed a certain direction that you weren’t sure how to deal with.

Riddle held your gaze steadily, as if he could see each frantic thought as it passed through you.

“I’m waiting for Professor Slughorn,” you said too quickly, the words tumbling out before he asked anything. “He sent for me.”

Why were you explaining yourself?

You avoided his eyes, studying instead the collar of his robe, the way his fingers curved around the base of the bouquet. You felt awkward and absurdly aware of how alone you were with him. Riddle’s gaze rested on you, assessing. There was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth — and not the warm kind. More like, he knew something you didn’t.

“I’m afraid,” he started gently, “that Professor Slughorn will not be joining you.”

The words prickled at your skin like a bite.

You blinked, looking up at that.

“What?”

“I asked Nott to fetch you.” He tilted his head slightly like he had a habit of doing, studying your reaction with dark brown eyes, ones that felt too intense on you. “I wanted a moment alone.”

For a second, you could only stare at him.

“You lied?” The accusation left you before you could soften it.

Riddle did not falter. If anything, that faint amusement deepened on his gorgeous features, dark and unfairly perfect brows lifting a fraction. “Would you have come if I had asked you myself?”

Your lips parted automatically, ready to retort with something sharp or clever, that he didn’t need deception or to intimidate someone enough to do his bidding — but the truth remained stuck in your throat.

Because no. You wouldn’t have.

You didn’t know him. Not really. You had exchanged perhaps a handful of words in passing. If Tom Riddle had approached you openly in the Great Hall, with half the school watching, you would have declined out of instinct alone.

You pressed your lips together in defeat.

Riddle’s smirk deepened with satisfaction.

“I thought not,” he murmured. He stepped closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could feel his intensity.

Then, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said suddenly.

It wasn’t a stammering confession you had braced yourself for from some nervous boy. His voice was steady, like a statement rather than a request. He extended the bouquet and chocolates toward you, waiting.

The gesture was immaculate, private, considerate. Exactly the sort of confession you would have preferred without a spectacle or an audience.

The courtyard felt even quieter. Somehow, you couldn’t even hear the single chirp of a bird.

You were acutely aware of the space between you. The way Riddle’s eyes did not leave your face, as if he was deciphering your every thought just from your expressions like how a snake would assess its meal before lunging. He seemed entirely certain of himself.

Then, it hits you that he must have been the one to clear the courtyard. Of course. Who else could have that type of power? Your pulse thudded in your ears, heat creeping up your cheeks. He had orchestrated this entire thing.

And he had done everything right.

For a tiny moment, you imagined accepting. You imagined walking back into the castle at his side, flowers in your arms. You imagined the looks. Too many looks. Too many whispers. Because Tom Riddle was always being watched. Either out of admiration or envy. If you stepped into his orbit, you would not be permitted anonymity again. There would be jealous girls, speculation, and endless scrutiny from every direction. The resentment from those who had tried and failed to get close to him. Your life would no longer be quiet at school.

And beneath that practical reasoning, there was something else — the simple truth being that you did not know him.

And under that, the memory of that look in class — the way he had stared at you through the steam as if claiming something that did not yet belong to him.

And Tom Riddle did nothing without purpose.

So, why you?

You were not one of the girls who trailed after him in corridors. You didn’t blush when he entered a room. You didn’t whisper about him.

Perhaps… that was precisely why.

“Tom,” you began carefully, fingers tightening around your bag’s strap like a lifeline as you swallowed. “Riddle, I mean,” once you realized how familiar you sounded unintentionally. You noticed he straightened a little at that. “I-I’m sorry.”

And you truly meant it. But the next few words caught in your throat when you saw the flicker of the same expression from the dungeon — the one that had frozen you in place. His cold eyes sharpened with displeasure and something possessive. A chill shot down your spine. But, then it was gone, vanishing almost instantly — as if it’d never been there. The polite mask slid back into place so seamlessly that you almost doubted you had seen his other face at all.

“I can’t accept this,” you finished softly. “I didn’t know… I mean, we’ve never even—” You huffed, frustrated with yourself. “It wouldn’t be right.”

A silence so deafening stretched between you.

You couldn’t meet his eye. Riddle hadn’t moved at all from your peripheral. But then, he spoke at last, “I see...”

Surprisingly, he hadn’t looked embarrassed or wounded. There was not a hint of a tremor in his voice or a trace of bitterness — and somehow, it unsettled you more than pure anger might have.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

He sounded thoughtful. So, you found your shoulders loosening.

“I hope there aren’t any hard feelings,” you added carefully, brows furrowed.

“None,” he assured you with a flutter of his dark lashes, polite and unbothered as ever like the proper gentleman he was. Then, almost as an afterthought, Riddle lifted the box slightly to you. “At least take these.”

You hesitated.

“I know how fond you are of them,” he continued, tone mild. “It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

Your brows drew together faintly. “How did you—”

He gave the smallest shrug. “It isn’t a secret.”

It wasn’t. You were rarely without something sugary in hand. Anyone observant enough could notice. And Tom Riddle was observant. You studied him one last time before slowly reaching out and accepting the chocolates, the edge of the box cool against your sweaty fingers.

“Thank you,” you said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Truly.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your hand as it closed fully around the container of chocolates, a small smile on his lips.

“You’re welcome.”

“And… I am sorry,” you added once more for great measure.

Riddle smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Then, he adds with a tone that sounded innocently hopeful, “But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

The statement seemed so casual that it hadn’t even hit you that it’ll be storming all week, that the skies wouldn’t be visible for the next few days. But, you nodded anyway just to be nice. You had just rejected his feelings after all…

With a step back, hands folding neatly behind him, the bouquet remained there, hidden from your view. He inclined his head with quiet courtesy. You nodded in return, already turning, eager for the warmth and noise of the Hogwarts corridors. With each step away from him, your lungs seemed to fill more easily. You slipped the chocolates into your satchel and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. By the time you reached the archway, you had almost convinced yourself the entire encounter had been harmless. Unfortunate, perhaps — but civil.

You were lucky Riddle was so understanding.

As you walked off, behind you, Tom did not move. He watched you until the stone walls of the school swallowed you from sight as if he could still see you through them.

The polite expression dissolved the instant you disappeared. His jaw tightened, broad shoulders becoming rigid beneath his robes. And behind his back, his fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet until his knuckles turned white. They bent and snapped under his unforgiving grip. The pretty flowers blackened at an unnatural pace right at the edges before gradually bleeding inward at an alarming speed. The delicate petals wilted, reduced to something lifeless and small.

Tom’s remained eerily calm other than that. A petal fell soundlessly, and he watched as it reached the wet stone at his feet.

He smiled.

Then, he threw the bouquet to the ground like dirt before turning, his cloak sweeping behind him.

Thankfully, the rest of the day passed by in a haze.

The castle’s Valentine’s fever broke slowly but surely. By afternoon, the romance had dulled. Very few couples still walked too close in the corridors, smiling and holding hands. Girls with broken hearts huddled with blotchy eyes while their friends stroked their hair and whispered assurances. The enchanted decor had long since tired themselves out.

You drifted through it, lost in your own head as your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to him.

Tom Riddle had wanted you.

It still felt crazy, but you knew it now. That in Potions, he must have smelled you.

“Are you even listening?” A friend hissed at you during Transfiguration, nudging your knee under the desk.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, quill hovering uselessly above parchment, dripping ink from the tip in large blots and ruining your work. “What?”

She stared. “Professor Merrythought just asked you a question.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, eyes darting around the class and then apologetically to the Professor.

“Right. Sorry.” You forced your attention forward, ignoring the low ripple of snickers.

Your mind felt like it was moving through syrup, and you kept it all to yourself. In Arithmancy, you lost track of numbers you usually handled with ease. In History of Magic, you stared through Professor Binns as if he were smoke.

You had never truly noticed how many classes you shared with Tom Riddle before today. Now, it felt excessive. Potions, Transfiguration, Defense, Ancient Runes. He had always been there — but you had never catalogued the frequency of his presence until now. Riddle always sat with his back straight. His quill moved with elegant strokes as he took notes. He answered every question asked of him and was always correct.

And he did not look at you once.

Not even once.

A part of you bristled.

It bothered you more than if he had glared across the room because he was unbothered as ever. It was as if the courtyard had not happened. As if he had not offered you your favorite flowers and waited for your answer. Why ask if he did not care?

You caught yourself watching the side of his face during Transfiguration, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint hollow beneath it, the way his long and skillful hands worked his wand. You noticed he liked to fidget with it a lot — running his fingers along the side, caressing, holding it delicately like it was an extension of himself. Riddle suddenly shifted slightly in his seat, and you looked away at once, heart pounding madly in your chest.

You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, you reminded yourself. You would have hated his scorn. You would have hated whispers and pointed stares. This was the better outcome. You didn’t want to be known as the girl who rejected Tom Riddle even when your chest tightened unpleasantly each time he gathered his books without so much as glancing your way.

So, why did it feel like something was terribly wrong?

By the time late afternoon crept in and you finished your classes for the day, you were already making your way to the Hogwarts library.

It was quieter than normal. Valentine’s Day had drained the castle of its usual studious population. Lamps glowed in warm, cozy pools of gold across long wooden tables. The smell of ink and old books welcomed you like an embrace. The tall windows were darker than they were before now. And most of all, it was silent in the way you liked. The library had always been your refuge.

You passed a few stragglers who also had nothing better to do on Valentine’s Day as you made your way to the back of the huge reading area, shrugging off your cloak and draping it over the armrest before sinking into a wooden chair.

As the minutes passed, books started to accumulate around you on the table. You diligently studied for your next exam, burying yourself in the library as evening settled over Hogwarts. The light outside the tall windows dimmed so slowly that you hadn’t even noticed until you took a glance and realized how much time had passed. You rolled your shoulders, flexed your aching fingers, and leaned back over your notes. You read the same line three times, finding yourself unable to focus as hunger gradually gnawed at your stomach.

It hit you that you had not eaten at all today.

Your plate at breakfast had gone unfinished, and you skipped lunch entirely to come here. The dining hall would be closing soon. You considered getting something from the kitchens later. Though in truth, your appetite had vanished after the encounter with Riddle, your mind preoccupied with other things.

Then, you remembered.

The chocolates.

You stilled, hand hovering over parchment. A small feeling of guilt bloomed in your chest. You had nearly forgotten about them.

At least I won’t starve, you thought dryly.

Thanks, Riddle.

When you reached into your satchel, your fingers brushed against something smooth and rigid. After a second of hesitation, you drew out the box. It was elegant, with dark packaging and a perfectly tied ribbon. It felt nice and cool against your warm fingers that had been working for hours.

You set it on the table, undoing the carefully knotted bow, and lifted the lid almost excitedly. You loved chocolate, and you were always curious about the taste of different ones. A container like this would surely hold varying types that you were interested in trying. Some could have a filling of jam, or caramel, or a different flavor chocolate inside. The possibilities were endless.

Where others sought spontaneity in their real lives, you found it in chocolate. Because chocolate was the one thing that could never hurt you.

When you set the top aside, you saw that inside lay neat rows of white chocolates, each one ornate and delicately crafted, faintly glossy under the light. Your breath caught at how stunning they were, and you inhaled. A smile curled onto your lips despite yourself, giddy in your seat like a child.

They smelled exquisitely divine. They looked like the sweet and rich type, very expensive — just as the Slytherin girl from this morning had claimed. Too pretty you didn’t even want to eat them. You didn’t question how he knew of your preference. Because you rarely went a week without white chocolate; anyone paying enough attention could have noticed.

And Tom Riddle paid attention.

Your stomach gave a sudden, sharp pang at the enticing scent.

With the grace of an eager child, you picked one up and brought it to your mouth. The smooth chocolate melted instantly on your tongue, silky and decadent. A soft, pleased moan escaped from your lips before you could stop it. Embarrassed heat rushed to your cheeks, and you glanced around.

Merlin.

You hope no one heard that.

You swallowed quickly, your hunger starting to satiate bit by bit, before your fingers reached for another without thinking. The second tasted even sweeter. A warmth like no other continued to spread in your chest, like something had been wound tight and was now loosening itself. You leaned back slightly in your seat, tilting your head and humming in satisfaction as your eyes shut for just a moment.

Tom’s face suddenly surfaced in your mind with startling clarity, but not with the typical unease that came with it before.

You only remembered the charming curve of his soft, pink lips. The single, adorable curl that always falls over his forehead like it’s dying to be tamed, fixed back into place by your gentle hand. His strong, broad shoulders and the confident, attractive way he carried himself. The way his voice had dipped almost sensually, eyes smoldering when he told you Happy Valentine’s Day.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box.

Why had you said no?

You were confused.

Tom had been awfully considerate earlier today. He had known exactly what you would prefer. He had arranged everything so carefully. The lie, the empty courtyard, the timing to give you peace of mind.

Your pulse quickened.

Tom had looked at you like you were the only person in his world.

A soft, almost aching pressure built beneath your ribs. You could picture him so vividly now that it made your breath shallow. He was extraordinary. Brilliant in every class. Admired by professors. Feared, even, by some. There was something absolutely magnetic about him — something no one else had.

And he had chosen you.

A sharp wave of regret washed over you, sudden and consuming. How foolish you must have seemed. How cold. You had rejected him without even trying to understand him. You wanted conversation, you told yourself. You wanted to know someone first.

Tom had been trying to give you that chance.

And you had hurt him.

The realization struck with surprising force.

He had stood there — perfectly composed — while you rejected him. Tom had offered you your favorite flowers and you felt a pang of regret now at not taking them when you had the chance.

Your heart began to race in earnest, a dizzying rhythm that made your fingers tremble slightly. The warmth in your chest deepened, spreading into your throat and then to your limbs like fire. You felt unsteady and lightheaded. The thought of him alone somewhere in the castle, alone because you had sent him away—

No.

The idea of it twisted painfully in your heart like a knife.

“But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

You glanced toward the tall windows of the castle library. The sky outside was darkening rapidly, clouds thick and dark grey. It might storm soon tonight. Tom had said the stars would be beautiful. But perhaps he had only meant it as an excuse. An offering. It didn’t matter.

You had been so careless. Of course you had feelings for him. How could you not? Every glance he’d ever given you now felt charged in retrospect. Potions class — earlier, you figured out he had smelled you. That was why he’d stared. Tom was drawn to you. He hungered for you.

You released a soft gasp, your heart thudding harder.

Better yet, he understood you like no one else did. You were sure of it now. He had watched quietly, learned your preferences and your habits. The thought of him doing just that, of staring at you for long periods of time without you even realizing just to understand you made your heart soar, a flush blooming on your cheeks. Taking his time, he had waited for the right moment to confess. You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, trying to steady your rapid breathing that sounded almost like panting.

You needed to see him. A need that felt important above all else.

You needed to go. You needed to fix this. Not tomorrow. Now. He must have thought you didn’t care. He must have believed you dismissed him as easily as the other boys who tried.

Standing abruptly, your chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few students glanced up from distant tables, annoyed — you even earned a soft shush from somewhere to your right — but you barely registered it. Your pulse hammered in your ears now, loud enough to drown out reason. Every thought circled back to him — his voice, his eyes, the way he had said your name.

How had you not seen it before?

Tom was perfect.

Handsome. Intelligent. The very idea of him made your stomach flutter and your pulse quicken. Of all the girls who trailed after him, who whispered about him, who would have fallen at his feet if he so much as glanced their way — he had only looked at you.

A soft ache spread beneath your ribs. You had mistaken him. He hadn’t looked unbothered today because he didn’t care. Tom was giving you space.

Your throat tightened.

Tom was waiting for you.

He had said he would be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. It was evening. He might leave. The idea filled you with an unreasonable urgency. What if he thought you truly meant your refusal? What if he decided you were not worth pursuing? What if someone else—

No.

Your stomach twisted at the notion.

Your books and parchment lay forgotten as you close the lid of the chocolate box with careful, trembling hands and slipped it back into your bag, clutching it close as though it were something precious. You didn’t even bother with your cloak. The thought of missing him made your chest constrict. He would understand. He always seemed to understand. Tom was always so understanding.

You loved him.

The realization felt less like a question and more like an admission of truth you had been avoiding. It explained the awareness of him and the irritation at his composure. You had been afraid of wanting him. But he wanted you.

And you wanted— needed to see him desperately. If you didn’t, you think you’d die. You may have wasted the day, but you won’t make the mistake of wasting the night. You belonged with him. And you would not let him slip away.

The staircases seemed endless.

You didn’t remember leaving the library. You barely felt your feet striking stone as you ran, the slap of your shoes against stairs you nearly missed, fingers clutching freezing stone banisters to swing yourself around corners. Students cursed with startled protests as you shoved past without apology; one boy nearly dropped his books.

Someone may have called your name. You weren’t sure. The only thing you were sure of was Tom. Nothing mattered in the moment except him.

The castle was extremely chilly after sunset. Cool wind slipped through narrow slits, raising goosebumps along your bare arms through your thin blouse, yet heat pulsed under your skin — feverish and burning. You had left your cloak draped over the library chair. It did not occur to you to go back for it. So, you had forgotten it. Forgotten your books. Forgotten everything except him.

Tom.

Every minuscule and unimportant thought curved back to him. Your mind whispered his name like a prayer. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs as though you had been running for miles. Up spiral staircases. Through corridors and past suits of armor. The storm had begun outside; you could hear it building — wind battering the windows, distant thunder rolling like a warning.

None of it mattered.

There was only one fixed point in the world, and it was at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

You took the final staircase, breathing shallow in uneven gasps, heart rate frantic and desperate — fingers gripping the metal railing to steady yourself. The tower door loomed ahead, iron latch glinting at you mockingly. You shoved it open with strength you weren’t even aware you possessed just to get to him.

The wind struck you fully at once, brisk and furious, carrying the faint scent of rain washed stone. It whipped your hair around your face, but you paid it no mind. The sky was ominous and frightening, nothing like what he had promised.

Yet, amidst it all was your North Star. Your guiding light. Funny, wasn’t it? That he was in the Astronomy Tower of all places.

The clouds hid the heavens, but Tom glowed as he stood in the dark of night at the balcony’s edge, facing the horizon with his back to you, hands resting lightly on the railings. The storm swallowed the sky, but in your vision he was lit from within. The only thing illuminated. The only thing that mattered. His dark robes stirred with the breeze, the fabric clinging and releasing against his lean frame. You could only see the elegant line of his neck and the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked carved from shadow and pale marble, perfectly still against the raging weather.

You could only stare in awe.

He looked like he belonged to the night.

The beauty of what lay in front of your eyes made your breath catch in your throat.

“Tom.”

The name left you with reverence and breathlessness, almost disbelieving — like you had stumbled upon something sacred.

He turned.

At that moment, thunder cracked overhead. Lightning split across the sky in a violent flare of white, bathing Tom in a sudden light. For a heartbeat, your world froze with that flash. He looked like an angel. The light carved his high cheekbones, hollowed shadows beneath them, kissable lips curved in something that was not quite surprise.

His brown eyes found yours instantly before the faintest smile touched his lips — and somehow, you felt like you could breathe again. Like your entire world had rightened itself under your feet. Because Tom looked so happy to see you.

Rain began to mist in the air, cool against your flushed cheeks.

“I wondered how long it would take,” he finally spoke, voice carrying easily through the harsh winds. Your heart trembled at the melodious sound.

The implication in his tone flew right over your head. You only heard his voice, smooth like velvety chocolate on the tongue. It wrapped around you like warmth which you were in desperate need of.

Tom knew you would come. And he waited, so patiently. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

You stepped toward Tom before you even realized you were moving, like he was a magnet. Then again. And again. The distance— the separation between you felt unbearable.

And Tom watched closely the entire time, tracing over you slowly in a way that made you shudder from the intensity. He took note of everything, studied you. The lack of a cloak and your thin blouse which did nothing against the chill as if you had rushed over here. The flushed cheeks and your heaving breasts. The wild shine in your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.

Tom’s gaze darkened with something akin to pleasure.

“You’re cold,” he observed, though his voice carried no real concern.

“I don’t care,” you whispered.

Every step closed the space and yet it was never fast enough. The wind tangled your hair across your face, but you did not brush it away. You could not look anywhere except at him.

“You were right,” you choked out, your voice unsteady. “About the stars.”

Tom paused for a moment, faintly confused before his lips tugged at the corners in amusement at your state of delirium. It was, after all, an effect of the Amortentia he put in the chocolates you took from him this morning. It was also the last thing he had said to you in parting, and so, it wasn’t surprising you would be fixated on it.

“I’m usually right.”

You know that now, down to your marrow.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed instead, unable to help yourself from commenting on it. Up close, he was overwhelming. And that smile on his face was devilishly handsome. It gave you butterflies. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes — eyes like dark chocolate. You loved chocolate and you loved Tom.

You reached for him to steady yourself as though you had been falling all along. And the second your fingers touched the fabric of his robes, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. He was real. And he was yours. Tom stood at the center of your universe — like the stars, burning and eternal.

“I—” Your voice trembled suddenly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see it,” your words tumbled over one another. “I didn’t understand earlier. I was foolish. I thought— I thought I didn’t know you. But I do. I must. I just— didn’t want to be… like the others.”

A huff of amusement came from Tom.

“You are nothing like the others.”

By the look on Tom’s face, he seemed to be telling the truth, so sure of himself and what he had spoken to you. Of course he was. Tom would never lie to you. He did earlier today, but that was because he knew you’d be too stubborn to listen then. Again, an example of how well he knew you.

Another roll of thunder swallowed your words.

You closed the final, treacherous inch between you and collided into him like a supernova, fingers fisting into the fabric of his robes, pressing yourself against his chest as though proximity alone could steady the storm inside you. Your arms wound around his waist, clutching him tightly as though he might vanish into a black hole.

Tom went rigid beneath your touch.

A subtle tension rippled through him as if your unrestrained contact took him by surprise. But it was gone almost instantly. His arms came around you with one hand settled at your lower back, the other sliding possessively at your nape, fingers threading lightly into your hair.

You melted into his burning touch. His hands felt like a furnace on a cold night. You took advantage of the situation, inhaling the scent off his clean clothes. And God, he was the best thing you ever smelt — better than chocolate. Better than the ones he had given you that tasted sweeter with every bite you took. You wondered if Tom’s lips tasted the same.

“I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you continued, your voice breaking as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. “But when I left you this morning, i-it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his back. “It felt like something was crushing my chest.”

Tom’s hand at your neck flexed with subtle pressure, guiding you closer. His chin lowered slightly — so tall, so tall — resting against the crown of your head. He did not hush you. He only listened. Oh, Tom. He was perfect in every way.

“Did it?” He murmured softly in return, voice near you ear. His thumb brushed upward along your spine in a slow, absent movement. Safe. You felt safe in his arms. You only nodded against him hysterically, fingers clutching at his robes, wrinkling the immaculate fabric.

Tom’s gaze lifted to the stormy, dark horizon in the background as you spoke into his chest. He had known you would come. The amount of love potion he put into the chocolates were enough to tilt you gently in the direction you were meant to face. Toward him.

“I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t think. I kept seeing you. And I realized…” Your breath hitched. “I realized I can’t be without you. I don’t want to be. I need you,” you finally confessed, cheeks hot, fisting his shirt. The words trembled as they came out of you, but they were certain. You were afraid for him to leave you, to be alone.

“I need you like I need air, Tom.”

The wind howled faintly around the tower, tugging at your hair and at his cloak with fiercer ferocity. The storm clapped mercilessly above, rain starting to pouring heavily into the balcony which you both stood near at an angle. Tom stepped closer inside to avoid being hit much by it, leading you backwards with him.

You barely noticed, eyes locked on his face like you couldn’t look away; entranced.

Tom tilted your chin up with two fingers. You looked at him through tear blurred vision, cheeks flushed, lashes wet, lips parted and wobbly. Devotion was written plainly across your face. Worship and unwavering loyalty. Tom’s gaze swept over you slowly, drinking you in. He couldn’t help but swallow, pale throat bobbing.

Perfect. You were… perfect like this.

“You want me? You need me?” He repeated very quietly, voice raspy as he cupped your cheek. It sounded like gospel to your ears. You leaned into his hand. Honestly, you could hear Tom speak all day. You almost hated yourself for having to respond because he went silent just to hear you. But Tom wanted you to talk to him, and you would do anything to make him happy.

“Yes,” you gasped, your response immediate and absolute.

Tom’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the edge of a tear as he collected it onto his finger. He examined the moisture on his skin briefly before letting his hand fall.

“I don’t give my attention lightly,” Tom hummed. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“And when I decide something belongs to me…” His eyes held yours, unblinking. You inhaled sharply. “I do not let it go easily.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

Tom’s hand slid from your jaw to the curve of your waist, fingers spreading there as though testing the shape of you, claiming you. You leaned into him further. He drew you impossibly closer than that, your body pressed against his fully now. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. It wasn’t beating erratically like yours.

Your fingers slid higher along his chest, curling near his collar. He doesn’t stop you.

“I want you.”

The statement hung in the air as Tom simply looked down at you.

“You have me,” Tom said at last, and your heart swelled painfully at that. He understood. He always understood. You buried your face against his chest again, tears barely dampening the front of his rain soaked clothes. His hand moved to the back of your neck once more.

“And you won’t run again,” he murmured, and it sounded like seduction.

“No.”

His thumb pressed lightly at the base of your throat, just enough to feel the frantic pulse there, tilting your head back up ever so slightly to meet his eyes.

“Say it.”

You swallowed, and he felt it against his finger. You were completely vulnerable in this position. And yet, your breath shook wildly, eyes dilated.

“I won’t run from you.”

The faintest hum left him, almost content.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched at the praise. Good girl. You wanted to hear it again and again until it was etched into your bones. Your lips parted instinctively as if asking for more without words. Lightning flashed again, closer now. The harsh breeze mauled at your damp hair, whipping it across your face again. He reached up and smoothed it back with unsettling gentleness.

“You belong with me,” you practically begged. “Don’t you see? I belong with you.”

“I was hoping,” he started carefully, pausing to look over your expression, “that you would come to that conclusion on your own.”

Your heart seized at that. He had believed in you. He had waited.

“I love you,” you hiccuped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.

Silence followed. Droplets of rain striked the stone around you.

“You couldn’t live without me?” Tom asked.

You shook your head helplessly, enamored with him and hanging onto his every word.

“No.”

A faint exhale left him — almost a laugh, but not quite. For all his contempt of love potions, Tom could not deny their elegance.

He had always despised them — weak little instruments for those too pathetic to command any type of devotion on their own merit. The irony of his own conception had burned that hatred into him early. A foolish girl from a crumbling line, infatuated with a filthy Muggle, desperate enough to drug him into counterfeit affection. A love potion slipped into a drink. A Muggle man ensnared. And from that humiliating farce — him. His mother had begged for love. And when it slipped through her fingers, she had withered.

Lord Voldemort would never wither.

Lord Voldemort would never be weak.

He would never beg a filthy Muggle to stay. He would never cling to someone who did not choose him freely. He would never lose control of himself the way his mother had. Tom did not feed you this potion because he lacked control over you. He brewed it because power — which was neither good nor evil — meant using every bit of magic available.

Tom Riddle was nothing like his stupid mother.

Merope had dosed Tom Riddle Sr because she feared he would leave. Tom had dosed you because you would not have the good sense to stay. Because you were stubborn in that infuriatingly, principled way. Because you required… encouragement.

And now?

His hand tightened subtly at your nape, thumb pressing into the pulse at your neck just beneath your skin as if testing it. You trembled for him. You burned for him. You had run through the castle, abandoned dignity, abandoned sense, abandoned warmth — because you needed him.

A memory flickered through his mind.

It would be months ago from now. He had not meant to linger in that aisle longer than necessary, running a simple errand for a professor before he heard his name. Now, Tom was by far not an uncommon name, he admitted to himself with bitterness. But, he recognized the voice. Out of pure instinct, he peeked through the shelves, curious and silent, gaze sharp through the narrow, emptied out spaces between spines of ancient books in the castle library.

Tom saw one of the girls who he had turned down the day before. Clearly, she was not as okay with it as she had pretended to be and would gladly tear him apart for sport in front of her pathetic friends. Not that he cared about such trivial matters. The concept of love was the least of his concerns. He knew what to expect. Tom could read people like an open book. Resentment and hurt; he had grown accustomed to nurturing it in others every time he said the word no.

But then, he heard you.

Defending him.

You hadn’t known he was listening. You had no idea he stood on the other side of that shelf, watching you. You had simply said what you believed to be true. That he owed no one his affection. That boundaries were not arrogance. You had sounded sincere, not a single trace of want in your tone.

It had stuck with him.

At first, he assumed it was typical teenage girl pettiness. A little rivalry using a clever remark to wound another for competition… until he realized you never once looked at him in class or in corridors. You did not smile at him shyly. You did not linger near in hopes of getting his attention. You did not even seem to care that he existed.

It wasn’t always obsession.

That was when curiosity took root.

Then, curiosity became irritation.

Tom Riddle was accustomed to being watched. To the whispers. To the desire and lust in other people’s eyes. But you — infuriatingly — refused to orbit him. Never preened. Never sought him out. You rejected boys without hesitation, as if their offers were minor inconveniences. Including Tom too, apparently.

What did you want, then? What standard did you hold that so many failed to reach? He couldn’t figure you out as easily as anyone else. And ironically, Tom Riddle hated riddles.

After closely watching you for months, he had figured out plenty about you. You lived quietly, guarding your privacy like treasure. You liked silence, he did too. But not the eerie kind like Tom did. You preferred the type that consisted of at least some natural noise. You disliked spectacles, stiffening at anything that would draw attention to you. Like him, you valued control. In some ways, you and him were not so different.

You tucked your hair behind your ear when irritated. You frowned faintly when concentrating, a look he’s seen many times when you never noticed him staring right at you. You were kind. Tom first saw it in the way you protected his name in conversations that did not concern you and he hasn’t forgotten it since.

And then, there was the chocolate — always white chocolate. It was your weakness. He had catalogued it months ago, when you unwrapped one absentmindedly. The faint smile you wore when you thought no one was looking, how you so easily lost yourself in it, brain going numb — the sight made him hungry in a way he never was growing up as a poor orphan. It made him want to ravish you where you stood. He had been looking. He was always looking at you. And you were blissfully unaware.

Tom had known you would eat what he gave you. Your sweet tooth was abominable. How could something so simple bring you so much joy? You lacked restraint when it came to sugar. He had measured the dosage of Amortentia carefully — enough to turn the tide of your stubbornness, not enough to dull your mind completely. He did not want a puppet. He wanted something that felt real, that sounded real — as real as a love potion can get.

Tom had given you the illusion of choice; in a manner of speaking. And when you still rejected him in the courtyard — just as part of him knew you would — cold fury had flared inside him, bright and violent, beneath his composed exterior. You had dared to believe there was someone better suited to you than him? How dare you find him insufficient? Who could possibly surpass him?

No one.

No one would have you.

He had orchestrated every detail to make you comfortable.

And still, you said no.

How ungrateful you were.

He had even planted the seed with Slughorn weeks before, during a late Slug Club gathering. It was a casual suggestion, an offhand remark about the curriculum timing what with Valentine’s Day approaching. Wouldn’t it be amusing to align love potions with the season? Slughorn had beamed at the brilliance of it, utterly unaware he had been maneuvered.

The pieces had arranged themselves beautifully. As they always did, the stars shone in his name — for he was the universe’s favorite. Everything would work out for Lord Voldemort in the end.

As you clung to him now, pliant, Tom felt no guilt. Only confirmation that you were not like the others — he had been right about that from the beginning. You had defended him when you owed him nothing. You had shown him something dangerously close to loyalty before he had even asked for it.

And loyalty deserved to rewarded.

In all honesty, your trust had always been your flaw. You defended him when you did not know him. You believed in goodness where others would not. You believed in him.

You were too good for your own good.

And goodness, in this world, required protection. He would be that protection. Deep down, even a god like him craved to be seen as a man from time to time. So, you would love him like one. Tom would show you how. And you would never stop.

Tom’s lips crashed onto yours with bruising force, a hand fisting in your damp hair. Deep and claiming, his tongue swept into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. Like he’d been starving for weeks, months, years. Like this was his first taste of life and death all at once. You gasped against him, overwhelmed — and Tom took the opportunity by deepening the kiss, your body arching instinctively into his chest, a hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

He backed you against the stone walls of the Astronomy tower, thigh nudged between yours, pressure settling exactly where heat pooled most desperately. You whimpered, a broken sound swallowed by another searing kiss.

Tom’s hands were everywhere — rough, impatient, possessive. He shoved your skirt up past your hips without breaking the kiss, wand calloused fingers dragging over bare skin before finding your panties soaked with slick. He growled into your mouth at the feeling. A dark, satisfied sound that made you even wetter.

Tom didn’t let up, your whimpers going straight to his groin. He fed off every breathless sound you made, every tremble that ran through your frame at his touch. When he finally pulled back an inch, his brown eyes burned down at yours, flashing red almost. They were feral.

“So wet,” he rasped against your lips, tone thick with something between disbelief and satisfaction with you. “For me?”

You could only nod frantically as his thumb circled once over swollen flesh like a loving caress one would absentmindedly give an animal, a slow tease, before taking them away. Before you could complain however, without warning, Tom dropped to his knees before you on those cold stone floors drenched by windblown rainwater pooling near your feet and gently pushed up your soaked skirt once more. The second his cold, powerful fingers brushed your inner thigh, you shivered.

Tom looked up at you through dark lashes. Droplets of rain streaked down his pale face. His hands were steady, skillful— too calm for a prodigy that was about to do something so filthy on a magical tower where anyone could find them.

But then again, Tom had never cared about rules when it came to getting what he wanted.

And right now?

He wanted you.

With deliberate slowness, torturous, he hooked one long finger under your soaked panties before he pulled them aside. A cool gust of wind swept over your exposed heat just as his warm breath ghosted across sensitive skin. A soft gasp left your throat at the sensation before your lips parted further in surprise.

Tom had licked once — a long, slow drag straight up your slit — and groaned like it was honey on his tongue, the sound making you clench around nothing. He was starting to understand why you lost control of yourself when it came to sweet things.

All you could focus on was the mouth suddenly sealing over your core like a man possessed. His tongue worked in ruthless circles, relentless and straight to the point, plunging inside before licking back up again with just the right pressure to make your knees buckle.

You cried out, a high pitched and desperate sound as one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against damp stone wall behind you. You wanted him. You wanted all of him. Anything he’d give you, you’d take in a heartbeat. The wind continued to howl around you, drowning out your noises, rain slashing sideways onto your faces — but neither of you cared.

All that existed was Tom’s mouth devouring you like ripe fruit offered to a god — the wet sounds obscene as he sucked at your clit between sharp nips of his teeth — a low growl vibrating from his chest and against your folds, sending shocks through the sensitive flesh every time another whimper escaped your lips.

Everything about this was borderline animalistic, something you never expected from Tom.

Tom.

Tom.

“Tom, Tom, Tom—!”

Your voice was a broken melody as you worshipped his name like it was the only word left in your world, dazed and drunk from the love potion’s magic. He was the only thought in your head. It confused you how you could love someone so much so suddenly. But you guess that’s what it meant to love someone so great. Each utterance of his name dripped with reverence, laced with the love potion’s haze and raw pleasure as his tongue worked magic between your thighs. And though he despised that name — Tom Marvolo Riddle — hearing it fall from your lips like this? Like you were praying to him?

It undid something in him. Tom reveled in it.

His eyes stayed locked on yours even as he feasted on you, dark pools of hunger and possession flashing with each clap of lightning outside. Rain slicked every inch of his face. His cheeks dusted faintly pink from exertion — but it hadn’t compared to how utterly wrecked you looked above him.

Fingers tightening further at your hip while the other curled under your thigh, lifting it effortlessly so he had a better angle. Tom was relentless. Every lick, every suck — each one was born to ruin you. His tongue dragged up your slick folds with agonizing slowness, the tip playing with your tiny clit just enough to make you whimper before pulling away completely and doing it again. And again; like he had all night.

It was just them, like it was always meant to be — the breeze whooshing around their bodies that were pressed together — and Tom was worshipping at the altar of your cunt like it truly was sacred ground only meant for him.

Tom groaned against you when you ground down harder onto his mouth, hips rocking helplessly as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. One hand shot out instinctively to brace against his shoulder while the other still clung desperately to his hair — pushing his face deeper without meaning to.

The vibrations of another low growl rumbled through his lips straight into your throbbing bundle of nerves. You were so close, rutting against his pretty face in tandem.

“Tom,” you whined pitifully. Tom knew. He always knew.

He could feel it, from the way your thighs tensed to how your breaths turned into frantic little gasps that dissolved into moans. From the moment you tilted your head back, baring that delicate throat to the sky, breaking eye contact with him although he knew it pained you to do so. Because all you ever wanted to do was look at him now.

Without breaking rhythm, his tongue circled your clit while two fingers suddenly pushed inside you without warning, long and deft, finding that spongy spot deep within instantly, filling you up deliciously.

“Tom— oh! Oh God—”

Tom smirked up at you. Your back arched off the wall while thighs shook around his invading hand. It burned, stretched you too fast — but god it was good, especially when Tom curled them upwards just right. He sucked hard on your puffy little nub and the combination of everything all at once was too much.

A scream tore from your throat, his name ripping out of you in a sob as the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You didn’t even recognize your own voice.

Your back arched violently off the wall. Your hips jerked against Tom’s mouth and fingers like a delightful seizure as pleasure washed through every nerve ending in your body. You could see it behind closed eyelids — flashes of light, stars bursting across your vision just like he’d promised.

Tom didn’t stop.

He let you ride out your high, feeling every pulse of your pussy as you clenched tightly around his fingers, slurping gently now to prolong it while his digits kept pumping inside you at an achingly slow pace meant to wring every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling body. You let out a shaky breath, hands carding through Tom’s wet strands endearingly, the wet look making him look even more attractive.

From the rain or your juices, you didn’t know. All you could do was gasp for air and whisper his name again between shuddering gasps as Tom kept going until the last tremor had faded from your body, ignoring the strain in his trousers for now.

Only then did he finally pull his fingers free with a wet pop — lifting them to his lips and licking every drop of you clean without breaking eye contact. Your cheeks grew hotter, eyes glassy and dazed as you peered down at him, pupils dilated and practically the shape of hearts. His expression was pure sin, dark eyes heavy lidded and mouth glistening with your slick and cum.

“Delicious.”

You were still slumped against the wall, legs weak and breath ragged, completely wrecked.

But Tom was far from done with you.

In one fluid motion, he stood up — towering over you again before he yanked off his soaked cloak in one impatient tug. The fabric hit the wet floor with a heavy splash as rain dripped down every sculpted inch of him. His thick cock already painfully hard beneath his pants. Your gaze devoured him, tracking his bulge specifically as he begins to unbuckle his belt without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to acknowledge how your back ended up on the cold stone floor, or how your clothing now lay torn in shreds, exposing your entire body to him — Tom looming over you like a predator about to claim its prize. His eyes looked wild and free. Your heart skipped a beat.

The cold stone bit into your bare skin but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of Tom’s body when he blanketed yours, even when his clothes were soaked and you lay entirely bare in contrast before him. Rain pounded down harsher than before as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock, his beautiful cock already glistening at the tip from precum, pulled out from between his zipper. It tapped against your soaked entrance before circling it almost teasingly. You don’t remember seeing him taking it out.

One hand gripped your hip tight while the other braced beside your head. Tom’s breath came ragged now too, control fraying at every second spent not inside you.

Tom didn’t give you time to overthink as his hand guided himself between your slick folds already swollen from his earlier attention. His mushroom tip pressed hot and heavy against your hole and you clenched involuntarily, eager to suck him in. It leaked precum onto your sensitive skin. So close. You could feel how big he was, thicker than your wrist, longer than expected — and a pit grew in your gut before it went away like it had never existed.

“Breathe,” he murmured, not unkindly. He must have sensed you were nervous. But, Tom was also impatient as he proceeded to press the tip inside without warning.

As his cock pushed in, stretching you impossibly wide — a groan, deep and guttural, was wrenched from his throat. You were tight. So tight it nearly stole his breath.

“Mmnn—”

You whimpered at the burn. Every inch of him was slowly sheathing itself in your slick heat, gooey walls fluttering around him like a heartbeat. Virgin cunt untouched until now. Until him.

His glorious cock speared into you further like a divine sword until he bottomed out inside you fully. Full. Your lips parted in a silent scream, brows furrowed and eyes fluttered shut. You never felt this good, this full, even though it stung a little in comparison, when you ate chocolate.

You were delirious, lost in your head. On top of you, Tom didn’t move again right away.

Couldn’t.

Just braced above you with trembling arms, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin, drawing a hiss that sounded unnatural for a human to make but it made you clench around him all the same. His forehead pressed to yours as rain dripped from his face onto yours like holy water. His hips twitched involuntarily — a shallow grind that dragged a whimper from your lips.

Then slowly. So. Fucking. Slowly. He pulled back, your head tilting as your eyes rolled back to your skull, toes curling, until just the tip remained before pressing in again.

Thunder and lightning clapped in your ears, splitting the sky in jagged bursts that lit your upturned face for a few seconds. The world above was chaos, black storm clouds swallowing the sky as the heavens raged. Rain hammered down mercilessly, turning the stone floor beneath you into a slick mirror. Your soaked hair splayed across the stone floor like a halo.

You stared up at that upside down horizon with hazy eyes, each thrust from Tom rocking your head back further against wet rock as he rutted into you.

And yet, all you could think about were those stars that you saw behind closed lids whenever pleasure crested too high — the ones only he had shown you.

You smiled dreamily.

Tom was right.

You had seen the stars tonight.

And they were beautiful.

At Hogwarts, there were certain facts everyone seemed to agree on.

The lake was cold year-round. The staircases moved when they pleased. And Tom Riddle was the dreamiest boy in the entire school.

No one even argued about it anymore.

Girls whispered about him in corridors and leaned across tables in the Great Hall just for a better look when he walked in. His name appeared in folded notes, carved into desks, scribbled in the margins of homework. Fifth-years, seventh-years, even the occasional bold fourth-year—everyone could go on and on about what a gentleman he was.

It was easy to see why.

Tom Riddle was beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair—dark hair always perfectly in place, sharp cheekbones, eyes so striking they made people forget what they were saying halfway through a sentence. But it wasn’t just that. He was brilliant. Top of every class. Prefect. Professors adored him. Students admired him.

Even the whispers about his parentage—the quiet mentions that he came from an orphanage, that he had no respectable wizarding family behind him—never seemed to stick.

His looks and his mind more than made up for it.

There was only one problem.

Tom Riddle had absolutely no interest in dating.

Not even a little.

It didn’t matter how obvious they made it. The lingering glances, the nervous giggles, the accidental brushes of hands in the hallway—he ignored it all with the same polite, distant smile. If someone worked up the courage to ask him out, he declined with perfect courtesy and zero hesitation.

He never flirted.

Never chased.

Never seemed tempted.

Most girls eventually gave up, deciding he was simply too focused on his studies, or too proud, or perhaps waiting for someone exceptional enough to catch his attention.

But you—

You had never been very good at giving up.

By fifth year, the excitement surrounding Tom had hardly faded.

If anything, it had become worse.

At Hogwarts, admiration tended to grow with proximity, and Tom Riddle had only grown more impressive with time. He had become a prefect that year—though no one had been surprised by that—and he carried the silver badge on his robes with the same effortless authority he carried everything else.

He moved through the corridors as if the castle belonged to him.

Students parted for him without quite realizing they had done so. Professors trusted him without hesitation. Younger students looked at him with something bordering on awe. Even his fellow prefects deferred to him more often than not.

And still, despite all the attention he received, he remained stubbornly uninterested in it.

Girls still fell over themselves to speak to him, of course. That had not changed. What had changed was the quiet understanding that it would lead nowhere. Riddle was polite, even kind when it suited him, but there was always a wall there. An invisible line no one was permitted to cross.

It had been that way for years.

Which was precisely why the sight of you standing at the entrance of the fifth-floor corridor made him stop.

Tom slowed slightly, dark eyes narrowing just enough to show his displeasure.

You stood beside one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds, prefect badge gleaming faintly in the torchlight. The winter wind rattled the glass behind you, though you seemed perfectly comfortable, hands folded neatly behind your back as if you had been waiting there for quite some time.

Tom approached with measured steps.

“I’m supposed to be patrolling with Lestrange.” He said, voice calm, precise—every word chosen carefully, as if testing the air for deception.

Your smile was immediate—pleasant, warm, almost apologetic. “Unfortunately,” You said, voice soft but deliberate, “it seems she has come down with something dreadful. Food poisoning, I believe. Madam Pomfrey insisted she remain in the hospital wing.”

Tom did not return the smile.

He regarded you with quiet skepticism, those dark eyes narrowing just enough to unsettle. The explanation was perfectly reasonable. Sensible, even. Students fell ill all the time in the castle, and prefect rounds had to be covered.

But Tom Riddle had spent years navigating the social ecosystem of Hogwarts. There were patterns he had learned to read like a finely inked map. And this pattern, unfortunately, was familiar.

It was not the first time a girl had attempted to rearrange prefect schedules in order to walk the corridors beside him. He had seen every variation: And now, apparently, there was another.

“You volunteered to cover her shift.” He said, voice even, but with a slight edge. It was not a question.

You weren’t even in the same house. There was no way Lestrange would have asked a Gryffindor—much less a half-blood like you—to take her place. The only reason you were here was because you had chosen to be.

Your smile didn’t falter.

“Well,” You said, light as a feather but edged with an unspoken certainty, “someone had to.”

“How charitable.” Tom replied, arching one dark brow.

“I do try.” You said, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if that small gesture made the world seem brighter.

He studied you carefully. Hands folded behind your back, posture impeccable. Expression bright, almost friendly—but Tom knew better than to trust appearances. There was nothing outwardly improper about the situation, yet something in the precise way you held yourself told him you were entirely aware of the power in the moment.

And yet—

Tom had the distinct impression that none of it was coincidental.

“I assume,” He said slowly, deliberately, “that the schedule change was approved.”

“Of course.”

“And the Head Girl knows.”

“Absolutely.”

A silence stretched, heavy with subtle tension. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hesitate. You simply met his gaze, unwavering.

“Then we should begin our rounds,” He said at last, pivoting smoothly toward the staircase, “Unless you’d prefer to return to the hospital wing and check if Lestrange is feeling any better to take your place.”

Your footsteps fell easily into pace beside him, the echo of your shoes soft against the stone floor. “Oh, I’m sure she’s in excellent hands.” You said, letting your words carry a touch of warmth that wasn’t entirely innocent.

Tom did not look at you as the two of you moved through the dim corridor, the castle quiet around you except for the distant crackle of torches.

But you, quietly, felt the thrill. Beneath the smooth folds of your robes, your fingers brushed against the vial tucked into your pocket. The small concoction of laxative potion rested there.

A small, sly smile curved your lips—sweet, innocent, and utterly calculated.

The library was quiet, the air heavy with the faint scent of old parchment and ink. Tom Riddle moved deliberately between the towering shelves, fingers brushing along the spines of leather-bound books as if memorizing their texture as well as their titles. He had an essay due for Charms that evening—a paper that required research in a volume he knew was kept in the restricted stacks.

He stopped in front of the shelf where the book should have been, frowned, and muttered under his breath, “Impossible…”

He had already checked the obvious sections twice. The third shelf from the top, the fourth from the bottom—everywhere—but the volume he required remained elusive. With a sigh, he was about to turn toward Madam Pince’s desk, ready to ask where the book had gone, when he saw it.

There you were, sleeves rolled up, hair tucked neatly behind your ears, holding the exact tome in your hands.

His steps faltered.

“That’s… I needed that book.” He said, his voice low, controlled, a flicker of annoyance hidden behind impeccable manners.

You looked up, startled for just a moment, then smiled sweetly, wide-eyed and innocent. “Oh! I had no idea,” You said lightly, as though the situation were purely coincidental, “I just needed it for my essay.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened, narrowing ever so slightly. “Well, I need it as well.”

You bit your lip in mock consideration, tilting your head with exaggerated thoughtfulness. Then, casually, almost playfully, you said, “I’m sure we could work something out.”

“Work something out?”

You stepped just slightly closer, giving him a small, teasing smile, “Yes. We could share it. You could meet me here in the library for the next couple of days and… work on our essays together.”

Tom’s brows furrowed, the faintest crease appearing between them. He already disliked inefficiency—this plan sounded inconvenient, messy, unnecessary. He opened his mouth, ready to object, but you leaned closer, just enough for him to notice the faint scent of parchment and lavender clinging to your robes.

“Or,” You added softly, almost purring, “you could always stop by my dorm once I’m done with it.”

For a moment, Tom didn’t reply. He stared at you, trying to pinpoint the exact nature of your intent.

You handed him the book with a careful, slow gesture, fingers brushing briefly against his, casual enough to seem accidental but deliberate enough to make him notice.

“See you in a few hours?” You asked lightly.

The Potions classroom carried its usual mixture of heat, crushed herbs, and simmering glassware. Steam drifted lazily through the air, curling beneath the low stone ceiling as cauldrons bubbled across the long rows of worktables.

Tom stood near the front of the room beside Professor Slughorn, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows as he leaned over a student's cauldron.

“Not quite,” He said calmly, taking the stirring rod from the flustered Hufflepuff boy, “You’ve allowed the mixture to thicken too quickly. Counterclockwise first, then clockwise. Like this.”

The potion shifted color almost instantly, smoothing into the proper consistency as he corrected it.

The boy looked relieved.

“Brilliant, Riddle,” Slughorn beamed from across the room, his walrus mustache twitching with delight, “Always knew you had the makings of a master brewer. My unofficial assistant today, class! Best student Hogwarts has produced in years.”

Tom offered a modest incline of his head, though the praise barely registered. He was already moving to the next table, inspecting ingredients with quiet efficiency.

Across the room, you watched him.

As you had been for most of the lesson.

Every movement of his was precise, controlled, deliberate. Even in something as mundane as correcting a potion, there was a quiet authority about him that drew the eye. Students listened when he spoke, adjusted their techniques under his direction, and even Slughorn seemed content to leave half the instruction in Tom’s capable hands.

Which made it all the more obvious that he had not looked at you once.

Not when you entered the classroom.

Not when Slughorn announced his role.

Not even when you deliberately positioned yourself at a worktable within easy sight of him.

At first you had assumed he simply hadn’t noticed.

But Tom Riddle noticed everything.

Meaning the conclusion was obvious.

He was ignoring you.

Deliberately.

Your lips pressed together slightly as you diced a knot of valerian root on the wooden board in front of you, the small knife glinting beneath the dungeon lights.

Across the room, Tom leaned over a Gryffindor student’s cauldron, offering quiet guidance while the girl listened with rapt attention.

You lifted your hand slightly.

“Riddle.” You called sweetly.

No response.

His attention remained entirely on the potion in front of him.

You tilted your head.

Interesting.

A moment later Slughorn clapped his hands together loudly near the front desk.

“Right then, carry on brewing! I’ve just remembered something I left in my office. Riddle, my boy, would you mind keeping an eye on things while I pop upstairs?”

“Of course, Professor.”

The door shut behind Slughorn with a heavy click.

Immediately the room grew a little louder as students relaxed under the absence of direct supervision.

Tom didn’t look up from the ingredient list he was checking.

But he was aware of everything.

The shift in noise levels. The careless stirring of cauldrons. The faint scrape of knives against cutting boards.

And, somewhere across the room—

You.

Your irritation sharpened.

You had been patient. Exceptionally patient, in fact.

His cool avoidance now was nothing more than a childish attempt to regain control of the situation.

Which, frankly, was rude.

Your gaze dropped slowly to the knife in your hand.

The blade was thin and clean, designed for delicate ingredient preparation. It caught the light as you turned it slightly between your fingers.

Across the room, Tom straightened from a student’s cauldron and moved toward another table, calmly correcting someone’s slicing technique.

Still not looking at you.

Fine.

If he wished to ignore you, you would simply make that impossible.

Your grip shifted on the knife.

Then, with quiet precision—

You dragged the blade across the side of your palm.

The sting came instantly, sharp and hot. Blood welled quickly along the shallow cut, spilling down your skin in a dark red line before dripping onto the stone floor.

You let out a soft, startled gasp.

Not too loud.

Just enough.

The reaction was immediate.

Several students turned.

Tom turned with them.

His eyes landed on you across the room—and for the first time that entire lesson, his attention locked fully onto you.

You were standing very still beside your worktable, staring down at your hand as crimson slid slowly between your fingers.

Tom’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly.

He crossed the room in long, controlled strides.

By the time he reached you, his voice was quiet but edged with irritation.

“You should be more careful.”

He reached for your wrist before you could respond, turning your hand slightly so he could examine the cut. His grip was firm, steady, clinical—already assessing the depth of the wound.

It wasn’t serious.

Of course it wasn’t.

Just enough to bleed.

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours.

Your expression was a perfect mixture of embarrassment and sheepish charm.

“Sorry,” You said softly, “I'm so clumsy.”

Your fingers curled slightly in his grasp.

Up close, your smile returned—small, sweet, entirely unbothered.

And for the briefest moment, Tom had the distinct impression that the entire situation had unfolded exactly the way you wanted it to.

“Riddle, wait—”

The voice cut through the quiet corridor just as Tom stepped out of the Charms classroom.

He stopped.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

His brows knit together almost immediately when he saw you hurrying toward him.

A few weeks ago, he was certain he had never seen you before. Never spoken to you, never crossed paths in the corridors. Yet lately it seemed as though you appeared everywhere he went—like some persistent coincidence he had yet to solve.

But Tom did not believe in patterns of coincidence.

You reached him and stopped a comfortable distance away, just close enough to speak without raising your voice. A soft breath escaped you, like you’d hurried to catch him.

“There you are.” You said lightly, relief coloring your tone.

Tom didn’t respond.

His dark eyes simply studied you.

You were smiling—pleasant, open, the kind of expression that disarmed most people instantly. There was nothing pushy about it, nothing demanding. Just quiet friendliness.

It was irritating.

Then you lifted something from behind your back and held it out.

A dark notebook.

For the first time, genuine confusion flickered across Tom’s face.

“I believe this is yours?” You said, “I found it in Charms earlier. Thought you might want it back.”

The notebook rested in your palm, familiar and unmistakable.

Tom stared at it.

His brows furrowed deeper.

It was his.

He knew every scratch on the cover, every faint bend in the spine from years of careful use.

And Tom Riddle did not lose things.

Ever.

His mind moved instantly, reconstructing the day with sharp precision.

He had placed the notebook inside his bag that morning. He remembered the exact motion—sliding it between two textbooks before leaving the dormitory. After that he had attended Transfiguration, then Potions, then lunch.

Charms had been his fourth class.

At no point had he removed it.

At no point had he misplaced it.

And most importantly—

At no point had you been close enough to him to take it.

His eyes lifted slowly from the notebook to your face.

You were watching him with open patience, as though waiting politely for him to take it.

“I almost handed it to Professor Flitwick,” You continued conversationally, tilting your head slightly, “But then I saw your name written inside the cover.”

Tom felt something sharp stir in the back of his mind.

A quiet prickle of suspicion.

He studied you more carefully now.

Your posture was relaxed, shoulders loose. Your fingers held the notebook lightly rather than clutching it. Even your expression was perfectly balanced—concerned enough to look helpful, but not eager enough to appear desperate for praise.

Tom took the notebook from your hand slowly.

Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment before withdrawing and he watched as a pretty flush spread across your cheeks.

“How thoughtful of you.”

"That's me, ever so thoughtful." You said brightly.

Tom’s gaze lingered on you, searching.

He was accustomed to understanding people quickly. Most of them were painfully transparent—jealousy, ambition, fear. Their motives showed themselves with very little effort.

But you…

You stood there looking utterly unbothered by his scrutiny.

If anything, you seemed amused by it.

His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and composed once more.

“You should head back to your dorm, Ms. (L/N).”

You blinked once at the sudden formality.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the recent petrifications,” He continued calmly, his dark eyes studying your reaction carefully, “And the rumors circulating about a creature roaming the castle.”

“Thank you for your concern about me,” you said lightly after a moment, clasping your hands behind your back as though the gesture pleased you greatly. “I’m glad I was able to return your book.”

You rocked back gently on your heels, your expression bright.

“Well,” you said, “I won’t keep you.”

Your eyes flicked briefly toward the notebook tucked beneath his arm.

Then back to his face.

You flashed him one last charming smile.

“See you around, Tom.”

The sound of his first name coming from your mouth sounded both offensive and intriguing. He found himself wanting to bite your lip, if only to get you to stop saying it.

Then you stepped aside and continued down the corridor.

Tom remained where he was.

Watching you walk away.

Your stride was easy and unhurried, robes swaying softly with each step as though the entire interaction had been nothing more than a trivial act of courtesy. Students passed you without a second glance.

Nothing about you looked suspicious.

Nothing about you looked unusual.

Yet the feeling in Tom’s chest refused to settle.

He lowered his gaze to the notebook resting in his hand.

His fingers slid across the worn leather cover, tracing the faint crease along the spine he had memorized long ago. The weight of it felt right. The edges of the parchment within were exactly as he remembered.

Everything was precisely where it should be.

Which only made the situation more irritating.

Tom opened the notebook.

His intention had been simple—to confirm nothing inside had been disturbed.

The first page flipped over beneath his thumb.

And he froze.

For a moment he simply stared.

Because right there, pressed neatly into the corner of the page, was a mark that absolutely did not belong there.

A lipstick kiss.

Soft red, unmistakable.

Perfectly shaped.

Tom’s jaw tightened almost immediately as red, hot anger began to bleed from his chest into the rest of his body and his head snapped up, only to find the corridor completely empty now.

Further down the corridor, you passed a student standing stiffly beside the wall.

Their posture was wrong. Rigid. Unnatural. Their eyes stared ahead with a dull, glassy vacancy.

Good.

You slowed your steps.

Just slightly.

You leaned closer to them as you walked past, your wand barely peeking out of your robes, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Finite.”

The spell slipped from your lips like breath.

Instantly the student blinked.

Their expression crumpled in confusion as awareness flooded back into their face.

“Wait—what…?”

They glanced around the corridor in disorientation.

“What am I doing here?”

You simply continued walking while small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

The Imperius Curse had proven remarkably useful.

The corridors of Hogwarts were unusually silent, the castle holding its breath as whispers of petrified students and rumors of a hidden monster made the few remaining passersby hurry along, heads down, ears alert.

You walked alone, steps unhurried, almost casual. Weeks of careful research had led you here. Every legend, every rumor about the Chamber of Secrets, every library scroll that mentioned serpents, pipes, and ancient Hogwarts secrets—it all pointed to one undeniable truth. The creature stalking the halls was a basilisk.

And you knew exactly when Tom Riddle would be alone.

Tonight, that knowledge had positioned you here, perched casually on one of the sinks in the second-floor girls’ bathroom. Legs swinging slightly, a soft, teasing smile curving your lips, as if waiting for a friend. Not a boy capable of killing you with a flick of his wand.

The scrape of stone and metal told you he had arrived before he even entered your line of sight. Tom stepped into the room, eyes scanning cautiously. He froze when he spotted you.

You tilted your head, innocently playful. “Wow. You certainly took your sweet time.” Your smile widened, calm, almost amused.

His grip on his wand tightened. Dark eyes narrowed. “How did you find me?” He asked, voice clipped, dangerous.

“You tend to be quite cute when you think you’re being… oh so sneaky, Tom,” You teased, voice light, “I find it rather endearing. I’d advise against trying to hurt me or kill me here—your magic would be traced, and we both know it. And your little friend wouldn’t arrive fast enough to stop me from sending a message to Headmaster Dippet.”

His jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed danger, “What do you want?”

You leaned back against the sink, entirely relaxed, letting the faintest curl of amusement touch your voice. “Relax, darling,” You said smoothly, and his brow twitched at the term of endearment, “If I were looking to tell anyone, I would’ve told Headmaster Dippet last week when your little pet attacked Gallagher, or maybe Coughan the week before that.”

His eyes flashed with anger. He had been meticulous, methodical, careful—every movement, every spell calculated. How did you know? How much had you seen?

“I won’t tell anyone,” You added lightly, letting your gaze meet his, steady and unafraid, “All I ask in return is… one little favor.”

His jaw twitched, “And what is it you want in return?”

A low, sultry smile crossed your face. “Your company,” You said softly, “Next weekend at Hogsmeade. Just a simple, innocent outing.”

Tom’s mind whirled. Fury mixed with disbelief. His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening, a hand curling into a fist at his side. No one had ever dared corner him like this, force him into a position where he had to consider their terms.

“You think you can threaten me?” He asked finally, voice icy, each word measured, precise.

You chuckled softly, tilting your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, Tom. I’m not threatening you. I’m simply… negotiating.” You leaned forward slightly, letting the charm in your voice coat every word, “And really, one measly little date at Hogsmeade hardly seems like too high a price to pay for keeping my lips sealed about your… extracurricular activities.”

His eyes darkened, a storm behind them. Control had always been his currency, his comfort. And yet here you were, calm, smiling, daring him in a way that unsettled him more than any warning could.

Fury built behind the measured calm, coiling in his chest like a serpent ready to strike. His teeth ground together, fists flexing. This would not, could not, go unanswered. No one, not you, not anyone, would undermine him without consequence.

His gaze bore into yours, cold, sharp, and lethal. The calculated calm returned to his features, but it was brittle now, barely holding back the fire beneath.

He made a decision then, slow and deliberate, every movement weighted with quiet menace. You had forced his hand, exposed his secrets, dared him—and he would not, could not, let it go unpunished.

Tom Riddle turned, stepping back from the sink, the faintest trace of a smile still playing at his lips—but his eyes were ice and fire. A storm was coming, and you had lit the spark.

Tom Riddle did not sleep well that night.

Not because of fear.

Tom Riddle did not fear anyone.

But fury was another matter entirely.

It simmered beneath the immaculate mask he wore in the days that followed, burning quietly behind his polite smiles and flawless manners. No one noticed the change. Professors still praised him. Students still admired him. He attended every class, answered every question with effortless brilliance, walked the halls with the same composed grace he always had.

The model student.

The golden boy of Hogwarts.

But beneath that calm exterior, something darker churned.

Relentless.

His mind worked through the memory again and again, dissecting every second of the encounter with cold precision.

You had cornered him.

Threatened him.

Smiled while doing it.

And worst of all—you had done it with the confidence of someone who believed they had the upper hand.

The audacity of it made his jaw tighten even now.

You.

A student. An inconvenience. A trivial little obstacle that should have been beneath his notice.

And yet you had stood there, looking at him like you understood him.

Like you had him cornered.

The insult of it burned.

Tom had spent years carefully building control over every aspect of his life—his reputation, his influence, the fear and admiration people felt in his presence. Every move he made was deliberate. Calculated. Precise.

And somehow, you had slipped through the cracks of that control.

He would correct that mistake.

The following evening, he sent you a note.

The parchment was neat, the ink perfectly measured. Anyone who read it would have seen nothing unusual—just the elegant, polite scrawl of Hogwarts’ most well-mannered student.

But beneath the smooth strokes of his handwriting simmered a rage so sharp it made his fingers ache.

A part of him imagined tearing you apart with his bare hands.

Imagined the sound of your bones snapping between his fingers.

Imagined sinking his teeth into your throat just to watch that insufferable little smile disappear.

The thought brought him a moment of grim satisfaction.

The note itself was simple.

Next weekend. Hogsmeade.

Nothing more.

He sealed it, calm and composed, as though the message were nothing more than a casual confirmation.

But the truth was far simpler.

You would never make it to Hogsmeade.

You had tried to use his own secret against him.

How fitting, then, that the very creature you thought gave you power would be the cause of your undoing.

If the basilisk killed you, you would become nothing more than another unfortunate victim of the Chamber of Secrets. A foolish girl who had wandered somewhere she did not belong. Another whispered tragedy the professors would wring their hands over.

And your little game—your threats, your smug little smiles—would die with you.

The opportunity arrived sooner than Tom expected.

Late evening. The castle corridors were nearly empty, the torches burning low along the stone walls. Tom stood hidden just beyond the entrance to the second-floor bathroom, perfectly still, listening.

In all honesty, he hadn’t planned to deal with you tonight.

But when the basilisk returned after petrifying another Muggle-born, and he saw you walking calmly toward the very bathroom that concealed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, the irony was simply too perfect to ignore.

It was almost as though you were asking for it.

Did you truly think yourself so untouchable that you would willingly walk into the only place in the castle you knew housed the monster responsible for the attacks?

A faint smile curled at the corner of Tom’s mouth as he watched you push open the bathroom door and disappear inside.

Perfect.

He waited only a moment before whispering the command.

The familiar hiss of Parseltongue slid from his lips, quiet and sharp.

From somewhere deep within the walls, the basilisk answered.

A violent shudder ran through the pipes.

Then—

A scream.

High. Sharp. Panicked.

A body struck the tile floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

The sound echoed through the empty bathroom.

Tom stepped inside.

His expression was calm, controlled, utterly composed.

Until he saw the body.

The girl lying on the floor was not you.

For a long moment he simply stared.

Round glasses sat crooked against the tile. A small, crumpled figure lay sprawled beside the sinks, eyes wide and frozen in terror. Ravenclaw blue bled through the folds of her uniform.

Something cold washed over him.

“Oh dear.”

Tom snapped around.

And there you were.

Leaning casually in the doorway as though you had been watching the entire scene unfold.

Your eyes drifted down to the body.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“Should I be offended,” You said lightly, “that you can’t tell the difference between a beauty like myself and a cow like her?”

In an instant Tom crossed the room.

His hand seized the front of your robes and slammed you hard against the stone wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, cold tile biting through the fabric against your back.

His fingers slid up your throat.

Not enough to kill you.

But more than enough to remind you that he easily could.

“You think you’re clever.” He hissed.

His eyes flashed red with fury. You would be lying if you said the sight didn’t send a shiver down your spine. His voice sounded strained, the control in it fraying from the effort it took to hold his temper back.

His grip tightened.

“You think you’re smarter than me?”

Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers, but your expression remained infuriatingly calm.

You even smiled.

“No.” You said softly.

Your voice was steady despite the pressure on your throat.

“But I’m also not as stupid as you seem to think I am.”

You smirked.

“Did you really think I’d be naïve enough to walk into this room after threatening you like that? Surely you couldn’t have thought me that stupid, Tom.”

Your eyes glinted with something dangerously close to amusement.

“After all… I’ve been watching you for a long time.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“I know what you’re like.”

A pause.

“I know who the real monster is.”

Tom’s eyes flashed with pure rage.

The fury that had been simmering for days surged violently to the surface. His grip tightened as he pressed you harder into the wall, thumbs digging into the soft skin of your throat as your windpipe strained beneath his fingers.

The thought was intoxicating.

Just a little more pressure.

Just a little more—

and you would be gone.

Out of his life.

Out of his problems.

Out of his way.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted a hand and touched his wrist where it held you pinned. Your fingers were light, almost gentle and you ran the pads of them along the prominent veins on his hand, almost enchanted.

You smirked and then you leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper.

“Harder.”

For several long seconds Tom said nothing.

His fingers were still tight around your throat, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. The bathroom was silent now except for the faint dripping of water from one of the sinks and the distant rumble of the basilisk retreating through the pipes.

And Myrtle’s body lay crumpled across the tiles behind him.

Tom’s breathing was steady, but there was a dangerous edge to it now—thin, controlled, as though fury was being forced through clenched teeth.

You watched him calmly.

Abruptly he released you.

You sucked in a breath as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing once as your hand came up to rub your throat. The skin would bruise, you knew. His fingers had dug deep enough for that.

Tom stepped back slowly, eyes never leaving you.

Behind him, Myrtle’s body still lay crumpled on the tile floor.

The silence stretched.

Then you sighed.

“Well,” You said lightly, straightening your robes as though the last thirty seconds had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience, “this is awkward.”

Tom said nothing.

His gaze was sharp now. Assessing. Calculating.

You smiled.

“You know, originally I really was planning to leave you alone after our little Hogsmeade arrangement. All I wanted was one little date in Hogsmeade,” You said lightly, “A harmless afternoon. Maybe a butterbeer.”

You tilted your head as you looked at him, studying his expression as though carefully weighing the situation.

“But circumstances have changed.”

Tom’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Your gaze drifted briefly to the floor before returning to him, that same maddening smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Your list of crimes has grown rather dramatically since our last conversation.”

His eyes flashed at that, dark and dangerous, but you continued speaking before he could respond.

“And that,” You added pleasantly, “means the price of my silence has gone up.”

The way you said it—calm, conversational, as though discussing the weather rather than murder—made something dark twist inside Tom’s chest.

“I don’t negotiate with parasites.” He said coldly.

Behind the words, his mind was already racing. He measured distances, possibilities, weaknesses. There were a dozen ways he could silence you. A dozen ways he could make this problem disappear forever. But you were watching him too closely, studying every shift in his expression as though you could hear the gears turning in his head.

Just like before.

That infuriating smile never left your face.

“So,” You said after a moment, clasping your hands behind your back as if you were proposing a perfectly reasonable arrangement, “I’ve decided on new terms.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened, “You believe you can extort me?”

You shrugged slightly, “I think I’m entitled to more compensation.”

“And what,” He asked slowly, dangerously, “exactly do you believe you are entitled to?”

You met his eyes without the slightest hesitation.

“Your time,” You said simply. Then, after a small pause, “Your attention.”

He stared at you, completely still.

“And your devotion.”

For the first time since you had known him, Tom Riddle actually looked stunned.

Silence stretched between you, thick and electric. His hands slowly curled into fists at his sides as the full weight of what you were suggesting settled over him. The audacity of it was staggering. You—blackmailing him. Commanding him. Trying to reduce him into some lovesick schoolboy.

The humiliation alone made something savage coil in his chest.

And yet beneath the fury—beneath the instinctive urge to bite you til you bled—there was something else.

Tom studied you carefully, his mind already calculating ten different ways this arrangement could end with your destruction.

The expression was sharp and cold, and it never reached his eyes.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

The word sounded almost bitter on his tongue.

“But understand something, (Y/N),” He leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering into something soft and dangerous, “One day you will regret forcing my hand.”

Your smile only widened.

“Oh, darling.”

You stepped past him then, brushing lightly against his shoulder as you moved toward the door.

“I’m counting on it.”

The first day you did not appear beside him in the corridors, Tom barely noticed.

Hogwarts functioned as it always did and for once, there was no sharp voice at his shoulder making some infuriating remark, no insistent hands tugging at his until you were practically pressed up against him, no tacky lipstick on his cheeks, no quiet reminder that you held something over him. The absence was… pleasant. Quiet. Efficient.

By the second day, he decided it was a blessing.

By the third, he told himself you had likely grown bored of the arrangement. Perhaps the novelty had worn off. Perhaps you had decided the trouble of maintaining your leverage was not worth it. The thought brought him a brief moment of satisfaction. If you wished to disappear from his life of your own accord, he would hardly object.

By the fifth day, however, he noticed.

It was not that he expected to see you constantly, but you had a way of appearing where he least expected—waiting in a corridor, slipping into the seat beside him in the library, watching him from across the Great Hall with that same infuriatingly confident smile.

Without those small intrusions, the castle felt strangely different. Students still whispered about the two of you, of course. Rumors did not die easily at Hogwarts. If anything, they had only grown more dramatic in your absence.

Tom heard them everywhere.

Some said the two of you had quarreled. Others believed he had discarded you already. A few insisted the relationship had been some elaborate scheme from the beginning.

Tom ignored them all.

Still, the question lingered.

Where had you gone?

By the seventh evening, curiosity had grown irritating enough that he decided to resolve the matter personally. It was late when he made his way through the castle, the corridors nearly empty as most students settled into their dormitories.

The girls’ dormitory entrance was hardly a barrier; a quiet charm and careful timing were more than enough for someone with Tom’s talents. Within minutes he found himself standing outside your door, the faint glow of candlelight visible beneath the frame.

He knocked only once before the door creaked open slightly. You peeked through, not opening the door the entire way. Your eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across your face before it quickly hardened into something more defensive.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice sharper than usual.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He said flatly, though the accusation lacked its usual bite.

You chuckled lightly, offering him an airy smile, "I’ve simply been occupied.”

“With what?” He asked, his tone colder now as he stepped closer, hand braced against the door like he was going to push it open. You remained firm.

"Nothing that requires your concern, I'm sure. Have a good night."

Tom stepped inside despite your protests and attempts to shut the door on him, closing the door behind him as his gaze moved slowly over you. At first he could not quite understand what he was looking at. Then the candlelight shifted, revealing angry red boils scattered across your skin—your arms, your collarbone, even along your jaw. Some were already darkening into ugly purple welts.

For a long moment, Tom simply stared.

“Who did this?” He asked quietly.

Tom studied the boils again, recognition flickering behind his eyes. It was a hex designed more for humiliation than true harm—painful, unsightly, and irritatingly persistent if left untreated.

You shrugged one shoulder, though the movement clearly hurt, “One of your admirers, I imagine. A rather passionate Slytherin who didn’t appreciate that I’m your girlfriend now.”

You avoided his gaze as you continued speaking, your tone attempting nonchalance but failing to hide the faint edge of embarrassment beneath it, “I don’t know the counter-curse.”

The admission sounded reluctant.

The room fell quiet.

Tom said nothing for a moment, though something colder than anger settled behind his expression. The entire student body was under the impression that you belonged to him. The rumors had made that abundantly clear. That was all anybody could talk about for weeks.

Which meant whoever had done this had acted with the full knowledge of that assumption.

Someone had dared to attack you anyway.

It was an insult he did not particularly appreciate.

Without another word, Tom moved closer and reached for your arm. You tensed slightly as his fingers closed around your wrist, turning it gently so he could examine one of the worse boils near your elbow. His touch was firm but careful, his eyes narrowing slightly as he murmured a quiet incantation under his breath.

The effect was almost immediate.

The angry swelling softened, the dark color fading slowly as the curse unraveled beneath his magic. Another spell followed, then another, each one precise and controlled as he worked methodically through the marks scattered across your skin. You watched him in silence as he moved from one injury to the next with quiet focus.

"Why did you come looking for me?" You asked after a while, your voice softer now, "Surely, it wasn't because you missed me?"

Tom did not look up from the bruise along your collarbone as he murmured another counter-charm. The last of the boils faded beneath his wand, leaving only faint redness behind. When he finally stepped back, the room had grown noticeably quieter. The candles had burned low, their light flickering softly across the walls.

You flexed your arm experimentally, surprised at the absence of pain.

“Well,” You said slowly, glancing up at him, “Thank you.”

Tom did not respond immediately.

For a moment he simply watched you, his expression unreadable as his mind turned over the situation once more. Then his gaze sharpened slightly, the faintest trace of something colder settling into his voice.

“See to it that the person responsible is dealt with.”

You blinked faintly, surprised by the sudden shift.

Tom continued before you could respond, his tone calm but edged with quiet menace.

“I cannot have the worms in this castle believing they can lay a hand on what is mine.” His eyes flicked briefly over the fading marks on your skin before returning to your face, “An insult to my property is, by extension, an insult to me.”

Then, without another word, he turned and moved toward the door.

It was well past midnight when he finally left your dormitory, the castle corridors silent as he walked back through them.

Behind him, the door closed softly.

And you were left alone in your dorm with a hot blush crawling along your body.

He called you his.

The next morning dawned bright and deceptively peaceful, sunlight spilling across the Great Hall windows as students shuffled in for breakfast. Conversations buzzed around the tables as usual, though every so often a pair of curious eyes drifted toward you before quickly darting away again.

You had barely sat down when someone approached your table.

A younger girl from your house—one of those students who seemed to know everything about everyone—hovered uncertainly beside you, clutching her books against her chest. Her expression carried that particular mix of curiosity and poorly concealed excitement that only appeared when someone believed they had discovered a piece of valuable gossip.

“I… um,” She began, glancing around before leaning closer, “I saw something last night.”

You looked up at her slowly, blinking as though confused.

“What sort of something?”

She lowered her voice immediately, her eyes shining with anticipation, “I saw Tom Riddle leaving your dormitory.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then your gaze darted quickly around the room as though suddenly terrified someone might overhear.

“You saw that?” You whispered, your voice dropping to an urgent hush.

The girl nodded eagerly.

Your shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world had just landed on them, and you pressed your hands to your face with dramatic despair.

“Oh Merlin,” You murmured, “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Her eyes widened further, clearly sensing she had stumbled into something far more scandalous than she had originally imagined.

“You can’t tell anyone,” You said quickly, leaning forward and grabbing her wrist in sudden desperation, “Please. If people found out about this… if they knew Tom and I were—”

You stopped yourself mid-sentence, biting your lip as though the words had slipped out accidentally.

The girl’s mouth fell open.

"So it's true then?!"

Your expression shifted immediately into something panicked and pleading.

“Please,” You whispered again, lowering your voice even further, “You have to promise you won’t repeat it. It would ruin him if people started talking about it. You know how everyone watches him—how the professors expect so much. If rumors started spreading about him sneaking into girls’ dormitories—”

You shook your head quickly as though the thought alone made you ill.

“He’d never forgive me.”

The girl nodded rapidly, already vibrating with the effort of containing such explosive information.

“Of course,” She said, though her voice trembled with excitement, “I won’t say anything.”

You gave her a grateful smile, squeezing her wrist before letting go.

“Thank you,” You said softly. “I knew I could trust you.”

She hurried away moments later, clearly struggling to appear normal as she returned to her own table.

You watched her go.

And then, very slowly, your anxious expression faded.

The panic melted from your features, replaced instead with a quiet, satisfied smile as you reached calmly for your breakfast.

Because you knew exactly what would happen next.

Within the hour, half the castle would know.

By lunchtime, the entire school would be whispering about how Tom Riddle had spent the night in your dormitory.

And once that rumor took hold—once it spread through the halls and common rooms and eventually reached the professors—Tom would have no choice.

After all, his reputation was everything.

And if the entire student body believed that Tom Riddle had compromised a girl’s reputation by sneaking into her room in the middle of the night…

Well.

A man of his impeccable character would surely feel obligated to make things right.

You took a slow sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the rim of the cup.

All according to plan.

Tom found you that evening in one of the quieter corridors of the castle, where the torches burned low and the sound of the Great Hall had long since faded into distant echoes. You barely had time to look up before he seized your arm and pushed you sharply back against the cold stone wall.

The impact knocked the breath from your lungs.

His hand closed around your throat a second later, not quite tight enough to choke you, but more than enough to make the threat clear.

Tom’s eyes were burning.

“Good evening to you too, Tom.”

"You've been busy." He seethed.

His words were quiet, but the fury behind it made the air feel suddenly thinner.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the anger radiating from him like heat. Instead of fear, however, your expression softened into something almost thoughtful.

“Ah,” You said lightly, “You heard.”

Tom’s jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack.

“The entire school believes I spent the night in your dormitory.”

You shrugged lightly.

“Well, you did leave my room past midnight,” You replied lightly, “People are bound to notice such things.”

His hand slammed harder against the wall beside your head with enough force to make the hanging portraits shudder.

“You know exactly what they mean.”

“Oh, I do.”

“You are playing a very dangerous game. And I'm not giving into your whims this time."

You folded your arms, looking up at him with an expression of exaggerated concern, “Oh, Tom, surely you don’t want people thinking poorly of you.”

His eyes narrowed.

You continued before he could interrupt, your tone thoughtful in a way that was almost insulting.

“Imagine what they’d say if you denied it now. Sneaking into a girl’s dormitory in the middle of the night and then pretending nothing happened?” You gave a small, sympathetic shake of your head, “People might think you’re the sort of man who would take a girl’s virtue and abandon her the next morning.”

The words landed like sparks in dry tinder.

For a second Tom simply stared at you.

Then the fury exploded.

“You manipulative little—”

His hand tightened suddenly around your throat, pressing you harder against the wall as the last threads of his patience snapped. His face was inches from yours now, his expression twisted with barely contained fury.

“I will kill you.” He said, his voice dropping into something low and deadly.

“Well,” You said softly, even as his fingers tightened slightly against your skin, “if that’s how it ends, I suppose I’ll die happy.”

Tom’s expression darkened further.

You leaned your head back against the stone, completely unbothered by the danger of the moment, your eyes meeting his with quiet amusement.

“After all,” You added sweetly, “til death do us part.”

For a long moment neither of you moved.

Tom stared down at you, fury blazing behind his eyes, his mind racing through a dozen violent possibilities. He could end this right now. One spell. One movement of his hand. No more blackmail, no more games, no more infuriating smiles. His fingers were still loosely curled at your throat, the warmth of your pulse beating steadily against his skin, and the thought crossed his mind—dark, fleeting, dangerously tempting—that it would be very easy to tighten his grip and silence you forever.

And yet he didn’t.

Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was pride refusing to grant you the dramatic ending you seemed so comfortable provoking. Or perhaps it was the simple fact that you were still looking at him with that same maddening composure, as though the outcome of this confrontation had already been decided in your favor and the rest of it was merely a formality.

Your hand shot up, catching the front of his robes before he could step away, and with a sharp, decisive tug you pulled him down toward you.

The movement was so sudden that for the first time since you had known him, Tom Riddle was caught completely off guard.

Your lips crashed into his.

For half a second his mind simply went blank.

The corridor seemed to fall utterly silent around you, the distant sounds of the castle fading into nothing as shock replaced fury in a way Tom had not experienced in years. No one—no one—had ever dared take that sort of liberty with him.

And yet here you were.

Kissing him like you had every right to.

Like he belonged to you.

The realization should have filled him with pure rage.

Instead something darker stirred beneath the anger, something sharp and electric that twisted low in his chest as your fingers tightened in his robes to keep him from pulling away. The kiss itself was not soft or hesitant—it was bold, deliberate, almost mocking in its confidence, as though you were sealing a deal you had already won.

When you finally pulled back, the distance between you was barely an inch.

For once, he looked genuinely stunned.

The fury was still there—burning, sharp, dangerous—but it had tangled now with something far more complicated. His eyes searched your face as though trying to understand how someone could possibly stand in front of him with such fearless audacity, provoking him again and again without the slightest hesitation.

Your expression didn’t waver.

If anything, you looked pleased.

Tom’s jaw tightened slowly as his composure began to return, piece by piece, the familiar cold control settling back over his features like armor. But the look he gave you now was different from before.

“You are either extraordinarily brave,” He said quietly, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of you, “or catastrophically foolish.”

You shrugged lightly.

“Perhaps both.”

Slowly, very slowly, his grip loosened.

“Enjoy your victory while you can.” He murmured quietly.

Then he stepped away.

bonus:

Morning light filtered through the heavy drapes, washing the bedroom in muted gold. You stirred beneath the blankets, stretching lazily before opening your eyes.

Tom sat beside you, already awake, spine straight against the headboard. A book rested in his hand, his dark eyes scanning the page with the same quiet intensity he gave everything. Even in the soft light of morning he looked impossibly composed, untouched by sleep or softness.

“Mmm… good morning.” You murmured, voice thick with sleep and a hint of amusement.

His gaze lifted from the page, sharp and measured as always. “Good morning.” Tom replied evenly, setting the book aside with deliberate care.

You rolled onto your side and propped your head on your hand, studying him. One brow arched in challenge.

“Give me a kiss,” You said lazily, “or I swear I’ll kill Abraxas.”

At the mention of his right-hand man, Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. The faintest flicker of irritation crossed his face.

“You’re insufferable.” He muttered, though the insult lacked any real heat.

Still, he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours in a brief, restrained peck.

Not nearly enough.

Your hands shot up instantly, fingers curling into the nape of his neck before he could pull away. You dragged him back down, pressing your lips firmly against his.

For a moment he stiffened—a reflex born of pride, of control—but it didn’t last.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer against him as the kiss deepened, slow and heated. There was possession in it, quiet and undeniable. Not tenderness exactly… but something far more dangerous.

Minutes slipped by unnoticed. Soft breaths mingled, the quiet rustle of sheets, the slow slide of lips and teeth. The book lay forgotten on the bedside table as the sun crept higher beyond the curtains.

Eventually the spell broke with the soft creak of the bedroom door.

Both of you glanced toward it, mildly annoyed.

Nagini slithered gracefully across the floor and climbed onto the bed, curling comfortably at your feet.

A second later, a small head peeked through the doorway.

A young boy, no older than three, stood there hesitantly. His wide eyes moved between the two of you, waiting.

You immediately opened your arms.

“Come to mummy, baby.” You cooed.

His face brightened, a shy grin tugging at his lips. But he paused halfway across the room, glancing toward Tom for approval.

Tom watched him for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. Then, almost imperceptibly, something softened in his gaze.

“Do as your mother says, Mattheo.” He said quietly.

That was all the encouragement the boy needed.

Mattheo burst into motion, racing across the room before scrambling onto the bed. You scooped him up instantly, covering his round cheeks with kisses as he squealed with laughter.

Tom leaned back against the headboard, observing the chaos you created with a calm, almost detached air.

Mattheo wriggled happily between the two of you, giggling as you continued to smother him with affection.

“You know, baby,” You said with a sly smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, “if you want some morning kisses from Daddy, all you have to do is threaten to kill one of his men.”

Mattheo’s eyes widened with delight.

Tom let out a slow, tired sigh.

“Don’t give him ideas,” he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “You spoil him far too much.”

You giggled and hugged Mattheo closer.

The boy leaned toward you conspiratorially, then glanced back at Tom with careful curiosity.

“If I say I’m going to kill Lestrange,” He asked thoughtfully, “will Daddy grant me a wish?”

You and Tom exchanged a brief glance. It was rare for Mattheo to ask for anything—every desire of his was usually fulfilled before he even voiced it.

You smiled softly and kissed the top of his head.

“And what would that wish be, my love?”

Mattheo wrapped his arms around your neck and tugged you closer until his tiny voice was just a whisper against your ear.

“A baby sister.”

Tom answered before you could.

“Absolutely not.”

The response was immediate, sharp, and final.

Mattheo’s little face crumpled in disappointment.

You quickly kissed his cheeks, pressing your nose against his soft skin.

“Don’t worry, my love.” You murmured gently.

Then you lifted your gaze toward Tom, a wicked smirk spreading slowly across your face.

Tom narrowed his eyes at you instantly, recognizing that expression far too well.

You only smiled wider.

“You forget,” You said sweetly, stroking Mattheo’s hair, “your mummy is an excellent negotiator.”

Tom exhaled slowly, glaring at you with weary irritation.

And yet, despite himself, his hand reached out—almost unconsciously—to steady Mattheo as the boy bounced excitedly on the bed between you.

After all—

you had never lost an argument with Tom Riddle before.

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