Two Weeks Before the Wedding

Malfoy Manor — Wiltshire, England

The champagne was expensive, the flowers were excessive, and Draco Malfoy somehow looked unbearably smug even at his own engagement party.

Honestly, it was comforting. 

Malfoy Manor practically glowed beneath enchanted chandeliers and floating candles while a string quartet played somewhere near the terrace doors. The entire estate smelled faintly of roses, expensive liquor, and old money, which felt deeply on brand for Draco. 

Hermione had softened the manor considerably over the years. Warm gold accents replaced some of the harsher silver décor while floating fairy lights wound themselves through ivy climbing the stone walls, giving the estate a warmth it never possessed during your Hogwarts years.

It was still unmistakably Malfoy.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Slightly intimidating.

Which, honestly, suited Draco and Hermione perfectly.

You stood near the champagne tower with Ginny watching Draco arguing with a waiter over a canapé presentation like it was a matter of national importance. 

“I can’t believe they’re actually getting married,” Ginny said, sounding genuinely emotional about it. 

You took a slow sip of champagne. “I can. Hermione’s been reorganizing Draco’s life for years. Marriage was just the final hostile takeover.” 

Ginny snorted loudly enough to attract attention from several nearby guests. A passing waiter nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks trying not to laugh.

Hermione appeared beside you moments later looking stunning in dark green silk and deeply exhausted already. There were at least six wedding planners orbiting her at all times these days, which honestly felt excessive considering Hermione Granger could probably organize an international summit with nothing but a clipboard and sheer force of will.

“Why is my fiancé terrorizing the catering staff?” she asked.

“Because they displeased his lordship,” you answered smoothly.

“To be fair,” Hermione said tiredly, “they put fig jam on the wrong side of the cracker.” 

You blinked. “Well, now I’m on his side. Execute them immediately.”

Hermione rolled her eyes while Ginny dissolved into laughter.

The ballroom buzzed with familiar chaos.

Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini were arguing near the fireplace over quidditch statistics neither of them actually cared about. Pansy Parkinson reclined dramatically across a velvet sofa like a queen holding court while Harry and Ron stood nearby wearing identical expressions of patient suffering.

You hadn't realized how easily you'd slipped back into this.

Paris had been beautiful. Exciting. Liberating, even.

But there was something dangerously comforting about slipping back into old friendships. These people knew every embarrassing version of you that had ever existed. They knew the seventeen-year-old who cried over exam results, the twenty-two-year-old who accidentally set an entire flat kitchen on fire attempting to make pasta, and the woman who packed up her life four years ago and left England with a one-way ticket and a bruised heart.

Hermione suddenly stopped walking and turned toward both of you with a suspiciously bright smile.

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“Absolutely not.” 

Ginny groaned.

"See? This is why she's impossible."

"You made the face," you defended.

"What face?"

"The face that means you're about to ask me for something unreasonable."

Hermione looked offended.

"I don't have a face."

"You absolutely have a face."

"It's the same one you made before forcing us to reorganize your entire library because apparently alphabetical order is a lifestyle."

"It is a lifestyle."

"It's a cry for help."

Hermione ignored you beautifully.

"I know magical weddings don't usually have bridesmaids," Hermione began, her voice softer than usual, "but I can't imagine standing at the altar without the two people who have stood beside me through every version of my life."

Her eyes flickered between you and Ginny.

"You’ve been there for the late-night study sessions, the disasters, the heartbreaks, and everything in between. You're not just my best friends—you've been my family for as long as I can remember."

Ginny's hand flew to her mouth.

You felt your own throat tighten.

A watery smile appeared on Hermione's face.

"So, if you'll let me, I'd like the two witches who helped me survive Hogwarts and everything that came after to stand beside me one more time."

Her eyes shone with tears.

"Will you both be my bridesmaids?"

Ginny squealed first before launching herself at Hermione. You laughed and wrapped your arms around both of them a second later, feeling something unexpectedly warm settle in your chest. 

“Of course we will.”

Hermione squeezed you tighter. 

“Thank Godric. Pansy’s been trying to appoint herself maid of honor for three weeks.” 

Across the room, Pansy lifted her champagne flute.

"And I would've done an exceptional job."

“You wanted swans,” Draco said flatly.

“I still want swans.” 

“You wanted black swans.” 

“They’re moodier.” 

The room dissolved into laughter while Draco looked like he regretted every life decision that brought him to this point. 

You smiled into your champagne glass. 

Merlin, you had missed this. 

Not London specifically.

London was grey and crowded and smelled vaguely like wet concrete for most of the year. This felt different. Easier. Familiar in a way that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed gently.

Home wasn't a place anymore.

Home was Hermione stealing control of every situation she entered.

Home was Ginny creating problems for sport.

Back at Hogwarts, it had always been the three of you.

Hermione with her terrifying competence.

Ginny with her reckless mouth.

And you somewhere in the middle trying desperately to keep up.

You remembered late nights in the Ravenclaw dormitories with Hermione sprawled across your bed ranting about Draco Malfoy before she realized she was hopelessly in love with him. Ginny sneaking firewhisky into study sessions and convincing all of you to make catastrophically bad decisions afterward.

The three of you survived exams, heartbreaks, career crises, and one truly horrific shared flat in London after graduation that nearly ended in homicide over labeled sugar quills. 

Then life happened.

Hermione became Hermione Granger, future Minister and general force of nature.

Ginny built a career that somehow suited her perfectly because apparently getting paid to fly around on a broomstick and terrify people was a legitimate profession.

And you...

You left.

At twenty-two, while everyone else was building lives in England, you'd accepted an offer from Maison Celeste, one of the most prestigious magical luxury houses in Europe.

What began as a temporary contract in Paris quickly became something much bigger.

The work was demanding, creative, and occasionally chaotic. You spent your days developing campaigns, overseeing collections, and modernizing one of the most influential magical luxury houses in Europe. Every year seemed to bring another promotion, another opportunity, and another reason to stay.

Somewhere between fashion weeks, product launches, and endless meetings conducted in three different languages, Paris stopped feeling temporary.

It became yours.

You found a tiny apartment overlooking the Seine and slowly filled it with books, plants, and furniture that cost far too much money. You built friendships, dated men whose names your friends still couldn't pronounce properly, and learned that there was something deeply satisfying about creating a life that belonged entirely to you.

For four years, that life had been enough.

Then your boss offered you something impossible to refuse.

Maison Celeste had been planning a London expansion for years, and when the time finally came, there was only one person they trusted to run it.

You.

The promotion came with more responsibility, a significantly larger salary, and an office overlooking the Thames that still felt vaguely ridiculous every time you walked into it.

Coming back to London hadn't been part of your original plan.

Yet the moment you stepped off the train three months ago, something inside you settled.

You missed Paris.

You would probably always miss Paris.

But you had missed this too.

Sunday brunches with Hermione. Ginny showing up unannounced and eating everything in your refrigerator. Harry and Ron arguing over absolutely nothing.

The familiar comfort of people who knew every version of you and loved you anyway.

For the first time in years, your life felt balanced.

You had a career you loved, friends you adored, and a future that belonged entirely to you.

It almost felt too good to be true.

Which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign of the evening.

Ginny linked her arm through yours as the three of you drifted toward the bar where several waiters passed around trays of drinks and tiny desserts that looked too pretty to eat. 

“So,” Ginny began casually.

“No.” 

Ginny blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.” 

“You were about to attempt matchmaking and I’m choosing to spare us both the embarrassment.” 

Hermione appeared beside you again as though summoned by the scent of meddling. 

“You’re not seriously telling me you’re not dating anyone,” Ginny said. 

“I’m not dating anyone.” 

Hermione frowned suspiciously. “That feels like a lie.” 

You accepted another champagne flute from a passing waiter. “Thank you both for your continued confidence in my ability to attract men. Unfortunately, I value my peace and quiet.”

“You’ve been back in London for three months,” Ginny pointed out. “You haven’t gone out with anyone.” 

“Maybe she’s secretly married,” Harry offered from nearby.

Ron looked horrified. “Can people do that?” 

“Yes, Ronald,” Hermione sighed. “People can secretly get married.” 

Ginny turned back toward you with renewed determination. “Harry works with a curse-breaker who’s gorgeous.”

“Fascinating.” 

“He owns a bookstore,” Hermione added.

You gasped softly. “Oh no. Not a bookstore owner. My one weakness.” 

“He’s genuinely lovely,” Ginny insisted.

“I’m sure he is. Unfortunately for him, I’d rather throw myself into the Thames.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You’re exhausting.” 

“I’m selective.”

“You haven’t dated anyone in two years.” 

You smiled into your drink. “Maybe I’m the problem.” 

“Definitely,” said a familiar male voice behind you. “But I actually think it’s your best quality.” 

Every muscle in your body locked up.

No. 

No, no, no.

Absolutely not. 

Of all the people in the room. Of all the disasters the universe could've chosen to inflict upon you tonight.

Him.

Realistically, you had always known this moment was inevitable. Your friend group overlapped far too much for it not to happen eventually.

You had just been hoping for it to happen much, much later.

Preferably years from now.

Ideally sometime next century.

Maybe after one of you had moved to a different continent.

Or been swallowed by a Hungarian Horntail.

You weren't particularly picky.

Slowly, you turned around and found Lorenzo Berkshire standing a few feet away with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of a perfectly tailored black suit. 

His tie hung loose around his neck like he’d already given up pretending to behave tonight and his dark hair fell messily across his forehead in a way that looked artistically effortless. 

He looked older than the last time you’d seen him.

Sharper somehow. 

Still devastatingly handsome in the most irritating way imaginable.

The softness that used to linger around the edges of his features had disappeared over the years, replaced by something more defined. More dangerous. 

Girls used to follow him around Hogwarts like it was the most natural thing in the world. Boys wanted to be him, professors liked him despite themselves, and Enzo carried himself with the kind of effortless confidence that only existed in men who had never once doubted their own charm. 

Unfortunately for him, you had. 

Frequently.

Your hobby throughout sixth year had essentially been reminding Lorenzo Berkshire that he was not, in fact, God's gift to women.

The fact that you'd eventually fallen in love with him felt deeply embarrassing in retrospect.

You watched the exact moment recognition hit him properly.

Recognition crossed his face before he could stop it. The smirk disappeared for the briefest moment, only to return slower this time.

More deliberate.

More dangerous.

"Hello, little raven."

For one horrible moment, your chest squeezed.

The nickname.

Ten years later and the stupid nickname still landed exactly where it wasn't supposed to.

You smiled pleasantly.

"Hello, dickhead."

Theo burst out laughing somewhere across the room.

Ginny made a strangled choking noise beside you that suggested she might've inhaled champagne.

Enzo laughed. 

Actually laughed—a warm, surprised sound that was entirely too pleased with itself.

The noise hit you with the force of an unpleasant memory, dragging you briefly back to late nights in the common room, shared bottles of firewhisky, and his arm draped over the back of your chair while he laughed at something ridiculous Theo had said.

You quickly shoved the memory into a mental bin and set it on fire.

"Merlin," he murmured. "Paris really did a number on you."

You took a sip of champagne.

"Thank you. Therapy and foreign men helped tremendously."

Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes for half a second before the amusement returned.

Then, just as quickly, the amusement returned, smooth and practiced as ever.

"You know," he said conversationally, taking another step closer, "I liked you better when you weren't such a bitch."

You didn't even hesitate.

"I'm sure you did."

His grin widened.

You smiled sweetly.

"She was easier to get into bed."

The silence that followed was immediate and razor-sharp.

Theo promptly choked on his drink.

Blaise muttered, "Holy shit," under his breath.

Pansy looked openly delighted by the unfolding disaster, and somewhere across the ballroom, Draco lowered his champagne glass with the unmistakable expression of a man who had no intention of missing what happened next.

And Enzo— 

Enzo froze. 

The reaction lasted less than a second. His smile never slipped, and his posture remained loose and relaxed, as though your words hadn’t affected him at all.

But you saw it.

You’d spent years memorizing Lorenzo Berkshire without ever meaning to. You knew the tiny tells he thought nobody noticed.

The hit landed.

Just enough to crack the polished composure he wore so effortlessly.

Something ugly and petty inside you felt satisfied.

Good.

You hoped it hurt.

Not out of lingering anger, not in any way that made sense after all this time, but because ten years ago he had walked away from the wreckage while you had been left standing in the aftermath, holding every broken piece.

And seeing even the faintest crack in that carefully maintained composure felt, against your better judgment, deeply satisfying.

You took another slow sip of champagne while holding his gaze.

The thing about Lorenzo Berkshire was that everyone assumed he was impossible to embarrass. Nothing ever seemed to stick to him. A bad joke, a rejection, a room full of people turning against him—he always recovered with another smile, another quip, another effortless display of charm.

But years ago, you had discovered the flaw in that carefully polished confidence.

Enzo didn’t handle indifference well.

Everyone else gave him something—laughter, attention, irritation, affection. You were the exception. The one who didn’t always laugh. The one who walked away first. The one who refused to play along.

Most people never noticed the tiny cracks that followed: the fraction of a pause, the sharpened look, the brief slip in his composure before he smoothed it over.

You did.

And you knew exactly what it meant.

Enzo hated being dismissed.

Especially by you.

“Well,” Hermione said weakly into the silence. “I’m going to go make sure Draco hasn’t declared war on the waitstaff.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ginny said at once.

Cowards.

Within seconds they disappeared into the crowd, abandoning you to your fate.

You watched them go before letting out a quiet sigh and turning back toward the single most annoying man in England.

Unfortunately, Enzo appeared entirely unbothered by the fact that you'd just publicly humiliated him. If anything, he looked entertained, as though the exchange had gone exactly the way he'd hoped it would.

Enzo watched you carefully for a moment before speaking again. 

“You disappeared.” 

The words caught you off guard—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. There was no teasing edge to his voice, no flirtation lurking beneath the surface. For once, it sounded like a simple observation, and somehow that made it harder to dismiss. 

You tilted your head. 

“Aw. Did you miss me, Berkshire? How cute.” 

"Cute?" he repeated.

Amusement flickered across his face.

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart."

You smiled sweetly.

"And there he is."

His eyebrow lifted.

"I was wondering how long it would take for the asshole to emerge."

His grin widened immediately.

That was the irritating thing about Lorenzo. Most people got offended when insulted. Most people developed better self-preservation instincts. 

Lorenzo Berkshire looked personally delighted every single time you verbally assaulted him.

"You've changed."

"So have you."

"Hopefully not as much."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"From where I'm standing, you're still impossibly full of yourself."

His eyes sparkled with amusement, and you instantly regretted giving him the reaction.

God, you hated when he looked at you like that.

Like every conversation between the two of you was a private joke only he understood.

"You know," he said, still smiling, "you used to smile when you saw me."

You stared at him for a beat.

"That was before I knew better."

The bastard laughed again, loud enough that several nearby guests glanced over. Across the room, Theo looked positively delighted by the exchange.

"You’re meaner now."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I haven't decided yet."

Something in his tone made your pulse give one traitorous little stutter.

Irritating.

Deeply irritating.

He shifted a little closer, not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that you caught the familiar scent of expensive cologne mixed with whiskey.

Your stomach, unfortunately, betrayed you.

For one brief horrible second, a memory tried to surface.

Sixth year.

Sunlight spilled through the Charms classroom windows while Enzo sat beside you, completely ignoring the lesson. There had been ink smudged across his fingers, a folded note appearing on your parchment when the professor wasn't looking, and his knee pressed casually against yours beneath the desk.

Then his laugh.

Soft. Close.

Yours, once.

You shoved the memory away immediately.

The past could stay exactly where it belonged—dead and buried.

Preferably set on fire.

“You’re staring,” you informed him coolly.

“I’ve decided I like it.” 

You blinked once. 

Enzo seemed absurdly pleased by that microscopic reaction. 

“You’ve always been a little intimidating,” he continued lazily. “You’re just not pretending otherwise anymore. Bit terrifying, honestly.”

You folded your arms and fixed him with a look.

"I'm not intimidating."

His laughter came instantly, low and entirely too amused.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Your eye twitched.

“That’s the most insulting thing you’ve said all night.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Enzo replied, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Then you’re even worse at compliments than I remember.”

He placed a hand dramatically against his chest.

“Impossible.”

You pointed at him.

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What?” he asked, all practiced innocence.

“The arrogance.”

“It’s confidence.”

“It’s insufferable.”

His grin only widened, as though proving your point was the highlight of his evening.

"Yet here you are."

“Maybe I enjoy danger.”

“No,” you said thoughtfully. “I think you enjoy being irritating.” 

“Only for you, love.” 

The words settled between you, light and careless and entirely too familiar.

For a brief moment, something strange flickered through your chest—a feeling you refused to examine too closely.

Then Enzo ruined it immediately by glancing toward your martini.

“Third one tonight?” 

You stared at him. 

“Are you counting my drinks?” 

“I’m observant.” 

“You’re intrusive.”

“You still hate olives.” 

Your eyes narrowed immediately. 

“Why do you remember that?” 

His expression remained infuriatingly casual. 

“Because you always used to pick them out of your salad and hide them in your napkin like a child.” 

“That was ten years ago.” 

“And?” 

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. 

You hated that he remembered the little things. 

Worse, your own traitorous memory immediately answered with a dozen details you'd never managed to forget about him either.

The way he leaned back in his chair during Charms with his wand spinning lazily between his fingers, the stupid grin he wore whenever he answered questions correctly, and the sound of his laugh late at night in the common room after one too many drinks. 

You remembered that he preferred mint chocolate, the faint scar beneath his jaw, and the way he always cracked his knuckles before Quidditch matches as though it were some strange pre-game ritual. 

Falling for an older boy with too much charm and nowhere near enough emotional intelligence had felt very glamorous at sixteen.

At twenty-six, it mostly felt embarrassing.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” Enzo said softly.

You blinked. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re debating murder.”

You smiled. 

“Maybe I am.” 

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again, and there it was.

That look.

The one that used to make your heart stutter when you were sixteen and stupid enough to romanticize emotionally unavailable boys.

Only now it felt different. There was something darker beneath it, something hungrier and far less careless than you remembered.

It wasn't the familiar glance of someone revisiting an old memory.

It felt as though he was seeing you.

Not the girl he'd known at Hogwarts. Not the version of you he'd left behind ten years ago.

You.

The realization settled uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

“Try not to ruin the engagement party by throwing me off the balcony, sweetheart.” 

You held his gaze just long enough to make him think he’d won.

Then you stepped smoothly around him.

"Go to hell, Berkshire."

His laugh followed you across the ballroom, warm and familiar in a way that felt far more dangerous than it should have. The sound lingered behind you, entirely too pleased with itself, and annoyingly difficult to ignore. 

You spent the next hour aggressively avoiding Lorenzo Berkshire.

Unfortunately, Lorenzo Berkshire appeared to view avoidance as a personal challenge.

No matter where you drifted in the ballroom, he always seemed to be somewhere nearby. Every time you glanced up, you spotted him again—talking to Draco near the bar, standing with Theo by the dance floor, or leaning casually against a doorway looking entirely too comfortable in his own skin.

It was infuriating.

At one point, you caught him watching you from across the room while Blaise was in the middle of saying something to him. Enzo didn't even pretend to be paying attention. His gaze remained fixed on you, and when your eyes met, he made no effort to look away.

The audacity.

Your stomach gave an unwelcome little twist, and you immediately looked elsewhere, pretending to be far more interested in the decorations than the man currently watching you from across the room.

"He's staring again."

You nearly jumped.

Pansy had appeared beside you without warning, champagne flute in hand and wearing the expression of a woman who had just discovered her favorite television show was getting another season.

"Who?"

Pansy gave you a long, unimpressed look.

"The fact that you're asking that question is honestly insulting to both of us."

You sighed heavily.

"Pansy."

"No, seriously." She took a sip of champagne, eyes still fixed somewhere over your shoulder. "Has he always looked at you like that?"

Determined not to give her the satisfaction, you refused to turn around.

"Like what?"

"Like he's considering devouring you whole."

You promptly choked on your drink.

Pansy nodded with alarming seriousness.

"Good. So it's not just me."

"You're insane."

"Probably."

She tilted her head thoughtfully, as though genuinely considering it.

"Still though—"

"No."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were going to."

A slow smile spread across her face.

"I really was."

You rubbed a hand over your forehead.

Merlin.

Four years in Paris and somehow these people had remained exactly the same.

"You know what your problem is?" Pansy asked.

"I have several. You'll need to be more specific."

"You still react to him."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Not a polite chuckle. An actual laugh.

Mostly because the alternative was admitting she wasn't entirely wrong.

"I assure you," you said dryly, "the only thing I feel toward Lorenzo Berkshire is irritation."

Pansy's gaze drifted over your shoulder.

"Oh."

The single syllable suddenly filled you with dread.

You already knew what you were going to find before you turned around.

Slowly, and with all the enthusiasm of someone approaching their own execution, you glanced over your shoulder.

Enzo was standing directly behind you, looking entirely too pleased with himself, like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

Because apparently the universe had a personal vendetta against your peace.

"What are we talking about?"

Pansy’s smile widened at once, far too entertained for someone who had just helped ruin your day.

You, meanwhile, were briefly considering several creative forms of violence.

"Nothing."

"Interesting."

The corner of his mouth twitched, amusement settling in like it belonged there.

"Because it sounded suspiciously like my name."

Pansy made a delighted little noise and conveniently decided this was no longer her problem.

"Good luck," she said cheerfully before slipping away into the crowd without a shred of guilt.

The second Pansy disappeared into the crowd, silence settled between you.

It wasn't awkward exactly, which somehow made it worse. The string quartet continued playing near the terrace, their music weaving through the steady hum of conversation and laughter that filled the ballroom. Around you, the party carried on as though nothing had happened, while you found yourself standing there with Enzo, painfully aware of his presence.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then his gaze dropped to the champagne glass in your hand.

"Fourth."

You stared at him.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

His grin appeared immediately.

"You switched from martinis."

"You can't possibly be tracking my alcohol consumption."

"I absolutely am."

"Why?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Something shifted in his expression. It was subtle—so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed—but you did. You always had.

His answer came a beat too late.

"Professional curiosity."

You narrowed your eyes.

"That's not a thing."

A hint of amusement flickered across his face.

"It is if I decide it is."

"Piss off, Berkshire."

His laugh followed you as you walked away for the second time that evening.

You hated that the sound still did strange things to your chest.

Much later, after dinner had been served and speeches had begun, Enzo stood near the balcony doors nursing a glass of whiskey while the ballroom glowed gold around him. Music drifted through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter from every corner of the room.

He barely noticed any of it.

His attention kept returning to you.

Across the ballroom, surrounded by Hermione, Ginny, and Pansy, you were laughing at something one of them had said, smiling in a way he hadn't seen in years. The sight made something in his chest tighten.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years.

And somehow seeing you again felt exactly like getting hit by a Bludger.

He'd spent years convincing himself he was over it. The lie had been easier to believe when you lived in another country. Paris had made avoidance simple. You were out of sight, out of reach, safely untouchable.

Then Draco had casually mentioned that you'd be attending the engagement party.

Enzo had spent the entire week pretending that information hadn't completely derailed him.

It hadn't worked. Not even slightly.

The problem was that you hadn’t really changed at all.

You were sharper now, more confident, more self-assured. Paris had polished some of your edges and strengthened others, but underneath it all, you were still you.

Funny.

Impossible.

Still the only woman who had ever looked at him and seemed entirely unimpressed by the fact that he was Lorenzo Berkshire.

His grip tightened slightly around his whiskey glass.

Across the room, you tipped your head back laughing at something Ginny said, and for a moment he found himself staring.

Beautiful.

Untouchable.

Different.

And somehow exactly the same.

You were a far cry from the girl he remembered, though not because you'd become quieter. You had never been quiet. Even then, you'd been sharp-tongued beneath the softness, funny in ways that constantly caught him off guard, clever enough to cut straight through his ego whenever you felt like it.

Back then there had been warmth too.

You used to look at him like you trusted him.

Like he was safe.

That was gone now.

And somehow that was worse.

Because anger he could handle. Hatred he understood. Even indifference would've been survivable.

But the disappointment he saw every time you looked at him?

That was the one thing he'd never figured out how to live with.

Theo appeared beside him carrying two glasses of whiskey.

"You look tragic."

Enzo didn't bother looking away from you.

"Go away."

Theo followed his gaze and knowingly grinned.

"Oh."

"Don't."

Across the ballroom, you smiled at something Hermione said, and his chest tightened all over again.

Theo watched him for a moment before some of the amusement faded from his expression.

"Have you ever considered talking to her?"

Enzo let out a short, humorless laugh.

"About what?"

Theo raised an eyebrow.

Enzo looked back toward you.

Toward the woman he'd spent ten years trying—and failing—to forget.

The woman who still occupied far more space in his head than was remotely healthy.

The woman who currently looked ready to hex him into another dimension every time he opened his mouth.

His jaw tightened.

Theo grinned.

"This wedding is going to be an absolute shit show."

Enzo drained the rest of his whiskey in one burning swallow.

Across the room, as though sensing his attention, your eyes lifted unexpectedly and found his.

For a moment, the noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into the background. Neither of you looked away. The distance between you remained crowded with people, laughter, and music, yet the connection felt strangely direct.

Then Ginny said something that made you smile, pulling your attention back to the conversation around you.

Your gaze slipped from his first.

The loss of it settled over him immediately.

Enzo looked down at the empty glass in his hand and exhaled slowly.

It was amazing how quickly ten years had disappeared.

One conversation.

One smile.

One look.

And suddenly he felt seventeen again.

Fuck.

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