lois

Your Quidditch playing beater boyfriend was going to be the death of you. 

“But what’s wrong with this one?” You huffed, your shoulders sagging as you glanced down at the fabric that clung to your body like second skin, running a hand across the diamantes that shimmered like tiny stars sewn into the dress. “I’m running out of options, and you said you liked this one.” 

Mattheo’s grin widened and his eyes drifted down your body lazily, drinking in the strappy heels you’d paired with your outfit and the matching shimmery handbag. His gaze lifted slowly, sliding up your legs, gliding over the soft skin of your thighs that was on show, still silky and glimmering from your shower earlier. He hummed, his eyebrow lifting at the short hem that left little to the imagination, the tip of his tongue brushing across his bottom lip. 

“I never said I didn’t like it,” his voice rumbled, raspy and low like it often was when he was trying to turn you on. His arms flexed as he moved to push himself up, meeting your gaze with a salacious glint in his eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually. Your arse looks phenomenal…” 

“Mattheo.” You whined, arms slapping down at your sides, shooting him a withering stare to scold his lewdness. “You promised you’d help me choose.” 

“I am helping.” He insisted, his pointer finger twirling in a small circle, a silent instruction to give in to his insatiable nature. He watched you through half lidded eyes, making no effort to hide the way his hand skirted over his crotch, adjusting himself. “C’mon pretty girl, spin for me.” 

It was impossible to stay angry at him. The tight lipped scowl you’d been directing his way morphing into a wry, barely contained grin, your cheeks heating under his watchful gaze. It was too easy to give in to him when he looked at you like that. 

“Pretty please,” he coaxed, tilting his head at the smile that was beginning to bloom on your lips, knowing you couldn’t say no when he asked so nicely.

Your teeth bit at your bottom lip. Noticing the way his eyes trailed across your body, the smugness in his expression as he reached down to ease the growing strain beneath his pyjama bottoms— it was all too much. He’d adjusted himself while you contemplated giving in, sitting up and leaning back on his hands, his legs spread wide as he waited with bated breath. 

Slowly your hands unclenched, your heels tapping against the floor as you spun slowly for him, shy under his stare as you showed off every angle of your dress. A soft sigh left him as your back turned, and when you were finally facing him again, his eyes were blown wide and his lips had parted to let out another strangled groan.

“Salazar’s bloody ballsack,” he murmured, head dropping back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, collecting himself. “You’re not wearing that anywhere.” 

You scoffed, heels clunking loudly as you walked across the dormitory, pausing at the foot of the bed, right between his spread legs, and glared at him. “You’re my boyfriend, you know, not my father.” 

His head was level with your sternum in this position, and he had to crane his neck to look up at you. His eyes darkening as his hands planted against your thighs, slithering up to your hips, one curling at your waist, pulling you closer, and the other resting against your arse. 

“You… are not… wearing that… anywhere.” He repeated slowly, as though you might’ve misheard him the first time. “Especially not around the rest of the Quidditch team. Otherwise I might just have to permanently blind the lot of them.” 

Your brows lifted humorously, your hands coming to rest against his shoulder and tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. Your fingers gently twisted in his hair, gaze flitting over his broad shoulders and toned arms. That familiar sensation began to curl in your stomach as your thighs pressed together, long past caring about what dress you were going to wear later.

“Oh really?” you hummed, knowing full well he’d never really tell you that you couldn’t wear something. You tugged softly at his hair, pulling his head back just that bit farther and gazing into his eyes. 

“Mhm, really.” Mattheo nodded, his hands beginning to slide across your body, groping and stroking at you reverently. You smirked, watching the glee in his face as his hands explored. 

“Think of the team, Slytherin are close to winning the Cup,” he murmured in a deeply dramatic tone that had your eyes rolling, “What use is Malfoy in catching the snitch without any eyes?” 

His thumbs dug into the fabric as though testing how flimsy it was, still looking up at you with that glazed look in his eyes. 

“Exactly,” you grinned, cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his cheekbone, “Think of the team. They deserve a morale boost.” 

Mattheo, to his credit, had the sense to see you were only teasing, even as a look of pure horror broke out on his face. 

“They do not deserve that kind of privilege.” 

You began to giggle at the seriousness in his tone, the way he sat up straighter and seemed to snap out of his lustful teasing. The way his face softened at your laugh frustratingly endearing as he gazed up at you, like it was the best thing he’d heard all day. 

“Besides, you're my girlfriend, not theirs.” he muttered with a pout. 

You rolled your eyes fondly, fingers threading through his curls again as you laughed, this side of him was your favourite. The softer, vulnerable side he only showed when the two of you were alone. He practically purred under the attention, shameless as ever, tilting his head further into your touch.

“You know,” you mused lightly, “most boyfriends would just say their girlfriends look nice.”

“I did say you looked nice.”

“You said my arse looked phenomenal.”

“It does.” 

He maintained his straight face for all of two seconds, before you snorted in disbelief, and he grinned at the sound. Utterly pleased with himself for dragging such a sound from you. The two of you were quiet for a moment, and his eyes raked over you once more, slower this time. Appreciating every inch of your body. 

“Fine,” he sighed heavily. Relenting though he sounded bitter about it, “You can wear the dress tonight.” 

Your brows lifted in surprise, pausing your fingers that had begun to scratch at his scalp. 

“Wait, really?” Your face lit up, peering down at him with a puzzled look. 

“No.” he replied almost instantly, grip tightening around your hips, “Absolutely not. I just wanted to see your face.” 

You’d remained seated for the remainder of the journey, leaving the small curtain unhooked in a weak act of rebellion that was shameful even for you. Occupying yourself by directing the most ill-intentioned glare you could muster at Berkshire’s turned back. You hoped he could feel the weight of your stare piercing through him murderously, like you might be able to summon powers from the fury of your anger and cause him to spontaneously combust. It wasn’t likely that he cared, and if— by some miraculous occasion— he could feel the daggers you were throwing his way, he didn’t let on. 

No, as long as he was getting paid, you doubted the traitor cared much for a dirty look or two. 

The carriage rattled beneath you as the wheels slid over cobbled roads, drawing away from the sticks and leaves of the forest road that crunched faintly beneath hooves. Instinctively, as you were jostled particularly hard, your hand braced on the pocket of your mothers cloak, cupping the fabric which protected the pearl earring the thief had thrown back to you. As the realisation dawned your hand fell away swiftly, fingers twitching as though it had burned you through the pockets. 

The rest of the hidden chest, the necklace, gold, and whatever else was long gone by now, likely pawned or melted down and remade. The other earring destined to be parted from its sister forever, just gone like the crow that had stolen it from you. 

Wherever it ended up, a part of you clung to the foolish hope that you might find it again. Someday…

You’d tried not to think of that gnawing problem for now, busying yourself with peeling the flaked dirt from your heeled shoes disdainfully. Mud and tiny stones still clung to the hem of your skirts, embedded into the fabric so stubbornly that you had given up on picking the debris off. Not to mention the tear at the back that you’d have to hide with your travelling cloak, at least till you could change into something less dishevelled. 

The horses were slowing to a halt again, your jaw tightening imperceptively as your pulse began to thud in your ears. The remainder of the journey had passed far quicker than the start, so lost in your own thoughts you’d hardly noticed that Harcourt Hall stood just beyond the carriage door. An unsettled chill danced down your spine as you peered up at the grand building, noting the dark oak and thick vines that crept up the trellis’ outside. 

Bristling in your seat your hands quickly smoothed your mussed hair, brushing against your skirts in a last-ditch attempt to make them lay flat. Your father had been keen to ensure you make a good first impression, and in light of what had been uncovered, you were determined to do just that. 

Berkshire dismounted first, approaching your hosts elegantly, speaking in a voice you’d never heard before, all honeyed and sweet. “A terrible, terrible business,” he’d begun, apologising profusely for your lateness. “Miss Albury is most distressed, if I do say so myself. Poor girl is, understandably, shaken by such misfortune.”  

You scowled harder at his blatant lie, hands tightening into fists at your side as that discomfort morphed into anger and hopeless frustration. Guilt, too, throbbed a steady ache in your chest as you knew you were unable to contradict him. These were unfamiliar halls, filled with strangers you had no inclination to trust. Even if you could find a moment alone with a guard or Lord Harcourt, who knew how deep Berkshire’s influence could reach? 

It was your word against his, and he had already decided how this would unfold. 

“My Lady.”

Berkshire's voice softened noticeably as the carriage door opened, bowing slightly as his hand extended towards you, the very picture of dutiful service.

Behind him, Harcourt Hall stood tall, marked with heavy wooden doors that towered high like a drawbridge. The home looked more like a castle than you’d first realised, towering high above the surrounding homes, fixed atop the hill like an impenetrable fortress carved from the hill itself. 

You forced a smile and placed your hand in his, the gesture as graceful as it was unwilling, and in turn his grip tightened just enough for you to notice. A quiet, unmistakable warning from the traitor that said ‘play your part’. 

You swallowed, lifting your chin as you stepped down from the carriage, a hundred memories of etiquette lessons and practice springing to mind whilst you tried to ignore Berkshire’s insistent grasp on your hand. 

Finally, your gaze lifted, only to find there was no grand reception for your arrival. Instead, a handful of stern guards and two men stood at the base of the steps, watching your approach with tight-lipped smiles. 

One of the men, the older one, stood rigid with his hands clasped at his front, reminiscient of your father’s steward, Cyril. He was dressed like Cyril too, except his suit looked far more expensive, and the pocketwatch that hung from his waistcoat suggested he was wealthy himself, perhaps an advisor for Lord Harcourt’s council. 

Beside him lingered another. A younger, dark-haired man with the most devestatingly handsome features you’d ever seen. His stance was noticeably more at ease than the older man, not improper, but not quite as prim as his counterpart either. His hands rested loosely behind his back, his attention drifting across your torn dress, almost idly, then settling on your face. 

Something stirred in your chest as you met his gaze, quite unintentionally holding it for a second too long before you looked away, tugging pointlessly at the back of your dress as if freeing it from the carriage. He continued to watch you, an air of inquisitive curiosity about him, as you fluffed at your skirts and tried to ignore the prickling of your skin beneath your cloak. 

“Miss Albury,” the older man greeted, inclining his head courteously. “Lord Harcourt and Master Frederick await your arrival inside.” 

You nodded in response, showing an equally courteous acknowledgement of the men, despite the discomfort that washed over you. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You smiled, and Berkshire’s grip loosened slightly in what felt like approval. 

The words came naturally, from years of meeting your father’s assosiates, but even such experience couldn’t make up for the bitter taste in your mouth as your voice flowed out, not dissimilar to Berkshire’s honeyed tone. 

“My apologies for my lateness, I was… intercepted on the western road.” 

Liar. I was set up. You thought glumly. 

“On behalf of Lord Harcourt’s advisory council,” Cyril’s lookalike continued, gesturing between himself and the younger man, “we extend our sincerest regret to hear of the distress you experienced on your travels. I trust the remainder of your journey was, at the very least, uneventful?” His brow lifted faintly as you hesitated to respond. The lie Berkshire had concocted suspended at the tip of your tongue. 

He didn’t speak like Cyril, he was too particular with his words. Where Cyril’s would be warm and dutiful, he felt suffocating and rather mistrusting. Your lips parted and shut twice as you searched for the right words, but you were interrupted before you could even try. 

“Uneventful enough,” came a second voice, one you hadn’t heard speak before, smooth and edged with quiet amusement. The younger man’s smile turned just slightly as he looked to you, then flicked an almost idle glance toward the older advisor. “After such misfortune, one would presume.”

It took an unnatural amount of restraint not to react as you met his eyes again, a deep shade of cerulean that was as piercing as it was striking. He held it a moment longer than politeness required, as if weighing something unseen, before adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with absent precision.

“After all,” he continued lightly, breaking the tension his cloudy gaze had trapped you in. “Miss Albury arrived safely… which, given the circumstances, is no small feat.” 

His gaze dipped, not rudely, but inquisitive. Taking in the state of your dress before returning to your face. 

“And, in rather admirable composure, might I add.”

The compliment settled strangely. It didn't feel like flattery, not even kindness, but something more measured than that. Like it wasn’t quite for your benefit that he even spoke.

“I suspect that is due, in no small part, to your intervention?” His attention shifted at last from your face, and you felt like you could breathe again as his gaze landed on Berkshire with polite interest.

“Berkshire,” the traitor supplied his name smoothly, inclining his head. “It all happened very quickly. My only concern was ensuring Miss Albury reached her destination unharmed.”

You resisted the urge to scoff.

“Very noble indeed, Berkshire," the younger man commended, watching him briefly with a strange expression, as though he might find a hint of falseness in his eyes. Seemingly finding none, his gaze settled back on you, equally as appraising. 

“I suppose you consider yourself quite fortunate, Miss Albury, to have such an honourable guard?” 

The way his eyes zeroed in on you put you on edge, as if he were testing you too. You broke first, glancing towards Berkshire and forcing another polite smile, nodding graciously with as much enthusiasm as you could muster.

“Certainly, heaven knows where I might be without him and his… valiance.” 

That earned you the faintest twitch at the corner of the blue-eyed man’s mouth, something just shy of a smirk, as though your answer had satisfied some quiet expectation. Approval, perhaps, or amusement. It was difficult to tell with the way he appeared perpetually unbothered.

You held his gaze a fraction longer than necessary, uncertain whether you were being assessed or believed. 

Your father had warned you of this before your departure. The Harcourts were not a family that could be impressed with courtesy alone. They dealt in power, in perception, and it was expected that you meet them with both grace and wit, especially in being able to hold your own when questioned.

“Indeed,” the older man murmured, reminding you of his presence, though his tone suggested he found little satisfaction in your response. His eyes flickered down to the state of your skirts again, lingering just long enough to note the mud, the tear you had done your best to conceal. “A most unfortunate incident.”

Your own lips pursed in quiet restraint, aware of the disdain that graced his features as he inspected your clothing. Undoubtedly forming his own opinion on your worthiness of his Lord’s heir. 

“Mm,” the younger man hummed lightly, as though in agreement—though his attention had already drifted back to you. “Though I imagine Miss Albury would prefer not to relive it in such detail on the outer steps, Rufus.”

A pause followed his words. They were subtle, not outright undermining the older man, Rufus, who was presumably his superior. Confusion twisted in your gut, had he not just watched you lie through your teeth, rather unconvincingly, about Berkshire’s valiance? And now he was coming to your aid?

The older man hesitated, just for a moment before yielding his questions. His resolve softening under his protege’s suggestion. 

“My apologies,” he offered stiffly, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer before he moved. His hands came together in a single, decisive clap as he nodded toward one of the guards, and the great doors behind him began to open. 

“Do excuse an old man’s curiosity,” he added, already turning away, “I would like to hear more about this robbery later, Miss Albury. When you are settled, perhaps?”

He did not wait for your answer, and dread pooled low in your stomach as he continued on, the implication clear enough. You were going to have to lie, and lie well, if you wanted to keep the ruse up. 

Berkshire ushered you forward without so much as a glance, his hand falling away as you mounted the steps. The younger man however, the one who had seemingly spoken in your defence, lingered where Rufus had stood. Awaiting.

As you reached the top of the stairs, he stepped in beside you, offering an arm with chivalrous ease like such gestures came naturally to him. Perhaps he, too, had been raised on the same careful lessons of etiquette. Or perhaps he was a friend, a fleeting thought that died as soon as it sprung to mind. Even after his timely intervention, Berkshire was the only person you could trust with this secret. 

The threshold of Harcourt Hall emerged just ahead, its interior lavish and precisely the sort of opulence you expected, polished wood floors gleaming beneath the fading light, portraits lining the entry in watchful silence. Two guards stood armed and straight-backed, flanking either side of the lengthy entry hall, oblivious as the young man tugged you closer with a gentle pull.

“Careful,” he murmured, when you began to walk in tow with each other, voice low enough that it did not quite carry, and leaning in just slightly as the words brushed your ear, “Hesitance makes people curious.” 

You did not turn your head, though your attention sharpened instantly, every sense attuned to the quiet warning as he guided you forward. Ten paces from the threshold. 

“Pardon–” you began in an equally hushed voice, unable to stop yourself from meeting his gaze.

His eyes really were the most piercing shade of blue you’d ever seen. Though now he looked at you intently, his gaze flickered ahead of him, tracking the steps of the older man with great care to ensure you weren’t caught. When Rufus made no move to turn around his voice lowered even more, a quiet murmur you strained to hear. 

“Curiosity,” he continued, ignoring your attempt to interrupt, his voice softer still as he finished, “is rarely in your favour. People believe what they see, so show them.” 

His deep cerulean eyes widened as he urged you to heed his words. The trouble was, you weren’t quite sure what exactly he was advising you to do. You felt helpless, blinking back at him in a stunned silence. 

He hummed thoughtfully, and straightened and his lips pressed together, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. The expression in his gaze dulled once more into neutrality as he led you through the winding corridors of Harcourt hall, his muscles flexing slightly under your grasp. 

Around you, the grand hallways were illuminated by flickering oil lamps that spilled light over the handful of portraits that decorated the walls. Shadows danced from the ornate coving that curved around the top of the walls, moving with each step deeper into the halls of the Harcourt family. 

Berkshire walked just behind you, and though he was certainly untrustworthy, he provided an odd sense of comfort, as if knowing you weren’t completely alone with these strangers made your nerves any less persistent. Especially after the words of warning that had just been muttered surreptitiously in your ear.

The group moved quietly, footsteps and your thudding pulse filling the silence. Just ahead, Rufus slipped through a set of doors at the end of the hallway, leaving you alone with the stranger and Berkshire.

The younger man, whose name you still didn’t know, flashed you a smile as he turned his back on the closing door and faced you, appearing much less guarded now.

“I’m afraid this is where we shall part, for now, Miss Albury.” He murmured regretfully, keeping his gaze on you as you dropped his arm. “Though, I’m sure this isn’t the last we’ll see of each other.” 

Then he leaned in, conspiring like, as his gaze flickered to Berkshire, who stood watching with a narrowed expression.

“And don’t let Enzo fool you, by the way.” He said, head jerking towards the guard playfully. His voice was lighter now, a striking difference from the low rumble you’d heard a moment ago. 

“He’s all bark and no bite.” 

Your brows twitched as the younger man bowed, the edge of his lip curling into the faintest of smirks as he stood back, brushing invisible lint from the lapel of his suit, and snapping back into the aloofness he’d displayed before. 

Your lips parted, opening and closing soundlessly as you glanced between Berkshire and the stranger, who had already begun walking back the way you’d just come. 

“Enzo?” You enunciated the name sullenly, your brow arching curiously as you rounded on the guard who’d landed you in this mess to begin with. “Your name is Enzo?”

Berkshire’s composure slipped for the first time that evening. A sharp breath escaped him, something between a scoff and a curse, and his eyes darted instinctively toward the doors ahead.

“It’s short for Lorenzo,” he muttered tightly, adjusting the cuffs of his guard tunic carefully. “And lower your voice.”

“Yes, but he called you Enzo.” You countered, eyes narrowing. Behind you, behind the doors Rufus had disappeared through, you could hear muffled voices and chairs scraping. 

“I’ve been known to answer to both.” He shot back, keeping his voice more dignified than your own as he glanced over your shoulder towards the doors anticipating when they would open. “Now pull yourself together and—” 

“You know each other.” You hissed, arms folding across your chest as his jaw flexed at your accusation. The footsteps beyond the door were nearing. 

“Listen to me very carefully,” he rasped, all traces of that honeyed politeness stripped away as he grabbed at your arm. His eyes flicked once toward the corridor behind you before returning to your face. “I drink in the same tavern as Nott. That is the extent of it.”

Nott. That must be the cerulean-eyed man. 

“There is no plot,” he continued sharply, tightening his grip as another sound echoed distantly through the hall. Impatience flickered across his face now, not fearful exactly, but urgent. “You were robbed on the western road. I intervened. End of story.”

His stare bore into yours, an unsettling calmness flooding back into them as if he realised this private conversation could not last much longer. Not if he wanted it to stay private.

“And unless you want to walk into that room looking guilty as sin, I suggest you stop asking questions and fix that scowl on your face.”

He dropped your arm as he spoke, once again adjusting the cuffs of his uniform, grooming himself back into the role of a perfect gentleman. 

You blinked, your face settling into something more pleasant as the sound of metal-on-metal squeaked through the hall, a door handle turning. Your head twisted at the sound, and a steward appeared a moment later, beckoning you both towards him politely. 

Berkshire offered you his arm, just like Nott had earlier, and you took it without resistance. Your other hand fluffing your skirts once more as you inhaled a deep breath, settling yourself to face Lord Harcourt. The two of you stood side by side, just behind the double doors that separated you from your fate. 

“Call me Lorenzo, Berkshire, Enzo— I truly do not care,” he whispered coolly, straightening the front of his coat. “As long as your story includes a meticulously detailed account of how I saved your life, we won’t have any problems.” 

You nodded, straightening your back and tilting your head up high, unaware of how tightly you were gripping Berkshire’s arm. 

Satisfied with your acceptance, he placed his free hand over yours briefly, a gesture that might have looked reassuring to anyone watching. But before you could say another word, the steward stepped back and the doors swung open, light spilling into the corridor from the main hall. 

And waiting, in the centre of the ornate hall, stood Lord Harcourt and his son.

Asides, to refuse such a match would only cause an uproar that you’d sooner avoid. 

The dowry arrangement was to be discussed between your father and Lord Harcourt alone, to ensure both families found the terms profitable, both financially and socially. You’d inferred enough from your fathers tone to know that this was a marriage of convenience, first and foremost, and that any feelings of love that blossomed from this match were an added bonus. 

Your meeting with Frederick was merely a nicety, a courtesy to see if the match was well-suited, as your father had put it. But you knew this was about confirming if you were deemed worthy of Frederick. You were under no illusion; families like the Harcourts did not take kindly to social embarrassment of any kind, not least marrying off their heir to someone… unbecoming. 

The knowledge settled heavy in your chest. You were no more than another grain in your fathers stores, weighed and priced, a commodity just waiting for the highest bidder. 

A defeated breath slipped out of you as you smoothed your skirts, despising the gesture almost as much as the shuddering of the carriage over the forest floor. Gradually, the rhythm beneath you altered, the steady beat of hooves softening into something hesitant, until the motion slowed enough to pull you from your thoughts.

Outside, the guards were murmuring in low voices, the sound carrying through the wood in tones too measured to be just idle conversation. You leaned towards the window, careful to peel the curtain back just a smidge, and peered out at the road ahead.

A chill had begun to seep through the air and your nose scrunched as you leaned closer to the glass, your fingers clutching the curtain tightly— ready to pull it shut at a moment's notice. The tree-line looked the same as it had earlier, the same towering oaks and bramble thickets skirting the forest floor. The same, unchanged view you’d been journeying through for the last half hour at least; nothing that explained the sudden decrease in pace.

The hairs on your arm began to prickle as the driver muttered a curse above, sounding puzzled as you rolled to a stop once more. The guards had dismounted from their steeds, their hands hovering at their sword hilts as they approached the middle of the road. Even from the carriage, you could hear the faint crunch of wet leaves underfoot as they fanned out.

One took a few paces towards the tree-line, his sword half-unsheathed as he disappeared from your line of sight. The other glanced back at the carriage, his gaze fixed presumably on the coachman, then dropping to the window sharply. 

You ducked instinctively, letting the curtain fall closed as your pulse spiked. That prickle you’d felt earlier creeping up your spine once more. Neither of them acknowledged the grunts of confusion from the coachman, or responded when he asked why they’d halted in the first place.

Alarm began to thud in your chest. A gut feeling that something was wrong.   

From above, the coachman barked down at them. “Why the devil have we stopped?”  

Hope fluttered tauntingly as you listened eagerly for a response, your breathing shallow as his question was met with the same, stony silence as before. 

“These are dangerous roads to linger on,” he warned, presumably to the guard who you’d ducked away from. You could hear the horses nickering as if in agreement with their driver. “Do you hear me, lad?” 

Silence. 

“Dangerous roads,” he repeated himself, calling out to the horses as if he meant to continue on the path without protection. But the carriage remained still, the horses snorting sharply, their hooves stamping against the dirt. 

Your ears strained, unable to hear anything but the panicked rise and fall of your chest as you breathed shallowly. A bad feeling coiling in your gut.

A shout rippled from the air above, and the carriage teetered violently. Your hands flailed out to steady yourself as you toppled, struggling to remain upright. The horses whinnied in complaint, their hooves scraping against the forest floor, the noise grating and unpleasant.

Instinct forced your hand to your mouth, muffling a sharp intake of breath right as the coachman's yell fell silent, loud thuds echoing against the wooden exterior of the carriage. Your stomach clenched, eyes widening in terror as your gaze slowly lifted to the roof. 

The carriage bobbed slightly, boots shuffling against the wooden shell as though someone were shifting their weight above you. Your hands trembled as you shrunk back against the wall furthest from the door, fixated on the spot you were certain whoever was up there stood.  

A sharp cry rippled through the trees, the sound of a blade being unsheathed cutting through the chaos. Tears had begun to pool in your eyes, as a sinking realisation began to dawn — that sinking feeling had been right.

Leather boots scuffed against brittle twigs and fallen leaves, punctuated by grunts of exertion and ragged panting. You tensed, head snapping to stare in the direction of the brawl, despite being blind to what lurked outside. 

Above you, the carriage creaked then righted itself. Mud squelching just beyond the door, as if whoever had been on the roof had jumped down onto the path. Another grunt, followed by the sickening crunch of bone sounded, and your blood ran cold as something heavy hit the ground. 

“Stop right there, crow.” A voice instructed evenly.

A breath shuddered from you in fragile relief. It must be one of the guards, here to protect you from the stranger. Just like your father had reassured you.

Your relief was short lived, however, as a low laugh drifted back in answer. Breathy, unhurried. And far too close to the carriage door. Your brows drew together as the stranger replied through what sounded unmistakably like a grin.

“Still playing dress up, are we, Berkshire?” 

Berkshire. The name meant nothing to you, no tangible correlation that might ease your blindness to whoever stood outside. Only, that it was undoubtedly a man’s voice talking, or rather, taunting. Husky, edged with a gleeful warmth that unsettled you right to the core. 

“We’ve no need for names out here,” the guard returned evenly, blasé almost. “I want only what I’m owed. It was no simple task earning the old fool’s trust.”

Your stomach dropped, tuning out of their exchange. Owed. This was no rescue. Suddenly the carriage felt smaller, thinner, as if it too was conspiring against its cargo. 

And what a fool you had been, swallowing your misgivings that morning, allowing your father to send you off, trust placed wholly in people you’d never met. Your very life placed in the hands of a devil. There were worse things than being held up in exchange for gold, after all.  

An idea sparked as you twisted, keeping one eye on the door as you moved. Fingers trembling as you unlatched the hook of the storage chest buried beneath the seat. Surely there must be something in here, a pistol tucked away, a travelling blade. Anything at all. 

Alas, your search proved fruitless; as all that rested in the wooden chest was a small coin purse and a jewellery box. A lady’s belongings. You could almost hear your father’s voice, weapons were for men with something to defend, not a lady travelling to meet her betrothed. 

“Five minutes.” The guard, Berkshire, muttered. 

“Three is plenty.” 

Your heart stuttered as footsteps approached. Your gaze scanning to find the lock, the lock that was meant to be bolted shut at all times. The lock that had somehow, amongst the carnage unbolted and lay useless to your safety. 

Just as you surged forwards to snap it shut again, light flooded the carriage. The door yanked open firmly, hinges creaking under his grasp and a lump formed in your throat as you finally caught a glimpse of the stranger. 

A black cloth mask covered the upper portion of his face, two slits where his eyes were, fixed on your frozen frame. Beneath a weathered tricorne hat, dark curls fell across his forehead, twisting and winding at the nape of his neck, just long enough to brush the tips of his shoulders. He exhaled smugly at the sight of you, brown hues cloaked in black staring you down. Assessing. 

You could only return his stare, wide with fear at the shadow mere inches away from you. He tilted his head then, voice low, edged with amusement that made your cheeks redden and your stomach lurch. 

“Well,” he said in a velvety voice, different to the tone he’d used before with Berkshire, “Let's make this easy, shall we?” 

He stepped fully into the doorway, blocking all light that shone through behind him. Your back pressed firmly against the wall of the carriage, trying to edge away as a gloved hand reached out towards you. 

“Out you come.” His head nodded towards his outstretched hand.

Not a shout or a threat, but not a request either. A command delivered with quiet certainty that you felt unable to refuse. His eyes narrowed, as if reading your thoughts as you debated your options. A smirk began to spread across his lips as you spluttered, head shaking like you had a choice in the matter. 

“No.” you refused, like a petulant child. Rooted to the spot as your outrage warred with your fright. 

His eyes flicked to yours warningly, and his head tilted further as if urging you, very carefully, to reconsider. Something like amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it never quite became a smile, just that sort of half grin he’d flashed before. His jaw was sharp and had he not been in the process of robbing you, you might dare to say he was handsome— for only being able to see the lower portion of his face, that is. 

“Out,” he repeated, his hand flexing impatiently.

You shuddered but relented sensibly, ignoring his offered hand and gathering your skirts instead. You edged closer cautiously, holding your breath as you noted that he hadn’t moved back at all. Rather he lingered in the doorway, watching you through half-lidded eyes. He was close enough that the scent of worn leather and mud invaded your senses, and you hesitated to move closer— already nearer than you wished to be. 

Only when he noticed the subtle pause in your movement, the flicker of your gaze between the carriage door and his frame, did he step back at last. Slow and deliberate but nimble all the same. His gaze burned into you as you clambered from the carriage, the short stem of your heel sinking into the dirt with each step. 

A low huff of laughter left him as he dropped his hand, shaking his head as if in offence as your dismissal. You didn’t dare meet his eyes, but you could feel the weight of his stare as you schooled your expression into something neutral, your shoes ruined by the damp earth. 

He nodded towards a spot a few paces away from the carriage, looking you over as you moved meekly to where he had gestured. Your teeth toyed with your bottom lip, watching him as he glanced toward the guard, then to you, and back to the carriage. 

“Good,” he mused, pleased. “Now stay put.” 

He grunted as he hauled himself into the carriage. Behind you, one of the guards— the one that had disappered into the treeline— lay half conscious, groaning as he pushed onto his side to cough. 

The other one, Berkshire as the stranger had called him, stalked over and kicked him in the ribs, hard, before returning and pausing a few paces from your side. You winced at the violence, averting your gaze to the open carriage to behold the storage chest clicking open once more, your mouth dropping open in quiet disbelief.  

You watched helplessly as the masked man’s hand dipped inside and he let out a pleased laugh. The sound of coins jangling filled the air. Your coin purse appeared a moment later, weighed in his palm. He hummed thoughtfully, removing some, then slipped the rest into his coat, ignoring the sharp gasp that escaped you. 

The few he had removed he tossed towards Berkshire. The gold glinting in the mud as it landed near the man’s boots with a dull clink. 

“For your trouble.”

Berkshire didn’t bend to lift the muddied coins but his jaw ticked as he glanced down at them, then back to the stranger in mild irritation. 

The smile he received in return was lazy, knowing. 

The thief's hand reached again and you blanched as he pulled a velvet lined case from the chest and cracked it open with his thumb. Inside lay the jewellery your father had insisted you wear to meet your future fiancé, and now they dangled helplessly in his grasp.

The stranger gave a low whistle, turning to you with a grin that this time reached his eyes, even behind the mask. Your mother’s pearl earrings lifted from the box and held up to the light as he examined them. 

Your lips parted as recognition struck. 

“Not them,” you breathed, taking a step forward and immediately freezing as he barked a laugh. Perhaps it was foolish to argue with the stranger, to believe you had any influence over what he took, yet the words tumbled out all the same. Desperate, pleading. 

His head tilted wordlessly, as if daring you to stop him. When you remained motionless he simply shut the case and tucked it under his arm with infuriating calm. His gaze trained on a modest gold necklace that piqued his interest next.

“The earrings,” you blurted out, painfully aware of how your voice wavered with uncertainty. “They… they’re sentimental. My mother’s.” 

Your throat tightened with every word, and you loathed how small your voice sounded. How your weakness was bared for all to see as you took another tentative step towards him. 

For a moment he said nothing. His gaze lingering on you— not mocking now, but curious, as if he were considering your words. Then, they dropped to the box tucked under his arm. Your breath caught as he thumbed the case open once more, unhooking one of the earrings from their case. 

The single pearl glinted as it arched through the air, your feet stumbling as you caught it in your hands. Shielding the dainty treasure as you stared down at it, an unsettling familiarity surrounding the small object.

The other he tucked into his pocket, carelessly. 

Heat burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let it spill. Focusing instead on the small gem you held in your open palms. He rummaged some more, unhurried as though he knew you were occupied with the earring and would offer no more protests.

“Well then,” he announced after a few moments. His tongue ran slowly across his lower teeth as he watched the fury kindle in your eyes. Remorseless he bowed, almost theatrical. “Your generosity is much appreciated, Miss.” 

Your nails bit into your palm around the pearl, clenching tightly as if he still might try to pry it from your grasp. Humiliation swelling in your chest with every second he lingered. Anger too. And something else, something far more confusing, coiled low in your gut. 

He was walking away before you could fully process the movement. The dark, worn leather of his coat retreated toward the treeline where a horse, dark as night, waited.

“That’s… it?” you called despite yourself, heels sinking deeper into the mud as you took several impulsive steps forwards. “You just take what you want and leave?” 

Berkshire scoffed behind you. Letting out barely audible murmur that sounded awfully like an insult of some sort. The thief didn’t spare you a glance as he hauled himself onto the saddle of his horse, gathering the reins in one hand. 

“Forgive me,” you threw over your shoulder, cheeks rosy from the indignity of it all. “I’m not accustomed to the etiquette of robbery.” 

That, at least, earned you a quiet laugh. Amused, unbothered. Still, he did not turn. He merely clicked his tongue, urging the horse into motion, the pace quickening with every stride.

“Coward!” you called after him, the word tearing loose before pride could restrain it.

It wasn’t until the galloping of hooves faded, and the tree-line swallowed him whole that you finally tore your eyes away from the direction he had left in, still muttering away to yourself.

The burdened sigh from behind you only alerted another threat, Berkshire. 

“Enough.” 

You stiffened but did not turn. A newfound sense of unease spreading throughout your body. 

“He’s gone,” he continued evenly, bored almost, “And shouting into the trees won’t bring him back.” 

Your jaw clenched as you spun, eyes narrowing at the so-called guard. 

“He stole from me,” you seethed. “And you helped him.” 

“Yes.” He nodded, staring at you with little empathy. “I did.” 

Berkshire watched you carefully, calculating, and you held his gaze. 

“We will say that the carriage was set upon,” he said, glancing towards the groaning guard. “That I intervened, valiantly. That the thief fled when he realised he was outmatched.” 

Your brows drew together, lips pursing as the anger pulsed within you once more. “That isnt what happened. I won’t protect him— or you.” 

Berkshire's eyes sharpened as he took a step closer, gazing down his nose at you as he said his next words clearly. 

“It is what happened,” he replied quietly, but not any less threatening. “Because it is the version that serves you best.”

He stepped closer, ignoring the way you faltered back, and lowered his voice.

“If word spreads that your escort colluded with a highwayman, do you imagine the blame will rest solely at my feet?”

He leveled you with a glance, then shook his head slowly. 

“Families like the Harcourts,” he continued calmly, “do not look kindly upon scandal. Nor weakness. And especially not carelessness in who you place your trust in.”

The implication hung heavy between you. Hadn't your Father said just this morning that he had selected these men himself?

“You will say nothing of the coin exchanged. Nothing of names.” His eyes held yours steadily. “And this will remain an unfortunate robbery. Nothing more. Do you understand me?”

The pearl in your fist dug deeper as your fingers clenched, exhaling sharply as you admitted defeat. 

“...Yes.” you gritted out. 

He nodded once, satisfied. “Good.” 

He bent then, collecting the few coins that lay scattered in the mud. Wiping each one methodically against his glove before pocketing them. Just like the thief had. 

“Compose yourself,” he added, but not unkindly, “and return to your carriage.” 

You resigned to follow his orders, not because you wanted to, but because there was little else to do but listen. 

Mud clung to the hem of your skirts and caked the underside of your heels, tarnishing the wooden step up and the floor of the carriage as you took your seat once more. Berkshire had seen to it personally that the door slammed shut behind you, leaving no opportunity to run. Not that you could even if you wanted to. 

Outside, he spoke in hushed tones. Orderly, precise. The same sharp menace that he had used with you, presumably recounting the lie he’d forced you to corroborate. You sat stiffly, gaze glued to the single pearl that remained in the palm of your hand, gleaming brightly despite the sinking feeling in your chest. 

Your breath left in a slow, trembling exhale. He hadn’t needed to give it back. He could have easily pocketed both with little regard for something as trivial as sentiments. Even at that, one earring surely couldn’t be pawned or gifted. Not without questions raised about its sister pearl. But he had given you it all the same. And left without another word. 

The thought haunted you long after the carriage pulled off once more, continuing on its path as if nothing were the matter. You would still meet Frederick before the moon rose. Still be expected to act ladylike and gracious, even with the mud that stuck stubbornly to your clothes. 

Worse still, your father would have questions. And as true as Berkshire’s words had been, you weren’t entirely sure you could lie to him.

The morning sunlight had gently roused you from sleep, golden rays of warmth seeping across your closed eyelids. The gentle heat caressing your skin as you stirred at first light, as though the sun knew what today would bring, too. 

As you powdered your nose, your brooding was cut short by a glare catching the panes of your window, a twinkling in your peripheral vision. Outside, a sliver of the carriage that awaited you was visible, its modest decal shimmering like seashells buried amongst sand. 

Below the sill, just out of sight, Cyril stood observing over the staff that bustled back and forth— loading trunks, fastening straps, checking bridles with practiced efficiency. Final preparations for the journey that awaited, one that would mark the beginning of a new life. 

The sight made your chest ache. Everything looked so terribly inevitable.

Despite your melancholy, the morning sun did not falter, splaying through the delicate, doily curtains that framed your window. Being early autumn, the air outside was crisp and cool, the kind of chill that stung your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Salvaged only by the heat of the sun that gently warmed the earth. Dew drops blanketed the lavish gardens of your family estate, occasionally catching the sun and sparkling like diamonds scattered amongst the grass. 

Your fingers tensed around your hairbrush, the silver handle cool against your skin as you guided it through your hair. The same routine you’d followed every morning, for as long as you could imagine.

Fond memories of being no older than eight, sprung to mind. Seated atop your mothers knee at this very spot, her careful hands teasing out stubborn knots and tangles that had formed in your sleep.

In the spring months she’d tell you about the flowers blooming in the garden below, excitement etched into her features as she gazed off toward the flower beds—promises of brilliant blues, buttercup yellows, and striking reds. Though most notably, her green thumb extended beyond solely the warmest days of the year; for her winter blossoms were by far your favourite.

Hundreds of tiny snowdrops blooming amongst the January chill, thriving despite the snow-covered grounds around them. Florets of bright green stems poking up from beneath the dusting of powdery snow, crowned with pure white petals that held strong despite the weather.

As a child, they had been your favourite because they thrived when all other flowers withered. Your mother had likened you to the snowdrops, her own bloom of winter, stubborn enough to endure anything and come out brighter and stronger the next year.

You wondered, this morning, whether she’d still think the same of you.

The bristles of her old hairbrush swept smoothly through your soft tousles and you inhaled sharply, misty tears threatening to pool in your eyes. You decided then you would not cry today, and sat straighter in your seat.

A chill of finality crept into you, settling deep, like the frost that would soon gather amongst the soil of her flowerbeds. Soon you would be promised to Frederick, planted in a future you hadn’t chosen, with little option but to endure.

Just like the snowdrops would.

But as you sat there, her hairbrush in hand, you couldn’t help wondering whether even a flower so resilient could bloom in soil it did not want.

The sound of knocking drew you from your thoughts, the door creeping open just a crack. 

“Miss Albury?” a voice crept from the doorway timidly.

Your head turned, and a set of wide brown eyes peered back at you, hesitantly hovering just outwith the doorway. One of the maids, Elizabeth, or was it Elena? Guilt coiled in your chest, her name escaping you as she pressed forward, shuffling into the bedroom.

“Your travelling cloak.” She mustered the words, though her voice shook with apprehension even as you beckoned her in, thick woolen fabric draped evenly across her arms and hanging either side of her.

Schooling your expression into something less forlorn you rose from the stool and greeted her softly. Still stealing glances out the windowpanes as the grounds staff worked.

The maid—Helena, you realised sheepishly—had busied herself with undoing the clasp, wrapping the fabric loosely around your shoulders so it covered your travelling dress.

The wool felt scratchy and stiff, chafing against the sensitive skin of your neck, most unlike the sweeping gowns and delicate sundresses you’d grown used to wearing. You noted the discomfort silently, adjusting the collar when you were certain the girl wasn’t watching. 

“Thank you, Helena.” You managed through a tight smile, in the sincerest of voices, “I appreciate your assistance.”

“My pleasure, Miss.” Helena said, canting her head politely. “Safe travels on the western road.” She added, a little uncertain as she bowed, turning and scurrying from the room.

You watched the empty doorway for a moment, then cast a glance over your neatened bedchamber before landing on the windowpanes once more. The western road loomed miles beyond your gaze, even still the mere mention had your fingers twitching. Hands carefully fussing with your skirts as a means to settle your nerves.

You straightened once more and adjusted your cloak. The sleeves had vines sown into the fabric, little dancing florals encircling the cuffs and collar. The bright threads contrasting against the thick wool.

An outfit fit for the future Lady of Harcourt Hall. 

Your reflection looked terribly like your mother, so you did not deign to look much longer. There was little time left to feel melancholy, after all. Not about your mother, and certainly not about your future, you were raised for this day to come.

Raised with tales at bedtime of knights and princesses, and terrible monsters who threatened them. As a child you’d dreamed of the handsome saviour who would rescue you from peril, but now all you could think of was the monster that lurked unseen.

Unsettled and on edge, you stepped from the room that had been yours all your childhood, and forced yourself not to look back.

The heels of your shoes clicked against the wooden floors as you walked briskly, echoing through the corridors like gunshots. Like the symphony of drums that sounded as a prisoner was led to the gallows—your footsteps the percussion, the awaiting carriage the noose.  

When you reached the top of the staircase you paused, a hand reaching out to grasp at the bannister, and you cast one last glance through your home as a single woman. Upon your return, it’s likely you will have agreed upon the marriage arrangements, perhaps even begun the process of your dowry exchange.

You’d be wed before the year was out, if your father had his way. Your stomach panged with distress at the notion, like the knowledge of what awaited disagreed with not just your mind, but your very body

Below, you spotted your father waiting in the foyer, posture straight, expression carefully composed. Only the subtle downturn of his mouth betrayed him as he waited. He was nervous, that little voice in your head noted unhelpfully.

You cleared your throat, footsteps falling onto the padded runner rug that wound down the stairs. As you neared the final few steps your father turned, and the old man's eyes softened wistfully. Taking in your appearance as you approached. 

“You look lovely, my dear,” he said quietly, something fragile flickering in his voice. “So very like your mother.” The words were barely more than a breath, drawn from him with a longing sigh.

A smile stretched across your lips in return practised, careful and though it felt thin inside your chest, your father only regarded you with quiet approval.

“It was hers, you know. The cloak,” he continued, almost absently. “I debated telling you.”

Your stomach dropped. The cloak felt heavier now, like the essence of your mother still clung to the wool. Your eyes traced the embroidery, the bright flowers that you’d admired earlier withering before your very gaze.

“But now,” he went on, his gaze fixed on you. “Now you stand before me the very picture of her—” He broke off, inhaling sharply.

“It’s… beautiful,” you managed, the words strained as something tight bloomed beneath your ribs.

He was going to send you away wrapped in her memory, and wasn’t even going to tell you.

He muttered something offhandedly, as if scolding himself, and offered his arm to escort you towards the front entrance. 

You shivered as the cold autumn air blew against your skin, the carriage just a few feet away from the bottom of the steps. A footman lingered by the carriage, waiting for you to approach before he deigned to open the door. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat as your feet slowed to a tentative stop. It wasn’t the sight of the awaiting carriage that made you pause, nor the audience of house staff that had gathered to see you off, but the two guards on horseback, waiting just behind.

Wide eyed you surveyed them, from the stern expressions they wore, to the long blades strapped to their waist. These weren’t coachmen, they were escorts. Soldiers.

“Father,” you uttered, eyebrows pinching together in confusion, still staring at the two riders who held firm. Not even sparing a glance in your direction as you gawked. 

Your hand dropped from his arm. Beside you, Lord Albury’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, gone was the misty eyed widower you’d seen moments prior. Sighing, he cleared his throat and stepped forward, turning to face you, his back to the armed guards.

“A precaution only,” he said in a calm voice, “Nothing for you to trouble yourself over. I would have accompanied you myself, but there are matters I must see to here.”

Panic flickered across your features as his words settled in. Recalling the papers, you remembered how the threat of carriage robberies had nearly tripled in the last three months. 

You had no experience on these roads. If something were to happen, you’d be completely vulnerable. Exposed. Your mouth opened to argue this, but your father intercepted before the words began to form. 

“Nothing will happen. These guards are capable men, I assure you. You’ll be quite safe, my dear.” He assured, his fingers brushing across your cheekbone tenderly. “You’ll be married before you know it.” 

His words were meant to soothe, but you took little comfort in his reminder.  

His hand patted your cheek once, then pressed against your mid back, pushing you gently towards the carriage. Encouraging you to begin walking and effectively silencing whatever concern you were just about to share. 

“Of course, I’m being silly— really.” you chuckled, sniffing away any trace of tears that had threatened to form. You would not cry today. As you neared the carriage, the footman stepped forward and opened the door dutifully.

 Your father pressed a final kiss to your cheek, taking in your features for a moment before releasing your arm, encouraging you to depart. 

“I shall write to you once I arrive safely,” you said, turning to face him fully, one hand grasping the carriage frame for steadiness as you stepped up. “Do take care while I’m gone, Father, won’t you?”

He nodded, stepping back as the footman shut the door behind you. You settled back into the cushioned seat and took a deep breath, eyes never straying from your fathers figure through the small carriage window.

 A tightness hitched in your throat as the coachman clambered onto his perch, followed by a sharp crack of a whip. The carriage lurched forwards, your body swaying with the movement. And then came the soft clip-clop of hooves against the stone pathway, each strike carrying you further from the only place you had ever truly known. 

Gravel crunched under the weight of the carriage in a rhythmic pulse, the world outside dipping and rising with each mile you travelled. By now, the novelty of the plush seat cushion had worn off, the tilt of the carriage made you dizzy, and you were acutely aware of the uncomfortable hardwood seat beneath the padding you sat on.

An hour or so had passed since you lost sight of Albury estate, your time spent clasping and unclasping your hands each time the wheels jolted over an uneven path. The rhythm only grew rockier with each mile you traveled, every large bump causing you to brace instinctively as you pulse spiked.

You weren’t used to travelling long distances in a carriage, in fact, you weren’t used to travelling at all. The majority of your day to day activities were carried out at home, with the odd excursion to one of the teahouses in the nearby town. Though you imagined as the soon-to-be wife of an Earl, you might need to get used to long carriage journeys.

Through the window, you watched the land pass by for a time— changing from the expansive estate of your family home, filled with pristine hedges and strong elm trees to the vast countryside. The wealth you’d been so surrounded by fading away into nothingness with each mile you journeyed.

Sprawling hills and little hamlets in the distance caught your eyes, places you had perhaps heard of in passing yet never visited. You marvelled at the farmers cottages, small little bungalows with cosy front gardens and home-made fences decorating the perimeters.

All so unlike what you had called home, but homely nonetheless.

As you passed through a countryside village, you busied yourself with a game. Peering out of the window deep in thought, and creating elaborate stories surrounding the people you spotted on your travels.

Whenever the carriage slowed enough, you caught glimpses of faces more clearly— a baker's wife sweeping her doorway, children running after each other by the well, two young men carting wooden logs door to door. They all moved with certainty, with purpose, like whatever tomorrow might bring was a future problem not worth the worry.

A small part of you envied them for that.

Somewhere between worrying about meeting Frederick, and daydreaming about what life may be like in each small town you passed, the roads began to narrow.

Winding tighter and tighter as the sun began its descent behind the hills to the west. It was still bright enough outside, but you were yet to pass through Thornwick Forest— a thick, dense part of the woods that stretched on for a few miles. From there you would be an hour’s ride from Harcourt Hall.

Anticipation grew in your chest as the carriage slowed to a halt. Confusion etched into your features as you shifted forwards, daring to peer out of the window apprehensively.

Ahead, one of the horseback riders had dismounted and disappeared just out of sight. Behind you, the other rider remained alert, his eyes scanning across the greenery that surrounded you.

You startled as the coachman appeared at the door, apologising profusely when he noticed your alarm. A hand pressed against your chest as you exhaled forcefully and dismissed his concern out of embarrassment. You hadn’t meant to be so on edge.

“Terribly sorry Lady Albury, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he bellowed, a hand resting on the carriage door sheepishly. “Only to inform you that we are approaching Thornwick Forest.”

You nodded, noticing the way a muscle in his cheek twitched at the very mention of the place.

When his eyebrow raised at your stillness, l confusion evident in your features, his eyes darted from you to the woods like there was something you were missing. When you remained quiet he removed his hat and cleared his throat.

“That is to say,” he murmured, throwing a shy glance over his shoulder as if to check no one was listening, before leaning in closer to whisper, “it’s best the carriage door stays locked and the curtains drawn, just till we’re past the woods, Miss.”

“Oh.” Your head canted in acknowledgement, stomach churning at the implication. Your father hadn’t mentioned that this morning. “I see, of course.”

He flashed you a smile and bowed, the carriage door closing once more. Your ears strained, the way he hovered outside just long enough to hear the tell-tale click of the bolt being slid into place, not escaping your attention.

Your back straightened uncomfortably as you sat back in your seat, wishing desperately that your father had been able to accompany you. It was lonely inside the carriage, and the coachman’s warning was regrettably the first conversation you’d had since departing this morning.

Trying not to think about the reasons behind these precautions you swallowed dryly, watching from the still uncovered window as the tree line drew closer.

Chucking emptily you tried to relax your fraught nerves, reminding yourself that not only were you locked safely out of harm's way— but that the two armed guards were just outside, probably well versed in travelling these roads.

As little as the thought eased your nerves, you dismissed the unhelpful pounding of your heart against your ribcage, praying that you’d make it through the woods safely and unharmed.

As the trees swallowed your carriage, your fingers twitched to pull the curtain closed, heeding the warning you’d been given. Though each time you moved to pull the fabric shut, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. The window had been your only entertainment for the majority of your journey, and your only glimpse into the territories you were traversing. To pull it shut now would isolate you from your surroundings which only further nauseated your already delicate stomach.

The tree canopy blocked most of the sunlight, allowing shadows to dance amongst the little pockets of sun that shone through gaps in the leaves. You shivered, pulling your mothers cloak tighter around your arms and stared out across the forest.

Embedded in the dirt you counted numerous upturned roots and thick, sprawling trunks that had to have been hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. So unlike the clean elm trees that grew in the estates gardens, that your father had pruned twice a month.

Not long after the woods had deepened you had to look away, the shadows amongst the oaks playing tricks on your mind as images of masked vagabonds crept into your thoughts. Thereafter you tried to focus on the material of your mothers cloak, tracing the carefully embroidered patterns that decorated the cuffs, and every so often sparing a glance through your still opened curtains.

The carriage trudged on, wheels bumping over small fallen branches and rocks that had lodged into the dirt path, setting your teeth on edge with each sudden jolt and unassuming lurch forwards. You tried again to control your breathing, thinking of your soon to be fiance— his estate, his reputation, of the life you’d been raised to lead.

But, you couldn’t stop your gaze from drifting towards the window, scaring yourself with the powers of your own imagination.

Finally, you reached out and snapped the curtain shut decisively, leaving only the smallest gap of the treeline visible. You exhaled a sigh and let your head thud back softly against the seat behind you, your eyelids flickering shut as you soothed yourself. You’d arrive soon at Harcourt Hall and then these worries would be but an unpleasant, distant memory.

Your heartrate had barely fallen back to a steady rhythm when a sharp shift in the carriage's pace had your eyes snapping open again. Not a bump of wheels coasting over buried roots— no, you had become accustomed to that feeling by now— this was a different feeling.

The carriage was stopping, quickly.

Outside you heard the coachman call out for one of the guards in a flat, weary voice and your stomach dipped, your body remaining impossibly still as though that may keep you hidden from whatever lay ahead. The horses' hooves faltered, stuttering as though they too were unsettled, nickering and snorting as though they refused to walk on.

“Just a fallen tree, Miss, we’ll be moving again in no time.” The Coachman’s voice called from the perch above you. Exhaling a laugh you righted yourself, shaking your head for being so unsettled.

As if to prove a point, your fingers reached to pull the curtain back an inch or so to the side, just enough to peer out through glass. At first, you saw nothing but the dense treeline. Your eyes scanned left to right, ears prickling at the sound of grunts from the guards who were moving the obstruction from your path.

Your gaze met with a wall of towering trunks and thick undergrowth that snuffed out most light that dared to peek through the canopy, but there were no masked demons hiding. No plotting vagrants waiting to strike. This was not a bedtime story you’d heard as a young girl.

You settled then, letting the curtain fall back into place over the glass. And soon, the carriage pulled forwards once more. Hooves trotting against the soil, wheels skating over rocks and roots once more. Lingering thoughts of this morning’s gazette were discarded from your mind, dissipating through the gaps of the trees and floating away. It was just like your father had reassured, you had no reason to be so skittish.

With a newfound calmness you pushed all fears away, choosing instead to think about what you might say to your fiance to be. You dreamed instead of what he may look like, of his tall stature and handsome face. Of the way his voice would be strong and loving as he spoke to you. How in the future, you’d be sat at his side— still nervous perhaps, but at ease knowing he was there to protect you. To love you.

Your fantasy spiralled from there, you barely even noticed when the carriage shuddered over a particularly large stone, too caught up in thinking about baby names and extravagant gala’s. Too naive, perhaps, to consider that the worst was yet to come.

In the distance and out of earshot, hooves ghosted over the uneven forest floor, weaving between the trees just beyond the road’s edge. Close enough to watch. Close enough to follow.

The rider stayed buried in shadow, their face half-hidden beneath a black mask. The steed's pace remained measured and unhurried, as though it had traversed these woods many times before. The rider was silent as they trailed the carriage at a careful distance. Every turn, every jolt of the wheels already accounted for.

All that remained now was for the right moment to draw near.

(1) Giving himself a pep talk. Yeah, you’re the prettiest witch he’s ever seen. Yes, he’s surprised you agreed when he asked to take you out too. No. He most definitely is not nervous, thank you very much: “What are you laughing at, Nott? I saw you posing in the mirror earlier… don’t give me that look.” Mattheo, defensively, upon hearing Theo descend into a fit of laughter.

(2) Spending far too long in the shower, probably raided Draco’s toiletries bag beforehand and picked out all the good, expensive stuff. He had to make a good impression, after all. Only downside is if you like it, he’s going to have to buy his own expensive body wash— for you though, it’s worth it.

(3) Meticulously taming his curls so they sit tidy, he won’t have you thinking he’s some slob who doesn’t know how to take care of himself. Debates trying to pull off the greaser look he’s seen in that muggle film you like, quickly feels like a prat. Hadn’t Pansy mentioned overhearing you saying his curls were cute, anyways?

(4) The boys have all gathered in the dormitory to catch a glimpse of their love-struck friend, finding Enzo’s commentary highly entertaining as Mattheo prepares for his date. “Blimey Riddle, I don’t think any of us have seen you willingly put a nice shirt on, well…. ever!” “Be nice Berkshire, Matt’s in loveee.” Mattheo deflected, naturally. He’s most definitely in love. Secretly, he’s chuffed someone mentioned it, if his dimwit friends can see he’s making the effort, hopefully you will too.

(5) A suit jacket isn’t overkill… is it? Definitely spends far too long tugging it on and off, pacing around the dormitory in the hopes of getting a feel for both with and without it. Fuck it. He’s going full suit. Better to be overdressed than under, right?

(6) Nerves are starting to creep in, what if you don’t show up? Or worse, what if you show up and change your mind? It took a lot for him to even ask you out, and honestly, he’d be distraught if he ruined his chance with you. Quick cig break whilst Theo tries his best to calm his nerves, insisting that you wouldn’t have agreed if you weren’t interested. Thank Merlin someone knows how to talk him round.

(7) Finally ready! He’d just about managed to calm himself down, sitting on the edge of his bed and taking a deep breath. Someone, Enzo probably, says something like: “Remember and use the contraceptive spell mate!” Unhelpfully. He only makes a face in response. Mattheo won’t elaborate on how even thinking about that tonight makes his heart stutter. He’d settle for just a crumb of your attention, you’re too perfect to mess things up. He’s doing things right with you, you deserve the best!

(8) Meeting you in the courtyard. Completely over-thought this the second he did it, what if you thought he was being crude? Salazar, he hopes he hasn’t ruined this date before it’s even started. He just can’t control his facial expressions around you, you’re drop dead gorgeous and he is so, so lucky you agreed to go out with him tonight. Definitely blushes and runs a hand through his hair, undoing his earlier handiwork of keeping it tidy. You don’t seem discouraged though, as you happily take his hand that he offers. Internally he’s screaming, externally he looks like someone who’s just downed a calming draught.

(9) The date is going better than he could even have imagined! The two of you talk about everything, and anything. He’s on fire this afternoon, and all of his jokes and sarcastic drawls land perfectly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the sound of you laughing. It’s like music to his ears. Imagine his surprise when you initiate the first kiss. He’s too focused on doing it right to care about the way his breaths are shuddering out of him, you notice and secretly find it adorable.

(10) Later he walks you back to your dorm, but he won’t come in tonight, he won’t rush this. He wants to do things right, and make each of your memories together as special as he can. That being said, he can’t have you thinking that he’s not insanely attracted to everything about you. Besides, he has to make up for the nervous way he kissed you earlier. He makes sure the kiss goodnight is something you’ll never forget. He’d wait as long as needed to take things to the next level, but for now, he’s more than satisfied with the pink that dusts your cheeks after you pull apart. He waits till the door to your dorm is fully closed before quite literally jumping with joy— not even his dimwit friends could wipe the grin from his face. Little does he know, you’re on the other side, doing the exact same thing.

Happy Valentine’s Day Pizza 💘 Matty and I love you very much, MWAH!

He’d been exceptionally rude to you in the corridor on the train, sneering as he snatched his hand out and grabbed the door to an empty carriage you’d just reached for yourself. You’d frowned, standing your ground and straightening your spine as you stared back at him. 

His eyes were piercing. The shade of a very pale blue— one you could only describe as stormlike, and devoid of warmth. More of a steely grey than cerluean. 

Detached, you’d thought. Cold. 

His skin had the same porcelain smoothness, equally as fresh and pristine as his hair. His cloak and school robes were ironed and proper, unlike your own slightly rumpled uniform, something which made you shift uneasily as you studied him. And he carried himself how someone with only unsurmisable wealth could, his lingering gaze cutting and his thin mouth drawn tightly shut.  

He’d demanded the carriage, not with words but with his stance, glaring at you like you were nothing more than a bothersome fly flitting around his head. It was clear your presence was not welcomed, and so any thought of offering to share the carriage dissipated just as quickly as it had struck. Even at eleven years of age you recognised his demeanour, his entitlement. 

You had responded childishly, something along the lines of ‘but I was here first.’ outrage etched into your adolescent features, wholly unaware of what opulence the blonde haired boy had come from— he didn’t play fair, he played to win. And win he would. 

He had taken a moment to appraise you, eyes flitting over his perceived inadequacies before he spoke. And while you couldn’t recall the exact words he’d replied with, you remembered it was something cruel. Something ostentatious enough that a laugh had bubbled in your throat, the sound caught between nervousness and offense. It was enough to stop you in your tracks long enough that he was the one who triumphantly slid the door to the compartment shut, claiming the carriage for himself before you could even blink. 

Later that evening— once Professor McGonagall had informed you and your peers of the sorting ceremony and each house's brief history— it was no surprise that Draco Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin house. 

Nor was it shocking, that when you had clambered onto the very same stool—your fingers clasped politely in your lap, nerves shot— that the sorting hat had taken a mere two seconds before announcing, “Gryffindor!” and a round of cheers sounded from one of the long tables that ran the length of the hall. 

As you settled into a spot at the house table, you caught the faintest curl of his lip from across the Great Hall. Those same cold eyes fixed on you like a target was pinned to your forehead. A crease formed between your brows then, wondering why on earth the blonde haired boy was scowling in your direction. 

Very quickly you learned of Gryffindor and Slytherin’s exceptional rivalry. Both in academic and extra-curricular activities, the two houses clashed. Whether it was who was best at perfecting tricky charms; you. Or who was the most successful in brewing difficult potions; him. It didn’t matter. 

Only one thing was for certain, the rivalry was rife. And somewhere in all that contention, standing right in the centre, was Draco Malfoy— a permanent thorn in your side. 

In first year, he was the boy who sneered at your hair and asked if you even knew how to use a wand. You hadn’t understood why he said it like that. Slowly. Deliberately. With a venom that seemed too severe for petty school ground arguments. 

Later, you learned what being muggle-born meant. And you learned what he meant by it, too. 

By third year, he’d made it something of a sport— seeing how quickly he could make you snap… and vice versa. You’d perfected an eye roll by then, matching his snide comments with an equally dry retort, and that only made him grin wider and probe further. 

But come the term after your final summer holidays, a fresh start as young adults in your final year at Hogwarts, something had changed. Particularly, in the way that you saw each other, or rather, the new light in which those exchanged scowls were bathed in. 

For a start, you’d never recalled noticing the muscles that ripped across his back before. How, when he donned his Quidditch uniform, the fabric pulled taught around his shoulders and his regrettably athletic thighs. The areas covered by shin guards and chest plates only served to make matters worse, laces knotted tightly to keep them in place whilst simultaneously accentuating every dip and sharp line of his slender frame. 

Though he was more pointy with his sharp cheekbones and gaunt eyes, different to the round faced child-like way you remembered him, he was still unmistakably a Malfoy. The chiseled lines of his jaw etched with stubble, skin still pale as snow yet more defined, more mature. And… had his eyes always been such an enticing whirl of stormy grey? You were certain they’d always been cold and beady, though now you weren’t so sure. 

Equally, he had done a double take of his own as you passed by him in the corridors that first week back. Unable to tear his unruly gaze away from the way your skirt hugged the curve of your ass, revealing bare skin between its hem and the tops of your knee high socks. Or the way your curls— which had always been long locks of untameable frizz in his eyes— now fell in sleek waves across your robed shoulder. Enticing him to reach out and capture a curl around his fingers, like he hadn’t sneered at the mere thought of your presence for the best part of six years. 

But, more than anything aforementioned, he had noticed your face. Different somehow to the way it normally looked, like with age you’d grown into your features— and, rather painfully, he acknowledged that the spattering of freckles he’d once mocked now made you look sun-kissed. So intoxicating that it made him want to bury his nose into the curve of your throat and inhale, if only to be surrounded by the scent of that sweet perfume you wore, which lingered in the air long after you’d swept past.

The day his head snapped up instinctively upon catching a whiff of that very perfume was cemented into his mind. The rush of disappointment upon discovering that some other student had begun wearing your signature scent was still fresh in his memory. Draco had taken to treating himself to a very cold, very uncomfortable shower. With the hope that the icy water might shock his nervous system enough to fix whatever sickness he was coming down with, something severe he assumed, considering he could barely stand to be in the same room as you most days. 

Alas, the cold shower did little to alleviate his symptoms. As when he caught a glimpse of your glossy curls in a very routine scan of the Great Hall that evening, he couldn’t resist taking another peek over at the smile plastered across your face. 

Draco swallowed hard in that moment, eyes downcast whilst he continued chasing his dinner around the plate with his fork, as an unsettling feeling churned low in his gut. Something he loathed to admit to himself, something that felt an awful lot like jealousy towards whoever put that smile on your face. 

“Oh for crying out loud.” You grumbled under your breath, knees bending as you jumped once more, your outstretched fingers straining to grasp at the leather bound tome feebly. 

Just typical that the library book you’d been scouring the shelves in search of for the past half hour was stacked firmly out of reach. Taunting you each time the tips of your fingers scuffed the binding. This was all you needed, with an Ancient Ruins deadline fast approaching, you were running out of time to be running up and down amongst the stacks in search of an alternative.

You’d waited all week for the text to become available, considering someone else had checked the book out the same day your assignment had been set, presumably for the same essay. Now was your only chance to grab it, and in some cruel attempt at humour, the universe had decided to place it on the top most shelf— and coincidentally out of your reach. 

Your shoulders sagged as you accepted defeat. 

Using a spell was out of the question. If Madam Pince caught even a whiff of students using magic to procure their reading material, then she’d surely have them permanently banned from the library for the rest of term— she was awfully protective of Hogwarts’ vast collection and so reluctantly you ignored the urge to reach for your wand. 

You grumbled and huffed as you slung your bag down in front of the shelf, head twisting to locate one of the stools that were dotted around the library. Another of Madam Pince’s genius ideas, surely imagined purely for her own amusement. Not only did she prohibit magic within her domain but encouraged students to rely on more traditional, muggle methods in terms of procurement. 

As a muggle-born yourself, it was hardly a problem for you on a good day, though desperate times made for desperate measures— and you certainly were desprate. You had to shake yourself out of whispering a summoning charm under your breath, forcing your feet to move as you wandered deeper into the winding shelves, frustration curling in your gut. 

“Come on Hogwarts, you’re supposed to be a school of magic.” You muttered to yourself, praying to Godric, Rowena, Helga and Salazar to take pity on your misfortune, just this once. All you needed was that book. A single stool to reach it. It wasn’t much to ask of the four founding conjurors after all. 

It seemed the castle must’ve been listening because right as you’d given up hope, you spotted a lone stool near the gates to the restricted section and sprinted forward to grab it, whispering frantic thank you’s into the quiet library. You probably looked mental to anyone else, but the desperation outweighed any worries you might’ve had. 

With the stool firmly tucked underneath your arm, you were content with retrieving the book and retreating to your dorm to finish your essay. With any luck you’d manage to enjoy the rest of your weekend unbothered by school work, a rare opportunity indeed now you were a seventh year. 

Yet it seemed that your prayers to the founding witches and wizards went unnoticed afterall, your steps faltering as you neared the dreaded shelf once more. Draco Malfoy stood exactly where you’d left your bag, his back to you, an arm casually reaching for the very book that had tormented you for the past half hour. 

“Don’t you dare.” you breathed, arm tightening around the stool that hung in your grasp. Feet speeding up as you hurried towards the blond-headed git with a newfound determination. That book was yours, even if you had to jinx him for it.  

As you neared, he reached up and plucked it from its spot with insulting ease, barely even stretching to retrieve it. A real fuck-you from the universe as you halted at his side. 

“Malfoy, I’ve been looking for that book all week—” you began, slightly out of breath from over exertion, the library dissarmingly labyrinth-like in your tired state. 

At the mere sound of your voice his head turned slowly, twisting round to face you, appraising your out of breath pants and the way your hair messily fell around your shoulders. 

“You and…” he paused, looking you up and down slowly, “…about half the class.” 

His grin remained, turning the book over in his hands as though trying to decide if it was worth his time. “You know, I think I might need this after all.” He mused in that infuriating drawl, wafting the book tauntingly in your direction. 

“Seriously? I’ve been trying to get it for the last half hour— look!” You reasoned frustratedly, producing the stool from under your arm as some feeble attempt at proof, your head nodding towards your bag that still sat at the foot of the shelves. 

As if the young heir ever listened to reason beyond his own opinion.  

“I gathered. All that… hopping.” Draco hummed lazily. His free hand gesturing, gaze flickering between your outraged expression and the stool in your hands, a smug sort of glint in his eyes. 

Your mouth dropped open, your own eyes filling with fury at his blatant taunt. Simultaneously, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you realised he must’ve been watching you struggle, and well before he even noticed the book at all. Somehow, the thought of his eyes on yours as you struggled made your cheeks turn pinker. 

Why did it have to be him of all people? 

The two of you staredsilently, assessing the other and waiting to make the next move. A routine you’d come to know all too well, for all the years you’d known eachother, you couldnt remember a time you werent at eachothers throats. 

Decisively, your hand snatched out to pry it from his grasp. At the same time, he raised his arm higher, dangling the book just out of reach. Draco let out a disapproving snort, watching you through narrowed eyes as you huffed and dropped your outstretched hand. 

“That’s not fair— I was here first.” You hissed, glaring up at his smug expression with your own stubborn frustration. An uncanny feeling of familiarity spiked in your mind, something so inherently him that you had to take a step back. 

 “That’s my bag right in front of you!” Your free hand gestured down at your belongings in annoyance. 

“Merlin.” He sighed, as though you were the one being unreasonable here. The classic Malfoy sneer, dripping with disapproval and disgust. “You are so… predictable. 

A pang of desperation burned in your chest, your voice dropping lower when you demanded, “Just give me the book? Please.”

He laughed. A deep, provocative chuckle that dug deep underneath your skin. Something akin to hatred boiling in your veins from a simple sound. Draco had always had that affect on you, something about him made your skin prickle. Every sneer or taunt burned deep in your flesh, like a stain that never fully went away. 

“You mean this book?” He tilted it back and forth, the faint candle light catching the embossed title you’d spent the last week trying to track down. Your nostrils flared indignantly as you inhaled deeply, schooling your expression into one of neutrality. Gods, how he infuriated you. Sometimes you wanted to grab him by the throat and strangle him. 

“I think I'll take it for a bit of light reading.” 

“I need it, Malfoy.” you pleaded earnestly, sincerity weighing heavy in your voice. 

“No, you want it.” he retorted smoothly, even though it was painfully evident he was only interested because you were. His lashes fluttered casually as if it weren’t 60% of your final grade on the line. His infuriatingly toned body resting against the shelf, regarding you with mere boredom like a toy he’d grown tired of. 

Your eyes trailed the book as he tucked it close to his chest, one of those strong arms you’d never admit to admiring clamping it against the front of his robes. “But then, wanting something and being able to get it are two…” He mused, pausing for effect, “..very different things.” 

That familiar urge began to coil in the pit of your stomach once more, he was close enough that you could smell his aftershave— citrusy, expensive, annoyingly nice. Something that inexplicably just drew you towards him and frustrated you to no end. Because, somehow, he always pulled a reaction out of you, even when you didn’t want to give him one.

“You’re being a right git, d’ya know that?” you fumed, teeth gritted together. Lashing out for lack of a better response, the way he made your stomach coil and writhe. His smirk widened at your words, as though frustrating you was the highlight of his day. Like he, too, took joy in winding you up.  

 “Of course I am,” he mused, winking, “It’s half the fun.” 

With a scoff you jabbed the stool leg against him, jaw tightening as he barked another laugh, less aristocratic than normal— like your reaction shattered the illusion of elegance that the Malfoy’s so ardently protected. With one hand, he reached out and grasped the foot of the stool, pushing back with ease.

Beneath his robes you swore you saw his biceps tensing as he moved, the sight so vexatiously alluring, you had to tear your gaze away for a second to compose yourself. 

“You could try asking me nicely.” He shrugged, letting out a wistful sigh, still inches from you. Clearly, in the heat of the moment neither of you had thought to back away. His head tilted as he spoke, staring down at you expectantly.

“I did ask you—” 

He scoffed. “No. You demanded it. Then, you attacked me with a footstool.” It was impossible for him to hide the smirk on his lips as he spoke. His stormy gaze watching you in amusement. 

“Well, perhaps, if you didn’t have a habit of stealing things that aren’t yours.” You argued, voice raising slightly in disbelief. Cheeks tinged red from a mix of embarrassment and frustration. 

“Perhaps.” Draco grinned with a distinct lack of shame. “Still doesn’t get you the book.” he tapped the cover for effect, grinning down at your scowling face. 

That’s it, you thought— resorting to lunging forward to try and prise the book from his grasp. But his quidditch reflexes must’ve kicked in, his free hand pushing you as far away from the book as possible, chucking under his breath. 

“Gods I hate you.” You snapped, brows knitting together angrily as your shoulders sagged in defeat. “Just give me it. For once in your snobby, entitled life— don’t be a prat.” 

“Mhm, convincing.” he hummed, leaning down just enough that his breath ghosted across the shell of your ear as he whispered, “But I’ll pass, love.” 

Your breath caught, something you didn’t care to admit pooling in the pit of your belly. His eyes flickered across your parted lips before he straightened sharply, clearing his throat as that smirk spread across his face once more. 

“Anyways,” he said lightly, that Malfoy mask of modesty snapping back into place as he took a step back, flicking invisible lint from his robes, “I’ll try to return it before term ends. No promises, though.” 

“Malfoy— Don’t you dare walk away— Please—” 

But he was already sauntering off between the shelves, your book tucked carefully against his side, looking unbearably pleased with himself. Seething, you stared at the space he had just occupied. It was as if the air itself still crackled with the smugness he left behind. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Something warm and humiliating you refused to examine too closely.

Draco lay sprawled out on his mattress, arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the canopy of his bed. The curtains snapped shut, effectively blocking out the rest of the dorm entirely. He had a headache, a dull painful throb that took the shape of you in that ridiculously short skirt. A cruel, merciless ache that burrowed just as deeply in his chest as his skull. 

He’d tried to sleep. Merlin knew he tried. 

But every time he closed his eyes, there you were— scowling at him in the middle of the library, eyes bright with fury, lips parted as you stood toe-to-toe with him, that stupid footstool in your arms. His head tilted back against the pillows, groaning quietly in frustration. That book he’d pinched from your grasp was stuffed in his bedside drawer, away from his tired eyes. 

Out of sight, out of mind, he’d reasoned. Though that proverb wasn’t strictly true— considering how, for the better part of an hour, he’d been replaying what had happened in the library earlier with far too much focus on the way your breath had hitched when he leant closer. 

Draco rolled onto his side with a resigned huff, stretching his tired limbs tenderly. A few seconds passed before he twisted onto his stomach, flopping back into his original position when he couldn’t get comfortable. 

Nothing helped. Not when his mind kept circulating back to you and those parted lips that for half a second he thought about— No. He should not be thinking about that. And he definitely should not feel hot thinking about that. 

Draco scrubbed both hands over his face, groaning quietly into the darkness. 

“This is not happening.” He told the canopy of his bed, enunciating each word as though commanding the universe to reverse whatever was stirring beneath his pyjama bottoms. Though it seemed both of his heads were preoccupied with thoughts of you. 

And that bloody skirt? Draco had to resist letting his eyes roll into the back of his head at the thought of the short fabric that teased the curve of your ass and treated him to a glimpse of your thighs. Surely it had to be against some sort of school rule, he was in half a mind to raise it to one of the professors, but the risk of never seeing you in it again overruled any rash decisions. He was tired, it was late. He wasn’t in his right mind— all excuses, of course.  

Draco groaned again when the image of your skirt flashed across his closed eyes once more. Dragging his pillow across his face, smothering himself with it frustratedly. A last ditch attempt to shock his body out of whatever lustful pit it had succumbed to.  

Draco inhaled sharply, then exhaled slower. And failed entirely to calm himself down. 

It was like something in his treacherous, backstabbing brain wanted him to suffer. Some cruel way to punish him for all of his transgressions, and yet, as his fingers skimmed past his stomach, threatening to breach the waistband of his pyjama bottoms— he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

His thoughts refocused on you, on what you were doing right now in your own dorm. If you were complaining about him to your friends. Whether your cheeks were still flushed with anger— or something else, his inner voice added unhelpfully. Whether you were as sleepless as he was, tossing and turning in your sheets. 

Draco’s cock throbbed painfull  enjoying the thought of you feeling as helpless as he was. He realised then that he was worse off than he first thought, his slender fingers twitching for the go ahead from his guielful mind. 

It took all of ten seconds before he was wrestling his pyjamas and boxers down his thighs with one hand and reaching for his wand with the other. Casting a whispered “muffilato” and letting the hawthorn fall somewhere unknown amongst his sheets. 

His chest tightened at the same time as his fingers finally wrapped around the length of his cock. The relief instant, dizzying almost. His hips canting upwards into his fist before he could stop himself. Pathetic, even by his standards. 

The shame paled in comparison to the lavicious desire which coursed through his veins, picturing the look on your face if you knew what he was doing to the thought of you. Somewhere, at the very back of his thoughts, he imagined what it would feel like to have your delicate hands wrapped around him— he nearly choked at the mental images that accompanied the thought. 

His fingers tightened their grasp, his eyes slipping shut as he pictured that familiar fury that burned bright in your sun-kissed face. Pictured that standoffish glint that burned a hole right through him, and how beautiful you looked when you were seconds from tearing him to shreds. It was probably the reason he provoked you so often, some ridiculous clandestine attempt to win your attention. 

Merlin, how you drove him mad. 

Draco dragged his fist slowly from base to tip, his breath stuttering out of him as he pictured you again— closer this time. He delighted in crowding your personal space, backing you up against the shelves as he so desperately wished he had done earlier. His imagination sparing no detail, your warm cheeks and your pulse visible in your throat. 

He bit back a groan as he squeezed his fingers tighter, his fist working up and down a little quicker, eyes screwing shut as his mind wandered. His hands spreading your legs open so that he could step between them, that short, flimsy excuse for a skirt creeping further up your thighs, exposing the supple skin to his gaze— and his touch. 

His thumb swept over the head of his cock, smearing the bead of slick that had gathered at the tip, and his hips jerked again as he imagined your tongue licking against the sensitive skin. 

The logical part of his brain was screaming at him, pounding against the side of him that was entirely overcome with desire. But he knew this was so wrong, and he was too used to giving in to his wants to back down now. 

“Always have to make everything difficult,” he muttered, half angry, half breathless, remembering the way you’d looked at him when he refused to hand over the book. The way you’d stepped into his space without the faintest hesitation. The way your frustration had cracked into something else for half a second when he leaned down.

Merlin, that sound you made—barely a sound at all. A hitch in your breath, a stuttered inhale. He could feel it under his skin. His strokes quickened.

He surely imagined it, but your thighs had clenched as you argued. That your pink lips, parted and breathless, had quivered as he leaned close and caught the scent of your perfume. His breath ghosting the shell of your ear with that taunting tone he wanted to say filthy, filthy things in. 

“Look at you…” he whispered hoarsely into the dark, aware of how pathetic he sounded. His knuckles brushing the soft skin of his stomach with every thrust of his hand, “so fucking stubborn—nghh— always trying to prove something.”

His breath faltered. This was borderline insanity, cooped up in his bed and whispering to your non-existent frame about how much you infuriated him, and how badly he wanted you. Perhaps you had struck him again with that footstool and he was in the hospital wing, hallucinating some sordid fantasy he’d never in his right mind admit to.

And yet he continued, picturing you pressed back against the bookshelves, skirt rucked up by his hands, your glare dissolving into something helpless as his lips trailed kisses and nips against your skin. Imagined your fingers curling into his shirt, your thighs parting for him without thinking, your voice breaking on his name…

A sharp, involuntary moan tore from his throat and he froze for a second, listening for a sign that somehow, even with the spell he’d cast, someone had heard. When no sound came, his hand tightened once more and his stomach clenched as he sped up his movements, on the precipice of an orgasm by just picturing you. 

Given half the chance he was certain now he’d act on his desires, practically drooling at the thought of your tight cunt. At the feeling of pushing inside and fucking you on his cock till you could only whimper in pleasure. How he wanted you to feel good, to the same intensity that you seemingly hated him with. 

“Fuck—fuck—” he panted, hips bucking up into his fist as heat pooled low and tight, coiling faster, harder with every stroke, “shouldn’t be—thinking about you—”

The image of you flushed, breathless, glaring at him like you’d kill him and pull him closer in the same moment, pushed him to the edge with brutal force.

Draco’s jaw dropped, a broken sound escaping him as he came hard across his stomach, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out in uneven waves. His free hand fisted into the sheets, gripping them like he needed something to hold onto while his release tore through him.

It took several long seconds for the tension to ease, for his chest to stop rising and falling so sharply. Draco stared up at the canopy, heart still hammering, sweat cooling on his skin.

“Brilliant,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, realising what he had just done, how sordid his feelings for you spiraled. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Because somehow—against every rule he had, against every ounce of pride in his body—you were under his skin. And now he’d have to face you with the knowledge that the only way he’d been able to fall asleep tonight, was with your name on his tongue. 

Merlin, he was completely, utterly, hopeless. 

Almost a week later and Draco had avoided you at all costs, at first it was the shame that kept him away. Unable to trust himself not to crumble at the first sign of conflict, not to recall that very scowl that had morphed into his thoughts in his most intimate moments. Ashamed that somehow, his treacherous mind had taken the intensity that you hated each other with and turned it into something that made his cock harden instantaniously. 

Then, it was anger. Pure, molten wrath that was directed at everyone around him, but the moment you were within earshot he fell quiet. Too conflicted inside to risk drawing your attention his way. He snapped more, his patience running thin at the slightest inconvenience, out of character even for him. To the point even his friends were confused about what was wrong with him, Blaise even urging him to visit the hospital wing on one occasion when he’d snapped at Pansy rather bitterly.    

Finally, it morphed into hopelessness, refusing to even venture into the Great Hall unless he knew for a fact you’d already left. He supposed it made things easier by ignoring you entirely, by cutting out the chance to even interact with you. A defence mechanism, perhaps— not that Draco would ever admit that to himself, or anyone else. 

But a new feeling settled, lodged deep in his chest, that made him want to rip his hair out. A feeling he’d spent years skilfully avoiding; Draco Malfoy felt guilty.

Guilty for being such a git over that stupid library book. Guilty for all the little criticisms and sneers he threw your way. Guilty for tugging one out over your scowl, for Merlin's sake. And, for being such a coward that he was unable to admit out loud that he had feelings for you that couldn’t just boil down to pure hatred. 

Draco was coming to terms with it, in his own muddled way, that his intense reaction whenever you were near was not one born of rivalry and hatred, but of jealousy and desire. The guilt swallowed him whole, realising that he’d been acting like a complete fool around you. Riling you up and purposefully inconveniencing you because of something so trivial like a crush. Draco had thought he was wiser than that, that he was above acting so juvenile over a girl, and yet in the past week his contemplation surmised that he was all those things you’d said, and more. 

But one thought kept recurring, more often than not; how, in Salazar’s green earth, was he going to return that bloody book without also admitting something far more mortifying— that he, Draco Malfoy, cared about what you thought of him. 

He knew he couldnt keep avoiding you, missing the start or end of meals just so he wasn’t forced to see you. Moreover, the guilt he was riddled with over the stunt he’d pulled in the library was beginning to eat away at him. So, when Theo announced he’d be spending his class free morning finishing homework, Draco formulated a plan. Theo had mentioned, in passing, the very complicated essay topic he’d been set in Ancient Ruines over this morning's breakfast. Giving Draco a bright idea as he sulked into his coffee mug at the table. 

He’d skipped lunch entirely, hauling up in his dormitory, the curtains pulled close just in case anyone disturbed him— he’d grown a conscience, not an extra head. Merlin forbid anyone would think he was going soft. 

He kept his word however, scouring the pages lightly for anything that could be relevant. Skimming through chapters that were useless, and thumbing the corners of any pages that piqued his interest. He’d ended up late to Potions as a result, murmuring a quick apology to Snape as he rushed to his desk. He nudged his schoolbag carefully beneath the table and checked it again—there was something inside he intended to return in one piece…

Your head thuded as it dropped against the table, the quiet corner of the library you’d tucked yourself away in deserted; aside from Madam Pince and a few lone students cramming homework and last minute revision. You stifled a groan as your head lifted from the parchment, peering down at your work with a sour expression, it was due at the end of the week and you were no closer to finding any supporting evidence in the other books you’d spent the weekend scouring. 

It was too late now to ask for an extension, and without the textbook Draco had taken you had little hope. Either wait for a bloody miracle, or make do with what you had— even if that now meant you’d given up all of your free time to try and make your line of argument work. 

You shrunk back in your chair and let your quill drop from your grip, your hands reaching up to drag across tired eyes, but as you blinked the sleep from them you were met with another sight. Perhaps the very miracle you’d been silently hoping for. 

In the shape of Draco Malfoy, hovering awkwardly at the side of the desk, his shadow falling over your parchment as your gaze focused. Part of you suspicious that he was a mere figment of your tiredness and desperation, you’d noticed yourself checking over your shoulder for him lately. Keeping alert in case another opportunity to wipe that smug look from his face arose. Or, at least, that's what you had convinced yourself. 

“What do you want?” you said, exhaling as you spoke, settling on something that was neither antagonising nor pleasant. Your arms folded across your chest, teeth toying with your bottom lip absentmindedly.

He stood by the table, ridgid, as if he was holding in a deep breath. His pointy features so composed, you wondered for half a second if it really was him at all. But there was no mistaking the man beside you, the whirl of stormy grey in his eyes unlike anyone elses. 

“Here.” he grimanced, glancing left and right to make sure there were no witnesses to what he was about to do. 

“What—” you began to question him, the words trailing off as his hand plunged deep into his bag, rummaging for a second before producing the library book he’d stolen from right under your nose the week before. 

A soft thud sounded as leather met wood, the textbook landing directly in front of you, half covering the scattered parchment that was sprawled across the workspace. 

Baffled, your wide eyes and open mouth stared down at the tome, then up at him with an equally shocked expression. Draco avoided your gaze, opting to glance up and down the library once more, before settling somewhere between you and the floor. 

Alarm bells were ringing, Draco Malfoy didn’t play nice—and if this was some new strategy, it was an uncharacteristically cruel one.

But something about the way his vision shifted told you it wasn’t. His eyes darted towards the door, scanning up the nearby shelves, and then finally settling on you. Jumping from place to place like he was actually worried about someone seeing this, seeing him.  

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was nervous— regretful, at least. 

“Is this…” your voice came out hoarse and you paused to clear your throat right as his gaze focused on you again. “Is this your way of apologising?” 

Draco stiffened where he stood, his rhythm faltering as his gaze set on the door but abruptly tore back to you. Two thunder clouds gleaming, grey whirls that almost looked silver in the dim lighting. Staring down at you, at your cheeks, your lips— like he was choosing where lightning would strike first. 

“I’m returning a book,” he said quietly, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Not… debasing myself.” He shifted slightly, tugging at the collar of his shirt unnecessarily, fixing it despite it sitting perfectly in place. 

You had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, lips pursing as you murmured, “So no apology.” 

His jaw flexed. Door. Shelves. You. But when he looked away this time it wasn’t with disdain. It wasn’t even irritation, either. It was something else entirely, something internal that was clawing its way out. 

“I’m…” his voice came out rougher, a ringed hand reaching up to scrub at his face, “Acknowledging—  there may have been… an incident.” 

He cringed. 

Door. Shelves. You. Door. Shelves. You. 

You stared. Not because his ‘apology’ was horrendous—though it certainly was—but because Draco Malfoy had just performed the emotional equivalent of tearing out his own pride, dropping it onto the desk between you, and pretending he hadn’t done any such thing.

And you didn’t know quite what to do with that. 

Draco cleared his throat once more, eyes dipping towards the desk then meeting yours. “Open it.” he said stiffly, nodding once at the thick leather textbook. His foot tapping restlessly against the stone floors, impatient almost. Like he couldn’t wait to get away from you. Your heart sank a little bit when you noticed.

Your brows creased together, tentatively dropping your gaze to the textbook before you. Then back up at him. Your hands still limp at your sides. Draco’s brow arched as he gestured towards the book once more, waiting for you to reach out and flip the cover open. Cautiously your fingers reached, skimming across the leather binding as your gaze traced the embossed lettering, scrutinizing it for any signs that he’d tampered with it. 

“It was quite an interesting read.” He said, more Draco-like than he’d been moments ago, “I suspect it’ll be quite useful.” he added, tapping a ringed pinky against your parchment. 

Your curiousity got the better of you, and as you flipped open the cover, you froze. Breath catching once more as a surge of relief coursed through your overtired brain.  Two pages were folded with neat, precise dog-ears. Then three. Four. Five. All the way through the textbook, highlighting pages with information relevant to your essay topic.

Your eyes flicked up sharply, then back down to the book. “You… How—” 

Words failed you as you thumbed through the pages, each corner marking the exact sections of every single reference you needed. Paragraphs upon paragraphs of evidence that would undoubtedly mean you’d finish this essay tonight. Folded quietly by a man who refused to apologise but had clearly gone out of his way to fix what he’d done. 

“I don’t know what to say. Draco, this is… Thank—,” You breathed, appreciation heavy in your tone, the words faltering as you looked up from the gift he’d just dropped into your lap, but he was already gone. The space he had just occupied was empty, aside from the lingering scent of his cologne which you recognised instantly. Your head whipped left to right as you half rose from your chair, catching the glint of blonde hair hastily disappearing through the exit to the library. 

Your heart thudded loudly in your ears, a disorienting sound that had very little to do with exhaustion anymore. Sinking back slowly in your chair, your fingers brushed carefully against the folded corner of the page, as if it might disappear if you blinked too hard. 

A strange warmth crawled up your throat—something soft, unwelcome, disarming. Completely unlike any of the normal feelings you had towards Draco Malfoy. This wasn’t the fury following a petty school ground argument, or the determined rivalry that motivated every late night study session. It was something more, something… gentle. 

In one simple act of selflessness— altruism, disguised with a stubbornness that was so inherently him— Draco had managed to rewire a part of you you’d never intended to expose to him. A part that, annoyingly, seemed to soften at the mere thought of him trying.

Your thumb brushed across the folded edges, smoothing them gently as your chest tightened. And just like that, in a way that couldn’t be articulated out loud, something shifted. Quietly, like the ground was suddenly torn from under your feet. Like the strained tension that was always pulled so taut between you both was suddenly pulling you in another direction. 

You swallowed, eyes still on the marked pages, and realised with an odd flutter that Draco Malfoy had fled the scene far too quickly for someone who didn’t care at all. What’s worse, the heat radiating off your cheeks in a furious blush, and the smile that tugged at the edge of your lips were almost impossible to get rid off. 

Somewhere, a little part of you recognised the truth you’d been avoiding for years— that perhaps you hated Draco Malfoy so viciously because he’d never once really seen you. But now he’d noticed you enough to map out every page you needed, without expecting so much as a thank you.

And, Merlin, help you. It unsettled you more than the hatred ever had.

 He exhaled softly, eyes drifting to the gardens beyond the window, taking in the rows of hyacinths and peonies which were carefully pruned and cared for by the estate gardeners. His late wife had loved the acres of land surrounding the property, often accompanying her on afternoon strolls around the gardens when his schedule allowed. The ghost of a smile graced his lips at the memory, now just as distant as the day that she died. 

 His thoughts ebbed as the house around him began to bustle, from the kitchens came the faint clatter of pots and the low hum of conversation, and beyond the window the stable boys moved like clockwork figures across the yard. His pipe rested beside the tea tray, untouched. Though snuff had grown fashionable, Lord Albury preferred the older ways, he was traditional in that sense. Slowly he reached for his cup, thoughts returning to more pressing matters. With the rise in commerce, his land’s profits would easily cover his daughter’s dowry— a small reassurance amid his growing unease. 

“—Pardon me, your Lordship,” a gruff voice interrupted before he could take a sip of the warm liquid, “Your daughter is ready for you as you requested.” 

Lord Albury’s head turned towards the doorway, placing the cup back upon its saucer, and turned to where his steward stood promptly waiting instruction. Clad in his typical uniform, a thick woollen frock coat, Cyril stood as straight as the grandfather clock beside him. 

Cyril was an older gentleman with wise, hardened eyes and thinning hair. He had served the Albury Estate for years— almost as long as the clock had perched in this very drawing room. By now the steward was part of the furniture, and without him to watch over the other staff, the Lord would surely struggle to manage his affairs. 

“Very well,” he nodded, beckoning passively with his free hand, “That will be all, Cyril.” 

The steward bowed wordlessly and disappeared for a moment, leaving the Lord alone to compose himself for the conversation he was about to have. His daughter— beautiful and stubborn like her mother— would soon be promised to the son of a neighbouring Earl. It was a match that would ensure his grandchildren would live bountiful lives, much grander than what he was able to provide his own daughter with. 

You appeared not a moment later, poised and proper, the faintest trace of apprehension on your features as you entered the room. Curtseying lightly your hands clasped together, surveying your father with your full attention before you spoke. 

“You wished to see me, Father?” you spoke softly, hesitant. Large doe eyes glimmering with curiosity, naivety, and above all else, that beautiful shade that reminded him so much of your mother. 

“Sit, my dear,” he beckoned, gesturing towards a nearby armchair that faced him, “There is a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss.” He adjusted in his chair, a hand reaching for his tobacco pipe leisurely. 

You obliged his request, crossing the room hastily and perching on the very edge of the cushion. You knew your father rarely wasted his words, and by the tone of voice you knew not to let his patience wear thin. 

He took his time, carefully packing the bowl of his pipe, his gaze trained on the tobacco with little regard for your fidgeting. Only when he sat back in his chair did he exhale, a steady puff of smoke curling into the air before he began

“You are to be married,” he began, folding the newspaper neatly upon his lap with one hand. “The arrangement has been settled with Lord Harcourt. His son, Frederick, is a fine young man. A future Earl— respectable, well-bred. The match will secure our family’s place for generations.”

He fixed you with an expectant look, taking another draw from his pipe as you cycled through your emotions hastily. There was confusion, anger, frustration, and eventually, begrudging acceptance. 

You were going to be married, and that was seemingly that. 

The silence loomed in the drawing room as you fought to keep your lips pressed in a thin line, careful not to let your feelings get the better of you. 

You were well aware this day would come, that one day you would assume the role of dutiful wife to an Earl or Viscount with enough money to spare. You’d been raised for this, to be proper and dignified. To elevate your social standing at every opportunity. You’d made your peace with it long ago, but aged just twenty-two you had barely begun your life. 

You didn’t want to settle down and get married just yet, not when the world beyond the walls of your estate still felt so vast. But propriety had its own pull, and your father’s word was law. 

“I see,” you murmured, your throat constricting painfully. “And when shall I meet… Frederick?” You swallowed the lump in your oesophagus, forcing out his name with as much politeness as you could muster— he was to be your husband, after all. 

“Within the fortnight,” he replied calmly, choosing to ignore the hoarseness in your tone. “Preparations for your journey will begin at once.” 

You nodded, imagining what kind of a man Frederick might be, you hoped he was handsome and fair, at least. If you were to be shackled to another in such extremity then you prayed he would be honourable, valiant. Kind. 

Lord Albury was quiet, a pleased smile on his face as he unfolded the paper in his lap, his pipe still pressed between his lips. You surveyed him silently, your father, the Lord. His rounded belly and full cheeks, every inch the noble even as he sat in his drawing room parlour. 

As he adjusted in his chair, you caught a glimpse of his paper. The bold lettering that highlighted the crime and justice segment, stark against the parchment. 

‘Stand and Deliver— Beware the Gentlemen of the Road!’

You’d overheard whispered tales amongst the staff, of the dangers that lurked just beyond the four walls of your fathers land. A curious young thing you were, with so much to learn and much more to be frightened of. Yet now you weren’t frightened, the things you felt were far more akin to allure. 

“And what of the robberies on the western roads?” You asked before you could stop yourself, eyes fixed on the front pages bold lettering. 

You’d heard enough in passing, about carts of grains and other produce from your father’s estate that had been stolen. Intercepted by forces unknown. Your natural curiosity piqued by the headlines. 

Your father looked up sharply, as though surprised you’d taken notice. “A matter for the constables, nothing more,” he said with brisk finality. “You are not to concern yourself with such things.”

“But, if I’m to travel to Harcourt Hall—” 

“You will be accompanied by my men, and by the Harcourts’ escort once you cross the county border. There is no cause for alarm.” Lord Albury interjected solemnly, peering over his paper to hazard a silencing glance towards you. 

Dejectedly, you nodded, though the uneasy feeling remained— a quiet knot that coiled deep in your chest, laying dormant and ready to trouble your sleep. 

Your father leaned back in his chair once more, as though dismissing the thought entirely. “Worry is unbecoming, my dear. Focus on your engagement, your future. That is all I ask.” An earnest edge to his voice as he surveyed your prying eyes. 

“Yes, Father,” you replied gravely, tearing your gaze away from the broadsheet and towards the windowpanes.

 Outside, the wind rattled faintly, stirring the branches of the elms far back in the garden. You watched them passively, thinking not of your future husband but of the long, winding roads that awaited you— and of the nameless men who stowed away in the dark, just waiting for the right moment to strike.