liz

PATRICK FEELY

The entire world before my eyes seemed a bit less colourful, almost the shades of a grayscale.

The bathtub was swimming in crimson, a bloodied knife fallen beside it on the floor, a white, lifeless hand hanging over the edge.

Jesus, what did you do?

My knees went weak, and I fell onto the cold, tiled bathroom floor before my mind had even registered the scene I’d just now witnessed.

My eyes shot to her face, eyelids over blue irises closed, her beautiful lashes fanning over her cheeks, which were now paler than ever, once red lips now a faded purple hue, all framed by beautiful, long blond locks. Still like never before, almost way too peaceful, even for someone dead.

I tried to crawl closer, but it seemed as if there was a bubble, an invisible obstacle between her dead body and me.

And there was.

The state she was in was the complete opposite of mine.

Dead.

Alive.

The box was open, only for me to find the cat dead.

I felt like drowning, gasping for air even though I wasn’t the one in the bathtub. “Lizzie,” I whispered, my voice broken, pleading with her to open her eyes and end the sick joke. “Liz, please. Baby, wake up,” I heard myself sob soon, my hands gripping the edge of the tub.

But I knew there was no going back.

I knew she was not coming back.

Not this time.

Not anymore.

LIZZIE YOUNG

“Patrick,” I whispered at first, cupping his face, but it did nothing.

I swear to God, he would sleep through a bloody hurricane.

“Patrick,” I repeated, worried because not only was he sweating, but tears were escaping under his closed eyelids and rushing down his cheeks, and his heart was beating under my head like he’d just run a marathon. “Pa, wake up,” I shook his shoulders gently, then with a little more force.

Finally, his eyes shot open.

PATRICK FEELY

I was sure I’d had a sleep paralysis after I’d calmed down. But before calming…?

My eyes finally opened at two firm yet soft hands shaking my shoulders, and at first, I just lay with my eyes open, mind processing.

Lizzie Young.

Dead.

In her bathtub.

Lizzie.

My Lizzie.

Dead.

I was in my room, sweating bullets and heart racing, except this time I didn’t wake with a hard-on.

Fuck, rather a hundred hard-ons in the most inappropriate times than this ever again.

My gaze finally found her when her blond strands fell into my face. Her mouth was moving, but I had no bleeding idea what she was on about.

Jaysus, am I dreaming?

Is she really alive?

I had to reach out and touch her cheeks to make sure neither of us was dead.

“Lizzie,” a broken sob slipped past my lips, and I pulled her in immediately, relief coursing through my entire body as I held her close, and she didn’t collapse on me lifelessly.

“Patrick—”

“You’re not allowed to do that,” I cut her off, pressing her against myself, my one hand finding its way into her shiny hair. “You can’t leave me.”

She shook her head into my chest before asking, in a confused tone, “What are you talking about?”

So, I cried my entire heart out to her—the girl I needed more than air, the girl who, without doubt, owned my heart, body, soul and mind.

LIZZIE YOUNG

Confusion is one way to describe what I was feeling that morning in Patrick’s bed, the night after I ran to him, again, after I cut myself—again.

He explained every detail of his nightmare to me.

The part where I was bled out in the bathtub, when he couldn’t touch me.

Even the one where he, the bloody genius, compared me to Schrödinger’s cat in his sleep.

He cried, shamelessly, while holding me all throughout the storytelling, and I kept wiping his tears away.

And just listened to him.

“Everything felt wrong.”

“I was sure it was where my life would end, too. With yours,” he explained through a hoarse sob before I pulled him in and he buried his face into my chest. “I can’t imagine it without you, Lizzie,” he continued after calming down a little bit. “I don’t see being alive without you.”

I froze, at first.

It was all so new, and him saying things like this made a part of me want to shut down. Shut him out.

But there was another part that held him closer and let a tear run down my cheek as I ran a hand through his dark locks continuously.

I had no idea I mattered this much. That me being alive or dead held this much significance.

Not to anyone, especially because it didn’t matter to me.

But Patrick Feely, waking up shaking and sobbing because he just so much as dreamt I was gone, made me realise that maybe, maybe, I was more important than I originally thought.

“I’m not going anywhere, Patrick,” I pressed my lips into his hair.

“I just… hate that you hurt, Lizzie. That you ever get to that point. But I’m glad you came to me. That you let me in.”

You’re my safe place, you idiot.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I leaned my forehead against his with guilt and something else stirring in me.

“I was just… I woke up and for a second I thought I’d never get to hold you again.”

He managed to open my eyes and, finally, after years of being blinded by my anger, grief, and depression, made me see.

I was fragile, but so was he.

And I wouldn’t have wanted to wreck him by going after Caoimhe.

Not anymore, even if it meant more medication.

Even if it meant more effort not to cut again, and more appointments with the therapists.

Because for him, it was worth trying.

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LIZZIE YOUNG

I did it again.

The scissors’ blades cut deep into my flesh, blood spilling from my thighs and painting my whole existence crimson. Again, and again, and again.

My fingers were bloodied and my movements furious as I continued to carve my skin, my flesh—my legs that looked like hers. The thoughts were there, inside my head, gnawing at me and eating me alive.

Block it out.

Block them out.

It’s all only in your head now.

She’s gone, Lizzie.

Looking in the mirror, I’d only see her. Caoimhe. Her blond locks, her blue eyes, her trauma—they were all there, all the time, in every mirror, in every window, following me around like a ghost that lived inside me while I wore her appearance.

With Hughie finally off my mind, after years of mutual pining but him never leaving Katie, I still had this. The anger, the guilt, the what-ifs—Caoimhe’s legacy and my heritage.

“Fuck,” I groaned before the scissors fell from my grip and my eyelids closed, eyelashes wet and one tear riding down each cheek, using the same path the previous ones left, fast and furious like Shannon—the river—overflowing on a rainy day.

My thighs were numb—all my senses were—as I rounded the back door from the farm and stepped into the kitchen. My head felt like it was underwater, my touch dream-like, just a faint feeling of the night breeze playing with my hair. The cuts stung, but only barely, as the usual numbness started taking over my body again.

Moving quietly and with practised ease, in nothing but a shirt way-too-long used as a nightdress, bloodied at the hem and tear-stained on the breast, I avoided the steps that creaked when stepped on like muscle memory and turned right to his bedroom door.

I didn’t bother calling him, nor texting him if I could come over.

It was dark in the house, but I knew he was still awake because the faint warm light of his reading lamp swam out into the hallway under the door, illuminating my way just enough not to trip over anything.

PATRICK FEELY

My door opened slowly, just enough for her to peek inside, her blue eyes finding mine immediately.

Seeing her eyes, all red from crying and with a distant look in them, I shot up from the bed and crossed the room in two long strides, new lyrics discarded on an instant while taking in the bloodied hem of her shirt, and all the need for sleep vanished from my eyes and body.

Fuck, Lizzie.

She cut again.

I didn’t ask anything, not at first. I just pulled her inside and clicked the door closed with one hand while the other hoisted the girl against my body.

“Let it out. I’m here, Liz. You’re safe,” I encircled her waist with both arms, holding her steadily, hoping to bring her some comfort in the madness that was her life.

The madness that was her memories.

Her guilt.

Her never-ending grief.

That was all it took for her to break down sobbing again, probably not for the second time tonight. She buried her face into my neck, and I placed one hand to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair as I held my anger back.

I was angry at Caoimhe for her suicide.

I was angry at Mark for what he did to her.

I was angry at the fucking world for letting Lizzie Young down so many times.

But she was angry enough by herself, didn’t need mine, even if it was because of shared reasons. Especially if it was because of common ones.

My hand that wasn’t occupied with her blond locks squeezed her waist gently, “Can I see?” I murmured into her hair.

She tensed up but then relaxed immediately when I gave her hair a comforting kiss, and she nodded.

I knelt down in front of her and tugged the now maroon-tinted fabric up enough to see her thighs.

Fuck, these are deep.

“Baby,” I gasped, voice trembling slightly as I lifted my gaze to meet hers, hands gripping her hips—not to hurt her but enough to show her I care. “Please tell me you told your—”

She shook her head, now shaking violently with fear and the exhaustion she hadn’t acknowledged. “Y-you can’t tell either!” she choked out.

“Liz—”

“No!” she sobbed again. “I’m not fucking dense, Patrick! You know where they’ll send me if they find out I’m cutting again!”

She was right.

Fuck, I knew that.

But she was, first and foremost, someone who needed help.

“Alright, alright,” I squeezed her closer to myself, pressing my lips to her abdomen through the shirt. “I won’t tell. But you can’t keep doing this, baby. This isn’t coping,” my tone was firm, but also made it obvious how much I cared for her. She needed to realise she can’t keep doing this. But she also had to know I would be there every step of the way.

“Will you let me help you?” I was still kneeling in front of her, my hands now reaching for hers.

And she nodded. Not continuously. But even if it was a faint, singular one, she nodded.

She was sitting on the bed while I stitched her up—she asked me where I learnt it, but I’d rather not tell her it was because of the animals on the farm.

I hadn’t known if telling would have sent her spiralling again or drawing a laugh from those pretty, plump and kissable lips of hers.

She was gripping my hair, even though she would have never admitted the stitches hurt. She wasn’t one to admit to pain. Wasn’t one to talk—never had been. She’d rather bear everything coming her way in silence, bottle it all up and let it explode in the end. And she’d never ask for help. Not from her parents, not from her friends, and not from me. She’d push us away and keep us at arm’s length, but she’d always come back in the end. To me.

Without as much as a question, I pulled her bloodied shirt over her head and gently helped her change into one of my oversized band tees. Green Day. Because I know she likes them. And because she loves the material of the shirt.

She didn’t protest.

“There we go,” I coaxed, kissing her stitches on her thigh one last time before climbing into bed.

I didn’t tell her she had to sleep with me that night.

Didn’t force anything.

I just lifted the duvet as a suggestion, an option that was up to her to take or leave.

But I was hoping for her decision to be the former.

LIZZIE YOUNG

I stared at him for a few moments, weighed my options: fight or flight. Stay and let him in a little more, or bolt and push him away.

He waited. Didn’t scoff after a good few seconds of my staring contest with the space beside him.

And he didn’t tell me to get in beside him. Didn’t push, didn’t command or demand.

He wasn’t like Hughie, and certainly wasn’t like Pierce.

If he had been, he’d have had me under him after he kissed the stitches. In fact, if he hadn’t been Patrick, there would have been no stitches to kiss in the first place. Only wounds, still ripped open.

But I was glad it was him. He’d never made me feel like I was a pretty face and nice legs only. He didn’t make me feel like the so-called viper.

He made me feel seen and heard, and cared for. He made me feel like a rose—beautiful, each petal in the spiral a layer, and the symbol of love despite its thorns.

And that was why I climbed under his duvet and let him see me without the sass and the walls I built.

Because with him, I was safe.

With him, I wasn’t the Viper. I wasn’t defined by my attitude and problems.

Because he had my heart, and I had his.

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Visiting Draco’s home isn’t new for anyone present here right now, it’s just lit in a completely new way with his parents away from home. It’s actually quite the scenery with only the group around, laughter filling the air in the vibrantly lit room, the flickering flames of the fire lit in the fireplace creating a warm tone of light as it mixes with the cool white of the chandelier above, producing a contrast to the dark sky outside, as well as the homey, welcoming warm of the music-and-chatter-filled space inside against the late-December snow outside.

You watch Mattheo sitting on Theo’s and Enzo’s shoulders, trying to decorate the top section of the Christmas tree branching into the salon of the manor. “No, my left!” Mattheo exclaims, reaching a bit higher with an orb in hand, to which Enzo and Theo reply in unison with slight annoyance in their voices, “We have the same left!”

Well, suggesting doing something without the advances of using magic to a group of witches and wizards is the funniest, and the most frustrating thing ever. However, it’s almost endearing as it only seems to bring the group even more together, with the three boys decorating the tree, Daphne and Blaise trying to agree on the colour scheme for the garlands, and Draco, Pansy, and you rummaging for more Christmas decoration in the bottomless wooden chest as some holiday mix sets the overall mood.

Looking around, you can’t help but think how this will be a great Christmas with Draco’s parents gone and you spending it with your imperfect but beloved found family.

The frosty air bit at your cheeks as you adjusted your gloves, pulling them tighter before mounting your broom. The Hogwarts Quidditch pitch was blanketed in a layer of fresh snow, the goalposts glistening under the pale winter sun. Despite the chill, the energy buzzing around the Gryffindor team was palpable – partially because James Potter and you had just arrived wearing identical red-and-gold sweaters emblazoned with the words *Positive Effect* in bold lettering across the front.

“Alright, what is this?” Sirius Black drawled, leaning lazily on his broomstick as he eyed the two of you. His breath came out in soft puffs of mist, but his trademark smirk hadn’t been dulled by the cold. “You two coordinating outfits now? What’s next? Matching earmuffs?”

“Jealous you didn’t think of it first?” James shot back, grinning as he tugged at the hem of his sweater. “It’s not just a sweater, Sirius. It’s a statement. Right?” He turned to you, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Absolutely,” you replied, matching his enthusiasm as you struck a mock heroic pose. “We’re boosting morale. Leading by example.”

“Leading by annoyance, more like,” Marlene McKinnon muttered, adjusting her scarf as she hovered nearby. “It’s bloody freezing, and you two are prancing about like it’s a summer picnic.”

“Positive mindset, Marlene,” James said, wagging a finger at her. “That’s how champions are made.”

“Champions are made by practicing in conditions like this without losing fingers to frostbite,” Fabian Prewett grumbled, rubbing his gloved hands together. His twin, Gideon, nodded in agreement, looking equally unimpressed.

“Come on, you lot!” you said, mounting your broom with a flourish. “Where’s your Gryffindor spirit? It’s a beautiful day for Quidditch!”

“The only thing beautiful about this day is the chance I’ll knock you off that broom if you keep talking,” Sirius replied, though his smirk betrayed his lack of seriousness.

“You’re just bitter because you didn’t get the memo about the sweaters,” James teased, already kicking off the ground. His broom sliced through the air, snowflakes swirling in his wake as he rose higher, calling down to the rest of the team. “Let’s go, Gryffindor! We’ve got a match to win!”

You followed suit, the cold wind biting at your face but doing nothing to dim your spirits. As you flew alongside James, the two of you exchanged grins, your matching sweaters catching the occasional glare of sunlight. Below, the rest of the team begrudgingly took to the air, muttering complaints that you and James ignored entirely.

The practice session was chaotic but exhilarating. James darted around the pitch with his usual flair, dodging snowballs Sirius had decided were more entertaining than Bludgers. Marlene shouted strategies that no one seemed to follow, while Gideon and Fabian argued over who was supposed to be guarding which goalpost. You, however, found yourself laughing more than anything else, the cold air and the pure joy of flying making everything else seem insignificant.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the pitch, the team finally descended, landing in a messy cluster near the stands. Sirius, his hair dusted with snow, pointed accusingly at James.

“Next time, I’m setting fire to those sweaters,” he said.

“That’s not very positive of you,” you replied, slinging an arm around James’ shoulders. “Right, partner?”

“Right,” he agreed, the grin plastered over his lips matching his. “Sirius, you should really try it. Positivity could work wonders for your aim.”

Marlene snorted, Fabian rolled his eyes, and Gideon muttered something under his breath about “Gryffindor lunatics.” But as the team trudged back to the castle, their laughter cutting through the cold, it was clear that your relentless optimism had done its job – even if they’d never admit it.

The cozy kitchen was filled with the warm, sweet scent of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies. A soft snowfall outside the window blurred the view of the sprawling Berkshire estate, making the world feel smaller and more intimate. Lorenzo stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, dusted in flour as he leaned over a mixing bowl.

“I’m telling you, you’re doing it wrong,” you said, trying to suppress a laugh as you watched him struggle with the dough.

“I’m following the recipe perfectly,” Lorenzo replied, feigning indignation as he gestured toward the flour-dusted parchment on the counter. “Maybe the problem is the recipe.”

“Or maybe it’s the baker,” you teased, reaching over to adjust the way he was holding the wooden spoon. His hand brushed against yours briefly, and he gave you a look; half playful, half amused.

“Careful, or I’ll hand the whole thing over to you,” he warned, though the slight smile tugging at his lips betrayed his threat.

“Oh, no,” you said with mock seriousness, “this is a team effort. If I’m going down, you’re going down with me.”

“Fair enough,” he said, finally managing to roll the dough into something resembling a workable consistency. “What’s next, boss?”

“Cookie cutters,” you said, holding up a star-shaped one. “Think you can manage?”

He raised an eyebrow, taking the cutter from you with exaggerated confidence. “Watch and learn.”

A few minutes later, the baking tray was filled with an assortment of stars, trees, and… something unrecognizable.

“What’s that supposed to be?” you asked, pointing to the oddly shaped cookie.

“A snowman,” he said with mock pride. “Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you repeated, laughing as you slid the tray into the oven. “Alright, while those bake, let’s move on to the hot chocolate.”

Lorenzo leaned against the counter, watching as you gathered the ingredients. “You’re really in your element, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone softer now, more genuine.

“Maybe,” you admitted, smiling as you poured milk into a saucepan. “Christmas just brings it out of me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, but you could feel his gaze on you as you worked, the quiet hum of the kitchen filling the silence. When the hot chocolate was ready, you poured two mugs and handed him one, the rich aroma mingling with the warmth of the kitchen.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his mug against yours. “To surviving baking disasters.”

“And to your snowman cookies,” you added with a grin.

As the cookies cooled on the counter and the two of you sipped your hot chocolate, the world outside seemed to fade away. The gentle crackle of the fire in the other room and the sound of your laughter made the moment feel timeless.

“You know,” Lorenzo said, setting his mug down and leaning closer, “I think we make a pretty good team.”

“Even if you can’t bake?” you teased, your voice soft.

“Especially then,” he replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief. And as his hand brushed yours again, lingering just a little longer this time, you couldn’t help but agree.

Theo’s always loved listening to you playing the piano, and he would never deny it. It’s the way your fingers glide over the keyboard of the grand piano in the music room on the fifth floor with such ease that has him mesmerized. He’s still more than sure it was your plan all along: to lure him in with all that grace in your movements.

And when you sing while playing? Damn, those moments always have him thinking about just how bad you have him wrapped around your little fingers.

Especially around Christmas, when the homework lessens, lightening the weight on everyone’s shoulders and leaving time for such hobbies as, for him, admiring his girlfriend sitting on the piano bench, creating some divine melody.

Yes, especially around Christmas when you always seem to be able to surprise him by pulling out some Christmas medley or the real classics.

“No, like this. The one which has no black next to,” you move his hand on the keyboard, determined to teach him a shorter part from Jingle Bells, but he keeps messing it up, and his patience is shortened.

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head, “You make it look effortless,” he appears almost disappointed, but then a fond smile tugs at his lips as he turns his head to look at you, and he pulls you closer by sneaking an arm around your waist and kisses your temple. “You’re pretty damn amazing, cara mia.”

Most people didn't understand why you had never been in love. Not really, I mean. You just had a different concept of love, you thought. Because whenever you had talked to someone about love, they brought up that whirlwind of emotions that digest you. This was what they called 'you just know it when you see it.'

But you? You needed to be friends with this potential love interest first, get to know them as a person, as a human being, let them in slowly, and let them figure out who you really were. It was only fate's doing afterwards. You'll just know when you feel it.

Lorenzo Berkshire was the perfect example of that.

You’d been friends with him since first year, had seen him go through good and bad; puberty changes, friendship- and relationship breakups, and had seen him talk girls into his countless hookups, too. You'd been through confrontations together, big arguments, near-friendship-ending fights, but none of that was strong enough of a power to actually separate you two.

"Over my rich, hot, dead body," he exclaimed half-humorously after one of those arguments last summer, after he ran after you in the pouring rain to apologize and reassure you no relationship could ever stand between the two of you. He was dating Daphne Greengrass back then. And, that was when you realized you should be the one dating him, not her.

But you kept denying it, ever since.

No, you didn't like him.

But you didn't like seeing his arm around another girl, either, even if it was for a demonstration on how to waltz, preparing for the upcoming Yule Ball, a tradition of the Triwizard Tournament.

"Yes, like that. Miss Bulstrode, follow Mr Berkshire's lead, don't try to make him submit," Snape's bored yet strong tone echoed through the Duelling Club's classroom, which was temporarily emptied for the dance lesson.

"Bet she'd submit if they were horizontal," Mattheo gushed into your ear with that significant, mischievous grin.

In response, you elbowed his ribs, and he let out a quiet snicker, rubbing the skin through his Slytherin sweater. "Oi, jealous, princess?" he continued with that annoying grin still plastered on his lips, "You'd willingly submit for him, too, wouldn't you?"

"I'll make you drink Veritaserum and admit your feelings for Amara if you don't stop," you shot him a threatening glare.

"That's illegal," he points out, almost a bit afraid you'd do it.

"Yeah, but you brewed it with Theo," you raised your eyebrows at him knowingly, and for a moment he seemed like he was about to say something as his mouth opened, but then he closed it as his lovesick gaze landed on the girl mentioned above, on your best friend, across the classroom, chatting with Kiara, your other best friend whose pinky was interlocked with Theo's.

By the end of the dance lesson, your feet hurt because, to say the least, Mattheo's feet made more contact with yours than with the tiled floor. Partially because neither of you was able to concentrate on dancing when your crushes were dancing together, and partially because neither of you exactly excelled at the art of waltz.

And, as the Yule Ball only came closer and closer in time, closing in on you like the dreaded deadline of a Potions essay, you had no other choice than to approach your best friend in desperation, the night before the ball.

"You need to teach me to dance," you stated, standing in the middle of the currently empty Slytherin common room, at 11 pm.

"To dance?" he furrowed his brows in confusion. "You've been learning to dance in the past four weeks."

"Yes, but Mattheo sucks at dancing. And so do I."

As if contemplating not helping you, he waited a few seconds before letting out a quiet, tired sigh and offering his hand to you. You looked down at it before taking it with a grateful little smile.

"Put your other hand on my shoulder," he commanded before gently placing his right on your waist to pull you closer, leaving you with butterflies in your stomach. "Left foot back on one, close, three," he started counting while leading you slowly, "...and forward, two, three. Let me lead."

"Sounds like a mistake," you commented humorously, to which a quiet huff of a chuckle left his lips, and at the sweet sound, a smile made its way onto your lips.

You warmed up to it after a few minutes, and your movements started becoming somewhat more elegant than they were when you were trying to learn to dance with Mattheo.

“Have you asked anyone?” you looked up at him, meeting his eyes, trying your best not to let your gaze drop to his lips. “To the ball, I mean.”

“I haven’t,” he replied, tugging you slightly closer. “Anyone asked you?”

You shook your head, keeping a bitter chuckle from escaping your mouth, only able to reduce it into a small, discontented smile which you tried to hide from him by gazing down, but he, grabbing your chin, earned eye contact again. “What’s the face for?”

Your stomach fluttered, his touch freezing you in place as his fingers lingered under your chin. He tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing like always when he was focused on solving a problem. Except now, the problem was you.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you intended. You stepped back, gently breaking free of his hold, and tried to regain composure. “Just… nervous about the ball, I guess.”

“You? Nervous?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’re never nervous. I’ve seen you stand up to Snape and talk back to McGonagall. What’s so terrifying about a dance?”

You couldn’t tell him the truth, not when your heart felt like it was ready to burst from your chest. Not when every glance at him made you wish for something more than friendship, even though you’d convinced yourself it was impossible. So you forced a laugh instead. “Have you seen me waltz? I’m a walking disaster.”

Lorenzo’s lips curved into a smile, but his gaze didn’t waver. “You’re not a disaster,” he said softly, his tone sincere. “And if you’re nervous, then… I’ll be there. I’ll make sure you’re alright.”

Your breath caught. He meant it in the way Lorenzo always did – as a loyal friend, always reliable. But you couldn’t help but wish he meant something else, something deeper. You nodded, unable to muster more than a whispered, “Thanks.”

The moment stretched between you, charged and fragile before he took the initiative of the situation and broke the silence. He exhaled softly, his thumb brushing your chin before he finally spoke. “Come to the ball with me.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widening slightly. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, his smile growing. “Come to the ball with me. Let’s show those waltzing disasters what we’ve learned.”

A quiet laugh escaped your lips, and you nodded. “Alright. I’d like that.”

Lorenzo’s expression softened, and for a moment, the world felt still. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead first in a gentle gesture, then, with a slight hesitation, he kissed you softly on the lips. It was brief, almost tentative, but it left your heart racing.

“Goodnight, love,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin before he pulled back, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and cheeks aflame, as he walked toward the boys’ dormitory with a satisfied smile.

The faint glow of the Christmas tree lights flickered in the corner of the small sitting room, casting soft shadows across the walls. You sat on the floor by the hearth, a steaming cup of tea in your hands, waiting for the familiar creak of the door that signaled Remus was back.

When he finally came, your heart clenched. He stepped inside, his shoulders hunched under the weight of exhaustion, his skin pale and marked with faint scratches. He gave you a weak smile, one that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes.

“You should be asleep,” he murmured, closing the door behind him and setting his bag down by the coat rack.

“And miss my favourite part of Christmas?” you replied softly, setting the tea aside and getting up. You crossed the room in a few steps, wrapping your arms around him carefully, mindful of any lingering soreness. “You’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He hesitated for only a moment before melting into your embrace, his head resting against your shoulder. His breath hitched, and you knew he was holding back the emotions that always came after a transformation.

“It wasn’t so bad this time,” he muttered, though you could hear the strain in his voice.

“Still bad enough,” you said gently, pulling back just enough to cup his face. Your thumbs brushed against the dark circles under his eyes, and your heart ached for him. “Come sit by the fire. I’ll make you something to eat.”

“You don’t have to fuss over me,” he protested, though he let you guide him to the worn couch by the fireplace.

“I’m not fussing. It’s Christmas. I’m spoiling you. There’s a difference,” you teased, earning a faint chuckle from him as he sank into the cushions.

Once he was settled, you brought him a fresh cup of tea and draped a warm blanket over his lap. He sipped the tea slowly, his gaze fixed on the fire as you perched beside him. Silence lingered for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt like home.

“You’re too good to me,” he said after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to look at you, and for the first time that night, his eyes held something warmer than weariness.

“Not possible,” you replied, reaching for his hand and lacing your fingers together. “You deserve this, Remus. And so much more.”

He didn’t answer, but the way he squeezed your hand said enough. Leaning into you, he let his head rest on your shoulder, and you pressed a soft kiss to his hair, the faint scent of pine and winter still clinging to him. The two of you stayed like that, bathed in the glow of the fire and the twinkling lights of the tree, as the world outside fell into a quiet, snowy peace.

The cozy warmth of the Slytherin common room felt almost dreamlike as Mattheo sat across from you, a worn acoustic guitar balanced on his knee. His fingers brushed over the strings absentmindedly, filling the air with a soft, soothing melody that made your heart flutter.

“Alright,” he said, stopping abruptly and handing the guitar over to you. His dark eyes glinted with playful amusement as he leaned back, folding his arms. “Your turn, love.”

You hesitated, cradling the guitar as if it might shatter in your hands. “Mattheo, I’m terrible at this. You’re wasting your time.”

He smirked, leaning closer until his face was mere inches from yours. “You’re not getting out of this, princess. Hands here,” he said, gently adjusting your fingers on the frets, his touch lingering just a moment too long. “And strum like this.”

His hand covered yours, guiding the motion over the strings. The sound that came out was clunky and awkward, but Mattheo only grinned wider. “See? Not so bad.”

You groaned. “You’re just saying that because you’re biased.”

“Of course I’m biased,” he said, his tone dropping to something softer, more genuine. “But I’m also right.”

Your cheeks warmed as his eyes met yours, holding your gaze like a spell. You tried to focus on the guitar, on the feeling of his hand over yours, but the proximity and the way his thumb absentmindedly brushed against your knuckles made it impossible.

“Let’s try a chord,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He adjusted your fingers again, his breath warm against your ear as he explained. “Press down here… yeah, like that. And now, strum.”

This time, the sound was clearer, almost resembling the melody he’d been playing earlier. Your eyes widened in surprise. “I did it!”

“Told you,” he said, his smile softening. “You’re a natural.”

Before you could argue, his hand tilted your chin up gently, his lips brushing yours in a fleeting kiss that left you breathless. When he pulled back, the smirk was back, but his eyes held an unmistakable tenderness.

“Lesson’s over for today,” he murmured, taking the guitar from your hands and setting it aside. “But I might need another excuse to keep you this close tomorrow.”