liz

“There is no way this is comfortable.”

“Shh, you prick, don’t wake her.”

“Aw, it’s the boyfriend speaking.”

When I opened my eyes, the room and the faces above me were all blurry but I knew it was Draco and Mattheo talking.

“Hi, Angel Eyes, come, I’ll take you to bed” and then my eyes were closed again. In no time, I was held in bridal position by two strong arms, and all I could feel was a heart beating under my ear and my favourite scent in the entire world filled my lungs.

I could get high on this.

On him.

Heavy breathing, my mind alerted and I sat up immediately. Mattheo was in bed next to me, sitting, trying to regulate his breath as his tears rolled down his cheeks continuously without seeming to come to a stop.

I didn’t have to be told to know what was happening. He had a nightmare.

I was on my knees in front of him

on the creaky bed before I knew it, and holding his cheeks between my palms.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

I kept telling him these affirmations over and over again until he grabbed my shirt — I don’t remember putting this on. I was in a dress…?

“It’s okay, Mattie,” I whispered while leaning my forehead against his. “You’re safe, hun.”

I was using all the pet names I had in mind. All the pet names I thought I’d use romantically, in a relationship, not while trying to calm my friend.

But he’s not really a friend now, is he?

And honestly, seeing his face — vulnerable eyes, the saddest pout I’ve ever seen, tear-ridden cheeks — while listing all these names with ‘You’re safe’s has ruined every last one of them for anyone else.

“Don’t… I-I—“ he tried but only started sobbing harder so I pulled him in against my chest.

My heart was aching for him. I wished that I could help somehow, make it better, easier for him, take up all his pain, but knew it was a dead end, wishing for them.

“I’m here and not going anywhere, pretty boy,” I kept a hand running through his hair while the other splayed over his back, trying to keep him safe and secure him against my chest.

“Can you hear my heartbeat?”

He nodded.

“Good. Means you’re awake and safe. Just… keep listening to it, honey.”

And he did just that.

For about a minute.

Then he looked up at me and gripped my shirt with both hands now, “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded, and my heart broke all over again for this boy.

Leave him? What a stupid thing to think.

“I won’t,” I wiped away his tears, though my words only encouraged them to come faster and stronger. I was helpless, had no idea what the protocol in this case was.

“Shhh, I’m not going anywhere, you hear me?”

“Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

“No, I-I mean don’t leave m-me.”

He didn’t like being seen like this. But this side of him didn’t scare me. In fact, it only made me love him more.

“It’s not so easy getting rid of me, Mattie,” I tried calming him again, and I opened my mouth to say something but he was faster.

“I love you.”

My heart skipped so hard I thought it might stop altogether, but then composed myself when I realised he had probably meant it the same way Theo or Enzo would.

Platonically.

As a friend, or a sister.

So I swallowed my pride and kissed his forehead the way Mum used to kiss mine when I had nightmares, “I love you too.”

After he’d calmed down, we fell into silence but didn’t let go of each other for a long time.

“Thank you,” he said as the silence between us had started stretching far too long.

“You don’t have to,” I shook my head and squeezed him once against myself.

Then we fell quiet again.

The tension was palpable, there were too many things left unsaid between us.

So I asked, “How did I end up here? And when’d I change?”

“Uh, you didn’t. Kiara put one of my shirts on you so you would be more comfortable.”

I just nodded.

“And you fell asleep on the couch so I took you here.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s the bare minimum.”

I snapped when he said that, “No it’s not!”

“What—“

“The bare minimum would have been putting a blanket over me. Or waking me up and walking me to the Gryffindor Tower, but not taking me into your bed, in your shirt like we—“

“Like we what?” he cut my words short by asking, but I didn’t have it in me to say it out loud.

My cheeks were redder than my Quidditch robes.

He took a deep breath to steady his voice before talking, “Like we had slept together? Or like we were two people who enjoyed each other’s company and had been friends long enough to let the other see them as vulnerable as sleeping trusting the other enough to fall asleep beside them without expecting anything in return? Trusting the other enough to let her see him have a nightmare?”

His voice kept getting angrier progressively, but it had a hint of desperation to it too.

I stayed quiet when he stopped for a minute.

“Cassie, tell me, what’s the name of the game we’re playing? Because I’ll be completely honest with you if i’d already started, I like to keep who I really am to myself but I showed you. I gave you every piece of myself I swore I’d take to the grave but I laid all my cards face up on the table and you seem to be pulling out right after.”

That made my blood boil.

“Of course I am pulling out! We’ve been dancing on this thin line between friends and lovers for the longest. Sorry if myconfusion confused you, but I’ve had enough of not knowing where we even stand anymore!”

“Are you not listening to me? I told you I loved you!”

“And I said it right back!”

“But you meant it platonically!”

“No, you meant it platonically!”

We both went silent as the realisation hit us both.

“Wait.”

Neither of us spoke after. The room suddenly felt too small and impossibly quiet.

Then he broke the silence, “You thought I meant it platonically?”

I nodded.

He let out a helpless laugh. “Angel Eyes, I’ve been losing my mind over you for months.”

My heart started racing.

He continued. “Theo’s known before I did. Kiara knows. That stupid cousin of yours knows. Everyone around you knows, except for you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I shook my head, fidgeting with my claddagh nervously.

“I thought…” his voice trembled before he could have continued. “I figured you were too good for me.”

“No, I thought you’d just wake up someday and realised you deserved better,” I shook my head, voice small.

“But then tell me, how does one want better than the best, baby?” he chuckled, his voice carrying so much emotion it almost sounded broken. “Do you even know how amazing you are?”

I let out a shaky sigh and rested my forehead against his. I could feel his breath on my lips, then his nose brushed against mine.

Then our lips met. I was pretty sure it was me initiating it, but I had been waiting far too long for it to happen to pay attention to who kissed who. I felt like a giddy child on Christmas morning. His lips were soft and fit against mine perfectly. He didn’t rush it, it was slow, and romantic, and earned. His palm found my cheek and pulled me closer for the duration of the kiss. It was long, and all-consuming.

Then, when we parted, he looked me directly in the eyes. The faint, magical glow seeping in through the underwater windows painted his face a green-ish colour despite it being the middle of the night.

His voice trembled slightly as he said, “I’ve never wanted to fall in love but then you made me want to make an exception.”

He took my right hand and slipped my ring off my finger, “Can I flip this?”

I froze for a second.

He’s asking you to be his girlfriend, eejit, say yes!

“Please.”

So he did, and then the heart wasn’t facing away from me anymore. I was taken. I was a girlfriend.

“I love you, Cassie. Romantically.”

When he added the last word with a crooked smile, I chuckled, “I love you too, Mattie. Romantically.”

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“Stop eating the icing, it won’t be enough to cover the cake,” I took the bowl from Kiara, who still had the spatula in her hand, licking the frosting off of it.

“I bet this is what Snape tastes like,” she exclaimed.

I felt like throwing up, “You know what, eat it. I don’t want to put this on the cake anymore,” I flinched. “You’re gross.”

“And you’re prude,” she grinned.

“No, you’re too explicit for your own good,” I shook my head, concentrating on the cake I was cutting in half with the intention of the halves being approximately the same thickness. “Pass me the strawberries, please.”

She did, then went back to sit on the counter next to the cake while I was working on it for Theo’s upcoming birthday. “So are we gonna talk about it?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You. Mattheo. Whatever’s between the two of you.”

I stopped for the time my heart skipped a beat, but only looked at her from the corner of my eye. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, there is!”

“No, there is not because there’s nothing going on between us.”

The door opened then, and Mattheo stepped inside, “Ki, I can’t keep your boyfriend away from the kitchen. You’re babysitting from now.”

Ki grinned, then, after she hopped off the counter and fixed her skirt, hugged me and said, “Alright, we’ll talk when you’re ready. You’ll come around,” and walked out.

So there I was now, alone with Mattheo in the kitchen. “What was that about?” He asked, walking up to me and the cake. “How can I help with that?”

“Just Kiara being herself,” I sighed. I loved my best friend, but I was also a firm believer that there wouldn’t be anything to talk about. Because it was just a harmless crush that’d eventually fade. “And… I don’t know. I barely know what I’m doing, even.”

“But your mother’s a chef.”

“Yes.”

“And you bake killer brownies.”

"I meant my brain's a mess today.”

“What’s bothering you, Princess?”

You.

And that damn nickname again.

Fuck.

His eyes were searching me. It was a genuine question.

I sighed, “Too much to study lately, and I just can’t turn my brain off, especially with the upcoming game against Ravenclaw,” I told him while placing the top layer onto the previous one.

He watched me for a second longer than I was comfortable with.

“You’re lying.”

My head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“You're stressed,” he corrected, reaching for the bowl of icing. “Just not about Ravenclaw.”

I opened my mouth to argue before closing it again.

He wasn't wrong.

He dipped the spatula into the frosting and held it up awkwardly. “Now... tell me where this goes before I ruin Theo's birthday.”

A laugh escaped me despite myself. “There,” I pointed to the centre of the cake. “Not too much.”

“You're talking to the man who once burnt toast.”

“We don't even use toasters.”

“Exactly.”

I snorted, shaking my head.

“You're impossible.”

“So I've been told.”

He spread the icing with surprising concentration, tongue poking slightly against the inside of his cheek.

“You know,” I said after a while, “for someone who claims not to know what he's doing after Hogwarts, you're oddly patient.”

He shrugged without looking up.

“Theo's mum used to bake with us.”

The room fell quiet.

He'd never mentioned her before. Of course, I knew about his childhood; after his father disappeared trying to kill Harry, Mattheo was taken in by the Notts. Elena had raised both boys until she died when they were eight. After that, Tiberius Nott had done everything to make them unlearn the good qualities they had learnt from Mrs Nott.

“Elena let us decorate the cakes,” he continued, smoothing another layer of frosting. “Theo would eat more icing than he put on.”

“That explains a lot.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “It does.”

I looked down at the strawberries in my hands.

“I wish I'd met her.”

“So do I.”

It wasn't dramatic or tearful, just nostalgic. It was like peeling back layers nobody else had seen before.

For a while, the only sounds were the scrape of the spatula against the cake and the rain tapping softly against the kitchen windows.

Then, without looking at me, he spoke again.

“You're going to play well against Ravenclaw.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because when your head's a mess”—he finally looked over, offering me the spatula—“you fly like you're trying to outrun it.”

“Happy birthday, mate,” Enzo said, clapping Theo on the shoulder the next afternoon. Kiara had spent her entire morning decorating the common room so it would look more like an actual living room in a nice cottage rather than the dungeons beneath the school. Fairy lights were everywhere, the cake already waiting for Theo on the coffe table, candles lit and reading 71 instead of 17. Could you tell who was behind that…

Theo laughed upon seeing it, and pulled his girlfriend closer into his side.

“How does pushing thirty feel?” Blaise teased before giving his friend’s shoulder a squeeze.

“You’re ancient,” Mattheo grinned.

“You’re literally a month younger than me.”

“And yet somehow wiser.”

“That’s not how age works.”

After singing Theo happy birthday in Italian (which turned him into a total sap, just like intended), and him opening his presents, the cake got cut while glasses clinked together. I was still sitting above my slice when everyone else was already talking over each other, or dancing.

Everyone but Theo.

He had been staring at the remnants of a slice of cake on his paper plate, half-eaten, half smashed.

“Hey, birthday boy,” I nudged his knee. “A shot?”

He nodded and drank it immediately after I poured him some fire whiskey.

He stayed silent for a beat before asking, “You made it? The cake.”

I nodded, “Ki said you liked this kind so I tried. Was it that bad?”

He shook his head immediately, “No, not at all. It just reminds me of my mum. Father’s always hated birthdays, said it only made people weak and vulnerable. But Mum baked cakes for us every year. This is my first since she…” he cleared his throat before continuing, "I never know whether I'm supposed to miss her more on her birthday or mine.”

My heart broke at his words. I knew he was grateful, obviously. But losing a parent and then facing something that reminded you of them is harder than words could ever describe.

We both fell silent as we got lost in our own thoughts, but then he broke the silence. “Thank you for the cake. And the notebook, it’s beautiful.”

“I thought it’d come in handy if you really took that trip around Europe.”

“Thanks, really.”

“Just don’t break her heart,” I looked over at my best friend who was drinking and talking to Pansy and Enzo. She looked so free — I’d never seen her so happy before.

“I won’t,” a beat of silence, then, “Don’t break his, either,” my eyes wandered to Mattheo on their own for a millisecond before I looked back at Theo with a frown.

He snorted, “Don’t give me that look. You two are so obvious — you’ve been orbiting around each other for weeks— dare I say months. You already know when he needs silence and when he needs words.”

He stopped for a second.

“You don't even realise you're doing it. You are already acting like a healthy couple, why wait any longer?”

“He’s my friend,” I protested.

He nodded, “Exactly.”

I frowned, at which his grin widened, “That’s the problem.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, “He’d kill me if he knew I told you all this.”

I frowned, “Then why are you?”

He looked over at the boy in question, “Because he never will.”

I sighed and looked over to where Mattheo was talking to my cousin before I could stop myself. He was defensive; arms crossed, lips pressed together tight — and I hated how well I was able to read his body.

“Cass,” Theo’s voice pulled me back into reality. “I’ve known Mattheo my entire life. He doesn’t let people in.”

He paused for a beat before hitting me with, “Do you think this is how he treats everyone?”

I didn’t say anything because I knew he was right.

Then he continued.

"He notices when you skip meals. He knows where to find you. He keeps giving you pieces of himself and pretending they're nothing. The hoodie. The sweets. His sketchbooks. His nightmares. Do you know how many people he's told about them?"

"...None?" I whispered, which earned a sad smile.

"Exactly."

Now I had no defense. I ran out of excuses and could only give him whatever was left untouched from the reality behind my words. "What if I'm wrong?"

"You're many things, Cassie, but blind isn’t one of them.”

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I slept in.

Accidentally, mind you, and that’s even worse because I was supposed to get up and head to Quidditch practice immediately. Instead, I woke up late, and with a sore throat too. Only good thing about this entire situation was that Harry Potter is not Oliver Wood and he wouldn’t bench me for the entirety of the last match of the year, against Ravenclaw.

Fortunately, my sports bag and training clothes were on my chair so I could get ready eyes still semi-closed.

“Sorry I’m late,” I rushed onto the pitch without even warming up.

“Switching houses, I see,” George grinned when I took off and flew up to see my favourite Beaters.

I frowned at him in confusion.

“Whose bed did you sleep in last night?” Fred continued, nodding in the direction of my chest.

That was when I saw green and silver and immediately felt my cheeks burn red with embarrassment. “Shite.”

I must have put my Quidditch clothes right on top of the borrowed hoodie from last night. And then I put it on on autopilot this morning in my absent-minded, half-asleep state.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I tried but there was no use of it against the Weasley twins.

“Is that…?” Enzo started as I arrived at the Slytherin table for breakfast with my usual crowd.

“Not a word,” I warned.

“Finally giving in to the fact that you belong in Slytherin?” Blaise grinned.

“Stop–”

“No, finally giving in to the fact that she belongs with Riddle,” this time it was Theo.

“No.”

“You’re wearing his surname, Trouble.”

“It’s a hoodie, Theo,” I huffed as I sat down.

“A hoodie you stole.”

“Borrowed.”

“She can keep it,” Mattheo chimed in, voice low and steady and that made everyone at the table shut up. “The green makes your eyes pop,” my cheeks caught aflame as the words left his mouth, his dark brown eyes boring into my eyes. If I hadn’t looked away so soon I swore he would have been able to see right into my soul.

I was finishing my Astronomy homework later that day in the Astronomy Tower in the evening that day, still wearing Mattheo’s hoodie because it turned to be softer and warmer than all of mine.

“It really does suit you,” I heard a voice from behind me. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Theo snores like a fucking bear when he’s ill. I don’t blame Kiara for not sleeping over tonight. He’s brutal.”

That drew a laugh from my lips, and I set my parchment and book aside. “Bet you wish you were in one room with Enzo now, do you?”

He let out a “hmpf,” so I guessed I was right.

“Thanks for the Whizzbees,” I remembered then, and an awkward but grateful smile plastered across my lips.

“Don’t make it seem like a big deal. You keep overthinking the food that’s supposed to make you happy,” he pointed out as he sat down beside me. Close enough for me to smell the scent of sandalwood and vanilla haze that follows him everywhere.

“Okay but I have to be disciplined if I want to go professional.”

“Yeah, but discipline shouldn’t disallow fun.”

He was right, but I couldn’t admit that to him.

“What do you wanna do after Hogwarts?”

He shook his head helplessly, “No idea.”

“You’re really good at drawing. You could do something with that,” I suggested. He really was good at drawing. I saw many of his works through the years, and he was a natural talent. "I've seen your sketchbooks. You're too good to pretend it doesn't matter.”

He just hummed at it, and looked up at the sky before turning back to me with a teasing smile, “But you won’t forget the guy who gave you his hoodie when you’re playing in the next World Cup, will you?”

I laughed at it, “How could I ever forget the knight in the shining armour?”

”Was his armour not shiny enough?”

His is.

Stop it.

I cleared my throat before asking, “Do you think I’ll make it?” The questin was genuine, and because I trusted him more than I cared to admit, I was hoping he’d say what he thought was the truth.

“Are you kidding? Who would make it if not the Cassiopeia Caoimhe Black? You’ll be wearing green and the crowd will chant your name before you know it. You’ll be Ireland’s star Chaser.”

A grateful smile appeared on my lips, “And you’ll come see me at every game, won’t you?”

He grinned, “You bet.”

We fell quiet after that. Not the awkward kind, but the sort that settles naturally when you don't feel the need to fill every second with words. Below us, the lights of Hogwarts flickered to life one by one as dusk settled over the grounds.

"It's weird," I admitted eventually. "Everyone keeps asking what we're doing after Hogwarts, like we're supposed to have our entire lives figured out at sixteen.”

Mattheo snorted, "That's because adults enjoy watching teenagers panic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I just… don’t want to look back decades later and think the years I spent figuring myself out were my prime.”

“You don’t wanna peak here.”

“No.”

“You won’t,” he assured almost immediately, eyes reflecting the faint glow of the lantern close to us.

I shook my head, “How do you know?”

He shrugged, “Because you only settle when it comes to dating.”

Ouch.

But it’s true.

“You should stop doing that, too.”

We stayed silent for a minute as he took in my words. Then I was the one to break it.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You said you don’t know.” I paused for a beat before continuing, “If nobody expected anything from you, good or bad, what would you want to do?”

He took a deep breath and shook his head. Thrn finally, “Nobody’s ever asked me that.”

I regretted it immediately. “You don’t have to answer.”

“No.” He paused. “I just… never thought about it.”

Silence settled between us for a while before I stood up and took the hoodie off, handing it to him. “Here.”

“Keep it.”

He stood as well.

“Matt—”

“Looks better on you.”

My cheeks turned pink, and I could only hope he didn’t notice.

He then grinned and said, “You’ll need it on the lonely nights, Princess,” he winked with a wicked smirk before walking away.

And I just stood there for another minute, confused. I kind of wanted to run after him but my feet wouldn’t let me. My brain wouldn’t let me.

But part of me went with him and I needed it back.

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December passed by and turned into the new year before you had known and you came back to Hogwarts as almost an entirely new person with newfound security in yourself and your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t brought it up ever since but he, you had noticed, made it an extra step every day to reassure you one way or another that he only had eyes for you.

It was sometimes a single flower.

A letter.

Sweets when you were on your period.

You had seriously been living every girlfriend’s dream.

Your biggest concern was honestly not having enough time and patience to finish both your Potions and Transfiguration essays.

You were sitting by Enzo’s side at the Slytherin table during the feast the evening you had arrived back to the castle with the rest of the students who celebrated Christmas at home. You were lightheartedly taking jabs at Blaise and Theo, so just as usual, when Dumbledore stood and spoke up, "Before we begin the spring term, as Madam Pomfrey has agreed to take on a trainee this term, I'd like to welcome back one of Hogwarts' former students—”

You were in the middle of swallowing a snicker at Theo who had stuffed about six grapes in his mouth and looked ridiculous, like a squirrel.

“—Miss Florence Fawley.”

Clapping.

Your heart stopped.

Then you turned to look at Enzo who only sat there beside you with his fork lifted halfway to his mouth, looking confused at the girl next to Madam Pomfrey sitting with the teachers.

She was just there, smiling at a few people from the Ravenclaw table before her eyes started searching the Slytherins.

For Enzo, you assumed.

Then she found him, and you felt small — until his hand found your waist, and you sagged against him, leaning your head on his shoulder.

It was a statement. Quiet, but definitely one that put your mind at ease.

“Ow, shit, Pansy, that hurt,” you cursed at your friend as she walked you to the infirmary a few days later.

You took a wild Bludger — better said, the Bludger took you, straight off your broom, and caused a dislocated shoulder during Quidditch practice.

“Shall I go in with you?” she asked, an apologetic smile on her lips.

“No, no, I’ll be fine. See ya at dinner, I guess,” you sighed before pushing the heavy wooden door open in the Hospital Wing.

You knew how it went by now — go in, sit on an empty bed, and eventually, when the matron had time she would come to check and treat you. You were an expert, to say the least, at getting injured.

The weirdest thing about always having some sort of bruise or cut wasn’t even the way you got them — but how Enzo had always made sure to take care of you, even after Madam Pomfrey checked on you. Even if it was only the side of a fingernail. He was just genuinely that kind and loving when it came to something as real as your relationship was.

You sat on the bed, deep in your own thoughts when a pair of legs appeared in your vision.

“Hi,” her voice was soft, you could only compare it to honey. Then you looked up to be met by the girl from the pictures. The girl whose ghost had been haunting you. “Madam Pomfrey is busy so I’ll be checking on you,” she smiled, and you could only think it was a trap.

“Uh, thanks,” you murmured. She wasn’t as tall as you thought. “Ouch,” you hissed when she touched your shoulder.

“Quidditch?” was all she asked.

You nodded, “Yeah. I’m a Chaser. Bloody Goyle confused me for a Ravenclaw at practice and his Bludger hit my shoulder.”

She let out a soft huff and shook her head with a small smile. “I saw you fly yesterday. You seemed unstoppable out there — I get why Lorenzo must like to watch you at matches.”

Huh. Was that… a compliment?

But your ears focused more at how she said his full name. You only called him Lorenzo when you were mad at him — or when he tickled you so hard your belly hurt from laughing too much.

You almost asked her something that was definitely not something you should ask when you first meet your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, so you stayed silent instead.

You almost forgot about your dislocated shoulder until she put it back into place and you winced in pain with a hiss.

“I know, I’m sorry,” was all she whispered.

And then all you told Pansy and Daphne at dinner was “Well, she’s more human than I thought.”

You couldn’t believe how much time you spent being jealous of this girl. Looking back at it now, it seemed so immature and unfounded.

A few more visits to the infirmary made you realise Florence Fawley was more introverted than you thought at first — when you still hadn’t met her.

She asked you about Quidditch. Told you she had wished to be better at flying so she could have played while at Hogwarts.

She became less and less like the expectations you had set for her judged by her accomplishments, and more human by every sentence that left her mouth.

She gave you medicine for period cramps, but more like a friend and not as a Healer.

However, that friendliness lasted for about two weeks.

“Hi, Enz,” you entered his dorm with fresh gossip to tell him about a Hufflepuff in your year, and you found him reading something that looked like a letter. “Your mother sent that?” you asked while crossing the room, ready to get comfy with him on his bed.

“No.”

“Oh?”

“Can I see?” you peeked over to see the parchment. It was a poem in neat handwriting that made you frown. “Who?”

“No,” his face darkened in disappointment and a hint of anger.

“No?”

“Florence sent it.”

Your stomach dropped.

The room went silent. Not the peaceful kind of quiet you usually shared with him. The kind where every thought in your head suddenly became too loud.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

You were speechless. Why would she send him a poem?

He set it aside on the bed and shook his head.

Your blood boiled, and it was only for a second that you thought he’d give up on you. Because the way he looked at you, and how he pulled you in told you everything you needed to know — he needed this poem just as much as he needed a Bludger to the face.

“Why would she send you that?”

Enzo sighed, running a hand over his face.

“I don’t know.”

And that answer somehow made it worse.

“You don’t know?”

“No.” His voice softened, but there was still something frustrated underneath it. “Because I don’t know what she expected me to do with it.”

You looked down at the parchment.

“Maybe she expected you to remember.”

A pause. Not a guilty pause. A sad one.

“I do remember, Y/N.”

Your chest tightened. Because that was the one thing you hated admitting. Florence wasn't some random girl. She had been part of his life.

“But remembering someone doesn't mean wanting them back.”

You pulled back to look at him, “She knew about me.”

And then all you could read off of his face was anger.

“She knew we were together.”

“Yeah.”

“And she still sent it.”

“Yeah.”

Then he paused before cupping your cheeks between his hands, “Before you start overthinking, I need you to understand something. Florence was important to me. She was my girlfriend. I’m not going to pretend she wasn't. But she doesn't get to walk back into my life and act like nothing changed. Because I’m with you and I love you, Y/N.”

You nodded but you could feel the insecurity creeping up your spine. And before you could have stopped, you asked, “Do you ever miss her?”

He didn’t even think before answering, “No.”

It was simple as that.

“I miss being that age sometimes because last year, the NEWTs were something the teachers liked to scare us with, and I had more time to do things other than studying. But Flo?” He shook his head. “No. Because I don’t want the life I had back.”

He then took a short pause and rested his forehead against yours, “I want this one.”

She sent a few more poems, and letters too, like the first one, but Enzo didn’t even bother to read them. Then she went silent for a few days. You couldn’t make peace with the thought that she thought she could come and take him just like that and how she played you. You found it vile and disgusting.

And if she had kept it up, you wouldn’t just stand and watch her immature moves at trying to take your boyfriend.

Then she dropped the next bomb.

Her, tending to the cart in the infirmary, in a sweater that was definitely not hers. Not hers but your boyfriend’s.

You froze in the doorway.

It was navy. A little too big on her shoulders, the sleeves rolled twice over her wrists. The left cuff had begun to fray where Enzo always absent-mindedly tugged at it while studying.

There wasn't a chance you were mistaken.

Your stomach twisted.

Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe he'd lent it to her years ago and she'd simply never returned it. Maybe she'd found it tucked away in an old trunk. Maybe— No.

She knew exactly whose jumper it was.

"Morning," Florence greeted warmly when she noticed you. "Shoulder again?"

You forced your face into something resembling a smile.

"Sprained wrist this time."

Her eyes flickered to the bandage wrapped around your hand before she nodded sympathetically.

"Sit down. I'll get some dittany."

Does it still smell like him?

The thought made you feel sick.

Maybe she was just trying to rile you up now.

And she was getting to you. Embarassingly so.

You couldn’t contain yourself anymore, though.

“Nice jumper.”

She looked down “Oh,” then smiled, “It is.”

Then silence. You were waiting for her to maybe say something about it. She didn’t. So you asked, “Where’d you get it?”

“Lorenzo gave it to me years ago.” Then, after a brief pause, “I never gave it back.”

You searched her face for something.

Guilt.

Embarrassment.

A sheepish laugh followed by, I really should return it.

Anything.

But Florence only busied herself with arranging bottles on the trolley as though she'd merely commented on the weather.

Now your blood did boil. Not because of the jumper itself. Because she knew Lorenzo Berkshire had a girlfriend and that said girlfriend was standing right in front of her.

And yet she kept choosing reminders.

Poems.

Letters.

Now this.

Maybe each thing on its own meant nothing.

Together, they painted a picture you were no longer willing to ignore.

You'd spent weeks convincing yourself Florence Fawley wasn't the villain you'd imagined.

Now you couldn't tell whether she'd changed, or whether she'd simply started showing you who she really was.

This was a battle now. Of which you decided to be the winner.

That same afternoon, you were walking past the Greeenhouses when you spotted Florence Fawley inside.

With your boyfriend. Her head was bowed, tears slipping down her cheeks, and both of her hands wrapped around his.

Now she was properly standing in your way. You almost stormed inside, but decided against it because if you had, you would have probably hexed someone.

But the picture of them holding hands?

It remained in the foreground of your mind as you walked away.

You didn’t give up, though. But you needed time to think it through.

“Baby, please open the door,” you heard Enzo’s voice through your door, and when he didn’t stop trying with the doorknob, you flicked your wand with a sigh and a quiet ”Alohomora.’

It swung open and he stepped inside, already opening his mouth to tell you something important. “I talked to her.”

“I know.”

“What?” he stopped, just standing there, watching you and trying to read your facial expression.

“I spent weeks believing I was crazy,” you stood up. “I felt so bad for judging her for so long when he turned out to be actually kind. And then she sent you poems and letters and wore your jumper, and I saw you talking to her today and felt like I had to compete with somebody else to win my own boyfriend. How is that fair? How is it fair to me to hold herhand, Lorenzo.”

He winced at hearing his full name.

”He hates when people call him Lorenzo,” Florence told you the other day, “Except when I did.”

“No,” he shook his head then.

“Don’t.”

“But I wasn’t,” he shook his head, then continues, “She grabbed my hands.”

You stayed silent then, because, that made more sense than any conspiracy in your head.

“You know what I told her?” he continued, taking a measured step closer to you. You let him. “I told her I hoped she became an amazing Healer.”

Another few seconds of silence before he continued. He was now standing right in front of you, his hands reaching for your face. “And that I already have someone in my life that I love. “She keeps trying to remind me of my past. But every time she does, all it reminds me of is how sure I am about my future.”

You let him pull you in, and your head, clearer than anytime during the past weeks, rested against his chest as he just held you.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Florence Fawley was still a lily. But one that belonged in someone else’s garden.

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Questions. You hated them these days.

“Oh so you’re dating Enzo now?”

“Wasn’t he with…?”

Questions. And worse, doubts. People were doubting you, and whether or not you really were Enzo’s type. Sure, you hadn’t been exclusive for that long yet, but people, after his last relationship, turned to you with expectations you felt like you couldn’t jump.

You almost wanted to bring this issue to him.

Almost.

But you didn’t, because you were afraid he’d say he loved you more but his eyes would show otherwise. You hated the thought of seeing anything of her lingering on his mind, in his life.

Anyone would have sworn you were in love with her if they’d known how much you’d been thinking of her.

Somehow, this girl did not leave your mind for more than an hour at best, because there was evidence everywhere that this girl had once lived between the walls of the same castle as you. She graduated last year, which made her two years older than you. One year older than Enzo.

It’s not even a big age gap, neither between them, nor between you and her. But it was just perfectly enough to make you feel like a kid. While she was probably already having adult problems, you were still having Quidditch bruises and curfew.

Her name was everywhere — in yearbooks, on goblets and medals in glass cabinets (turned out she had been extraordinary in Potions and Herbology), and in overheard conversations. There was a picture of her you had seen in Slughorn’s office — bright eyes, shiny hair and a proud smile — that made you realise you’d only see this girl a few times while she had been studying at Hogwarts. You couldn’t help but wonder if Enzo had ever stopped by to look at her since they’d broken up.

No wonder she had earned a spot on The Shelf, though. Slughorn still talked about her essays.

Prefect.

Head Girl.

Fuck, you knew she was a Virgo, too. So neat, so detail-oriented, what other sign would achieve so much without breaking in the process?

”Why would he even settle for a Quidditch player when he had her?”

Enzo, in the meanwhile, was clueless. Clueless about how his ex-girlfriend’s passive presence ruled your every day, about how obsessed you were becoming with her and with finding the answer to this one question: what made him choose you after he had someone so close to perfect?

“What’s on your mind, beautiful?” he ran his fingers through your hair as your head rested on his lap. The common room was quiet, only a few students had been out here, the rest were probably in their dormitories. Your notes of Quidditch strategies lay on your chest discarded, though you should have been breezing theough them instead of internally obsessing over a girl you had never spoken to.

“Huh?” you mumbled. “Oh, uh, nothing.”

”’Beautiful’. Did he call her that too?”

He frowned at you — he knew you better than this. “C’mon, Y/N, lying? You know you’re terrible at that,” he teased with a soft smile.

He was crazy about you, but that somehow made it even worse. Because if someone could love a simple girl like you this much, imagine how much he could have loved someone so accomplished. You were so blinded by something that had already passed that you slowly forgot to get out of your own head and live what was yours — his love.

“So, what’s bothering you, baby?” he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

You almost said it out loud.

Almost asked, ”Did you love her like this?”

But refrained last-minute and sighed, “I’m just stressed about Quidditch.”

His expression softened and he gave you a reassuring look, “You’ll crush Hufflepuff, my love. Don’t you worry a second.”

You tried giving him a grateful smile, but could only stretch your lips as far as am awkward pout.

He smirked nonetheless and leaned closer to whisper, “Let me just take your mind off of it for tonight,” and before you knew it, you were already led by him, hand in hand towards his dorm room.

It didn’t slow your racing thoughts down, though — in fact, it had only made them worse.

”Is she good in bed?”

”Does she give great head…”

”Do you think about her— no, I’m fine, it doesn’t matter.”

You couldn’t stop thinking about her and her and her, even as his fingers worked inside of you, even as your mouth was sliding up and down in sync with your hand on his cock.

You wished to forget about her, for one night at least.

You knew he loved you.

But why was it not enough for you to understand that a sunflower was never supposed to compete with a lily?

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” his voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

You were lying in bed side-by-side, but you rushed to put clothes on, feeling less than anytime before, feeling like he deserved soft, spotless skin over fading scars and blue-green bruises.

“Yeah.”

“Then why do I feel like you’re somewhere else?” he kept running his fingertips up and down your arm soothingly.

You chewed on your lips, helpless, torn between saying it and staying quiet. Because if you said it… there were too many possibilities. He could either blow up on you. Be mad at you. Tell you you were insane. Or worst-case scenario: admit she was still important to him. More important than you, and that you could never take up as much space in his heart as she had.

Or, if you stayed silent, it could open the already existing hole and turn it into a gaping chasm between the two of you.

So you decided to speak a few silent seconds later, “I sometimes wonder if you miss her.”

“Who?”

“Your ex.”

He could tell he frowned, even without looking at him, “Florence?”

“Yeah.”

“You think I do?” he asked, not accusingly, not mad, just surprised.

“Well, I mean…” you sighed, there was no going back now. “She seemed nice.”

Liar.

She seemed everything, effortlessly. She for sure was well-read — she had been a Ravenclaw after all. She was talented at every subject, good with the kids she tutored, and probably was the life of every party. She was it and he was trying to convince you he didn’t miss her?

You felt so young seeing her on every corner you turned.

He sighed, then, and pulled you into his chest. He smelled like cedar and sandalwood, and something so uniquely him. “Yeah, she was nice,” he started. “But there was a reason we broke up. You think I love you because you remind me of her. I love you because you don’t.”

“Really?” your voice sounded almost hopeful.

“Really,” he kissed the top of your head.

The reassurance felt like a hot shower after a long day — nice, easing your mind, but still burning your skin just slightly.

You let out a soft sigh as you felt yourself relax into him, and laughed at something he said.

His reassurance worked. For about five minutes.

Because Florence Fawley was still a lily.

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“I’d rather not lose you because of it.”

Mattheo’s words rang in my head as I was sipping my coffee, and I was almost unable to tell whether my head was pounding because of that or because of a possible hangover. Almost. Because words, however vulnerable, only hurt my head if mine.

“Miss Black, what a surprise, sitting at the Slytherin table in Gryffindor colours.”

Pretty sure it’s a migraine now.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” I mumbled as politely as one possibly can when the Slytherin Head of House passed by.

Not even half a minute later, Kiara appeared with Pansy on her right.

“I smell Daddy Snape,” the prior exclaimed when they sat down across from me. The frown I looked at her with I was sure making my headache a thousand times worse.

“You seriously should be medicated.”

“Sedated, rather,” chimed in a low voice I knew all too well from behind me. “Seriously, Ki, when are you gonna stop looking at Snape like that?” Mattheo asked while sitting down beside me.

“The day you learn to lock the bloody door if you’re jerking off in the shower.”

Cheeks red and his voice pitched concerningly high, he shook his head, “I wasn’t!”

My amusement at his embarrassment earned an elbow in my ribs. “Ow, okay, sorry.”

“I swear I wasn’t.”

This time his words were fully meant for my attention and no one else’s, and the desperation in his eyes told me he didn’t want to be seen so vulnerable — not under-the-shower vulnerable though, regardless of whether he was even doing anything. Embarrassed vulnerable.

But I didn’t blame him for it.

“Move,” I felt Theo sitting down next to his girlfriend before I saw it.

“You fucker, that hurt,” I exclaimed when he stomped straight on my foot under the table. “Stay on your side of the table.”

“Ooh, someone’s grumpy. Hangover?”

“Fuck off, Theo, will ya,” I mumbled back.

“No time for this, anyway. C’mon, bella mia, we’re going to Hogsmeade.”

“What? But I was supposed to spend the day with Cassie,” Kiara protested, to which Theo, who had clearly planned something for the two of them in advance, sighed.

“Okay, then, you’re coming with us, Banshee.”

“What? No, I’m not third wheeling.”

“For fuck’s sake now, you two are unbelievable — Riddle.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m tired, I don’t wanna go out.”

“And I’m hungover,” I muttered with the same level of excitement as Mattheo beside me.

“Why did we agree to do this again?” I murmured, stomping on the wet cobblestone road leading down to the village in my Converse — it wasn’t a wise choice.

“Because Kiara’s worse than your mother when she wants something. And she wanted to spend the day with you.”

I looked at the girl walking ahead of me, arm linked with her boyfriend. Mattheo was right; Kiara and my mother both got whatever they wanted, always. And even though I was protesting at first, I would follow my best friend anywhere she wanted me even with both legs broken.

First, we followed our friends into Honeydukes where I mostly just wandered between the shelves, estimating macros in my head.

“You’re reading the ingredients,” Mattheo appeared behind me.

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m… estimating.”

“That’s somehow worse.” He then reached up above my head and took a handful of Cauldron Cakes before taking a step towards the check-out desk, “Eating one won’t kill your gains and end your Quidditch career, Princess.”

“Yeah but eating one turns into five.”

He chuckled before turning around, and I stayed there, “my mind still partly occupied with estimating, partly regretting last night’s drinking, and partly distracted by the smell of his cologne lingering in the air still after he had left.”

Hours later, after helping Theo get a slightly tipsy Kiara back to Hogwarts on the slippery cobbled road (it was not for the weak for sure), I found myself running laps around the Quidditch pitch. Running, and sport in general, was something I had always found peace of mind in — probably that’s why I like playing Quidditch so much, too.

And today, I had more things on my mind than it could process all at once, or even in some sort of order. Because where do I even start processing?

Back to last night? What we talked about with Mattheo. I bet he doesn’t remember. And that’s the best-case scenario.

Or do I start stressing about the future?

Or do I begin with the relationship dilemma?

Because after the night before, I was sure I was fucked. Unfortunately not lireally. I wished it was easier, finding someone who put the same effort into me as I put into them. I was partly jealous of Kiara and Daphne for being in such secure and consistent relationships where the boys worshipped the ground they walked on. But also of Pansy because she was easygoing enough to get herself into hookups, no strings attached.

And I was somewhere in the middle, craving something easy but meaningful at the same time. Something real. And after Hogwarts, would I even be able to find it? What if—

“Oi, Trouble,” that nickname made me stop and spin around to look for the brunette. He was standing there by the Hufflepuff stands, waiting. “Get your nice legs off the pitch before you slip in the mud and break a bone.”

I frowned and that was when I noticed it had started raining. My ponytail was loose and the dtrands in the front escaped the once-tight knot and were now sticking wet to the side of my face. Clothes heavy, and shoes soaking wet, I bet I must have looked ridiculous as I closed the distance between us. Mattheo’s hood was on and he was holding another hoodie.

“How’d you know I was here?”

He then held up a piece of parchment. The Marauder’s Map. I was even more confused now.

“I was looking for you because you didn’t come down for dinner and didn’t see you at the Gryffindor table either. So I asked Potter—“

“—threatened his life, I bet—“

“—politely asked the bastard to give me this. And then I saw you were running laps in the freezing rain for like half an hour.”

I frowned, still confused. Sure, Mattie was a good friend and we’d always had this weird sense of understanding between us. The Riddle heir and the disowned Black, yeah? He showed me he wasn’t dangerous, and I showed him I wasn’t cruel, despite the names we hadn’t even got to choose.

But I hadn’t thought he cared so deeply.

“You should come inside.”

“Yeah.”

He then held the spare hoodie that had been dangling on his arm out to me.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t see more into it. It’s just a hoodie.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips but I wiped it before my head found its way out the neck of the sweater.

We’d already been walking back towards the castle, the map now in the pocket of the lent hoodie with the intention of giving it back to my housemate, “Hey, you wanna sneak into the kitchen? I could eat an entire hipogriff.”

That earned a snort, “Of course you could.”

After a holy feast made by the elves, I was ready to fall into my bed and sleep for like a week when I noticed the pocket of Mattheo’s hoodie was still not empty, even after giving Harry the map back.

Reaching into it, I pulled out a packet of Fizzing Whizzbees out of it with a green sticky note attached to it saying: “Stop estimating.”

The ingredients and nutritional values I had told him so much about (and which he still struggled to understand), were outlined with black permanent marker.

The smallest smile tug at my lips before I opened the wrapper.

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The Slytherin common room was packed to its full, the music loud, the whiskey I was downing burning my throat just right and the skirt Pansy had lent me way too short for my liking.

And the guy talking to me? David. Darren. Daniel? Honestly, I hadn't the faintest clue. Anywho, he was boring. He’d been droning on about plants and herbs and whatever along those lines for Merlin only knows how long. Anyone who knows the least about me knows I nearly failed herbology every damn year so far — and if it hadn’t been for Enzo, I mercilessly would have.

“…and its venom is used in…”

The words “Hey, don’t you wanna dance instead?” (first mistake) were out of my mouth before I could think them through, partly because I was already feeling a little bold from being tipsy, and because I was minutes away from throwing myself into the mouth of the giant squid out in the Black Lake.

His lips then curved into a shy smile — not a charming one. A bloody embarrassed one that told me immediately this was a first for him. And that made me want to scream and peel the skin off my face.

I was trying my absolute best out here, making all the moves I thought the guys were supposed to make. — at this point I was half convinced I'd end up leading him around the dance floor too, — and despite all this effort, got nothing in return but the biggest, fattest ick ever.

My second mistake was not leaving after the first song, because not only did he make my feet become one with the floor, he was also breathing so loud right into my ear that I wanted to resort to violence — but that would have been my last straw before getting kicked out of the Quidditch team so I decided against it.

But when the ginger excused himself to the bathroom, I saw the green light and bolted straight to my friends sat on the couches in the corner.

“Look at what the cat brought in,” Draco smirked first, taking a jab right after, “Why the sour face, Cass, was his armour not shiny enough?”

“Fuck off, will ya, before I accidentally break your nose again,” I near-growled in frustration as I sat down cross-legged in the armchair.

“Do tell,” Daphne encouraged me with a kind smile and a nod, to which I sighed.

“Boring. Passive, indecisive. And is nearly as graceful as a brick.”

“At least you didn’t take him upstairs,” Theo chimed in, a mischievous grin on his lips. “Just imagine how bad he would be at the tango horizontally if he cannot do it vertically.”

That earned a snicker from the boys, and Kiara, my best friend in the whole wide world and Theo’s girlfriend, smacked him lightly in the chest but didn’t mask her amusement well.

It was by the time Theo and Kiara vanished together and the girls went dancing when Mattheo arose from the direction of the dorm rooms, followed by a Ravenclaw. She had gorgeous blonde hair, but I couldn’t make more out of her before she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“I’ll hex you to vomit toads for the rest of your life if you say a fucking word, Malfoy,” clearly not in a good mood, Mattheo slumped onto the carpeted floor by my legs and immediately demanded head scratches to ease his mind.

“What’s your problem now, Riddle?” Draco scoffed before standing and taking Blaise with him to the drinks table.

It was just Matt and me now.

The tension around us was palpable.

“Bad hookup?”

“Yep.”

Silence.

“Dance partner?”

“More of a plant.”

That earned a frustrated snort from him.

“It used to be easy.”

“Yeah,” I sighed.

He then tilted his back to look up at me, “Did he compliment you?”

“No.”

“First mistake.”

That put a smile on my face. For a brief second, something warm and unfamiliar curled in my chest.

Must be the whiskey.

“Okay, tell me about this guy,” he said, my hand still in his hair.

“Ugh. So bloody boring. You can’t imagine, he couldn’t talk about anything else but herbology. And stepped on my feet more times than on the floor.”

“You set the bar too low, Cass. You always expect the best and give the unworthy all your attention.”

He meant no harm by his words, I was sure, but they still stung.

“Yeah, but so do you. You say you only want to fuck but always find the lovergirls who are not ready to do just that. And I don’t think you’re meant to only do that, either.”

That made him stop and stare at me for a minute too long. His brown eyes bore into my green ones, deep, dark, and unreadable — holding back something he clearly didn't want me to see. His mouth fell open before he closed it again, like he had been about to say something but decided against it.

He then ran a hand through his hair and let out a helpless laugh. “You don’t know me that well.”

“Maybe I do and you’re not as cold as you show yourself to be.”

He shook his head at that before standing up. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“Figuring me out. I’d rather not lose you because of it.”

One of the things I hated most about dating — and I’m going to sound selfish for this — had always been the fact that it worked out for everyone but never me. Even if two people broke up in the end, they had a beginning and a middle. I had neither.

I had friends, sure, but at some point I had to realise I was replaceable, and that boyfriends and girlfriends were going to come along for them and I’d stay alone.

Even if they’d promise me not to drift away.

Especially then.

I watched Enzo fall for Daphne, and while I was happy for them, I also felt the withdrawal very deeply.

I wished it had happened to me, too — hoped that someday, love would find me the way it found everyone else, hoped it wouldn't always pass me by and leave me with situationships that went nowhere. Like that Muggle bloke last year with the awful stick-and-poke tattoos and the Sid Vicious wannabe haircut that made him look like he'd fought an inferius.

But I dreaded it, too: letting someone in, opening up, only to fear they'd find someone prettier, smarter, easier to love—and leave.

And sure, finding The One at the age of 16 is not impossible, though an unrealistic standard the modern romance books set — and maybe Cher Horowitz. And I’m not saying I was looking for it, no. I just wanted to feel something like love, even if it had ended up in heartbreak.

And Mattheo, well, he seemed to be on the same page as I was.

“Where’d you leave Theodore 'I don’t know a word in English but will get into your knickers in two minutes' Nott?” I looked up at Mattheo as he approached and sat beside me, already pulling a cigarette out of his pocket with that lazy smirk on his lips.

“Charming his way into your best friend’s knickers,” he replied, his tone laced with a mix of amusement and a slight bit of annoyance I knew he was trying to keep at bay just as much as I was. “Plus, he knows English — just maybe not C2 level.”

Rolling my eyes, I leaned back on my palms as the late-autumn night wind blew around us on the top floor of the Astronomy Tower. The stars glittered above, indifferent to the teenage soap opera Hogwarts had seemed to turn into lately.

“He’s got the subtlety of a troll with a concussion,” I muttered, eyes on the dark sky. “Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m more disgusted or impressed.”

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, the sound curling around me like smoke. He flicked his lighter, the tiny flame illuminating his sharp features before he brought the cigarette to his lips. “Enzo says the same about you.”

“Enzo can go stick a broom up his hole for all I care,” I replied slowly and measured, drawing a faint, sneeze-like chuckle from the boy next to me. “At least I don’t go around—”

“—Shagging everything that moves?” he grinned at me, earning a glare from me. “Heard that line once or ten times from you.”

I flipped him off.

It didn’t wipe the grin from his face.

“You in a sour mood today, Princess?” he nudged my shoulder with his before offering his cigarette to me.

“You absolute gobshite.”

I still took the cig and a drag from it. It burnt just right, something finally quieting the buzzing thoughts in my head and the too-many feelings in my chest.

“Gobshite,” he mocked with a fake Dublin lilt. “Are you gonna start the jig, too?”

“I will hex you off this fuckin’ tower,” I threatened without any real heat behind my words.

I passed him the cigarette back, the knot in my brows finally easing somewhat. Mattheo caught my gaze, then his eyes drifted to the fresh scar on the side of my neck where it disappeared beneath the collar of my Gryffindor jumper, pale in the moonlight. “What happened?” his voice suddenly turned concerned.

“Draco was playing fair during duelling,” I tried to keep my voice steady and unbothered, but I did not manage to keep the slight tremor out of my tone.

“That little fucker,” He snarled immediately, eyes darkening, but I shook my head.

“It’s fine, I once broke his nose when we were kids. Playfighting. My head smashed it, my aunt had to mend it for him,” Trying to downplay the sting, I forced my voice to stay steady.

Draco and I had always been a little difficult, like siblings — but his father obviously didn’t exactly liked the fact that his son of precious blood was playing with the filth. To Lucius, family relations only mattered as long as one was not smearing dirt all over the Malfoy name. Draco and I had always remained on good terms, though. Especially during Hogwarts months, because his father’s arm was not long enough to reach there.

“Wicked,” Mattheo smirked a little, though his gaze was still a little bothered by the cut and by my faked nonchalance. “Remind me not to piss you off, Black.”

I snorted, “What, afraid I’d break your nose too?”

“That, or something else,” he kept his tone casual, leaning into a more teasing tone as he continued, leaning a little closer to rile me up, and Merlin, was he doing a great job at it already. “I’d hate seeing you break something you might want to ride later, Princess.”

My mind short-circuited, and I could feel my cheeks grow a violent shade of red as he continued on grinning like he hadn’t just implied me ending up in his lap — in future tense, like he was just so sure I’d end up like that.

Snapping out of my embarrassment, I shoved him a little, “You absolute pig!”

Mattheo just chuckled softly, the sound smug and low, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. “I’m only saying what you’re thinking, darling.”

Scoffing, I scrambled to my feet while he laughed.

Actually fucking laughed.

“Get fucked,” I snarled, still reeling from the image of me riding him instead of sitting there flustered.

“Oh, that’s the plan,” he continued in the same, teasing, sickly-sweet tone. “But not tonight, unfortunately.”

“Keep dreaming,” I called out while walking towards the staircase.

“Believe me, I will,” he replied in a sing-songy voice, “and trust me, you’ll be starring every one of them.”

I had to swallow a strangled noise, and before hurrying down the flight of stairs, I could hear him call out, in an amused tone, “Goodnight, Black.”

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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.