Slytherin Pink Household

Summary: Being Draco Malfoy’s twin means never being alone, especially when Theodore Nott has always been right beside her. Warnings: None. MalfoyTwin!Reader Word Count: 9.5K

. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.

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Ever since they were young, Draco and Y/N Malfoy had been inseparable, not simply because they were twins, but because something deeper kept pulling them back together. A bond that lived under skin and bone. Beyond matching faces and shared birthdays. It was instinct. It was certain. As natural as breathing.

No matter how vicious their arguments became, no matter how cruel their pranks were, they always circled back.

Always chose each other.

They fought loudly, dramatically, the way only children raised side by side could. Doors slammed through the endless corridors of Malfoy Manor. Insults were hurled with the fearless precision of two people who knew exactly where the other was weakest and knew, too, exactly how far they could go before it stopped being a game. Pride bruised. Tempers flared. Threats were made that neither of them ever truly meant.

Yet when it mattered, when the world felt too large or too sharp, they were always side by side.

Draco was her shield.

Y/N was his anchor.

She still remembered the day everything changed.

They had been five, far too young to understand the weight of magic, or the fear it carried when it slipped its leash. The argument was ridiculous in hindsight, something trivial and childish: the last sweet on a silver tray in the drawing room. Draco insisted she’d taken it. Y/N swore she hadn’t. Voices rose, sharp and indignant, echoing off marble walls and gilded frames. Small hands shoved. Frustration bubbled over into something hot and uncontrollable.

And then Draco’s magic exploded.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t aimed.

It simply was.

The force hit her without warning, throwing her backward across the room as though the air itself had turned solid. Pain flashed sharp and blinding, and then nothing.

When she woke, she was tucked safely into her bed, silk sheets drawn neatly around her like they could keep the world out. The familiar scent of her room, lavender oil, polished wood, something faintly metallic wrapped around her. Voices filled the air, sharp and overlapping, frantic in a way the manor never allowed.

Her parents stood nearby, but it was her father’s voice that cut through everything else.

Lucius Malfoy, usually so controlled, so precise, sounded furious and terrified all at once as he scolded Draco. His tone was clipped, edged with something dangerously close to panic.

Draco.

Y/N turned her head.

He stood at the foot of the bed, small shoulders shaking violently, pale face streaked with tears. His hands were clenched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them, like he was afraid to touch anything ever again. He looked shattered. Devastated. Like a child who truly believed he had destroyed the only thing that mattered.

His sister.

His other half.

He thought he had killed her.

The realization softened something deep in her chest. So when her eyes fluttered open, she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She smiled wide and bright, utterly unconcerned, as if the whole thing had been an exciting surprise.

So wide, in fact, that both of her parents froze.

“Mummy! Daddy!” Y/N exclaimed, voice filled with wonder rather than fear. “Dray’s magic finally exploded!”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Draco broke.

A broken sob tore out of him, and he launched himself forward, climbing onto the bed and clinging to her as though she might vanish if he let go. His hands twisted in her nightshirt, desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” he cried into her shoulder. “I thought I killed you, sissy—I thought I hurt you forever.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around him just as tightly, small fingers threading into his hair, holding him like he was the one who needed saving.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, steady despite everything. “See? I’m right here.”

Lucius, who had been the most worried of all, felt his anger melt away, leaving only a tight, aching relief he would never admit to anyone outside these walls. His pale eyes softened as he watched his children tangled together on the bed, so alike, so fiercely bonded.

Narcissa’s smile was gentler than the room deserved. Her hand found Lucius’s sleeve, a quiet touch that calmed him more than words ever could.

“I told you,” she said softly. “Draco would never hurt his sister. Not truly. Not ever.”

And from that day on, it was clear to everyone in Malfoy Manor: no matter how sharp their words became, no matter how loud their arguments, Draco and Y/N were two halves of the same soul, unbreakable, protective, devoted.

Each other’s constant.

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As the years passed, the world around them slowly expanded. Alliances were formed with careful precision, conversations were held behind closed doors, and names began to matter more than playthings. Soon enough, the Malfoy twins were introduced to other children who came from the same world.

Theodore Nott was the first.

They met when the twins were six, on a cold afternoon at Nott Manor, though Draco would later insist the weather alone warranted dramatic complaints. Theo was quieter than the Malfoy twins from the moment they met him: dark-haired, pale, watchful. He didn’t rush forward like Draco. He didn’t meet Y/N with bold confidence, either.

He observed.

Measured.

And Y/N, who was used to being watched, used to the way adults weighed her worth before they even learned her favorite sweets, noticed it immediately. Not the scrutiny of an adult, but something different. Something… careful. Like he was trying to understand her, not judge her.

The adults called it a playdate.

None of the children believed that.

Lucius and Narcissa watched with polite smiles and sharper eyes. Theo’s father remained silent, his presence heavy and unreadable, like a shadow cast across the room. This wasn’t about toys or laughter.

It was about assessment. Who led. Who followed. Who watched quietly from the corners.

Draco, of course, detonated into the day like a firework. Within minutes, he’d tried to pull Theo into whatever reckless game he and Y/N had invented, issuing challenges and dares with an enthusiasm only a Malfoy child could muster.

Y/N lingered closer, studying Theo with curiosity rather than suspicion, her gaze sharp and quick. She didn’t like people who looked at her as though she were an extension of her father’s reputation. Theo’s eyes didn’t do that. His attention landed on her face, her hands, the way she stood beside Draco as if the space between them had always belonged to her.

Theo didn’t protest. He didn’t laugh loudly, nor did he shrink away.

He simply joined them.

Quietly.

And somehow, without anyone noticing exactly when it happened, he fit.

It was small at first. A steady presence that didn’t demand anything. A boy who stepped out of Draco’s chaos not because he feared it, but because he didn’t need to compete with it. He watched. He listened.

And he remembered everything.

Y/N noticed it most when Draco got carried away. When Draco’s dares became too sharp, too close to cruel, Theo’s gaze would flick to Y/N—not asking permission, but checking. Are you alright with this? Are you laughing, or are you forcing it?

And every time she met his eyes, something in Theo’s chest tightened an unfamiliar pull he didn’t yet have language for. He didn’t know why he cared whether she was truly amused. He only knew he did.

The adults would later say it was inevitable that children of their standing were bound to grow close.

But Theo knew, even at six, that what he felt wasn’t inevitability.

It was choice.

Because Draco was loud and impossible to ignore.

And Y/N—Y/N was the center of gravity.

She didn’t have to raise her voice to be noticed. She could stand perfectly still, and the room would tilt toward her anyway. Draco orbited her like a planet that didn’t know it was tethered. Theo… Theo learned to do it more quietly. He learned to be close without crowding. Present without demanding.

It started as a simple thing: Theo liked being near her.

Then it became something sharper, something that settled into him like a secret.

Theo noticed the way Y/N’s smile changed when she was genuinely entertained—softer, warmer, less guarded. He noticed how quickly she put that guard back up when adults turned their eyes on her. He noticed the second she stopped breathing whenever Lucius’s voice went cold.

And without ever meaning to, Theo began collecting those details like they mattered.

Like she mattered.

Someone who saw her without needing her to speak.

Someone who understood the spaces between words.

Someone who, even then, was already learning what it meant to stand beside her—not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

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Months later, Lorenzo Berkshire and Blaise Zabini arrived. The Berkshires were new to England, newly rooted in a country still reeling from the war’s aftermath. They’d heard the stories of the chaos, the devastation, the fear that had once gripped the wizarding world. But more importantly, they understood something far more practical: survival required allegiance.

And allegiance meant choosing a side.

They chose the Malfoys.

And the Notts.

Blaise Zabini’s family was spoken of in quieter tones. His mother’s name was whispered with intrigue and caution, followed by a long list of husbands who had vanished just as mysteriously as they’d appeared. No one questioned it, not when Mrs. Zabini’s inheritance alone rivaled most old families.

That afternoon, the Malfoy twins and Theo were sprawled across the manicured gardens of Malfoy Manor, circling a cluster of protesting garden gnomes. Draco was shouting instructions with far too much authority for a six-year-old, while Y/N laughed as she nudged one of the gnomes back toward its hole with the toe of her shoe. Theo lingered nearby, arms crossed, watching the chaos with the quiet amusement of someone who preferred storms from a safe distance.

“Draco, stop yelling at them,” Y/N said, crouching. “They don’t listen when you shout.”

“They should,” Draco huffed. “This is our garden.”

Theo tilted his head. “You’re arguing with gnomes.”

Draco scowled. “And you’re standing there doing nothing.”

“I’m supervising,” Theo replied calmly, and when Y/N laughed, that same warm pull tightened in his chest like it had hands.

A familiar pop sounded at the edge of the lawn.

Dobby appeared, wringing his long fingers nervously. Behind him stood two boys.

One had shaggy brown hair and wide eyes, his gaze darting between the towering manor and the three children as if he wasn’t sure where to place himself. The other dark-skinned, sharp-eyed held himself with effortless confidence, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he’d been taught to look like he belonged anywhere.

Y/N straightened first, brushing grass from her dress. Draco followed immediately, shoulders squaring as he stepped half a pace in front of her without thinking.

Theo noticed.

He always noticed.

It wasn’t jealousy yet. Not quite. It was simply… a quiet alarm bell in his bones whenever the world moved too close to her.

“Ms. Y/N,” Dobby squeaked, bowing. “Mr. Little Malfoy, sir—this is Mr. Lorenzo Berkshire and Mr. Blaise Zabini.”

Draco eyed them critically. “You’re late.”

Lorenzo flushed. “S-sorry. The Floo—”

“It’s fine,” Blaise interrupted smoothly, stepping forward. His eyes flicked over Draco, then Y/N, then Theo—assessing, calculating. “Thank you for having us.”

Y/N’s smile was polite, practiced, but her eyes were curious, bright. “You don’t have to sound so serious. We were just torturing gnomes.”

Theo added, dry as ever, “Against their will.”

Blaise’s mouth tipped into a small grin. “They look like they deserve it.”

Draco snorted. “Finally, someone with sense.”

Lorenzo hesitated, then blurted, “Your house is… really big.”

Draco smirked. “Obviously.”

Y/N shot him a look. “He means it’s impressive,” she corrected, gentler. Then she offered her hand to Lorenzo first, because she could always sense who needed kindness more. “I’m Y/N. That’s Draco, and this is Theo.”

Theo gave a small nod. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

Lorenzo swallowed. “I’m not.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “He is.”

Draco laughed outright, clearly approving. “I like you already.”

Theo didn’t laugh, but he watched Y/N as she smiled, and felt that same strange certainty settle deeper: she pulled people in. Whether she meant to or not.

And Theo… Theo stayed close enough to catch anyone who fell into her orbit too hard.

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Four more years passed, and with them came sharper awareness. The war no longer felt like a story told in hushed tones; it lingered in glances, in careful conversations, in the names their parents spoke with caution.

It was during one of those carefully arranged afternoons that Mattheo Riddle was introduced into their already forming circle.

At first, the adults hesitated. The name alone carried consequences. There had been long discussions behind closed doors, low voices and measured words. But eventually, a decision was made.

By then, the others were inseparable.

Draco Malfoy. Y/N Malfoy. Theodore Nott. Lorenzo Berkshire. Blaise Zabini.

They rotated through one another’s homes weekly, drifting between grand manors and inherited estates. The visits were no longer supervised closely; the parents watched from a distance, now trusting the children to occupy themselves while still observing carefully from the edges.

They were ten. A year away from Hogwarts.

That afternoon, the Malfoy sitting room was filled with the kind of comfort that only came from familiarity. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, turning dust motes into floating gold. The silver accents gleamed. The air smelled faintly of parchment and Narcissa’s perfume.

Y/N sat at the grand piano, fingers hovering over the keys as she worked through a piece Narcissa had assigned her. Theo stood close, too close for coincidence, leaning against the piano’s side, eyes fixed not on the music, but on her hands.

He’d been doing that for years: finding excuses to be near her without announcing it. Standing just off her shoulder in crowded rooms. Sitting beside her instead of across. Quietly becoming the place she could lean without realizing she’d leaned at all.

“You’re rushing the left hand,” Theo murmured.

Y/N glanced up at him, amused. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he said calmly. “Just a little.”

She narrowed her eyes, playing anyway, deliberately dragging the left hand even slower just to spite him. “Are you correcting me,” she asked, “or admiring me?”

Theo’s ears went faintly pink. It always happened with her, like she could reach inside him and tug on every thread he tried to keep neat.

“Both,” he admitted, voice quieter than usual.

Y/N laughed softly, warm and unguarded, and Theo felt that familiar pull in his chest, uncomfortable only because it was too big for him to hide. He liked making her laugh. Liked when she looked at him like the world felt safer with him near.

Across the room, Draco lounged in an armchair, arguing loudly with Blaise.

“There’s no question,” Draco insisted. “The Holyhead Harpies are overrated.”

“They are not,” Blaise shot back. “You just like being difficult.”

“I like being right.”

“You like being annoying.”

Lorenzo, curled up on the rug with a book he’d stolen from Draco’s bedroom, didn’t look up. “You’re both loud.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re reading upside down.”

Lorenzo blinked, rotated the book slowly, then frowned. “So I am.”

Theo’s mouth twitched. Y/N’s smile widened. He stored it away like he always did, another moment of her joy that felt oddly like something precious he was responsible for.

Then the door opened.

Narcissa Malfoy entered with her usual grace, her presence commanding attention without effort. Beside her stood a boy unfamiliar to them, with dark curls falling lazily over his forehead, posture casual but eyes sharp. Confident, but braced, like he expected the air to turn against him at any second.

All of the children rose immediately.

Narcissa’s gaze swept over them, soft but thoughtful. It lingered on Draco and Y/N a moment longer than the rest, as though she were measuring risks she could not name.

“Children,” she said gently, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “this is Mattheo Riddle.”

The name echoed. No one reacted outwardly. They had been taught better than that. But Theo felt the shift instantly, the careful stillness. Draco’s shoulders squared. Blaise’s eyes sharpened with interest. Lorenzo’s grip tightened on his book.

Mattheo felt it too. He kept his smile in place, but Theo saw the tension in his jaw. He was used to the pause. The judgment.

Then Y/N stepped forward.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t glance at Draco or Theo for permission. She simply extended her hand, smile warm and unguarded.

“Hi,” she said easily. “I’m Y/N Malfoy.”

Mattheo blinked, startled, before taking her hand. “Mattheo.”

Theo watched his jaw tighten just slightly, something sour and instinctive twisting in his stomach. He didn’t like how easily she smiled at him. Didn’t like the relief that flashed across Mattheo’s face.

And without thinking, without deciding, Theo shifted closer to Y/N. Not touching her. Just there. A quiet line drawn in the air that said: You’re not alone. You never are.

Draco cleared his throat. “Draco Malfoy,” he said coolly. “That’s Theo, Blaise, and Enzo.”

Blaise inclined his head politely. “Nice to meet you.”

Lorenzo blurted, “Do you like books?”

Mattheo’s mouth quirked. “Depends on the book.”

Theo studied him carefully before speaking. “You can sit.”

It wasn’t exactly an invitation. It was permission. Mattheo nodded, grateful, taking a seat near the others. Narcissa observed them for another moment before turning to leave, her hand lingering briefly on Y/N’s shoulder, maternal, protective, before the door closed.

The room fell quiet.

Draco broke it first, as always. “So… wizard chess?”

Mattheo exhaled. “I’m terrible.”

Draco grinned. “Even better.”

Y/N laughed, and Theo felt it the way that sound anchored him. No matter who joined them, no matter how the circle expanded, she was still the center. And Theo knew, even then, that whatever he felt for her wasn’t fleeting. It wasn’t childish. It wasn’t something he could simply grow out of.

It had been building since he was six years old, quiet and stubborn and unshakable.

A devotion he didn’t name yet.

But he carried it like a promise anyway.

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It wasn’t until Hogwarts that the boys and Y/N began to understand just how tightly bound they truly were.

They moved through the castle like a unit, even when they weren’t standing together. People noticed. Whispers followed them down corridors. Sneers lingered at the edges of classrooms. Eyes narrowed whenever they passed. Other houses watched them with thinly veiled disdain, judging them before they ever spoke.

They didn’t always say it to their faces.

They were too afraid for that.

But Y/N heard it anyway, murmured insults behind hands, sharp laughter that cut just a second too long. Words like Death Eater. Dark. Tainted. Words meant to peel the skin off.

She told herself she didn’t care.

That she was used to it.

And in a way, she was raised in a manor where reputation was a second spine, where fear was a language people pretended not to speak.

But there was a difference between whispers in passing… And what people did when they thought no one would stop them.

It was a rare afternoon when she was alone.

No Draco at her side. No Theo lingering close. No Blaise scanning a room like a blade. No Lorenzo quietly trailing behind. No Mattheo leaning against a wall with that lazy smile that never quite reached his eyes.

For once, the boys were elsewhere, arguing about Quidditch and house points and some stupid bet that had dragged them toward the courtyard. Y/N had slipped away to breathe.

She sat near the Black Lake with her shoes discarded beside her, skirt tucked neatly under her legs, the grass cool beneath her palms. The water shimmered lazily; the giant squid’s shadow drifted far out in the distance like a secret too large to name. The sun was pleasant. The air smelled like damp earth and leaves.

For a few minutes, she let herself pretend she was just a girl beside a lake. Not a name. Not a reputation. Not a target.

She closed her eyes. That’s when the sunlight disappeared. A shadow fell across her face, sudden and deliberate. Y/N opened her eyes. Three Ravenclaw girls stood in front of her, older third years, maybe fourth. They wore confidence like armor and cruelty like perfume, the kind of girls who only felt powerful when someone smaller was in reach.

“Well,” the tallest drawled, “look at that. Finally alone without your little Death Eater gang, little Malfoy?”

Y/N’s spine went stiff. She hated that nickname, the way people used it, like she was nothing more than Draco Malfoy’s shadow. She didn’t rise immediately. She forced her expression into something cool and blank, the same mask she’d worn her whole life.

“Move,” she said flatly.

One of the girls laughed, as if Y/N’s voice were entertainment. “Still bossy. Figures.”

“You think you’re untouchable,” the first continued, stepping closer. “Because of your brother. Because of your friends.”

Y/N stood, brushing her hands over her skirt even though it wasn’t dirty, anything to keep her body moving, anything to keep them from seeing the way her pulse had jumped.

“I’m not bothering you.”

“No,” the third girl said softly, circling. “But your name does.”

Y/N’s fingers curled at her sides. “I don’t control my last name.”

“Oh, please,” the first snapped. “You control who you stand with.”

“And you stand with them,” the second added, eyes narrowing. “The ones who think they’re better than everyone.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “If you don’t like who I stand with, walk away.”

The tallest girl smiled slowly and satisfied. “Or we could teach you what it’s like to be alone.”

Before Y/N could step back, a hand shoved her shoulder. She stumbled, heel sliding dangerously near the edge. Her stomach dropped.

“Stop,” she warned, voice sharper now.

They didn’t. Another shove harder. Her back foot slipped on damp soil. And then the ground vanished. She fell backward into the lake with a splash that knocked the breath clean out of her lungs. Cold slammed into her like a curse, stealing thought, stealing air. Her clothes grew heavy instantly, dragging her down. Her skirts tangled around her legs like hands.

She couldn’t swim.

Panic exploded in her chest. She opened her mouth to scream, and water poured in instead. She thrashed, disoriented, kicking uselessly. The surface seemed impossibly far away, a bright, wavering ceiling she couldn’t reach.

On the shore, the Ravenclaws froze.

For half a second, none of them moved.

Then—

“What the hell—?!”

Draco’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

The boys were running five figures, tearing across the grass from the path above. Draco was first, face twisted with horror and fury. Blaise was right behind him, faster than he looked. Lorenzo sprinted with his robes in his hands so he wouldn’t trip. Mattheo followed, long strides eating distance, eyes locked on the lake.

Theo didn’t shout.

He didn’t hesitate.

He ran past them all and dove. The cold hit him like a fist. It stole his breath so violently his lungs seized his body, screaming to surface, to survive. But Theo forced himself down anyway, eyes burning as he opened them underwater.

Find her.

He saw her shadow beneath the surface hair, floating like ink around her face, movements frantic and weakening.

Theo’s heart nearly stopped. For one terrible second, all he could think was: No. Not her. Not Y/N.

He kicked hard, arms slicing through the water, and reached her just as her thrashing slowed. He wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled upward, fighting against the weight of her soaked clothes.

Up—up—

They broke the surface with a gasp.

Theo coughed, choking on water, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I’ve got you—don’t fight me—”

Y/N sputtered, half-conscious, terror-stricken. Her fingers latched onto his robes like he was the only real thing left in the world.

On shore, Draco reached the girls.

“What did you do?” he demanded, voice shaking with rage. “What did you do to her?!”

“She—she fell—” one stammered.

Blaise’s voice went icy. “She didn’t fall. You pushed her.”

Lorenzo planted himself between the Ravenclaws and the lake, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. “Step back. Now.”

Mattheo didn’t speak at first. He just looked at them. His expression was calm in a way that didn’t match the moment, too still, too quiet. His eyes flicked from their faces to the lake and back again, and something dark settled there, something old.

The tallest Ravenclaw tried to scoff, but her voice wavered. “It was just a joke—”

Mattheo finally smiled. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind of smile that made people remember his last name, too.

“A joke,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “That’s funny. Because she could’ve died.”

The girls’ faces paled.

Draco took a step forward, shaking with rage. “You’re going to the Head of House,” he snarled. “You’re going to Flitwick—someone—”

Blaise’s hand shot out, gripping Draco’s sleeve, grounding him before he did something that would land them in trouble too. “Draco,” Blaise warned under his breath. “Not here.”

Draco’s breathing was ragged. “They pushed her.”

“I know,” Blaise said, clipped. “And we’re handling it.”

Mattheo leaned in slightly toward the Ravenclaws, voice low enough it felt private and dangerous. “If you ever touch her again,” he said, “I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your Hogwarts years afraid of empty corridors.”

One of the girls swallowed hard. “You can’t—”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked to her. “Try me.”

Meanwhile, Theo dragged Y/N toward shore, muscles screaming, lungs burning, teeth chattering so hard it hurt. Lorenzo rushed forward, grabbing Y/N’s arm and helping pull her onto the grass.

Y/N collapsed, coughing violently as water spilled from her mouth. She shook uncontrollably, soaked hair plastered to her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and glassy with fear.

Theo dropped beside her instantly, too fast, too desperate, one hand bracing her back, the other gripping her wrist like he could keep her tethered to the earth if he held tight enough.

“Breathe,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “Please—breathe. Look at me—look at me—”

Y/N gasped, chest heaving, and suddenly she was sobbing—quiet, broken sounds she tried to swallow down like she was ashamed of them. Her fingers clenched in Theo’s robes again, desperate.

“I—I couldn’t—” she choked. “I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Theo said fiercely, leaning close, forehead nearly touching hers. His hands shook as he held her, anger and fear tangled together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. “I know. You’re safe. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Draco knelt on her other side, face white with terror and rage. He touched her shoulder carefully, like he was afraid she’d shatter. “Sissy—” his voice wavered, and he swallowed it down. “Y/N. I’m here.”

Blaise turned back to the Ravenclaws, expression polite but lethal. “Walk away,” he said smoothly. “Now. Before you make this worse.”

Lorenzo didn’t move, jaw clenched, eyes bright with fury. And Mattheo, still calm, still terrifyingly quiet, kept his gaze on the girls until they finally backed away, stumbling over their own feet.

Only when they were gone did Theo look down at Y/N again.

Her cheeks were flushed from coughing, lashes clumped with water, and lips trembling. She looked small, too small for the weight her name forced onto her. Too breakable for the world’s cruelty.

Theo’s throat tightened.

This wasn’t just anger.

This wasn’t just fear.

This was something that had been building in him for years—quiet and stubborn, living in the way he always stood a little closer, listened a little harder, watched her a little too carefully.

Love.

And as he held her there on the grass—soaked, shaking, alive—Theodore Nott knew one truth with terrifying clarity: He had been hers since he was six years old. He just hadn’t known what to call it.

And now that he knew that the word existed in him like a vow, he would destroy anyone who ever tried to hurt her again.

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It was in their third year when Y/N began to realize something had shifted. At first, she told herself it was nothing.

The third year changed everyone. Hogwarts felt smaller somehow, corridors darker, expectations heavier. Lessons stopped being games. Professors stopped indulging mistakes. The whispers sharpened, too, as if the castle itself had decided they were old enough to be punished for their surnames.

People didn’t see children anymore. They saw names. Legacies. Consequences. Still, through it all, one thing stayed constant.

Theo.

He had always been there quietly, steadily, without demanding space or attention. Where Draco was loud in his protectiveness, Theo was subtle. Where Draco burned, Theo endured. He stood beside her in crowded corridors, drifted near her shoulder in the Great Hall, waited outside classrooms as if he’d simply ended up there, like it wasn’t intentional at all.

Like it wasn’t always about her.

Theo knew her moods before she did.

When she grew sharp and distant, he didn’t push. When she laughed too brightly—too polished, too rehearsed—he watched closer, gaze narrowing the way it did when he saw something no one else was meant to notice.

When the world became too much, he simply stayed.

Sometimes, she thought he knew her better than Draco did. That realization frightened her more than anything else. Because Draco was her twin. Draco was woven into her like blood. It made sense that he knew her.

Theo… Theo wasn’t supposed to.

And yet. It didn’t crash over her in some dramatic moment. It crept in quietly, through small things she only noticed afterward.

Like the way her eyes searched for Theo first when she entered a room without meaning to, without thinking. Like how her shoulders loosened the second she spotted him leaning against a wall, arms crossed, dark eyes already on her as if he’d been waiting. Not in the obvious way, not like a puppy left at a door—just… present. Ready.

Grounding.

As if the chaos of Hogwarts softened when he was near.

She started noticing the details.

The way he always walked on the outside of the corridor, placing himself between her and the press of students without ever making a show of it. The way he handed her books before she even realized she needed them. The way he remembered things she’d said once, months ago, in passing, like her words were something he kept instead of something he endured.

“You don’t like thunder,” Theo had said one night, voice low in the common room.

Y/N blinked at him. “I don’t?”

“You tense up,” he replied simply. “Every time.”

She didn’t remember telling him that.

Worse—she didn’t remember anyone noticing.

There were nights when they sat together long after the others had gone to bed, the Slytherin common room hushed beneath green light and the slow crackle of the fire. Draco would be asleep already. Blaise distracted with whatever drama he pretended not to enjoy. Mattheo off chasing something reckless. Lorenzo buried in a book, half-asleep over the pages.

Leaving just the two of them.

Theo never rushed to fill the silence. And somehow that made it intimate. Because silence with Theo wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t empty.

It was chosen.

She began to notice how close he sat. Not touching Theo, but near enough that she could feel his warmth, near enough that their shoulders almost brushed when she shifted.

She told herself it meant nothing.

Until it did.

Until one evening, when she laughed at something Blaise said and turned, instinctively, to Theo as if he were the person she wanted to share it with first. Only to find him already watching her. Not in the casual way he watched everything, always attentive, always aware.

In a softer way.

Like she was something precious he didn’t want to startle.

Her breath caught.

Theo’s gaze flicked to her mouth just for a second, quick enough that she could pretend she imagined it.

Then he looked away first, jaw tightening like he was angry at himself.

That was when it truly began. Because once she saw it, she couldn’t unsee it.

She thought about him when he wasn’t there. Wondered where he was during lessons they didn’t share. Felt something twist uncomfortably in her chest when other girls spoke to him, especially when they smiled too brightly, lingered too long, acted like they were entitled to his attention.

She told herself it was stupid.

Theo was her best friend.

Theo was safe.

Theo was constant.

But she was learning quietly, miserably, that safety didn’t always mean the absence of risk. Sometimes it meant the presence of something worth losing everything for.

She started noticing the way he said her name. Not rushed. Not careless. Like it mattered. Like it was something fragile in his mouth. She noticed how his hand would hover near her back in crowded spaces, never quite touching, but always ready.

Like if the world shoved too hard, Theo would catch her.

And then there were moments—small, cruelly gentle moments—that shattered her defenses.

The night she couldn’t sleep after a nightmare, she slipped quietly into the common room, expecting emptiness.

Theo was already there.

Sitting awake with a book open in his lap that he clearly wasn’t reading.

He looked up the moment she stepped into the room, as if he’d been listening for her without realizing it.

“You too?” he asked softly.

Y/N nodded, throat tight.

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t demand details. Didn’t try to fix it. He just shifted closer on the sofa and, without a word, draped his blanket over her shoulders, warm and heavy, smelling faintly like parchment and smoke.

She didn’t give it back.

And Theo didn’t ask for it.

It was then wrapped in his warmth, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, that the truth settled in her chest, heavy and undeniable.

She was falling for him.

Her best friend.

Her quiet constant.

The boy who knew her almost as well as Draco did—if not better, sometimes.

Theodore Nott.

And the most terrifying part wasn’t the fear of rejection.

It was the fear that he already knew.

.

.

.

It wasn’t supposed to be a confession.

That was the thing about it.

Fourth year had settled into something familiar, comfortable routines, shared meals, laughter in the common room, late-night walks that didn’t need explanations. Y/N told herself nothing had changed. That whatever she felt was normal. That best friends stayed close. That comfort didn’t have to mean more.

Theo told himself the same.

He had been telling himself the same for years.

So when they found themselves by the Black Lake that evening, neither of them thought anything of it. Not at first.

The sun hung low, turning the water molten gold. The surface rippled gently, calm in a way that felt intentional, as if the lake were holding its breath. Y/N sat in the grass with her knees drawn up, tracing absent patterns into the earth with her fingers. Theo stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the water like it was easier to look at anything else.

“This place always feels quieter,” she said softly.

Theo nodded. “It’s easier to think here.”

She glanced up at him. “You’re thinking now.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound almost reluctant. “Am I that obvious?”

“To me,” she said.

That earned her a look that lingered a second longer than usual. Not intense. Not searching.

Just… honest.

Theo sat beside her, leaving space between them out of habit rather than intent. Like his body still remembered years of not taking too much.

“I figured something out here,” he said after a moment.

Y/N tilted her head. “About what?”

“About you.”

Her fingers stilled in the grass. “That sounds ominous,” she tried to joke, lightness forced, heart suddenly too loud in her ribs.

“It wasn’t,” Theo said quickly. Then he corrected himself, mouth twitching like he regretted the words already. “Well. It was, but not in a bad way.”

She waited.

Theo swallowed, eyes still on the lake. “Do you remember first year? After… everything that happened here?”

Her chest tightened. Of course she remembered. The cold. The panic. The way the world had vanished beneath her feet.

“You almost drowned,” he continued quietly, voice stripped down to something bare. “I jumped in without thinking. Didn’t even realize what I was doing until I had you.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “I remember.”

“I told myself that was just panic,” Theo said. “Fear. Adrenaline. I told myself anyone would’ve done the same.”

He finally turned to look at her, and something in his expression cracked open just enough for her to see what he usually kept locked away.

“But that wasn’t it.”

Y/N frowned, breath shallow. “Theo…”

“I think I liked you before that,” he admitted. “Probably since we were six.” A beat. Then, softer: “Since you smiled at Mattheo like his name didn’t matter. Since you always pulled me into Draco’s chaos even when I didn’t want to be.”

Her breath caught.

Theo’s voice lowered, as if the lake might overhear. “But that day… that’s when I realized I loved you.”

The word settled between them, heavy and quiet, like the world had paused to listen.

“I was eleven,” he said, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. “And all I could think was that the world would be wrong if you weren’t in it.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned like she’d been struck clean through.

“You—” She let out a weak laugh, shaking her head as if that could make it less real. “Theo, I didn’t even know I liked you until last year.”

“I know,” he said gently. His eyes softened in a way that made her stomach flip. “You’re terrible at noticing things about yourself.”

She scoffed automatically. “Excuse me?”

“You notice everyone else,” he said. “Just not you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Theo looked back at the water like he needed something steady to hold onto. “I didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t think it mattered. Because I didn’t want to change anything.” His jaw flexed. “And because… I was content just being here.”

Her chest felt too full. Too tight.

“And now?” she asked quietly.

He shrugged, helpless in a way Theo never was. “Now I realized I can’t pretend I don’t feel it anymore.”

Y/N looked out at the lake, the same water that had once terrified her, that had nearly taken her, that had shown Theo his heart before he understood it himself.

“I thought,” she said slowly, voice trembling at the edges, “that what I felt was just comfort. That you were just… home.”

Theo’s lips curved faintly. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

A shaky breath left her. “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” he admitted, and the honesty in it made her want to cry.

“Not because it’s dangerous,” she clarified quickly. “But because I don’t want to break what we have. Or the group. Or Draco.”

Theo nodded once. “That’s why I never said anything.”

She turned to face him fully now, searching his expression like it held the answer to a question she’d been too afraid to ask. “So what are we doing?”

Theo hesitated, then answered with the kind of truth he always gave her. “We tell the truth. And we go slow. And we don’t make it obvious until we’re sure.”

Her fingers brushed his.

Neither of them pulled away.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Theo smiled, not wide, not triumphant.

Just relieved.

“Okay,” he echoed.

He leaned in carefully, giving her space to stop him.

She didn’t.

Their kiss was gentle and uncertain, two people learning something new about themselves together. When they pulled back, her forehead rested against his, both of them breathing like they’d been holding it for years.

“So,” she murmured, a shaky smile breaking through, “you’ve loved me since I was eleven.”

Theo chuckled softly. “And you only just noticed.”

She laughed, warmth blooming in her chest like something waking up. Behind them, the Black Lake rippled unchanged, patient, keeping their secret, just as it always had.

.

.

.

Pansy Parkinson had always prided herself on her observant nature. But even she hadn’t seen this coming.

The Slytherin common room was loud in the way only Slytherins could manage, controlled chaos wrapped in green firelight and stone. Conversations overlapped. Laughter bounced off the walls. Ambition lingered in the air like smoke, sweet and sharp.

Their group had claimed their usual corner.

Draco lounged across an armchair like he owned it—which, frankly, he did. Blaise sat on the couch opposite him, boots crossed at the ankles, expression bored in the way that meant he was listening to everything. Lorenzo was on the floor with his back against the sofa, skimming through a book he’d absolutely “borrowed.” Mattheo leaned against a pillar nearby, arms crossed, scanning the room with half-lidded eyes as if he was waiting for something to amuse him.

Y/N stood near the sofa, arms folded loosely as she listened to Draco complain about literally everything.

Theo stood beside her.

Casual. Relaxed. Normal.

(He was not normal.)

Pansy lounged nearby with Witch Weekly magazine, which she hadn’t turned a page of in ten minutes, watching everyone like a hawk.

Theo’s shoulder brushed Y/N’s. His body angled toward her, subtle and instinctive. One hand rested on the back of the couch behind her, not touching, but close enough that it might as well have been a line drawn in stone.

Pansy noticed immediately.

And then Marcus Flint’s younger cousin approached.

He had the unmistakable Flint confidence—too much of it, really—and the audacity to think this was a good idea. He lingered at the edge of their space, cleared his throat, and stepped forward like he belonged there.

“Y/N.”

Theo went rigid.

Not dramatic, Theo never did dramatic. Just… still. Alert. Like a blade being drawn an inch from its sheath.

Y/N turned politely. “Yeah?”

“Hogsmeade’s this weekend,” Flint said, rocking back on his heels, smiling like he expected her to be flattered. “Thought maybe you’d want to go with me.”

Theo didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, fully blocking the space between them. “She’s not going.” The words came out sharp. Final.

The corner of the common room went quiet like the air itself had paused to listen.

Theo blinked, realizing too late that everyone was staring.

Y/N frowned. “Theo?”

“She’s—” He swallowed, then rushed on, eyes flicking anywhere but hers. “She’s already busy.”

Draco’s brows knit together. “Busy with what?”

Theo panicked. “With me,” he blurted.

Dead silence.

Blaise squinted. “You?”

Lorenzo sat up like he’d been shocked awake. “Since when?”

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, slow and delighted. “That’s new.”

Flint scoffed. “She didn’t say that.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t need to.”

Flint crossed his arms. “I was talking to her, not you.”

That was a mistake. Draco shot to his feet. “And you’re talking to my sister.”

Flint rolled his eyes. “Relax, Malfoy. It’s just Hogsmeade.”

Theo cut in quickly, words tumbling out now. “We all know how the Flints are with girls—”

Flint snapped, “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not exactly known for your respect,” Theo shot back, then immediately looked like he wished he could grab the words out of the air. “I mean—historically—”

Blaise nodded thoughtfully. “He’s not wrong.”

Lorenzo added, far too earnest, “It’s kind of a reputation thing.”

Flint bristled. “You lot think you’re better than everyone.”

Draco stepped closer, eyes cold. “I don’t think it. I know it.”

Mattheo smirked. “Also, she’s too pretty for you.”

Draco whipped his head around. “Watch it.”

Mattheo held up his hands. “Protective brother privilege.”

Flint scoffed again. “Whatever. Didn’t realize she needed a committee.”

Theo’s hand slid without thinking to Y/N’s wrist. Firm. Protective. Possessive enough that Pansy’s eyes widened.

“She’s not going with you,” Theo repeated, quieter now, but somehow more dangerous. “Drop it.”

For a moment, Flint looked like he might argue again.

Then he took one look at Draco’s expression, Blaise’s calm stare, Mattheo’s amused menace, and Theo’s hand on Y/N like a promise and decided he valued his skin.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to deal with this anyway.”

He turned and walked off, grumbling under his breath. The common room noise slowly returned, as if it had been holding itself back.

Draco sat back down, irritated. “Honestly. The audacity. Glad you pretended to take my sister out, mate.”

Blaise shook his head. “Flints.”

Lorenzo shrugged. “You did the right thing, Theo.”

Theo nodded faintly, still bright red from the horror of what he’d just blurted out in front of half of Slytherin. “Yeah.”

He tried to play it off, chin lifted, shoulders squared, expression carefully neutral, but it was impossible to look intimidating when your ears were the exact color of Gryffindor banners.

Y/N stared at him. Half stunned. Half amused. Entirely doomed.

Because Theo Nott—quiet, composed Theo Nott—had just announced with his whole chest that she was “busy with him,” and now he was sitting there like a man awaiting trial.

Pansy Parkinson stopped breathing.

Literally.

One second she was lounging like a bored aristocrat, the next she went statue-still, eyes widening so fast it was like someone had cast a spell on her face.

Her gaze dropped.

To Theo’s hand still resting at Y/N’s wrist like it belonged there. To Y/N leaning into him just slightly, barely anything, but Pansy had the observational skills of a predator and the soul of a gossip columnist.

To the fact that Theo hadn’t moved an inch away. Not even after the entire table went silent. Not even after Draco noticed.

Pansy’s mouth fell open. A soundless, reverent sort of horror. “Oh,” she whispered, like she’d just solved an ancient rune.

Theo saw it.

Too late.

Pansy’s eyes widened again—somehow wider—like her brain was trying to expand past the limits of her skull. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh—OH—”

It wasn’t even a word anymore. It was the beginning of an explosion.

Theo reacted on instinct. He grabbed Pansy’s arm like he was intercepting a Bludger. At the exact same time, Y/N grabbed her other arm.

“Nope,” Theo muttered, voice flat with sheer panic.

“Absolutely not,” Y/N hissed, eyes sharp as daggers.

They hauled Pansy upright so fast her magazine slid off her lap and flopped onto the floor like a defeated witness.

Pansy tried to speak.

Tried to inhale.

Tried to make the noise.

Y/N leaned forward, smile bright and fake. “Bathroom,” she called over her shoulder in a sweet, perfectly normal voice, as if nothing suspicious was happening.

“Emergency,” Theo echoed immediately, too fast, too intense, like he’d rehearsed it.

Draco frowned. “Why do you both—”

“It’s Pansy,” Blaise said calmly, sipping his drink like this was weather. “This tracks.”

.

.

.

The door slammed shut behind them with the finality of a courtroom verdict. In the bathroom, Pansy detonated. She doubled over laughing, one hand braced on her knees, the other clutching her chest like she was having a spiritual experience. She wheezed so hard her shoulders shook.

“I KNEW IT!” she choked out between gasps. “I KNEW IT—THE STAMMERING—THE HAND—THE FLINT EXCUSE—”

Theo clapped a hand over her mouth so fast it was practically a reflex curse. “Quiet,” he hissed, eyes wild, scanning the bathroom like Filch might leap out of a tapestry.

Pansy muffled-laughed against his palm, eyes glittering with pure evil delight. It was the most pleased Theo had ever seen her, which was saying something.

“You practically short-circuited!” she wheezed the moment he loosened his grip. “You said ‘busy with—ME’ like you were claiming territory!”

“I panicked,” Theo muttered through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck like the skin might detach and float away from embarrassment. “It was tactical.”

Pansy gasped again, pointing at him with accusation. “TACTICAL? You sounded like a feral kneazle!”

Y/N covered her face with both hands. “Merlin. I’m never showing my face at breakfast again.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Pansy said, still breathless, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “This is the most entertaining thing Slytherin has had since someone tried to smuggle a pygmy puff into Transfiguration.”

Theo’s voice went flat. “How long do you think before you tell someone?”

Pansy pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “How dare you. I have integrity.” She paused, smirked. “Sometimes.”

Y/N dropped her hands, eyes narrowing. “Pansy.”

Pansy held up both palms immediately. “Fine. I won’t tell. Not because I’m kind, but because I like having leverage.”

Theo groaned, tipping his head back against the cold stone. “Of course.”

Pansy’s gaze snapped back to them, suddenly sharp again. “How long.”

Theo hesitated, like saying it aloud would make it worse.

“Four months,” he admitted, and it sounded like a confession in court.

Pansy stared at him for a beat… then sighed dramatically. “I deserve compensation.”

Y/N’s eyes sharpened. “No.”

Pansy pouted. “At least let me enjoy this. I have suffered through Draco Malfoy’s ego for years.”

Theo muttered, “We all have.”

Pansy brightened again, grin returning. “Oh, this is going to be delicious. I get to watch you both panic every time someone breathes near you.”

“You cannot tell anyone,” Y/N warned, tone suddenly all Malfoy—cold, precise, dangerous.

“I won’t,” Pansy promised instantly, a hand over her heart like she was swearing a vow. Then she leaned in, eyes gleaming. “But I will absolutely enjoy knowing.”

Theo made a low, defeated noise.

“And watching you both panic,” Pansy finished smugly.

.

.

.

Back in the common room, Draco sat with his arms crossed, expression sour. “Still,” he said firmly, like he was announcing a law, “no Flints near my sister.”

The boys nodded in agreement, solemn as if they’d just signed a treaty.

Pansy returned moments later, wearing the most smug smile Hogwarts had ever seen, radiating the satisfaction of someone holding a secret that made everything infinitely more entertaining.

And Theo Nott, trailing behind her looking like he’d aged five years in five minutes, realized with absolute dread: This wasn’t the end of the disaster.

It was just the beginning.

.

.

.

Mattheo Riddle went to the Astronomy Tower for one reason and one reason only.

Peace.

Well, peace and a cigarette, he definitely wasn’t supposed to have.

Fifth year had been a slow, grinding, and exhausting kind of year. O.W.L's pressure dug its claws into everyone; professors watched them like they were waiting for someone to crack, and the castle buzzed with a tension that never quite settled. Even Slytherin’s common room, usually controlled chaos, felt too loud lately. Too many eyes. Too many conversations that turned sharp the second his name entered them.

The Astronomy Tower was different.

It didn’t care who your father was. It didn’t care what people whispered. Up here, the air was colder, cleaner. The sky felt closer. The stars didn’t judge.

Mattheo leaned against the stone wall, pulled the cigarette from his pocket like it was a secret he’d earned, and flicked his lighter. The flame cupped itself against the wind, stubborn and bright. He inhaled, held it for a beat, then exhaled slowly.

Smoke curled into the night.

For the first time all week, his shoulders loosened.

Then he heard voices.

Soft ones.

Mattheo paused mid-drag, frowning as he angled his head toward the far side of the tower where the shadows were deeper and the starlight brighter. He considered turning around. Not my problem, his brain offered. Not my business.

But then he heard it.

Y/N’s laugh.

Not her polite laugh. Not the one she used in corridors when people were watching, sharp and controlled like a blade.

The real one. Warm. Unfiltered. The kind that slipped out when she forgot she was a Malfoy for a second.

Mattheo froze.

He took another step quietly now, careful in the way only someone raised around danger could be careful. Smoke drifted from his lips as he moved toward a pillar just out of sight, back pressed to cool stone, the cigarette held low so the ember wouldn’t give him away.

Theo’s voice followed low, warm, stripped of the careful distance he usually wore like armor. “You’re going to get us caught one day,” he murmured.

Y/N laughed again, softer now. “You say that every time.”

“And every time,” Theo replied, voice almost smiling, “I’m right.”

Mattheo’s eyebrows lifted. That didn’t sound like casual conversation. He leaned his shoulder into the pillar, eyes narrowing as he peered around the edge, and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Theo stood close to her. Too close for coincidence. Not the polite, careful distance he kept from almost everyone else. This was familiar closeness. The kind that belonged to people who didn’t have to ask permission anymore.

His hand rested at her waist, gentle, like he was afraid of nothing except startling her. His thumb brushed absent patterns against her robes like muscle memory. Y/N tilted her head up, fingers already fisted in the front of his jumper before he even leaned down, tugging him in like she’d been doing it for months.

They kissed.

Not rushed.

Not stolen.

Not hesitant.

Soft and unguarded like two people who had stopped worrying about firsts a long time ago, and now only cared about here. About this. About each other.

Mattheo choked. He turned sharply, clapping a hand over his mouth as he coughed into his sleeve, eyes watering, lungs screaming like traitors.

“Merlin—” he hissed under his breath.

The sound echoed off the stone. Theo froze. Y/N stiffened instantly. They broke apart like they’d been hexed.

“Did you hear that?” Y/N whispered, voice sharp with panic.

Theo scanned the tower, heart clearly hammering even from where Mattheo stood. “Probably just the wind,” he murmured too quick, too hopeful.

Mattheo laughed out loud. “Oh, come on,” he said, stepping fully into view, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. “Even Hogwarts isn’t that dramatic.”

Theo nearly jumped out of his skin.

Y/N gasped. “Mattheo!”

Theo’s face drained of color so fast it was almost impressive. “How long were you—”

“Long enough to traumatize me,” Mattheo replied dryly, taking one last drag like he needed it to survive this conversation. “And short enough that I’m choosing to pretend I didn’t just witness something sacred.”

There was a beat of horrified silence.

Then Y/N groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Oh no. Oh no.”

Theo raked a hand through his hair and paced once, like movement could undo the last ten seconds. “You weren’t supposed to be up here.”

Mattheo shrugged. “Neither were you.”

He studied them more carefully now, not teasing, not smug. Observant. The way his eyes always went a little sharper when something mattered.

Theo hovered half a step closer to Y/N without noticing. Y/N’s fingers caught Theo’s sleeve as if her body had already decided where safety lived. Neither of them looked embarrassed, not really.

Just… caught.

“How long?” Mattheo asked quietly.

Theo hesitated, jaw tight, calculating the fallout.

Y/N answered for him, voice soft. “Almost a year.”

Mattheo blinked.

Then blinked again.

“A year?” he repeated, disbelief cracking through his usual composure. “You’ve been dating in secret for a year?”

Theo nodded once, grim. “We didn’t want to change things.”

Mattheo let out a low whistle, eyes flicking to Theo’s hand still at Y/N’s waist like it belonged there. “That explains a lot.”

“What exactly?” Y/N asked cautiously.

Mattheo ticked them off with lazy honesty. “The way he watches rooms before you enter. The way you always know where he is. The way neither of you can lie convincingly when asked if you’re tired.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And the way Theo looks like he’s one bad day away from murdering anyone who breathes too close to you.”

Theo winced. “I knew I was obvious.”

“You’re not obvious,” Mattheo corrected, voice unexpectedly gentle. “You’re consistent.”

That quiet kindness landed strangely in the cold night air.

Then Mattheo’s mouth curved into mischief again, returning. “Also… Pansy knows, I’m guessing.”

Theo stiffened. “How—”

“Because she’s Pansy,” Mattheo said, like it was the simplest answer in the world. “And because she’s been watching you like she’s holding a secret over her own head for entertainment.”

Y/N sighed, shoulders sagging. “She swore she wouldn’t tell.”

“And she didn’t,” Mattheo said easily. “Neither will I.”

Theo studied him, suspicion flickering. “You’re… okay with this?”

Mattheo shrugged, gaze softening just a fraction. “You’re good to her. She’s happier.” Then he added, deadpan, “And somehow you managed to keep Draco completely clueless for a year.”

That earned a weak, helpless laugh from Y/N.

“That part took effort,” Theo admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mattheo smirked. “I believe it.” He stubbed out his cigarette against the stone and straightened, hands sliding into his pockets. “For what it’s worth, you chose a terrible hiding spot.”

Theo groaned. “This was our place.”

Mattheo’s grin widened. “Not anymore.” He stepped past them, then paused like an afterthought had just occurred to him. “Oh,” he added over his shoulder, voice bright with impending chaos, “Pansy’s going to be insufferable when she finds out I know.”

Y/N groaned again. “Please don’t tell her you saw us.”

Mattheo’s smile turned wicked. “No promises.”

Y/N flushed. Theo scowled. Mattheo laughed as he descended, footsteps echoing down the spiral like punctuation. When he was gone, silence settled again thick, private, almost tender.

Theo turned to Y/N, eyes searching her face like he needed to make sure she was still here, still okay. “You alright?”

Y/N nodded, stepping closer until her forehead rested against his. Her voice was small, but steady. “I think so.”

Theo smiled faintly, breath ghosting against her lips. “That makes three of us now.”

Y/N laughed quietly, and Theo’s hand slid back to her waist like it had been waiting.

Above them, the stars burned on as witnesses to a secret that had survived almost a year. And somehow, despite everything, Draco Malfoy still had no idea.

.

.

.

Blaise Zabini and Enzo Berkshire were absolutely not supposed to be in the girls’ dormitory.

This was important.

This was criminally important.

This was the sort of rule that existed for extremely obvious reasons, like dignity, privacy, and the very real possibility of Draco Malfoy committing a homicide.

Unfortunately, Blaise’s Potions notes—his very expensive, very organized, very aggressively color-coded Potions notes—were currently sitting on Y/N Malfoy’s desk because she’d borrowed them earlier.

And Enzo, in a moment of supreme overconfidence and very poor decision-making, had said:

“We’ll just grab them quickly.”

Quickly.

Those were famous last words.

They crept down the Slytherin corridor like two criminals with the survival instincts of damp socks, their shoes barely making a sound against the cold stone floor.

Enzo kept glancing over his shoulder like Snape might materialize out of thin air.

“If Snape finds out we were here,” Enzo whispered, “I’m blaming you.”

“You need to borrow my notes,” Blaise hissed back. “This is a joint crime.”

“I didn’t realize borrowing notes required breaking into the girls’ dormitory.”

“Adaptability is an important life skill.”

They reached the door.

It was slightly ajar.

Blaise stopped.

He frowned.

“The girls never leave it open.”

Enzo shrugged. “Maybe they forgot.”

“Y/N Malfoy forgetting something?” Blaise said skeptically. “That seems unlikely.”

“Maybe Millicent exploded something.”

“That seems extremely likely.”

Blaise pushed the door open slowly.

It creaked. Both of them froze. Nothing exploded. No screaming. No curses. Encouraged by the absence of immediate death, they stepped inside.

The room was dim, lit only by a floating candle near the window. Green curtains stirred softly in the draft, and the whole place smelled faintly like expensive perfume and parchment.

Very lived-in.

Very peaceful.

Very much like they had just walked into somewhere they absolutely should not be.

Blaise took two steps forward.

And stopped so abruptly Enzo walked straight into his back.

“OW—what is—”

Enzo leaned around him. And his brain immediately left his body.

Y/N Malfoy stood near her bed. Theodore Nott was right there. And they were kissing. Not a startled kiss. Not an oh gods someone might see us kiss. A slow, comfortable, deeply familiar kiss.

Theo’s hands rested at her waist like they’d lived there for years. Y/N’s fingers were tangled in the collar of his jumper, tugging him closer without hesitation. They were murmuring something between kisses, laughing softly like they had absolutely nowhere else to be.

They did not notice Blaise and Enzo.

At all.

Blaise blinked.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, just to confirm he hadn’t accidentally inhaled something illegal during Potions earlier.

Enzo made a noise. It was not a word. It was a sound. Something between a gasp and the dying squeak of a very confused mouse.

Theo froze mid-kiss. Y/N froze mid-laugh.

They turned.

Four people stared at each other.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

The silence was so intense the floating candle flickered like it was uncomfortable too.

Then Enzo whispered very softly, very sincerely: “…Is this a prank?”

Theo’s soul left his body. Y/N slapped both hands over her face. “Merlin.”

Blaise pointed weakly. “You’re—” He pointed at Theo. Then at Y/N. Then waved his hand vaguely between them. “You’re… doing that?”

Theo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…Yes.”

Enzo staggered backward and immediately sat down on the nearest bed like his legs had resigned from their position. “No,” he said firmly. “No, I need to sit for this.”

Blaise dragged a hand down his face. “How long?”

Theo glanced at Y/N. She peeked through her fingers like someone watching a disaster unfold. “… A year.”

Enzo made a choking noise. “A year?!”

Blaise laughed once, sharp and horrified. “You’ve been dating for a YEAR?”

Theo winced. “We were trying to be discreet.”

Blaise gestured wildly around the room. “You are kissing in her DORM.”

“It was locked!” Y/N protested.

Enzo slowly pointed toward the open door. “WAS IT?”

Y/N groaned and slid down onto the edge of the bed.

Blaise began pacing like a man solving a murder mystery. “Okay. Okay. No. This explains everything.”

Enzo frowned up at him from the bed. “What's everything?”

Blaise stopped pacing. Memories from the past year began assembling themselves in his brain like an extremely irritating puzzle. “How many times did Pansy say ‘they’ll be back in a minute’?” he muttered.

Theo rubbed his face. Blaise pointed dramatically. “Pansy knows.”

Theo sighed. “Yes.”

“And Mattheo,” Enzo added suddenly.

Theo stared at him. “How did you—”

Enzo shrugged. “Because he’s been smirking at you like he’s watching a very entertaining disaster unfold.”

Theo slumped like gravity had suddenly increased. Blaise crossed his arms, finally studying them properly. Not shocked anymore.

Just thoughtful.

“You’re happy,” he said.

Y/N nodded. “Yes.”

Theo met his gaze. “Very.”

Blaise sighed dramatically, like he’d just been handed an extremely inconvenient responsibility. “Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.”

"Why do you sound annoyed?" Y/N asked.

“Because,” Blaise said, pointing between them, “now I have to supervise.”

Theo blinked. “You were already doing that.”

“Yes,” Blaise said. “But now you’re a couple. Which means you’re statistically more likely to do something incredibly stupid.”

Enzo nodded gravely like a man agreeing to a military operation. “And if you make her cry, Nott, we will absolutely ruin your life.”

Theo raised his hands slightly. “Fair.”

Blaise tilted his head, still watching him carefully. “To be clear, we approve.”

Theo exhaled in relief.

“But,” Enzo added, pointing a finger at him, “she’s basically our little sister.”

Blaise nodded once. “Which means if you hurt her—”

Theo sighed. “You’ll kill me.”

“No,” Blaise said calmly.

“We’ll start with humiliation,” Enzo clarified.

“Then public embarrassment,” Blaise added.

“And then we kill you,” Enzo finished helpfully.

Theo groaned. “I liked you both better five minutes ago.”

Blaise shrugged. “Five minutes ago you weren’t secretly dating Draco Malfoy’s twin.”

Enzo gasped suddenly. “Oh no."

Theo stiffened. “What?”

Enzo looked between them with dawning horror. “We have to lie to Draco. I'm assuming he doesn't know?"

Theo and Y/N shook their heads, signaling Blaise and Lorenzo of the true horror.

Blaise immediately nodded. “Of course. Constantly. Convincingly. For an unknown amount of time.”

Theo swallowed. “You won’t tell him.”

Blaise snorted. “I like living.”

Enzo nodded seriously. “I enjoy my limbs unbroken. And for the record,” he added earnestly, “this is the worst possible way I could’ve discovered this information.”

Theo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m sorry.”

Enzo shrugged, already recovering. “Worth it.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and strode over to Y/N’s desk, snatching his precious Potions notes like a man reclaiming stolen property.

“Next time,” he muttered, flipping through them to make sure nothing had been ruined, “try revealing life-altering secrets somewhere less inconvenient.”

Enzo lingered by the door, giving them one last deeply judgmental look. “Also,” he added, pointing at them both, “if Draco kills us for this, I’m haunting you.”

Theo sighed. “Fair.”

With that, Blaise grabbed Enzo by the collar and hauled him toward the door. “Let’s go before we witness anything else we can’t emotionally recover from.”

They slipped out into the corridor, the door closing behind them with a quiet click. Silence settled over the room again.

Y/N leaned back against the bed, covering her face as she laughed weakly. “Well,” she said between breaths, “that happened.”

Theo stepped closer, resting his forehead against hers. “We are running out of people who don’t know.”

She smiled softly. “At least Draco’s still clueless.”

Theo closed his eyes. “For now.”

And somewhere down the corridor, Blaise and Enzo walked in stunned silence, carrying the weight of the dumbest, most inconvenient secret Hogwarts had ever witnessed.

.

.

The Astronomy Tower was wrapped in stillness.

Not the eerie kind, just the soft, breathing quiet that came when the castle finally let go of the day. The stone beneath them held the cool of the night, and above, the sky stretched endlessly, stars scattered like secrets that had learned patience.

Draco and Y/N sat shoulder to shoulder against the curved wall, knees bent, cloaks pulled tighter around themselves against the wind. Below them, the Black Lake reflected the moon in broken pieces.

This was theirs.

No expectations.

No watching eyes.

Just twin time.

Draco flicked a small pebble over the edge and watched it vanish into the dark. He didn’t rush. He never did when it mattered. His fingers drummed idly against the stone, a rhythm she’d known since they were children, his tell when something heavy pressed at his chest.

“You’re unusually quiet,” she said softly.

He huffed. “So are you.”

She smiled faintly. “I’m enjoying it.”

“Mm.” He paused. “I’m building courage.”

That made her turn her head toward him. “Since when do you need courage?”

Draco glanced at her, silver eyes catching the starlight, and for a moment he didn’t look like the polished Malfoy heir or the sharp-tongued Slytherin prince everyone else saw.

He just looked like her brother.

The boy who used to steal her sweets and swear he hadn’t.

The boy who once cried because he thought he’d hurt her with accidental magic.

Just Draco.

“I know,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught.

“…Know what?”

Draco exhaled slowly, gaze drifting back to the sky. “About you. And Theo.”

The world didn’t collapse.

It simply stilled, like everything had been waiting for this sentence.

She swallowed. “How long?”

“A while,” he admitted. “Long enough that pretending I didn’t notice started to feel insulting.”

She nodded slowly. “I was going to tell you.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “That’s not why this hurts.”

That word—hurts—settled deep in her chest.

She shifted closer. “Draco…”

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “It stung that you didn’t tell me sooner. Not because I’m entitled to every part of your life—but because you’ve always told me everything. Even the things that scared you.”

Tears burned behind her eyes. “I was scared,” she whispered. “Not of you. Of what it would change.”

He nodded, accepting that. “I figured.” He hesitated, then let out a quiet laugh—soft, almost fond. “You know,” he said, “Mum knew before either of us did.”

She blinked. “She did?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Draco replied. “She always does.”

He leaned back, hands folded over his stomach, voice slipping into something more reflective. “She used to say it to Father and me when we were younger. That Theo watched you differently.”

Her heart tightened.

“Father would scoff,” Draco continued, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Said Nott was just quiet. Reserved. Polite.”

“And Mum?” she asked.

“Mum said that boys don’t look at girls like that unless it’s already decided somewhere deep inside them.”

She laughed weakly through the ache. “That sounds like her.”

“She told us Theo didn’t see you as a sister like the other boys do,” Draco said softly. “Not really. Even when you were small. Even when the rest of us were just… loud and stupid and pulling your hair.”

She closed her eyes, memories flooding back, Theo always standing a step closer, always calmer, always watching.

“She said he saw you as something else,” Draco went on. “Something precious. Something to be careful with.”

Her throat tightened.

“And Father?” she asked quietly.

Draco snorted. “Father pretended not to notice while glaring at every boy who even looked in your direction.”

She smiled sadly. “That tracks.”

He glanced at her again, expression gentler now. “So yes. I suppose I always knew it was bound to happen. You and him.”

She rested her head lightly against his shoulder, just as she had a hundred times before. He didn’t move away.

“I didn’t keep it from you because I didn’t trust you,” she said. “I kept it from you because I needed to know it was real. That it wasn’t just comfort or familiarity or something that would fade.”

Draco hummed thoughtfully. “And now?”

“And now I know,” she whispered. “And I wanted to tell you when I was ready. When it was mine to give.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he lifted an arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her in. “I would’ve waited,” he said softly. “However long you needed.”

She pressed her face briefly into his sweater. “I’m sorry it hurt.”

“I can live with a little hurt,” he replied. “But I can’t live with you thinking you had to protect me from your happiness.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him. “You really are okay?”

Draco met her gaze steadily. “I’m still overprotective. I still glare at people. And I will absolutely hex Theo into oblivion if he ever hurts you.”

She laughed through tears. “Naturally.”

“But,” he added, voice dropping, “I’m glad you’re loved the way you deserve. And I’m glad it’s someone who’s always known your worth—even before you did.”

Her eyes shone. “You always knew it.”

He smirked faintly. “Someone had to. You’re my other half.”

They fell into silence again, the comfortable kind this time. The stars continued their slow journey overhead, and the lake below reflected their light in gentle fragments.

Nothing had broken.

Nothing had been taken away.

If anything, something old and precious had simply been folded into something new.

And for the first time since the secret began, Y/N felt like she wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

.

.

.

The next morning, Hogwarts woke up like nothing monumental had happened.

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual chaos—clinking cutlery, animated conversations, the low roar of students arguing about homework, Quidditch, and absolutely nothing of consequence. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, bright and deceptively peaceful.

Y/N walked in with Theo at her side.

That alone was not unusual.

They had mastered the art of looking normal. Walking close but not too close. Talking quietly. Laughing at the right moments. Separate plates. Separate seats.

Except today—

Today felt different.

Y/N felt lighter. Relieved. Like she’d finally set something down she’d been carrying for far too long.

Theo, on the other hand, looked like a man waiting for his execution.

They reached the Slytherin table.

Draco was already there, posture immaculate, flipping through the Daily Prophet with an expression of mild disdain. Blaise and Enzo were mid-argument. Pansy sat between them, watching Theo with far too much interest. Mattheo leaned back in his chair like a man who knew a secret and was enjoying every second of it.

Theo slid into his seat. Y/N paused beside him.

Theo looked up. “What—”

She leaned down and kissed him. Just like that. A soft, certain kiss pressed to his lips like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The Great Hall did not explode.

But Theo’s soul did. His eyes went wide. His body locked. His brain was fully disconnected. He pulled back so fast his chair screeched across the stone floor.

“What—” he hissed, looking wildly around the table. “What are you doing?!”

Blaise blinked. Enzo choked violently on his pumpkin juice. Pansy beamed like someone had just handed her front-row seats to a show she’d been waiting years for. Mattheo’s smirk widened.

And Draco—

Draco slowly lowered his newspaper.

Theo’s heart stopped.

“Oh gods,” Theo whispered. “Draco—”

Draco looked between them. Then he rolled his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake,” he drawled. “You’d think someone died.”

Theo stared at him. “You—You saw that.”

“Yes,” Draco said flatly. “I have eyes.”

Theo’s pulse thundered. “And you’re—?”

“Annoyed,” Draco said. “But not surprised.”

Theo blinked. “You… knew?”

Draco took a calm sip of tea. “Obviously.”

Theo turned slowly to Y/N. “You didn't tell me you told him last night.”

“I didn't,” she said calmly, sitting down. “He figured it out on his own. He was very mature about it.

Draco sniffed. “Don’t exaggerate.”

Theo ran a hand through his hair. “I thought I was about to be murdered at breakfast.”

“You still might be,” Draco said lightly. “Just not for that.”

Theo swallowed. “Right.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, finally giving Theo his full attention.

“Listen carefully, Nott.”

Theo straightened instantly.

“I see you as my brother,” Draco said. “Have for years.”

Theo nodded cautiously. “Same.”

“That,” Draco continued calmly, “is the only reason you’re allowed to sit there breathing.”

Theo exhaled. “Fair.”

Draco glanced at Y/N, his expression softening just slightly. “If you ever hurt my sister—”

Theo didn’t hesitate. “I won’t.”

“I know,” Draco said.

Then he leaned forward just a little. “But if you do, my father and I will end you.”

Theo nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Blaise leaned across the table.

“Is this the part where we clap?”

Enzo whispered, “I feel like I should be taking notes.”

Pansy sighed dreamily. “This is exactly how I imagined it.”

Draco paused. Then, very slowly, he turned his head toward the rest of the table. His eyes narrowed. “Actually,” he said thoughtfully.

“Oh no,” Blaise muttered.

Draco looked from Blaise… to Enzo… to Pansy… to Mattheo.

“You lot,” Draco said slowly, “owe me an explanation.”

The table went silent.

“An explanation,” Draco continued, voice dangerously calm, “for why every single one of you apparently knew about this before I did.”

Pansy froze.

Enzo stared at the ceiling.

Blaise suddenly found his toast extremely interesting.

Mattheo leaned back in his chair, grinning.

Theo whispered, “Oh no.”

Draco pointed at Blaise first. “You.”

Blaise cleared his throat. “Technically—” he pointed at himself and Lorenzo, “—we discovered it accidentally,” Blaise finished carefully.

Draco turned to Enzo. “You.”

Enzo held up his hands immediately. “In my defense, I was traumatized.”

Then Draco turned to Pansy. She smiled sweetly. “I took an oath of silence.”

Draco looked unconvinced.

Finally, his gaze landed on Mattheo. Mattheo didn’t even try to pretend. He just shrugged. “I thought watching you figure it out would be funnier.”

Draco stared at all of them. Slowly. Then leaned back in his chair. “Incredible,” he said dryly. “I am surrounded by traitors.”

The table shifted uncomfortably.

Then Draco smirked. “Though technically,” he added lazily, “I knew before all of you.”

The table froze. “What?” Blaise, Enzo, Pansy, and Mattheo echoed in unison.

Draco took another sip of tea, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Oh, please,” he said. “Nott’s been in love with my sister since first year. Though I'm sure he had liked her before that.”

Theo choked.

“FIRST YEAR?” Enzo blurted.

Pansy whipped around to stare at Theo. “Merlin, Nott, you’ve been pining that long?”

Theo buried his face in his hands. Draco continued calmly, as if he were explaining basic arithmetic. “He has been following her around like a bodyguard for years. It wasn’t hard to notice.”

Mattheo leaned back, laughing. “So you’ve just been sitting on that information?”

Draco shrugged. “I was curious how long it would take them to figure it out.”

Y/N groaned. “Draco.”

He smirked. “And watching Nott panic around you for years has been extremely entertaining.”

Theo looked personally betrayed. “You let me suffer.”

Draco nodded once. “Correct.”

Then his gaze shifted back to the rest of the table.

“Which brings us back to my original point.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You still owe me an explanation for why none of you told me.”

Blaise sighed. “Because,” he said, “you’re Draco Malfoy.”

Enzo nodded solemnly. “And we enjoy being alive.”

Theo muttered, “They were trying to protect me.”

Draco shot him a look. “They were protecting themselves.” Then he turned back to Y/N. “And you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Public displays of affection,” Draco said dryly, “kept to a minimum around me.”

She smirked. “Jealous?”

“Traumatized,” Draco corrected.

Theo cleared his throat cautiously. “So… we’re good?”

Draco nodded once. “We’re good.”

Theo sagged in relief. Then Y/N leaned over and kissed him again. Theo nearly fell out of his chair.

Draco groaned. “I said minimum.”

Mattheo laughed. “You’re never going to survive this.”

Theo stared at Y/N. “You’re enjoying this.”

She smiled sweetly. “Immensely.”

Draco stood, folding his newspaper. “Eat your breakfast,” he said. “Both of you.” Then he paused and looked at Theo. “And Nott?”

Theo looked up nervously. “Yes?”

Draco smirked. “Good luck telling my father you’re dating his daughter.”

Theo stared at him in horror. “…You’re going to enjoy that conversation, aren’t you?”

Draco nodded, repeating Y/N's words. “Immensely.”

And just like that, the secret was no longer a secret. It sat openly at the Slytherin table—protected, accepted, mildly threatened, and very much alive. Exactly the way it was always meant to be.

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REMINDER: If you want to be on the taglist feel free to comment or message me :) and if I missed you pls lmk

I wonder if you could make one where the mc is a half mystical creature (like their mother is a unicorn) x Draco

If you ever watched 'the last unicorn' i thought that way their mother is a unicorn.

Sorry for my english, it's not my first language

Oh! I like this idea I could work something out just gotta think outside the box on how I would do half unicorn! Never really thought about that I’ll see what I can do :)

I’ll def watch the last unicorn never heard of it I’ll have a long plane ride on Wednesday (3 hrs 🥲) so I’ll see if I can watch it somewhere and download it

Don’t you worry about language English isn’t my first language either! Fun fact Spanish is my first language :) so if anyone wants to send me a message in Spanish feel free to do so! Or any other language we have Google Translate people!!! Idc! I’ll take my time trying to communicate with you guys :,)

Much love xx

You’re saying u met Mr Felton… Mr Draco mf Malfoy… in New York…

Girl if u don’t get out of my face 😔😔😔😔 I’m jk I’m so JEALOUS OMG UR SOOO LUCKYYYYY!!!

Summary: A letter that should not exist forces Y/N to decide whether to destroy the world that raised her from inside it. Warnings: War themes, Angst Word Count: 5.8k

. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.

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.

The wards recognized them before the house did. Gold light rippled through the iron gates as six magical signatures crossed the boundary—ancient magic stirring, measuring them, naming them. Bloodlines older than the manor itself were acknowledged and allowed passage without question.

That used to comfort her.

Tonight, it made her skin crawl.

The gates did not open.

They yielded.

With a low, reluctant groan that vibrated through the iron and up into her bones, like something being forced to bow.

Only then did the silence break.

It didn’t fall.

It fractured.

Mattheo tore his mask from his face the second they crossed the threshold and hurled it across the marble. It cracked on impact, skidding across the floor like something dead. Enzo followed, ripping his gloves off as if the leather burned, breath heavy, uneven. Blaise removed his more slowly, controlled as ever, but his shoulders were rigid, knuckles white. Theo’s jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek, his eyes moving constantly, not in caution in restraint.

Draco said nothing. He hadn’t spoken since the meeting ended.

Y/N was the last inside.

She turned back once.

For half a breath, the memory of the chamber pressed against her mind: torchlight on stone, the sickening warmth of too many bodies packed together, the way some of them had laughed. The way others had knelt.

The way blood status had been spoken like law.

She sealed the doors.

Three spells.

One in a language her family no longer spoke aloud.

The manor answered.

Pressure shifted. Candles flared violently to life. Shadows recoiled. And somewhere deep within the walls, ancient magic rearranged itself to protect what it had been taught to protect.

And that, she realized, was the problem.

Only then did the Dark Marks burn.

Not together.

Not clean.

One after another, like something being passed through them. Like the manor was cleaning their sins from within.

Mattheo hissed, crushing his forearm in his grip as if he could tear the thing out. Blaise’s breath stuttered before he forced it steady. Enzo braced against a pillar, eyes shut, jaw tight. Theo inhaled slowly through his nose, control layered over something much closer to panic.

Draco didn’t move.

He lifted his arm and watched the black symbol writhe beneath his skin. As if it were alive. As if it were displeased.

They had stood feet from him tonight.

From the throne.

From the serpent.

She had watched a man beg.

She had watched another thank him.

She had been taught that this was power. That this was order. That this was the natural way of things.

She had felt none of that.

She crossed the ballroom, wand already in her hand. “Cloaks. Now.”

They obeyed immediately.

Dark fabric struck the long table. Masks followed. Rings, cuffs, enchanted chains—objects designed to impress, to intimidate, to erase the human beneath them.

Each one locked into the waiting chest.

A ritual.

A necessary one.

A lie, sometimes.

The ballroom had long ago stopped pretending to be a place for music. A single table dominated the center, layered in maps, coded lists, vials of potions, objects, none of them ever named. The walls still bore the ghosts of old runes scraped away and rewritten into something sharper.

A war room pretending to be a drawing room.

Theo broke the silence. “He’s tightening the circle.”

“He’s enjoying it,” Enzo said quietly. “You could hear it.”

Blaise exhaled. “He always does when he thinks he’s close.”

“Close to what?” Mattheo snapped.

No one answered. Because Y/N knew they were all thinking of the same thing. The way the room smelled like copper. The way purity was spoken, as if it excused everything.

Y/N moved to the sideboard, opening a hidden compartment. Her fingers shook as she withdrew a vial. She crossed to Draco. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s on your collar.” He let her tilt his chin. The cut was shallow. Precise. A reminder. Not meant to kill. Meant to teach.

Her jaw tightened as she sealed it with a whispered spell. The skin closed.

The message did not.

Theo’s eyes never left the door. “We were followed.”

The air went still.

“Not in the usual way,” he added. “Not Dark magic. Not surveillance.”

Y/N felt it again, that wrongness she had sensed the moment she crossed the grounds. “The west wards were tested while we were gone.”

Mattheo’s mouth curled. “By him?”

“No.” She shook her head. “By something that didn’t try to break them.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Blaise murmured.

Before anyone could respond, the fire changed. It didn’t flare. It folded. Red collapsed into a cold, unnatural blue.

The wards surged violently, gold lines racing across the ceiling, the windows, the doors—magic scrambling, remembering old lessons about invasion and blood and threat. Every wand was in hand before the envelope slid free of the hearth and landed on the marble.

Untouched.

Unburned.

Wrong.

“That,” Enzo said quietly, “did not come from our side.”

All the boys stepped in front of her without thinking.

Theo scanned the room. “No breach.”

“Nothing crosses these wards without blood or permission,” Y/N whispered. She stepped around them anyway. The closer she drew, the heavier the air became, like approaching something aware.

She knelt. The envelope was warm. Not Dark. Not clean. Old. Alive with a kind of magic she hadn’t felt since this war began.

“I know this,” she said softly.

Mattheo frowned. “From where?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure if she meant the magic or the feeling.

She turned it over.

No seal.

No crest.

No name.

Only the whisper of a protection charm woven so delicately it felt like intent.

Blaise swallowed. “That’s not a summons.”

“No,” Y/N agreed. Her thumb brushed the edge. “It’s a reach.”

Silence fell. Five Dark Marks. Six people shaped like shadows. One letter that had found them anyway.

Draco’s voice was low. “From who?”

Y/N stared at the parchment. At the impossible fact that someone outside their world knew where to find them.

And for the first time since she had been raised on blood and hierarchy and destiny, since she had been taught she was higher, cleaner, chosen, she felt something in her fracture.

Because standing in that circle tonight, she had not felt superior.

She had felt small.

And looking at them now at the tension in Theo’s shoulders, the hollow under Enzo’s eyes, the way Blaise would not look at his own arm, the way Draco still hadn’t lowered his. She knew she was not alone. They still wore the masks. But doubt had begun to live in them.

Even if none of them dared say it.

For the first time since she had been allowed into Voldemort’s inner circle, since she had been trusted with secrets that got people buried, she felt fear that had nothing to do with him.

“Someone,” she said quietly, “who knows exactly what we are.”

And she no longer knew whether that was a threat or a chance.

.

.

.

The Astronomy Tower was not empty when Y/N arrived.

It only felt like it.

Wind tore across the open stone, sharp and cold, carrying the bitter remnants of smoke and magic. Below, Hogwarts burned with scattered light—professors moving like shadows, voices drifting upward, the distant echo of orders being given, of students being herded back inside.

Of a world trying desperately to hold itself together.

Y/N stopped just inside the archway.

Hermione Granger stood at the edge of the tower, both hands on the stone, curls whipping violently around her face. She was perfectly still.

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Holding herself together by force.

For a moment, Y/N only watched her.

Then Hermione spoke.

“You’re supposed to be gone.”

Y/N stilled.

Hermione turned slowly.

Her wand was already in her hand.

And then it was pointed directly at Y/N’s chest.

“You were supposed to be long gone,” Hermione said again, voice sharp, trembling with something dangerously close to fury. “Snape killed him. The Death Eaters are everywhere. Your group was being pulled out—everyone knows that. They’re supposed to be at your manor by now.” Her grip tightened. “So why are you here?”

The wind surged between them.

Y/N didn’t move. “Lower it,” she said quietly.

Hermione didn’t.

“You shouldn’t still be in this castle,” Hermione continued. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this tower. You were with them. I saw you. I watched you leave.”

“I came back.”

“Why?” Hermione demanded. “To make sure he was dead?”

The words struck harder than any curse.

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “No.”

“Then what?” Hermione snapped. “To watch the rest of us fall apart? To pretend this night didn’t go exactly the way your side wanted it to?”

“My side didn’t want this.”

Hermione laughed—a broken, disbelieving sound. “Your friends were cheering.”

“Some were.”

“And you stayed.”

“Yes.”

The wand didn’t lower.

Y/N took one careful step forward.

Hermione’s spell hand twitched.

“Don’t,” Hermione warned.

“If I wanted to hurt you,” Y/N said softly, “you wouldn’t be standing.”

Hermione’s eyes burned. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I do,” Y/N replied. “Because I came here alone.”

That gave Hermione pause.

Just for a second.

“Why?” Hermione demanded.

Y/N exhaled slowly. “There are objects. Objects that are tied to him.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “What?”

“I cannot tell you everything,” Y/N said. “No details. Just… truth.”

Hermione’s voice was tight. “You don’t get to speak in riddles after what happened here.”

“You’re going to leave,” Y/N said quietly. “You, Potter, and Weasley. You’re going to abandon this place. You’re going to look for the things that keep him alive.”

Silence exploded between them.

Hermione stared at her. “Who told you that?”

“No one.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It isn’t.”

Hermione’s wand shook slightly. “How would you even know something like that?”

Y/N looked past her, toward the dark sky. “Because I stand close enough to hear what he forgets to hide.”

Hermione swallowed. Then anger surged back, hotter. “You expect me to believe someone who walks into Death Eater meetings comes back out with secrets for us?”

“I’m not giving them to you.”

“Then why are you here?”

Y/N met her gaze fully.

“Because you are not going to survive this alone.”

Hermione laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “And you think you’re the answer?”

“No,” Y/N said. “I think we’re the mistake that might be useful. We can help.”

Hermione’s eyes hardened. “You’re closest friends with Mattheo Riddle. His son. His own blood.” The name cracked through the night. “Everyone knows they follow you,” Hermione continued. “Malfoy. Zabini. Nott. Berkshire. All of them. They would tear the world apart if you asked.”

Y/N didn’t deny it.

“So how,” Hermione demanded, “do you expect me to believe that Voldemort’s son is going to help us?”

Emotion finally slipped through Y/N’s control. “He doesn’t follow me because of who his father is,” she said. “He follows me because I’m the one thing he chose for himself.”

“That doesn’t make him safe!”

“No,” Y/N agreed. “It makes him dangerous in a different way.”

Hermione’s voice broke. “You’re asking me to risk Harry’s life on the devotion of a boy raised by a monster.”

“I’m asking you to remember this conversation,” Y/N said. “So that when everything collapses, you’ll remember there was a night I stood in front of you and didn’t lie.”

Hermione’s wand wavered. “You and your friends have made our lives hell,” she said. “You’ve humiliated us. You’ve stood on the wrong side every single year.”

“I know.”

“And now you want me to believe you’re not on it.”

“I am on it,” Y/N said quietly.

Hermione stilled.

“I just don’t belong to it.”

The wind howled around them.

“When the time comes,” Y/N said, voice low, “you won’t be able to go to the teachers. You won’t be able to go to the Ministry. And you won’t be able to go to people who wear their loyalties openly.”

Hermione whispered, “You think we’d come to you.”

“I think you’ll have nowhere else.”

Silence.

Then Hermione’s gaze dropped to Y/N’s bare forearm. “You don’t even bear the Mark,” she said. “Why would they follow you into hell?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Because they already live there,” she said. “And I’m the only thing they won’t leave behind.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “They love you,” Hermione said. Not softly. Not kindly. Like it frightened her.

“Yes.”

“And you think that makes them capable of betraying him.”

“I think it makes them capable of betraying everything.”

The words trembled between them.

“If you’re wrong,” Hermione said, “they will kill you.”

“Yes.”

“And if you’re lying—”

“Then don’t come.” Y/N stepped back. “I’m not your ally,” she said quietly. “And I’m not your enemy.”

Hermione’s wand lowered an inch. “You terrify me,” Hermione whispered.

Y/N met her eyes. “Good.” She turned and walked toward the stairs. Behind her, Hermione Granger stood on the Astronomy Tower, shaking, staring at the place where a future no longer felt clean.

.

.

.

The parchment trembled. Not from the fire.

From her hand.

Y/N stared down at the envelope like it had grown teeth. The ballroom felt smaller than it had moments ago. The chandeliers flickered. The wards hummed low and uneasily, as if the house itself sensed what she was holding.

Someone who knows exactly what they are.

Hermione’s voice from years ago echoed where the wind had been.

“Y/N.” Draco’s voice cut in sharply.

She hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing.

All of them were watching her now. Mattheo stood rigid near the table, dark eyes fixed on the letter like it might detonate. Theo hadn’t moved from the door. Enzo’s hand hovered near his wand. Blaise’s expression was carved into something carefully empty.

“Open it,” Mattheo said.

Draco’s gaze snapped to him. “Or don’t.”

Theo’s voice was quieter. “Either way, we need to know what crossed her wards.”

Y/N swallowed. The parchment was warm. Not Dark. Not harmless. Old. Protective. Intelligent.

Her thumb slid beneath the flap. The wards surged. Gold light raced across the walls, the ceiling, the arched windows. The fire roared once, then dropped into a low, unnatural blue.

The moment the seal broke, magic bled into the air.

Not violent.

Urgent.

A single line of ink flared briefly across the parchment, as if the letter itself were making sure it had been received.

If you are reading this, we are already gone. I don’t know if this will reach you. I don’t know if it should. But I remembered a night you probably thought I’d try to forget. You told me there would come a day when we would have no one else to ask. That day is here. Lightning Bolt and Red are with me. We are leaving tonight. If we fail, this letter never existed. We are looking for what keeps him alive. You said you stand where he forgets to whisper. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know who your friends truly serve. And I don’t trust you. But I trust that you didn’t lie to me. If you meant what you said—if they will follow you where you go—then I am asking you to decide what that means. We need access to places we cannot enter. We need objects moved that cannot be traced. We need eyes in rooms that would kill us on sight. I don’t expect you to answer. I don’t expect you to help. I am only giving you the chance you said would come. If you burn this, I will understand. If you answer it... Then I will know you chose. — HG

Silence crashed down around them. The chandeliers flickered once. Mattheo was the first to speak. “She’s insane.”

Theo exhaled slowly. “She’s desperate.”

Blaise’s gaze lifted to Y/N. “She knows exactly what we are.”

Enzo said nothing.

Draco stepped closer. “Look at me.”

Y/N did. He searched her face, pale eyes cutting, trying to read something she hadn’t shown anyone in years. “She’s asking us to betray him.”

Y/N closed her fingers around the parchment. “She’s asking if we already have.”

The words settled like a blade between them.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far beyond the wards. Inside, six people stood in a room built on bloodlines and secrets, holding a letter that could get them all killed. And for the first time since they had been allowed into Voldemort’s inner circle, the choice they had pretended not to make finally had a name.

Silence didn’t hold.

It split.

“This is a mistake.”

Mattheo’s voice was low, but it carried through the ballroom like something dropped and shattered across stone.

The chandeliers trembled faintly above them, reacting to the subtle spike of magic in the air. The wards hummed, restless. Outside the tall arched windows, storm clouds dragged slowly across the sky, distant thunder muttering like something half-awake.

Y/N lifted her eyes to him. “A mistake?” she repeated.

Mattheo took a step forward. The movement was sharp. Uncontrolled.

“Yes,” he said. “A catastrophic one.”

Enzo shifted uneasily near the table, fingers flexing. Blaise’s jaw tightened, his gaze cutting from Mattheo to Y/N like he was bracing for impact. Theo straightened slightly by the door, tension threading visibly through his shoulders. Draco’s pale eyes flicked to Mattheo, warning already burning there.

“She’s asking us to dig our own graves,” Mattheo continued, gesturing sharply toward the letter still clenched in Y/N’s hand. “And you’re all standing here like she didn’t just hand us the shovel.”

“She’s asking if we already have,” Y/N said quietly.

Mattheo laughed under his breath. It wasn’t humor. It wasn’t disbelief. It was contempt edged with something that hurt. “That’s not bravery,” he said. “That’s romantic stupidity.”

Draco moved instantly. “Watch your mouth.”

Mattheo didn’t even look at him. “When it’s you,” he said, eyes locked on Y/N, “everything becomes a fantasy. A story where blood doesn’t matter. Where monsters suddenly grow hearts.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the parchment. The wards pulsed once, faint gold lines skimming the ceiling like a warning.

“That isn’t what this is.”

“It always is with you.”

The words landed harder than a shout.

“You stand there,” he went on, “talking about choice like it isn’t a luxury bought with other people’s bodies.”

Theo spoke carefully, trying to slow it. “Mattheo—”

“Don’t.” Mattheo took another step closer. “You don’t get to make this clean.”

Her shoulders drew back instinctively, spine straightening like armor sliding into place.

“You think this is about sides?” he said. “This is about blood. And blood doesn’t forgive.”

“You don’t worship it either,” she said.

Something in his face hardened.

“Easy for you.”

The air felt colder.

“Easy for you to say,” Mattheo continued, quieter now, sharper. “You don’t wake up wearing his face. You don’t feel his name crawl under your skin every time someone looks at you.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“You don’t walk into rooms already sentenced,” he said. “You don’t live your life as evidence.”

Draco took a step forward without thinking. Enzo caught his arm.

“And yet you stand there,” Mattheo said, “talking about freedom like you didn’t build this place just to keep us breathing.”

Her breath stuttered.

“You don’t bleed when he calls,” he went on. “You don’t shake when he smiles. You don’t sit across from him wondering whether he’ll kill you faster for failing him… or for loving you.”

Theo said his name sharply. Mattheo didn’t stop. “You don’t even bear the Mark,” he said. “You get to play savior because you don’t pay for it.”

Y/N felt it then—the first real fracture.

A tightness in her chest. A heat behind her eyes. She forced her jaw to stay steady. Forced her voice not to shake. “Then tell me what you need.”

Something ugly flickered across his face. “I need you to stop pretending this is anything but you trying to make us something we’re not.”

She took a step closer. Brave. Stupid. Honest. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

His laugh was hollow. Broken at the edges. “You don’t want us alive,” he said. “You want us innocent.” The word struck like glass. “And we’re not.”

He moved again. “You want me to betray him?” he said. “Fine. Say it. Say you want me to carve myself open for people who would spit if they knew where I stood.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“It is,” he snapped. “Because the only reason this even exists—” He gestured sharply between them and the letter. “—is you.”

Her breath caught.

“You are the reason we hesitate,” Mattheo said. “You are the reason we look back. You are the reason we imagine worlds where this doesn’t end with our heads on spikes.”

Theo’s voice broke. “Stop.”

Mattheo didn’t. “You want the truth?” he asked her quietly. The ballroom felt like it leaned in. “You don’t make us better.”

Her composure slipped. Just barely. A sharp inhale, she couldn’t stop.

“You make us weak.”

Her throat burned. Something wet gathered in her eyes. She blinked hard.

Once.

Twice.

Willed it away.

“You make us forget what we are,” he continued. “And that is the most dangerous thing you could ever do to people like us.”

Her vision blurred anyway. She swallowed. Lifted her chin. Tried to hold it.

“And if this ends with us dead,” he finished, voice low, brutal, “it won’t be because of him.”

Her lips parted. Nothing came out.

“It will be because we loved you.”

The words didn’t hit like a blow. They collapsed into her. Her control—years of it, layers of it, all the steel and silence and strategy—gave way. A broken sound slipped out of her before she could stop it. A sharp, shaking breath.

Then another.

Tears spilled, hot and humiliating, blurring the chandeliers into gold smears of light. She pressed her lips together, hard, like she could trap it inside. Like she could force it back down.

It didn’t work. She let out a cry before she could stop it.

Draco swore viciously.

Theo stepped forward. “Y/N—”

She shook her head once, violently. “Don’t,” she whispered.

Her hands trembled. She dropped them to her sides because she couldn’t trust them not to give her away. Her chest hitched again, breath coming in fractured, uneven gasps. She tried to breathe through it.

Tried to swallow it.

Tried to be who she always was.

But the tears kept coming.

Soundless.

Relentless.

For the first time in years, they saw it.

Not calculation.

Not command.

Not the girl who walked into rooms full of monsters without flinching.

Just her.

Breaking.

She turned abruptly, before any of them could say her name again, before anyone could touch her, before anyone could see it get worse.

And she walked out.

The doors parted instantly, the manor responding to her distress like a living thing. She fled into the corridor, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking, breath tearing out of her chest as if she could outrun what she was feeling.

“Y/N!” Theo called.

She didn’t stop.

Theo was after her immediately, boots striking hard against the marble as the ballroom doors slammed shut behind him.

Inside the manor, no one moved. Draco stood rigid, fury and helplessness warring across his face. Enzo stared at the floor, jaw clenched. Blaise’s expression had gone pale, controlled emptiness cracking at the edges.

Mattheo remained where he was, staring at the space she had occupied. The echo of her cries still in the air. The first real horror of what he had done settled heavily in his chest. Because for the first time in their lives, the only girl they had ever loved had walked away from them in tears.

.

.

.

She didn’t know how she got there. Only that at some point marble became stone, corridors narrowed, and the air changed.

Colder. Damp with earth and frost.

The winter garden lay hidden in the oldest wing of the manor, where the ceilings arched high and glass replaced stone, where dead noble vines clung to iron trellises and pale moonlight spilled across cracked tile. Enchanted snow drifted lazily through the air, never melting, never thickening, caught forever in the moment before settling.

Y/N stumbled inside and the doors whispered shut behind her. The sound of the ballroom vanished. The sound of the world vanished. What remained was the quiet.

And her.

She made it only a few steps before her knees hit the cold stone and the rest of her followed, collapsing beside a withered rosebush that hadn’t bloomed in decades. Her hands came up to her face too late. A broken sound tore out of her chest before she could stop it, raw and sharp, the kind of sound she had never allowed herself to make.

She pressed her forehead to the floor.

And shattered.

Her shoulders shook violently. Breath came in jagged pulls that hurt. Tears soaked into the sleeve of her robes, then the stone beneath her. She curled inward, one arm wrapped around her stomach like she could hold herself together by force.

It wouldn’t stay.

Images from the meeting rose unbidden.

A man on his knees begging for his life. Bellatrix's laughter echoing the room. A woman thanking him after he branded her with the Dark Mark. The word pure spoken like absolution.

Her mother’s voice when she was a child: We are not like them. Those half-bloods and mudbloods are dirty, lower. We are superior. The only ones who can wield true power.

The Dark Mark burning into skin.

Mattheo’s voice in the ballroom. You make us forget what we are.

Her chest convulsed. “What are we?” she choked aloud into the empty garden. “What are we supposed to be?”

The question echoed faintly against glass and iron.

She dragged in a breath that broke halfway through.

“I don’t believe it,” she whispered, fists twisting in her robes. “I don’t believe it anymore. I don’t feel higher. I don’t feel chosen. I don’t feel clean. I feel—” her voice cracked, “—I feel like something rotten learned how to speak.”

She pressed her mouth into her sleeve, trying to muffle the sound.

It didn’t work.

She cried harder.

She cried until her ribs ached, until her throat burned, until the cold seeped through her clothes and into her skin and she welcomed it because at least it was simple.

She didn’t hear the doors open.

Didn’t hear the hurried footsteps on stone.

Only the change in the air.

“Y/N.” Theo’s voice was hoarse. Breathless. Close.

She flinched violently, curling tighter, one hand flying up as if she could shield herself from being seen like this. “Don’t,” she gasped. “Theo, don’t—please—”

He stopped instantly.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t crowd her.

Just stood there, a few paces away, chest rising and falling hard, eyes taking her in like he was afraid she might vanish if he blinked.

The winter garden was washed in silver-blue light, catching in his dark hair, carving shadows into his face. He looked wrong here. Too real. Too human.

“I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to make you get up. I’m not going to make you talk.”

Her hands trembled where they were pressed to her face.

She shook her head, tears spilling through her fingers.

“I can’t—” She dragged in a breath that broke. “I can’t be what he said. I can’t be the thing that kills you.”

Theo took a slow step closer.

Then another. He lowered himself to the cold stone a short distance away, not touching, not cornering, simply there. His cloak brushed the edge of her sleeve.

She could see his boots. The frost was gathering on the hem of his trousers.

“I saw your face in that room tonight,” he said quietly. “When he was speaking.” She swallowed hard. “You weren’t listening to him,” Theo continued. “You were watching the people.”

Her breath hitched.

“The ones who were kneeling,” he said. “The ones who were laughing. The ones who looked… empty.”

Her shoulders shook.

“I don’t think you questioned this tonight,” Theo said. “I think tonight was just the first time you let yourself hear it.”

She shook her head weakly.

“What if Mattheo's right?” she whispered. “What if he’s right and I’m killing you by letting you care?”

Theo answered without hesitation. “If loving you makes us weak,” he said quietly, firmly, “then we're the weakest men in the world.”

She lifted her head slightly, making eye contact with him.

“Because we've never loved anything.”

The words settled into the cold air between them. Something in her face broke open. She let out a sound that was half a sob, half a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for years.

“I don’t think we’re higher,” she whispered. “I think we were just… raised somewhere louder. Somewhere that told us the same lie until it sounded like truth.”

Theo was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “I count exits when he speaks.”

She looked at him. Her vision blurred, but she saw his jaw tighten.

“I memorize faces,” he went on. “I watch who doesn’t cheer. I watch who does. I watch who looks like they’re trying to convince themselves.” He swallowed. “I don’t believe it either anymore.”

The words landed between them, fragile and enormous.

Her chest caved. “What if all I’m doing is dragging you toward something you can’t survive?” she whispered.

Theo shifted closer without thinking. Not enough to trap her. Enough that she could feel the warmth of him through the cold.

“Then let it be our choice,” he said. “Not the Dark Lord's. Or Mattheo's..”

Her breath fractured. “I don’t want this world,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be what it made us.”

Theo hesitated only a second before reaching out.

Slowly.

Giving her time to pull away.

When she didn’t, he draped his cloak around her shoulders, wrapping it gently, like he was afraid she might shatter under his hands.

“You don’t belong to what you were taught,” he said quietly. “You never did. That’s why this hurts.”

Her face crumpled. She leaned forward before she could stop herself, forehead pressing into his shoulder, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt like it was the only solid thing left.

And she cried.

Not silently.

Not carefully.

Theo’s arms came around her, firm and protective, one hand braced at her back, the other cradling her head, anchoring her as her sobs tore through her.

The enchanted snow drifted lazily around them. The dead roses listened. And for the first time since she had been taught what she was, Y/N let herself be something else.

Just a girl.

Breaking.

.

.

.

The ballroom felt wrong without her.

Too large.

Too quiet.

The chandeliers burned steadily overhead, their light too warm for what had just happened beneath them. The wards had settled back into their low hum. The hearth’s blue glow painted the marble in a sickly color.

Nothing had changed.

And yet the space she had occupied felt hollowed out of the room.

Draco stood exactly where she had left him. Rigid. Hands clenched. Jaw set so tight it hurt. Enzo hadn’t moved from near the table. He stared down at the floor like it might open. Blaise leaned against one of the carved pillars, arms folded, expression controlled—but tension threaded every line of him.

Mattheo still stood near the center of the room. Staring at the place she had been. At the echo she had left behind.

Theo’s footsteps were barely gone when Draco moved. He crossed the room in three strides and shoved Mattheo back.

Hard.

Mattheo staggered, boots scraping marble. The sound cracked through the quiet.

“What is wrong with you?” Draco snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Mattheo looked up slowly. His eyes were dark. Bright with something close to pain. “You don’t get to touch me like you’re righteous,” he said hoarsely.

Draco shoved him again. “You don’t get to talk to her like that and then stand there like you didn’t just break something.”

“She’s already breaking,” Mattheo shot back. “And so are you. All of you.”

“That doesn’t make it yours to finish.”

Enzo stepped forward instinctively. “Draco—”

“Don’t,” Draco said without looking away. “Not this time.”

Blaise straightened slightly. “This isn’t helping.”

“No,” Draco said. “But pretending he didn’t just do what he swore he never would isn’t helping either.”

Mattheo’s mouth twisted. “You think I don’t know what I did?”

“Then why?” Draco demanded. “Why would you say that to her?”

Mattheo dragged a hand down his face. “Because she’s questioning everything,” he said. “Not just him. Not just the Mark. Everything. Blood. Purity. What we were raised to believe we are.”

The words rang differently in the room.

“She stood in that meeting and didn’t look proud,” he continued. “She looked sick. And now Granger sends her a letter into this house like a hand reaching into a grave—”

Draco’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t.”

“That letter means death if my father ever finds out,” Mattheo snapped. “Death for her. For us. Slow or fast, public or quiet—it doesn’t matter.”

Silence pressed in.

“She is not talking about resisting him,” Mattheo went on. “She’s talking about undoing the foundations. The very thing they drilled into us since we could speak.”

His voice roughened. “She is questioning blood itself.”

Draco stepped closer. “Good.”

Mattheo stared at him, taken aback. “That is not good,” he said. “That is extinction.”

Blaise exhaled slowly. “Mattheo—”

“No,” Mattheo cut in. “You all heard her tonight. You see it in her. She’s not standing in that circle the way she used to. And if she stops believing what we were raised to believe, she doesn’t just become a threat to him.” He laughed bitterly. “She becomes a mistake.”

Enzo’s jaw clenched. “She becomes honest.”

“She becomes dead,” Mattheo shot back. “And she takes us with her.”

Draco’s voice dropped. “You’re afraid.”

“Yes,” Mattheo said immediately. “I am.”

The admission cracked something open.

“I am afraid because she makes this world start to look wrong,” he said. “And the moment it looks wrong, you can’t unsee it. You can’t go back to believing the lie that keeps you alive.” He gestured sharply to his arm, where the Dark Mark burned. “This thing keeps us breathing.”

“And it keeps other people dying,” Draco replied.

Mattheo’s mouth trembled. “She is standing in a house built on blood and telling us blood doesn’t mean what we were taught,” he said. “Do you understand how dangerous that is?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I understand exactly how dangerous that is.” He stepped closer. “And you didn’t say what you said because you wanted to protect her.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered in regret for a second.

“You said it because you wanted to make her small enough to fit back into the world that scares you less.”

The words landed heavy.

Silence stretched.

“You think I don’t hear him when I sleep?” Mattheo said hoarsely. “You think I don’t wake up with his voice in my head and her name in my chest and know those two things don’t coexist?”

Draco’s voice sharpened. “Then why are you trying to make her carry that for you?”

Mattheo swallowed hard. “She makes me want a world where blood doesn’t decide who deserves to live,” he said. “And that world gets people like us killed.”

Draco grabbed the front of Mattheo’s shirt and hauled him forward.

“You were breathing before blood meant anything to him,” he said. “You were breathing before he ever put his name in your mouth.”

Mattheo’s breath shuddered, but he kept his stance, glaring at Draco.

“You are not alive because of him,” Draco continued. “You are alive in spite of him. And if you ever say something like that to her again—” Mattheo shoved him back. “—it won’t be him you answer to.”

The room was silent.

Mattheo stood where he’d been left, chest rising and falling, eyes bright. “I didn’t mean to make her cry,” he said.

The words sounded too small.

Enzo looked away.

Blaise’s jaw tightened.

Draco stared at him.

“You don’t get to choose the cost of the things you say,” he replied. “Only who pays it.”

And the worst part was that Mattheo already knew. Because for the first time since they’d been children, since they’d been untouchable, since everything between them had been blood and iron and certainty, the person who had always stood between them and the dark had walked away.

And now there was a letter on their table that could bury them all.

.

.

.

The ballroom was empty when she returned. Not peacefully empty.

Vacant. As if the room had been abandoned in a hurry and forgotten by whatever was meant to come back for it.

The chandeliers burned low overhead, their light thinned and dulled, casting long, warped shadows across the marble. The fire had settled back into red, but it seemed smaller than before, its warmth no longer reaching the corners. The great space no longer felt like a war room.

It felt like the aftermath.

Y/N stood just inside the doors, her palm still pressed to the iron handle, as though part of her expected the house to object to her being alone. The wards hummed faintly inside the walls, a sound like something breathing in its sleep.

She released the door and crossed the floor slowly.

Each step echoed too clearly. Until she reached the table. The letter lay exactly where she had left it.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly ordinary.

A single folded piece of parchment that had crossed wards, bloodlines, and worlds to reach her.

Waiting.

She did not touch it at first. She only looked. At the pale curve of the fold. At the faint, living shimmer of protective magic still clinging to it. At how small it was. How easily it could be destroyed.

Her chest tightened. If you burn this, I will understand.

She could still smell the meeting on her clothes. Smoke. Iron. Old stone. The echo of laughter where there should not have been any.

She reached out. Then stopped. If she burned it, this would end. The reach unanswered. The danger sealed. The world repaired into the shape it had always been. They would return to the circle. They would kneel or stand when told. They would call it legacy. They would call it survival. They would keep letting blood decide who mattered.

Her fingers curled slowly into her palm. You don’t belong to what you were taught. Theo’s voice surfaced unbidden. So did her mother’s. We are not like them.

So did the man on his knees. So did the woman who thanked him.

She picked up the letter. It was still warm. That frightened her more than anything else. Her hands tightened around the parchment as she leaned forward, bracing herself against the edge of the table, shoulders drawn inward like she was standing before something that might speak back.

If she answered it—

Her breath caught.

If she answered it, there was no performance left.

No neutrality. No clever positioning. No illusion of standing in the middle. It would mean saying out loud what her body had known for years and her mind had only just allowed.

That the foundations were wrong. That the things they had been praised for surviving were the very things rotting them from the inside. That love, not blood, was the first real treason.

Her wand lay heavy against her wrist.

Burn it.

End it.

Be what you were taught to be.

Footsteps sounded behind her. She froze. Didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. She felt them before she heard them fully — the shift in the room, the familiar gravity, the way the air always changed when they were near.

Five of them. Draco first. Then Theo. Enzo’s quieter presence. Blaise measured steps. And Mattheo. She straightened slowly but did not turn. The letter remained between her hands.

“I was going to burn it,” she said quietly.

No one spoke.

“I thought that was the responsible choice,” she continued. “The intelligent one. The one we were raised to make.” She swallowed. “And then I realized I don’t know if I believe in that superiority anymore.”

She felt movement behind her.

A step.

Mattheo.

She sensed him before he was close enough to touch, the familiar pull of him, the instinct that had always known where he was without sight.

“Y/N—” he began.

She stepped back.

The motion was sharp. Deliberate. Enough to put the table between them. Enough to draw a line. The sound of her heels against marble cut through the room.

Silence followed.

She did not look at him. Not even when he stopped. Her gaze stayed on the letter. “I can’t do this with you standing there like nothing changed,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”

The words were not cruel. They were necessary. She closed her eyes briefly. Then opened them again. “If I answer this,” she said, voice low, steady, “it doesn’t mean we’re helping someone.”

Her fingers tightened around the parchment. “It means we are working to end the people who raised us.” The words landed heavily in the vast room. “It means everything we were built on becomes the thing we move against,” she continued. “Our families. Our names. The stories we were told about why the world looks the way it does.”

Her chest ached. “It means blood stops being an excuse,” she whispered. “And power stops being a birthright. And survival stops being something we inherit.” She exhaled slowly. “It means there is no version of this where we don’t become traitors to what made us.”

Behind her, she felt them shift. Draco closer. Theo still. Enzo’s breath drawn tight. Blaise’s attention sharpened. She did not look at Mattheo.

“I don’t know who I am if I send this,” she said. “But I am starting to know who I am if I don’t.”

Her hand hovered over the parchment. The wards hummed softly. The chandeliers flickered. The letter lay open to her choice.

“I haven’t answered yet,” she finished. She let the words exist. Let them sit in the space between heartbeats. Then, at last, she lifted her head slightly. Not enough to see him. Enough to be heard.

“But don’t mistake my hesitation,” she said quietly, “for doubt about what this costs.”

Behind her, five boys stood in a room built on blood and inheritance, watching the girl they love stand on the edge of something no one had prepared them to survive. And for the first time since any of them had been old enough to understand what their names meant, the future was not a continuation.

It was a fracture.

The silence that followed her words pressed in from every side. The chandeliers whispered faintly overhead. The wards breathed in the walls. The fire shifted low and uncertain, as though even the manor were listening.

Five presences behind her. One space she refused to turn toward. She was still staring at the letter when Blaise spoke.

“You’re not wrong.” His voice was quiet. Even. But there was nothing uncertain in it. “If you answer that letter,” he continued, “we don’t become allies. We don’t become heroes. We become something much worse.”

She inhaled.

“We become ghosts inside his house.” He stepped closer — not toward Mattheo, not toward the door, but toward her. “No one will know,” Blaise said. “Not our families. Not the circle. Not the Ministry. Not the Order. To the world, we stay exactly what we are.”

Death Eaters.

Enzo moved next. His hands were clenched, but his voice was steady. “We don’t stand beside Potter,” he said. “We stand behind him. In rooms he will never enter. We move things he will never touch. We hear things he will never be meant to survive.” He swallowed. “We help him end this war without ever letting him save us.”

Theo stepped closer until he stood just behind her shoulder, close enough that she could feel him without seeing him. “We work from the inside,” he said quietly. “We don’t defect. We don’t announce. We don’t hesitate in public.” His voice didn’t waver. “We stay where we are. And we rot him from within.”

Draco was last. And when he spoke, the room seemed to narrow around his voice. “No one will ever know we betrayed him,” he said. “Not unless we fail.” He took a step closer. “We will sit at his table. We will answer his summons. We will let the world believe what it wants about us.”

A breath.

“And everything we do in the dark will be for Potter.” The name left a familiar bitterness on his tongue. He rolled his eyes faintly, almost reflexively. Old habits die hard, even now.

Her fingers tightened around the parchment.

“To end this,” Draco finished. “Not to survive it.”

Four decisions. Four deliberate, conscious choices.

Then Mattheo laughed.

Soft.

Bitter.

Hollow.

“You’re talking about suicide.”

No one turned. No one rushed him. He stepped forward. She stepped back immediately. The table remained between them.

The line held.

“You’re talking about staying in the mouth of the thing that eats people,” he said. “And pretending you still belong there while you poison it.”

His eyes were bright.

“You think my father won’t notice?” he went on. “You think he won’t feel this the moment it becomes real? He will tear this house apart stone by stone to find out where she went.”

He gestured sharply toward Y/N.

“You are not talking about betrayal,” Mattheo said. “You are talking about living deaths. My father will know he probably saw your change today.”

Silence.

Then Y/N spoke. “I don’t think he knows,” she said quietly. The admission felt heavier than certainty. “I think that’s the most dangerous part.”

Mattheo stilled.

“I stood in that circle tonight,” she continued, eyes fixed on the table, on the letter between her hands. “And nothing in his gaze changed. Nothing in the room shifted. He didn’t see anything.”

Her fingers curled slowly around the parchment. “But something in me did.” Her voice softened, not with weakness, but with something more frightening. “I didn’t feel chosen. I didn’t feel powerful. I didn’t feel superior.”

She drew a slow breath. “I felt exposed to myself.”

Mattheo’s breath hitched.

“You didn’t put doubt in me,” she went on quietly. “You only said out loud what was already there.”

Mattheo dragged a hand down his face. “You’re all standing there like love turns monsters into martyrs,” he said. “Like this is a story where the terrible become useful.”

No one answered. “I am not better,” Mattheo said. “I am what he made. I am what survives.”

His voice dropped.

“I am a monster.”

The word settled into the marble. “And monsters don’t get to imagine clean wars,” he continued. “We belong in the part that ends badly.”

Y/N’s grip tightened around the letter.

“That is exactly why this works,” Draco said sharply.

Mattheo looked at him.

“Because he doesn’t watch monsters for betrayal,” Draco went on. “He uses them.”

Silence.

Mattheo’s mouth trembled. “You think I can stand there,” he said hoarsely, “and help Potter kill him?”

Y/N finally turned her head just enough to be heard. “If you stay,” she said, “you’ll help him kill everyone else.”

The words were not cruel.

They were true.

Mattheo closed his eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was stripped bare. “She is asking me to help end the only world that ever let me live.” No one interrupted. “And she is asking me to do it quietly,” he continued. “Without glory. Without forgiveness. Without anyone ever knowing.”

He exhaled sharply. “Do you know what that makes me?”

No one answered.

He opened his eyes.

“Alone.”

The word was almost a breath. Then—

“I will help.”

It didn’t sound brave. It sounded chosen. “I will stay in that circle,” Mattheo said. “I will lie to his face. I will bleed when he asks. I will become whatever keeps me close enough to him to matter.”

His voice roughened. “And I will do it knowing he will kill me if he ever finds out.” A beat. “But at the end of the day… Y/N... you were the one who showed me what love feels like.”

The room stilled. “And if something like me can feel that,” he said, “then something like me can choose it.” He lifted his head. “Even if it destroys me.”

The fire shifted. The wards hummed.

Five shadows stood behind her.

One across the table. All of them choosing a war no one would ever thank them for. All of them waiting. Not for permission.

For her.

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REMINDER: If you want to be on the taglist feel free to comment or message me :) and if I missed you pls lmk

Summary: (Inspired by Olivia Rodrigo - happier) Draco let her go; now he lives in the quiet she left behind. Warnings: Angst!!! Word Count: 5.6k

. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.

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Draco Malfoy told himself that he didn't care.

He told himself that as he stood near the edge of the Great Hall, arms crossed, posture immaculate, expression carefully neutral while a familiar laugh rang out—too bright, too unguarded for his liking. He told himself that as he watched Y/N tilt her head back, laughter spilling freely as she reacted to something he had said.

Not Draco.

Someone else.

A Ravenclaw boy, all earnest smiles and open warmth. The kind of boy who didn’t sneer instinctively, who didn’t carry the weight of a family name like a curse carved into his spine. The kind of boy who looked at Y/N like she was something precious rather than something complicated—something to be handled carefully, or not at all.

Draco swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away.

Y/N looked... lighter.

That was the part that hurt the most.

Her smile wasn't careful anymore. It wasn't guarded or sharp or half-hidden behind sarcasm the way it had been with him. This smile was easy. Natural. Like it didn't cost her anything.

And Draco hated himself for noticing.

Her remebered when that smile had been his.

Late nights in the Astronomy Tower when everyone else had gone to bed. Quiet conversations that slipped through laughter despite themselves. The way she used to roll her eyes at him but still leaned closer when he spoke, like she didn't want the space between them to exist at all.

He remembered the night that he ruined it all. The words had come out as sharp and stupid—born from fear, from pressure, from the constant ache of being expected to become someone he wasn’t sure he could survive being.

"You don't understand," he'd snapped.

And maybe Y/N didn't. But she had tried. Y/N always tried with him.

He’d watched her walk away that night, chin lifted, back straight, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears she refused to let fall. He remembered the exact moment he could’ve stopped her—the fraction of a second where all it would’ve taken was her name.

He hadn’t said it.

Now weeks later, Y/N stood across the hall laughing with someone else, and Draco wondered what would've happened if he had stopped you. If he had chased after her.

Draco's jaw tightened. Please, he thought bitterly, don't let him know your favorite sweet already. Don't let him learn the way you hum when you're nervous or how you pretend you don't care when you care far too much. Don't let him know you the way I did.

But the worst part—the part Draco would never admit out loud—was that he didn’t want Y/N miserable.

He didn’t want Y/N crying into her pillow at night or pretending she was fine when she wasn’t. He didn’t want Y/N waiting around for apologies he wasn’t brave enough to give.

He just didn't want her happy without him.

Y/N glanced up then, eyes flicking across the room and for a split second, they met his. Something passed between them. Recognition. Memory. A quiet ache neither of you spoke aloud.

Then Y/N looked away.

Draco exhauled slowly, the breath shaking more than he liked.

He hoped truly, painfully hoped, that whoever she was with treated her gently. That he laughed at your jokes, even the dry ones. That he never made you feel small or unwanted or like your had to earn affection.

He hoped she was happier.

He just wished selfishly, stupidly that she wasn't happier than she ever was with him.

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Draco learned very quickly that pretending not to look hurt was far more exhausting than admitting it.

He perfected indifference the way he perfected everything else—straight spine, bored expression, eyes sharp and unreadable. He walked the corridors like nothing had changed. Like his chest didn’t tighten every time her laughter echoed ahead of him. Like he didn’t notice how often Y/N’s name slipped into conversations that had nothing to do with him.

She was everywhere.

Or maybe Y/N always had been, and Draco was only just realizing how much of Hogwarts had once belonged to the two of them together.

The courtyard after lunch, where she liked to sit on the cold stone wall and complain about the weather while refusing to move inside. The library near the tall arched windows, where sunlight spilled across their books, and she pretended not to notice him watching. The stairwell halfway between the dungeons and the Astronomy Tower, where neither of them ever had a real reason to linger, but always did.

And now—

Now he saw her with him.

The Ravenclaw boy.

Draco didn’t know his name at first, and the fact that it bothered him irritated him more than he cared to admit. He told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself he didn’t care who she spent her time with now.

He cared anyway.

He noticed things he wished he didn’t: the way the boy smiled with his whole face, like smiling came easily to him. The way he leaned closer when she spoke—not guarded, not braced, just attentive. The way he laughed softly, without sharp edges or defensive bite.

Draco told himself it was ridiculous to notice.

He noticed anyway.

Something bitter twisted in Draco’s chest.

Of course, he thought bitterly. Of course you found someone like that.

Someone easy.

Someone uncomplicated.

Someone whose life wasn’t shaped by expectation and threat and legacy sharp enough to draw blood.

He watched from a distance—never long enough to be caught, never close enough to be obvious. Just enough to confirm the truth he didn’t want to admit.

She was different with him.

Not quieter.

Not dimmer.

Softer.

And Draco hated that word.

She smiled without hesitation now. Laughed without looking over her shoulder first. When the Ravenclaw brushed her arm, she leaned into the touch like it belonged there.

Draco swallowed.

That smile used to come after effort. After long nights and shared silences and sarcasm worn thin enough to reveal something real underneath. It had been something earned slowly, carefully.

Now it came freely.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag as he passed through the courtyard, pretending not to look as she sat on the steps with the Ravenclaw, animated and bright.

He remembered when she used to look at him like that.

The thought stopped him cold.

Did the Ravenclaw know how hard it had been for her to trust anyone at all? Did he know how she stiffened when voices rose, how deeply she felt things even when she pretended not to?

Did he know how to apologize when he hurt you?

Draco hadn’t.

The memory dragged him under before he could stop it—

The corridor blurred not into darkness, but into green firelight and stone walls and the heavy, suffocating quiet of the Slytherin common room late at night.

Y/N was curled into one end of the sofa, knees drawn up, a book open in her lap. Draco had known even then that Y/N wasn't reading.

She was waiting.

He’d been pacing, agitation buzzing under his skin, his father’s letter burning like a brand in his pocket. Expectation. Warning. Disappointment disguised as guidance.

“You’ve been pacing for ten minutes,” she’d said finally, voice gentle. “Just say it.”

He scoffed, turning away. “There’s nothing to say.”

“That’s a lie,” Y/N replied calmly. “And you’re bad at them.”

He’d stiffened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Y/N closed her book, slow and deliberate. “Then help me understand.”

He laughed then—short and sharp, humorless. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

He’d turned on Y/N, grey eyes cold, defensive. “You don’t live with the expectations I do.”

“I never said I did,” she said, voice steady. “I just want to be here for you.”

“That’s not enough,” he snapped.

The words had hung there, ugly and unfair, because what he meant was nothing is enough to fix what I am, and he didn’t know how to say that without sounding weak.

Y/N stood, careful like she was bracing for something to fall apart. “I’m not asking you to explain everything,” Y/N said. “I just need you to stop pushing me away when things get hard.”

He’d felt cornered. And Draco Malfoy did not survive corners without lashing out. “You always do this,” he’d said bitterly. “You act like you understand. Like you’re some sort of exception.”

“Exception to what?”

“To all of it,” he’d snapped. “To who I am.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “Then tell me. Who are you, Draco?”

He should have stopped.

He didn’t.

“You’re a distraction,” he said coldly. “Something easy to pretend with. But you don’t actually belong in my world.”

Her face had gone still.

“Say that again,” she said quietly, the kind of quiet that meant she was holding herself together with both hands.

And he had.

He told her she was naïve. That she hid behind kindness and books. That she was desperate to be different from the rest of them.

He watched the moment it broke her—not into tears, not into shouting.

Into understanding.

“Then I won’t make this difficult for you,” Y/N said softly.

She walked past him.

Steady. Controlled.

And he didn’t stop her.

Draco inhaled sharply.

He was back in the corridor now, torches flickering, students brushing past him without a second glance. His hands were clenched at his sides like he’d braced himself for impact.

Later that afternoon, he saw her again in the library. Sunlight spilled across the long tables, catching in her hair as she leaned toward the Ravenclaw. He pointed something out on her parchment, murmuring low.

She laughed.

Quiet. Breathless.

Draco’s fingers slipped on the spine of his book.

That laugh used to be his.

Not owned—never owned—but shared.

Now it belonged to someone who hadn’t shattered it first.

That night, Draco lay awake staring at the stone ceiling of his dormitory, replaying everything he wished he’d said instead of what he had. Apologies formed and dissolved before they ever reached his lips.

He told himself he wanted Y/N happy.

He did.

But he couldn’t silence the cruel, selfish voice in his head that kept comparing.

Did the Ravenclaw know her favorite constellations?

Did he sit with her in silence without needing to fill it?

Did he know when to hold on and when to let go?

Did he deserve her more than Draco ever had?

The answer came too easily.

Yes.

Draco turned onto his side, chest aching with regret that had nowhere to go.

He hoped—truly hoped—that the Ravenclaw treated Y/N gently.

He just didn’t know how to live with the fact that someone else had learned how to do what he never did.

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There were nights when Draco thought sleep might finally come.

Those nights lied.

The Slytherin dormitory was quiet in the way only stone rooms beneath a lake could be—thick, heavy silence broken by the occasional shift of fabric or the low crackle of enchanted lanterns. Draco lay awake on his back, hands folded stiffly over his chest, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

It didn’t.

Across the room, Blaise was awake too. Draco could tell by the slow, measured rhythm of his breathing—too controlled to be sleep. Theo sat on the edge of his bed, elbow braced against his knee, chin resting in his hand, eyes unfocused as if he were listening to something only he could hear.

Mattheo was sprawled across his mattress like he didn’t care about anything at all, one arm thrown over his face, leg hanging off the side. Enzo leaned against the foot of his own bed, quietly polishing a ring he hadn’t needed to polish in years.

None of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

Draco shifted, irritation prickling under his skin. He hated this—the unspoken awareness, the way they could feel something was wrong without him saying a word.

Mattheo broke first. “You’re doing that thing,” he said lazily.

Draco didn’t look at him. “What thing?”

“The brooding thing,” Mattheo replied. “Where you stare at the ceiling like it personally offended you.”

Theo snorted quietly.

Draco clenched his jaw. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t,” Enzo said calmly. “You’re too loud.”

Draco scoffed. “I haven’t said anything.”

“That’s the problem,” Blaise murmured from his bed.

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

Theo shifted, finally looking at Draco. His gaze wasn’t sharp or teasing—it was steady. Knowing. Theo had always been like that. Too observant for his own good.

“You saw her today,” Theo said.

It wasn’t a question.

Draco’s fingers curled into the blanket. “Everyone’s seen her.”

“With him,” Theo clarified.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. “So what?”

Mattheo rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His expression was unusually serious. “So you’re miserable.”

“I’m fine.”

Blaise let out a quiet laugh—soft, humorless. “You haven’t been fine since the night you blew it.”

Draco sat up then, anger flaring. “I didn’t ask for commentary.”

“No,” Mattheo said evenly, “but you’ve had it coming.”

Theo’s voice was calm when he spoke again. “We warned you.”

That hurt more than Draco expected. “You don’t get to do that,” Draco snapped. “You don’t get to say I told you so.”

Theo didn’t rise to it. “We told you because we knew.”

“Knew what?” Draco demanded.

“That you loved her,” Enzo said quietly.

The word landed wrong.

Loved.

Draco scoffed immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Mattheo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look at people the way you looked at her unless it’s love.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue—and stopped.

Because suddenly, unbidden, the memories came. Not the argument. Not the cruelty.

The before.

The Slytherin common room late at night, fire crackling low as Y/N sat cross-legged on the rug with parchment spread out between them. Draco remembered how she leaned into his space without thinking, her shoulder brushing his knee as she complained about a Potions essay as if it were the end of the world.

“You’re overthinking it,” he’d said.

“You always say that,” Y/N replied, smiling.

“And I’m always right.”

She’d rolled her eyes but shifted closer anyway, like she trusted him without thinking about it.

There were nights she’d fallen asleep on the sofa, exhaustion winning over pride. Draco would wake to find her head tilted toward his shoulder, breath slow and even, and he never moved—not even when his arm went numb—because moving felt like admitting something he wasn’t ready to say.

He remembered sneaking onto the Astronomy Tower after curfew, both of them wrapped in borrowed cloaks, fingers brushing as she pointed out constellations she pretended not to care about.

He pretended not to notice the way her voice changed when she talked about the stars—like wonder was a secret she only trusted him to see.

He remembered the almost-kisses. The charged air. The moments her eyes flicked to his mouth and stayed there half a second too long. The way he always pulled back first—not because he didn’t want her, but because wanting something meant risking it.

“I loved her first,” Draco said suddenly.

The room went still.

Mattheo blinked. “What?”

Draco stared at his hands, voice low. “Before anyone else. Before I even understood what it was.”

Theo’s expression softened—not triumphantly, not smugly.

Just sad.

“That’s the problem, Draco,” Theo said. “You loved her like it was something you had to survive.”

Draco swallowed.

Blaise spoke carefully. “You treated it like a weakness.”

“And now?” Enzo asked.

Draco didn’t answer right away.

Now, someone else laughed with her without fear. Someone else reached for her hand without wondering what it might cost. Someone else got the version of her that wasn’t always braced for impact.

“Now,” Draco said quietly, “she’s happier.”

Mattheo grimaced. “And that kills you.”

Draco nodded once because denial was pointless here.

Theo stood, crossing the room until he stopped in front of Draco. “She didn’t leave because she stopped caring.”

Draco looked up sharply.

“She left because you wouldn’t let yourself,” Theo continued. “There’s a difference.”

Draco closed his eyes.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admitted.

Theo rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. “You might not get to.”

The truth settled deep in Draco’s chest—heavy, final, deserved.

Later—much later—when the dormitory finally fell quiet again, Draco lay back down, memories looping softly instead of stabbing this time.

He remembered her laugh in the dark. The way she used to say his name like it meant something. The way loving her had crept up on him slowly, quietly, until it was everywhere.

He had loved her first.

He had just loved her wrong.

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Draco spent the next few days existing on the edge of himself—present enough to function, distant enough not to break. He went to class. He answered when spoken to. He sneered when expected. The mask fit well.

But it was thinner now.

It tore every time he saw Y/N.

The castle seemed determined to test him. Every corridor curved toward her. Every staircase led him just close enough to hear her voice before he could escape it. Laughter drifted through the halls like a ghost he couldn’t outrun.

The Slytherin boys noticed.

They didn’t say much—not anymore. Mattheo stopped making jokes about it. Blaise stopped offering dry commentary. Even Enzo, who usually filled silences with something sharp or clever, stayed quiet.

Theo watched.

Theo always watched.

It happened on a Wednesday evening, just before dinner, when the sky outside the tall windows had gone the soft grey-blue of early winter. Draco had been heading toward the Great Hall when he saw Y/N standing near the base of the staircase that led up to the Ravenclaw tower.

She was alone.

That alone felt louder than any crowd.

She leaned against the stone wall, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on something only she could see. She looked tired—not unhappy, not broken—just thoughtful in a way that made Draco’s chest ache.

This was it.

The moment his mind had rehearsed and abandoned a hundred times.

Just say her name.

Just apologize.

Just tell her you didn’t mean it.

His feet slowed without permission. He could do it. He should do it.

Behind him, footsteps echoed—familiar ones. Theo, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo had stopped a few paces back, all of them registering the same thing at once.

Mattheo muttered, “Draco…”

Theo didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Draco took another step forward.

Y/N's head lifted. She saw him.

Time did something strange then—compressed, sharpened. The noise of the castle dulled into a hum. All Draco could see was her, standing there in the space he’d left behind weeks ago.

Y/N's expression shifted—not into anger, not into pain.

Into caution.

And that was worse.

“Hi,” Y/N said.

Just that. No edge. No warmth. No invitation.

Draco’s throat tightened. “Hi.”

Silence stretched between them, thin and trembling.

He could see the question in Y/N's eyes—not why are you here, but what do you want from me.

He didn’t know how to answer that without breaking something else.

“I—” he started.

And stopped.

Because in that split second, the Ravenclaw boy appeared at the top of the stairs, scanning the corridor until his gaze landed on her.

His face softened immediately. “There you are,” he said, smiling.

The sound of it landed in Draco’s chest like a final verdict.

Y/N glanced back at him, and Draco saw it in the way her shoulders eased just a fraction. The way she didn’t brace.

“You took forever,” she said.

The Ravenclaw shrugged, amused. “Worth it.”

He noticed Draco then—really noticed him. His smile dimmed, not into hostility, but into polite awareness. He nodded once in greeting.

Draco inclined his head in return.

Y/N hesitated.

Draco could see it—the flicker of something unresolved, the ghost of words still trapped between you. For a heartbeat, it felt like the world balanced on the edge of what he might say next.

Tell her.

Apologize.

Fight for her.

But Draco saw the way Y/N stood closer to the Ravenclaw than she had to. The way her body angled subtly toward him, not defensively, not defiantly—just naturally.

She wasn’t braced.

She wasn’t waiting for the next blow.

She was… safe.

And Draco realized, with a clarity that stole the air from his lungs, that saying what he wanted—what he needed—would be for him.

Not for her.

“I should go,” Draco said quietly.

Y/N's eyes widened just slightly. “Oh,” she replied. “Okay.”

She studied his face like she was searching for something—an explanation, maybe. Or permission to feel what she refused to show.

“Take care, yeah?” said Draco trying his best not to let his eyes shine with tears that were starting to form.

“You too,” she said softly.

The Ravenclaw glanced between them, sensing the weight of something he wasn’t part of. He didn’t interrupt. He just rested a hand lightly on her elbow.

Y/N turned with him and walked away without looking back.

Draco watched until the corridor swallowed them both whole.

Behind him, Mattheo exhaled sharply. “You almost did it.”

Draco’s voice came out hollow. “Almost doesn’t count.”

Theo stepped forward. “You didn’t run.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No,” Theo agreed gently. “But it’s something.”

Draco shook his head, bitterness rising. “I didn’t stop myself because I was afraid.”

Blaise raised a brow. “Then why?”

“Because she looked… okay,” Draco said, voice rough. “And I didn’t want to be the thing that made her question that.”

The words tasted like surrender.

Later that night, Draco stood at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, the cold biting through his robes. The stars above were sharp and distant—beautiful in the way things were when they stayed out of reach.

He thought of Y/N.

He hoped the Ravenclaw laughed at her jokes. Hoped he listened when she spoke. Hoped he held her hand like it was something precious, not temporary.

He hoped she was happy.

He just didn’t know how to stop wishing—quietly, selfishly—that she wasn’t happier than she’d been with him.

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Grief did not arrive for Draco Malfoy all at once.

It came in pieces.

It came in the space beside him at the Slytherin table where she used to sit when she pretended it didn’t matter. In the way, his hand still reached for her during jokes before he remembered there was nothing there anymore. In the quiet moments when no one was watching, when he no longer had an audience to perform for.

It came hardest at night.

Draco stood at the edge of the Astronomy Tower long after curfew, the wind threading through his robes, the cold biting his skin until it felt deserved. The stars above were sharp and unforgiving, scattered across the sky like things that had never known how to stay.

Y/N used to love it up here.

Not because it was romantic—though Draco suspected that had something to do with it—but because it was quiet. Because the world felt smaller when reduced to light-years and constellations and the understanding that not everything needed to be controlled.

He’d never told her this, but sometimes he came here alone now just to feel close to the version of himself she had believed in.

The one who might have been gentle.

Draco pressed his hands against the cold stone railing and closed his eyes.

I hope you’re happy, he thought.

The words came easily. Too easily.

He did hope that.

He hoped she laughed freely now. That she slept without bracing for arguments that never came. That she didn’t have to weigh every word, wondering if it would turn sharp in his mouth.

He hoped someone else held her when she was tired. Listened when she spoke. Apologized when he was wrong.

He hoped someone loved her in a way that didn’t feel like survival.

The thought should have felt noble.

It didn’t.

It hurt.

Because buried beneath that hope—ugly and selfish and undeniable—was another truth Draco had avoided naming.

He didn’t want her happier than she had been with him.

The realization cracked something open in his chest.

He remembered the nights shed’d stayed up too late waiting for him to talk. The way she’d softened every sharp edge he threw at her, hoping eventually he’d stop throwing them at all. He remembered how she loved him quietly—without demanding, without cornering, without asking him to be more than he was willing to give.

And he’d punished her for it.

Draco dragged a hand through his hair, breath uneven. His throat felt tight, like grief had hands wrapped around it.

He had loved her like something fragile, he was afraid to touch properly. Like something that might disappear the moment he let himself need it.

So he’d pretended he didn’t.

And now Y/N was gone.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

He didn’t turn.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Theo said softly.

Draco swallowed. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Theo came to stand beside him, resting his arms against the railing. “You look like hell.”

Draco gave a weak, breathless laugh. “That obvious?”

“You don’t come up here unless you’re trying not to feel something.”

Draco stared at the stars. “I let her go.”

Theo didn’t answer immediately.

“I didn’t fight,” Draco continued. “I watched her walk away again, and I didn’t stop it.”

Theo glanced at him. “Because you didn’t want to hurt her.”

“That’s what I told myself.”

“And?”

Draco’s voice broke—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to give him away. “And because I was afraid that if I tried… she might still choose someone else.”

Theo said nothing.

“That would’ve destroyed me,” Draco admitted. “More than this.”

Theo nodded slowly. “You loved her in a way that required control.”

Draco shut his eyes, jaw clenched. “And she needed someone who wouldn’t make her earn peace.”

Theo rested a hand on Draco’s shoulder, grounding. “You don’t stop loving someone just because you lose them.”

Draco laughed bitterly, breath shaking. “That’s the problem.”

Theo squeezed once before stepping back. “You don’t have to be cruel to yourself forever.”

Draco didn’t answer.

Because the truth was—this wasn’t something he could undo. He could apologize a thousand times, and it wouldn’t change the fact that Y/N already learned how to live without him.

Later, back in the dormitory, Draco lay awake again while the others slept.

Mattheo shifted in his bed, voice rough with exhaustion. “You okay?”

Draco stared at the ceiling. “No.”

Mattheo didn’t push. He never did when it mattered.

Blaise turned slightly in his bed, eyes open. “She’s not happier because she replaced you.”

Draco swallowed, throat burning.

“She’s happier,” Blaise continued quietly, “because she stopped fighting to be loved.”

That was the final blow.

Draco turned onto his side, breath shaking as the weight of it all finally settled.

He loved her.

He had loved her first.

He just hadn’t loved her well.

And somewhere in the castle, she was laughing with someone who didn’t make love feel like a war.

Draco hoped—truly, desperately—that she never looked back and wondered what would’ve happened if he’d been braver.

Because he would wonder for the rest of his life.

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REMINDER: If you want to be on the taglist feel free to comment or message me :) and if I missed you pls lmk

Summary: Five dramatic boys spiral, repent, and learn the hard way that loving her means letting her choose. Warnings: None? A little angst? Mentions of alcohol Word Count: 8.2k

. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.

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It was, by all accounts, supposed to be a perfectly normal day in Charms.

Unfortunately, the Slytherin crew had other plans.

Y/N sat in the center of the chaos like a queen presiding over her court, quill moving neatly across parchment as she took notes with practiced ease. Around her, the boys were… less academically inclined.

Mattheo was actively losing his battle with consciousness. His chin dipped once. Twice. Then fully dropped to his chest. A soft snore followed, the kind that sounded suspiciously like a dying kettle.

Draco, Theo, and Blaise were at least trying to look productive, though Draco had already rewritten the same sentence three times because he hated how the ink slanted, Theo was staring into space as if he were solving the meaning of the universe, and Blaise was absolutely not paying attention at all.

And then there was Enzo.

Enzo, who had stolen Mattheo’s notebook and was currently doodling aggressively inappropriate stick figures across the margins. He giggled to himself, shoulders shaking, adding tiny speech bubbles that definitely violated several school rules.

Y/N peeked over, blinked once, and muttered, “You’re disgusting.”

Enzo grinned. “And yet, an artist.”

Professor Flitwick fluttered across the front of the classroom, tapping the board with his wand. “Alright, everyone! Now that we’ve gone over the principles of Depulso, you’ll be working with a partner to write an essay analyzing its controlled application.”

Instant chaos broke out around the classroom. Chairs scraped. Whispered negotiations erupted.

“I’ll work with—”

“Y/N, come over here—”

“No, we already agreed—”

“Oi, that’s my partner—”

“Ah-AH!” Professor Flitwick squeaked sharply, somehow commanding absolute silence despite being three feet tall. “None of that! I will be assigning partners myself.”

Collective groans echoed through the whole room, some even collapsing on their desks in defeat.

Flitwick’s gaze drifted towards the Slytherin side, where the boys and Y/N sat slowly, knowingly. “And no,” he added, peering over his spectacles, “you may not work in groups this time.”

Draco coughed into his hand. Blaise snorted outright. “Why does he always look directly at us when he says that?” Blaise whispered.

Y/N didn’t even glance up from her parchment. “Probably because you five threw a borderline rebellion last time, he didn’t let us all work together.”

“It was a discussion,” Theo muttered.

“A loud one,” she replied flatly.

Professor Flitwick produced a parchment list with a flourish. “Now then… let’s begin. And could someone please wake Mr. Riddle? He’s begun snoring.”

Y/N nudged Mattheo sharply with her elbow.

He jolted awake. “I’m up— I’m up—” he slurred, blinking rapidly. A thin line of drool glistened at the corner of his mouth.

Y/N grimaced and pointed at his face. “You’re leaking.”

Mattheo only groaned and wiped his mouth with his sleeve while Draco gave him a look of disgust. "Gross, mate, at least use a handkerchief."

“Mr. Weasley and Ms. Parkinson.”

Pansy perked up instantly, hair flipping. Ron looked like he’d been handed a death sentence.

“Mr. Riddle and Mr. Longbottom.”

Mattheo dropped his head onto the desk with a thud. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Neville squeaked, clutching his books. Some of the Gryffindors who were sitting near him patted him on the back in pity.

Lorenzo leaned over, smirking. “Congratulations, mate. You’ve been paired with the human equivalent of a ticking bomb.”

“Mr. Berkshire and Mr. Finnegan.”

Enzo’s grin vanished.

“No. No. Absolutely not.”

Flitwick continues his list, some groaning and complaining about who they were paired with. That was until he read the last two names on his list, “And finally,” Flitwick said brightly, “Ms. Y/L/N and Mr. Potter.”

Silence. Not a dramatic one, no, worse. The entire classroom froze. Every head in the room slowly turned. The Gryffindors stared at Y/N like she might hex them on sight. The Slytherins stared back at them like someone had just declared war.

Draco’s quill snapped clean in half.

Theo blinked. “Absolutely not.”

Blaise sat up straighter. “You’re joking.”

Mattheo leaned across the table. “Professor, with all due respect—”

Y/N closed her eyes. Of course this would happen.

Harry, meanwhile, looked like he’d rather be fed to the Hungarian Horntail. He stared at Y/N like she might hex him on sight.

Ron reached over and patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Stay strong, mate.

Draco was already halfway out of his seat. “But Professor—”

“Ah!” Flitwick snapped. “None of that, Mr. Malfoy.”

“But surely—”

“No, Mr. Zabini.”

“Then perhaps—”

“No, Mr. Nott.”

“Oh come on, Professor,” Mattheo pleaded dramatically, gesturing wildly. “You know Y/N and I work brilliantly together!”

“I said no, Mr. Riddle. You were asleep when I explained that.” Mattheo gasped like he’d been personally betrayed.

“Does that mean—” Lorenzo started hopefully.

“No, Mr. Berkshire.”

The boys groaned in unison, slumping back in their seats like defeated soldiers.

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Charms continued on at least in theory. Professor Flitwick’s voice floated through the room as he launched into a detailed explanation about wand precision and controlled magical output, but it might as well have been background noise. Y/N caught maybe every fifth word, and even that was generous.

The rest of the class certainly wasn’t listening either.

Whispers fluttered through the air like nervous birds, bouncing between desks. Heads turned subtly, then not so subtly, toward the divide between Gryffindor and Slytherin. The tension sat thick and uncomfortable, like static waiting for a spark.

On one side sat the so-called Golden Trio, clustered close together. Potter leaned in toward Granger, whispering something under his breath, while Weasley shot barely disguised glares across the aisle like he was daring someone, anyone, to start something.

Across from them, the Slytherins lounged with an air of practiced arrogance. Draco leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the back, though his sharp eyes never stopped tracking Potter. Theo sat beside him, posture deceptively relaxed, gaze sharp and calculating. Blaise looked bored but alert, like a predator pretending to nap. Mattheo tapped his quill against the desk, restless and irritated, while Enzo kept glancing between both sides with an expression that suggested he was seconds away from doing something foolish just to break the tension.

And then there was Y/N.

She sat perfectly still, hands folded loosely atop her parchment, eyes half-lidded as though she were the only one in the room actually listening to Flitwick. But beneath the calm, her awareness stretched outward, tracking every shift in posture, every whisper, every flick of hostility in the air.

The stares were impossible to miss. Everyone was watching them. The Slytherins and Gryffindors glared at one another like rival packs forced into the same territory, and it was painfully obvious who the hostility centered on. Not her, not entirely, but the boys around her.

It was almost funny, really.

Almost.

Because despite what the rest of the school believed, the animosity didn’t truly extend to her. It never had. Y/N had always been… separate. Untouchable in a way that made people hesitate. Even Granger, who stood her ground against just about everyone, had never treated Y/N with outright hostility.

The truth was, the war belonged to the boys.

The girls merely circled the edges.

Y/N shifted slightly in her seat, eyes flicking briefly toward Hermione. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second, measured, curious, cautious. Not enemies. Not friends. Something quieter. Something observant.

The only time things had ever truly exploded between them was that day. The memory flickered unbidden in Y/N’s mind—Hermione’s fist connecting sharply with Draco’s jaw, the stunned silence that followed, and then chaos. Y/N had moved on instinct, stepping forward before anyone else could, fury blazing in her chest.

She hadn’t hexed Hermione.

She hadn’t needed to.

Her voice alone had done the damage. Still, she couldn’t even fully blame Hermione. Draco had a talent for being unbearable, and there were days when even Y/N wanted to hex him herself. But that didn’t mean anyone else got the privilege.

Only she could hurt her boys.

A soft shift of movement pulled her from her thoughts.

Draco had leaned slightly toward her, his voice low. “He’s staring again.”

Y/N didn’t look. “Let him.”

Theo huffed quietly. “If he stares any harder, he’s going to burn a hole through the table.”

Mattheo cracked his knuckles. “I can fix that.”

“No,” Y/N murmured, calm but firm. “You’ll do nothing.”

Her tone brooked no argument and, tellingly, none of them argued.

Across the room, Harry shifted uncomfortably, clearly aware of the attention. He whispered something to Hermione, who frowned thoughtfully and glanced at Y/N again, this time with something like reluctant curiosity.

Flitwick droned on about wand angles and spell control, completely oblivious to the quiet war unfolding beneath his nose.

Y/N picked up her quill again, finally scribbling a few notes, though her senses remained alert. She didn’t need to look at the boys to know they were watching her closely, like guards stationed around a throne they pretended she didn’t sit on.

Whatever tension existed between Slytherin and Gryffindor, whatever history or rumors or misunderstandings fueled it… one thing was certain: No one touched her people.

And if they tried?

Well.

Charms wouldn’t be the only subject getting tested that day.

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After class ended, the room erupted into noise almost instantly. Chairs scraped harshly against the stone floor, parchment was shoved into bags, and voices rose in hurried whispers as students scrambled to leave. Some hurried toward their newly assigned partners with reluctant sighs, others practically fled the classroom, eager to spread the delicious gossip of who had been cursed with whom.

Y/N, however, remained entirely unbothered. She packed her things with precise, unhurried movements, her quill sliding neatly back into her bag as if nothing noteworthy had happened at all. Around her, the boys moved instinctively, forming a loose half-circle, subtle but unmistakable. It was second nature by now. Protective. Watchful. Especially now that she’d been paired with him.

The Chosen One. Harry Potter. The Savior. Or as the boys liked to call him, Scar-Head.

As they stepped into the corridor, the tension hit immediately. Harry Potter and his ever-present entourage were already there, lingering like they’d been waiting on purpose. The air felt charged, as though one wrong word would spark something ugly. A few students slowed their pace, eyes darting between the two groups. Others quickened their steps, clearly uninterested in being collateral damage.

The staring began. Then the glaring.

Mattheo was the first to speak, his voice low and sharp. “What do you need, Potter?” he said, spitting the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Harry stiffened. “If you didn’t hear, Riddle,” he shot back, “Y/N and I were unfortunately paired together for the assignment.”

Draco scoffed instantly. “Unfortunately?” he repeated coldly. “You should be grateful. Your puny brain would short-circuit trying to keep up with her.”

Ron stepped forward, ears already flaming red. “Oh, shut it, Malfoy—”

“I know you’re not talking,” Draco snapped, eyes flashing.

Hermione visibly wilted beside them, clearly wishing the stone floor would open and swallow her whole, though she stayed close just in case things spiraled.

The tension thickened as the Slytherin boys shifted, subtly stepping in front of Y/N. Protective. Defensive. Ready.

She sighed. With one smooth motion, she nudged Theo and Blaise aside, her expression unimpressed. “Enough.” Her voice wasn’t loud. But it cut. The boys stilled instantly, though their glares never left the Gryffindors.

“Potter and I will talk alone and set up a schedule,” she continued evenly. “That’s it.”

Several mouths opened at once.

“But—”

“Absolutely not—”

“Y/N, that’s—”

She turned on them, eyes sharp enough to silence the corridor. “That means the five of you,” she said pointedly, “will walk away. Now.”

Theo leaned down slightly, voice lowered. “Princess, what if—”

“No.” She cut him off without hesitation. “I will not let my grades suffer because all of you—” her gaze flicked deliberately between both groups, “—can’t put your tiny egos aside long enough to let me work with Lightning Brain over here.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Ron opened his mouth to argue, but Hermione pinched his side hard enough to make him yelp. “Don’t,” she hissed under her breath.

Y/N crossed her arms. “Now. Leave. I’ll meet you in the courtyard in five minutes.” The boys immediately revolted.

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you mad?”

“We are not leaving you alone with Thunderhead and Company.”

“What if they try something?”

She stared at them.

Just stared.

For someone significantly shorter than all of them, she somehow managed to look terrifying. One by one, they straightened like scolded children.

“I said,” she repeated slowly, lifting her arm and pointing toward the corridor, “I will see you in five minutes.”

Blaise sighed first, already defeated. Enzo nodded reluctantly. Theo muttered under his breath as he slid her bag off her shoulder without a word.

Draco lingered, arms crossed, glare burning holes into both Gryffindor boys.

Mattheo stepped forward last. He took her hand briefly, squeezing it once, grounding and protective, before giving her one of his rare, tight smiles. Then he looked at Harry, his expression darkening.

“Five minutes,” he said quietly. “If she’s not back in our sight by then, we’ll find many creative ways to make your life even more miserable than it already is.”

With that, the group turned and walked off, some of them not so subtly bumping into Harry and Ron on the way.

Ron scoffed. “Bunch of guard dogs, aren’t they?”

Y/N’s head snapped toward him. “Watch your mouth, Weasley.” He flinched slightly. “Now,” she added coolly, “you and Granger walk away. We’re getting this over with.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded, tugging Ron back by his sleeve as they disappeared down the corridor. Leaving Y/N and Harry alone, the air still buzzing with tension, pride, and something neither of them wanted to name.

“We’ll meet at the library every day this week after dinner,” Y/N said firmly, folding her arms across her chest. Her posture was calm, but her guard was unmistakably up, shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes sharp enough to cut through stone. “Don’t be late.”

Harry shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable under her unwavering stare. He glanced once over her shoulder, where the Slytherins had disappeared down the corridor, before looking back at her.

“Is it just us,” he asked carefully, “or are you planning on bringing your… five shadows with you?”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face before she masked it with a roll of her eyes. “No,” she replied coolly. “They’re not coming.”

Harry raised a brow, clearly skeptical. “You sure? Because it kind of seems like they’d hex me just for breathing too close to you.”

“They’ll want to,” she admitted casually, shifting her weight to one hip. “But don’t worry, Potter. My shadows listen to me.”

Harry blinked, clearly unsure whether that was reassuring or deeply unsettling. “Right,” he muttered. “Good to know.”

Y/N straightened, already mentally moving on. “Bring your notes. And an actual quill this time—not the chewed one.”

His ears went pink. “It still works.”

“Barely,” she shot back, already turning away. “Library. After dinner. Don’t be late.”

She paused only once, glancing over her shoulder with a look that dared him to argue. “Because if you are,” she added coolly, “I won’t be nearly as patient as I’m being now.”

Then she walked off calm, controlled, and entirely unbothered—leaving Harry standing there, realizing far too late that somehow… he was the one being intimidated.

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Dinner in the Great Hall was anything but quiet. The enchanted ceiling shimmered overhead, dusk melting into a deep indigo scattered with faint stars, but no one seemed to be paying attention to the magic above. The real spectacle was below whispers slipping between tables like wildfire, glances darting toward one particular group of students, and hushed gasps every time someone dared say her name.

The Slytherin Princess.

Paired with Harry Potter.

It was all anyone could talk about.

At the Gryffindor table, heads leaned together in tight clusters, speculation buzzing like static. At Ravenclaw, parchment was already being passed with theories scribbled in sharp handwriting. Even Hufflepuff—normally blissfully unbothered—had fallen unusually silent, eyes flicking toward the green-and-silver table every few seconds.

And at the center of it all sat Y/N.

Composed. Elegant. Entirely unimpressed.

She sat between Enzo and Theo, posture perfect as she calmly picked at her food, seemingly unaffected by the storm she’d unknowingly caused. Meanwhile, directly across from her, Draco, Blaise, and Mattheo looked like they were plotting an international incident.

The air around them crackled with barely contained hostility.

“Professor Flitwick paired her with him,” Draco muttered darkly, stabbing his fork into a piece of roast as if it had personally offended him. “Out of everyone in that class—him.”

Mattheo leaned forward, voice low and venomous. “I swear on Merlin’s grave, if Potter so much as looks at her wrong—”

“I’ll hex him first,” Blaise added calmly, sipping his drink like he was discussing the weather.

Y/N sighed through her nose, already exhausted.

“I already told you lot,” she said sharply, setting her fork down with a quiet clink, “I do not want you breathing down Potter’s neck like a pack of deranged Kneazles.”

All five of them snapped their heads toward her.

“I need him to focus on the assignment,” she continued coolly, “not on whether or not one of you is about to hex his eyebrows off.”

Theo, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, leaned back in his seat with a scowl. “You’re acting like this is no big deal,” he said. “He’s Potter.”

“Yes,” she replied flatly. “And?”

“And he’s reckless,” Mattheo snapped. “And annoying. And has a hero complex.”

“And an irritating face,” Draco added.

“And a savior complex,” Blaise chimed in.

“And a lot of Gryffindor audacity,” Enzo muttered.

Y/N stared at all of them slowly, unimpressed.

“You’re all proving my point,” she said coolly. “This is an assignment. Not a duel. Not a battlefield. Not some opportunity for you lot to measure whose ego is bigger.”

Mattheo scoffed. “You make it sound like we’re the problem.”

“You are,” she shot back instantly.

That shut them up—for exactly three seconds.

“What if he distracts you?” Theo asked, his voice lower now, concern slipping through the irritation. “What if he tries something stupid?”

“Then I handle it,” she replied without hesitation.

“And if he doesn’t?” Blaise pressed.

Her gaze hardened slightly. “Then I still handle it.”

The boys exchanged glances—clearly unconvinced.

Across the Great Hall, Harry Potter sat stiffly between Ron and Hermione, painfully aware of the way every few minutes someone from Slytherin glanced in his direction like they were deciding whether or not to hex him into next week. He swallowed and muttered, “I swear, I didn’t ask for this.”

Ron snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Hermione shot them both a look. “Just—don’t antagonize her. Or them. Please.”

Back at the Slytherin table, Y/N finally snapped. “I swear on Merlin’s beard,” she hissed quietly, leaning forward, “You are not to follow us. Not to the library. Not down the corridors. Not ‘just to check.’”

“You’re banning us?” Theo asked slowly.

“Yes.”

Draco blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” she said evenly. “You are not allowed in the library while I’m working with him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mattheo snapped. “What if something happens?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Then I’ll handle it.”

Blaise frowned. “You can’t expect us to just—what—sit around and wait?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “That’s exactly what I expect.”

The table fell silent. Her gaze sharpened, sweeping over each of them in turn.

“I refuse to let my grades suffer because none of you can separate rivalry from reality,” she said firmly. “This assignment matters. My future matters. And if that means spending time with Potter without an audience, then that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

Theo ran a hand through his hair, clearly torn. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I’m not asking—I’m telling. If I see even one of you lurking in the library while I’m there,” she continued coolly, “I will personally make sure you regret it.”

Mattheo grimaced. “You wouldn’t.”

She met his eyes. “Try me.”

Silence stretched.

Finally, Enzo sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

Draco scowled but gave a stiff nod. “Fine.”

Blaise took a slow sip of his pumpkin juice, avoiding Y/N's eyes until she glared hard enough, sighing, "Fine."

Theo exhaled slowly, clearly unhappy. “You’re impossible.”

She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. “And yet, you all adore me.”

That earned a few reluctant huffs of laughter.

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Y/N stood from the bench with quiet finality, smoothing the front of her robes as though she hadn’t just delivered a verbal execution to five of the most dangerous boys in the castle. Her expression was calm, collected—almost annoyingly so.

“I’ll see you all later,” she said simply, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The words do anything stupid echoed like a challenge.

She didn’t wait for a response.

As she stepped away from the table, the noise of the Great Hall seemed to shift around her, students instinctively moving aside as she passed, whispers following in her wake. Her footsteps were measured, confident, and utterly unbothered.

Not once did she look back.

The moment she disappeared through the doors leading toward the corridors, chaos erupted.

Draco stood abruptly, the bench scraping loudly against the stone floor. “Oh absolutely not.”

Theo grabbed his sleeve before he could take another step. “Draco—don’t.”

“She just walked off alone to meet Potter,” Draco snapped. “Are we all just going to sit here and pretend that’s fine?”

Mattheo leaned back in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “It’s not fine. It’s idiotic.”

“She told us not to follow,” Enzo pointed out, though his tone lacked conviction.

Blaise scoffed. “She also told us not to duel in the corridors and we still did that.”

“That was different,” Theo muttered. “That was for honor.”

“This is also for honor,” Draco shot back. “Our honor.”

Theo groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re impossible.”

“She’s walking into a trap,” Mattheo said quietly. “You all know it.”

Blaise leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “It’s a school assignment. She’s not walking into a duel.”

“She’s walking into Potter,” Draco snapped. “That’s close enough.”

Theo exhaled slowly. “You’re all acting like she can’t handle herself.”

“That’s not the point,” Mattheo said sharply. “Of course she can. That’s not why this feels wrong.”

Silence settled between them. They all knew what he meant. Y/N didn’t need protection, but that didn’t stop them from wanting to protect her.

Draco paced once, then twice. “She said we’re not allowed in the library.”

“She was very clear about that,” Theo agreed.

“But she didn’t say we couldn’t… wait nearby,” Enzo offered carefully.

Blaise raised a brow. “You mean hover?”

“I mean be available,” Enzo corrected.

“No,” Theo snapped. “Absolutely not. She will know. And when she does, she’ll murder us with her eyes.”

“Worth it,” Draco muttered.

Enzo sighed dramatically. “You’re all acting like first-years.”

“And you’re acting like you wouldn’t hex Potter if he breathed wrong,” Mattheo shot back.

Enzo didn’t deny it.

There was a pause, then Theo slowly stood. Draco turned to Theo. “Thoughts?”

Theo hesitated. “She asked us to trust her.”

“And?” Mattheo pressed.

“And she rarely asks for anything,” Theo finished quietly.

That gave them another pause. Draco clenched his jaw, staring at the corridor she’d disappeared down. “I hate this.”

“She’ll be fine,” Blaise said, though his tone lacked certainty.

“Yeah,” Enzo muttered. “She always is.”

They fell silent again, each lost in thought.

Finally, Draco straightened. “We won’t follow her into the library.”

Theo nodded. “But we’ll stay close enough to step in if something goes wrong.”

Mattheo smirked faintly. “Subtle.”

“As subtle as we ever are,” Blaise added.

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The library was quiet in the way only Hogwarts could manage—thick, heavy silence layered with the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional scratch of a quill. Tall shelves loomed like watchful sentinels, shadows stretching lazily across the stone floor as lanterns glowed faintly overhead.

Y/N stepped inside, pausing just long enough to take in the familiar calm before moving toward one of the long wooden tables near the back. She placed her bag down neatly, already reaching for her books when she heard footsteps approaching.

“Hey,” Harry said softly.

She turned to find him standing a few feet away, looking… nervous. Not heroic. Not defiant. Just a boy who clearly didn’t know how this was supposed to go.

“You’re on time,” she said neutrally.

He nodded quickly. “You too.”

There was a beat of awkward silence before he pulled out a chair and sat across from her, leaving a respectful amount of space between them. He glanced at the towering shelves around them.

“So… uh,” he cleared his throat, “Charms.”

“Yes,” she replied, already pulling out her notes. “We need to finish the written portion by Friday, and Flitwick expects a detailed explanation of wand movement, not just the incantation.”

Harry blinked. “Right. Yeah. That.”

She shot him a look—not annoyed, just unimpressed.

“You did read the assignment, didn’t you?”

“I—yes. Mostly.”

She sighed softly but didn’t press it. Instead, she opened her book and slid it slightly toward him so he could see the diagrams. “Start with this section. It explains why improper wrist rotation causes spell recoil.”

Harry leaned in, genuinely curious. “That actually… makes sense.”

They worked quietly for a few minutes, the tension easing into something almost comfortable. Harry scribbled notes, occasionally asking questions, and Y/N answered without condescension—clear, precise, patient.

“You’re actually… really good at explaining things,” he admitted quietly.

She paused, surprised. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he said, offering a small smile. “You don’t make people feel stupid.”

Something in her expression softened—just a fraction. “Well,” she replied lightly, “I try not to.”

Minutes passed. Pages turned. Quills scratched.

And then—

She felt it.

That familiar prickle along the back of her neck.

The feeling of being watched.

Her pen slowed.

She glanced up casually, scanning the rows between the shelves.

Nothing.

But the feeling didn’t go away.

Her gaze drifted toward the far end of the aisle—just in time to catch the faintest movement. A shadow retreating too quickly. The subtle shift of fabric.

Her jaw tightened.

Unbelievable.

She inhaled slowly, then set her quill down with deliberate care.

“Excuse me,” she said coolly, standing. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh—okay,” Harry replied, confused.

Y/N didn’t answer. She moved quietly between the shelves, each step measured. She turned the corner sharply—and there they were.

All five of them.

Draco. Theo. Mattheo. Blaise. Enzo.

Hovering near the end of the aisle like they’d been waiting for her to notice.

Her expression went cold. “What,” she said flatly, “do you think you’re doing?”

No one spoke.

She took one step forward. “I told you not to follow me.”

“We’re not following you,” Draco said quickly. “We’re just—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice low and cutting. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

They froze.

“I was very clear,” she continued, voice steady but sharp enough to draw blood. “I said you were not allowed in the library while I worked with him.”

“We stayed back,” Blaise offered. “We didn’t interrupt.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all.”

Theo opened his mouth. “We just wanted to make sure—”

“No,” she cut in instantly. “You wanted control.”

That hit harder than any curse.

“I asked for trust,” she went on, eyes blazing now. “Not surveillance. Not supervision. Trust.”

Mattheo took a step forward. “You know we’re just trying to protect—”

“I don’t need protection,” she snapped. “Not from him. Not from anyone.” Her voice dropped, dangerous in its calm. “I am not fragile. I am not careless. And I am certainly not incapable of handling a school assignment without five boys hovering like I’m about to break.”

Silence.

“You didn’t come here for my safety,” she continued. “You came because you don’t like that I made a decision without you.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s accurate.”

She stepped closer, her presence commanding despite her size. “You don’t get to decide who I work with. You don’t get to decide where I go. And you definitely don’t get to follow me after I’ve told you not to.”

Theo swallowed. “We were worried.”

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

That stung.

Her voice sharpened further. “And if you ever do this again—ignore my words, my boundaries, my trust—I won’t just be angry. I’ll be done.”

That did it.

They looked shaken now—truly shaken.

“I mean it,” she said quietly. “I will not be controlled. Not by enemies. Not by friends.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

Finally, she stepped back, smoothing her robes as though she hadn’t just dismantled them emotionally.

“Leave,” she said. “Now.”

They didn’t argue this time.

One by one, they backed away—Draco stiff with regret, Theo visibly conflicted, Mattheo clenching his fists, Blaise avoiding her eyes, Enzo looking like he wanted to say something but didn’t dare.

When they were gone, Y/N let out a slow breath.

She straightened her shoulders, turned, and walked back toward the table.

Harry looked up, eyes wide.

“…You okay?”

She sat down calmly, as if nothing had happened.

“Yes,” she said evenly. “Now—where were we?”

And for the first time, Harry realized something important: Whatever stories people told about her— whatever rumors, whatever myths—they didn’t even come close to the truth.

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.

.

The next few days were… unbearable, not for Y/N.

For the boys.

From the moment she left the library that night, something shifted quietly, decisively. She didn’t raise her voice again. She didn’t glare or argue. She simply stopped engaging.

She still sat with them at meals. Still walked beside them in the corridors. Still acknowledged their presence with polite nods or brief glances.

But she didn’t talk to them.

Not really.

Gone were the teasing remarks, the sarcastic comments, the effortless banter that usually filled every space between them. If they spoke, she responded with short, clipped answers. Civil. Distant. Controlled.

And it was killing them.

Draco noticed first.

He noticed the way she didn’t roll her eyes when he complained, didn’t mutter a clever retort when he teased. She no longer stole food from his plate or leaned into his space just to annoy him. She kept herself carefully contained, polite, cold, unreachable.

Theo noticed next.

She no longer walked beside him. No whispered comments during class. No quiet looks when something amused her. When he spoke, she listened, but her eyes were distant, like she was looking through him instead of at him.

Mattheo tried to joke his way back in. Failed miserably.

Blaise tried reason. Failed harder.

Enzo tried guilt. That earned him a polite nod and nothing else.

They looked like a group of kicked puppies trailing behind her through the halls, silent and miserable, watching her pull further and further away.

And the worst part?

She was laughing again. Just not with them. Every evening after dinner, she headed toward the library, and every evening, Harry was already there, waiting.

At first, it had been stiff and awkward.

Now?

Now there was something else.

“You’re telling me you actually tried to use a switching spell on a self-stirring cauldron?” Y/N said, incredulous.

Harry grinned sheepishly. “In my defense, I was twelve and very tired.”

She laughed a real laugh, light and genuine, echoing softly through the quiet library. The boys watched from their usual “definitely not spying” spot near the arches, jaws clenched.

“She’s laughing,” Draco muttered.

“With him,” Theo added darkly.

“I’ve never heard her laugh like that at one of my jokes,” Mattheo grumbled.

Blaise tilted his head. “That’s because yours are bad.”

Draco shot him a glare. “Not the point.”

Across the room, Harry leaned back in his chair, smiling openly now. “You know, you’re actually… really easy to talk to.”

Y/N paused, then shrugged lightly. “You’re not as unbearable as everyone says.”

He laughed again. “High praise.”

She smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

But the ease between them was undeniable. They debated theories, corrected each other’s mistakes, even shared a few quiet jokes that earned soft laughter meant only for each other.

And every laugh felt like a knife to the boys watching from afar.

“She’s supposed to laugh with us,” Enzo muttered.

Draco’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

Theo watched her carefully. “She’s doing this on purpose.”

Mattheo frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not punishing us loudly,” Theo said quietly. “She’s punishing us by withholding herself.”

And gods, was it working.

The next day, the pattern continued. She didn’t sit with them at breakfast, choosing a quiet corner instead. She still walked beside them in the halls, but she never lingered. She never spoke unless necessary.

And every evening, she met Harry in the library.

Each time, they grew more comfortable. More relaxed. More… natural. One night, Harry laughed so hard he snorted, and she laughed with him until her sides hurt.

The boys saw it all.

“That should be us,” Draco muttered.

“We deserve that,” Mattheo said bitterly.

Theo exhaled slowly. “No. We lost that.”

And that realization hurt far worse than any argument ever could. By the fourth day, the guilt was unbearable. Y/N passed them in the corridor without a glance.

Draco reached for her wrist without thinking, then stopped himself just in time.

She didn’t even notice.

And that—that was the worst part of all.

Because for the first time since they’d known her, she didn’t need them. And they didn’t know how to fix it.

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.

.

The Slytherin boys’ dormitory had never felt so quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet, the kind that settled in when everyone was asleep, and the castle hummed softly around them. No, this was the unbearable kind. The kind that pressed in on your chest and made every small sound feel louder than it should.

Draco lay sprawled dramatically across his bed, one arm flung over his face as if the ceiling itself had personally wronged him.

“This is torture,” he muttered.

No one disagreed.

Theo sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the stone floor like it might offer him absolution. Mattheo paced near the window, running a hand through his hair every few seconds like the movement alone might calm the restless energy buzzing through him. Blaise leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Enzo sat cross-legged on his bed, absently tossing a quill in the air and catching it again.

None of them had spoken in several minutes.

Draco broke first. “She didn’t even look at me today.”

Theo winced. “She walked right past us.”

“She walked through us,” Mattheo muttered. “Like we weren’t even there.”

Blaise sighed. “I tried to catch her eye at breakfast. She didn’t even slow down.”

Draco groaned and rolled onto his side. “She used to steal my food. Do you know how insulting it is to be ignored by someone who used to steal your food?”

“That’s your biggest concern?” Theo shot him a look.

“Yes,” Draco snapped. “Because it means she’s serious.”

They all fell quiet again. Then Enzo muttered, “She laughed really hard again today.” Every head snapped toward him.

“With who?” Mattheo demanded.

Enzo hesitated. “…Potter.”

The room erupted.

“You’re joking.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re actually joking.”

“I wish I was,” Enzo groaned. “I saw it from the staircase. She was laughing—actually laughing. Head tilted back, everything.”

Draco sat up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. “That’s not possible.”

Theo clenched his jaw. “She hasn’t laughed like that with us in days.”

Mattheo ran a hand down his face. “We did this.”

No one argued.

Silence stretched again—thick, suffocating. “She’s choosing him,” Draco said quietly.

“No,” Theo replied, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed him. “She’s… coping.”

“With him?” Draco snapped. “That’s worse.”

Blaise shifted. “She doesn’t owe us anything.”

“I know,” Draco said sharply. “That’s the problem.”

Another heavy pause.

“She looked happy,” Enzo added quietly. “Like she wasn’t carrying the world on her shoulders.”

That one hurt.

Mattheo stopped pacing. “We made her feel like she had to.”

Theo swallowed hard. “She trusted us.”

Draco stared at the wall, eyes burning. “And we broke it.”

No one spoke after that. The silence pressed in again, heavier this time. Eventually, Theo stood. “We need to fix this.”

Draco laughed bitterly. “How? She won’t even look at us.”

“We start by giving her space,” Blaise said reluctantly.

Mattheo frowned. “That’s what got us here.”

“No,” Theo corrected. “Ignoring her wishes got us here. Respecting them is the only way out.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear. “I hate this.”

“I hate that he gets to make her laugh,” Enzo muttered.

Mattheo clenched his fists. “I hate that she doesn’t look at us anymore.”

Theo’s voice dropped. “I hate that we hurt her.”

The room fell silent again. Outside, the castle hummed softly, unaware of the quiet war being fought inside the Slytherin dormitory. And somewhere across the castle, Y/N was laughing softly at something Harry said, unaware that her five boys were unraveling one thought at a time.

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.

.

The last day of the assignment arrived quieter than the ones before it.

The library felt almost sacred in the late afternoon light, sunbeams filtering through the tall windows and painting warm gold across the long tables. The usual whispers were softer today, as though even the castle itself knew something was ending.

Y/N sat across from Harry, their books neatly stacked between them. The assignment lay finished—clean, precise, and flawless.

She closed her book slowly, fingertips lingering against the cover.

“That’s it,” she said. “We’re done.”

Harry let out a quiet breath of relief. “Thank Merlin.”

She huffed a faint laugh. “You’re not terrible to work with, Potter.”

His eyebrows lifted. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They’d grown comfortable over the past few days—comfortable in a way neither of them had expected. There were no sharp edges now, no awkward pauses. They talked easily, even laughed. And somehow, that ease had made the silence around them louder.

Harry hesitated before speaking again.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

She glanced up, cautious but not cold. “Go on.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “This is probably none of my business, so feel free to hex me if I cross a line.”

She arched a brow. “Noted.”

“I don’t like them,” he admitted quietly.

Her brow furrowed slightly. “The boys?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s putting it lightly.”

She didn’t interrupt.

Harry leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the tall shelves. “They’ve made my life hell since first year. The insults, the hexes, the way they look at me like I’m something to step on.” His jaw tightened. “They’ve mocked my family, my friends—everything.”

Her expression softened, but she said nothing.

“And I won’t pretend I didn’t give it back,” he continued. “I did. Plenty. But… it still wears on you after a while.” He glanced at her. “So believe me when I say I don’t want to defend them.”

She studied him carefully. “But you’re about to.”

He gave a small, resigned nod. “Yeah.” He sighed, rubbing his palms together. “Because as much as I can’t stand them… I’ve never seen them like this.”

Her eyes flickered.

“They look awful,” he went on quietly. “Not angry. Not smug. Just… lost. Like they don’t know where to put themselves without you.”

She looked away.

“I see them watching you,” he admitted. “Not in a creepy way—just… like they’re afraid you’ll disappear if they blink.”

Her throat tightened, though her voice remained steady. “They should’ve thought about that before.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And you’re right. You didn’t deserve what they did. But,” he continued softly, “I don’t think they meant to hurt you. I think they panicked.”

She scoffed quietly. “That doesn’t excuse it.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it explains it.”

Silence fell between them again—thick, thoughtful.

“I’ve spent years hating them,” Harry admitted. “And honestly? I think I always will. They’ve said things—done things—that I’ll probably never forget.”

Her fingers curled slightly against the table.

“But watching them these past few days…” He hesitated. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them look genuinely… broken.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

“They’re not eating properly,” he added. “They barely talk. They just sit there, staring at nothing like they’re waiting for something they don’t think they deserve anymore.”

Her breath hitched—just slightly.

“And I hate them,” he repeated softly. “But even I can tell,” he said gently, “that they love you. In their own messed-up, overprotective way.”

Silence stretched.

“I’m not telling you to forgive them,” Harry said quickly. “You don’t owe them that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” He met her gaze, earnest and open. “I just… think they’re learning what it feels like to lose you. And I don’t think they realized how much you meant to them until you stopped being there.”

Her chest tightened painfully.

“They look like hell,” he added softly. “And somehow… they deserve it.”

A quiet breath left her lips—half laugh, half ache. “You really don’t like them,” she murmured.

He smiled faintly. “No. I don’t.” Then he hesitated, voice softer. “But I like you. And I don’t like seeing you hurt either.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, surprised. “That’s… kind of you,” she said quietly.

He shrugged. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

She stood slowly, slipping her bag over her shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to say any of that,” she admitted.

He smiled, small and genuine. “Neither did I.”

She turned toward the exit, pausing just before stepping through the doorway. “They’re probably miserable,” she said softly.

Harry smiled. “Oh. Very. They’ll probably faint when you speak to them.”

She laughed—soft, real, warm. “Don’t give them that much credit.”

They walked toward the exit together. As they reached the doors, she paused and glanced back toward the corridor leading to the Slytherin common room.

Her expression softened—not forgiving yet, but considering.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For reminding me that people can grow.”

Harry smiled. “Anytime.”

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.

.

The Slytherin boys' dormitory looked like the aftermath of a very personal war.

Empty Firewhisky bottles rolled lazily across the stone floor whenever someone shifted. A half-eaten bag of Honeydukes sweets sat overturned on a bedside table. One sock hung dramatically from a bedpost like a fallen flag of defeat.

The fire crackled low, casting uneven shadows across the room and illuminating five very miserable boys.

Draco was sprawled dramatically across his bed, one arm flung over his eyes like a tragic poet on the brink of death. Blaise sat slouched in an armchair, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling as if awaiting divine intervention. Theo sat cross-legged on the floor, hugging a pillow to his chest, while Mattheo paced back and forth in uneven steps, muttering curses under his breath. Enzo sat at the foot of his bed, holding a Firewhisky bottle like it had personally betrayed him.

“This is torture,” Draco groaned.

“This is karma,” Blaise muttered.

“This is worse than when Father took my broom for a month,” Theo sighed.

Mattheo stopped pacing. “She didn’t even look at me today.”

“That’s because you look like a haunted ghost,” Enzo said softly.

“I am a haunted ghost,” Mattheo snapped. “Haunted by my own mistakes.”

Draco let out a dramatic groan. “I’d give anything for her to yell at me. At least that would mean she still cares.”

“She does care,” Theo said quietly. “That’s why this hurts.”

Silence followed. Then—

Knock. Knock.

All five of them froze. The knock came again, firmer this time. Draco sat bolt upright. “Tell me that was a hallucination.”

Theo stood slowly, wobbling slightly as he approached the door. “If this is a ghost, I swear—” He opened it.

Y/N stood there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, eyes flicking over the disaster before her.

The smell of Firewhisky hit her immediately. “…Merlin help me,” she muttered.

Every single one of them froze.

“You’re— you’re here,” Enzo whispered.

“Yes,” she said flatly. “And clearly, I should've come earlier.”

She stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her gaze swept over the room, overturned bottles, messy hair, red-rimmed eyes, and five boys who looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

“What is this?” she asked slowly.

“Pain,” Draco croaked.

“Regret,” Blaise added.

“Self-loathing,” Theo said softly.

“Emotional devastation,” Mattheo offered.

“Hangovers,” Enzo mumbled.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I leave you alone for five days, and you turn into a support group?”

Draco slid dramatically off his bed and landed on his knees with a soft thump. “I repent,” he declared. “Forgive me, oh terrifying one.”

She blinked. “Get up.”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “I deserve this.”

Theo followed suit, wobbling slightly before kneeling beside him. “I also repent.”

Mattheo groaned. “Oh gods, we’re doing this?” He dropped down too. “Fine. I repent. I’m sorry. I was an idiot.”

Blaise sighed deeply before kneeling as well. “I hate that I’m doing this.”

Enzo looked between them, then sighed and dropped down too. “For the record, this is humiliating.”

Y/N stared at them.

“…You’re all insane.”

“We know,” they said in unison.

She rubbed her temples. “You don’t need to beg.”

“But we want to,” Draco said solemnly. “We hurt you.”

Theo looked up at her, eyes glassy. “We just didn’t want to lose you.”

She softened despite herself. “You don’t lose people by trusting them,” she said quietly. “You lose them by trying to cage them.”

Mattheo nodded. “We understand. We really do.”

She sighed. “Get up. All of you.”

They hesitated.

“Now.”

They scrambled to their feet like scolded children.

She crossed her arms. “You’re drunk. You’re emotional. And you smell like regret and sugar.”

Blaise winced. “Accurate.”

She shook her head, fighting a smile. “Sit. All of you.”

They obeyed immediately.

She moved around the room, collecting bottles, muttering under her breath the entire time. “You’re going to drink water,” she ordered. “And eat something. And then you’re going to sleep.”

“Yes, mum,” Mattheo muttered.

She shot him a look. “I will hex you.”

He smiled. “Worth it.”

She tossed him a pillow.

They laughed—softly, shakily, but genuinely.

Once everyone was settled, she stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips. “I’m still upset,” she said. “That doesn’t disappear just because you’re pathetic.”

They nodded solemnly.

“But,” she added, softer now, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

She looked at each of them in turn. “And I love you. Even when you’re idiots.”

The room went quiet.

“You—love us?” Enzo whispered.

She rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately.”

They all smiled—wide, relieved, slightly teary smiles.

Draco sniffed. “I’m never letting this go.”

“Good,” she said. “Now drink your water.”

She stayed with them, straightening blankets, handing out water, and making sure none of them tipped over. And as they slowly settled, safe and warm and very much forgiven, one thing became painfully clear: They might be disasters.

But they were her disasters.

And she wouldn’t trade them for the world.

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.

.

The Great Hall had never seen a tragedy quite like this.

Five Slytherins shuffled in together like a defeated parade, each one somehow managing to look worse than the last. Their usual confidence was gone, replaced with hunched shoulders, slow steps, and expressions of deep, personal suffering.

Draco walked like the world had personally offended him. His hair was a mess, his robes slightly wrinkled, and he squinted every time the light from the enchanted ceiling shifted.

Theo looked like he hadn’t slept in a century. His eyes were half-lidded, movements sluggish, and he flinched every time a chair scraped across the floor.

Mattheo groaned dramatically with every step. “I swear the sun is louder today.”

“It’s not the sun,” Blaise muttered. “It’s my skull cracking in half.”

Enzo held his head with both hands. “Why does breathing hurt.”

They collapsed into their usual seats at the Slytherin table like fallen soldiers. Across the hall, heads turned. People noticed. Of course they did.

The five of them looked utterly miserable—except for one very important detail. They were smiling. Not wide, cocky smiles. Not smug ones. Soft ones. Relieved ones.

The kind you only wear when something you thought you’d lost has quietly returned. And then— she appeared. Y/N entered the Great Hall looking far too awake for someone who had spent the previous night managing five emotional disasters. Her hair was neatly pulled back, robes tidy, expression calm and unreadable.

The moment she stepped inside, the boys visibly straightened.

Theo sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. “Oh—Merlin—why did I do that—”

Draco squinted at her like she was a miracle. “She’s real.”

“I told you she’d come back,” Enzo whispered.

Mattheo blinked slowly. “I think I’m hallucinating.”

Y/N stopped in front of them, arms crossed. “Well,” she said dryly, “you all look terrible.”

They perked up instantly.

“You came,” Draco said softly.

She rolled her eyes. “Relax. I still sit here.”

They visibly exhaled—five deep, relieved breaths all at once. Students around them whispered furiously.

“Are they… smiling?”

“Why does Malfoy look like he’s about to cry?”

“What happened to them?”

Y/N slid into her seat like nothing had happened, reaching for a piece of toast.

"Water,” she said calmly. Immediately, five hands moved at once.

“I’ll get it.”

“No—mine’s closer.”

“Take mine.”

“Don’t move, I’ll pour it.”

She stared at them. “…One of you,” she finished as she was overwhelmed with five glasses of water at once. Blaise carefully slid a glass toward her like he was presenting an offering to a queen.

She took it. “Thank you.”

Draco nearly fainted.

Theo leaned toward Mattheo and whispered, “She said thank you.”

Mattheo nodded solemnly. “We’re healing.”

Y/N took a sip, then glanced around the table. “You all look like you fought a dragon.”

“We lost,” Enzo muttered.

“You drank too much,” she corrected.

“That too,” Blaise admitted.

Draco winced as he reached for his own drink. “Everything hurts.”

“Good,” she said lightly. “You deserve it.”

They laughed—softly, weakly—but genuinely.

Across the hall, whispers spread fast.

“They’re back together.”

“Look at them.”

“They look… happy.”

Harry glanced over from the Gryffindor table, noticing the change instantly. The tension that had hung around them for days was gone, replaced by something warmer. He caught Y/N’s eye for a brief moment.

She gave him a small nod.

He smiled back, relieved.

Theo noticed and stiffened for half a second—but then relaxed. No anger. No jealousy. Just acceptance.

Draco groaned suddenly and dropped his head onto the table. “I swear if I die, tell my mother it was the Firewhisky.”

“You’re not dying,” Y/N said, pushing a piece of toast toward him. “Eat.”

“Yes, mum,” he muttered.

She kicked his foot lightly under the table. “I am not your mother.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Mattheo murmured, earning a glare and a laugh at the same time.

Y/N leaned back slightly, watching them—really watching them. The way they hovered, the way they checked her expressions, the way relief softened their sharp edges.

Her chest tightened just a little. “Next time,” she said quietly, “we talk before things get that bad.”

They all nodded immediately.

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

“Never again.”

She smiled faintly.

The Great Hall buzzed around them, full of noise and life, but their little corner felt warm—safe.

Messy. Chaotic.

Home.

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REMINDER: If you want to be on the taglist feel free to comment or message me :) and if I missed you pls lmk

Summary: Theo and Y/N find each other again in the most ordinary moment, yet it becomes the beginning of something extraordinary. Warnings: None just insane fluff?? - Ravenclaw! Reader Word Count: 13.9k

. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.

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Theodore Nott had never truly understood what love felt like.

Affection was a foreign language in the Nott estate; his father’s coldness seeped into every corridor like a permanent draft. His mother had been gone for as long as he could remember, leaving behind nothing but the faintest echo of warmth. The only creature who had ever shown him anything close to tenderness was Tilly, the house-elf who had raised him with trembling hands and quiet devotion. Tilly’s gentle fussing, soft scolding, and the way she brushed his hair back when he cried as a child were the closest he had ever come to being adored.

Until fifth year, when he was paired by Snape’s cruel sense of humor or divine intervention, he wasn't sure with a Ravenclaw girl who challenged him in ways he wasn’t prepared for.

Y/N wasn’t a “know-it-all,” not really. She was something much more dangerous.

She was witty, sharp enough to slice through his excuses, yet creative, her mind always spinning with ideas he never saw coming. She worked like a storm, organized chaos, with quills everywhere and parchment covered in brilliant sketches and theories. And she was never afraid to call him out when he was being lazy or aloof.

At first, she’d been a nightmare to work with. Not because she was bossy—though she absolutely was—but because she refused to shrink in front of him the way everyone else did. She didn’t care that he was a Nott. She didn’t care about his last name, his reputation, or the rumors. She cared that he did his part, and she wasn’t shy about telling him when he wasn’t.

She wasn’t a control freak; she was simply a girl who refused to let her intelligence go unnoticed. A girl who demanded excellence because she gave it herself.

And for Theo, whose whole life had been defined by silence and shadows, she was utterly, terrifyingly fascinating.

Theo realized he was in trouble on a Tuesday.

Not because Y/N did anything dramatic, in fact, it was the opposite. She simply walked into their Potions partnership like she always did: hair slightly messy from the wind, an ink smudge on her thumb, and a stack of parchment under her arm that looked far too heavy for a fifth-year.

“Good, you’re early,” she said, sliding into the seat beside him. “We need to fix the third step in our outline. Your handwriting looks like a boggart trying to escape a quill.”

He opened his mouth to snap back, but she’d already pulled the parchment closer and started rewriting his notes in neat, looping script. Theo didn’t know why he stared. Maybe it was the way her brow furrowed in concentration. Maybe it was the faint smile she wore whenever she proved him wrong. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t treat him like a glass statue about to shatter.

“Merlin, Nott,” she sighed without looking up, “you’re doing that brooding thing again.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You absolutely brood. It’s one of your main personality traits.” She tapped her quill against her lips thoughtfully. “Right behind ‘never admits he’s wrong.’”

Theo felt heat creep up his neck annoyance; he told himself. Definitely annoyance.

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Come on. Help me rewrite this. Unless you want Snape to crucify us.”

He muttered something unintelligible and leaned over her shoulder to read her notes.

And that—that—was the moment everything changed.

Because he was suddenly too aware of how close she was. Too aware of the faint smell of lavender clinging to her robes. Too aware of the fact that when she pushed her hair behind her ear, she accidentally brushed his forearm, and he felt it all the way down to his fingertips.

He jerked back a little. “Watch it.”

She glanced at him with that sly, knowing look that always made him feel exposed. “Relax. I’m not hexing you.”

“You might,” he muttered.

But she smiled. “If I wanted to hex you, you’d know.”

And there it was again, that spark. The one that hit him square in the chest every time she smirked, argued with him, challenged him, or simply existed too close to him. It wasn’t a crush, he told himself. No, nothing that ridiculous.

He just… admired her. Or tolerated her. Or maybe she just got under his skin in a very specific, infuriating way.

But then she looked up at him—really looked—and Theo felt something shift.

“See?” she said softly. “We actually make a good team.”

His throat tightened.

For someone who had never been loved, never been shown softness beyond a house-elf’s trembling hands… Her warmth felt like a threat. Her laughter felt like a risk. And her presence felt like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved.

This was the moment Theodore Nott realized he was falling—slowly, stupidly, helplessly.

And she had absolutely no idea.

.

.

.

By sixth year, Theodore Nott had perfected the art of pretending she didn’t exist. Or at least… that’s what everyone else believed.

In reality, he’d kept tabs on Y/N with the precision of a spy and the subtlety of a Slytherin who absolutely refused to admit he cared. He noticed everything without ever being caught.

How she cut her hair over the summer. How she switched from blue ink to black. How she started sitting closer to the windows in the library because she liked the natural light for sketching. How she stopped raising her hand as much in class, but her essays remained brilliant. How she laughed differently now—quieter, but real.

He never spoke to her after their fifth-year project ended. They had submitted it, received an Outstanding, and she had smiled at him this soft, warm little smile that nearly knocked the air out of him.

And he, being an idiot, just nodded and walked away like she was nothing.

He regretted it every day since.

So when Slughorn called out partners for their sixth-year potions assignment, Theo already knew. Of course he did. His luck was cursed.

“Miss Y/L/N… and Mr. Nott!” Slughorn boomed cheerfully. “I hear from dear Professor Snape that you two make quite the team! Very promising! Very compatible working styles!”

Theo nearly choked on his own breath. Snape said what? He wanted to hex himself for ever being competent in front of that man.

Y/N stiffened just a fraction before turning her head toward Theo. Sixteen now, she looked… different. Older. Sharper. More confident. But her eyes, the ones he’d memorized on accident, still sparkled with that quick intelligence that always made him feel like she could read his mind if she wanted to.

Her gaze met his for the first time in a year.

And Merlin, that was enough to undo him.

She gave him a polite nod. Civil. Distant. As if they’d never spent late afternoons arguing over cauldron temperatures and rewriting each other’s notes. As if she hadn’t once made him laugh so hard he spilled half a vial of dittany on himself. As if she meant nothing.

He hated how much it bothered him.

She sat down at their table and pulled her textbook closer. “Nott,” she greeted curtly.

“Y/L/N,” he replied, equally curt—though it came out rougher than he intended.

Slughorn clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Now! Each pair will be brewing a different advanced potion, selected specially for your skill levels!”

Theo’s pulse ticked faster. Different potions. Meaning no backup. No anonymity.

Slughorn beamed, and that was when Theo knew something awful was about to happen.

“Mr. Nott and Miss Y/L/N…” He paused dramatically, reading his list. “You two will be brewing Amortentia.”

Theo stopped breathing.

Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in existence. The one that released the scent of whatever—or whoever you found most irresistible.

He had never hated Slughorn more.

Y/N blinked once, the only visible sign that she, too, was silently screaming. “Professor,” she said, composed as ever, “Amortentia is highly complex for sixth-year students.”

“Nonsense!” Slughorn declared. “You two worked beautifully together under Severus last year. He specifically recommended you as an exceptional pair to brew this potion.”

Theo was going to throw himself out the nearest window.

Y/N turned to him. “Shall we… get started?” she asked carefully.

Theo swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. Sure.”

They both started to grab the ingredients and began to organize them. Neither spoke. Neither breathed. Both pretended they weren’t aware of what they’d be smelling in less than an hour.

Finally, Y/N opened the textbook. “We’ll divide the instructions,” she said, almost too quietly.

He nodded. “Like last time.”

She paused. Not long—but long enough for him to notice.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Like last time.”

They began prepping ingredients, hands brushing occasionally, each touch sending a static shock up Theo’s spine. The tension between them was so thick it might as well have been another potion in the room.

Theo kept his eyes fixed on the powdered moonstone, refusing to let his thoughts wander to the moment the potion turned pearly white, when the steam would curl toward them, and he would smell— Merlin help him.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he would smell. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she would. And he definitely wasn’t sure he could hide it once she found out.

The cauldron began to warm, the pearl shimmer forming just at the surface. Theo felt each second like a countdown to his own execution.

Y/N stirred clockwise, her wrist precise, elegant, infuriatingly calm. “Add the moonstone,” she murmured.

Theo did. His hand shook.

He braced himself. Any moment the steam would rise—the telltale spirals of Amortentia, silver and opalescent—

And then it happened.

The potion glowed, brightened, and released the first curl of vapor.

Theo expected flowers. Or broom polish. Or something normal.

Instead, the scent hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Lavender.

Charcoal.

Parchment.

And something soft—like the faint smell of the library.

His heart stopped. He actually stopped breathing. Merlin, no. Absolutely not. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

He snapped his head away from the cauldron before instinct could betray him and prayed Y/N hadn't seen the panic flash across his face.

But she wasn’t looking at him.

She was staring into the steam, just as entranced, just as startled.

Theo narrowed his eyes. “What do you smell?”

Y/N blinked once—too quickly. “Nothing important.”

“Right,” he said flatly, “because everyone smells nothing when they’re inhaling Amortentia.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to slice pewter. “I’m not discussing my private senses with you.”

“Private senses?” Theo echoed. “It’s a potion, not a diary.”

“It is literally a love potion,” she hissed.

He opened his mouth to argue, and that was when Slughorn popped up like a mole with bad timing. “Marvelous! Marvelous!” the professor boomed, clapping his hands. “Do breathe deeply, my dears! You’ll find the scents quite illuminating!”

Theo felt like jumping out the window once again.

Y/N straightened. “We’re progressing well, Professor.”

Slughorn nodded, beaming. “That’s what Severus said too—‘Those two understand each other better than they realize.’ Quite an endorsement, hm?”

Theo wanted to disintegrate.

Slughorn waddled off to terrorize another group.

They worked in tense silence until Y/N finally said, barely above a whisper, “Your scent must’ve been… interesting.”

Theo froze. “Why would you say that?”

“You looked like you wanted to crawl out of your skin.”

He glanced at her. “And you looked like you saw a bloody prophecy.”

She glared. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“Then what did you smell?” he pressed.

She exhaled sharply. “Something familiar.”

“That’s vague.”

“That’s intentional.”

He clenched his jaw. She wasn’t going to tell him—fine. But the steam was rising again, and this time the scent slapped him across the face.

Lavender.

Parchement.

Charcoal.

Her.

Her.

He turned away fast, but not fast enough. Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something.”

Theo cursed under his breath. He could feel heat crawling up his neck. He needed to say something—anything—that didn’t sound like “I’m secretly obsessed with you and this potion just exposed it.”

He opened his mouth.

And something cracked behind them.

A dropped quill.

A sharp inhale.

Theo turned.

Draco Malfoy stood at the table behind theirs, pale as death, eyes wide, expression frozen like he’d just overheard the single most incriminating sentence in Hogwarts history.

Draco never said anything first when it mattered. He just watched. Watched the steam. Watched Theo’s face. Watched Y/N’s tension.

Then his gaze flicked to Theo’s grip on the stirring rod—a little too tight. His pulse in his neck—visible because Draco knew where to look. His stance—uneven, avoiding the cauldron like it was cursed.

A beat.

And then Draco muttered, so low only Theo could hear: “…You’re an idiot.”

Theo stiffened. “Shut up.”

Draco didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat.

He simply raised a brow, the kind of brow that said I’ve known you since you were two, and you think you can hide this from me? They glared at each other. The steam rose again. Theo pretended not to breathe.

Y/N finally snapped her notebook shut. “I’m going to wash this off my hands,” she said, her voice steady but her steps quicker than usual. “Don’t touch anything stupid while I’m gone.”

She walked toward the basin by the windows far enough not to hear them, but close enough to be suspicious.

Draco set his own ingredients down quietly, eyes flicking from the steaming cauldron… to Theo… to the spot where Y/N had walked off.

“You’re in trouble,” Draco murmured.

Theo tensed. “Shut up.”

Draco didn’t. Draco never did when it counted. “When did it start?” Draco’s voice was low, almost gentle, exactly the tone he used when he was being sincere rather than smug.

“Nothing started.” Theo’s lie was instant and awful.

Draco clicked his tongue softly. “Theo. I helped you steal biscuits from the manor kitchens when you were four. I know when you’re lying.”

Theo winced.

Draco continued, calm and surgical, “You won’t even look at the steam. That’s not avoidance, that’s fear.”

Theo swallowed. Hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do.” Draco’s eyes softened with understanding Theo absolutely did not want. “She’s your Amortentia scent.”

Theo felt his entire world stutter. He ran a hand through his hair. “Draco, don’t—”

“Relax.” Draco’s voice dropped even quieter. “I’m not going to embarrass you. And I’m not telling anyone. Not even the boys.”

Theo sagged with a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

But Draco wasn’t finished. He glanced toward the sinks, where Y/N now stood, drying her hands with careful movements, her head tilted slightly—subtly studying them from the corner of her eye.

“She’s clever,” Draco murmured. “If you don’t get yourself under control, she’ll figure it out before you’re ready.”

Theo’s stomach twisted. “You think she suspects something?”

Draco’s lips twitched. “She’s already analyzing you. Look at her posture.”

Theo did. Y/N was pretending to adjust her sleeves… but her eyes were flicking back and forth between him and the table. Observing. Calculating.

Draco nudged him. “If she catches you looking at her like that, you’re done.”

“I’m not looking at her like anything,” Theo snapped, but his blush betrayed him.

Draco smirked. “And now you’re blushing. Wonderful. Very subtle.”

Theo groaned into his hands. “Draco, I’m begging you—stop.”

Draco leaned in the slightest bit, his voice barely above a breath. “Start thinking, Theo. Because she’ll notice the signs long before you speak them.”

Theo’s pulse went wild.

“And if she smells you in her Amortentia?” Draco added quietly, “you won’t get to hide behind silence anymore.”

Theo froze.

Draco stepped back, perfectly composed. “Fix your face,” he muttered, “she’s coming back.”

Theo snapped upright just as Y/N approached, expression cool, observant, too sharp for his comfort. She placed her notebook back on the desk and said calmly, “What were you two whispering about?”

Theo opened his mouth—

Draco cut in smoothly. “Quills,” he said. “Nott’s handwriting is atrocious.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked between them. She didn’t believe that for a second. Not one. But she only hummed and returned to the cauldron.

Theo tried to breathe normally. Draco shot him a warning look: Get it together.

Y/N stirred the potion… and the steam rose again.

Theo felt his pulse hammer.

Y/N inhaled—barely, unintentionally—and her breath stuttered for half a heartbeat.

She caught something. Something familiar. Something she wasn’t ready to admit either. Her eyes darted to Theo before she masked it.

Intelligent. Sharp. Dangerous.

She would figure it out.

And Theo knew, with terrible certainty, that it was only a matter of time.

.

.

.

Theo stepped into the sixth-year boys’ dorm expecting silence.

Instead, he found a tribunal.

Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo sat on his bed like a panel of dark-robed judges. Draco looked like the presiding magistrate. Blaise held a chocolate frog as if he were about to cross-examine someone. Mattheo wore the smug expression of a man about to deliver chaos. Enzo looked far too at peace for someone involved in an ambush.

Theo stopped in the doorway, expression flat. “No,” he said. “Whatever this is, absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

Draco patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Face your sins.”

“Nope.” Theo turned. “Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

Blaise snapped his fingers, pointing. “Close the door, lover boy. You’re not escaping this intervention.”

Theo shut the door but refused to move. “Malfoy, you swore you wouldn’t say anything.”

Mattheo snorted so hard he choked on air. “Mate. He’s a Malfoy. Their whole personality is secrets and violating them.”

Draco looked offended. “I do not violate secrets. I simply… redistribute information.”

“Malfoy!”

Blaise threw a chocolate frog into his mouth. “You didn’t need Draco anyway. We’ve been clocking your pathetic pining for a year.”

Theo blinked, "What pining?"

All four boys burst into laughter at once.

Mattheo wiped a tear. “Oh Merlin, he said it with his whole chest.”

Enzo leaned back on his hands. “We all knew, Theo. We didn’t need a confession. We have eyes.”

Theo threw his arms up. “You all have bad eyes.”

“Actually,” Draco said proudly, “my eyesight is exceptional.”

“Draco, I hope the giant squid eats you.”

“Make it quick,” Draco said, straightening his collar. “I have plans tomorrow.”

Theo’s jaw tightened, barely noticeable unless you’d known him since childhood. "Fine. Out with it, you tossers."

Draco’s lips twitched just slightly. “Very well. Zabini, you go first."

Blaise lifted a brow and looked at Theo. "Remember last year in the library when we were studying for our Defense OWL, and I asked you what chapter we were on?”

Theo shrugged. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t answer,” Blaise said. “You just stared across the room like you were solving a crime.”

Draco added, “He was staring at Y/N.”

Blaise nodded. “Hard.”

Theo sputtered. “I wasn’t staring—!”

“You were,” Blaise said. “I called your name four times. You ignored me so completely, I checked to make sure you weren’t under a trance.” Theo buried his face in his hands.

Next came Enzo, who cracked his knuckles. “My turn. You remember that Ravenclaw boy who was trying to ask her to partner with him for a Charms project?”

Theo stiffened. “…No.”

Draco smirked. “He remembers.”

Enzo leaned back. “You glared at him so hard he backed out mid-sentence. Y/N didn’t even see it. But I did. You almost melted him.”

Mattheo chimed in, “And then Theo spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t angry while sharpening his quill like it was a weapon.”

Theo groaned. “You’re all exaggerating.”

“No,” Enzo said. “We toned it down.” Theo wanted to evaporate.

Then Mattheo spoke; he wiggled his eyebrows like this was the highlight of his week. “My turn. Best moment of my life.” He dramatically clutched his pillow. “Quidditch match last year.”

Theo stiffened. “There was no moment.”

“Oh, there was a moment,” Mattheo said. “Ravenclaw scored, Y/N cheered, and your dumb ass nearly flew into a goalpost watching her.”

Blaise nodded vigorously. “You did a whole mid-air wiggle.”

Draco added, “You did smile like an idiot.”

Theo sputtered, “I DID NOT—”

Mattheo mimicked it. “You literally went—” He made a dreamy, stupid face. Theo lunged at him. Mattheo dodged, laughing.

Blaise clapped Theo on the back. “You floated down like a lovesick fairy.” Theo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Finally, Draco stood. He looked almost sympathetic. Almost. “Theo,” he said with practiced Malfoy calm, “you keep tabs on her.”

Theo blinked. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do,” Draco replied. “You know her schedule better than she does. You notice when she gets a new quill. You know which Ravenclaw girls she studies with. You always place yourself at the table closest to hers in the library. You walk slower in the hallway if you hear her behind you.”

“That last one was an accident—”

“No, it wasn’t,” all four boys said in unison.

Draco continued mercilessly, “And the best part? Every time she enters a room, you do that thing with your shoulders.”

Theo glared. “What thing?”

Mattheo exaggeratedly lifted his shoulders, straightened them, and pretended to look disinterested while clearly staring. Blaise threw his head back laughing. “It’s the ‘oh Merlin play it cool she might see me’ posture.”

Theo considered setting them on fire.

Draco finished with a softer, pointed look. “We’ve known for a long time, Theo. You’re not subtle. You never were. And today’s Amortentia lesson just confirmed it.”

Theo sank onto his bed, face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

Mattheo tossed him a pillow. “We love you too, Romeo.”

Enzo went over to his side of the room, took out a bottle of alcohol, and opened it in salute. “To Theodore Nott, finally realizing the entire dungeon knows he’s in love.”

Theo made a strangled noise.

Draco clapped his shoulder. “And don’t worry. We’ll help you.”

Theo stared up at them, horrified. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

.

.

.

The library was nearly empty at this hour.

Candles flickered in long rows, casting honey-gold light across the ancient stone floors. Dust drifted in soft spirals. The air smelled faintly of old paper and lavender floor polish. A late-night hush settled over the shelves, as if the entire castle was holding its breath.

Y/N sat alone at her favorite table in the far corner, near the enchanted window that reflected the Black Lake’s currents. The glow from the underwater lights rippled across her open sketchbook, turning the parchment into shifting silver.

She wasn’t supposed to be drawing.

She had every intention of outlining her Arithmancy notes.

But the charcoal in her hand wasn’t behaving.

It drifted instead—idly, thoughtlessly—across the page, sketching curves and shadows she wasn’t consciously choosing. She hummed softly under her breath, brows lightly furrowed as she worked.

At first it looked like nothing.

A shape. A line. A faint shadow.

She rotated the page, squinting. The candlelight flickered over the parchment so the charcoal strokes darkened and blurred.

Her hand moved again. Another stroke. Another curve. A sharper angle—meant to represent frustration, she thought. Or restlessness. Or—

She paused.

The drawing wasn’t random.

It wasn’t abstract.

It was a pair of eyes.

Not generic eyes. Not ones she’d invented. No, the shape was too familiar. The cut of the brow. The slight downward tilt at the end. The shadow on the lower lid she’d never noticed consciously but apparently had memorized.

The charcoal in her hand stilled.

She stared.

Theo’s eyes stared back.

Very faint. Half-formed. But him. So clearly him.

Y/N blinked—once, twice—her heart stuttering in a way she did not permit.

“What…” she whispered, frowning softly. “Why am I—?”

She reached for the eraser. Stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered.

Because the truth curled in her stomach with quiet precision. She hadn’t sketched just anyone's eyes. She’d sketched his eyes. Without thinking. Without trying. Without even realizing.

Her pulse ticked behind her ear.

She touched the edge of the page, tracing the faint charcoal lines, studying the slight intelligence in the gaze, the intensity that was always there even when Theo was pretending to be disinterested.

It wasn’t the first time her sketches had drifted toward something familiar. But this was the first time she noticed.

The memory from Potions drifted back, Amortentia steam swirling around her, coaxing forward scents that made no sense at the time.

Warm parchment.

Night rain.

A subtle hint of cedarwood.

Ink.

Something familiar but unplaceable.

Something that had pulsed behind her ribs the moment she caught it. She exhaled shakily.

It was him.

She frowned again, leaning back in her chair. Her heartbeat thudded softly through her fingertips, tapping against the spine of her sketchbook.

Theo’s face flickered across her thoughts.

The way he looked at her today. No, didn’t look at her. Purposely, carefully, deliberately avoiding her. The slight tension in his jaw. The way he stiffened when she came close. The quiet storm behind his eyes, he didn’t think she saw.

She replayed Potions class, searching for logical explanations. None presented themselves.

The charcoal drifted back to the parchment, sketching unbidden—this time a line of cheekbone, a faint tilt of eyebrow. The beginnings of a face she wasn’t supposed to know so well.

Her stomach tightened—not unpleasantly, but unfamiliar.

“No,” she murmured softly, shaking her head. “That’s not—He’s not—You’re not—”

But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Any part of it. The candles flickered. The library seemed to lean closer. Her pulse whispered answers she wasn’t ready to admit.

She turned the page.

Fresh parchment. Clean. Safe.

She lifted her quill.

But her hand betrayed her again.

A jawline.

A curl of hair.

Eyes she already knew the shape of.

She set the quill down. Closed her eyes. And finally, finally allowed the truth to flicker—soft, unwelcome, but terribly real: She wasn’t sketching “nothing.” She was sketching him. And something inside her—something sharp and intelligent and terrifying—knew precisely what that meant.

.

.

.

The castle felt different that morning. Not louder, not quieter, just charged. As if the stones themselves knew something had shifted in the night.

Y/N walked quickly through the corridor leading toward the Great Hall, the cold stones echoing under her shoes. Her sketchbook was tucked securely under her arm, pressed close to her ribs like she could smother whatever truth she’d discovered in it.

She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw charcoal lines turning into his eyes.

Theo’s eyes.

She pulled her robes tighter, as if warmth might slow her racing mind.

It was nothing, she tried telling herself.

Just a coincidence. Just a sketch.

A lie she didn’t believe.

She rounded the corner and collided with someone. Hard enough that her books flew straight out of her arms, hitting the floor with a slap loud enough to echo.

“Damn—sorry,” a familiar voice muttered.

Her breath snagged.

Theo.

He crouched at the same time she did, both reaching instinctively for the fallen mess. Their hands brushed—brief, warm, electric—and they both jerked back like they’d touched a curse.

“Sorry,” Theo said again, quieter now.

“It’s fine,” she murmured, not trusting her pulse.

They reached for separate towers of parchment, notebooks, and quills, papers scattered everywhere like spilled secrets.

Theo’s movements were precise, quick, and too controlled. Like he was trying very hard not to feel anything. He handed her a stack. “This is yours.”

She nodded and took it without looking, too afraid their eyes might meet and everything she had been trying to bury since last night would spill out.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

She didn’t hear her own voice; she heard her heart.

Theo stood up first, brushing dust from his sleeve, his posture too stiff for early morning. His eyes flicked over her quickly, discreetly, but not enough to truly hide it.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“So are you.”

He exhaled, slow and shallow. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Her stomach tightened.

Me neither. She didn’t say it.

“Right,” he said awkwardly. “Well… good morning.”

“Yes. Right. You too.”

Silence wrapped around them—strange, fragile, unbearably aware.

Theo stepped to the side. She stepped in the same direction.

They froze.

She let out a small breath of a laugh, barely there, but real. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Theo’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You can go first.”

She walked past him, clutching the notebooks so tightly the edges dug into her palm.

She didn’t glance back.

He didn’t either.

But both of them felt the air shift between them—as if their bodies recognized something their minds were still trying to understand.

Y/N didn’t notice until she reached the end of the next hallway. She paused near a window, balancing her stack to pull out her schedule. A flash of untidy handwriting caught her eye.

She frowned.

This wasn’t her handwriting.

She pulled the book out fully. Not blue Ravenclaw leather. Dark green. The Nott family crest pressed into the corner.

Her breath vanished.

She hadn’t grabbed her sketchbook. She had grabbed Theo’s notebook. Her throat tightened as she flipped open the cover. Neat, slanted script filled the margins—charms, notes, arithmancy formulas, half-sketched runes.

But between them, light, almost hidden, were short annotations.

Observations.

A habit of hers. A detail he’d noticed. Something she’d done in class. A line: Why does she always look away when she’s thinking? She kept on reading... and reading until she couldn't anymore.

Her fingers went still.

Her heart hammered.

She closed the book quickly, hugging it to her chest.

Theo had taken hers.

Her sketchbook.

The one filled with sketches she didn’t want anyone to see.

Especially not him.

Especially not now.

“Oh no,” she whispered, dread and something else flooding her chest.

She turned on her heel—

And ran.

.

.

.

Theo dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table end of the bench, back to the wall, the place where he could observe the entire hall without anyone sneaking up behind him.

Habit. Instinct. Strategy.

He always preferred control.

Which is why his hands were perfectly steady as he set down the book he assumed was his. He flipped it open casually, half expecting the neat rows of arithmancy equations he’d written last night.

Instead, the first thing he saw was charcoal.

A dark stroke.

Then another.

Shadow. Depth.

And an unmistakable angle of a jaw.

His jaw.

Theo’s breath hitched so sharply he almost convinced himself he imagined it.

He blinked down at the page.

No mistake.

It was him.

Drawn in soft, precise detail like the artist had taken their time, studying each line, each shadow, each part of him he had never once thought anyone bothered to look at.

He reached out and touched the edge of the sketch, fingers barely grazing the parchment. The charcoal had smudged slightly where the heel of someone’s hand must’ve rested—familiar. Human.

Her hand.

His stomach dropped.

He turned the page slowly, afraid to look and more afraid not to.

Another sketch.

Not a full portrait, just his mouth. Neutral, faintly tense, like he always was when he was concentrating. The detail of it made something heavy press against his ribs.

He turned the page again.

His hair.

Messy, uneven, always falling into his eyes.

Who watches someone closely enough to draw them like this?

He swallowed, throat tight.

Another page.

His profile.

Sharp. Unforgiving. More angular than handsome, he’d always thought so. But drawn here… it looked softer.

Not softened—no.

Seen.

The distinction mattered. Theo’s pulse thudded under his skin. He flipped more pages less carefully now, driven by something he couldn’t name.

Another.

Another.

And then—

His eyes.

Rendered in fine, delicate strokes. Focused. Reflective. Alive.

He stared at the sketch until his vision blurred around the edges.

“What…” his voice cracked quietly, a sound he didn’t recognize. “Why would she…”

He closed the book gently, but not before tracing the curve of the drawn pupil with the pad of his thumb. His pulse hammered in his throat.

Theo had never been… anyone’s subject. Not of interest. Not of affection. Not of attention.

His father looked through him. Professors saw potential, not a person. Classmates saw a name, a lineage, a quiet, cold exterior. No one had ever studied him long enough to memorize the exact way his lashes cast shadows when he looked down.

But she…

She had.

He sat back, stunned, feeling something he’d never felt this sharply before— Not fear. Not confusion. Not even embarrassment. Something far worse. Something far better.

Recognition.

She had been watching him. Noticing him. Understanding him in ways he had never allowed anyone to.

Theo’s fingers tightened around the sketchbook.

For someone who had grown up without affection, without warmth, without softness—he didn’t have the emotional vocabulary for what was happening in his chest. It felt like pressure. Like heat. Like someone had turned the world slightly off-axis.

He inhaled deeply, but it did nothing to steady him.

He reopened the sketchbook.

Slowly this time.

Deliberately.

He looked again at the first drawing—his jaw, firm and unyielding. Her charcoal strokes followed the sharp edges of his bone structure with surprising reverence.