this sparkle icon. At first i wanted to give this company the benefit of the doubt, maybe they used the sparkle because the companies name is glimmer, like shiny so a sparkle would make sense but many many companies are also using the same type of sparkle for ai generated content, for example googles gemini ai

at first i thought this was a pure coincidence due to the fact that when you click on it it brings you to a page where you can purchase in app currency

so i thought “Okay great! maybe this isn’t ai and i’m just paranoid…that was until i started reading the fic it stated to show the text line by line instead of all at once like a normal ebook “maybe this is a stylistic choice!” i say naively, then i scrolled down to the first questions that would start the “choose your own adventure” part of the story when i saw this

This is only possible in a few ways an example of this would be a computer program that had built in responses to many different questions that weren’t originally asked(think video games that have you type in your name they might have the pronunciation of a few names but not all), another is ai both conversational (like siri) and generative (like gemini and chatgpt) so i paused and went to check their About me and yup it was EXACTLY what i suspected

Glimmerfics uses Generative ai to “write” your fanfics for you THIS IS A TRAP THEY ARE USING YOU TO SCRAPE YOUR WRITINGS FOR THEIR AI MODLES! In their about me they talk about how they are aware of the “concerns people have about ai” and they “don’t think machines can replace real artist but they want to use ai to help authors tell a story” they even talk about the environmental concerns so as a “partial measure”they are purchasing carbon offsets

(ie reforestation and renewable energy and the likes) from July 2025 through October 2025 to try and cover “their best estimate of their carbon footprint”

This in my opinion is about the same as putting a numbing gel on a cavity it may help to ease the pain but problem is still there, reforestation only works if you give the forests time to heal trees take YEARS to grow to a fertilizing state where they can pollinate and regrow and young trees are especially vulnerable to disease and fungus which have wiped out entire forests before, and what happens to land with no plants? it becomes extremely unstable with no growth to keep the dirt rooted down erosion can become rapid leading to devastating consequences not only for animals and plants but to any humans that maybe living nearby. Buying carbon offsets isn’t going to do shit and much like a cavity the only thing you can do to combat the affects of generative ai is to stop the problem at its source unfortunately for ai it is the problem, it is one of the many many reasons as to why climate change has seen such a rapid uptick. Please please i beg of you to block any and all blogs you see that are using or promoting glimmerfics THEY WILL STEAL YOUR WRITINGS THEY WILL STEAL YOUR WORK COMPANIES LIKE THIS LIE ALL THE TIME TO SCRAPE AI FOR THEIR MODLES

The rain follows you all the way to the gate. It streaks down the black bars, cold against your fingers as you clutch them and stare at the building beyond, Wool’s Orphanage, Mrs. Cole called it. The place looks tired, as if it’s been holding its breath for years.

Her lantern swings ahead of you, scattering light over cracked steps and puddles that mirror the yellow glow. You follow because that’s what you’ve been told to do, and because you have nowhere else to go.

Inside, the air tastes of dust and old cabbage. The corridors hum with quiet noises, footsteps too light to belong to grown-ups, the soft rustle of sheets, someone sobbing where they think no one can hear. You feel the pain of the children before you ever see them; it hums under your skin, heavy and familiar, though you don’t know why.

Mrs. Cole walks briskly, her shoes clicking against the stone floor. When she glances back at you, her face is sharp and tired, but her eyes hold something gentler. “You’ll sleep here,” she says, opening a door to a narrow room lined with iron beds and shivering shadows.

You nod, though your throat is tight. You don’t know how to thank her. You don’t know what else to say.

All you know, all you remember, is your name.

Everything before this moment is gone. The faces, the laughter, the warmth, all burned away, leaving only a flash of green light behind your eyes and a hollow ache where a life used to be. Seven whole years you can’t remember.

Mrs. Cole’s hand rests briefly on your shoulder. “It’ll get easier,” she says, as if the words might make it true.

When she leaves, the candlelight flickers. You whisper your name into the darkness, soft and certain, as if holding onto it will keep the rest of you from disappearing.

“Y/N L/N“

You take a slow breath and look around the room. Three iron beds stand against the walls, each with a thin mattress and a single gray blanket folded at the foot. The floorboards are bare and worn smooth in places, and a small, grimy window looks out onto a brick wall and a slice of rainy sky. There’s a wooden chest at the foot of each bed, and a cracked mirror hangs on the wall between two of them, reflecting the flickering candlelight in distorted shards.

A child with mousy brown hair sits on the bed closest to the door, watching you with wide, curious eyes. She’s maybe your age, maybe a little older, clutching a worn rag doll to their chest.

“You’re the new one,” they say, not unkindly. “I’m Amy. That’s Denis’s bed over there, but he’s outside playing in the puddles until Mrs. Cole catches him.”

They pat the space beside them. “You can sit if you want. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you say, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

Amy nods as if filing the name away. “That’s nice. Sounds like it belongs in a story.” She glances toward the doorway, her expression tightening slightly.

You follow her gaze.

A boy stands in the hall, just outside the room. He’s pale, with dark hair neatly combed, watching you with an intensity that makes the back of your neck prickle. His eyes are dark, almost black, and they don’t blink. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t move, just stares, as if he’s trying to memorize you.

Before you can say anything, Mrs. Cole’s sharp voice cuts through the quiet.

“Tom Riddle! What are you doing lurking about? Get away from there this instant!”

The boy, Tom, turns his head slowly, as if pulled from a trance. He gives Mrs. Cole a look that is neither frightened nor apologetic, just blank. Then he slips away down the corridor without a sound.

Mrs. Cole huffs, shaking her head. “Wicked boy,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. Then she raises her voice. “Dinner in five minutes! Everyone to the kitchen!”

Amy leans closer to you, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s Tom. Best stay away from him. He’s… strange.”

You can't shake the image of Tom's dark, unblinking stare. "What do you mean, strange?" you ask Amy, keeping your voice low.

Amy shifts on the bed, her fingers worrying at her doll's yarn hair. "He does things," she whispers. "Bad things. Animals get hurt when he's around. Billy Stubbs's rabbit… its neck was broken, and Tom was just standing there, looking at it. He didn't even cry. And he talks to himself sometimes, in a hissy sort of voice. No one likes him. Mrs. Cole calls him wicked all the time."

She glances toward the empty doorway again, as if afraid he might still be listening. "He steals things, too. Little things that go missing, and then they turn up in his drawer. He never gets in trouble for it, though. He's clever like that."

Footsteps echo in the hall, the clatter of many children heading toward the kitchen. Amy stands up, smoothing her worn dress. "Come on. We should go before all the bread's gone."

She offers you a small, sympathetic smile. "Just... don't be alone with him, okay?"

You follow Amy out of the room and down the dim corridor toward the smell of boiled potatoes and weak gravy. The kitchen is a large, steamy room with a long wooden table crowded with children of all ages. Their voices blend into a low, anxious hum.

Amy leads you to two empty spots on a bench. A boy with freckles and tousled hair is already sitting there, Denis, you assume. He gives you a quick, curious glance before turning his attention back to the slice of bread he's buttering.

You take your seat, and your eyes drift across the table almost against your will.

Tom sits alone at the far end. He's not eating; he's just staring at his plate, his expression perfectly blank. The children around him leave a noticeable gap, as if his very presence pushes them away. He looks up, and his dark eyes find yours immediately. There's no smile, no nod, just that same unnerving, focused stare.

Mrs. Cole claps her hands. „Eat, children!"

A bowl of thin stew is placed in front of you. As you pick up your spoon, you feel the weight of Tom's gaze still fixed on you, steady and unblinking, from across the room.

You force yourself to look away from Tom and study the other children instead. There’s a girl with a crooked braid who won’t meet anyone’s eyes, a boy who keeps kicking the table leg, a pair of twins whispering fiercely to each other. Their faces are pinched with hunger or worry or both.

Your gaze drops to your bowl. The stew is watery, with a few pale chunks of potato and carrot floating in it. The bread beside it is hard at the edges. A sudden, sharp wave of loneliness washes over you, so strong it makes your throat ache.

Why are you even here?

You don’t know. You don’t remember anything before the green light and the empty feeling. You don’t remember your parents’ faces, or a home, or a reason.

You pick up your spoon, but you don’t eat. You just stare into the thin broth, wondering if you’ll ever feel like you belong anywhere again.

Then you lift the spoon to your lips and take a small, reluctant bite. The stew tastes of salt and something faintly bitter, like old vegetables. It’s warm, at least, and the warmth spreads through your chest, easing the tightness there just a little.

Across the table, Tom is still watching you. But now, as you swallow, you see something shift in his expression, not a smile, but a subtle tilt of his head, as if he’s pleased you’ve decided to eat. It’s a strange, quiet approval that makes your skin prickle.

Amy nudges you with her elbow. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” she murmurs. “Better than nothing.”

Denis, on your other side, finally speaks up. “Sometimes we get jam on Sundays,” he says, as if offering a piece of valuable intelligence. “If you’re good.”

You nod, taking another spoonful. The act of eating feels like a small rebellion against the emptiness inside you. You’re here. You’re eating. You’re surviving.

Tom’s gaze doesn’t waver. It feels less like a threat now and more like… interest. Like you’re a book he’s decided to read, and he’s waiting to see what happens on the next page.

You lean closer to Amy, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the clatter of spoons and benches. "Why does he keep staring?"

Amy follows your gaze to Tom, then quickly looks down at her bowl. "I told you," she murmurs back. "He's not right. He does that to new people sometimes. Watches them. Like he's figuring out how to... I don't know. How to get to them."

Her expression grows earnest. "Just don't give him anything. Don't talk to him. He'll lose interest eventually."

But as you look back at Tom, you're not so sure. His dark eyes are still fixed on you, and there's a curious intensity in them now, not malice, but something like recognition, as if he sees something in you that no one else does.

You're caught in that silent exchange, a thread of connection stretching across the noisy room. Tom tilts his head slightly, studying you as if you're a complex spell he's trying to decipher.

Mrs. Cole claps her hands again. "All right, plates down! Everyone to wash up and then straight to bed. No dawdling!"

The spell breaks. Tom stands up smoothly, his bowl empty, and walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance. You're left sitting there, your heart beating a little too fast, wondering what you've just started.

You follow Amy back through the dim corridors, your mind still caught on that silent exchange with Tom. The orphanage feels different at night, the shadows longer, the quiet more profound, as if the building itself is holding its breath.

In your room, Amy changes into a nightdress without speaking. Denis is already in his bed, facing the wall.

"You should get ready," Amy says softly. "Lights out soon."

You change quickly and climb into your narrow bed. The sheets are rough and smell of soap and damp. Amy blows out the candle on the small table between your beds, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the faint gray light from the window.

You lie there, listening to Denis's steady breathing and the distant sound of a train passing somewhere in the city. Your thoughts drift, and exhaustion pulls you under.

In your dream, you're standing in a sunlit room you've never seen before. Books float gently through the air, turning their own pages. A quill writes by itself on a parchment that hovers mid-air. You reach out, and a small, carved wooden bird on a shelf trembles, then lifts into the air, circling your head before settling softly into your open palm.

You wake with a start, your heart pounding. The room is still dark. The wooden bird isn't real, but for a moment, the feeling of weight in your palm was.

The dream of floating objects lingers in your mind for days, a secret warmth tucked behind your ribs.

One rainy afternoon, when the other children are playing a noisy game in the common room, you slip away down a narrow hallway you haven't explored before. At the end is a door, slightly ajar.

You push it open.

The room is small and ugly, with peeling green paint and a single grimy window. A few shelves hold a sad collection of tattered books. Tom is sitting on the floor in a patch of weak gray light, a book open in his lap.

He looks up, and for once, he doesn't seem surprised to see you. His dark eyes study you carefully.

"This is the library," he says, his voice calm and clear. "Not that there's much to read."

"Hello," you say, and step inside.

The room feels smaller with both of you in it. Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't look angry either. Just... observing.

"You're the new girl," he says. It's not a question.

You nod, surprised he knows your name. "Yes."

He closes his book, setting it aside with careful precision. "Most of the others don't come in here. They think it's boring." He pauses, his dark eyes studying your face. "But you're different."

The words hang in the air between you. Different how? You think of your dream, of the quill floating above the desk. You think of the blue light that sometimes flickers at the edges of your vision when no one is looking.

Tom leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Sometimes," he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I can do things. Strange things. Things that shouldn't be possible."

He watches you closely, as if testing your reaction. "The other children call me wicked for it. Mrs. Cole too, when she thinks I can't hear."

You take a small step into the room, the floorboards creaking under your weight. "What kind of strange things can you do?" you ask, your curiosity outweighing Amy's warnings.

Tom's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes, a spark of interest, or maybe satisfaction. He sets his book aside carefully.

"I can make things happen," he says, his voice low and even. "Without touching them. I can make animals do what I want. I can find things that are hidden. I can hurt people if they bother me, and no one ever knows it was me."

Your eyes widen, and a strange mix of awe and recognition blooms in your chest. "Do you really mean it?" you whisper, taking another step into the room. "Could you... show me?"

For the first time, Tom's lips curve into something that almost resembles a smile. It's small and sharp, but it's there. He looks pleased, not in a warm way, but in the way someone looks when they've solved a difficult puzzle.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he glances toward the door you left ajar, then back at you. "If I show you," he says quietly, "you can't tell anyone. Not ever. They wouldn't understand."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, smooth stone, gray and ordinary. He places it on the floor between you.

"Watch," he says.

He doesn't touch it. He doesn't say any words. He just stares at the stone, his dark eyes fixed and intense. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the stone begins to tremble. It rolls once, twice, then lifts an inch off the floorboards, hovering in the air as if held by invisible strings.

It stays there, suspended, for three heartbeats before dropping back with a soft tap.

Tom looks at you, his expression calm but expectant. "See?" he says. "I can do things they can't."

You stare at the spot where the stone hovered, your breath catching in your throat. "I've dreamed about things like that," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Moving on their own. Books... and a little bird..."

Tom's eyes sharpen. He leans forward, his gaze intense. "Tell me," he says, his voice low but urgent.

You swallow, the memory of the dream vivid behind your eyes. "There was a room, full of sunlight. Books were floating, turning pages by themselves. A quill was writing in the air. And there was this wooden bird... it flew to me. It landed right in my hand."

You look down at your palm, half-expecting to see the ghost of its weight still there. "It felt real. More real than this."

Tom is silent for a long moment, studying you with a new, deeper interest. "Dreams can be memories," he says finally. "Or warnings. Or... possibilities."

He picks up the stone again, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "You're like me," he says, and there's a strange note in his voice, not quite warmth, but something close to recognition. "We're not like them. We're special."

He looks at you, his dark eyes holding yours. "We should keep this between us. They wouldn't understand. They'd call you wicked too."

You nod slowly, the weight of the promise settling in your chest like a second heartbeat. "I won't tell anyone”, you say, your voice firm despite the whisper. „Not ever."

Tom watches you for another moment, then gives a single, satisfied nod. He slips the stone back into his pocket. "Good," he says. "It's better this way. Just us."

He stands up, brushing dust from his trousers. The gray light from the window catches the sharp angles of his face, making him look older than seven, like a statue carved from something cold and permanent.

"We should go back before they notice we're gone," he says, but he doesn't move toward the door right away. He looks at you one more time, his dark eyes lingering on your face as if memorizing it. "You can come here again. If you want."

He turns and walks out, leaving you alone in the ugly little room with its peeling paint and sad collection of books. The air feels different now, charged, as if something invisible has shifted between you.

You stand there for a moment longer, listening to the distant sounds of children playing down the hall. Then you follow him out, closing the door softly behind you.

Days pass in a blur of routine meals and quiet observations. You find yourself watching Tom more often, noticing how he moves through the orphanage like a shadow, present but separate. Sometimes you catch him looking back, and that silent understanding passes between you again.

Then comes the storm.

It builds all afternoon, the sky darkening to a bruised purple. By nightfall, rain lashes against the windows, and thunder rumbles deep in the distance. You lie awake in your narrow bed, listening to the wind howl around the old building.

That's when you feel it, a strange, warm tingling in your fingertips, like static electricity but stronger. You sit up, holding your hands out in the dark. A faint, silvery glow begins to pulse around your skin, growing brighter with each heartbeat.

You stare at the silvery light dancing around your fingers, your breath catching. Instead of pulling away, you focus all your attention on it, willing the glow to grow brighter. You think of the floating stone, of Tom's calm intensity, of the wooden bird from your dream.

The light responds. It pulses, then spreads, wrapping around your hands like delicate lace made of moonlight. The tingling sensation grows warmer, almost pleasant, humming through your veins. You can feel it, a current of something alive and waiting, just beneath your skin.

Across the room, the candle on the small table flickers, though there's no draft. The flame stretches toward you, bending as if drawn by an invisible force.

You remember Tom's words: We're special.

This is what he meant. This is the difference.

The thunder cracks again, closer this time, and the whole room seems to vibrate with the sound. You look from your glowing hands to the storm raging outside the window, and a sudden, fierce certainty fills you.

You look around the dark room. On the small table between your beds sits a chipped cup. You fix your gaze on the cup, willing it to move.

At first, nothing happens. The cup stays stubbornly still. You bite your lip, frustration mixing with the warm hum in your veins. You think of the stone hovering, of Tom's calm certainty. You don't just want it to move, you know it can.

The cup trembles.

It's a tiny, almost invisible shudder at first. Then it rocks once, twice, and lifts an inch off the table. It hovers there, wobbling slightly, as if held by an unsteady hand. Your heart leaps into your throat.

You're doing it. You're really doing it.

The cup drifts toward you, slow and unsteady, before dropping back onto the table with a soft clink. The sound seems loud in the quiet room. Amy stirs in her sleep but doesn't wake.

You stare at the cup, your hands still glowing faintly. There's no doubt now. It's real. And Tom was right… you’re like him.

You need to find him.

You slip out of bed, your bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. The silvery glow has faded from your hands, but the warmth lingers in your veins, a secret fire. You pause by Amy's bed, listening to her steady breathing, then ease the door open and slip into the dark corridor.

The orphanage is different at night, all shadows and creaking wood, the storm still muttering outside. You know where Tom sleeps, in a small room at the end of the boys' wing. You've never been there, but you've seen him come and go.

Your heart beats fast as you pad down the hallway, past closed doors and the faint smell of damp wool. When you reach his door, you hesitate, your hand hovering. What if he's angry? What if he doesn't believe you?

But you remember the floating stone, his dark eyes watching you with that strange recognition. You knock softly, three quick taps.

For a moment, there's only silence. Then the door opens a crack. Tom stands there, already fully dressed despite the hour, his dark hair neat, his expression alert. He doesn't look surprised to see you.

His eyes drop to your hands, then back to your face. "You did it, didn't you?" he says, his voice low.

You nod, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the sound of the storm. "I made a cup float," you tell him, holding out your hands. They're not glowing now, but you can still feel the warmth humming just beneath your skin. "Can you teach me more?"

Tom's eyes gleam in the dim light. He doesn't smile, but there's a new intensity in his expression, something hungry and focused. "Yes," he says simply. „There’s a place," he says. "Under the roof. No one goes there. We can practice there."

He watches you, waiting for your reaction. "But you have to promise to do exactly as I say. Magic can be dangerous if you don't control it."

You nod eagerly, your eyes wide and bright in the dim room. "Is it really magic?" you whisper, the word feeling strange and wonderful on your tongue.

Tom's expression softens just a fraction, not into a smile, but into something like approval. "Yes," he says. "It's magic."

He moves to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hallway. "Follow me. Stay close."

You trail him through the dark corridors, your heart beating fast with excitement and nerves. He leads you up a narrow, winding staircase you've never noticed before, its steps worn smooth by time. The air grows colder as you climb, and the sound of the storm grows louder overhead.

At the top, Tom pushes open a heavy wooden door. The room beyond is small and dusty, tucked under the sloping eaves of the roof. Moonlight filters through a grimy circular window, illuminating floating dust motes and a few forgotten trunks stacked against the walls. The space feels secret, separate from the rest of the orphanage, a world of its own.

Tom turns to you, his face pale in the moonlight. "This is where we'll practice," he says. "No one comes here. We'll be safe."

He gestures to the center of the room, where the floorboards are clear. "Show me what you did with the cup."

You take a deep breath, your eyes scanning the moonlit room until you spot a single, large dust mote drifting slowly through the air. You focus on it, hard, remembering the warm hum in your veins, the certainty you felt when the cup lifted.

At first, nothing happens. The dust continues its lazy descent. You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up. Then you think of Tom's stone hovering, steady and controlled. You don't just want it to float, you will it to.

The dust mote stops falling. It hangs in the air, suspended, as if caught in an invisible web. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, you guide it upward, making it drift in a small, deliberate circle.

It's not much, just a speck of dust, but it's yours. You did it.

You look at Tom, your eyes wide with wonder. He's watching the dust mote, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze shifts to you, and something in his dark eyes changes. It's not just approval anymore, it's something sharper, hungrier. Like he's found something precious that belongs to him.

"Good," he says, his voice quiet but intense. "Very good."

He takes a step closer, his shadow falling across you. "Now try something heavier. That book, over there." He points to a small, leather-bound volume resting on one of the trunks. "Don't just lift it. Bring it to me."

You turn your attention to the small leather book on the trunk. It looks heavier than dust, more solid. You take another deep breath, focusing all your will on it. You imagine it lifting, floating through the air toward Tom's waiting hand.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The book sits there, stubborn and still. You feel a flicker of doubt, but then you remember the cup, the dust mote. The warmth in your veins pulses, stronger this time.

The book trembles. Its cover shifts slightly, then it rises an inch off the trunk, wobbling unsteadily. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, painstakingly, you guide it through the air. It drifts toward Tom, moving like a leaf on a gentle current.

When it reaches him, it hovers before his chest for a heartbeat before dropping into his outstretched hand.

Tom catches it, his fingers closing around the worn leather. He looks from the book to you, and something in his expression shifts again. There's pride there, sharp and possessive, and something else, a kind of hunger that makes your skin prickle.

"Perfect," he says softly, his dark eyes holding yours. "You learn fast."

He sets the book aside and takes a step closer. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face. "We're going to practice every night," he tells you, his voice low and certain. "Just you and me. No one else can know what we can do."

He reaches out, his hand hovering near your arm as if he wants to touch you but isn't quite sure how. "You belong here," he says. "With me."

The nights that follow become a secret rhythm, you and Tom meeting under the roof, practicing until your hands tremble and your mind feels stretched thin. He teaches you control, precision, how to make objects dance through the air with just a thought. Each success makes his eyes gleam with that same hungry pride.

Then, one bright afternoon, you slip into the orphanage's small, neglected garden, seeking a moment alone. That's when you find her: a little, dark snake coiled beneath the rose bushes, her scales glistening with what looks like fresh blood. She's hurt, her breathing shallow.

You kneel without thinking, your heart pounding. "Are you alright?" you whisper.

The snake lifts her head, her golden eyes fixing on you. To your surprise, you understand her hissing reply as clearly as if she'd spoken English. "The two-legs with the stick hurt me. I cannot move."

You kneel closer, your hands trembling slightly as you reach out. "Let me see," you whisper, not sure if you're speaking English or the strange, hissing language that feels so natural.

You gently touch the scales near the wound. A deep gash runs along her side, oozing dark blood. She flinches, a soft hiss escaping her.

"It hurts," she says, her voice a pained whisper in your mind.

Your throat tightens. "I know," you murmur. „What is your name? I'm going to get help. Stay here.“ You hear her whisper: „Nagini“, before you move.

Tom. You need Tom. He'll know what to do, he always knows.

You run back into the orphanage, your feet flying over the worn floors. You don't stop until you reach his door, knocking frantically. When he opens it, his expression shifts from mild annoyance to sharp curiosity as he takes in your panicked face.

"There's a snake," you gasp, breathless. "In the garden. She's hurt. She talked to me, Tom. I understood her."

Tom's dark eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second. Then his face goes still, unreadable. "You understood her?" he asks, his voice low.

"She said the two-legs with the stick hurt her," you tell him, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She can't move. She's bleeding, Tom. We have to help her."

Tom stares at you, his expression utterly still. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. You can see something shifting behind his dark eyes, confusion, then calculation, then something sharper. Hunger.

"You understood her," he repeats, his voice quiet. "Word for word."

He steps out into the hallway, closing his door behind him. "Show me."

You lead him back to the garden, your heart pounding. Nagini is still coiled beneath the rose bushes, her golden eyes watching you approach. When Tom sees her, he stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the snake.

"Another two-legs," Nagini hisses, her voice weak. "Is he a friend?"

Tom's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer the snake. Instead, he looks at you, his expression unreadable. "I can't help her," he says flatly. "I don't know how to heal animals."

He kneels down, studying the wound with clinical detachment. "The cut is deep. She'll die without help."

You kneel beside Nagini again, your hand hovering over her wounded side. "I'm going to try to help you," you whisper, the hissing words feeling both strange and right.

Nagini's golden eyes fix on you. "You speak the old tongue," she says, her voice a pained whisper. "The two-legs who hurt me did not."

You nod, though you don't fully understand. You look up at Tom, who's watching you with that intense, hungry expression.

You turn back to Nagini, placing your hands gently on either side of the gash. You close your eyes, trying to push away the fear and the racing of your heart. You think of warmth, of light, of things being put back together. You remember the silvery glow that wrapped around your hands that first night, the hum of magic in your veins.

At first, nothing happens. Then you feel it, a different kind of warmth, deeper and brighter, starting in your chest and flowing down your arms. A soft, blue-white light begins to glow beneath your palms, spilling over Nagini's dark scales.

The light pulses, growing stronger. You can feel the magic working, knitting flesh and scale back together. Nagini lets out a soft hiss, but this time it sounds more like relief than pain.

Tom is utterly still, his dark eyes fixed on your hands and the healing light. His expression is no longer just hungry, it's awed, possessive, triumphant. Like he's found something even more precious than he imagined.

You push everything else away, Tom's intense gaze, the garden around you, even your own fear. All that matters is the warmth flowing from your hands into Nagini's wounded side. You focus all your energy on it, willing the light to grow brighter, stronger.

The blue-white glow intensifies, wrapping around Nagini like a gentle cocoon. You can feel the magic working, deeper than before, not just healing the surface wound, but mending muscle and scale, soothing pain, restoring strength. It feels right, like this is what the magic was meant to do.

Beneath your hands, the gash closes completely. The torn scales knit back together, leaving only a faint silvery scar. Nagini lets out a long, relieved hiss and uncoils herself, testing her movement. She slithers forward, her body whole and strong again.

"Thank you," she says, her golden eyes fixed on you with something like reverence. "You have the old magic. The true magic."

She coils around your ankles, her scales cool and smooth against your skin. "I will stay with you," she declares. "You are my speaker."

You look up, your hands still tingling with fading warmth. Tom hasn't moved. He's staring at you with an expression you've never seen before, awe, hunger, and something darker, more possessive. His dark eyes are wide, his face pale in the afternoon light.

For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then he takes a step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "What was that?" he asks. "That light... that wasn't normal magic."

You look up at Tom, your hands still tingling with the fading warmth. "I don't know what it was," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. "But it felt right. Like... like it was supposed to happen."

As you speak, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over you. Your legs feel weak, your head spins. You stumble forward, your vision blurring at the edges. Tom catches you before you can fall, his hands firm on your arms.

"Whoa," he says, his voice closer than you expected. He steadies you, his grip surprisingly gentle. "Easy."

You lean against him, your eyes heavy. The world seems to tilt and sway. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and calm, a contrast to your own racing pulse.

"You used too much magic," Tom murmurs, his breath warm against your hair. "Healing takes energy. More than floating books."

He doesn't let go of you. Instead, he guides you to sit on the ground, his arm still around your shoulders for support. Nagini slithers closer, coiling protectively around your ankles.

Tom looks from the snake to your pale face, his dark eyes thoughtful. "You spoke to her," he says quietly. "You healed her with magic I've never seen before. Blue light."

He says the last two words like they're something precious and dangerous. His gaze holds yours, intense and searching. "Do you understand what that means?"

You shake your head weakly, the motion making the world swim again. You're too tired to think about what it means, too tired to think about anything except how heavy your eyelids feel, how your whole body aches with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

Tom watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs, a soft sound that's almost gentle. "You need to rest," he says. "Come on."

He helps you to your feet, his arm around your waist to steady you. Nagini follows, slithering close to your ankles as if she's afraid to let you out of her sight.

Tom leads you back inside, supporting most of your weight. The orphanage corridors feel longer than usual, the stairs steeper. When you reach your room, he pauses at the door, glancing down at Nagini.

"She can't come in here," he says quietly. "Amy will scream."

Nagini hisses softly, but you murmur to her in Parseltongue, "Wait for me outside. I'll come find you soon."

The snake reluctantly coils by the doorframe, her golden eyes watching you as Tom helps you to your bed. You collapse onto the thin mattress, your limbs feeling like lead.

Tom stands over you for a moment, his dark eyes studying your face. "Sleep," he says, his voice low. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

He turns to leave, but pauses at the door, looking back at you one last time. His expression is that same mix of awe and hunger you saw in the garden. "You're full of surprises," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he's gone, closing the door softly behind him.

The days blur together after that, secret practices under the roof, whispered conversations with Nagini in the garden, Tom watching you with that same hungry awe every time your hands glow blue. Before you know it, it’s the week before Christmas.

You're sitting beside Tom at dinner, the usual watery stew steaming in your bowls. Around you, the other children point and whisper, their eyes darting between you and Tom. You've become a pair in their minds, the strange, quiet boy and the girl that follows him everywhere.

Your stomach growls loudly, a hollow ache that's become familiar. The portions are small here.

Without a word, Tom pushes half of his bread roll onto your plate. He doesn't look at you when he does it, his expression carefully neutral, but the gesture is unmistakable.

You look at the bread roll on your plate, then up at Tom. Your eyes go wide, touched by the gesture. Without a word, you break the piece in half and push one piece back toward him.

Tom glances at the bread, then at your face. For a moment, he looks almost surprised, as if he didn't expect you to share it back. Then his expression softens, just a fraction. He takes the piece and eats it slowly, his dark eyes watching you over the rim of his bowl.

Around you, the whispers grow louder. "They're sharing," someone mutters. "Like they're a proper family or something."

You ignore them, focusing on your stew. The bread helps, but your stomach still feels hollow. You think about Christmas, which is only a week away.

You glance at Tom. He's staring at his bowl, his expression closed off and cold.

You lean closer to Tom, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you excited for Christmas?"

Tom's spoon stills in his bowl. He doesn't look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the watery stew. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and flat. "I don't like Christmas."

He glances at you then, his dark eyes sharp. "Do you know why?"

You shake your head, waiting.

"Because it's a lie," he says, his voice barely audible over the clatter of spoons and chatter around you. "All those families outside, laughing and giving presents. They pretend everything is perfect. But it's not. Nothing is perfect. They're just better at hiding the ugly parts."

He pushes his bowl away, half-finished. "I hate watching them. I hate knowing they have something I'll never have."

His words hang between you, heavy and cold. You think of your own memories, or lack of them. The green flash, the hollow ache where a family should be. You understand his bitterness, but something in you rebels against it.

You want to tell him that Christmas doesn't have to be about perfect families. It could be about something else, something just for the two of you. But before you can speak, Mrs. Cole claps her hands, signaling the end of dinner.

Tom stands up, his expression closed off again. "Come on," he says, not looking at you. "Let's go."

You follow Tom out of the dining hall, your heart beating a little faster. When you reach the quieter corridor, you reach out and touch his sleeve, stopping him.

"Tom," you say, your voice firm despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "I want to make this Christmas special for us."

He turns to look at you, his dark eyes unreadable. "Special how?" he asks, his tone flat. "We're in an orphanage. There's no money for presents. No tree worth having. No family."

"I know," you say, holding his gaze. "But we have each other. And we have magic. We could make our own Christmas. Something just for us."

For a long moment, Tom doesn't speak. He studies your face, his expression shifting from skepticism to something more thoughtful. You can see him considering it, turning the idea over in his mind.

"You want to use magic for Christmas?" he asks, his voice quieter now.

You nod. "We could make decorations that float. Or warm the room without a fire. Or... I don't know. Something beautiful."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches Tom's lips. "You're determined," he says.

"I am," you tell him, your voice steady. "We deserve something good, Tom. Even if we have to make it ourselves."

You look up at Tom, your determination softening into curiosity. "If you could have one wish for Christmas," you ask quietly, "what would it be?"

Tom goes still, his dark eyes searching your face as if looking for a trick. The corridor around you is quiet now, the sounds of dinner fading behind closed doors. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. You can see him thinking, weighing whether to be honest or to give you the cold, dismissive answer he usually gives everyone else.

Finally, he speaks, his voice so soft you have to lean closer to hear. "To never be hungry again," he says. "To never have to share half a bread roll because there isn't enough. To have a room that's warm in winter. To have... things that are mine. Truly mine."

He looks away, his jaw tightening. "Not presents. Not toys. Just... enough. And no one to take it away."

His words settle in your chest, heavy and real. You understand, suddenly, that his bitterness about Christmas isn't just about families, it's about lack. About never having enough of anything: food, warmth, security, love.

You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing his wrist. "We'll make it warm," you promise. "However we can. And we'll make sure there's enough, even if it's just for one day."

Tom looks down at your hand on his wrist, then back up at your face. His expression is unreadable again, but his eyes hold yours for a long moment. "You mean that," he says, not quite a question.

"I do," you tell him.

The days pass, cold and gray, and Christmas draws closer. You spend your time planning, whispering ideas to Tom under the roof, gathering what little you can for decorations. But one evening, as you're returning from the garden after checking on Nagini, you find yourself alone in a dimly lit hallway.

The shadows seem to stretch longer than usual. You're about to turn the corner when three figures step out, blocking your path. Billy Stubbs stands in front, his face set in a mean, pinched expression. Two older boys flank him, their eyes hard.

"Well, well," Billy says, his voice dripping with mockery. "Look who's all alone for once. No Tom to protect you."

He takes a step closer, and the other boys move to either side of you, cutting off your escape. "We're tired of you following him around like his little pet," Billy sneers. "Think you're special because he talks to you? You're just as pathetic as the rest of us."

Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you force yourself to stand still. "What do you want from me?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Billy's smirk widens. "We want you to understand your place," he says, taking another step closer. The hallway feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. "You think you're better than us because Tom Riddle talks to you? Because you whisper to each other like you've got secrets?"

One of the other boys, a tall, thin one with sharp elbows, reaches out and shoves your shoulder. "We're tired of watching you follow him around," he says. "It's pathetic."

Billy nods, his eyes cold. "We're going to teach you a lesson. So you remember you're just another orphan. Just like the rest of us."

He grabs your arm, his fingers digging in painfully. The other two move in, blocking any chance of escape. They start dragging you down the hallway, away from the main rooms, toward one of the empty storage closets that no one uses anymore.

You struggle, but there are three of them and only one of you. Your mind races, searching for a way out. You think of Tom, of Nagini, of the magic you've been practicing, but right now, none of it seems to help.

Panic surges through you as they drag you toward the empty room. You can feel their hands gripping your arms too tightly, see the cruel satisfaction in Billy's eyes. You think of Tom's lessons under the roof, focus, will, intention. You think of the blue-white light that healed Nagini.

You stop struggling and close your eyes, just for a second. You focus on the magic humming in your veins, on the warmth that's always there, waiting. You don't think about floating objects or healing wounds. You think about pushing them away. About creating space.

A soft, shimmering glow begins to pulse around your hands. It's faint at first, then brighter, a pale blue light that spills into the dim hallway.

Billy and the others freeze, their eyes widening. "What's that?" one of them whispers, his voice shaky.

You open your eyes and push with your mind, not with your hands. The magic responds, flowing out from you in a gentle wave. It doesn't hurt them, it just pushes, like an invisible wall of air. Billy stumbles back, his grip on your arm loosening. The other two boys let go, stepping away with confused, frightened expressions.

For a moment, you're free. You stand there, breathing hard, the blue light still flickering around your fingers. Billy recovers first, his face twisting with anger and something else, fear.

"You're a freak," he spits, but he doesn't come closer. "Just like him."

He glances at the other boys, who look uncertain now. Then he takes a step forward again, his fists clenched. "That little trick won't save you," he says, his voice low and mean.

You don't wait to see if they'll overcome their fear. The moment Billy hesitates, you turn and run, your feet pounding against the stone floor. You can hear them shouting behind you, their footsteps giving chase.

You make it only a few yards before a hand grabs the back of your dress, yanking you backward. You stumble, losing your balance, and crash to the floor. The impact knocks the air from your lungs.

Before you can get up, Billy is on top of you, pinning you down. The other two boys grab your arms, holding you still. "Thought you could run?" Billy sneers, his face close to yours. "Thought your little light show would scare us?"

He raises his fist, and you brace yourself. But before he can strike, a cold voice cuts through the hallway.

"Let her go."

You look past Billy's shoulder. Tom stands at the end of the corridor, his expression utterly still and cold. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, a quiet, dangerous fury.

Billy freezes, his fist still raised. He glances at Tom, then back at you, his confidence wavering. "This doesn't concern you, Riddle," he says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction.

Tom takes a step forward. "It does," he says, his voice soft but carrying. "Now let her go."

Billy hesitates for a moment longer, then his face hardens with stubborn anger. "Or what?" he challenges.

Tom doesn't answer with words. He raises his hand, his fingers curling slightly. Billy's body goes rigid, his eyes widening in shock and pain. He makes a choked sound, his hands flying to his throat as if something invisible is squeezing him.

The other two boys let go of you, backing away with terrified expressions. Billy drops to his knees, gasping for air, his face turning pale.

You stay where you are, frozen on the floor, watching in shock as Billy gasps and chokes under Tom's invisible grip. Billy's face is pale, his eyes wide with terror. He claws at his throat, making horrible, wet sounds.

The other two boys have backed all the way against the wall, their faces white with fear. They don't try to help Billy, they just stare, trembling.

Tom's expression doesn't change. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, cold and focused. His hand remains raised, fingers curled as if holding something delicate. There's no anger on his face, no rage, just a calm, terrible control.

Then footsteps echo down the hallway, sharp and quick. Mrs. Cole appears around the corner, her face tight with alarm. "What in heaven's name-" she begins, then stops, taking in the scene: you on the floor, Billy choking, Tom with his hand raised.

Her eyes widen in horror. "Thomas Riddle!" she shouts, her voice sharp. "Stop that this instant!"

Tom's hand drops. Billy collapses to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. Mrs. Cole rushes forward, kneeling beside Billy, then turns her furious gaze on Tom.

"What have you done?" she demands, her voice trembling with anger. "Using your... your wickedness on other children!"

Tom doesn't answer. He just looks at her, his expression blank.

Mrs. Cole stands up, her face pale. "Two weeks," she says, her voice cold and final. "Two weeks without dinner. And you'll spend them in solitude. No Christmas celebrations. No contact with anyone."

She turns to you, her expression softening slightly. "Are you hurt, child?"

Before you can answer, she shakes her head. "Never mind. Get up. Both of you, to your rooms. Now."

Tom doesn't look at you as he turns and walks away. You watch him go, your chest tight with guilt. Because of you, he won't have Christmas at all.

A week passes, cold and quiet. Christmas Eve settles over Wool's Orphanage like a heavy frost. You walk through the dimly lit hallway, your footsteps soft on the stone floor. The usual sounds of children are muted tonight, everyone is in the common room, gathered around the sad little tree Mrs. Cole put up.

Then you hear it, a voice from the isolation room at the end of the hall. Tom's voice, but different. Thinner. Desperate.

"Please," he's saying, the word strained. "Mrs. Cole, it's so cold. Just another blanket. Or something to eat. Please."

You stand there in the dim hallway, your heart pounding. Tom never begs. He never shows weakness. But he's cold and hungry and alone on Christmas Eve, and it's because he defended you.

Anger flares hot and sudden in your chest. How can Mrs. Cole do that? How can she leave him cold and hungry on Christmas Eve? It's cruel. It's wrong.

The anger doesn't just stay inside you, it spills out. A soft blue glow flickers around your hands, pulsing with your heartbeat. You feel your magic lashing out without meaning to, making the nearby sconce flicker wildly. Shadows dance across the walls, stretching and twisting.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. The glow fades, but the determination remains, sharp and clear. You need to help Tom. You need to make this right.

You turn away from the isolation room and head toward the kitchen, your footsteps quick and quiet. The orphanage is mostly empty now, everyone gathered in the common room for what little Christmas cheer Mrs. Cole allows. The kitchen door is unlocked, and you slip inside.

The room is dark and cold, the stove unlit. You find a kettle and fill it with water. While it warms, you search the pantry. There, on a high shelf, you find a tin with two gingerbread cookies inside, probably meant for Mrs. Cole's own Christmas treat.

You take them, your hands trembling slightly. The kettle begins to whistle softly. You pour the hot water into a cup, add a tea bag you find in a tin, and stir in a spoonful of sugar. Tom's favorite.

You grab the tea and cookies, then pause. Tom said he was cold. You need more than tea.

You slip out of the kitchen and hurry to your room. The other girls are still downstairs, so the room is empty and quiet. You pull your thin blanket from your bed, it's not much, but it's something. You fold it carefully, tucking it under your arm with the tea and cookies balanced in your other hand.

The hallway is dark and silent as you make your way back toward the isolation room. Your heart beats fast, each step feeling too loud. You listen for any sound, Mrs. Cole's footsteps, other children moving about, but there's only the quiet hum of the orphanage at night.

When you reach Tom's door, you pause. You can't hear anything from inside now. He might be sleeping, or just too exhausted to make noise. You set the tea and cookies down carefully on the floor, then place your hands against the cold wood of the door.

You close your eyes, thinking of the lock. You've never tried to open a door with magic before, but you've moved smaller things. You focus on the mechanism inside, on the tumblers and the bolt. You imagine them shifting, turning, releasing.

A soft blue glow spreads from your hands across the wood. There's a quiet click. The door swings open just a crack.

Inside, the room is dark and bitterly cold. You can see Tom curled on a narrow cot, shivering even in his sleep. His face looks pale in the faint light from the hallway, his lips indeed tinged with blue.

You almost drop the tea and cookies in shock at how cold he looks. Setting them down carefully on the floor, you kneel beside the cot and take Tom's hands in yours. They're ice-cold, his fingers stiff. You close your eyes and focus, letting the warmth of your magic flow from your palms into his skin.

A soft blue glow surrounds your joined hands, gentle and steady. You think of warmth, of comfort, of the heat from a fireplace on a winter night. The glow spreads up his arms, chasing away the chill. Tom stirs, his eyelids fluttering open.

He blinks at you, confusion in his dark eyes. "What..." he begins, his voice hoarse.

"You were so cold," you whisper. "I brought tea. And cookies. And my blanket."

Tom sits up slowly, still holding your hands. The blue glow fades as you release the magic, but his hands feel warmer now. He looks from your face to the tea and cookies on the floor, then back to you. His expression is unreadable for a moment, then something softens in his eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge. "If Mrs. Cole finds you..."

"I don't care," you tell him firmly. "It's Christmas Eve. You shouldn't be alone and cold."

You let go of his hands to pick up the tea. It's still warm from your magic. You hand it to him, then unwrap one of the gingerbread cookies. The sweet, spicy scent fills the small, cold room.

Tom takes the tea, his fingers curling around the warm cup. He doesn't drink right away, just holds it, letting the heat seep into his hands. He looks at you over the rim of the cup, his dark eyes thoughtful.

You look at him, and suddenly tears well in your eyes. "I'm sorry," you whisper, the words tumbling out. "I didn't want you to get in trouble for saving me. I didn't want you to suffer. And now... now Christmas isn't special at all. It's just cold and lonely for you."

Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He sets the tea down carefully on the floor, then reaches out. His fingers brush your cheek, wiping away a tear. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, that you freeze.

"Don't cry," he says quietly. "It's not your fault."

"But it is," you insist, your voice trembling. "If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't used magic-"

"You were defending yourself," Tom interrupts. His hand drops from your cheek, but his eyes hold yours. "Billy and the others would have hurt you. I did what I had to do."

He picks up the tea again and takes a sip. The warmth seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders. Then he looks at the gingerbread cookie in your hand.

"Is that for me?" he asks, a faint hint of something like amusement in his voice.

You nod, holding it out. He takes it, breaking it in half. He offers one piece back to you. "We'll share," he says. "That's what you do on Christmas, isn't it? Share?"

You take the half-cookie, your fingers brushing his. The gingerbread is sweet and spicy, a small burst of warmth in the cold room. You eat it slowly, savoring it. Tom does the same, his eyes never leaving your face.

When the cookie is gone, he finishes his tea. The color has returned to his lips, and he doesn't look quite so cold anymore. He sets the empty cup aside.

"You should go back to your room," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "Mrs. Cole will check on me eventually."

You pout, looking down at your hands. "I don't want to go," you admit quietly. "I missed you all week."

Tom goes still. He watches you for a long moment, his dark eyes thoughtful. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the distant sounds of the orphanage settling for the night.

"You missed me," he repeats, his voice soft. It's not a question, but there's something in his tone, surprise, maybe, or something warmer.

You nod, not looking up. "It was quiet without you. And... lonely."

Tom lets out a slow breath. He looks around the small, cold room, then back at you. "If you stay and Mrs. Cole finds you," he says, "you'll be punished too. No Christmas for either of us."

He says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge to his words, a warning, but also something else. A test, maybe. To see if you mean what you say.

You finally look up, meeting his gaze. "I don't care," you tell him, your voice firm. "Christmas isn't Christmas if you're alone in here."

Tom's expression softens, just a little. The hard edges around his eyes ease. He looks at the blanket you brought, then back at you. "Fine," he says. "But you sleep on the floor. And if you get cold, don't complain."

He says it like he's doing you a favor, but you can see the way his shoulders relax slightly. The way he doesn't look quite so alone anymore.

You nod eagerly, relieved he's letting you stay. You take your blanket and try to make a comfortable spot on the stone floor. The floor is hard and cold, even through the thin wool. You spread the blanket out, then lie down, pulling the edges around you.

The cold seeps through immediately. You try to curl into a ball, to conserve warmth, but you can't stop shivering. Your teeth chatter softly, and you press your hands between your knees, trying to warm them.

From the cot above you, Tom lets out a quiet sigh. "Stop that," he says, his voice tired.

"I'm trying," you whisper through chattering teeth.

There's a moment of silence. Then you hear the cot creak as Tom sits up. He looks down at you, his face shadowed in the dark room. "You're shivering," he says, sounding annoyed.

"It's cold," you admit, your voice small.

Tom sighs again, louder this time. He shifts on the cot, making room. "Come here," he says, his tone begrudging. "Before you freeze to death."

You hesitate for just a second, then scramble up from the floor, bringing your blanket with you. The cot is narrow, but Tom moves over, making space. You climb in beside him, pulling your blanket over both of you.

The warmth from his body is immediate and welcome. You curl against him, still shivering slightly. Tom doesn't put his arm around you, but he doesn't move away either. He just lies there, stiff at first, then gradually relaxing.

The room is still cold, but here, under the blankets, pressed close together, it's warmer. Safer. You can feel your shivering slowly subsiding, replaced by a drowsy warmth.

You cuddle unconsciously closer to him, chasing his warmth. A soft sigh escapes you as you finally feel safe, truly warm for the first time all night. The tension leaves your body, and you relax fully against him, your head resting near his shoulder.

In the quiet darkness, you whisper, "Merry Christmas, Tom."

For a moment, he doesn't respond. Then you feel his arm shift. It doesn't go around you, but his hand comes to rest lightly on your back, a tentative touch. His fingers are warm through your nightdress.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs back, his voice low and close to your ear.

You can feel his breathing slow and deepen as he settles into sleep. The cold room doesn't seem so threatening anymore, not with him here. Not with this small, shared warmth between you.

You close your eyes, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. The orphanage is silent around you, the world outside dark and still. But here, in this narrow cot, with Tom's steady presence beside you, Christmas feels like something real. Something yours.

You drift toward sleep, wrapped in warmth and the unfamiliar comfort of not being alone. Tom's breathing has evened out beside you, his body relaxed in a way you've rarely seen. The hard edges he keeps up during the day have softened in sleep.

For Tom, this silent, stolen hour in the dark is better than any Christmas he can remember. No presents, no songs, no feast, just this: someone who came for him. Someone who saw him cold and hungry and said no. Someone who broke a lock with magic they shouldn't have, just to sit with him in the dark.

He doesn't know how to name what he feels. It isn't gratitude. It's something sharper, hungrier. It's the certainty that you are his now, in a way no one else has ever been. Your magic is his. Your loyalty is his. Your warmth beside him is his.

Outside, midnight passes. Christmas Day arrives quietly, without fanfare. But in a small, cold room in Wool's Orphanage, two children sleep curled together under a thin blanket, and a bond is forged that will shape everything that comes after.

For Tom Riddle, it is the beginning of an obsession.

The Yule Ball was less than a month away, and the Gryffindor common room had become a hive of nervous energy. You sat by the fireplace with Aldith Pickering, watching her twist a strand of her mousy brown hair around her finger for the twentieth time that evening.

“Just ask him,” you said, nudging her with your elbow. “He’s right over there.”

George Weasley was lounging on one of the squashy armchairs, laughing at something Fred had just said. Aldith’s eyes darted toward him, then back to her lap, her cheeks flushing a deep pink.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “What if he says no? What if he laughs?”

“He won’t laugh,” you assured her, though you knew George’s sense of humour could be unpredictable. “He’s not cruel. And if he says no, you’ll survive. But you’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

Aldith shook her head, her shoulders slumping. “I’ll mess it up. I’ll stutter or say something stupid.”

You sighed, watching her struggle. This had been going on for days. Every time George walked by, Aldith would freeze, her courage evaporating like mist. You loved your best friend, but her shyness was going to cost her the chance to go to the Ball with the boy she’d fancied since third year.

Finally, you stood up. “Right. That’s it. I’m doing it for you.”

Aldith’s eyes widened in panic. “No, don’t! Please, I’ll do it tomorrow, I promise一”

But you were already crossing the room, weaving between clusters of students until you reached the Weasley twins.

“George, can I talk to you for a second?”

George looked up from his conversation with Fred, a mischievous grin already playing on his lips. “For you? Always.”

He unfolded himself from the armchair and followed you a few steps away from the hearth, where the noise of the common room faded to a dull roar. You could feel Aldith’s anxious gaze burning into your back from across the room.

“So,” George said, crossing his arms and leaning against the stone wall. “What’s the emergency? Need a patented Weasley solution to a Yule Ball dilemma?”

“Actually, yes,” you said, taking a steadying breath. “It’s about the Ball. I wanted to ask if you’d一”

“Go with you?” George interrupted, his grin widening. “I thought you’d never ask. Yeah, of course I will.”

Your words died in your throat. He’d jumped to the wrong conclusion entirely. “Wait, no, that’s not一”

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out already,” he teased, his eyes sparkling. “I accept. It’s a date.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by his assumption. “No, George, that’s not what I meant. I’m asking for Aldith. She wants to go with you.”

George’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Aldith? Really?”

“Yes, really. She’s been trying to work up the courage to ask you for a week, but she keeps copping out. So I’m asking for her.” You glanced back toward the fireplace, where Aldith was now hiding her face behind a book. “Will you go with her?”

“Sure,” George said easily, shrugging. “Why not? She’s nice. Quiet, but nice.” He leaned a little closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What about you, then? Are you going?”

“With Alicia,” you said. “She just broke up with her girlfriend and refuses to get a ‘proper date,’ so we’re going together.”

George nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Right, the infamous ‘A’s’ stick together.” That was the nickname your group of Gryffindor girls in your year got since all of your names start with A. He paused, a playful glint returning to his eyes. “Either way, if you ever feel like asking me on a date on your own behalf, just know I’m always free for you, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “George, Aldith has the fattest crush on you. I’m not going to date you.”

“Fair enough,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But the offer stands. If that ever changes, you know where to find me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said lightly, already turning to go deliver the good news to Aldith.

Two years slipped by with the swiftness of a Snitch in flight. After graduating, you settled into work at your parents’ restaurant, while Aldith 一true to her quiet determination一 landed a job at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

The shop was a riot of colour and noise when you pushed open the door one crisp autumn afternoon. Aldith stood behind the counter, stacking Pygmy Puffs, her face lighting up when she saw you.

“You’re here!” she said, abandoning the puffballs to hug you. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“Never,” you said, grinning. “How’s the joke shop life treating you?”

Before she could answer, a loud bang echoed from the back room, followed by Fred’s laughter. “Just testing the new Extendable Ears!” he called out, poking his head through the doorway. “Anyone fancy a demo?”

“It’s chaos, but I love it,” Aldith said with a shy smile, her cheeks still faintly pink. “Fred and George are… well, they’re exactly as you’d expect. But they’re good to work for. They pay fairly and they don’t mind when I need to take a break to breathe.”

“Breathe?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Do they work you that hard?”

“No, no,” she said quickly, waving a hand. “I just get overwhelmed sometimes. When it’s really busy. But George always notices and sends me back to organise stock until I calm down.”

As if summoned by his name, George emerged from the back room, a box of Canary Creams balanced on one shoulder. “Talking about me, are we?” he said, winking at Aldith, who immediately looked at her shoes. “All good things, I hope.”

“We were just saying how wonderfully mature you’ve become as a business owner,” you said dryly.

George clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. And here I was about to offer you a free sample of our latest line: Puking Pastilles. Guaranteed to clear any awkward social situation.” He moved then to the other side of the shop to put some Headless Hats in their rightful place.

You nudged Aldith gently with your elbow and leaned in, keeping your voice low. “He still makes you blush, doesn’t he?”

Aldith’s blush deepened from pink to crimson. “Shh!” she hissed, glancing nervously at George, who had diverted from his original job and was now demonstrating a Headless Hat to a pair of wide-eyed eleven-year-olds. “It’s not like that anymore. We’re just… colleagues.”

“Colleagues,” you repeated, your tone dripping with scepticism. “Right. And I’m just a casual acquaintance of the Giant Squid.”

“It’s true!” she insisted, though she couldn’t quite meet your eyes. “We work together. That’s all. He’s my boss. It would be… inappropriate.”

From across the shop, George caught your eye and grinned, as if he knew exactly what you were discussing. He finished his demonstration and sauntered over, the Headless Hat now perched jauntily on his own head 一 though, thankfully, his head remained firmly attached.

“Plotting my downfall, are we?” he asked, leaning against the counter beside Aldith. She stiffened, her fingers tightening around the edge of the register.

“Just catching up,” you said innocently. 

George looked between you two as if he could tell there was more to it. “Aldith, you’re due for your break, aren’t you? Go on, take it. I’ll mind the front.”

Aldith nodded, looking relieved. “Thanks, George.”

You followed Aldith through the curtained doorway into the back room, which was just as chaotic as the shop floor but in a more organised way. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with boxes labelled with different pranks. A small, rickety table and two chairs were tucked into a corner, presumably where the staff took their breaks.

Aldith sank into one of the chairs with a sigh, pulling a thermos from her bag. “Tea?” she offered.

“Please.” You took the other chair, watching as she poured two cups. “So. Colleagues.”

She shot you a warning look. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, holding up your hands. “I’m just observing that he notices when you need a break. That’s… attentive.”

“He’s a good boss,” Aldith said firmly, though her fingers trembled slightly as she handed you a cup. “That’s all. How are things at the restaurant? How are your parents?”

You accepted the change of subject gracefully. “They’re good. Business is steady. Mum wants to expand the menu, but Dad’s worried about overwhelming the kitchen. They bicker about it every Sunday.”

Aldith smiled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Sounds like home.”

You took a sip of the tea 一 it was strong and sweet, just how Aldith always made it. “Have you seen Angelina or Alicia lately? I feel like we’ve all scattered since graduation.”

Aldith’s expression brightened. “Angelina came in last week! She’s playing for the Holyhead Harpies now, did you know? She bought a whole box of Fever Fancies for her teammates 一said they help with pre-match nerves.”

“That sounds like Angie,” you said, smiling.

“Alicia’s working at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She owled me last month saying she’s already sick of paperwork, but she loves being around Quidditch all day.” Aldith hesitated, then added softly, “She asked about you. Said you should come to one of their Friday pub nights.”

Before you could respond, the curtain twitched aside, and Fred stuck his head in, a pair of fake glasses with spinning eyeballs perched on his nose. “Break time’s over, ladies! We’ve got customers asking for the famous Aldith’s expert opinion on Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder versus our new Midnight Mist.”

Aldith jumped, nearly spilling her tea. “Right! Sorry, I’m coming.”

Fred winked at you. “Don’t worry, we’ll give her back. Eventually.” He disappeared back into the shop, his laughter trailing behind him.

You set your cup down. “We should fix that. Do you want to have lunch together next week? I could come by during your break.”

Aldith’s face lit up. “Really? That would be lovely. Tuesdays are usually quiet 一George handles the front so I can take a proper hour.”

“Tuesday it is,” you said, standing up. “I’ll bring something from the restaurant. Mum’s been experimenting with a new pastry she swears will ‘change the world.’”

Aldith laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “I can’t wait.”

As you both moved toward the curtain, George appeared in the doorway, blocking your path with an exaggerated bow. “Leaving so soon? And here I was about to demonstrate our latest invention: the Self-Stirring Cauldron. It’s revolutionary. No more sore wrists for Potions masters.”

“Tempting,” you said, sidestepping him. How envious you were that all he seemed to do at work was demonstrate how pranks and other ‘useful’ items function. “But I’ve got to get back to the non-magical world of chopping vegetables.”

George clutched his heart again. “You wound me. Chopping vegetables when you could be witnessing culinary history.” Then, he seemed to remember Aldith was there as well, and he glanced over. “Don’t forget, you’ve got that order of Fanged Frisbees to package before closing.”

“I won’t,” Aldith said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You gave her a quick hug. “I’ll see you Tuesday. And Aldith?” You lowered your voice, leaning in. “He still looks at you when you’re not looking. Just saying.”

Aldith’s blush returned full force, but she didn’t deny it. You waved goodbye to George, who was now attempting to balance a Pygmy Puff on his head, and stepped out into the crisp Diagon Alley afternoon.

The years that followed were not kind. The war swept through the Wizarding world like a wildfire, and when the Battle of Hogwarts finally ended, the cost was counted in broken bodies and silent spaces where laughter used to be.

You sat on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall, Aldith’s hand limp in yours. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, as if she were only sleeping. Around you, the wounded were being tended to, the dead being mourned. A few feet away, George stood rigid beside Fred’s covered form, the Weasley family gathered around him in a tight, weeping circle.

You held Aldith's hand tighter, your thumb brushing over her cold knuckles. “Goodbye, sweet girl,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I'll miss you every day.”

The words felt inadequate, a tiny pebble dropped into an ocean of loss. Around you, the Great Hall was a tapestry of grief 一 families huddled together, friends clutching each other, healers moving with exhausted determination between the wounded. The air smelled of dust, blood, and the lingering hot metal of spent magic.

You didn't know how long you sat there before a shadow fell across you. Looking up, you saw George standing a few feet away, his face pale and hollow. He wasn't crying anymore; he just looked empty, as if someone had scooped out everything that made him George Weasley and left only a shell.

His eyes moved from Fred's covered form to Aldith, and something in his expression shifted 一 a flicker of recognition, of shared devastation. For a moment, you thought he might speak, but he just turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped.

Aldith’s funeral was a small, quiet affair held in a sunny corner of a Muggle cemetery, chosen by her family. You stood between Angelina and Alicia, the three of you forming a silent, grieving line. The ‘A’s’ were now three.

You didn’t cry. The tears had dried up sometime during the long, grey month that had passed since the battle. Instead, you felt a hollow, aching numbness, as if a part of you had been buried alongside your friend.

After the last mourner had left, you lingered by the fresh grave. “I’ll look after him,” you promised the headstone, your voice barely a whisper. “I won’t let him drown in it.”

The next morning, you Apparated to the Burrow. The garden was unnaturally still. No gnomes were being chased, no chickens clucked. Molly Weasley answered the door, her eyes red-rimmed but her smile warm.

“Oh, dear,” she said, pulling you into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is George here?” you asked.

Molly’s smile faltered. “Upstairs. He hasn’t left his room in days. Won’t eat much. I’ll… I’ll let you go up.”

You climbed the familiar, creaking stairs to the twins’ old room. The door was closed. You knocked softly.

“Go away,” came a muffled, hoarse voice from within.

“It’s me, George,” you said through the wood.

There was a long silence, then the sound of shuffling. The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of George’s face, pale and shadowed with stubble. He looked at you, his expression unreadable. “What do you want?”

“To see you,” you said simply.

He stared for another moment, then stepped back, opening the door wider. The room was a mess 一 clothes strewn about, empty cups on the nightstand, the curtains drawn tight against the daylight. The second bed, Fred’s bed, was neatly made, as if waiting for him to return.

George sank onto the edge of his own unmade bed, not looking at you. “Seen enough?”

You closed the door softly behind you and leaned against it. “No.”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, here I am. The surviving twin. The one who’s supposed to carry on the legacy or whatever.” He ran a hand through his hair, which was greasy and unkempt. “Except I don’t know how to do any of it without him. The shop, the jokes… it was always us. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Not George’s.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said quietly.

George’s head snapped up, his eyes finally meeting yours. They were bloodshot and full of a pain so raw it made your breath catch. “Who’s going to help me?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Fred’s gone. Aldith’s gone. Everyone’s just… gone, or they’ve moved on. The shop’s been closed for a month. It’s over.”

“It’s not over,” you said, pushing away from the door and crossing the room to kneel in front of him. You took his hands in yours; they were cold. “Look at me. It’s not over. I’m here.”

He stared down at your joined hands, his shoulders beginning to shake. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words choked. “I don’t know how to be just me.”

That was when the dam broke. A ragged sob tore from his throat, and he crumpled forward, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him as he wept 一 great, heaving, ugly cries that shook his entire frame. You didn’t shush him or tell him it would be okay. You just held on, your own tears soaking silently into his shirt.

When the storm finally began to subside, leaving him limp and exhausted against you, you spoke softly into the quiet room. “I’m staying right here, George. I promise. You’re not alone.”

You helped him lie down, pulling the rumpled covers up over his shoulders. He didn't resist, his eyes already closing from sheer exhaustion. You smoothed his hair back from his damp forehead, a gesture that felt both foreign and necessary.

“I'll be downstairs,” you whispered. “Sleep.”

He didn't respond, but his breathing deepened almost immediately, the deep, shuddering breaths of someone who had cried themselves empty.

You crept out of the room, closing the door with a soft click. Downstairs, Molly was waiting in the kitchen, a pot of tea already steeping. She poured you a cup without a word, her hands trembling slightly.

“He's sleeping,” you told her.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick. “He won't listen to us. He just… shuts us out.”

You sipped the tea, the warmth doing little to chase the chill from your bones. “He'll listen tomorrow,” you said, more to yourself than to her. “We're going to the shop.”

Molly looked at you, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear. “Do you think that's wise? So soon?”

“It's not about wisdom,” you said. “It's about not letting the darkness win.”

The next morning, you returned to the Burrow before the sun was fully up. You climbed the stairs and, without knocking, pushed open George's door.

He was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. He looked cleaner 一someone, probably Molly, had made him wash一 but the emptiness was still there.

“Get up,” you said, your voice firm. “We're going to the shop.”

You didn't wait for a response. Instead, you moved to the pile of clothes on the floor, picking up his worn dragonhide boots and the leather jacket that still smelled faintly of gunpowder and Zonko's. You placed them on the bed beside him.

“Get dressed,” you said, your voice leaving no room for argument.

George stared at the boots as if he'd never seen them before. “Why?” he asked, the word hollow. “What's the point?”

“The point,” you said, turning to face him, “is that the world didn't end. It just feels like it did. And the shop is still there, and people still need to laugh, even if it's just for a second. Especially now.” You took a breath. “And I'm not letting you sit here and disappear. So get dressed, or I'll dress you myself.”

A flicker of something 一annoyance, maybe, or the ghost of his old defiance一 crossed his face. He looked from the boots to you, then slowly, stiffly, bent to pull them on.

It took him ten minutes to get ready, moving like a man underwater. You waited by the door, not helping, not rushing him. When he finally stood, jacket hanging loose on his thinner frame, you simply nodded and led the way downstairs.

Molly was in the kitchen, her hands clasped tightly. She opened her mouth, but you shook your head minutely. George didn't look at her as he followed you out the back door into the garden.

The morning air was cool and clean. You took his arm and turned on the spot.

With a crack, you both disappeared from the Burrow and reappeared in the silent, dusty alley behind Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

You didn't wait for him to speak. You walked to the front door, unlocked it with the key you'd gotten from Molly, and pushed it open. The familiar scent of sugar, gunpowder, and dust washed over you. Without a word, you grabbed a rag from behind the counter and started dusting the nearest shelf of Pygmy Puff carriers.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft swish of the cloth. You worked methodically, moving from the carriers to a display of Extendable Ears, wiping away a month's worth of neglect.

After a long minute, you heard the shuffle of boots on the floorboards. George stood just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the dim, familiar space. He looked like a ghost in his own home.

He walked slowly to the counter, his fingers trailing over the polished wood. He stopped in front of the till, staring at it. Then, with a movement that seemed to take all his strength, he reached out and flipped the little sign hanging on the inside of the door.

The word 'OPEN' faced the empty street.

The first day, no one came in. The second, a few brave souls trickled through, their eyes full of pity. George didn't speak to them, just rang up their purchases with a blank face. But he came back the next day, and the day after that.

Six months later, the bell above the door of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes jingled with a steady, hopeful rhythm. George stood behind the counter, holding a small, shimmering blue box. “It's ready,” he said, his voice still quiet, but steady. “The first new product. Since.”

You looked at the box, then at him. The hollows under his eyes were less pronounced. “Then we're celebrating,” you said, taking the box from him. “My treat. And before you argue, it's not a date.”

He managed a small, real smile. “Wouldn't dream of calling it one.”

You took his arm firmly. The world compressed and spun, then settled into the familiar, warm noise of The Leaky Cauldron’s back room 一 the one that connected to a perfectly ordinary Muggle pub in London. The air smelled of old wood, hops, and frying chips.

George blinked, looking around at the dark wood panels and the football match playing silently on a telly in the corner. “Subtle,” he said, a faint hint of his old dry humour in his tone.

“They do a good steak and ale pie,” you said, steering him toward a booth in the corner. “And no one here will look at you like you’re a tragedy.”

You ordered two pies and a pint each. For a while, you ate in comfortable silence, the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of other conversations filling the space between you. George ate slowly, methodically, but he finished his plate 一 a small victory you noted with quiet satisfaction.

He pushed his empty plate away and took a long drink. “It’s a Daydream Charm,” he said suddenly, not looking at you. “In the box. One hour of a perfectly happy memory. Just… a loop of it. No side effects. No withdrawal.” He finally met your eyes. “I thought… people might need a bit of that. Right now.”

“That’s brilliant, George,” you said, and you meant it. It wasn’t just a clever joke; it was thoughtful, kind 一 a piece of magic meant to heal, not just entertain.

A faint flush crept up his neck. He looked down, tracing a knot in the wooden table with his finger. “Fred would’ve hated it,” he said quietly. “Called it sentimental rubbish. He’d have wanted something that made your ears bleed confetti for a week.”

“Maybe,” you agreed. “But you’re not Fred. And maybe… maybe that’s okay.”

He was silent for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

The rest of the evening passed in a gentle, unpressured way. You talked about nothing important 一 the terrible quality of the pub’s pickled eggs, a funny story about a customer who’d tried to return a used Skiving Snackbox. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it didn’t look like it hurt him.

When the pub began to empty, you paid the tab despite his weak protest and led him back out into the cool London night. The streets were quiet.

“Right,” you said, turning to him. “Home. Where’s your flat these days?”

You Apparated him to the doorstep of his London flat, a modest building tucked between a bookshop and a florist. The goodnight felt awkward, hovering in the air between you. “See you soon,” you said, and he nodded, giving you that small, real smile again before disappearing inside.

Three months passed. The shop stayed open. George's smiles came a little easier, lasted a little longer.

Tonight, you'd all gone out 一you, George, Angelina, Alicia, Lee, and the rest of the old Gryffindor crowd一 for a loud, laughing dinner that felt almost like the old days. Now, standing outside his flat once more, the night quiet and the streetlamps casting long shadows, the familiarity of the moment struck you.

“Thanks for tonight,” George said, his hands in his pockets. “It was… good.” He paused, then looked at you the same way he always had, his expression serious in the dim light. “You know… I'm still always free for you if you ever feel like asking me on a date.”

You’ve been trying 一and failing一 to stop your heart from racing every time George would look at you as if there was nowhere else he would rather be than with you. You had initially wanted Aldith to end with him, even though he still seemed more energetic when you were around. But after her death, after you’ve grown closer, you've run out of excuses as to why you couldn’t be utterly in love with the man. Especially when you’ve always known he was waiting for you to give him a chance.

You took a couple of steps to leave, then stopped. The pavement felt like it was holding you in place. “Fuck it,” you muttered, the words escaping on a sigh that was half frustration, half surrender. 

You turned back. George was still standing there, watching you, a question in his eyes that he wasn't asking. Without another word, you closed the distance between you, grabbed the front of his jacket, and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was all the months of grief, of watching him break and putting him back together, of your own silent, stubborn longing, poured into a single, decisive action. His lips were warm and tasted faintly of the firewhiskey from dinner. For a second, he froze in surprise, then his hands came up to cradle your face, and he kissed you back with a desperate, matching intensity.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard. You didn't let go of his jacket.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispered against your lips, the confession hanging in the cool night air between you.

George’s eyes searched yours, the streetlamp light catching the flecks of amber in them. You noticed something in his face softened, the guarded walls finally crumbling completely. He brought a hand up, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as you answered. “Me too.” 

Noticing his hesitance on what his next move should be, you spoke. “Show me your apartment,” your voice was low and clear. There was no question in it.

Wordlessly, he fumbled for his keys, unlocked the door, and pulled you inside. The flat was dark and warm. He didn’t turn on the lights. The door clicked shut, sealing you both in the private darkness, and then his mouth was on yours again, hungry and sure.

This kiss was different 一 slower, deeper, an unspoken conversation. His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, down your back, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the steady beat of his heart through both your layers of clothing, a rhythm you’d worried had gone silent forever. You tangled your fingers in his hair, the red strands soft against your skin, and kissed him back with everything you had, pouring months of silent watching, of grief, of hope, into the touch.

When you broke for air, foreheads resting together, his breathing was uneven. “Bedroom’s this way,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your skin. The way he felt, so close to you, left you wishing the sensation would never end.

“Don’t be gentle,” you whispered, the words a raw plea against his mouth.

A shudder went through him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and intense in the shadows. “You’re sure?”

In answer, you kissed him again, hard, biting his lower lip just enough to make him gasp. That was all the confirmation he needed.

He didn’t lead you so much as he guided you, his hands firm on your hips, walking you backwards through the dark flat until your knees hit the edge of his bed. There was no more hesitation. Clothes were shed not with ceremony, but with a frantic, mutual urgency 一 buttons popped, fabric tore, and neither of you cared. The cool air of the room hit your skin, followed immediately by the heat of his.

When he laid you down, it was with a possessiveness that stole your breath. His mouth was everywhere 一your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your breast一, his hands mapping your body like he was memorising it. You arched against him, your own hands scrabbling at his back, pulling him closer, needing to erase every inch of space between you.

“George,” you breathed, the name a broken sound.

He stilled for a second, looking down at you, his face a mask of fierce, vulnerable need. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, and then he was moving inside you, and the world narrowed to this: the slide of skin on skin, the ragged harmony of your breathing, the solid weight of him anchoring you to the earth.

It wasn’t gentle, just like you asked. It was a reclaiming. A furious, beautiful collision of two people who had seen too much darkness, reaching for light in the only way they knew how. You clung to each other as the tension coiled and snapped, a wave of sensation so profound it felt less like pleasure and more like being remade.

Afterwards, you lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on your skin, his heart thudding a slow, steady rhythm against your back where he held you. The silence was deep and peaceful. You felt his breathing even out into sleep first, his arms loosening but not letting go.

You closed your eyes, listening to the sound, and let the warmth pull you under.

You woke to the soft grey light of a London morning filtering through the curtains. George was still asleep beside you, one arm thrown heavily across your waist. And he was smiling 一 a small, peaceful, unguarded smile that made your chest ache with a sudden, fierce tenderness.

You couldn't resist. You reached over, your fingers hovering for a second before you gently traced the curve of his smiling lips. They were soft, relaxed in a way you hadn't seen in years.

His smile deepened at the touch, and his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, then his gaze focused on you, and the sleepy smile turned into something warmer, more aware. He caught your wrist, his thumb stroking the inside of it.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning, love,” you whispered back.

He pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest with a contented sigh. You lie there for a few peaceful minutes, listening to the city begin to wake up outside. Eventually, your stomach gave a quiet but insistent rumble.

George chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. “Right. Food.” He released you with obvious reluctance. “Kitchen's a disaster, fair warning.”

You slipped out of bed, grabbing his discarded shirt from the floor and pulling it on. It smelled like him 一 gunpowder, cinnamon, and something uniquely George. Padding into the small kitchen, you were met with exactly the chaos he'd promised. Wizarding appliances you didn't recognise hummed and bubbled next to empty takeaway containers. You found a loaf of bread and what looked like a normal toaster, and got to work.

The toaster was unlike any you'd seen. Instead of slots, it had a small, flat platform and a series of glowing runes along the side. You squinted at them, poking one tentatively. The platform glowed red, and the two slices of bread you'd placed there began to… vibrate.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, jabbing at another rune. The vibration stopped, but now a faint, scorching heat began to radiate from below. You could smell it 一 the bread was cooking, but unevenly. You cursed under your breath, flipping the slices with your fingers just as the heat intensified.

Too late. With a soft pop, the toast ejected itself. One side was perfectly golden. The other was blackened and smoking. You have never hated being a Muggleborn witch more.

“Scratch off the black part, it’s fine,” you grumbled to yourself, scraping at the burnt side with a knife. The char flaked away, leaving a sad, thin, greyish piece of bread behind.

“That’s one way to do it.”

You turned. George was leaning in the kitchen doorway, wearing only a pair of low-slung pyjama bottoms, his hair a glorious mess. He was watching you, that small, real smile playing on his lips again. He looked… happy.

“It’s edible. Mostly,” you said, pushing the sad, half-scraped piece of toast across the counter toward him on a plate.

George took it, his smile widening into a proper grin. He didn’t even look at the toast. His eyes were fixed on you, standing there in his too-big shirt, your hair probably as messy as his. He looked utterly, disarmingly happy to have you in his kitchen, cooking him a terrible breakfast after a night in his arms.

He placed the plate down without a glance. Before you could protest or sit down, he closed the distance in two strides, his hands coming to rest on your hips. He pulled you gently but firmly against him.

“The food’ll get cold,” you pointed out, though you made no move to pull away.

“That’s what magic is for,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll reheat it later.”

Then he kissed you, not with the desperate hunger of the night before, but with a warm, claiming sweetness that made your knees feel weak. He broke the kiss only to lift you, sitting you on the edge of the kitchen table. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he leaned in again, his hands sliding up your thighs under the hem of the shirt.

You didn’t protest anymore.

You ran your hands through his hair, the red strands soft and tangled between your fingers, and deepened the kiss. It was a slow, thorough exploration that tasted of sleep and possibility. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady against him as the world outside the kitchen window, the cold toast on the counter, everything else faded to a distant hum.

If you had known kissing George Weasley was going to feel this phenomenal, you’d might have set up Aldith with your cousin to have the redhead to yourself.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a faint, contented smile on his face.

“Breakfast?” you suggested, your voice a little unsteady.

“In a minute,” he murmured, but he didn’t move. He just held you there, your legs wrapped around him, his thumbs making slow circles on your skin. The morning light painted the kitchen in soft gold, and for the first time in a very long time, the silence between you felt completely, perfectly peaceful.

Eventually, he sighed and pulled back, pressing one last, soft kiss to your lips before helping you down from the table. He picked up the sad piece of toast, examined it with a critical eye, then took a bite.

“Needs more charcoal,” he said, his mouth full, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

You laughed, the sound bright and easy in the quiet flat. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

You made a fresh batch of toast together, this time with George showing you the correct rune sequence. The bread came out perfectly golden and buttered itself. You ate at the small kitchen table, knees touching underneath, talking about nothing and everything 一 the shop, your parents’ restaurant, whether the Cannons had any hope this season. The conversation was easy, punctuated by comfortable silences and the occasional brush of a hand.

Later, you helped him tidy the flat, a domestic chore that felt strangely significant. As you were leaving, he caught your hand at the door.

“Tuesday?” he asked. “For lunch? I could… meet you.”

You nodded, your throat tight with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. If you hadn’t even had a date yet, you would have been tempted to tell him you love him. “Yeah,” you said. “Tuesday.”