#harry potter reader insert

your heart raced and cheeks flushed, realizing your new current situation; staring down at ron weasley between your legs looking like he’s ready to rip your clothes off to get to his meal the second you say the word. a simple slow nod from you was all it took for him to rip your bottoms down, underwear falling with as he hummed deeply in satisfaction seeing your soaked core.

“seems like someone’s excited” he chuckled, leaning forward and kissing teasingly slow up your thigh, purposely avoiding where you truly need him and kissing the opposite thigh, biting down gently and looking back up at you. “what do you need y/n” he smirked up at you, knowing exactly what you needed simply wanting to hear you say the words.

your heart pounded at the anticipation and excitement of your newfound situation, chest rising and falling as you stared down at him “please just touch me” you looked at him with desperate eyes. no more words were exchanged between the two of you, his head diving between your thighs and eagerly lapping at your neediness, groaning at the taste.

his movements doubled as he heard your pleasure filled moans begin to escape your lips, your hands mindlessly move to grip at his fiery auburn hair making him feel more confident in his movements. he moved his left arm to hold your legs apart, his right arm meeting your wet entrance and pushing two fingers in. sucking at your clit as he curled his long fingers to hit your g-spot, your back arched up on the bed as you gripped at his hair harder moaning his name.

your hips began to try and roll against his face but his arm quickly held you back in place, pulling his fingers out and holding you with both arms. his mouth doing all the work now as he devoured your wet pussy. his tongue licking you up and down and then tongue fucking you, sucking at your clit again.

he could tell you were already close to your release, somehow going even faster in everything; he brought his hand back to your core and stuck his fingers back in and curling them whilst pumping them in and out, licking and sucking at your clit in expert movements successfully managing to make you cum harder than you had ever before; legs shaking as you moved your hand to cover your mouth as you moaned uncontrollably at his relentless speed.

“fuck..s’too much” you moaned behind your hand your words muffled as he lapped up your cum, his pace didnt falter until your pleas became louder the pleasure becoming overstimulating, pulling out his fingers and sucking them clean “you taste fucking heavenly” he panted, looking up at you with a wet mouth and messy hair a smirk planted on his face knowing he made you feel amazing.

you blushed and laid back, catching your own breath and staring up thinking about what just happened and how good he was at giving you head. he stood up and walked to grab a small towel, gently wiping you clean before cleaning his own mouth; laying onto the bed with you and handing you your underwear.

the two of you settled in his bed, his arms wrapped around your waist and tracing lazy circles to soothe you. “you can take a nap if you’d like, must be exhausted” he said the last part with a smirk though he did want you to feel comfortable. you just hummed and closed your eyes adjusting your head onto his chest and slowly drifting into peaceful sleep.

The next day, he appeared beside you in the corridor as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“You are far too trusting,” he drawled, his tone filled with mockery. “Do you always wander into traps with your eyes wide open?” 

You frowned, clutching your books tighter.  

“What are you talking about?” 

He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a whisper.  

“A handful of snakes with nothing better to do than plot your humiliation. You do not actually believe they were whispering about anyone else, do you?” 

“How do you know?” 

Mattheo smirked, though his eyes flickered with something sharper. “Because I heard them. And because, unlike you, I actually pay attention.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “So what, you decided to play hero?” 

“Hardly,” he said smoothly. “Let us call it an investment. I am offering you protection, but I expect something in return.” 

You scoffed. “Of course you do. What is it then, Riddle? My soul? Eternal servitude?” 

His lips curved, the faintest trace of amusement softening his features. “Companionship. Nothing more, nothing less. Stay by my side, and they will not dare touch you. You get safety, I get… well, someone who does not bore me senseless.” 

Your brow furrowed. “You want me to play at being your friend?” 

“Not play,” he replied, tilting his head. “Be.” 

Against your better judgment, you agreed. 

Not like you had any other options. It was either him or public humiliation... again. 

And true to his word, the whispers quietened. Where you went, Mattheo lingered.  

At meals, his chair scraped closer.  

In lessons, he stole your ink or passed you notes filled with dry commentary about the professors. At first, you bristled at the intrusion, but soon you caught yourself stifling laughter at his remarks, your irritation softening. 

One evening in the library, you spoke up, “You are impossible, you know that?” 

He smirked, lounging back in his chair. “And yet, here you are. Sitting with me instead of leaving.” 

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Because you will not leave me alone.” 

His gaze lingered a moment longer than usual. “Maybe. Or maybe you do not want me to.” 

Your heart skipped before you ducked your head, pretending to return to your book. 

It was weeks later when the mask cracked. 

You had stumbled upon him in the courtyard at night, sitting alone, a cigarette between his fingers. His expression was unreadable, far from the smirk he wore so easily in daylight. 

“You should not be out here,” you said gently. 

He glanced at you, then shrugged. “Neither should you.” 

You sat beside him despite his tone.  

Silence stretched before he finally said, “They will always hate me, you know. The Riddle name ensures it. People look at me and see him.” 

You swallowed, realising with a jolt that he was letting you see a part of him no one else did. “Then let them see wrong. You are not him.” 

He turned, eyes searching yours. “You say that so easily. As if you mean it.” 

“I do mean it,” you whispered. 

For once, Mattheo had no reply. He simply stared, the arrogance gone, leaving only something raw and unguarded. 

From then on, the pact shifted. It was no longer about safety or strategy. It was about you and him, the unspoken pull between you. 

He grew softer when no one else was looking, a brush of his hand against yours, a muttered goodnight that carried more weight than the word should. You grew bolder, teasing him back, laughing more easily when he smirked. 

One evening in the common room, he leaned close, his voice low.  

“Do you regret it? Making the pact?” 

You met his gaze steadily. “Not for a second.” 

Something broke in him then. He reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek as though testing a boundary. When you did not pull away, his lips met yours, the kiss slow and careful, as if he feared you might vanish. 

When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours.  

“You are mine now,” he whispered. “No pact, no bargain. Just mine.” 

“And you are mine.” 

The whispers never truly ceased, but it did not matter.  

With Mattheo’s hand in yours, the weight of the world felt lighter. 

What had begun as a pact of convenience had become the one thing you could not imagine losing. 

And Mattheo Riddle, who once claimed he wanted only companionship, had found something far greater in you. 

~Masterlist~

You'd collected these smiles like treasures, catalogued them, replayed them in your mind during dull History of Magic lectures.

Which was probably pathetic, but you'd stopped pretending your feelings for Ominis were anything less than catastrophic sometime around October.

Now it was February, and you were in the Undercroft—the secret space Sebastian had shown you, that Ominis had reluctantly allowed you to share—working on Charms homework while Ominis practiced a complicated spell sequence.

"It's the wand movement," he was muttering, frustrated. "I can feel it's wrong, but I can't—"

"Here," you said, setting down your quill. "May I?"

He hesitated, then nodded, extending his wand hand.

You moved closer, gently guiding his wrist through the proper motion. "It's more of a spiral than a circle. Like this—feel the difference?"

His fingers twitched slightly under your guidance, learning the movement. "Yes. That's—yes, I see."

You smiled at his choice of words. Ominis always said "see" despite his blindness, and you'd learned it wasn't carelessness but rather his own form of defiance—refusing to let his lack of vision define his language.

"Try it now," you said, stepping back.

He performed the movement perfectly, and the spell ignited with a soft shimmer of light.

"Excellent!" you said. "That was perfect."

"Only because you showed me." But he was smiling—really smiling, not the sardonic twist or polite expression, but something genuine and unguarded.

The words were out before you could stop them: "You have a beautiful smile."

The smile vanished instantly. Ominis went very still, his pale eyes widening slightly, and you watched color creep up his neck.

"I—" you started, mortified. "I'm sorry, that was—"

"Don't apologize." His voice was quiet, careful. "I just—no one's ever said that to me before."

"Well, they should have." You were committed now, apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter completely abandoned. "Because you do. Have a beautiful smile. You don't use it nearly enough, and when you do, it's—"

You stopped yourself before you could say something truly mortifying like "devastating" or "the best part of my day."

Ominis turned toward you with that uncanny precision he had, as though he could see you despite the cloudiness of his eyes. "You're staring."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"You're quiet. You're never quiet. And I can hear your breathing change when you look at me." A pause. "You do that a lot, actually. Look at me."

Your face was burning. "I don't—"

"You do." He stepped closer, and there was something different in his expression—tentative, almost vulnerable. "Sebastian's mentioned it. Said you watch me when you think I'm not paying attention. Which is ironic, considering."

"Sebastian needs to learn to keep his mouth shut," you muttered.

"He also said—" Ominis stopped, seeming to reconsider. "Never mind."

"No, what did he say?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Ominis."

He sighed, that particular exasperated sound he made when you were being persistent. "He said you look at me the way people look at art in museums. Like I'm something worth studying. Worth..." He trailed off, jaw tightening.

"Worth what?"

"I don't know. Worth seeing, I suppose." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Which is absurd, because I'm a Gaunt. We're not particularly known for being worth much beyond our bloodline and our cruelty."

Your heart clenched. "You're not like them."

"How would you know? You've been here less than a year."

"I know because you helped me with Potions when you didn't have to. Because you stand between Sebastian and his worst impulses. Because you refuse to use Unforgivable Curses even when it would be easier. Because—" You stepped closer, close enough to see the silver flecks in his pale irises. "Because when you smile—really smile, not that sardonic thing you do—it transforms your entire face. Makes you look happy. And I don't think you let yourself be happy nearly enough."

He was very quiet. Then: "Why do you care?"

"Because I—" You caught yourself, swallowed the confession that wanted to spill out. "Because you're my friend."

"Is that all?"

The question hung between you, delicate and dangerous.

"No," you admitted quietly. "That's not all."

His breath hitched audibly. "You should be careful about saying things like that to me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm selfish enough to want them to be true." He reached out, slowly, giving you time to move away. When you didn't, his fingers found your face, tracing your features with the same careful precision he brought to everything. "And if they're true, I won't want to let you go."

Your heart was hammering. "What if I don't want you to let go?"

His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and his expression was raw in a way you'd never seen. "Then you'd be a fool. I come from a family of dark wizards and blood purists. I have nothing to offer you but complications and a surname that makes people cross the street."

"I don't care about your surname."

"You should."

"Well, I don't." You covered his hand with yours, keeping it against your face. "I care about you. The person who helps first-years find their classrooms. Who plays the violin when he thinks no one's listening. Who stands up to Sebastian when he's being reckless, even though it scares you. Who smiles so rarely that when you do, it feels like a gift."

"Stop," he whispered, but he didn't pull away.

"Why?"

"Because you're making it very difficult not to kiss you."

Your breath stopped. "What if I want you to?"

He leaned his forehead against yours, and you could feel him trembling slightly. "Tell me this is real. That you're not—that this isn't pity, or curiosity, or—"

"Ominis." You said his name firmly enough that he stopped. "I have been catastrophically in love with you since you spent twenty minutes describing the precise smell of rain on stone because I mentioned I missed it. This is not pity."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Catastrophically?"

"Completely. Utterly. Catastrophically."

"That's redundant."

"I don't care."

He kissed you then—tentative and careful and absolutely perfect. His hands framed your face and when you kissed him back, he made a soft sound of surprise, as though he hadn't quite believed you'd want this.

When he pulled back, he was smiling—that genuine, unguarded smile that you'd been collecting like treasure.

"There it is," you whispered.

"What?"

"That beautiful smile."

He laughed, and it was bright and real and everything you'd hoped for. "You're going to say that every time now, aren't you?"

"Every single time."

"That's going to be insufferable."

"You'll survive." You kissed him again, quick and sweet. "Besides, it's true. You have a beautiful smile, Ominis Gaunt. I intend to see it as often as possible."

"I take it by all the chattering you've mastered the reductor curse already?" you called from where you stood by your desk at the front of the room.

A modicum of the whispering faded. You heard a few half-hearted murmurs of "reducto" that couldn't have shredded a quill. Mostly all that changed was that the laughter grew a bit nervous. Exhaling sharply, you folded your arms across your chest and tapped at an elbow.

"You realize that I don't have to give you class time to practice for the practical exam. I'm doing you all a favor here."

"Yes, Professor [L Name]," the group recited—but you noted the blatant tone of sarcasm.

Did Aurora ever have problems controlling her classes like this? You couldn't imagine that somehow. Perhaps this was part and parcel of being a younger instructor. How could you expect the children to listen to you when you were only six years out of Hogwarts yourself?

"Mr. Talbot, if I see you point your wand at anything but what I placed on your desk again, I will deduct house points from you," you said.

The boy in question—the current Slytherin seeker with the dainty looks to match—flopped back into his seat with a cheeky grin. "From your own house, prof? You wouldn't."

"Professor—"

"Try me."

"Professor?"

"You wouldn't want us to lose the House Cup to Gryffindor again," said Talbot.

"Professor!"

"What is it, Miss Rao?" you asked in a tone of forced patience.

The willowy Indian girl didn't bat an eye at your tone. "Were we supposed to have a guest lecturer today?"

"When have I ever brought in a guest lecturer?"

"Well, then who's that that just walked in through the door?"

You followed her pointing finger up the rows of desks to the classroom's entrance to find that indeed someone had joined the class—a man far too old to be taking Defense Against the Dark Arts at this level. His shock of bright red hair and the spattering of freckles across his pale face made him instantly recognizable to you. He was no threat. Once he'd given you a miniscule wave hello, you pivoted back in Talbot's direction to say:

"Ten points from Slytherin, and detention tonight for suggesting I play favorites."

That got Talbot's attention. He sat up straight and opened his mouth furiously. "But we've got practice tonight!"

"I'll let the rest of the team know where you'll be. And don't think I won't have you benched during the next match if you say what you're thinking right now out loud."

That taken care of, you turned back to the redhead. Percy Weasley smiled somewhat sheepishly at your approach.

"And what are you doing here, interrupting my very important lesson, Weasley?" you asked.

"Oh, it wasn't all that important, Professor. Friend of yours?"

This question came from one of the girls closest to the door—a long-limbed blonde named Spencer—and was spoken in a manner you knew very well, having once been a 14-year-old girl yourself. You decided not to remark on it. At 25 years old, Percy knew better than to flirt with underage witches. He seemed to get Spencer's gist as well, though, and quickly bent to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. She let out a sad little sound at the sight of it while a few of the other girls tittered.

"I just came to deliver McGonagall's wedding invitation." After a moment of searching inside his robes, he produced the square of paper—enchanted so that the flutterby-leaf frame would grow straight from the page when read by the recipient—as if concerned you might not believe him without evidence. "Thought I'd drop in and see you at work on my way to her office."

Your cheeks warmed a little bit. If only he'd come on a day or for a session other than this one. If you hadn't known better, you'd think that he'd chosen that exact time to come because he'd see you completely failing. But you did know better. Percy Weasley had grown up—and it helped that all the eyes glued firmly to him had him shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"You couldn't have just sent the invitation via owl like the rest of them?" you asked.

He cleared his throat nervously, averting his eyes. "Given that she's the one that got us together, I thought she deserved to have hers delivered in person. That, and I thought it would be nice to see you at work for once."

One of the female students squealed at such a high-pitch that the noise could have been mistaken for a mandrake cry. You could have sworn you felt a nosebleed coming on. "Professor, is this him? Is this your fiancé?"

You thought you'd lost control before? Now you had no control, and it didn't appear as though you'd be regaining it anytime soon.

"Yes, Miss Yang." You gestured at the stock-still man beside you. Percy had turned a shade of scarlet you'd only seen once or twice over your years of knowing him. Well, what did he think would happen when he interrupted your lesson? That you wouldn't try to embarrass him a little?

Okay, perhaps you hadn't grown up as much as you liked to think.

You went on, "Everyone, this is Percy Weasley. Percy, this is...well, my class of fourth-year Slytherins."

A chorus of "awww"ing rose from the girls in the room. But if you'd believed that a brief introduction would get all of the students refocused, you were sorely mistaken. Once the expected gushing quieted somewhat, the familiar buzz of pure-blood confusion started up.

"Weasley? Why does that name sound familiar?" a burly boy called Acaster wondered aloud.

Talbot smacked him on the chest with the back of his hand. "Stupid! There's a Weasley on the Hollyhead Harpies!"

"And there's Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," Spencer piped up.

"There's a Weasley that works with aurors, too!" called a boy named Bruce.

"But Professor," a deep crease appeared between Rao's dark, perfectly-shaped eyebrows, "aren't all Weasleys Gryffindors?"

"They are," you said. "The most recent generation of Weasleys are, anyway."

"You're marrying a Gryffindor?" Yang asked.

Good news: None of them sounded angry. They simply seemed confused. This was a massive improvement, no matter what Percy's mortified expression indicated. You had to be willing to give these particular students grace. After all, they'd spent their first year at Hogwarts under You-Know-Who's regime. The aftereffects of that experience continued to linger, especially in the house noted mostly for pure-blood fanaticism for the last few decades.

“Well," you admitted, “it wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”

The room erupted. All the questions and comments blurred into one another until Spencer's voice rose above the rest:

"How did the two of you even get together?"

Percy coughed again. "It's something of a long story."

"And embarrassing. For both of us," you added as you laced your fingers through his that weren't clutching McGonagall's invitation like it would serve as a substitute for protego if the students decided to attack.

"Tell us! Oh, please, Professor [L Name]! Please?"

Several others in the class—mostly girls—joined her in the begging. Every single item meant to be turned to dust by the end of the period sat forgotten on the tables. Perhaps you could use this to your advantage.

"If I tell you, I'll have to assign extra homework in place of the missing lesson," you said.

"Okay!" "Sure!" "Oh, I don't mind at all!" All these you heard from various places in the classroom. And then:

"Absolutely not!" Talbot looked absolutely aghast. His friends around him, as well as several other boys scattered across the place, took up booing in agreement. You tried not to smile when you said:

"Tell you what. Anyone that can successfully use reducto on their object before I finish the story won't have to do more work after class."

"Can't you just let us leave early, prof?"

"No. Practice or listen. Your choice. Ah-ah-ah." You held up a finger as the young man opened his mouth furiously. "The option of being benched during the next quidditch match remains, Mr. Talbot."

He fell back into his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and stuck out his lip in an unseemly pout. You stifled a chuckle at his antics. This became moderately more difficult when his friends rushed to cheer him up. Hadn't the house team player in your year experienced the same attention?

Seeing everyone settle into one of the two offered activities, you returned to your desk. Percy followed somewhat stiffly behind you. You looked expectantly up at him from your seat, but he only motioned for you to go on. Well, if he wanted to dump the responsibility of telling your love story to a hoard of teenage girls in the midst of puberty, you just hoped he wouldn't live to regret it.

"Percy and I met on our first train ride to Hogwarts..." you began.

******

The chill of fear seeped into your bones the moment the Hogwarts Express left King's Cross—as well as your mother, father, and baby sister—at precisely 11:00 a.m. that September morning. You could hear the eager chatter of the other students all around you, but you felt disconnected from it all. Never before had you been this far away from your family. A sudden desire to throw yourself out of the locomotive and forget all about your magical education sized you. How could you ever have thought you could manage to go to a boarding school? How could you have ever thought you could be entrusted with the plan? Just when you tightened your grip around the handle of your trunk and the stand of your owl's birdcage, however, you learned the hard way why no one else risked standing in the middle of the aisle once the journey started.

"Hey! Watch it!" someone snapped as you both fell in a heap to the hard floor.

Once you surfaced from the tangle of limbs, clothes, and chests, you spotted the boy who had crashed into you—red-haired and red-faced with anger and embarrassment as he, too, stood up, a task made more difficult by the fact he appeared to be wearing clothes several sizes too big for him. Well, no need to ask for an introduction from him; his bloodline couldn't be more obvious, and you doubted your parents would care much about your manners while interacting with a Weasley.

"I think you ought to watch out," you said as you brushed invisible dirt from your muggle costume. "It's not as though I was hard to see."

The Weasley boy's colored darkened. "You aren't supposed to stand where other people are walking!"

"Is there a rule against it?"

"If there isn't, there should be!"

"Well, I think there should be a rule against running straight through the train like a wild graphorn!"

The boy's eyes, hidden somewhat behind the lenses of his crooked glasses, roved across your entire body. You instinctively hugged yourself to prevent him from seeing anything he might be looking for, but too late.

"You're a [Last Name], aren't you?"

You couldn't miss the note of disgust in the question, and returned it with an equally nasty: "And you're a Weasley. What's your point?"

"My point—"

"Percy! There you are!"

A clatter of rapid footsteps heralded the approach of two additional Weasleys. The one that had spoken was the oldest of the two. You couldn't tell how much older he was, but old enough to have a red-and-gold "P" badge pinned to the front of his chest. The other boy didn't look much older than you. The first was tall; the second, somewhat broader and distinctly more freckled.

"Percy," the eldest said again, "Mum told you not to run off before I got you settled."

"I don't need you get me settled, Bill. Just get to your prefects' meeting, would you?"

"He says like his whole plan wasn't to beat you to that compartment and spy on the entire meeting." The second Weasley smiled knowingly.

Percy scowled, which was as good as an admission on his part. Bill rolled his eyes. They landed on you, and he held out his hand a little sheepishly.

"Where're my manners? I’m Bill, Bill Weasley. Who's this you banged into in your eagerness to experience school bureaucracy, Perce?"

You took the hand without returning his smile. "I'm [Name]."

"She's a [L Name]!" Percy burst out indignantly.

"So?" asked the currently-nameless boy.

Percy could only splutter in answer. During his display of abject incoherence, Bill bent to pick up Percy's trunk from the floor in a pointed motion.

"Good grief," he said. "You two haven't even been sorted yet and already you want to start with the house rivalries. Come on. Let's find you and Charlie seats. I'll tell you all about the prefects' meeting after. Okay?"

Begrudgingly, Percy followed, though not before throwing you a very dirty look. You distinctly heard him mutter, "We already know what house she'll be in anyway," as he sped to catch up with his brothers.

Your mouth fell open in outrage. Then you reconsidered hurling any insults after him. There was nothing wrong with being in Slytherin, and there was nothing wrong with taking pride in one's pure-blood heritage. But a boy like Percy Weasley would never under such things. So you snapped your mouth shut, finished gathering your things, and steeled yourself to go hunting for your true peers—peers willing, you hoped, to take part in a bit of bashing to soothe over any hurt feelings that a run-in with a Weasley might cause.

With any luck on your part, he would be sorted into a different house than you were, and you'd never have to deal with him again.

******

Long before the arrival of that highly-anticipated acceptance letter, your parents had made the plan for your life very clear to you. The future of the [L Names], potentially even of all pure-blood families living in Magical Britain, lay squarely on your tiny shoulders. You were to attend Hogwarts, get the best grades in your year, climb the social ladder, fill every single leadership role available, and land an important job at the Ministry—not as minister, of course, but someone positioned to make sure the right legislation found its way to the desks of the right people.

Quite the task to assign an eleven-year-old girl who had hardly set foot outside her family's grand estate. But you knew from the beginning that you would do it. After all, you were a [L Name]. That confidence did not last.

Of all the people to muck up your life's work, why did it have to be Percy Weasley?

You'd got your wish that first night at school a little over a year ago. Percy ended up in Gryffindor (no surprises there); you ended up in Slytherin (no surprises there either). Much to your dismay, sitting at different tables over meals didn't keep him out of your life completely.

"[Name]! Watch out! The fire's too hot!"

Busy grinding your teeth in the direction of the half of the dungeon the Gryffindors in the class insisted on skulking in every potions class, you hadn't noticed the growing flare from the end of your wand until your friend beside you yelped like that. Smoke curled from the burnt remains of your hair-raising potion. You groaned and dumped the rubbish out so that you could start from scratch.

"What is wrong with you?" the girl beside you asked. She was a petite blonde with a mastery of etiquette your parents envied on your behalf. Though her family did not have the same claim to wealth or lineage that yours did, they encouraged you to maintain the relationship in the hopes some of her good breeding might rub off on you.

"Nothing," you muttered.

"Something," she half-sang, blue eyes glued to her own work.

But you couldn't tell her the real cause of your problem, because it was Percy Weasley. Confessing that to anyone in your house would be a huge mistake. A muggle-lover like him? Constantly outperforming a pure-blood like you? That sort of confession would get you laughed out of the common room.

"Sorry, Natalia," you sighed after a minute or two of brittle silence. "I've just been a little distracted lately."

She snorted. "I'll say. That's the fourth class assignment I've watched you bungle this year, and we've only been back a week."

Sadly, her observation was correct. More sadly, your claim of being distracted wasn't even an outright lie. Ever since your final grades of first year came back after exams, you found yourself unable to think about anything except how you should have been top of your class if not for one boy beating you at nearly every subject—and you'd barely squeaked by him with a higher score in defense against the dark arts.

"How could someone with a family like that beat someone with a family like yours?" your fathered thundered when you gave him the news. You wondered the same thing all summerlong.

But your parents had granted you grace: Another year to prove your inherent superiority to Percy and everyone else at Hogwarts. Spending the entire period trying to knock him on his butt via nonverbal magic wouldn't do you any good if it meant scorching a second potion. Professor Snape's favoritism only stretched so far; you doubted he could overlook that sort of stench even for a member of his own house.

Keeping your eyes off Percy took some concentration on your part. Still, you managed until close to the end of class. Just when your hair-raising potion turned the required vibrant green, Professor Snape pounced.

"Weasley!"

"Y-y-yes, sir?"

You rolled your eyes while safe in the knowledge that Professor Snape couldn't see you from that angle. Always so falsely polite with the instructors was Percy. Anyone watching could tell he was terrified. The freckled skin underneath his shock of red hair had turned milk white.

When Professor Snape spoke again, his voice resumed its usual quiet vehemence: "What, exactly, do you call these rat tails?"

"Rat tails, Professor?"

"Do not simply repeat what I say and expect that to constitute an answer, Weasley. Why," Professor Snape scooped up a small mound of naked pink strips from Percy's cutting board, "are your rat tails sliced in such a manner?"

"They're...that's how they came, Professor."

"'Came'?"

"They were purchased presliced, sir."

A long, purposeful pause followed Percy's hushed confession that everyone in the room heard. Several of your fellow Slytherins, including Natalia, tittered on cue. Percy somehow turned even redder. Visible sweat glistened on his brow even in the dim torchlight. He kept his eyes trained directly at Professor Snape to avoid all the amused gazes trained in his direction.

Professor Snape dribbled the rat trails in his hand back onto the tiny mound atop Percy's cutting board, then tutted.

"Prepackaged potion ingredients, Weasley? Do you understand how slicing rat trails lengthwise rather than crosswise could affect the qualities of your hair-raising potion? And what of more dangerous potions to come? How far do you expect to go in my classes with cheap ingredients like this?"

Finally, Percy broke eye contact and muttered something about Bill needing the more expensive supplies for his N.E.W.T.-level potions course. Professor Snape merely sniffed at this excuse.

"Quite. Well, I shudder to think what condition the ingredients will be for any future Weasleys that stumble into this school."

With that, he swept away from the Gryffindors. Natalia and the others around you giggled a moment longer before hurrying to return their attention to their own work. Professor Snape said nothing as he glanced into each of the cauldron's on your side of the room—until he came to yours.

"An excellent display as always, Miss [L Name]," he said.

"Thank you, sir," you replied piously.

Professor Snape didn't linger. You kept your head down until he started on the row of tables behind yours. Only then did you look up and meet Percy Weasley's indignant stare. Your lips curled up in an obvious smirk. If he still thought he could beat a pure-blood like you for two years in a row, he was even stupider than whoever bought him those rat tails.

******

Quidditch season opened your third year with the highly-anticipated match between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Despite the truly abysmal autumn weather that November Saturday morning, practically the entire school packed into the stands to watch. Curiosity about Gryffindor's new seeker drew even the less-sports-inclined students to the stadium. And what a game it was—apparently.

Having never been interested in quidditch yourself (it had ceased to be part of "the plan" after your first handful of broom-riding lessons at the age of six), you'd quickly tired of the cold and the wet, and now you could only hear the alternating cheering and booing from where you huddled out of the wind underneath the seats. You shivered underneath your oversized green-and-silver scarf. Even down here, the breeze whistled through the wooden rafters.

"Gryffindor scores again!" the announcer shouted, their voice magically amplified to the point you could have sworn you could feel it vibrating in your teeth.

Another surge of boos rose from the seats that you'd only recently escaped from. You resisted the urge to clutch at your earmuffs as you thought longingly of your homework and the relative peace and quiet of the common room.

A sickening crunch somewhere high in the air caused you to grimace in sympathy just as much from the pain that lanced through your own head as the Slytherins took up cheering instead.

"Oof! That looked painful. And...yes, it seems he's lost the snitch! Better luck next time, Charlie," said the announcer.

God, you hated quidditch. But you couldn't just leave the match. Already you'd lost major social points for leaving to get away from the noise for a moment. If you slipped away to the castle now and your friends discovered you huddled over a desk in the library later, you would never hear the end of it. And somehow, you just knew that word of your flight would get back to your parents. Future leaders didn't lurk in the shadows while everyone else their age enjoyed a sporting event, even if those future leads did find the constant commotion overwhelming.

You took a deep breath of the damp, chilly air and braced yourself to make the climb back up to join the rest of the school. The instant you reached the bottom and could see a square of pale gray clouds overhead, you heard a loud thud followed by the Slytherins screaming "foul!" so loudly and insistently that they drowned out whatever explanation the announcer might have offered.

Your foot froze in the air mid-step. On second thought, maybe enduring some teasing from your friends and a handful of disappointed letters from your parents would be worth getting away from this place. You spun around at once to make a beeline for the nearest exit. A peek over your shoulder every few seconds ensured that no one would surprise you by coming to retrieve you.

Too bad you were so focused on what lay behind you that you neglected to consider what might lie ahead. You collided into something warm and hard that sent you falling to the ground.

"Oof!"

And who should it be that turned around to see you there but Percy Weasley, your least favorite person on earth? And he looked as immaculate as always. His robes were unrumpled; his scarf hanged evenly around his neck; even his glasses didn't have a smudge or a speck on them. You, meanwhile, must have looked ghoulish in comparison, having spent a good deal of time recently trying and failing to not run your fingers through your hair in distraction.

You had just opened your mouth to demand to know what he was doing here when Percy beat you to it:

"Excuse you. Do you make it a habit to crash into everyone you meet, or is it just me that's so lucky?"

"I'd rather not see you at all," no one could make you bristle like a knarl faster than this boy, "so why would I go out of my way to speak to you?"

Percy squared his shoulders, pushed his glasses further up his nose, and folded his arms across his chest. "Well, you wouldn't have seen me at all if you weren't lurking beneath the stadium, would you? Which, by the way, is absolutely against the rules. I suppose I should go find Professor McGonagall, so she can put a stop to whatever it is you're plotting to do to ruin the match."

"I'm not plotting anything!"

"Oh, really? Then what are you doing down here?"

You were not about to confess to Percy that you couldn't stand quidditch, the cold, or continuous loud noises. He might have been a Gryffindor and therefore embody all the irritating qualities of your rival house, but he was also a pure-blood. All pure-bloods knew how to find and exploit the weaknesses of their peers. The Weasleys wouldn't be exceptions.

"What I'm doing here isn't any of your business," you snapped in an attempt to cover up your obvious hesitation. "Besides, if it's so forbidden that anyone stand here during a game, what are you doing?"

After an equally long pause, Percy's ears went red. Your heart leaped at this obvious tell. Now was your chance to turn the tables. He had a weakness he wanted kept under wraps. Maybe if you could weasel (pun intended) this out of him, you could keep him from getting the teachers involved in your hideaway plot or even get a leg up on him in class.

And then an enormous, "Ooooo!" rang out from everywhere above your heads. Percy jumped at the accompanying echoing crack and the following thump that you both could hear even ensconced beneath the field.

"That was quite a fall for new Gryffindor seeker Charlie Weasley!" the announcer cried—and you saw every drop of color drain from Percy's face. It made his freckles stand out even more than usual. "Wait! Is he getting up? I think—no! He's down again! The ref is calling for a timeout. Is this the end of Gryffindor's hopes for an early-season victory?"

You could have sworn. Being down one seeker would only make this abominable game last longer; no one had much faith in Higgs; he couldn't find a gold coin if he had a niffler to do the job for him, and it was anyone's guess how he'd secured a place on the team to begin with. But before you could shove past Percy to be on your way back to the castle, you were stopped by his hands shooting out to grasp your upper arms. So taken aback by this were you that you let out involuntary, undignified squeal.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

"What do you mean, what did I do?"

“You obviously sabotaged him so that Slytherin would win the match!”

“And how am I supposed to have done that, genius? I’ve been down here practically the entire game!”

“And here comes Madam Pomfrey. It’s not looking good for Charlie Weasley staying in this game!” called the announcer.

Just as quickly as he snatched you, he let go. Percy’s eyes had gone wild. He looked so un-Percy-like that it caused you concern. You frowned, cocking your head to one side, and asked:

“Weasley? Are you going to be sick?”

Percy didn’t answer. Instead, as a sort of bored buzz took over the stadium, he turned away from you to race in the direction of the stairs to the Gryffindor seats. So great was his haste that he tripped over his own feet and bounced back up before you could check if he was okay. And then he disappeared.

After a moment or two of loitering there in stunned silence, you shuddered. You’d forgotten something very important: You hated Percy Weasley. So what did you care about his brother’s health or Percy’s apparent worry over it?

The answer: You didn’t. Not at all. Not one little bit. All you cared about was returning to your common room for a good, long moan about some blood traitor having touched you without your permission. With any luck, such a harrowing tale would prevent the rest of your peers remembering that you’d ditched them less than an hour into the game.

If you didn’t care, though, then why did you pause at the exit to look over your shoulder in case Percy had tumbled backward and cracked his head in his earlier rush? Only because you knew you’d react similarly if you heard your little sister crash spectacularly out of the sky in front of a host of uncaring onlookers. That sort of familial bond you could understand.

But Percy remained out of sight. You had to assume that he hadn’t hurt himself, then. Some of the tightness in your chest eased somewhat. This allowed you to push your way through the curtain hanging over the opening to the grounds. Thus began your long and uncomfortable hike back to Hogwarts itself.

Would Charlie be all right? Crushing Percy Weasley academically wouldn’t bring you the same sort of satisfaction if you only defeated him while he grieved the loss of a sibling. Besides, Charlie was one of the few Gryffindors that didn’t sneer when he spotted you in the corridors.

******

Everyone loved the last Hogsmeade weekend leading up to the Christmas holidays. The village always brought the Hogwarts students out in force that day. Of course, most of them needed a break from the drudgery of studying, but the trip had more going for it than that. Hogsmeade really pulled out all the stops that season: Magical, un-melting snow glistened in every window; living gingerbread families welcomed passersby into warm shops stuffed with free samples of sweets; butter beer flowed endlessly from the taps at the Three Broomsticks; and enchanted candles of cool flames flickered in the depths of the trees and the garlands and the wreathes that adorned every last building on the main street. All the festive decorations made it impossible for you look anywhere without being reminded of how soon you’d be leaving for home.

At least you could look forward to spending the holidays at your grandmother’s palatial home in Magical Spain. After several months of near-constant rain, you couldn’t wait to see the clear ocean waters and the sandy beaches. What you could wait for were the multiple high-class Christmas parties you’d be forced to attend, wherein all the members of your extended family and the upper echelons of magical society would feign interest in your life. You’d already begun mentally preparing how to answer the stream of questions over your elective courses and expectations for your upcoming O.W.L.s—expectations which were swiftly dwindling after you’d barely eked out the third spot in charms the previous year. And, yes, one of the people that outscored you again had been none other than Percy Weasley.

Was it really any wonder that you found yourself trailing behind Natalia and the others as you all trudged through the thick snow on the path leading up to the Shrieking Shack? You kept your eyes glued to the toes of your dragon-hide boots in a vain effort to keep your mind off your icy surroundings. The Slytherin common room might not have been cozy by most definitions, but it had a fireplace, unlike the dilapidated building your friends insisted on visiting after deeming the Three Broomsticks too boring to spend the afternoon there. Soon, you’d be headed for a warm armchair, though, and the small pile of books you’d checked out for defense against the dark arts research the day before.

“Oh, there’s the source of the foul smell,” Natalia’s voice lifted high enough that you could hear her despite having lost sight of the group around the next question. “Ghosts don’t often smell like dung.”

And there went any chance of a rapid retreat to school. You picked up your pace to spot the rest of your group surrounding a red-headed boy you knew all too well.

“When’s the last time you washed those robes, Weasley?” asked one of the boys.

“Don’t be an idiot. The stink’s sunk in. Blood traitors smell worse than Muggle-borns. You could burn his clothes and the stench would still be stuck up your nose,” said another.

"Can't you hear us, Weasley?" Natalia asked. "Or is there dung in your ears as well?"

Percy appeared to be bracing himself for a fight as he stared unblinkingly at the shack behind the broken remains of fence in front of him. Apparently, he only finished doing this mental preparation the minute you slogged up to join the rest of the Syltherins. With one of his trademark tremendous inhales that typically only preceded his most condescending in-class monologues, he spun stiffly in your direction.

His appearance ground every thought in your head to a sudden halt. It had been some time since you'd seen Percy up close. After your confrontation with him at the quidditch stadium the year prior, he had avoided you so completely that you suspected a banishing charm might be involved. And, Merlin save you, that absence of face-to-face contact with your nemesis must have done something to you, or to him, or to both of you. The moment his hard blue eyes met your [color] own, you simply froze. Percy noticed, too; some of the fight drained visibly from him—momentarily. Then he puffed himself back up to his usual arrogant proportions.

"[Name]. I should known you couldn't think of anything more than the most basic of insults," he said.

The abrupt vitriol thrown your way broke you of the strange trance that Percy's visage had put you in. "Me?"

"Yes, yes." He stuck his nose straight into the air and attempted to shove his way through the group without making eye contact with anyone else. "The impoverished boy smells bad. Very clever."

Your friends parted to let him through. They at least knew enough to avoid real magical fights. Your Head of House couldn't (and wouldn't) ignore outright rule breaking in the open like this. But once Percy got to the path back down to the village through the tangle of stifled snickering, he stopped, pivoted, and looked straight at you once more.

"If you're going to waste so much time and effort dreaming up different ways to embarrass me that you can't be bothered to keep up with me in transfiguration, I'd think you could come up with something more creative than commenting on my lack of wealth from time to time."

"Good point," Natalia put in before you could point out you had nothing to do with this altercation. "There's also your blood status, and the fact your parents decided to breed like puffskeins so they can make the real pure-bloods go extinct. Right, [Name]?"

"Because your blood status is doing what for you in charms? Are you going to blame your slipping rank on that?"

All ideas you had about protesting fled, as did any about how good Percy looked in his snug, handmade hat. A ringing sound filled your ears. How dare he. How dare he when you'd spent evening after evening after evening holed up in an unused classroom until you could perform the perfect summoning charm. So what if he could do that without the practice? At least you had the nerve to put in effort! And unthinkingly, your fingers curled tightly around the wand nestled in your robe pocket.

"What did you just say?" you snarled.

He squared his shoulders and said loudly, "It's sad you can't do 'real' pure-bloods proud because you're too busy thinking of excuses why I do better than you in every class."

"I could run circles around you in charms, Weasley!"

"Is that so? That's not what final grades showed last year."

"Depulso!"

"Protego!"

And so it began, the wild, magic-infused sort of snowball fight only unsupervised teenaged witches and wizards could have. No sooner had Percy shielded himself from your onslaught of snow than did Natalia step with her own "Wingardium Leviosa!" The two boys with you, Augustus and Mortimer, joined in as well. Soon, ice and slush and freezing-cold water were being flung every which way. You forgot in the rush of adrenaline how much you hated the cold and winter; all you wanted to do was teach Percy Weasley a lesson—for assuming you'd started this; for always, always, always being one step ahead of you; and for daring to get cute in the months you hadn't spoken to him.

"What on earth is going on here?"

All the levitating snowballs fell with wet crunches at the sound of an adult's voice coming from nearby. The laughter and screaming slowly faded into nothingness. There stood Professor Sprout, her eyebrows raised in shock at seeing students of your pedigree conducting themselves in such a raucous fashion. And there did not stand Percy. He must have slipped away in all the commotion. How very strangely un-Gryffindor of him.

"Miss [L Name]? Would you care to explain yourself?" Professor Sprout prompted you.

Thankfully, Natalia came to your rescue. She slung one arm around your shoulders and said, "Just a snowball fight between friends, Professor. We needed to blow off some steam before we all head home, you know?"

Professor Sprout frowned, but as her eyes roved from one out-of-breath student to the next, clearly she didn't spot Percy either—or anyone else she would believe a gang of Slytherin fourth-years might have been harassing. She let out a sharp sigh, then motioned behind her down the slope.

"Very well, then. But back to school now, the lot of you. Before you catch cold."

Natalia released you and gave you a jaunty wink before she skipped after your instructor. Augustus and Mortimer did not linger. You, on the other hand, straggled behind them even more so than on the hike to the shack to begin with. One mortifying thought burned so hotly inside you that it kept you distracted from the cold sinking into your wet robes:

Oh, God. Had you developed a crush on Percy Weasley? That was absolutely not part of the plan.

******

It came as no surprise to you when you found an angry Professor McGonagall waiting for you one night the early spring of your fifth year. It came as no surprise, but still you flinched at the sight of her thin lips and flared nostrils. So she had not got all her frustration out after scolding you for over an hour this morning. Someone on the path to becoming a high-ranking Ministry official wouldn't quail at a teacher's obvious fury, but you couldn't help it. You'd never been in trouble like this before.

At least Percy Weasley had got himself in the same boat as you. He had beat you to the assigned location, perhaps having been dragged in person by his Head of House. Your Head of House had simply relayed the message about detention to you, then coldly told you to get out of his sight. Somehow you still found Professor McGonagall more frightening. How did Percy have the gall to look ashamed instead of terrified? Her narrowed eyes followed you until you stood right next to Percy.

"Mr. Weasley. Miss [L Name]."

"Yes, Professor?" you each said in unison. You caught a flash of light in the dim hallway—Percy eye's moving in your direction and away again.

"I needn't reiterate how disappointed I am in the both of you," she said. "I needn't reiterate it, but I shall. You are the best students in your year. You are intelligent and resourceful. Not a single instructor here questioned either of your appointments to the position of prefect. And yet what have you done since getting your badges?"

You shifted uncomfortably with your gaze affixed to the space above her right shoulder. Next to you, Percy let out a shaky breath.

"Bickering," she supplied for you. "Name-calling. Petty insults. In short: Not working together."

What point was there in protesting? She was right on every count. Percy didn't say anything either.

"And now you can't even perform your duty to look after the younger students! When you were supposed to be patrolling, you were dueling! Did Professor Dumbledore not make it clear to you just how important it is that no one gain access to the third-floor corridor? Well?"

Jumping to attention, you said, "He did, Professor."

"And still you chose to place this ridiculous rivalry over the safety of your peers?"

Guilty silence answered her. She knew she had hit the mark and relaxed somewhat at your wilting. However, her voice remained tight when she said:

"You will clean up the mess you made without the use of magic. It will take as many evenings as it takes. Your approved supplies have been provided. I suggest you use this time to make amends and find some common ground. If this childish behavior continues, I will appoint a new Gryffindor prefect next year, Mr. Weasley, and Miss [L Name], I will heartily suggest to Professor Snape that he do the same. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor." The thought of ruining the plan in one fell swoop had all the blood draining from your face. Percy, too, looked pale when you risked a glance at him, but when he echoed you, his voice sounded much steadier than your own.

"Good. Begin," said Professor McGonagall.

Despite the command, you each stood at attention until the sound of her footsteps echoing against the stone walls faded entirely away. You eyed Percy warily in her absence; he did the same to you. Wordlessly, you grabbed a scrap of cloth from a pile on the floor and started the long, slow process of cleaning.

And slow that process stayed. One night of hard manual labor turned into two turned into three turned into five. You and Percy scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at the magical muck you'd left stuck to the floors and the ceilings and the paintings, never once breaking the stuffy hush that fell over you the moment you each turned up for detention every night. The only noise came from the clattering as you and he moved the ladders around or dropped used rags to the ground.

It didn't take long until you knew another night of this would drive you mad.

"Say something, would you, Weasley? This is stupid."

You heard his familiar sputtering and then the faint clack of the paintbrush he was using to carefully clean a painting as it fell from his hand. After he'd picked it up again, he said:

"If it's all the same to you, I'd much prefer we go on as we have been."

"McGonagall told us to find common ground," you reminded him. "We're never going to accomplish that if we don't speak to one another. Or is being prefect too much responsibility for you? Are you looking for an easy excuse to get out of it?"

A pause ensued, then he said, "You first," somewhat sulkily.

Well, you had been the one to bring up the idea of communicating. You took a few minutes to cast about for any subject that might interest Percy. Truthfully, for a boy that factored so heavily into your life, you really didn't know much of anything about him. Finally, you settled on asking, "How's Charlie doing?"

"I'm not particularly interested in giving you any information about my family members."

"Fair."

You'd probably have given a similar answer in his shoes. But that did complicate things. How were you supposed to get to know someone as hardheaded as a bludger? Frowning, you went on scraping a glob of hardened goop for another moment as you followed that train of thought: bludger, balls, snowballs.

"I never said thank you." You didn't take your eyes off your work.

"For what?" he asked, plainly suspicious.

"For not getting us in trouble over that snowball fight in Hogsmeade last winter. At first, I thought you 'd run off like a coward. But you probably could have taken the lot of us with one hand behind your back, huh?"

He hesitated before saying, "Not you, I don't think."

"So you're not denying that you helped us out."

"Well, to be honest, I started the whole thing. You weren't really the one who wanted to get a rise out of me. It's just that I saw you, and that's all I could think about. And besides," he added, "I wouldn't want you to be stuck in detention so much you stopped motivating me to do better in class."

"Good to know you know I could have said something nastier, if I'd wanted to. But I wouldn't ever tell you that you stink. You don't."

"Commentary on one's lack of hygiene is a bit more pedestrian than I would expect from you."

"Yeah." You grunted for dramatic effect as you leaned back from the stubborn spot. "So was this spell. I never should have tried it."

"The Bat-Bogey Hex is deceptively difficult to perform."

"Are you saying that you could have done it better?" You turned to face him at last. To your surprise, he had done the same to you.

"Given your grades, I know I could have done it better."

Tension thrummed between you. Percy tipped his head up to look down his nose at you. You could have whipped your wand out and destroyed all your hard work. Instead, you smiled.

"I am catching up to you, you know. Little by little."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

"Oh, I don't think you'll see me coming at all."

"No one can see the approach of someone who isn't moving."

You stifled a laugh with one hand. If you weren't much mistaken, Percy did as well.

"Here," he said. "What you're cleaning with is filthy." He levitated a fresh scrap of fabric up to where you were perched with, indeed, a sticky square covered in yellow-green-brown goo. You snatched the clean one out of the air as you lifted a single eyebrow.

"I thought we weren't allowed to use any magic at all for this."

Percy shrugged as he returned to his job. "I won't tell if you won't."

And though you didn't realize it then, something had changed—and that something would put the plan you'd spent five years enacting in serious jeopardy.

******

Sixth year, spring, when the grounds of Hogwarts woke up from their long hibernation. The blooming flowers near the lake enticed many students outside to enjoy those first fine days of warmer weather no matter what horrors lurked (or didn't) inside the castle itself. Normally, you would have been among those students, eager to warm yourself after several freezing months of sitting as close to the Slytherin common room fireplace as you could without risking your robes catching fire. But you couldn't join them that evening—not that Natalia made resisting that temptation easy when she remained so constantly wheedling at your shoulder.

"It wouldn't be that big a deal if you skived off once," she argued for the umpteenth time since dinner. And you gave her the exact same reply that you each time as well:

"It will be a big deal if another kid gets petrified on my watch."

"Like that's your responsibility!"

"I am a prefect, Nat."

"If Dumbledore really thought the Chamber of Secrets had something to do with this, do you really think he'd be leaving unqualified witches and wizards in charge of protecting the school? I mean, you're good, [Name], but you're not that good." Her hand grasped yours to pull you to a halt the moment you placed your foot on the first set of stairs. "Come on! The guys got ahold of some Dr. Filibuster's last Hogsmeade weekend. We're gonna set them all off, and it's going to be spectacular."

You pulled your hand firmly from her grip. "Yeah, sitting around while you and Mortimer snog under fireworks sounds like a grand old time."

"You're such a spoilsport! Besides, if it's the snogging you've got issue with, I happen to know Augustus wouldn't say no to a session with you."

"Spoilsport's my middle name. Tell you what. You can have both the boys with my blessing."

Her exaggerated eye roll indicated that she'd given up her campaign at last. "Fine. Don't say I didn't try to rescue you from listening to Weasley pontificate on whatever-the-hell billywig's flown into his bonnet all evening."

"I won't," you said.

Natalia stuck her tongue out at you before she flounced off in the direction of the front doors. You allowed yourself to relax as she disappeared into the throng of those squeezing out into the last bit of pre-curfew sunlight. Only once you could be reasonably certain she would be too distracted by her boyfriend to give you a second thought did you risk returning your climb up the stairs to your assigned meeting place.

The corridor was empty when you arrived. That gave you some pause. Most people wouldn't find that strange; the majority of those inside Hogwarts had only recently finished eating their evening meal. But you knew that shaking Natalia off had cost you time. You were late, and that meant your partner ought to already be here. Holding your breath, you strained your ears until—yes—you heard a muffled combination of slurping and sighing coming from somewhere close by.

Faster than a flying horse, you strode across the hall, over to the false stone wall, and through its facade. Inside was so dark that you could barely see the contorted shape of two tangled bodies a few feet away.

"Ahem!" you said loudly, careful to make it very plain that you weren't actually clearing your throat.

The writhing shape rapidly split into two. A few murmured partings rose between them, followed by another couple of kissing noises, and then the smaller of the two shadows hurried right past you without so much as a hello. You kept your eyes averted to allow them some degree of dignity. Percy, as he marched out into the daylight, you did not afford the same privilege to.

"Really, Weasley? Clearwater?" you asked.

He bristled and whirled on you. This was all he had to express his embarrassment now, having turned so red already that his hair looked light in comparison to his face. "Yes. Clearwater. We've been dating for months now. You know this. I don't know what else you expected."

You pretended to think about this. "Well, I'd say what I expected was finding you here waiting for me, not taking the opportunity to cop an extra feel before patrol. More importantly," you added upon seeing him turn somehow even more vibrant, "you do realize she's a bore, and you could hook up someone more interesting, right?"

"Like who?"

Now it was your turn to blush. Thankfully, being a boy, Percy wouldn't notice. "Clearwater's not the only good-looking girl at Hogwarts. That's all I mean."

"I'm not discussing this with you again."

"Then quit snogging your girlfriend when you know I'm on my way."

Percy had no reasonable counter to this suggestion, and he knew it. He smashed his lips into a thin line before he turned to wordlessly march the direction from which you'd come. You let him get a head start so that your heart would have time to calm down from your tenth near-confession in so many days. No wonder you were the only sixth year not seeing someone—you'd set your sights on the one guy that had no reason to consider you as an option.

"Are you coming?" You realized with jolt in your stomach that he'd stopped to look pointedly over his shoulder at you. "I'm not interested in hearing another lecture about dereliction of duty from Professor McGonagall because you were lollygagging."

"Because I'm the one making us run late," you muttered.

"You are now," he said, and if you hadn't known better, you would have sworn he said it in a singsong.

But the moment came and went. Percy soon went back on his way. Embolden by his arrogance, you ran after him to settle into a comfortable stride equal to his own. Now to just wait for the most opportune moment...

"Are you about ready for finals?" you asked by way of distraction.

Percy took the bait. He smirked as he tapped at one temple. "As always. I've been making sure to spend more time practicing for the defense against the dark arts practical, too. You won't be beating me this year."

"Oh? So you haven't been shoring up the gap between us in potions?"

"That grade doesn't count! We agreed to that!"

"Are you sure I didn't lie to get you to put your guard down? I am a scheming Slytherin, after all."

His eyes darted back and forth. Some part of you hated that he almost believed you to be capable of that. You ignored this part of you to spring your trap. Quickly but deliberately, you brushed the back of your hand against his. This had the exact reaction you'd anticipated: Percy nearly jumped out of his heavily-freckled skin. Pretending not to notice his coming to a complete stop to gawk at you, you sauntered forward a handful of steps before tossing him an innocent:

"Something wrong, Weasley? We wouldn't want Professor McGonagall to spot you dawdling on the job, now, would we?"

His mouth snapped shut, fell open again, snapped shut a second time. You took some quiet pride in driving a pedant like Percy Weasley to speechlessness. Too bad it didn't take him long to recover. But as the two of you began in earnest your rounds of the school, you couldn't stop your heart from pounding or your mind from playing back again and against the moment that your skins touched. A brief twinge of guilt reminded you of your life's overarching plan. There in the moment, though, you couldn't find it within yourself to care that you might yourself smash it to pieces.

******

You found Percy in a predictable place after everything wrapped up for the year. The end-of-year feast had been its usual disaster: your newest defense against arts teacher turned out to be have been a werewolf the entire time; Percy's youngest brother had been injured again following Harry Potter into one nightmare or another; and Gryffindor won the House Cup for the third time in a row. All the cheering and booing and crying and screaming had long since faded away as the students drifted upstairs to pack for the train ride home the following morning. Your own trunk lay meticulously packed at the foot of your bed for the very last time. But once you'd finished with that chore, you couldn't sit still, and you'd slipped out of the somewhat sullen Slytherin common room in search of the one person you had yet to give a proper goodbye.

"Reliving your glory days, Weasley?" you called when you spotted him standing in front of the hourglasses used to track house points. The Gryffindor glass remained, as was now typical, filled to the brim with rubies. The emeralds in your own looked pitiful in comparison. But you didn't dwell; the House Cup no longer concerned you at all anymore.

Percy's eyes drifted in your direction, then away again. "It has been nice breaking your streak for the last few years."

"Oh, please. Gryffindor's only beat us because Professor Dumbledore has a soft spot for Potter."

"And we're the clearly superior house."

"But you don't argue that Harry Potter might have something to do with it?"

Percy scoffed, but the sound care across as less scornful than normal. You understood his mood without asking for clarification. Both you and Percy faced similar circumstances in the coming days.

"I'm getting ready to go on my farewell tour," you gestured behind yourself. "Care to join me?"

"We're not on patrol, so we really shouldn't. It's after curfew."

You rolled your eyes and tapped the embossed, shield-shaped badge on your chest. Percy had one nearly identical to yours pinned to his robes, though his was red and read "Head Boy." "If there was ever a time to abuse your position, it's tonight. You'll never have another opportunity."

"You're a terrible influence," he said, but one end of his mouth twitched.

"I'm the most fun you allow yourself to have, Weasley."

He left the hourglasses and walked over to you. Neither of you said a word for a while. You simply surveyed the still corridors of Hogwarts with a practiced scrutiny that came with three straight years of overnight patrols. Sirius Black remained at large, after all. But the silence between you and Percy felt stiff and strange.

He had become one of your closest confidants after your two weeks' worth of detention during fifth year. You knew about his guilt over failing Ginny the year before; he knew about your sister's first terrifying bout of accidental magic when you'd been home alone with her over the summer. He spoke to you about his businesslike breakup with Penelope; you spoke to him about Natalia confessing feelings for you that you couldn't reciprocate even if you wanted to. He told you all about his desire to surpass his father's legacy at the Ministry; you told him him all about the plan. But now? Nothing. Perhaps your friendship really wouldn't last past that final night at school.

You couldn't allow that. You had to try something to break the ice:

"Be honest, Weasley: You're not really ready to leave this place, are you?"

Though he didn't look in your direction, he chuckled. "Actually, I think it'll be nice to leave Ron in charge of everything."

"Ron? What about Fred and George?"

"No one smarter than troll would leave those two in charge of anything."

And you resumed the quiet walk again for another good amount of time. You'd gotten him to open up to you by begging him to talk once. Should you do so again? But Percy beat you to it, clearly noticing the uncomfortable atmosphere himself. He cleared his throat before he said somewhat awkwardly:

"Are you keen to get started with the Wizengamot Administration Services?"

"Ooh, yeah. I just can't wait to sit around doing paperwork for the foreseeable future. Seven years spent learning how to copy a document in triplicate. I'll be living the dream."

"There's nothing wrong with paperwork," he said stiffly.

"There isn't, but most of us don't live for it."

"Well, if you hadn't foisted all the Head Boy and Girl paperwork on me this year, you'd be a lot more prepared to handle your new position."

"True."

Your swift acquiescence put him off guard. He looked like he wanted to ask you something, but instead he just resumed the walk—for a little while. Soon, he broke the hush again:

"And shouldn't you be excited? You couldn't ask for a better starting place to—what was it?—'ensure pure-blood survival in an increasingly muddled magical world"? It's all part of the plan, isn't?"

"Bugger the plan," you mumbled, but by his shocked expression, you could tell that Percy had heard.

"Pardon me?"

You took a deep breath. "I don't care about the plan anymore. To be honest, I haven't cared about it for a long time."

"What—but—" He struggled to recover for a moment. "You've put all of this work into it. Why give up now?"

"I never said anything about giving up. I've just come to realize that I've made a few missteps. Besides, there are more important things in life than ensuring pure-blood survival."

"Such as?"

"Oh, I can think of one or two things off the top of my head."

The space between you and him pulled taught. You looked up at him. He looked down at you. Professor Dumbledore often spoke of the inherent magic found in love. You'd always thought that sounded a little sappy before. But not just then. Something deep inside your stomach trembled; your arms shook as you reached forward for Percy's shoulders.

And then you were kissing Percy Weasley, and Percy Weasley was kissing you back.

In retrospect, you deemed that kiss not at all inherently magical. You hadn't kissed anyone before that night. Your noses bumped into each other; his glasses crunched against your forehead; and it took a few adjustments on his part to guide your mouth into the proper location. Worst of all, everything concluded far too soon for your liking.

"For example, I'm pretty sure kissing blood traitors isn't part of the plan either," you said breathlessly.

Look a little dazed, Percy licked his lips and nodded. This very tiny response caused your heart to leap into your throat.

"Was that...okay?"

His gaze sharpened. "Won't your parents be upset with you for ruining the plan?"

"I've come an awful long way for them to write me off now." You shrugged. "And anyway, there's always my sister if I turn out to be a total disaster. Maybe she'll be better at following the rules."

Slowly, almost as though someone had cast Arresto Momentum on the two of you, Percy took your hand. You curled your fingers around his. He squeezed. And just like that, shoulder to shoulder, you and Percy Weasley took your first steps together out of school and into adulthood.

******

In the present, you and Percy stood next to one another directly in front of your desk. The shift in the lights in the window showed that quite some time had passed since you started your story. The fascinated fourth-year girls had surrounded you while you spoke, and they all let out an ear-splitting squeal now that you'd reached the end.

"You kissed him first?"

"You gave up the plan for him?"

"What did your parents think?"

"What did your friends think?"

"What took you so long to get married?" asked Rao.

"Well—" Percy began, but you smoothly slipped your hand into his before he could start to answer.

"What with everything that happened during the war, we needed more time to figure things out," you said. And you certainly had. All the ways life had transformed you and Percy into different people; the actions you both took in times of hardship; your  messy breakup and your even messier getting back together—those sorts of gory details really weren't appropriate to explain to kids this age.

"But now you are getting married, and you're going to live happily ever after?" Spencer demanded.

"Something like that," said Percy.

"How good it is to hear that two of my best pupils have always been so casual about breaking the rules they promised to uphold," cut in a new voice, one far too past puberty to belong to one of these Slytherins.

"Professor McGonagall!"

You and Percy sprang apart. In the middle of the room, just behind the gaggle that made up your audience, stood the headmistress herself. She didn't appear terribly upset. Nonetheless, a few of the boys ostensibly still practicing their wand work let out soft, gleeful "Ooo"s.

"Mr. Weasley. Last I checked, you were employed by the Ministry of Magic. What are you doing inside of my school? And more importantly, why are you interrupting my defense against the dark arts instructor?"

"I—I came to deliver your wedding invitation, Professor."

"I might be old, but I'm not senile enough to mistake this classroom for my office."

Percy hung his head. Professor McGonagall approached him with her hand outstretched.

"Well? My invitation, Mr. Weasley?"

He hurriedly pulled the paper from inside his robes and offered it to her. Smiling, she pocketed the rectangle.

"It's about time that I received this, and that you finally got around to asking Miss [L Name] to marry you."

"Professor, I—"

She gestured for silence as the booming class bell rang out. Then she turned toward the watching students.

"I believe you all have another class to attend shortly."

Obediently (albeit with obvious snickers of delight at seeing their teacher get in trouble), they packed up their things. Talbot nearly managed to sneak by you—nearly. You touched his shoulder to get his attention before whispering, "Good work on that reducto." Soon after that, the classroom had emptied, leaving just you and your shame-faced fiancé with Professor McGonagall.

"Mr. Weasley, if you will follow me to my office, we will discuss what actions to take about your decision to trespass. I believe I have some biscuits you'll enjoy."

Percy looked less like a scolded krup at the suggestion of a snack. He followed her to the exit. Just as she made it to the door, Professor McGonagall had a parting shot for you as well:

"And, Miss [L Name], I will be coming by periodically in the coming days to ensure that the rest of your lessons are staying on task."

"Yes, Professor," you replied.

She smiled again for another half second. Then she left you to prepare for your inbound class of second-year Hufflepuffs. You couldn't help grinning as you used a spell to wipe the blackboard clean for a new set of directions—even if you knew Professor McGonagall would make good on her promise and you'd have to be on your best behavior until the end of the term.