#hpcharacter

They had rarely spoken. A nod here, a sneer there. But tonight, the silence between them felt different. It was the silence of two people who were the only ones awake in a world that didn't understand them. 

Draco stood up, his limbs feeling stiff. He needed a distraction. He needed to pick a fight, or at least prove he existed. He walked over to her table. 

"Studying for O.W.L.s two years early, Dumbledore?" he drawled. His voice lacked its usual venom; it was merely tired. "Trying to prove you’re not just a nepotism case?" 

YN didn’t look up immediately. She finished writing a sentence on a roll of parchment with a eagle-feather quill, then carefully dotted the end. She blew on the ink before raising her eyes. They were a piercing blue, startlingly similar to the Headmaster’s, but without the twinkle. Hers were calculating, cold, and tired. 

"Insomnia, Malfoy," she said, her voice smooth and low. "Though I suppose that’s a big word for you. Shall I use smaller ones?" 

Draco scoffed, pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down without invitation. "I’m awake because I choose to be. Unlike you, hiding in the corner." 

"I’m not hiding. I’m working." She gestured to the open text. Advanced Theoretical Arithmancy. "Some of us don't rely on our father's influence to pass classes." 

"Watch your mouth," Draco snapped, though there was no heat in it. He slumped in the chair, rubbing his temples. "My father expects excellence. I provide it." 

"You provide the drama," YN corrected, finally closing the book. She looked at him, really looked at him, analyzing the dark circles under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand. "You look terrible, Draco." 

It was the use of his first name that caught him off guard. She never used it. 

"I’ve been practicing," he muttered, defensive. 

"Practicing what? Looking like a corpse?" 

"Spells. Defensive magic." He glanced around to ensure they were truly alone. "With Moody prowling around and Potter getting all the glory... one has to be prepared." 

YN leaned back, crossing her arms. "Prepared for what? It’s a tournament. You aren't in it." 

"Not for the tournament," he hissed. "For... everything else." 

He didn't need to elaborate. YN Dumbledore knew more than she let on. Being a Dumbledore in Slytherin meant she heard the whispers of the children of Death Eaters, and she saw the letters her great-uncle received. She knew the lines were being drawn in the sand, and she knew exactly where Draco stood—teetering on the edge of a precipice. 

"Show me," she said suddenly. 

Draco blinked. "What?" 

"Show me what you’ve been practicing. You’re clearly over-exerting yourself, which means you’re doing it wrong. If you’re going to keep me awake with your brooding, you might as well be entertaining." 

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I don't need a tutor. Especially not a Dumbledore." 

"Fine." She reached for her book again. "Go back to staring at the fire and worrying about Potter." 

Draco’s pride, easily bruised and easily baited, flared. He stood up abruptly. "Fine. But not here." 

They ended up in an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, dusty and filled with unused desks stacked haphazardly against the walls. Moonlight streamed in through the tall, gothic windows, bathing the room in silver. 

Draco took off his robe, tossing it onto a desk. Underneath, he wore his white shirt and black trousers, the tie loosened. He looked like a boy trying to be a soldier. 

"I've been trying to master the Blasting Curse," Draco admitted, rolling up his sleeves. "Confringo. But not just the standard impact. I want to control the radius." 

YN sat on top of a desk, her legs swinging slightly. She looked entirely out of place in the dusty room, her Slytherin tie pristine, her posture perfect. "Controlled volatility. Difficult. If you push too much magic into the core of the spell without binding the edges, it backfires." 

"I know the theory," Draco snapped. He raised his hawthorn wand. 

He took a breath, focusing on a stack of old textbooks at the far end of the room. He needed to prove he was strong. He needed to prove he wasn't just Lucius Malfoy’s son, but a wizard in his own right. 

"Confringo!" 

A jet of orange light erupted from his wand. It hit the books, but instead of a contained explosion, the air buckled. A shockwave rippled outward, violent and hot. The books didn't just explode; they disintegrated into ash, but the force of the spell rebounded off the stone wall, rushing back toward Draco. 

He threw up a shield charm, but he was half a second too slow. The shockwave slammed into him, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward into a pile of desks. 

"Draco!" 

The world went black for a moment, spinning in a kaleidoscope of pain and ringing silence. 

When awareness began to trickle back, it wasn't visual at first. It was the feeling of cold stone under his back and something soft under his head. The smell of dust and ozone was heavy in the air. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, aching rhythm. 

He groaned, the sound scraping against his throat. 

"Don't move," a voice commanded. It was sharp, authoritative, but laced with a sliver of concern. 

Draco forced his eyes open. The room was blurry. He blinked, trying to clear the haze. Slowly, the face hovering above him came into focus. Long, dark hair framed a pale face. Blue eyes were scanning him intently. 

YN was kneeling on the dusty floor beside him. She had conjured a cool, damp cloth and was pressing it to a cut on his forehead. 

"Look who's awake," she said softly. 

Draco tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea pushed him back down. "What... what happened?" 

"You overpowered it," YN said, her voice dropping to a lecture tone, though her hands remained gentle. "Just as I said you would. You poured all your frustration into the spell. Magic requires intent, Draco, but it also requires discipline. You attacked those books like they were Harry Potter himself." 

"They looked like him," Draco mumbled, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips before he winced. "Did I destroy them?" 

YN glanced at the pile of ash across the room. "You vaporized them. And nearly concussed yourself in the process. I’ve healed the cut on your head, but you’re going to have a majestic bruise on your shoulder tomorrow." 

Draco closed his eyes again, simply breathing. It was strange. He should have been humiliated. A Malfoy, knocked out by his own spell, being tended to by a Dumbledore. He should be pushing her away, sneering, making an excuse. 

But he didn't. He felt oddly safe. 

"Why did you help me?" he asked, his voice quiet in the vast, empty room. 

YN paused, pulling the cloth away to inspect his forehead. "Because despite your best efforts to be intolerable, you are my Housemate. And because... I know what it looks like." 

Draco opened his eyes. "What what looks like?" 

"The pressure," she said simply. She shifted, sitting back on her heels but remaining on the floor next to him. "The weight of a last name that walks into the room before you do." 

Draco let out a bitter laugh. "Your name opens doors. My name... my name is starting to close them." 

"My name comes with expectations of saintliness," YN countered. "Do you know how disappointing it is to people when they realize I’m ambitious? When they realize I’m in Slytherin? I’m the 'Dark Dumbledore' to them. An anomaly. A failure." 

"You're top of the class," Draco pointed out. 

"That just makes them hate me more. If I were stupid, I’d be a pity. Because I’m smart, I’m a threat." She looked down at her hands. "Uncle Albus tries, in his way. He sends me lemon drops and vague letters about making good choices. But he looks at me and he sees... potential for darkness. Just because I wear green. But everyone fails to realize that all I care about is decent grades and watching mooncalves as dusk on the hillside from the astronomy tower. If that screams darkness, then I’m a black hole apparently." 

Draco turned his head to look at her. For the first time, he saw her not as an extension of the Headmaster, but as a mirror. 

"My father," Draco began, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, "He thinks I’m soft. He thinks I’m not... ready. For what’s coming." 

"Are you?" 

"I don't know," Draco whispered. The admission felt like treason. "I want our family to be on top. I want to be powerful. But I don't want..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the dread that pooled in his stomach whenever he saw the Dark Mark. 

"You don't want to be a soldier," YN finished for him. 

"I'm a Malfoy. We lead." 

"Leaders don't blow themselves up in empty classrooms at two in the morning," she said, but she offered him a small, genuine smile. "Here." 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small vial of chocolate. Not a chocolate frog, but actual, high-quality chocolate. She broke off a piece and handed it to him. 

"Eat. It helps with the shock." 

Draco took it. The chocolate was rich and dark, melting on his tongue. It grounded him. 

"You're not going to tell anyone about this?" Draco asked, his guard slowly inching back up. 

"That the Prince of Slytherin knocked himself out? It would make a great story," she mused. Then she shook her head. "No. I won't tell. Mutually Assured Destruction." 

"What do you have to hide?" 

"I was out of bed after curfew helping a Malfoy. If my Aunt Abernathy found out, she’d send a Howler. And I would much like to avoid that at all costs. Thanks." 

Draco let out a huff that was almost a laugh. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. The room spun less this time. He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. 

"You're decent at Healing Charms," he grudgingly admitted. 

"I'm decent at everything, Draco. Try to keep up." She stood up, brushing the dust from her robes. She extended a hand toward him. 

Draco looked at the hand. It was a pale, slender hand, offering him help. Taking it felt like crossing a line. It felt like an alliance that shouldn't exist. 

He took it. 

She pulled him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and she steadied him with a hand on his uninjured arm. They stood close for a moment, the moonlight illuminating the dust motes dancing between them. 

"You should go to the Hospital Wing for a Calming Draught," she suggested. 

"I'm fine," he straightened his shirt, regaining his composure. The mask of Draco Malfoy was sliding back into place, though it felt thinner than before. "I just need sleep." 

"Then let's go. Filch is patrolling the third floor, but if we take the staircase behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, we can cut him off." 

Draco looked at her with newfound respect. "You know the secret passages?" 

"I'm a Dumbledore," she smirked, a quintessential Slytherin expression. "I know everything about this castle." 

They walked back to the dungeons in silence, but it was a companionable silence. They moved as a unit, checking corners, listening for footsteps. When they finally reached the stone wall that hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Draco paused. 

"YN," he said. 

She turned, her hand on the wall. "Draco?" 

"About what I said... regarding your family." 

"I know," she cut him off. "And I know what my family says about yours." 

"I don't think you're a failure," he said, the words stiff but sincere. "For a blood traitor's niece, you're... acceptable." 

YN rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "High praise, coming from the Ferret." 

Draco bristled. "Do not call me that." 

"Get some sleep, Malfoy. And stop practicing volatile magic alone. Next time, if you want to blow something up... ask me. I know a better spell for it." 

She whispered the password—"Pureblood"—and the wall slid open. 

They entered the common room. It was empty now, the fire reduced to white ash. They stood there for a moment, two heirs to two very different, very heavy legacies. 

"Goodnight, Draco," she said, heading toward the girls' dormitories. 

Draco watched her go. "Night, YN." 

He walked to the boys' dormitory, his shoulder aching, his head throbbing, but his mind strangely clear. He lay in his four-poster bed, staring up at the green velvet canopy. The dread of the coming war was still there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness. The pressure from his father hadn't vanished. 

But as he closed his eyes, he realized he didn't feel quite so alone in the dark. He had an ally. A Dumbledore, of all people. 

It was a dangerous friendship. It was illogical. It was entirely contradictory to everything he had been raised to believe. 

Draco smiled into his pillow. It was exactly what he needed. 

The weeks that followed the incident in the classroom shifted into a strange, unspoken routine. To the outside world—to Potter, Weasley, and Granger—nothing had changed. Draco still sneered in the corridors, and YN still walked with her head down, books clutched to her chest, ignoring the whispers. 

But in the common room, the dynamic had altered. 

Draco would sit by the fire, and YN would occupy her usual table. Occasionally, their eyes would meet. A subtle nod. A shared look of disdain when Pansy Parkinson shrieked too loudly about the Yule Ball. 

When the Yule Ball was announced, the panic in the common room was palpable. Boys were posturing, girls were giggling in huddles. Draco, naturally, had his pick, eventually settling on Pansy simply because it was expected. 

Two days before the ball, Draco found YN in the library. She was hidden in the stacks, sandwiched between Hogwarts: A History and a pile of charms scrolls. 

"Who are you going with?" Draco asked, leaning against the bookshelf, blocking her light. 

YN didn't look up. "I'm not going." 

"It's mandatory for fourth years and above." 

"I'm going to make an appearance, drink some punch, and then leave. I don't have a date, and I don't want one." 

"Blaise was looking at you," Draco noted. 

"Blaise wants to know if I can introduce him to the Headmaster so he can ask for special permissions. I'm not a networking tool." 

Draco hummed. "Wear green." 

YN finally looked up. "Excuse me?" 

"Wear green to the ball. Emerald. It suits you. And it reminds everyone which side of the castle you belong to." 

YN studied him for a long moment. "Are you giving me fashion advice, Malfoy?" 

"I'm giving you strategic advice. If you're going to stand alone, look like a queen while you do it." 

She smiled, a small, genuine thing that didn't reach her eyes often. "I'll keep that in mind." 

On the night of the ball, Draco stood at the bottom of the staircase, Pansy clinging to his arm in her frilly pink dress. He looked bored, scanning the crowd. Then, he saw her. 

YN descended the stairs. She had taken his advice. She wore a sleek, emerald green dress that shimmered like dragon scales in the torchlight. It was elegant, understated, and undeniably Slytherin. Her hair was pulled back, revealing the sharp line of her jaw. 

People stared. Whispers broke out. Is that the Dumbledore girl? 

She walked through the crowd with her chin up, looking neither left nor right. As she passed Draco, she didn't stop, but she caught his eye. 

"Nice dress," he muttered, low enough that only she could hear. 

"Nice robes," she retorted, equally quiet. "Try not to step on Pansy's feet." 

She swept past him, heading toward the drinks table. Draco watched her go, a smirk playing on his lips. Pansy tugged on his arm. "Draco, look! Krum is here!" 

"I see him," Draco said, his attention snapping back to the present. 

Later that night, when the music was loud and the weird sisters were screaming on stage, Draco stepped out onto the balcony for air. It was snowing lightly. 

He found YN there, leaning against the stone railing, watching the white flakes fall into the dark grounds. 

"Hiding again?" he asked, joining her at the railing. 

"Observing," she corrected. "It's chaotic in there." 

"It's a nightmare," Draco agreed. He brushed a snowflake off his velvet sleeve. "Potter looks ridiculous." 

"He usually does," YN conceded. 

They stood in silence for a while, the cold biting at their cheeks. 

"My father wrote to me," Draco said quietly. "He's not happy about my grades in Transfiguration. Says I'm letting myself be distracted." 

"McGonagall is a tough grader. Especially for us." 

"He says... he says big things are coming. That I need to be ready to choose my loyalties." 

YN turned to face him. The light from the Great Hall cast a golden glow on one side of her face, leaving the other in shadow. "And where do your loyalties lie, Draco?" 

"With my family," he said automatically. 

"And if your family is wrong?" 

Draco gripped the cold stone railing. "They can't be wrong. They're my family." 

YN sighed, a puff of white mist in the cold air. " Uncle Albus says that we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy." 

"Easy for him to say," Draco spat. "He's the most powerful wizard alive." 

"Power doesn't make the choice easier. It just makes the consequences heavier." She reached out, her hand hovering over his arm before she rested it gently on his velvet sleeve. A gesture of solidarity. "You're not just a Malfoy, Draco. You're you. Don't forget that." 

Draco looked down at her hand, then up at her eyes. For a moment, the mask fell completely. He looked young, and scared, and desperate for someone to tell him it would be okay. 

"I don't know how to be anyone else," he whispered. 

"They will try to teach you to be someone completely other than you," she said firmly. "We have time. We're only fourth years." 

"Time is running out," Draco murmured, thinking of the Dark Mark, of the whispers, of the fear in his mother's eyes. 

"Then we'll make the most of it." YN pulled her hand back and shivered. "I'm freezing. I'm going back to the common room." 

"I'll come with you," Draco said instantly. "Pansy can find her own way back." 

"Scandalous," YN teased. 

"Practical," Draco corrected. 

They left the balcony together, leaving the noise of the ball behind them. As they walked down into the dungeons, the air grew colder, but the familiarity of the stone walls was comforting. 

They were Draco Malfoy and YN Dumbledore. Two opposites, two contradictions, bound by the silver and green of their house and the crushing weight of their names. 

In the darkness of the dungeon, as they parted ways for the night, Draco felt a strange sense of calm. The storm was coming—he knew it, and she knew it. The world outside was fracturing. 

But in here, in the quiet dark, he was awake. And so was she. 

"Right. Scientific. Like when you 'scientifically' observed her during Potions and melted your cauldron?" 

"That was a structural defect in the pewter." 

YN shifted. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her quill scratching furiously against a roll of parchment. She had this intense focus that was honestly a bit terrifying. It was also, unfortunately, the most attractive thing I’d ever seen. It was the challenge of it. I could make a room full of Slytherins laugh (eventually), I could charm McGonagall into reducing a detention, but YN treated my existence like a rounding error she was trying to correct. 

"She’s out of your league," George said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "She knows words with more than four syllables. She understands Arithmancy. You thought a dodecahedron was a type of dinosaur." 

"I was six!" I swatted his hand away. "And she’s not out of my league. She’s just… calibrated differently." 

"Go on then," George challenged, grinning that wicked grin that usually meant one of us was about to end up in the Hospital Wing. "Go ask her about her… I don't know, her rune translation. Dazzle her with your intellect." 

"I don't need intellect," I straightened my tie, which was currently acting as a headband, and pulled it down to my neck. "I have charisma." 

I strode out from the stacks, adopting what I hoped was a casual, confident swagger. I approached her table. She didn't look up. The scratching of the quill didn't even pause. 

I cleared my throat. Loudly. 

Nothing. 

I leaned my hip against the table, casting a shadow over her work. "Evening, YLN. Bit late for heavy lifting, isn't it? That book looks like it could crush a first year." 

YN paused. She didn't look up immediately. She carefully dotted an 'i', set her quill down, and then slowly raised her eyes. They were grey, sharp, and currently filled with a polite sort of exhaustion. 

"Weasley," she said. Her voice was cool, like the stone floor of the dungeons. "To what do I owe the pleasure of you blocking my candlelight?" 

"Just checking on the welfare of the student body," I said, grinning. "You’ve been sitting here for three hours. I was starting to worry you’d calcified." 

"I have an Ancient Runes essay due tomorrow," she said, looking back at her parchment. "Unlike some, I don't plan on inventing a sweet that makes me vomit to get out of class." 

"Puking Pastilles are a marvel of magical engineering, actually. Very complex charm work involved." 

"I'm sure," she murmured, dipping her quill again. "If you don't mind, Fred? I’m trying to calculate the semantic drift of the chaotic rune sequences in the 13th century." 

"Right," I said, faltering slightly. "Riveting stuff. Semantic drift. Chaos. Big fan of chaos, personally." 

"I've noticed." She looked at me again, her brow furrowing slightly. "Is there something you actually want? Or are you just hovering?" 

I want you to look at me like I’m not a waste of time, I thought. "Just wondering if you wanted a break," I said instead. "Kitchens? House elves are knocking up a fresh batch of tarts." 

She sighed, a small puff of air escaping her lips. For a second, her expression softened. "I can't. I really have to finish this." 

"All right," I backed off, hands raised in surrender. "Don't let me stop the drift." 

I walked back to George, who was shaking his head in mock pity. But as I turned the corner, I looked back. YN was watching me go. She held my gaze for a split second before snapping her head back to her books. 

"See?" I whispered to George. "She looked." 

"She looked annoyed, mate." 

"Reaction is reaction," I said. "I'm wearing her down." 

It took three weeks to upgrade from "annoyed glances" to "actual conversation." 

The breakthrough happened, ironically, because of a prank that went wrong. George and I were testing a prototype for a Portable Swamp in the third-floor corridor. We’d miscalculated the humidity variable, and instead of a swamp, we’d created a localized, high-velocity mudslide. 

I was currently ankle-deep in sludge, trying to vanish it before Filch arrived, when I heard a familiar sigh behind me. 

I turned around. YN was standing on the dry stone step, her Ravenclaw tie perfectly straight, looking at the disaster with a critical eye. 

"You used the wrong viscosity charm," she said flatly. 

I wiped a glob of mud from my cheek. "Did I now?" 

"Yes. You’re using a fluid-based expansion charm. For a swamp, you need a semi-solid suspension charm. Otherwise, you just get… this." She gestured to the river of muck sliding toward the trophy room. "Flowing dirt." 

I stared at her. "You know how to make a Portable Swamp?" 

"I know the theoretical arithmancy behind manipulating matter density," she corrected, stepping carefully over a puddle. She pulled out her wand. She flicked her wrist—a sharp, precise movement—and muttered an incantation I didn’t recognize. 

The mud stopped flowing. It bubbled, thickened, and then rapidly condensed into a neat, dry pile of dirt in the center of the hall. 

She tucked her wand away. "Clean up the dirt, Weasley. And check your variables next time." 

She turned to leave, her robes swishing. 

"YN!" I called out. 

She stopped. 

"That was bloody brilliant." 

She looked over her shoulder. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I know." 

That was the moment. That tiny smile. It was like seeing the sun come out in the middle of a blizzard. I was a goner. 

After that, I became a nuisance. A persistent, charming, ginger nuisance. I started sitting near her in the Great Hall, engaging her in debates about magical theory that I barely understood just to hear her talk. I walked her to classes she didn't share with me. I left prototype joke products on her desk with notes asking for "professional analysis." 

She pretended to hate it. She rolled her eyes, she sighed, she told me I was a distraction. 

But she kept the products. And she stopped telling me to leave. 

It was mid-October when things shifted from playful to... complicated. 

The war was brewing. You could feel it in the castle walls. The Daily Prophet was full of disappearances. The sky seemed permanently grey. People were scared, and scared people don't laugh as much. George and I were working overtime to keep morale up, but it was exhausting. 

I found YN in the Astronomy Tower. It was past curfew, bitterly cold, and the wind was whipping around the stone parapets. She was wrapped in a thick wool cloak, staring out at the Forbidden Forest. 

"You're going to freeze," I said, stepping out of the shadows. 

She didn't jump. She just tightened her grip on the stone railing. "I like the cold. It clears my head." 

I moved to stand beside her, leaning my elbows on the ledge. "Thinking about semantic drift again?" 

"Thinking about my parents," she said quietly. 

I went still. I knew her parents were Muggles. Dentists, or architects, or something normal and safe. "They okay?" 

"They're confused," she said. "I sent them a letter telling them I might not come home for Christmas. That it’s safer if I stay here. They don't understand why coming home is suddenly so dangerous." She looked at me, her eyes vulnerable in a way I hadn't seen before. "They don't know there’s a maniac trying to take over the world." 

"They're safer not knowing," I said softly. "Ignorance is bliss, and all that." 

"Ignorance is a variable you can't control," she countered, her voice shaking slightly. "If they don't know the danger, they can't calculate the risk. They can't protect themselves." 

"That's what you're for. And the Order. And… well, me." 

She laughed, a brittle sound. "You? You're going to protect my Muggle parents in London?" 

"I'd give it a go," I said, turning to face her fully. "I'm handy with a wand, despite what Snape says." 

She looked at me, really looked at me. The wind blew a strand of hair across her face, and without thinking, I reached out and tucked it back. 

Her breath hitched. She didn't pull away. My hand lingered on her cheek. Her skin was cold, but her eyes were burning. 

"Why do you do that?" she whispered. 

"Do what?" 

"Act like everything is a joke, but then… look at me like that." 

"Maybe because you're the only thing I take seriously," I said. The words tumbled out before I could check them for safety. It was true, though. With George, with the business, with the war—I was always performing. With YN, I just wanted to be Fred. 

She closed her eyes, leaning slightly into my hand. "Fred," she breathed. 

I leaned in. The distance between us vanished. I kissed her, and for a moment, the cold wind, the looming war, the fear—it all just stopped. She tasted like peppermint and cold air. Her hands found the lapels of my robes, pulling me closer, anchoring me. 

It was perfect. Until she pulled away. 

She stepped back, her eyes wide, hand covering her mouth. "I can't." 

"YN—" 

"No," she shook her head, backing toward the stairs. "No, this is a mistake. I can't do this. Not now." 

"Why?" I demanded, hurt flashing through me. "Because I'm a Weasley? Because I'm not smart enough?" 

"Because you're a target!" she snapped, her voice cracking. "I can't… I can't care about you, Fred. I can't have another person to lose. The probability of casualty is too high." 

She turned and ran down the spiral stairs, leaving me alone with the wind. 

She avoided me for a week. 

It was miserable. George stopped making jokes about it after day two, when he found me staring at a blank piece of parchment for an hour. "Give her space, Fred," he’d said. "She's scared. We all are." 

But I didn't want to give her space. Space was where the silence lived. Space was where she convinced herself that being alone was safer. 

I cornered her on a Tuesday, coming back from Charms. She was walking fast, head down, clutching her books like a shield. I stepped in front of her path near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. 

"Move, Fred," she said, not looking up. 

"No." 

She tried to side-step. I mirrored her. 

"Fred, I am not in the mood." 

"I don't care about the mood, YN. I care that you're treating me like a stranger because you're bad at math." 

Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "Excuse me?" 

"You heard me. You're a Ravenclaw. You're supposed to be brilliant. But you've got the equation wrong." 

"I am trying to be rational!" she hissed, looking around to ensure the corridor was empty. She dragged me by the sleeve into a small alcove behind a suit of armor. "Do you have any idea what’s happening out there? People are dying. Families are being torn apart." 

"I know!" I shouted, my voice echoing slightly. I lowered it, stepping closer, crowding her space. "I know, YN. My dad was attacked by a snake the size of a sofa last year. My brother is in Romania dealing with dragons. I know exactly what’s happening." 

"Then why are you pushing this?" Her voice trembled. "Why do you want to start something that’s doomed? If we’re together, and something happens to you… it will destroy me. I can’t afford that distraction. I need to be sharp. I need to survive." 

She placed her hands on my chest, trying to push me away. "Please, Fred. Just let it go. Find some nice Gryffindor girl who thinks your jokes are funny and doesn't overthink everything. Get rid of me." 

I grabbed her hands. I held them tight against my chest, right over my heart so she could feel how fast it was beating. 

"Is that what you think this is?" I asked, my voice rough. "You think I'm just looking for a laugh?" 

"I think you're looking for fun, and I am not fun right now. I am terrified." 

"I'm terrified too!" I admitted. "That’s the point! The world is going to hell, YN. It’s dark and it’s miserable and we might not make it to thirty. That’s exactly why I can’t stay away from you. Because when I’m with you, I’m not just waiting for the next bad thing to happen. I’m actually living." 

She looked down at our joined hands, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Fred, please. It's too hard. Just… go." 

I let go of her hands. I took a step back. 

She let out a shaky breath, looking relieved and devastated at the same time. She adjusted her bag, wiping her face. "Thank you. It’s for the best. You’ll see. In a week you’ll forget all about—" 

I didn't leave. I leaned back against the stone wall, crossed my arms, and stared at her. 

She paused, frowning. "What are you doing?" 

"Waiting." 

"Waiting for what?" 

"For you to finish talking rubbish." 

"I am not—I told you to go!" 

I pushed off the wall and took a slow step toward her. The playful glint was gone from my eyes; I knew I looked intense, maybe even a little dangerous. I wasn't the joker right now. I was a man fighting for the only thing that made sense. 

"YN," I said, locking eyes with her. "Do I look like I'm easy to get rid of?" 

She froze. The question hung in the air between us, heavy and electric. 

"I’ve spent six years blowing up toilets and turning corridors into swamps," I continued, my voice low and steady. "I’ve been sent nearly four hundred howlers by my mother and I haven't changed a bit. I’ve battled boggarts, banshees, and Merlin knows whatever else there is. I am the most stubborn, persistent, annoying bloke in this entire castle." 

I took another step. She backed up until she hit the stone wall of the alcove. 

"You think you can just calculate the odds and scare me off?" I shook my head slowly. "You think telling me it's 'dangerous' is going to make me run? You don't know me as well as you think, YLN." 

"Fred..." Her voice was a whisper. 

"I am not a variable you can cancel out," I said, placing my hands on the wall on either side of her head, boxing her in. "I’m the constant. Whether you like it or not. I am going to be here. I am going to make you laugh when you want to cry. I am going to carry your books even when you tell me not to. And if this war comes for us? I am going to stand right in front of you." 

She stared up at me, her chest heaving. The logic in her eyes was warring with something else. Something raw. 

"You're an idiot," she whispered, but there was no heat in it. 

"I'm a Gryffindor," I corrected, a small smirk returning to my lips. "Brave to the point of stupidity. And I am crazy about you." 

She looked at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, the fight went out of her. Her shoulders dropped. She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. 

"You really are impossible," she said. 

"I prefer 'tenacious'." 

"You're not going to leave me alone, are you?" 

"Not a chance." 

She reached up, grabbing the front of my robes, and yanked me down. 

This kiss wasn't like the one on the Astronomy Tower. That one was tentative. This one was desperate. It was a promise. It was an acceptance of the risk. She kissed me like she was trying to memorize me, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer as if she could merge our atoms. 

I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground, crushing her against me. I needed her to feel it—that I was solid, that I was real, that I wasn't going anywhere. 

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless. She rested her forehead against mine, her eyes closed. 

"Okay," she whispered. 

"Okay?" 

"Okay," she opened her eyes. The grey was clear now. The calculation was done. "If we're going to do this… we do it my way. No unnecessary risks. You wear the protective charms I make you. You don't go looking for trouble unless trouble finds you first." 

I grinned, brushing my thumb over her lower lip. "I can negotiate on the trouble part." 

"Fred." 

"Fine. No looking for trouble. Unless George starts it." 

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. A real smile. "I can't believe I'm dating a chaos demon." 

"You love it." 

"I'm currently evaluating the data." 

"And?" 

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me quickly, sweetly. "The data suggests I'm in trouble." 

The rest of the year was a blur of stolen moments. We found corners of the castle that even the Marauder's Map didn't seem to care about. She helped me study for my NEWTs (or at least, she tried, until I distracted her), and I helped her relax. 

I learned that YN wasn't just books and logic. She had a dry, wicked sense of humor that could cut George down in seconds. She liked sugar quills but hated chocolate frogs because she didn't like her food jumping. She had a scar on her knee from falling out of a tree when she was seven, proving she hadn't always been risk-averse. 

And she learned about me. She saw the worry I hid behind the jokes. She saw how much I feared for my family. She became the quiet space where I didn't have to be loud. 

But the war didn't stop just because we were happy. 

It was May when Dumbledore died. The castle felt different after that. colder. The safety was gone. 

We stood at the funeral, hands clasped tightly between us, hidden by the folds of her cloak. I could feel her trembling. 

"It's starting," she whispered, watching the white tomb. "The war. It's really here." 

"I know," I squeezed her hand. 

"You're going to leave," she said. It wasn't a question. "You and George. You're opening the shop. You're joining the Order." 

"Yeah," I said. "We are." 

She turned to me. Her face was pale, but her eyes were dry. "I have to go back to my parents. I have to get them into hiding. Then… I don't know." 

"You'll be safe," I said fiercely. "You're smart. You'll keep your head down." 

"And you?" she asked. "Will you keep your head down?" 

I smiled, a sad, crooked thing. "I'll try. But you know me." 

"I do." She reached up and touched my face, tracing the line of my jaw. "That's what I'm afraid of." 

"YN," I said, looking deep into her eyes. "This isn't goodbye. It's just… a change in variables." 

She let out a choked laugh. "You've been listening." 

"Always." 

"Promise me," she said, her voice intense. "Promise me you won't do anything stupidly heroic. Promise me you'll come back." 

I thought about the future. The uncertainty. The darkness waiting for us outside the gates. I thought about the joke shop, the radio broadcasts we were planning, the rebellion. It was all going to be incredibly dangerous. 

But then I looked at her. The Ravenclaw who had calculated the odds of loving me and decided to do it anyway. 

"I promise," I said. 

She hugged me then, burying her face in my chest. I held her, breathing in the scent of parchment and vanilla shampoo, engraving this moment into my memory. 

"I love you, Fred," she muffled against my robes. 

My heart hammered. It was the first time she'd said it. 

"I love you too, YN." 

She pulled back, wiping her eyes, putting her mask of calm back on. "Right. I need to go pack. I have to calculate the best route to London to avoid the Death Eater checkpoints." 

"Calculated risk," I nodded. 

She started to walk away, toward the castle. Then she stopped. She turned back, her silhouette framed against the setting sun. 

"Fred?" 

"Yeah?" 

"You were right," she called out. 

"Usually am. About what?" 

"You are incredibly hard to get rid of." 

I grinned, raising a hand in farewell. "Best get used to it, love. I'm playing the long game." 

She smiled, turned, and walked back into the castle. 

I stood there for a long time, watching the spot where she’d vanished. The war was coming. The world was falling apart. But as I walked back to find George, I felt strangely invincible. 

I had a reason to fight. I had a variable worth solving for. And hell, if Voldemort thought he could get in the way of me seeing her again, he had another thing coming.