#malfoy reader

“Don’t worry about it, Malfoy.” He scoffed back, cursing himself mentally as he already knew you were going to snitch on him. You laughed mockingly as you inspected his weak prank.

“Really? A box of fireworks to scare Finch? This is a new low, even for you.” You hummed teasingly. Fred rolled his eyes. He hated how you were always right. He could admit that this wasn’t his best idea.

“And? It’s none of your bloody business.” Fred sneered back. Now he was running out of comebacks, and prank ideas.

“Think you could do better, princess?” Fred grinned, a fiery challenge now burning in his brown eyes. You snapped your gaze back to the boy and laughed.

“I know I can.” You insisted, ignoring the tingly feeling inside of your belly at the nickname ‘princess’. You’ve always been known as the Slytherin princess, being Draco’s sister. It was just something different when Fred referenced it.

You began to fiddle with the firework box, mumbling different enchantments that leave much more of an impact in much sillier ways.

Suddenly, in the middle of you slowly forgetting the fact that you were enjoying yourself with a Weasley, you hear a deep, intimidating voice.

“Ah, if it isn’t Ms. Malfoy.” A sickening voice purred from behind the two of you. Instantly, your spine straightened, your head snapped upwards, and your cheeks flush red in embarrassment.

”How would your father react if he knew his precious daughter was pulling pranks with a red-headed Weasley?” Snape sneered at you. He could care less for Fred, he was used to deducting points from Gryffindor. You, however, were not getting left off the hook.

“N-no professor! I swear to merlin, I was just about to come to you about this. He’s trying to prank Finch! I had no involvement in this—“ You began to excuse yourself as Fred snickered beside you.

“You can further explain this in detention alongside your new friend, Malfoy.” Snape dismissed. You scoffed as you and Fred both stood, the fireworks left behind as you sullenly walked to the library.

You were utterly furious as Fred laughed beside you, completely unfazed. Clearly enjoying himself.

“Aww, sorry, princess. First time in detention?” Fred cooed mockingly as the three of you reached the library. Snape huffed. He certainly didn’t have the time to watch over the two of you.

“You’re lucky I have a meeting with the Ministry. Organize all of these shelves. I’ll be back soon, don’t do anything stupid.” Snape rumbled as he left the room, locking the two of you in the library alone together.

Fred grinned dopily as steam practically flew out of your ears.

“Ugh! You’re so annoying!” You huffed as you stormed off to the bookshelves, angrily putting them away.

“Mmm. Keep goin’, sweetheart.” Fred laughed as he followed you, leaning against the bookshelves and clearly not helping. He was relaxed. Nearly lazy. Nearly sexy.

“Please, Weasley. Keep it in your pants.” You scoffed, clearly irritated as you continued sorting the books out. Fred hummed from beside you, still not contributing.

“I don’t think you want me to, darlin’. Seems like your gaggin’ for it.” He remarked. Slowly, he stood from his lazy lounge against the bookshelf. You were nothing short of blushing, but you refused to admit it.

“Spare me. Nobody’s ‘gagging’ for whatever shrimp you’re hiding in those hand-me-down robes.” You laughed, trying desperately to flip the tables and regain control. But it was far too gone now.

“Im sure it’s bigger than your last boyfriend. Been awhile since you’ve had a real orgasm, huh, sweetheart? Probably sounded like Moanin’ Myrtle while you faked it again, and again, and again.” Fred hummed as your cheeks flushed red. You set down another book and scoffed.

“Do you ever shut up!” You weakly defended. Fred grinned wider, coming even closer to you. Applying more pressure.

“You wouldn’t have to fake it with me, darlin’.”

Heavy silence fell over the library. And for the first time all night, you had no clever quip to return with. So, you turned towards Fred, moving to push him away.

As soon as your arms extended, Fred had you in a lock. He took your hands and pinned them above your head. He moved swiftly, pinning you against the bookshelf. One of his large hands held the two of yours while his other roamed freely.

“Oh, poor thing, cat caught y’tongue?” He snickered sadistically. Unfortunately, you whined under his hold, only prompting him to continue this sweet torture.

He alternated between mocking you, and downright degrading you. And merlins fuck, it was hot.

“You’re wet. You’re wet for a fuckin’ Weasley. What would y’daddy think?” His question came out as a snarl. You had no where to run. Your arms were restrained, his hips pinned your own in place, and your knees were weak.

Not a squeak leaves your mouth. Because he’s right. You’re dripping in your knickers. It’s practically embarrassing, and for some reason, that makes you even more wet.

Suddenly, Fred is flipping you around, keeping you effectively pinned as your front is now pressed against the bookshelf.

His free hand, the one you hadn’t been paying attention to, is now gliding across your hips mischievously.

“What are y’going to do about it?” You murmured. Not confidently, not arrogantly, it’s nearly a whine. Nearly desperate.

And he chuckles.

His laugh is the last thing you hear before he one handily rips your skirt off of you. Revealing your arse to his gaze.

And suddenly, a deafening slap is being forced upon your ass. And oh, fuck. It stings. But it ignites something so deep inside of you, you moan. Whorishly.

And its silent. Deadly, silent. Embarrassment floods through your veins so hot it feels like you’re on fire.

And he laughs. The only thing that breaks the silence is his laugh as he smooths over the harsh red handprint now engraved on your bare bottom.

“Oh, you really are a slut, hmm?” He teases before delivering another smack. You whimper, subconsciously pushing your arse further into his hands, silently begging for more.

You can hear his wolfish grin.

“No… m’not a slut.” You whine, almost demanding it. Unfortunately Freds no longer convinced. He soothes over your plush blistering skin reassuringly.

“Who would’a thought Slytherin’s princess was just some naughty little whore. Desperate to be put in her place. Like a fuckin’ brat.” He growls before he smacks your ass again. Your next moan is shameless, your cunt is dripping, your nipples are pebbling through your top.

Your skin betrays you. Pliant for Fred. Your ass practically jiggles in his hand, inviting more sweet punishment.

“Are you gonna be my good girl? Gonna let me fuckin’ have you?” He hums rhetorically. Despite your pride, you nod. Desperate to be touched. Desperate for friction.

“Words, sweetheart.” He sadistically purrs. Normally, you would curse him for demanding anything out of you. But you’re in his hands now. He has the control. He has you.

“Yes, m’gonna be a good girl! S’good.” You slur mindlessly. Arousal and embarrassment collide hotly, only making your pussy pulse as he finally releases your wrists.

Now he has two hands available. Double trouble.

It’s like the quiet before the storm as he runs his hands down your body. He grips whatever he can find, he kisses your shoulder blade, as if the two of you were lovers.

But the storm always arrives no less.

His right hand, the one that had been slapping your arse, moves forward, past your hips, towards your sacredness.

The left, the one that once held your wrist, is now dealing damage.

“You sought me out… wearin’ a skirt, and no panties. What’d you think was gonna happen, love?” He murmurs mockingly as two fingers slip into your cunt and his other hand delivers a crackling smack. You whine, gushing over his hand as you grip the bookshelf for dear life.

Certainly, there is a red handprint on at least one of your asscheeks.

You’re not focused on the stinging pain from behind as his long fingers work magic in your cunt. He knows just where to touch, how to swirl, and when to curl.

“Fred,” You breathe. Overstimulated. You’re practically heady. And of course Fred finds this all so amusing. The bulge of his dick is pressed against your bare ass, his whole body and scent surrounding you, reinforcing your dizziness.

“What happened to ‘Weasley’?” He grins against the back of your neck, nipping at the skin there as he continues to lavish at your cunt.

“You’re so tight. None of those pricks knew how to stretch you, aye? How to take care of this pretty pussy.” He cooed in your ear, creating a string of moans from your lips as his other hand left your ass and cupped your clothed tits.

Luckily for you, Fred is a blabbering mess. Leaving you to incoherently moan as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m sure none of them knew how filthy you are, either. How you like to be spanked like a naughty thing.” He rasped to you. This seems to be your final straw as this sends you flying over the edge.

You nearly squirt just from his fingers. You cry out, prompting Fred to cover your mouth with his other hand as you ride out your orgasm.

He gives you time to recover as he pulls out his fingers. He sucks your sweetness off of them as you pant.

“That’s it?” You breathe. Stubborn, prideful, familiar. Something to distract the two of you from how right it feels.

Luckily that takes Fred back to his originally competitive state of mind. He’s harshly back on you.

He grabs your hair, tugging, forcing you to his mouth as he connects to your lips with a sloppy kiss. “C’mon, love.” He grins wickedly against you. “Don’t act like you weren’t droolin’ all over my hand.”

He laughs. Before you ever realize that his trousers were pulled down, you feel an angry hard tip press against your cunt from behind.

He rubs his tip up-and-down your soaked folds, teasing the both of you. Your breath hitches as you grip the bookshelf once more.

Fred Weasley is about to take you from behind. Fred Weasley just made you cum. Fred Weasley’s handprint is on your ass currently.

It ignites something primal in you.

You’re no longer the rich, Malfoy. You’re Fred Weasley’s hole to fuck.

And suddenly he’s sliding in. You moan whorishly, your back arching from his size. He’s lengthy, with a nice girth. It has your jaw wide as you moan.

He’s incredibly ‘humble’ about it as well.

“What is it, princess?” He coos, mockingly sweet. You take the bate no less. Convinced that maybe Fred will show you some sympathy.

“S’too big…” You whine, wiggling your hips as you desperately try to take him deeper. Fred cruelly laughs at your attempts before he mercilessly begins to thrust.

You gasp as he starts his pace, losing all sense of dignity as sweet noises begin to tumble out of you.

Its messy, fast, and hard. Its so Fred. He fucks like he has something to prove. His cock is so deep and long that it’s hitting unimaginable spots within you. His words completely fuel your gushing pussy’s desire. He doesn't jackhammer, he fucks.

“M-merlins, fuck… Fred! M’cant—t’much—ahh!” You babble mindlessly. You’re so close but also not close enough. You want to go longer, but holy fuck he’s making it hard to do so.

“Oh, poor thing. S’it too much? D’you want me to stop, sweetheart?” He mockingly whimpers back to you, followed by a cackle of a laugh. Unfortunately, this only makes you tighten around him. And he feels it.

His hands slide from your hips back down to the curve of your ass where he’s thrusting into you from.

“Oh you’re a picture perfect whore, aren’t you? Stuffed to the brim with cock, and taking it.” He growls, eliciting a primal moan from you as he playfully slaps your ass, entranced by the way it jiggles for him.

“No one would believe me if I told them I fucked The Malfoy princess. How she moaned for a Weasley’s cock. Beggin’ me so sweetly.” He grinned at the thought, making you whine and squeeze further around him.

You didn’t want him to degrade you. But oh, your body certainly did.

“Holy shit—Fred!” You gasp as he hits that spot. He doesn’t acknowledge it though. In fact, he slows down like the teasing shite he is, watching as you whine desperately for him as he completely stills inside of you.

“What is it that you want, eh?” He teasingly inquires. As if he doesn’t know. He wants you to say it.

You try desperately to fuck yourself against him. Your pride still swollen in your chest as you rutted tour hips backwards in search of friction.

Alas, no prevail.

“I-I need it… Fred.” You mumble, chewing on your bottom lip. You pray its enough, but deep down you know it isn’t.

“C’mon sweetheart, you can do better than that. Sing for Freddie.” He maliciously hums, nipping at the back of your ear. You can feel a hand slide up to your hair, gripping it, threatening you.

So, you sing.

“Please! Please, Fred. Need y’to fuck me like you hate me. Like a slut!” You shamefully plead. If your father ever knew you just begged to be fucked like a slut, you would surely be disowned.

But Fred’s dick pulsed inside of you with promise that made it all seem worth the embarrassment.

He laughed as he sped back up, and you knew this time, you were destined to cum.

“Filthy fuckin’ girl. Do anythin’ for my dick, eh?” He rasped as his pace grew unforgiving, building your orgasm. You can feel it in your lower abdomen. You know you won’t last.

“Oh fuck. You’re grippin’ me like a vice. Wanna cum, sweetheart? Call yourself my whore, then i’ll let you.” He demanded. You could practically hear his smirk, and it made your insides flip unnaturally.

A few more thrusts and you were convinced you would die if you didn’t cum. So, you relinquish any sense of control you had left. And, despite yourself, it felt good to submit.

“I-I’m your whore, Fred! Please, lemme cum. M’all yours!” You slurred obscenely. Fred hummed, hitting even deeper inside of you.

His hands wrapped around your body, one gripping your neck, the other covering your mouth.

“Cum for me.”

Thats all it took.

You milked him of everything he had, eliciting a guttural groan from behind you as you let go. Fred fucked you through your orgasm. When you finally finished, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He pulled out, positioned his cock, and came all over your ass.

It was dirty, and shameful. But it certainly felt good. The two of you panted in harmony as you came down from your highs together.

“Not bad, Weasley.” You panted.

It’s the start of the new term at Hogwarts, the castle still bearing scars from the battle: cracked stones patched with fresh magic and the air carrying a quiet determination. You’ve returned for your final year, one of the few children of Death Eaters who chose to come back. Draco left, vanishing with your parents, and you’ve cut ties entirely— no letters, no owls, no Malfoy name in your mouth. You’re still you: stern with a grumpy expression etched permanently, hair tied back severely, posture impeccable and unapproachable.

You sit alone at the end of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, picking at your food, ignoring the curious glances. Most students give you a wide berth; the Malfoy reputation lingers like a shadow.

Then Fred Weasley— loud as ever —strides over from the Gryffindor side, ignoring the whispers. He plops down beside you uninvited, his grin bright as your Patronus.

“Evening, Malfoy junior,” he says chipperly, piling food onto a plate like he’s at home. “Nice seeing a familiar face on this table. Thought you’d have scarpered off with the rest.”

You fix him with a cold stare. “This is the Slytherin table, Weasley. You know that, right?” You don’t mean to sound as sharp as you do.

He winks. “Details, details. Pass the pumpkin juice?”

You don’t move, but he reaches anyway, his energy a stark contrast to your rigid silence. For the first time since the war, something almost amuses you, but you hide it behind a scowl.

Weeks pass, and Fred makes it his mission to crack your frown. He appears in corridors with exaggerated bows, “accidentally” sits near you in the library (chattering about prank ideas until you snap at him to be quiet— so he whispers them instead), and even sneaks a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes prototype onto your desk: a quill that writes compliments in looping script.

You’re sat smoking outside of the Three Broomsticks one crisp evening, alone on a bench with a book, when he bounds over, two butterbeers in hand.

“Truce?” he offers one, beaming. “No pranks, promise. Just thought you could use a drink.”

You take it grudgingly, your stern facade cracking just enough to mutter, “You’re quite persistent, aren’t you?”

“And you’re secretly enjoying it,” he retorts cheerfully, sitting far too close. “Come on, admit it— one smile. For the war hero?”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches. His relentless chipperness is wearing down your walls, pulling at the spark you buried long ago.

Late one evening in the mostly empty library (you’ve taken to studying near the fire when everyone else has left), Fred finds you again. This time, he’s quieter, but still sunny.

“Alright, your majesty,” he says, settling beside you with a small box. “Made these myself— no explosions at all. Chocolate frogs with extra charm.”

You accept one, your expression mask softening as you bite into it. “Why do you bother, Weasley? I’m not… fun anymore.”

He leans in, eyes warm. “Because you’re not your family. I don’t think you want to be like them, or you would’ve left. Plus, the world’s been dark enough— time for some light, yeah?”

For once, you don’t push him away. You lean back, allowing his arm around your shoulders, a genuine (if small) laugh escaping when he tells a terrible joke.

Your fingers froze for a beat over the spot where the badge should’ve been, as if it might materialize out of sheer audacity. It did not.

A sensible person would have retraced their steps immediately. A sensible person would have asked another prefect for help.

You were a Malfoy. Sensible was what other people called you when they wanted to pretend you were predictable.

You could feel the day trying to become a disaster already, the castle humming with its usual chaos: portraits gossiping, staircases shifting, owls streaking overhead like feathery missiles. Somewhere in the Great Hall, someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere else, a suit of armour complained about its joints.

You kept your face smooth, your breathing even, and your plan simple.

Find the badge. Quietly. Before anyone noticed.

Before he noticed.

Because the last place you distinctly remembered touching it was… on prefect duty, late, weeks ago, fingers curled around the metal edge while you’d shoved it back into place with more force than necessary. The memory arrived uninvited, bright and sharp.

You and Cedric Diggory in a corridor lit by torchlight and irritation. Your voice too cold. His too calm. The argument a thing with teeth.

And then, the heat of it. The sudden, stupid, impossible tilt of the world when he’d stepped close to make a point and you’d stepped closer to refuse him, and the space between you had collapsed like it had been waiting for permission.

You remembered his breath catching. Your own hand fisting in the front of his jumper like it was a lifeline. The kiss clashing like a spell cast wrong and right at the same time.

And you remembered breaking away first, the taste of him still on your mouth, your pulse trying to climb out of your throat.

“Don’t,” you’d said, which hadn’t meant anything useful, because you hadn’t known what else to say.

Cedric had stared at you with those steady eyes, his lips parted like he had half a sentence ready and didn’t trust it yet.

Then you’d shoved past him and spent the following weeks perfecting the ancient art of avoidance.

You avoided the library when he tutored. You avoided the entrance hall when Hufflepuff came to breakfast. You avoided the Quidditch pitch so aggressively you’d nearly walked into the lake once out of spite.

You avoided him like he was a hex you refused to acknowledge.

It had worked.

Mostly.

Until your prefect badge decided to betray you.

You slid into the corridor outside the Slytherin common room with the grace of someone who had never panicked in her life, and the internal fury of someone who was currently panicking quite a lot.

The badge couldn’t have gone far. It might’ve fallen out during rounds. It might’ve snagged on a tapestry. It might’ve—

A voice, behind you, warm as a hearth you didn’t trust.

“Looking for something?”

Every muscle in your body went tight.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The castle could’ve gone silent and the torches could’ve snuffed themselves out and you’d still have recognized Cedric Diggory by the way your spine reacted like it had been insulted.

Slowly, you faced him.

He stood in the corridor like he belonged there, shoulders relaxed, school bag slung over one shoulder. Hufflepuff scarf looped around his neck, because of course he wore it as if it were an extension of his personality. He looked unfairly awake for this hour, hair still a little damp like he’d come from practice or a shower or some other wholesome activity that made you want to throw something.

His gaze flicked down, quick and assessing, then back to your face.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“Diggory,” you said, and put every bit of your bloodline into the syllables.

“Malfoy,” he returned, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You hated that too. It made him look like he knew things.

“I’m busy,” you lied.

“So am I,” he said lightly. “But here we are.”

You could’ve walked away. You should’ve walked away. You’d built an entire routine around walking away.

Instead, you found yourself rooted, like the corridor itself had decided you deserved this.

Cedric’s hand moved, and for a terrifying second you thought he was going to touch you. Your nerves flared like a warning spell.

But he only reached into his pocket.

Metal glinted.

Your prefect badge.

Your stomach dropped again, harder this time. Like the stair was not only missing but laughing.

He held it between thumb and forefinger, letting the torchlight catch the polished surface. Your name looked crisp and official. Your House crest looked smug and powerful, a symbol of your failure to control.

You kept your expression blank. “Give it to me.”

His brows lifted, mock-innocent. “Is that how you ask?”

You stared at him with the coldest disdain you could conjure.

It didn’t land the way it usually did. Cedric didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look offended. He just looked… attentive, like he’d been waiting for you to look at him for weeks and didn’t plan to waste the opportunity.

“Please,” you said flatly, because you were not about to play etiquette games in a hallway.

Cedric turned the badge once, slowly, as if considering it. “I found it near the third-floor landing.”

That meant he’d been near the third-floor landing.

That meant he might’ve been doing rounds.

That meant he might’ve been thinking about the same night you were thinking about, the same corridor, the same torches, the same—

You cut off the thought like it was poisonous, invasive to your mind’s native state.

“Give it,” you repeated, voice clipped.

Cedric didn’t move. His eyes held yours, steady, warm, infuriatingly patient. Then he said it, soft as if he were offering you a choice.

“I’ll give it back when you stop running away from me.”

You let out a short laugh that had no humour in it. “I’m not running.”

“Oh?” he said. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve been sprinting.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’ve been busy.”

“Right,” Cedric said, still calm. “Busy avoiding the Great Hall at breakfast.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Coincidence.”

“Busy taking the long way around the courtyard when I’m there.”

“Also coincidence.”

“Busy switching library tables like I’m carrying dragon pox.”

You should’ve been offended by the accuracy. You were offended by the fact he’d noticed enough to catalogue it.

“You’re imagining things,” you said.

Cedric’s mouth curved again, that almost-smile. “Maybe.”

Your fingers twitched, wanting to snatch the badge. He held it just out of reach, firmly, like he knew you’d lunge.

You tried to summon your best Malfoy composure, the one that made grown men falter. It didn’t help that your heartbeat had turned traitor.

“Diggory,” you said, low. “This isn’t funny.”

He sobered, just a fraction. “I’m not laughing.”

The corridor felt smaller. The torches seemed to lean in.

You lifted your chin. “You have no right to keep that.”

His eyes dipped briefly to the badge again, then to your collar, where it should’ve been pinned. You saw something flicker in his expression, quick and unreadable.

Then he looked back at you and said, very simply, “I do.”

Your breath caught, and you hated yourself for it.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Cedric’s voice didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to. “You lost it. I found it. I’m not handing it over so you can disappear again.”

You were not used to people talking to you like this. People either snapped back angrily or folded politely. Cedric did neither. He stood his ground like it was a natural thing.

You felt your temper flare, hot and familiar, a comfort.

“Disappear?” you echoed, scornful. “You’re not my keeper.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m not.”

He paused, eyes steady, and the quiet between you filled with everything you’d refused to say.

Then, quietly, “But I am a prefect too. And we both know you can’t do your job without that.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated the way he’d said it like it was practical, like he hadn’t just twisted the situation into a trap with velvet lining.

“What do you want?” you snapped.

Cedric’s gaze softened. “A conversation.”

Your throat went tight.

“No.”

His eyebrows rose. “No?”

“No,” you repeated, as if you could make the word into a wall.

Cedric studied you for a moment, then sighed, like you were exhausting in a way he’d expected.

“Fine,” he said, and for one glorious second you thought he might actually give in.

He stepped past you.

Your pulse leapt. “Where are you going?”

“To class,” he said, too casual. “I’ll hold onto this until you’re ready to act like an adult.”

You whirled, fury spiking. “You can’t just—”

He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes bright with the faintest hint of amusement. “Watch me.”

Then he walked away with your badge in his pocket like it belonged there.

You stood in the corridor, perfectly still, while a portrait of an old witch cackled quietly behind you as if she’d just watched a play.

You wanted to hex her too.

The first thing you did was tell yourself it didn’t matter.

It mattered.

The second thing you did was vow to retrieve it by any means necessary.

You were very good at vows.

By lunchtime, you’d devised three different strategies, each more humiliating than the last.

The problem with Cedric Diggory was that he didn’t respond to the usual weapons. You couldn’t intimidate him. You couldn’t charm him without risking it actually working. You couldn’t shame him because he seemed impervious to shame in the way that only genuinely decent people were.

And he had your badge, which was a small piece of metal and also, apparently, your entire pride.

By dinner, you’d discovered a fourth strategy: pretend you didn’t care.

This strategy lasted approximately twelve seconds.

You spotted him across the Great Hall, laughing with his friends, and your attention locked like a curse. He looked up, as if he felt it, and met your gaze.

His smile faltered into something quieter, more focused. Then he lifted his goblet in a small, almost polite salute.

You nearly snapped your fork in half.

Draco, across from you, narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” you said sharply.

He leaned closer, voice lowered. “You’re staring at Diggory like you want to stab him.”

You didn’t look away from Cedric. “I might.”

Draco huffed. “Let me.”

“No,” you said immediately.

Draco blinked at your tone. “Why not?”

Because if Draco touched this, it would become a war. A loud, messy, public war that would drag your family’s name through every corridor and land you in your mother’s owl post for the rest of the year.

Because this was already too close to something tender and dangerous.

Because if Draco interfered, Cedric might get hurt, and the thought made your chest go strange.

You set your fork down carefully. “Because I said so.”

Draco stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “You’re being weird.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed further. “If Diggory has done something—”

“He hasn’t,” you cut in, too fast.

Draco paused, then smirked slowly, like he’d smelled blood.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Your stomach clenched. “What is?”

Draco’s grin widened, maliciously delighted. “You like him.”

You went very still.

Across the hall, Cedric’s gaze stayed on you, steady as a heartbeat.

You looked back at Draco with all the frost you could muster. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Draco’s smile sharpened. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m furious.”

“That’s usually how it starts,” Draco said, smug.

You stabbed a piece of potato like it had personally betrayed you. “If you tell anyone, I’ll hex your hair off.”

Draco leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “I’m your brother.”

“Exactly,” you said. “I know your weaknesses.”

Draco snorted, then muttered, “Mum would faint.”

You pretended not to hear him.

You pretended not to feel Cedric’s eyes like warmth against your skin.

He didn’t corner you again until two days later.

You’d managed to avoid him with renewed ferocity, gliding through corridors like a ghost with a grudge. You skipped the usual route to Charms. You took staircases that threatened to change direction mid-step. You even ducked into a storage closet once to let a group of Hufflepuffs pass.

It would’ve been dignified if you hadn’t knocked over a mop.

Then, Friday evening, you stepped out of the Slytherin common room for rounds, and there he was, leaning against the wall across from the entrance like he’d been carved there.

Badge pocketed. Hands loose. Expression calm.

You froze.

Cedric pushed off the wall, slow, like he didn’t want to spook you. The thought made you bristle.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’m not,” you replied automatically.

He glanced at the hourglass in the corridor. “You are.”

You bristled harder. “I don’t answer to you.”

Cedric nodded. “Good. Because this isn’t me ordering you around.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out your badge, holding it up between two fingers again.

Your eyes tracked it like it was the snitch.

“Then what is it?” you demanded.

Cedric’s gaze moved from the badge to you. “This is me giving you an option.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m listening.”

He looked almost amused. “Are you? Because last time, you did a lot of talking and not much listening.”

You glared. “Say what you want to say, Diggory.”

Cedric’s expression shifted, the teasing edge fading. “Fine.”

He stepped closer.

Not too close. Not yet. Just enough to make you aware of the space between you. Just enough to make you remember what it felt like when there hadn’t been any space at all.

“You kissed me,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

“That’s—” you began, then stopped because there was no clever lie that didn’t sound pathetic.

Cedric’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “And then you acted like it never happened.”

Your throat went tight, anger rising to cover whatever else was trying to surface. “It was a mistake.”

Cedric’s brows lifted, just slightly. “Was it?”

“Yes.”

He waited a beat, like he was giving you a chance to convince yourself.

Then, “You didn’t look like you thought it was a mistake.”

Your pulse thundered. “You don’t know what I looked like.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked to your mouth. Back to your eyes.

“I do,” he said. It wasn’t a boast. It was a fact.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. You hated it. You hated that he could do this without even trying.

You forced your voice into something sharp. “If you’re here to make me uncomfortable, congratulations.”

Cedric’s expression softened. “I’m here because you’ve been making yourself miserable.”

You scoffed. “How noble.”

He didn’t rise to it. “It’s not noble. It’s… frustrating.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Frustrating?”

Cedric exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding in too much for too long. “Yes. Because I don’t know what you want.”

You laughed once, brittle. “I want my badge.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t humour this time. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

You stared at him, and for a moment, you saw something unguarded in his face. Not the confident captain, not the charming Hufflepuff, not the boy everyone liked.

Just Cedric. A boy standing in a corridor, holding a piece of metal like it was a bargaining chip and a lifeline.

You swallowed.

“I want you to stop,” you said, quieter than you intended.

Cedric’s eyes softened. “Stop what?”

“Stop…” You gestured vaguely, because naming it felt like stepping onto thin ice. “This.”

Cedric nodded slowly, as if considering.

Then he said, “I can’t.”

Your spine stiffened. “You can.”

“I could,” Cedric corrected. “But I won’t.”

Your anger flared again, easier than vulnerability. “Why?”

Cedric took another small step closer. The torchlight caught the gold in his hair. The Hufflepuff scarf brushed his collar. Your hands tightened into fists at your sides.

“Because it meant something,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Cedric watched you closely, as if your reaction mattered more than the words themselves.

You forced a scoff. “To you.”

Cedric’s gaze didn’t waver. “To you.”

You shook your head, sharp. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he repeated, voice quiet, certain. “Because you wouldn’t be this scared if it didn’t.”

The word hit like a slap.

Scared.

You, a Malfoy, scared of a kiss.

Your cheeks burned. “I’m not scared.”

Cedric’s mouth curved, faint and sad and infuriating. “Then why are you running?”

You opened your mouth, ready to slice him to pieces with a sentence. No words came out that didn’t sound like the truth.

You hated him for seeing it.

You hated yourself for letting him.

Cedric held the badge up again, gentle now, not teasing. “Come on.”

Your eyes snapped to it, then back to his face. “Don’t—”

“Talk to me,” Cedric said softly. “Just… talk to me.”

The corridor felt too bright. Too quiet. Like the castle itself was holding its breath.

You wanted to snatch the badge and disappear.

You wanted to stay.

Both wants collided inside you like duelling spells.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused, because anger was safer.

Cedric blinked, then let out a short laugh, surprised. “Enjoying it? Merlin, no.”

“You are,” you insisted. “You like having leverage.”

Cedric’s expression sobered. “I don’t like any part of you looking at me like I’m something you have to escape.”

Something in your chest twisted.

Cedric’s eyes softened again. “I just… I want you to stop pretending that night didn’t happen.”

You forced your chin up. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

Cedric tilted his head. “But it did.”

You stared at him.

His gaze didn’t drop. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t retreat. It was infuriating how safe he looked, standing there like your secrets didn’t scare him.

“You don’t understand,” you said finally, voice low.

Cedric’s brows knit. “Then make me.”

You almost laughed. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing is,” Cedric said. “But you’re acting like it’s impossible.”

“It is,” you snapped, then immediately regretted the word because it tasted like fear.

Cedric’s eyes sharpened. “Why?”

You swallowed. Your fingers flexed. “Because you’re… you.”

Cedric blinked, thrown off. “That’s your reason? Because I’m me?”

“You’re the Hufflepuff golden boy,” you said, bitterness and honesty tangled. “Everyone’s favourite. The castle’s perfect example of what a good student should be. You’re safe.”

Cedric’s face softened, but there was a spark of something there too. “Safe.”

You hated the way your voice wavered. “And I’m not.”

Cedric watched you for a long moment.

Then he said, very quietly, “I don’t care.”

The words didn’t sound heroic. They sounded stubborn.

Your throat tightened.

“You should,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Cedric stepped closer until he was close enough that you could smell clean soap and cold air, like he’d been outside. Close enough that your pulse turned into a siren.

His voice dropped. “Tell me to my face that you didn’t feel anything. Tell me that kiss was nothing, and I’ll give you your badge and I’ll never bother you again.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you stared at him, corridor blurred around the edges. 

You could do it. You could lie. You’d lied before. You could slice the moment clean and walk away.

But you could still feel him on your lips if you let your mind drift even a little. You could still remember the way his hand had hovered at your waist like he didn’t want to touch you without permission, even in the heat of an argument. You could still remember the way he’d looked at you afterward, stunned and hungry and careful all at once.

Your voice came out thin. “You’d leave me alone?”

Cedric’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”

You should have said it.

You didn’t.

Silence stretched, heavy with everything you weren’t brave enough to name.

Cedric’s gaze softened. “That’s what I thought.”

You snapped, because you needed control back. “Don’t act smug.”

“I’m not smug,” Cedric said, gentle. “I’m relieved.”

“Relieved?” you echoed, incredulous.

Cedric’s mouth curved faintly. “Because for a second, I thought you’d actually say it. And I didn’t want you to.”

Your breath caught, and you stared at him like he was something dangerous.

Maybe he was.

Cedric lifted the badge again and tucked it away, not cruelly, but firmly. “Come on. Rounds.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“You’re doing rounds with me tonight,” Cedric said, as if it were settled.

“I’m not,” you said instantly.

Cedric’s brows rose. “Then you’ll explain to Snape why you weren’t on duty and why your badge is missing.”

Your blood went cold.

He smiled, apologetic. “Sorry.”

You glared. “You’re not.”

“I’m a little sorry,” Cedric corrected, then his gaze softened. “Mostly I’m just tired of you avoiding me.”

You took a breath through your nose, fury and something softer fighting inside you.

Then you hissed, “Fine.”

Cedric’s smile warmed, small and real. “Good.”

You turned sharply, stalking down the corridor like you hadn’t just agreed to be trapped with Cedric Diggory for the next hour.

Behind you, you heard his footsteps fall into pace with yours. Not too close, not too far, playing a familiar game of measured patience.

Rounds with Cedric Diggory were, to your deep annoyance, not miserable.

They were worse.

They were… normal.

He checked doors, listened for noises, shooed a pair of second-years back toward their dorms with a kind warning and a promise of detention if they did it again. He didn’t preen, or brag, or act like he was above the job.

He just did it, periodically glancing at you like he was taking attendance for your mood. 

You kept your face composed, your voice sharp, your steps precise. It was exhausting.

Halfway through the second floor, you passed a window and caught your reflection: hair neat, posture perfect, expression like a carved statue.

Cedric, beside you, looked annoyingly relaxed.

“You’re quiet,” he remarked.

“I’m working,” you said.

Cedric’s mouth twitched. “You’re glaring at a suit of armour.”

“It started it.”

Cedric laughed, soft. The sound did something irritating to your chest.

You shot him a look. “Don’t.”

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Alright.”

Silence returned, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of all the words you weren’t saying, all the glances you weren’t admitting you were taking.

At the third-floor landing, your steps slowed despite yourself.

This was near where he’d said he found the badge. Near where, weeks ago, you’d argued. Near where your control had slipped like a ring off a finger.

Cedric noticed your hesitation. His voice gentled. “It was around here.”

You kept walking, stiff. “I don’t care.”

He hummed, unconvinced.

You made it to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his attempts at ballet, and your gaze snagged on a small scuff mark on the stone near the baseboard.

A memory flashed: your shoulder hitting the wall. Cedric’s hand bracing beside your head. His voice low, heated. Yours even lower, sharper.

Your breath caught.

Cedric’s voice came quietly. “You alright?”

You forced air into your lungs. “Fine.”

Cedric’s gaze held yours for a beat.

Then, without warning, he reached into his pocket.

Your pulse jumped.

He pulled out your badge.

You halted, glaring. “I thought you said—”

“I did,” he said calmly. “But I’m not a complete monster.”

He held it out.

Your fingers hovered, then stopped short.

If you took it now, you could leave. You could disappear again. You could restore your routine, your distance, your sanity.

Cedric watched you, eyes steady.

“You can take it,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to bite.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked to your mouth again, quick. “I know.”

Your cheeks heated.

You grabbed the badge sharply, more force than necessary, and pinned it to your robe with stiff fingers.

It took you a second too long because your hands were trembling just slightly.

You hated that, too.

Cedric’s eyes didn’t leave your hands. He didn’t comment. He didn’t tease. He just watched, attentive, as if the small act mattered.

When you finished, you straightened, posture perfect. “There. Happy?”

Cedric’s gaze lifted to your face. “Not really.”

Your temper sparked. “Then what do you want?”

Cedric stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest.

His voice dropped, private. “I want you to look at me like you did before you ran.”

Your heart hammered.

You scoffed, desperation pushed down. “You’re insufferable.”

Cedric’s mouth curved, faint. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” you snapped.

Cedric’s eyes warmed. “You kissed me in the middle of an argument. I’m not sure you get to call anyone insufferable.”

You glared. “You provoked me.”

Cedric’s brows lifted. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

Cedric leaned in just slightly, close enough that your breath mingled.

“What if I did?” he murmured.

Your pulse turned vicious as you forced yourself not to flinch, not to lean. “You’re playing a game,” you accused.

Cedric’s expression softened. “No.”

“Then what is this?” you demanded.

Cedric’s gaze held yours, steady and serious. “This is me not letting you pretend you didn’t want it too.”

Your throat tightened.

You hated him. You wanted him. Both truths sat side by side like they’d always belonged together.

The corridor felt too warm.

A distant clock chimed. Somewhere, a portrait yawned.

Cedric didn’t move away.

Neither did you.

Finally, you said, voice sharp because you couldn’t make it soft, “You’re going to regret this.”

Cedric’s eyes softened further. “I already regretted it.”

Your breath caught.

Cedric’s voice stayed low. “Not the kiss. The part after, where I let you walk away without saying anything.”

You stared at him, and something in you wavered.

You covered it with ice. “Then say something now.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked over your face like he was memorizing it. “Alright.”

He took a slow breath.

And then footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

You both turned as Filch appeared, lantern swinging, face pinched with suspicion. Mrs Norris prowled at his heels like a furry omen.

Filch squinted at you. “Prefects.”

“Yes,” you said crisply, relief and irritation colliding.

Filch’s eyes flicked between you and Cedric, lingering too long on the space between you. “Hmph.”

Cedric nodded politely. “Evening, Filch.”

Filch grunted and shuffled off, muttering about students and troublemakers.

When he disappeared, the corridor seemed to exhale.

You swallowed. “We should finish rounds.”

Cedric studied you for a moment. Then he nodded, like he could tell you needed the escape. “Yeah.”

You walked briskly.

You didn’t look back, but you could feel him beside you like a shadow that warmed instead of chilled.

You told yourself, afterward, that you were safe.

You had your badge. You’d done rounds. You’d survived Cedric Diggory’s stubborn persistence.

So you went back to avoiding him.

You avoided him on Saturday.

You avoided him on Sunday.

You avoided him with the dedication of someone who treated denial like an Olympic sport.

And it might have worked, too, if Cedric hadn’t developed a new weapon.

Politeness.

He started greeting you in corridors, casual and bright, like you were simply two prefects who occasionally shared duties. He started holding doors open when you passed, as if he was the kind of person who held doors open for everyone (he was, infuriatingly). He started appearing in places you frequented, never cornering, never forcing, just… there.

Like he was giving you chances, waiting for you to take just one.

It made you feel hunted and protected all at once.

By Wednesday, you were running out of excuses and patience.

By Thursday, you were running out of sleep.

And by Friday evening, you were in the prefect bathroom, staring at your own reflection, trying to convince your heart to behave.

The water in the pool shimmered, blue and still. Steam curled softly around the marble like a secret. You’d come here because it was quiet, because it felt like distance, because nobody bothered you here.

Because nobody could look at you the way Cedric did.

You were pinning your badge back onto your robe, checking the clasp twice, when the door opened.

Your spine went rigid.

Cedric’s voice carried in, gentle. “I thought you might be here.”

You turned slowly.

Of course. Of course he knew.

He stood just inside the doorway, hands raised slightly, as if proving he wasn’t here to ambush you. His hair was damp again, like he’d just come in from the pitch or the rain. His cheeks were flushed from cold air.

He looked alive in a way that made you furious.

“This is the prefect bathroom,” you said coolly. “Not your personal meeting room.”

Cedric nodded. “I know.”

“Then leave,” you ordered.

Cedric didn’t move. His gaze settled on your badge, newly pinned, as if it were a symbol of something beyond duty.

Then he looked at your face, and his expression softened.

“You’re still doing it,” he said quietly.

You bristled. “Doing what?”

“Running,” Cedric said.

You scoffed. “I’m standing still.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. “That’s not what I meant.”

You turned away, hands tightening on the edge of the sink. “I don’t have time for this.”

Cedric stepped further inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made your pulse jump.

The sound echoed in the marble room like a verdict.

You turned back sharply. “Don’t—”

Cedric’s eyes held yours, calm. “I’m not here to trap you.”

You laughed, harsh. “You’ve been trapping me for weeks.”

Cedric’s brows lifted. “Have I?”

“Yes,” you snapped. “You stole my badge, you used it to force me into rounds, you keep popping up like—like—”

“Like I’m trying,” Cedric finished quietly.

The words stole your breath.

You stared at him, throat tight.

Cedric took a slow step closer. The steam curled around him like a veil. His voice dropped.

“I’m trying because I don’t like the version of you who pretends she’s made of stone,” he said. “And I don’t like the version of me who lets you.”

Your fingers tightened around the sink. “You don’t know me.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “I know enough.”

You tried for a sneer. It came out weaker than you wanted. “You’re very confident for someone who got kissed once and decided he owned the situation.”

Cedric’s mouth curved, faint. “Once?”

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer again. Now he was within arm’s reach, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the air.

“You keep acting like that kiss was a fluke,” he said softly. “Like it was an accident.”

“It was,” you said automatically.

Cedric’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Then why are you still thinking about it?”

You froze.

Your anger flared, bright and desperate. “I’m not.”

Cedric’s voice went quieter, dangerously gentle. “You are.”

You swallowed, pulse roaring in your ears.

Cedric moved another half-step closer. His gaze dropped to the badge on your chest.

Then, slowly, his hand lifted.

Your muscles tensed instinctively. You didn’t step back. You didn’t step forward. 

You just held still, caught between pride and want.

Cedric’s fingers hovered near your collar, not touching yet. His voice was low. 

“Do you trust me?”

You scoffed, because the question was absurd. “No.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. “You’re lying.”

You glared. “I’m not.”

Cedric’s eyes warmed. “You didn’t move away.”

Your throat tightened.

He let the silence stretch, steam and water and torchlight making the room feel unreal.

Then he said softly, “Admit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Admit what?”

Cedric’s smile turned sharper, but not unkind. “You like me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

You forced a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

Cedric’s voice stayed steady. “That’s not an answer.”

You lifted your chin, fury and heat tangled. “You want an answer?”

“Yes.”

You stepped closer until your robe nearly brushed his jumper, until the space between you was a thin thread.

“And what if I do, Diggory?” you asked, voice low, daring.

Cedric’s eyes darkened, just slightly, like someone had turned down the lights inside him.

For a beat, he didn’t speak.

Then, very quietly, “Prove it.”

The words landed like a spark on parchment.

You stared at him, breath shallow.

Cedric didn’t move. He didn’t grab you. He didn’t close the gap for you. He just held your gaze, steady, giving you the choice like he always had.

It made you ache.

It made you furious.

It made you brave.

You reached up and grabbed the front of his jumper the way you had weeks ago, fisting the fabric, yanking him just close enough that his breath hit your mouth.

Cedric’s inhale was sharp, like he’d been waiting for this for days and still couldn’t quite believe it.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” you whispered.

Cedric’s hands lifted, hovering at your waist, not touching. His eyes flicked to your lips. Back to your eyes.

“Then don’t let me,” he murmured.

Your pulse snapped.

You surged forward and kissed him, self control be damned.

It was heat and frustration and all the words you’d swallowed turning into something physical, something undeniable. Your mouth crashed to his and Cedric made a sound in the back of his throat like surrender.

His hands came to your waist, firm now, like he couldn’t help himself anymore. He pulled you closer, and the contact was electric, the badge between you pressing lightly into his chest like an accusation.

You deepened the kiss, because if you were going to fall, you were going to do it properly.

Cedric kissed back like he’d been starved.

Not sloppy. Not reckless. Just intense, like he was trying to tell you a thousand things without speaking. His thumb brushed your side, a grounding touch that somehow made everything hotter.

You broke the kiss just long enough to drag in air.

Cedric didn’t let you go. His forehead dipped briefly to yours, breath shaky.

His voice was rougher than you’d ever heard it. “That… that’s what you’ve been running from?”

You swallowed, pulse wild. “Don’t make it sound ridiculous.”

Cedric’s mouth brushed the corner of yours, not quite another kiss, but close. “It’s not ridiculous.”

You glared weakly. “You’re enjoying this.”

Cedric huffed a laugh, breathless. “I’m terrified.”

You blinked.

Cedric’s eyes held yours, open and honest. “Because you’re going to bolt again.”

Your throat tightened.

You hated that he knew you so well.

You hated that he was right.

You whispered, sharp and shaken, “Then don’t let me.”

Cedric’s gaze softened like sunlight breaking through cloud. “I won’t.”

His fingers slid up, gentle now, to the badge on your chest. He touched the edge of it with reverence that made your stomach flip.

“You lost this once,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

Cedric’s hand moved to the clasp. Carefully, he unpinned it.

You stared at him, startled. “Cedric—”

He lifted the badge away, held it for a second between you like a tiny, shining symbol of all your excuses.

Then, slowly, he pinned it back onto you himself.

His fingers lingered at your collar, warm against your skin through the fabric. The kind of touch that made your whole body pay attention.

His eyes never left yours.

“Perfect,” he murmured, voice soft. “Now it’s where it belongs.”

Your breath came out shaky. “You’re unbelievably arrogant.”

Cedric’s smile was faint and tender and wicked all at once. “And you like me anyway.”

You swallowed, heart pounding.

You could deny it again. You could flee. You could turn this into a mistake and bury it under Malfoy pride and prefect duty.

But Cedric’s hands were still at your waist, his touch steady, his gaze unflinching, and you were so tired of running.

So you leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed his as you spoke.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you whispered.

Cedric’s voice was soft against your mouth. “I’ll spend the rest of the year making sure you don’t.”

Your pulse stuttered.

“You promise?” you breathed, like a challenge.

Cedric’s eyes warmed. “On my honour.”

You scoffed, but your hands tightened on him like you couldn’t let go.

“Good,” you murmured. “Because if you break it, I’ll get my brother to hex you into graduation.”

Cedric’s smile widened, and it was so bright you hated how much you wanted to live inside it.

“I’d expect nothing less,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you again.

Hotter, deeper, like he’d finally been given permission to want you out loud. Your fingers slid up into his hair, tugging, and Cedric’s hands tightened at your waist like he was anchoring you to him, like he was saying stay in a language your body understood better than your pride.

The steam curled around you like a secret the castle would never get to keep.

And for once, you didn’t run.

You kissed him like you were done pretending you didn’t want this.

Like you were done pretending you didn’t want him.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, Cedric rested his forehead against yours again, eyes half-lidded, smile soft.

“So,” he murmured. “Do I get to say it again?”

You blinked, dazed. “Say what?”

Cedric’s thumb traced your side, light and daring. “That you like me.”

Your mouth opened. No sharp retort came.

Cedric’s smile turned slow, satisfied.

You glared at him weakly, because you had to salvage something. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

Cedric’s laugh was quiet, warm. “Too late.”

You inhaled, steadying, then lifted your chin, forcing steel back into your spine.

“If anyone finds out,” you warned.

Cedric’s eyes softened. “We’ll deal with it.”

“We?” you echoed, suspicious.

Cedric smiled, sure and gentle. “We.”

Your heart did that awful, lovely thing again. 

You swallowed, then muttered, “Fine.”

Cedric’s grin widened, and he leaned in to press a kiss to the edge of your badge, right over your name, like a vow. Then he looked up at you, eyes bright, and said, very quietly, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

“Stop running.”

You stared at him, your own hope reflecting back.

“Alright,” you whispered.

Cedric’s hands tightened at your waist, and he kissed you once more, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world.

the lights glisten above your head as you make your way to the extravagant decorated room. it's stunning, really, with the warmth of christmas flooding the place, almost like it always feels warm and like home in these halls.

christmas is probably the only time of the year you feel any warmth in the malfoy house.

during that special time, it resembles hogwarts a bit and anything that resembles hogwarts ultimately feels like home.

the dress you're wearing is suprisingly comfortable, not comparable to the ones your mother normally chooses. it does fulfill two purposes at once: it looks gorgeous and elegant, while it fits your form perfectly and doesn't scratch or hurt.

the party is not in full swing yet, but a few guests are already there, talking reservedly or sipping on their champagne. the buffet isn't open yet, but you smell the delicious food offerings to where you're standing.

your eyes fall on draco, who walks closer with an unusual caring look on his face.

"mum told you to look nicer again, or what?" you asked. around these festivities draco is the only person you can speak normal with, considering your mother makes you study before speaking to guests. she would get a heart attack if she heard you speak one informal sentence during the ball.

draco shrugs, before he steps next to you. to the guests you make the perfect picture siblings, both stunning to look at, while you look like you harmonize like twins.

draco is a bit older than you, but growing up in a house like that ultimately leads you to make strong ties with the people that are caught together with you.

"no" draco finally says. he speaks slow and his voice is almost a whisper, as if he's trying not to make too much noise or dare one of the guests to come and converse with you.

you turn your head to look at him, brows furrowed. he stares straight ahead. draco normally isn't the one to hold back. he's straightforward even with unnerving topics, but this seems to even make him uncomfortable.

"theo" he eventually mutters and your hand clasps around his arm in such a hurry, like he just slapped you. draco's eyes fall on you and he looks almost scared. "he's coming"

"i thought mum said he couldn't make it?" your voice is two octaves higher than normal, begging for this to be a simple misunderstanding.

"well" draco sighs, "change of plans"

tears well up in your eyes. "draco, i can't—"

"you must" draco says, even though it seems like he's reluctant to do so. "you can't afford to mess this up"

"draco" you mutter once again, pleading.

"i'm sorry" he squeezes your hand. "you don't have to speak with him, okay? i'll take care of that. just act normal"

you nod, biting back the lump in your throat. the tears are thin and you pat them away from your face quickly. "okay"

most of the evening goes by like a gentle breeze. draco stays true to his word, taking care of the situation without you having to do anything with it.

a few times you can feel eyes gazing over your form, but you don't give into the overwhelming call to turn and look at him. you know that you can't or the night would be over.

theo isn't trying to disturb you either. he never comes closer, makes no move to talk to you and even though you can feel his eyes linger, he knows that it isn't his place. you aren't his to look at, he isn't yours to notice.

the lights and the music of the room make you feel like someone wrapped you in a massive bubble wrap, stumbling through the room and making polite conversation any time it is needed, laughing at the right times and looking down gracefully when someone compliments you.

your mother would be proud if she had the time to notice through the stress of the party.

faster than you had hoped, the thickness of the night develops into a full blown headache, drowning out the sound around you as your head practically begs for a moment of silence.

that's why you slip away at around eleven, walking up the stairs and down the hall until you reach a room no one ever visits.

the room is dark, only a small light illuminating the space. in the middle stands an abandoned piano, the one your parents had bought as soon as they had found out they were expecting a girl, hoping for you to be musically inclined.

you never developed a real interest, but through various years of teaching and practice you can play a few songs. that seems to have been enough.

you sit down on the bench in front of the piano, moving your fingers to hit a few notes that echo along the walls of the small room. the silence that follows is defeaning. it's the happiest time of the year, but you feel anything but happy.

right when you think about returning the party downstairs, the door softly opens behind you. when you turn around you expect to be met with a disapproving look on draco's face, but it's not your brother who stares back at you.

"theo" your breath hitches and for a second you're sure you're going to collapse right here on that ugly carpet. but you just look at the boy and he looks right back at you.

every unsaid word, every unfinished sentece is hanging in the air between you.

theo closes the door.

"hey" he finally says, slowly stepping closer, like he's trying not to scare you away.

"hey" you answer. another few seconds of silence settle between you, until theo clears his throat.

"i would ask how you have been.." he hesitates, before he shakes his head. "honestly i'm not sure i want to know the answer"

maybe it's just the calmness in his voice that makes you relax almost immediately, but you know it's actually the truth behind his words. you feel the exact same, fearing that anything you would've found out would have made it worse.

"come" you say, patting the bench beside you. "sit with me"

theo obliges, settling down in close proximity to you and although you feared it would, it doesn't make you uncomfortable, not even in the slightest. his presence is familiar and that makes it all the more jarring.

"that's a beautiful dress you're wearing" he compliments.

you smile slightly. "thank you" your eyes are caught by the pattern of his tie. you sigh. "that's the same tie you wore the last time we danced together"

there's an icy look in theo's eyes as he seems to remember the day of your mother's summer ball. the way your eyes had sparkled the entire night. the way you had circled around him, laughing at everything he had said. the way you had looked at him like you had never seen something better. the way you aren't looking at him like that anymore.

"sorry" you mutter, your gaze dropping away from his face and onto your fingers. "i don't know why i just said that"

"it's okay" theo assures.

you're sure he's lying.

"it's just— everything is so different suddenly" he mutters. "i don't know how to act, how to speak with you. it feels like you died"

you flinch, his words hitting you harder than expected, before you settle down, realizing that he just put into words what you had been feeling these past months. "i think i know what you mean" you admit. "it hurts so much, because i know you're still there. but you're not mine anymore and nothing happened to you, but you will never be the same again either" you pause, before you look up at him again. "not to me at least"

theo's jaw tightens, his shoulders sag, the weight of your words settling over him like a shroud.

“i guess that’s what hurts the most” he finally says, his voice barely audible. “that we’re still here, breathing the same air, but we’ll never be... us again. not even close.”

you nod, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. “it feels like grieving someone who’s standing right in front of you. like i should reach out and touch you, but there’s this... wall, and i don’t even know who put it there.”

theo looks at you then, his gaze softening, just for a moment. “maybe we both did.”

the words hang between you, heavy and undeniable. you both look away, staring at the floor, the past, the impossible distance between who you were and who you are now.

the music from the ball filters faintly through the walls, a haunting melody of what once was.

you smile through the tears, closing your eyes and breathing in the smell of the air. theo's smell. "you still smell like winter—like frost and firewood. i thought i’d forgotten."

theo freezes at your words, his breath hitching as he looks at you, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. "and you still... sound the same" he murmurs. "like you're about to laugh, even when you're crying."

you let out a quiet, bitter chuckle at that, wiping your eyes quickly. "funny how nothing changes and yet everything does, isn’t it?"

he doesn’t answer, just watches you with that unreadable expression—the same one he used to wear when he was trying to hide how much he cared.

“do you remember that night at the summer ball?” you ask softly, your voice trembling. “i thought i’d never be happier than i was in that moment. you were smiling so much, and i—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “it feels like it happened to someone else.”

theo looks away, his jaw tightening. “maybe it did. we were different back then”

the silence stretches again, the music drifting like a ghost between you. finally, he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t know how to let go of that night. of you.”

you bite your lip, holding back the sob rising in your chest. “maybe we don’t have to let go” you say, your voice trembling. “maybe we just carry it. like a scar. something that hurt, but proves it was real.”

theo’s lips curve into the faintest, most bittersweet smile. “then it will be the most beautiful scar i’ll ever bear”

you smile softly at him.

theres a few seconds of silence until his voice reaches your ears once more. "it won't be good again, we will not be good again, right?"

"no" you softly shake your head, another tear rolling over your cheek. "but we will heal from this" you mutter, your eyes crashing into his. "not yet, but... one day"

"i know" theo nodds. "i just miss what we had"

"so do i" you reply, your voice breaking as you admit it. “every day.”

theo watches you while your fingers slowly wander over the keys of the piano, playing a soft melody. the way he looks at you feels a bit like before all this happened, but you can't allow your mind to wander.

theo follows your lead, pressing a few keys too. you smile as he hits the wrong one on accident.

you lay your head to rest on his shoulder, as your hands continue to pass by each other on the piano, never truly meeting but not being too far either.

"merry christmas, theo" you mutter softly.

"merry christmas, y/n" theo smiles, his voice carrying it's usual warmth. "you were the best thing about me"

—

Her straight blond locks fell over her shoulders as she meticulously brushed her hair, part by part. The Slytherin dormitory provided her with a sizeable mirror—not as grand or as ornate as the one in her room at Malfoy Manor, but an acceptable looking glass perched atop a small, dark wood dressing table.

[y/n] Malfoy, the firstborn of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, carried a weighty legacy. Despite being female and, by tradition, barely an heir to anything substantial, she had a status to uphold. She was expected to set an example for the youngest in the family, Draco, who was two years her junior. The Malfoy lineage was strikingly consistent: father and offspring alike shared the same silver hair and sharp facial features. But their similarities went beyond appearances—personality, too, seemed an inheritance in the Malfoy bloodline.

At least, that was the consensus. Fred Weasley, however, recalled [y/n] as being somewhat kinder during her first and second years at Hogwarts. It seemed her brother’s influence had a way of souring anyone’s demeanour with his mere presence.

Not that Fred was keen to defend her. He simply believed in keeping the facts straight.

But that was a thought for another time. For now, [y/n] Malfoy was simply brushing her hair before bed.

“Do you think this year will be different?” she asked, addressing the girls in her dormitory. Her question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular.

“Whatever do you mean?” replied the darkest-haired girl in the room, her tone slightly curious.

“Last year, a student was killed,” [y/n] said, her voice thoughtful. “The school must have been horrified. Perhaps they’ll change some rules this year.” She placed her comb on the dressing table and turned to face the others, casting a final glance at her reflection. “I’m sure the parents weren’t happy.”

“Some were,” came a soft whisper from the smallest girl in the room. Petite in stature but formidable in character, she was known for her strong opinions.

The group chose to ignore the comment. It was safer not to delve into why certain parents might have approved of the tragedy. Slytherins often shared common ground, but values varied greatly from one family to another. It was only natural.

“Do you suppose they’ll add a curfew or something?” asked the dark-haired girl.

“We already have a curfew,” pointed out a blond girl seated in the corner next to [y/n].

“Really?” The dark-haired girl sounded genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Either way,” the blond girl continued, “if anything were going to change, they would’ve announced it tonight at dinner.”

“Dumbledore kind of did,” [y/n] said, tilting her head thoughtfully as she recalled the new face at the professors’ table. “When he introduced Professor Umbridge.”

“She seemed… pinkly nice,” the dark-haired girl scoffed, her tone dripping with irony as she thought of the new professor’s saccharine wardrobe.

The room filled with quiet chuckles, though no one voiced what they were all thinking: it was bound to be an interesting year at Hogwarts.

[y/n] climbed into bed, wishing more than anything for this school year to be over. Her final year at Hogwarts loomed ahead, demanding more from her than ever. There were lessons to master, exams to ace, and expectations to exceed. Perfect scores were a non-negotiable; her parents expected nothing less, and she was determined to show Draco—smug and competitive as ever—that Malfoys always set the standard.

Yet, sleep didn’t come easily that night. Her mind was restless, racing with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle. It was absurd—she always had too much on her mind, but it had never stopped her from falling asleep before. Restless and uneasy, she glanced around the room. The rhythmic breathing of her four roommates confirmed they were sound asleep. Slipping out of bed, [y/n] grabbed her dark green slippers and heavy fur-lined coat, moving silently to avoid disturbing anyone.

Once in the dimly lit corridors, she considered stopping by the underwater window in the Slytherin common room. Watching the occasional fish glide past the glass might calm her, might lull her into the drowsiness she craved—but she dismissed the idea almost immediately. She didn’t have the patience to wait for a stray creature to appear.

Instead, she wandered, her slippered feet padding softly against the cold floors of the castle. She didn’t have a destination in mind. Perhaps a long walk would tire her out, or at least give her restless thoughts somewhere else to go.

But no matter how far she walked, one thought remained rooted firmly in her mind. It was a revelation she had stumbled upon at the end of the last school year, one that haunted her more than she cared to admit. For so long, she’d managed to ignore the small signs, dismissing them with self-spun lies. “My parents are just meanies,” she would tell herself whenever their behaviour didn’t sit right. “They’re just... particular.”

The cracks in those lies began to show when she returned home last summer, the news of Cedric Diggory’s death casting a shadow over the wizarding world. Cedric’s murder, tied to whispers of the Dark Lord’s return, should have shaken her family. But their reactions were anything but expected. Narcissa had been anxious, drinking glass after glass of wine for two days straight, while Lucius, ever composed, placed a hand on [y/n]’s shoulder and said, with unnerving calm, “Don’t worry, dear. You will never be in danger.”

What followed was even more unsettling. Seven days after Cedric’s death, instead of mourning or showing respect for the boy’s memory, the Malfoys hosted a dinner party. Their carefully selected guests brought no laughter, no celebration—but neither was there grief. Instead, all [y/n] heard was frustrated murmuring: “Who failed to get the right boy?!”

That evening shattered any illusions she’d clung to. Her family—the noble, proud, and pure Malfoy line—was not simply complicit. They were part of it. Part of him. The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, had returned, and the Malfoys were among those responsible.

Her steps slowed as she reached the edge of a stairwell, her hand gripping the cool stone railing. She hated herself for not knowing sooner, for not wanting to know. But now that she did, the weight of the truth was inescapable.

She sat down on the bottom step, letting her black furry robe cascade down to the floor below. She had wandered far, at least three floors above the Slytherin common room. Here, in the stillness of the upper castle, she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed. She took out a pocket watch, old and worn, but made of white gold, rare at the time and one of the few heirlooms that she could receive as a woman. She flicked it open and checked the time: late enough that no curious professor or wandering prefect would be about.

Satisfied, [y/n] tucked the watch away and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rested her head against her knees, and finally, the tears she’d held in for so long began to fall. She cried silently, just as she’d been taught at home. No sobs, no gasping breaths—only the silent tremble of her shoulders, a skill perfected under the unspoken rules of a family where weakness was not permitted.

Fred Weasley wouldn’t have noticed her if not for the cascade of black fabric pooling at the bottom of the stairs. The dim light caught the edge of the robe, and his sharp eyes picked it out against the stone. He froze, his arm shooting out to block his twin, who was hurrying behind him.

George stumbled to a halt, confused. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed, his voice no louder than a whisper.

Fred didn’t answer. Instead, he placed a finger to his lips, signalling for silence. His eyes flicked downward, toward the shadowy figure huddled on the step below. George followed his gaze and frowned, finally spotting her.

[y/n] Malfoy.

The two brothers had plenty of questions, but haste was their greatest ally at that moment. They needed to disappear before anyone caught them in the aftermath of their latest nocturnal mischief—a botched attempt to sneak into Ravenclaw Tower and plant a stink bomb.

George looked at Fred, his brow raised in silent inquiry. Fred mouthed, “Go ahead,” and lowered the arm that had stopped his twin in his tracks. With a quick nod, George turned on his heel and slipped away, his steps as silent as a whisper against the floor.

But Fred didn’t follow. Instead, he lingered, taking a quiet step closer to the spiral staircase where [y/n] Malfoy sat hidden. The curve of the wall shielded her from view; all he could see was the edge of her dark robe spilling across the step and a glimpse of her feet, clad in green slippers.

Why was he curious? He couldn’t quite answer that, but he knew he was. He and [y/n] were in the same year and shared a handful of classes, but their interactions had been sparse and superficial. Well, unless you counted the times he and George had tried—unsuccessfully—to jinx her. No matter how clever or mischievous their spells, they never seemed to land.

Still, there was one memory that stood out, buried in the back of his mind. It was from when they were fourteen, in a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. That year’s professor had introduced the class to a boggart, and chaos had predictably ensued. Gryffindors being Gryffindors, Fred, George, and Angelina had spent most of the lesson joking and disrupting, so much so that the exasperated professor had rearranged the students, placing a Slytherin between them to restore order. That Slytherin had been [y/n].

Fred remembered her stepping up to face the boggart. She’d handled it quickly, efficiently—so quickly, in fact, that most of the class probably missed what she saw. But Fred hadn’t.

For the briefest moment, the boggart had taken the form of a man with pale hair and sharp, disdainful features: Lucius Malfoy. He hadn’t been angry or menacing. He’d simply looked... disappointed. That was all.

Fred doubted even the professor had caught the detail, and no one had said a word. “Great job, Miss Malfoy,” the teacher had praised, moving on as if nothing had happened.

Fred had been next in line. The boggart shifted into his own worst fear: poverty. The image of himself in tattered robes and empty pockets had haunted him for weeks afterward, but it was [y/n]’s boggart that lingered in his memory.

Now, standing closer to the staircase, Fred’s curiosity only grew. Why was she out here alone? Why had she been crying? The Malfoys weren’t exactly known for public displays of emotion—or for anything remotely vulnerable. Yet there she was, a small figure tucked into the shadows, her robe sprawling across the cold stone like the weight of her world.

Fred knew better than to approach her directly. He leaned slightly closer, just enough to catch a better glimpse, his curiosity warring with the knowledge that he was dangerously close to being discovered.

And still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Fred shifted his weight, leaning further toward the shadows. His breath caught for a moment, his instincts warning him to turn back. The faint scrape of his shoe against the stone echoed far louder than it should have in the silence. Fred froze, his heart leaping to his throat.

[y/n] stiffened, her head snapping up. She didn’t say anything at first, her tear-streaked face half-hidden by the folds of her robe. But then she whispered, her voice trembling and raw, “Who’s there?”

Fred didn’t answer. He held his breath, hoping against hope that she’d dismiss the sound as her imagination. Yet, the fragility in her voice made something twist in his chest—a flicker of guilt, maybe? Or pity? He didn’t know.

She turned slightly, peering into the shadows, her voice breaking as she repeated, “Who’s there?” This time, it was louder, edged with desperation, but still no answer came.

Fred should’ve left then. He should’ve melted into the darkness like George had, unseen and unnoticed. But his feet refused to move. Instead, his gaze lingered on her hunched form, her vulnerability cutting through the layers of family loyalty and Slytherin pride that normally defined her.

For a fleeting moment, he wavered. Maybe she deserved... something. A word, a gesture, anything to acknowledge that she was seen. However, the blood in her veins was steeped in a legacy of superiority and cruelty, and Fred couldn’t let himself forget that.

He clenched his jaw, his decision solidifying like ice around his chest. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. Whatever she was dealing with, it wasn’t his problem. He was Fred Weasley, a Gryffindor, a prankster, a fighter. Not a saviour for a Slytherin.

Finally, he took a step back, his movements careful and deliberate. The faintest creak of his shoe betrayed him, but he didn’t stop. 

[y/n] sat frozen, her breath hitching. She’d heard something, she was sure of it. But the silence stretched on, unbroken, save for the faint hum of the castle at night. She wiped her face hastily, her hands trembling, and forced herself to rise. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but she needed to move. To leave this place before whatever—or whoever—was lurking in the shadows revealed itself.

As she straightened, her gaze darted to the edge of the corridor. For the briefest second, she caught sight of a flicker of movement—a flash of red disappearing around the corner. Her breath caught, and her heart skipped a beat. She blinked, unsure if her tired, tear-filled eyes were playing tricks on her.

“A Weasley?” she whispered, the name barely audible. It lingered in the air for only a moment before she shook her head, dismissing the thought. Not every redhead is a Weasley, she reminded herself. Slytherin had a few, though none quite as conspicuous as that meddlesome family.

Still, her gut twisted. It felt like a Weasley. There was something about that fleeting glimpse that set her nerves on edge, a certainty she couldn’t explain. But it didn’t matter—or at least, it shouldn’t.

Her jaw tightened, and she pulled her robe closer, as if shielding herself from the thought. If it was a Weasley, she could only hope they hadn’t seen her like this. A Malfoy caught alone, out of bounds, and vulnerable? The scandal would ripple through the school faster than a firework spell gone wrong. And worse, it might reach Draco—or even her parents.

No, it was best not to dwell on it. She took a steadying breath, forcing the errant thought away. The Weasleys were nothing but trouble, always aligning themselves with chaos and rebellion. She couldn’t afford to let herself be dragged into their orbit, even accidentally.

Adjusting her posture, she turned back toward the stairwell. Whatever she had seen—or imagined—was no longer her concern.

TWO DAYS LATER

For reasons she could barely articulate, [y/n] Malfoy despised Defence Against the Dark Arts. It wasn’t just the subject itself—though she struggled with it more than she’d care to admit—but the entire ordeal of the class. Of course, no one knew this. She had ensured her parents never glimpsed so much as a hint of a subpar grade, and her classmates were none the wiser. She’d mastered the art of pretence, hiding her shortcomings behind charm and an uncanny knack for ingratiating herself with whichever professor was unlucky enough to take the position that year.

Her strategy was simple but effective: always smile, always volunteer. Clean the board, stay after hours, distribute handouts, or organize supplies—whatever needed doing, she was there to do it before the professor could even finish their request. Her fourth year, when Gilderoy Lockhart had been in charge, had been an exhausting marathon of fetching, flattering, and faking enthusiasm.

This year, however, presented an unexpected obstacle: Dolores Umbridge.

The new professor, swathed in an alarming amount of pink and armed with a sickly sweet smile, had proven frustratingly independent. [y/n] had tried to get ahead of the game, visiting the professor’s office the day before the first class.

“Thank you, dear, for the offer,” Umbridge had said, her saccharine voice dripping with false warmth as she sipped her tea. “But I shan’t need any assistance at the moment. You, children, are such a pleasure to care for, truly, and I prefer to manage things myself to ensure perfection. But rest assured, I’ll let you know if that changes.”

[y/n] had smiled politely, her stomach twisting in quiet fury as she left the office. She already hated the woman.

Umbridge’s pink walls and cat-covered plates were nauseating, but it was her demeanour that grated most. That high-pitched, syrupy tone and the way she wielded authority like a sugar-coated dagger—it was unbearable. [y/n] had spent years perfecting the art of blending in and appeasing authority figures, and now, for the first time, it felt like her carefully honed tactics had hit a wall.

With a resigned sigh, [y/n] accepted that her final year of Defence Against the Dark Arts would be a war waged on a battlefield of textbooks and long nights of study. No amount of flattery or feigned interest would get her through this class. She knew that as soon as she walked into her first lesson, hellish and eternal as it promised to be.

“Put away your wands,” Umbridge declared in her sickly sweet voice, the sound grating after mere seconds. “In this class, they won’t be necessary.”

[y/n] wasn’t the only one whose eyebrow arched confused. A quick glance around the room revealed identical expressions on almost every face. A class meant to teach defence magic that forbade the use of wands? How were students supposed to defend themselves, then?

Unintentionally, her gaze fell on the table behind hers—the one where the Weasley twins sat. Predictably, Fred and George looked less amused than bewildered. Their confusion was a rare sight; usually, they thrived on chaos. Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons, while designed to teach practical spells for protection, had often served them well as inspiration for their pranks and traps.

Now, even they seemed uncertain of how to proceed, and [y/n] couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, had realized how absurd this year’s lessons were about to become.

The atmosphere in the classroom was tense. Dolores Umbridge’s insistence had left the students more confused than enlightened. Seated at her usual place, [y/n] Malfoy folded her hands on the desk, her brow furrowed as she struggled to decipher the logic behind Umbridge’s declaration.

“You see, dears,” Umbridge began, her shrill voice cutting through the murmurs, “the Ministry’s position is that the Dark Arts are more of a historical concern than a present-day threat. Why, the idea that we must arm ourselves for combat is frightfully outdated! We shall focus on theory instead, for knowledge—not spells—is your true defence.”

Several students exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to speak. Umbridge continued, her smile growing wider, “After all, a true witch or wizard must rely on their intelligence and resourcefulness. Wands, my dear children, are not the only tools at your disposal. Often, they are unnecessary.”

That was when a Gryffindor boy, seated near the back, couldn’t contain himself any longer. “But what about when we’re attacked? Or if…” He trailed off, as if realizing he might have said too much. [y/n] glanced his way, trying to recall his name but coming up blank. All she could remember was that he was tall and had a persistent habit of speaking his mind.

Umbridge’s face remained fixed in its saccharine expression, but her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Attacked? Oh, what a dramatic imagination you have. There is no evidence to suggest you are at risk. If, however, you’re so intent on preparing for scenarios that are unlikely to occur,”—her voice turned ever so slightly sharper—“I shall give you an assignment to expand your understanding.”

She clapped her hands, the sound unnaturally loud in the stifling silence. “You will work in groups of three to research the theme: Wands Are Not Always Useful for a Wizard. Consider historical examples, theoretical arguments, and practical alternatives. This will teach you to think critically about your overreliance on magic.”

The room broke into an uproar of whispers and grumbles as students began turning to one another, quickly forming groups. [y/n] hesitated, scanning the room. As a Slytherin, she usually gravitated toward her housemates, but today, no one seemed to be looking her way. She caught sight of the girls from her room (even the one that was sharing her table, seconds before) already pulling one another, engrossed in discussion, clearly not sparing her a thought.

She waited a moment longer, hoping someone might notice her. No one did.

Just as the weight of being left out began to sink in, a deliberate, exaggerated cough drew her attention. She turned sharply to see George Weasley, sitting behind her, his hand raised to his mouth as if to stifle another “cough.” Next to him, Fred gave her a mock-innocent smile, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“Looks like someone’s in need of a group,” Fred said, leaning forward slightly.

Pairing with the Weasley twins was the last thing she’d expected. They were loud, mischievous, and Gryffindors to the core—everything she was not. But with no other options presenting themselves… she gulped.

“Is that an offer to trio up?” she asked, unsure of their waters. They could be just pranking her, in bad taste.

Fred Weasley did not think the same thing as his twin. What was George thinking? Pairing up with a stuck-up Malfoy? It wasn’t the first time the twins had disagreed on something, but this felt monumental. Sure, she was one of the top students, but she was still a Mal-bloddy-foy!

But George had set the course, and now it was too late to turn back. The invitation was practically extended, even if begrudgingly. Fred sighed and nodded, though the words tasted odd coming out of his mouth.

“Welcome to the Weasley Wizz,” he said, trying to sound natural. “Should I let Mum know we’ve got a third twin now?”

[y/n] recoiled slightly, her face twisting in mock disgust. “No, please,” she replied, her tone genuinely alarmed.

George, watching the exchange, failed miserably at hiding his laughter. The attempt to stifle it only resulted in another exaggerated cough, and the twins exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” George said, recovering just enough to sound composed, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “Should we schedule a day at the library?”

[y/n] blinked at him, then raised a dramatic hand to her chest, pretending to be deeply moved. “Wow. Will I be responsible for getting you two to set foot in the library? I might faint.”

Fred leaned on the desk, deadpan. “Actually, you can thank Umbridge for that miracle.”

She brushed off his jab with a dry laugh. “Sure. As if you’d have bothered if it weren’t for my presence. Let’s be clear—you two are going to work, or I swear I’ll skin you alive if we don’t get a good mark.”

She was right, of course, but neither twin would admit it aloud.

“Sunday afternoon, library. Don’t be late, Malfoy,” George announced, grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

“See you there,” she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

And just like that, [y/n] Malfoy found herself part of an unlikely trio—a collaboration destined to be anything but ordinary.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

The worst part about being a twin, Fred Weasley thought, was that no matter how hard he tried to keep something from George, his twin always found out. It was like having his own personal Sneakoscope shadowing him at all times. However, the best part of being a twin was that, with one raised eyebrow or a subtle wave of his hand, George would let things go—no questions asked.

Usually.

“Why are you nervous?” George asked now, drawing out each syllable like a curious cat batting at a cornered mouse.

“Nervous? Me?” Fred scoffed, furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth into a picture of exaggerated denial.

The two of them were making their way down the corridor leading to the library—a momentous occasion, as this was not just any trip but their first ever purposeful visit. Fred was sure their arrival would send Madam Pince into cardiac arrest.

George, however, wasn’t about to let the odd energy in Fred’s demeanour slide. He threw out an arm to block his brother’s path, forcing him to halt abruptly.

“Come on, spill,” George pressed, turning to face him. His expression was full of mock seriousness, though curiosity twinkled in his eyes. “Are you scared of showing [y/n] Malfoy what an absolute dunce you are?”

Fred frowned, pushing his brother’s arm down and continuing forward. “No,” he said firmly, as if the suggestion itself were offensive.

George trailed after him, undeterred. “You’ve been weird about this all day,” he said lightly, but there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice now.

Fred stopped, let out a heavy sigh, and turned to his twin. “Fine,” he muttered. “I saw her crying.”

George tilted his head, one brow raised. “Malfoy?”

Fred nodded. “Yeah. A few nights ago.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.” The word came out quickly, but there was a tinge of regret buried in Fred’s tone that George didn’t miss. “She didn’t see me.”

George hummed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. “And you’ve been stewing about it since?”

“I wasn’t stewing—” Fred started, but George raised a hand to silence him, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a knowing smirk.

“Did you see what made her cry?”

“No,” Fred admitted, his tone a little quieter now. “I don’t know why. I just… it didn’t feel right to intrude.”

George studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Fair,” he said, surprising Fred by not pressing further. But before Fred could take a breath of relief, George added, “So now we’re making up for it by dragging ourselves to the library so we can study with her. It shall be a nice, friendly gesture. Very Gryffindor of us.”

Fred rolled his eyes, though the tips of his ears turned a little red. “Oh, stop it.”

“Sure,” George teased, giving Fred’s shoulder a playful shove as they reached the library doors. “Let’s hope she’s not armed with hexes if you mess this up.”

Fred muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and together, the twins stepped into the library, their usual mischief tempered—at least for now—by the weight of an unexpectedly complicated afternoon ahead.

The library was unusually busy for a Sunday afternoon, the soft hum of murmured conversations blending with the rustle of turning pages. [y/n] Malfoy moved purposefully between the towering shelves, her fingers skimming the spines of the books as she searched for something specific. The dim light filtering through the high windows cast a golden glow over the dust motes suspended in the air.

Despite the crowd, [y/n] wasn’t distracted. Her focus remained on the task at hand, though the slight crease in her brow betrayed her growing frustration. She muttered under her breath, stepping sideways to peer at the titles on a higher shelf.

“Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy,” came a familiar voice behind her, rich with amusement.

[y/n] didn’t even flinch. She reached up to adjust a book on the shelf before glancing over her shoulder. “How fast do you think word spread that the infamous Weasley twins, who never so much as glance at a book, were spotted heading for the library?”

Fred Weasley’s grin widened as he leaned casually against the end of the shelf. “Oh, undoubtedly fast. We’re a sensation, you know. Practically Hogwarts royalty.”

“And we’ve got a reputation to maintain,” George added, appearing beside his brother. “So if you’d be so kind as to free us from this dreary establishment swiftly, we’d be much obliged.”

[y/n] let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as she turned back to her search. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Fred placed a hand over his heart in mock offence. “Insufferable, maybe. Charming, definitely.”

After another moment of searching, [y/n] finally pulled a large, dusty book from the shelf with a satisfied nod. “Found it. Come on, let’s find a table.”

She led them toward a more secluded corner of the library, weaving through the crowd with practised ease. The twins followed, Fred’s footsteps slightly heavier than George’s as he muttered something about the endless maze of books. When they reached a quiet spot tucked behind a row of ancient tomes, [y/n] set the book down on the table with a decisive thud.

“Smart choice, hiding us away like this,” George remarked, sliding into a chair. “Wouldn’t want your Slytherin friends catching you with the likes of us.”

[y/n] smirked, taking a seat opposite him. “It’s not just my friends. If anyone saw me hanging out with you two, my reputation as a Slytherin would be ruined.”

Fred’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he leaned forward. “Not just your reputation as a Slytherin. Your reputation as a Malfoy would be completely shattered.”

The lightness in [y/n]’s expression flickered, and her smile faded. She looked down at the book, her fingers brushing over its worn cover. “Let’s focus on the assignment,” she said quietly, flipping the book open.

Fred’s grin faltered. He glanced at George, who subtly shook his head, signalling to let it go. Fred leaned back in his chair, the teasing edge gone from his demeanour.

George broke the silence, tilting his head to read the title of the book. “Not exactly the first thing I’d grab for this topic. Why this one?”

[y/n]’s voice steadied as she replied, “Most people wouldn’t think of it. It’s a collection of myths and fairytales, but two of the stories are about wizards who didn’t use wands. I’ve read it before, ‘Lights and Feathers: the heroes of Ancient Europe’.”

“Ancient Europe? Sounds like something Charlie would’ve loved growing up,” Fred’s interest piqued, as he grabbed the book from [y/n]’s hands and turned it around to look at the cover.

She glanced up, curious. Fred had a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. He used to be obsessed with stuff like this,” he continued, his eyes far away, glancing at a memory. “Myths, legends, stories about magical creatures, specially in Europe. He practically lived in them when we were kids.”

“Charlie was your favourite, wasn’t he?” George grinned.

Fred didn’t hesitate. “As a kid, yeah. He was the coolest. But now?” He smirked. “My favourite brother is the one who never got born.”

George burst out laughing, earning a sharp glare from Madam Pince across the room. He quickly covered his mouth, muffling his laughter as Fred grinned triumphantly.

“You’re awful,” George said, still chuckling.

“I try,” Fred replied, his tone light. He glanced at [y/n], who was now smiling faintly, the tension from earlier easing. “So, let’s hear about these wandless wizards of yours.”

[y/n] nodded, flipping to the first marked page. As she began to explain the stories, her voice grew more confident, and the three of them leaned in, ready to delve into the peculiar world of wizarding legends.

For the next three hours, the trio was immersed in the stories from Lights and Feathers: The Heroes of Ancient Europe. The myths were as enchanting as they were peculiar, detailing feats of magic performed without wands: a wizard who commanded storms with only his voice, a healer who mended broken bones with the touch of her hands, and a peculiar alchemist who brewed potions without any visible magical aid. The twins occasionally interrupted with humorous commentary, pointing out how such abilities could make for legendary pranks, while [y/n] meticulously jotted down notes. They combed through the text, debating which details might appeal to Umbridge’s overly critical eye and which were too fantastical to be believed. By the end, the table was cluttered with pages of her elegant handwriting, yet the twins hadn’t so much as picked up a quill.

Satisfied with her work, [y/n] leaned back, stretching her fingers as she smiled at her notes. “Thanks for your help,” she said, her tone warm despite the long hours. “Even if I can only use a fraction of what we went over, this will at least make for a decent start.”

Fred, who had been idly flipping through another section of the book, glanced up and smirked. “Glad we could lend our expertise. Not every day a Malfoy thanks us, though.”

“Or anyone,” George added with a wink.

[y/n] rolled her eyes but chuckled. “Well, I do appreciate it. The stories you remembered from your brothers really added depth, even if I couldn’t use half of it.”

Fred’s gaze lingered on her as she spoke. Without her Slytherin tie or the dramatic robe trimmed with satin and fur she wore that dreadful night, she looked almost… normal. The brownish dress she wore was simple, the short sleeves revealing arms that moved with a quiet grace as she gathered her notes. But Fred noticed more than her clothes; her eyes, usually guarded and sharp, were slightly sunken, and though she smiled while discussing her plans for the essay, there was a lingering shadow of sadness in her expression—a face that had cried far too much recently.

She caught his stare and tilted her head. “What?”

Fred quickly masked his thoughts with a grin. “Just thinking how you might make the front page of The Daily Prophet if anyone saw you laughing with us.” [y/n] laughed softly, though there was a slight edge to it. Fred leaned forward, “Can’t imagine what would happen if your dear brother found out.”

For a brief moment, her smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. “Draco wouldn’t care,” she said, brushing it off. “He’s too busy trying to outshine a certain Boy Who Lived.”

George, sensing the slight tension, leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Well, since we’ve gathered enough arguments for pinky-trouble, shall we call it a successful study session?”

[y/n] nodded, neatly stacking her notes. “I’d say so. I think we’ve done enough damage to Umbridge’s peace of mind for one day.”

“Music to our ears,” Fred quipped, standing and stretching as well. “Anything else, or are we officially free of scholarly obligations?”

“No, we’re done,” she said, getting up. They followed. “Thanks again. I’ll take it from here.”