#rubiedmoon

She was nothing like her brother, Draco decided as weeks passed and the chill of autumn settled into the stone of the castle.

Harry was loud in his way—always at the center of trouble, always surrounded by Weasleys and Mudbloods and fame.

YN, though… YN was quiet, sharp. She listened more than she spoke, and when she did speak her words cut cleaner than any hex.

He’d seen it in Snape’s class, the day Longbottom nearly melted a cauldron through the table. Everyone else scrambled away from the billowing fumes, but YN calmly flicked her wand, muttered a charm under her breath, and the mess solidified into a harmless pile.

Snape’s eyes had flashed, bafflingly approving. Which was unlike him to do.

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” he had said, almost grudgingly, almost proud.

Draco had watched the corner of YN’s mouth twitch in a half-smile.

She caught him staring. Instead of looking away, she tilted her head, assessing him as if he were a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve.

Draco’s ears burned. He sneered, defaulting to instinct.

“Clever, Potter,” he drawled. “Did they teach you that in the shoebox you call a home, or was it part of your celebrity in-training course?”

A few Slytherins snickered. Harry bristled, hand going to his wand.

YN didn’t rise to it. She just gave Draco that maddeningly calm little smile, dark hair falling over one eye.

“Does it bother you,” she asked quietly, “that cleverness isn’t exclusive to your house?”

He opened his mouth, ready with some barbed retort about bloodlines and proper upbringing—then stopped.

Because she hadn’t said it with anger. She’d said it like she genuinely wanted to know. Curious. Honest. And somehow, that was worse.

Snape barked for silence, and the moment broke. But Draco kept thinking about it long after.

It really began during the first Hogsmeade weekend.

Draco had slipped away from Crabbe and Goyle, bored with their heavy-footed trailing and constant incoherent chatter. He wandered up the lane, hands shoved into his pockets, pretending he wasn’t watching the red-and-gold blur of Harry, Weasley, and Granger in the distance.

A gust of wind sent a flurry of leaves spinning off the trees, stinging his face. He squinted, turning away from the main street, following a narrower path between buildings that housed smaller, quieter shops.

That was when he saw her.

YN stood in front of a crooked little bookshop, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, hair whipping around her face. A display of secondhand spellbooks and Muggle novels was stacked in a leaning tower beside the door. She wore no hat, no gloves, just the Gryffindor scarf wrapped once—carelessly—around her neck.

She looked alone.

Draco hesitated. This was stupid. This was insane. But his feet moved forward anyway.

“Potter.”

She turned, surprise flashing through the green eyes that matched her brother’s—and yet somehow didn’t. Hers were softer at the edges, shadowed with thoughts Harry never seemed to have time for.

“Malfoy,” she answered, voice neutral. “Lost your bodyguards?”

He smirked automatically. “Bodyguards those two certainly aren’t. And maybe I got tired of tripping over their feet. What are you doing here? I thought all the Gryffindors traveled in packs. Safety in numbers and all that.”

Her gaze flicked back to the books.

“I like quiet shops,” she said simply. “Fewer people, fewer opinions.”

“Seems unlike you to avoid a crowd,” he drawled, cocking his head. “You lot live for that. House points and applause.”

YN studied him for a heartbeat, as if she were deciding whether or not he was worth the effort. She stepped aside, gesturing to the shop window.

“I guess I’m not much of the lot, am I? You’re welcome to come hide from the chaos too,” she said. “Unless your father would disown you for being seen in the only place in Hogsmeade that sells an inkling of Muggle books.”

The jab was light, almost playful. It caught him off guard.

Draco sniffed. “My father doesn’t have a say in where I buy my reading material.”

“Doesn’t he?” she asked quietly.

Her words lodged somewhere uncomfortably close to his ribs.

Before he could respond, she pushed open the door and slipped inside, the little bell above it chiming softly.

Draco stared at the wooden door for three full seconds, every part of his upbringing screaming Walk away.

He went in anyway.

The shop smelled of dust, parchment, and the faintest hint of cinnamon. Shelves loomed on all sides, packed with books in every color and size. Light slanted through narrow windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams.

YN had already disappeared into an aisle marked Charms & Curiosities. Draco followed, footsteps muffled by the worn rug.

He found her reading the back of a slim volume, thumb absently tracing the spine.

“Fond of charms, Potter?” he asked, leaning against the end of the shelf like he wasn’t absurdly out of place here.

She turned the book over, holding it out so he could see the cover. It was titled Healing the Invisible: Charms for Heart and Mind.

“I like fixing things,” she said. “Especially when everyone else decides they’re beyond repair.”

Her eyes flicked up, and for one disorienting second he felt seen.

Draco swallowed, suddenly restless. “Some things are beyond repair,” he said, trying for casual. “You can’t mend everything with a spell and a hopeful look.”

“No,” YN agreed. “But you can try. And sometimes trying is what makes the difference.”

He scoffed to cover the way his chest tightened at that. “You sound like Granger.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s rude. I’m not nearly as intense.”

He laughed—actually laughed. It startled both of them.

Her lips curved up, and something warm sparked in his veins.

It became a habit after that, without either of them ever acknowledging it.

On Hogsmeade weekends, Draco would “coincidentally” end up near that little bookshop, and YN would “just happen” to be there too. Sometimes she browsed. Sometimes she sat cross-legged on the floor between shelves, reading until her nose smudged with dust.

Sometimes they talked.

Never about her brother. Never about the Dark Lord or Dark Marks or whispers in corridors that made Draco’s stomach twist.

They talked about books. About Quidditch (she loved watching but hated playing). About how she liked the quiet hours in the common room after everyone else went to bed. About how he hated the pressure of always being watched by Slytherin eyes, measuring him against a father he hadn’t chosen.

He didn’t mean to say that last part. It simply slipped out, raw and unguarded, in a moment when the shop felt like the only place in the world that wasn’t listening.

YN didn’t laugh. She didn’t pity him, either. She just nudged his shoulder with hers, gentle.

“You’re allowed to be your own person, you know,” she murmured.

He scoffed. “That’s not how it works in my family.”

“Then rewrite the rules. You only have one life. Unless your Dumbledore. I’m only to guess he’s lived a good couple by now.”

He looked down at her—too close, too warm, too there—and something in his carefully constructed world shifted.

Outside the bookshop, though, they were enemies.

They had to be.

When Harry and Draco squared off in the corridor, wands half-drawn over some new insult, YN would step between them, a hand on her brother’s chest, her gaze flicking once—just once—to Draco’s.

He learned to read the meaning in that brief glance.

Not here.

Not now.

Please.

It infuriated him. It fascinated him. It made him feel like there were invisible strings binding them together, tugging tight when the world tried to pull them apart.

The Yule Ball changed everything.

Draco arrived with Pansy on his arm, robes immaculate, hair perfectly in place. He smirked and preened and played the part expected of him, swirling Pansy across the floor beneath floating fairy lights.

He told himself he didn’t care where YN was or who she’d come with.

Then he saw her.

She stood at the edge of the dance floor in deep emerald robes that made her eyes look impossibly bright. Her dark hair was half up, the rest spilling over her shoulders in soft waves. A tiny silver star clip glinted near her temple.

She looked like something out of a storybook—soft and fierce and utterly out of his reach.

Weasley was talking to her, gesturing wildly about something. Harry hovered nearby, casting Draco the same suspicious look he always did.

Draco’s chest squeezed, then clenched harder as Viktor Krum approached and asked YN for a dance.

She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then smiled and took his hand.

Jealousy flared hot and ugly in Draco’s throat.

Pansy tugged on his sleeve. “You’re stepping, Draco,” she hissed as he nearly trod on her foot.

He muttered an apology, but his eyes stayed fixed on YN, twirling in Krum’s arms, laughing at something the Durmstrang champion said. The expression on her face—unrestrained, unguarded—made Draco feel like someone had lit a fire under his skin.

When the song ended, he abruptly released Pansy’s hand.

“I need air,” he said tightly.

He stalked off before she could protest, slipping through clusters of students, ignoring the sting of cold winter air as he pushed through a side door and stepped into the frost-silvered courtyard.

The music inside echoed faintly, muffled by stone and snow.

Draco exhaled, frustration billowing out in a white plume.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring up at the moonlit towers, until footsteps crunched on the snow behind him.

“If you’re hiding from Pansy, I think it would have been better to go to the Astronomy tower,” a familiar voice remarked with a hint a playfulness. “She seems to be allergic to it.”

Draco turned.

YN stood in the doorway, emerald robes catching the moonlight, breath puffing in little clouds. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing, a single curl escaped near her ear.

For a moment, words abandoned him.

“If she wants to find me,” he managed, “she’ll have to look in plain sight. Which she’s not known to do.”

YN’s lips quirked. She descended the steps, her slippers barely whispering against the stone.

“I thought you would have been in there trying to be the center of attention,” she said. “Isn’t that half your personality?”

He snorted, surprised by how fond the sound came out. “And here I thought you Gryffindors didn’t believe I had one.”

“Oh, you definitely have one,” she said, stopping a few feet away. “It just tends to be obnoxious.”

His heart did that weird, inconvenient lurch again.

“So why are you out here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be basking in the glory of dancing with Krum? I hear the press adores him. Very impressive, Potter.”

She rolled her eyes. “It was a dance, Malfoy. Not a marriage proposal. Besides he wasn’t even my date. Not that I had one. I was content with just being there in a corner. But apparently Viktor and Hermione both thought it wasn’t good for me.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.

Her gaze sharpened. “Are you… jealous?”

“Of Krum?” He scoffed, lifting his chin. “Why would I be jealous of some Bulgarian who can barely string a sentence together?”

YN’s smile turned sly. She took one step closer, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Because I chose to dance with him instead of you,” she said softly.

Draco’s throat went dry. The night seemed suddenly colder and hotter all at once.

“That implies I intended to ask you,” he replied, grasping for composure. “And we both know that would’ve caused some sort of diplomatic incident. Your brother would have a stroke. Weasley might actually combust.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “Would’ve been fun to watch.”

He blinked at her, taken aback by the wicked edge in her tone. For the first time, he realized YN Potter was not simply gentle and wise and Gryffindor-soft.

There was steel under all that kindness.

“What are you doing, Potter?” he asked quietly.

She looked up at him, really looked, as snowflakes began to fall, tiny specks dusting her hair and lashes.

“I’m tired of pretending we don’t like each other,” she said. “Of acting like all those conversations in the bookshop never happen.”

Draco’s pulse hammered in his ears.

“It’s safer,” he said. “For both of us.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. “But safe doesn’t always mean right. I mean, who are we to let other people determine how we spend our days?”

Her hand lifted as if of its own accord, brushing a few snowflakes from the sleeve of his dress robes. The touch was feather-light and devastating.

“You confuse me,” he blurted.

YN laughed softly. “You confuse me.”

“That doesn’t happen to me,” he said, grasping at arrogance like a lifeline. “People don’t confuse me. They’re predictable. Self-interested. Easy to manage.”

She arched a brow, smiling. “Well, I suppose it’s an honor to be your exception.”

He huffed, trying to recover his usual swagger. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

YN’s eyes sparkled. “Too late.”

They stood there, inches apart, breath mingling in little clouds, and the world seemed to narrow down to the space between them.

“Your brother would hex me into next week if he saw us right now,” Draco said quietly.

“Or himself, because let’s be honest here, he’s got the skill but doesn’t know how to quite use it all yet.” she agreed. “But either way, he’s not here.”

“And if someone else sees?” he pressed. “A professor. A Slytherin. My father hears a whisper—”

“We’re just talking,” YN said. “You’re allowed to talk to whomever you want, Malfoy. Even me.”

Even you.

For someone who prided himself on masks and control, the simple acceptance in her voice was almost unbearable.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured.

Her gaze softened. “So are you.”

Snow gathered on the edges of the stone railing. Somewhere inside, laughter rose and fell with the music.

Draco swallowed, every choice he’d ever made crowding around him like ghosts.

“You know who my family is,” he said, the words tasting bitter. “What they’re capable of. You’ve heard the rumors.”

“I have,” she said. “But I also know who you are, Draco.”

Hearing his first name in her voice sent a shiver down his spine.

“You’re not them,” she continued. “You could be. You might choose to be. But you’re not them right now. And the Draco of right now is who I’m standing in front of.”

It was the closest anyone had ever come to offering him a different future.

He didn’t deserve it.

He wanted it anyway.

“YN…” he began, warning and plea tangled together.

She took the final step, the last sliver of distance disappearing. She rose on her toes, her hand coming to rest against his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his robes as if anchoring herself.

“I like you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Infuriatingly. Illogically. Against my better judgment.”

Draco’s heart stuttered, then roared to life.

“You shouldn’t,” he said hoarsely.

“I know.” She smiled sadly. “But I do.”

He searched her face, looking for mockery or pity or some sign this was a cruel prank. All he found was sincerity and a quiet courage that terrified him more than any Dark Mark in the sky.

“Tell me to stay away,” he said, stepping even closer. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk back inside and be the person everyone expects me to be.”

“And if I don’t?” she asked.

“Then I’m going to do something very stupid,” he admitted.

YN’s lashes fluttered, her breath catching.

“Well, you’re going to have to do the stupid thing,” she whispered. “because I don’t want you to walk away.”

The last of Draco’s resistance snapped.

He leaned down, brushing his mouth against hers in the softest, briefest kiss—more question than demand, more tremor than fire.

YN made a small, surprised sound, her fingers tightening in his robes. When he started to pull back, fear surging that he’d gone too far, she followed, closing the distance, her lips pressing more firmly to his.

The world blurred.

For a few suspended heartbeats, there was no war looming, no fathers’ expectations, no house rivalries. There were only cold night air, the taste of snow, and the Potter girl’s mouth on his, warm and sure and impossibly gentle.

When they finally broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads almost touching, breaths mingling.

“As first incredibly stupid decisions go,” YN said softly, “I’ve had worse.”

Draco huffed out a shaky laugh. “Give me time. I excel at making terrible choices.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He brushed his thumb lightly over her knuckles, hand still resting over hers on his chest.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he said, though his voice wavered on the lie.

“It changes everything,” she corrected. “Just… not all at once. Not publicly. Not yet.”

Her gaze searched his, earnest and steady.

“Can you live with that?” she asked. “Being… whatever this is, between the expectations everyone else has set up for you?”

Draco thought of his father’s cold eyes, of whispered meetings, of a dark future already laid out for him like a script he was expected to follow.

Then he thought of a small, dusty bookshop and a girl who liked fixing things others called broken.

“I don’t know how long I can live in the in between,” he said honestly.

YN nodded, accepting the truth without flinching. “Then let’s just start with tonight and see where it goes.”

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded once.

“Tonight,” he agreed.

The music swelled inside, muffled through stone. YN stepped back, fingers reluctantly slipping from his robes.

“If anyone asks,” she said, a hint of mischief returning to her eyes, “I came out here for fresh air. You, on the other hand, were brooding alone in the snow, obviously.”

He smirked. “Obviously. Very tragic.”

“Very you,” she teased.

As she turned to go, Draco reached out, catching her hand for one last stolen second. She glanced back, eyes wide and questioning.

“YN,” he said, tasting the new meaning to her name quietly for the first time. “Be careful.”

Her smile softened. “You too, Draco.”

She slipped back inside, swallowed by light and music and the familiar chaos of Hogwarts.

Draco stood in the empty courtyard, snow falling around him, heart still racing.

Nothing had changed.

Everything had.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, tipping his head back to let the snow sting his face, and for the first time in a very long while, he let himself imagine a future that wasn’t carved entirely in his father’s shadow.

Somewhere between bookshops and ballrooms, between enemy lines and stolen kisses, he’d made a choice.

That was the part that made Fred grin the widest: not the detentions, not the fame, not even the perfect test scores she racked up without breaking a sweat. It was the way that, when all the noise faded, she always saved a seat for him in the library, or let him drag her into the kitchens at midnight for secret butterbeer raids, or sat beside him in the stands at Quidditch matches—nose in a book but always there.

Today was one of those days. The Quidditch pitch was empty, save for Fred soaring lazily in the air, bat in hand, while YN sat on a blanket spread across the grass, parchment in her lap, quill scratching steadily while her Potions book lay off to the side just within her eyesight.

“Oi!” Fred shouted, circling around and swooping low. “You ever look up from that thing, YLN?”

Without looking up, she replied evenly, “Fred, I am not the one who needs to practice my aim. One more swing like that and you will have hit Harry in the back of the head with the Bludger instead of towards the other team.”

Fred grinned. “Harsh. And here I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be polite.”

YN’s quill paused. She tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze—eyes bright, mouth twitching at the corner.

“We’re supposed to be of a knowing mind, Fred. Politeness is purely optional.”

Fred laughed, the sound echoing across the pitch. He loved this. Loved her—not like George always teased him about, but in that rare, golden way when you know someone’s got your back, no matter what. In a castle full of rivalries and house points and drama, YN was Fred’s constant.

After a few more loops around the sky, Fred touched down and flopped onto the blanket beside her, broom tossed carelessly aside.

“You do know,” he said, cheek propped on one hand, “with all the knowledge you have seemingly stored within the endless halls of your brain, you could really rule the world if you wanted.”

YN glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “World domination is far too time-consuming. I have exams.”

Fred snorted. “See? That’s why we’re friends. You’ve got the brains. I’ve got the charm.”

This time, her smile bloomed for real—warm, soft, the kind that not many got to see.

“And that is to mean… what exactly?” she questioned playfully.

“Well, we’re unstoppable, of course.”

YN huffed out a laugh and shook her head, quill poised over her parchment again. “Unstoppable,” she echoed. “Fred Weasley, you can barely make it through one week without a detention.”

He gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest like she’d struck him. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I’ve gone two full weeks without one.”

“That’s because you were in the Hospital Wing with a cursed nose-biting teacup,” she pointed out without missing a beat.

Fred grinned, entirely unbothered. “Details, details.”

YN returned to her notes, but the familiar warmth of his presence at her side tugged at her focus. It always did. No matter how lofty her academic ambitions were, somehow Fred Weasley always had a way of pulling her back down to earth—and reminding her to actually enjoy it once in a while.

“Oi,” he said after a pause, softer this time, voice lacking its usual teasing lilt. “You’ve been at that for hours, YNN. Even your notes are starting to look tired.”

She blinked, glancing down at the parchment. He wasn’t wrong. Her usual elegant script had started to slope, and she’d copied the same potion ingredient twice without noticing.

With a sigh, she set her quill aside. “Suppose I lost track of time.”

Fred nudged her shoulder lightly with his own. “Come on, then. One break won’t kill you. Besides, you promised me a game of Exploding Snap, remember?”

YN gave him a sideways glance. “I believe you promised me you wouldn’t cheat this time.”

His grin turned devilish. “I would never.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Alright, maybe sometimes,” Fred admitted, laughing. “But not today. Today, it’s a fair match. Honest Weasley honor.”

She snorted. “Is that a thing?”

“Absolutely,” Fred said with a wink, already rummaging in his bag for the battered deck of cards. “But if it’ll make you feel better, you can shuffle.”

YN shook her head again and leaned back on the blanket, eyes tilting up toward the endless stretch of sky. The sun was warm on her face, the air filled with the faint scent of grass and broom polish.

The parchment let out a small pop and a puff of purple smoke. A few nearby Hufflepuffs flinched.

“Fred,” YN warned, eyeing the smoking note. “If this explodes in my face, I will feed you to the Blast-Ended Skrewts.”

“Oh, come on,” Fred said, hand over his heart. “I would never let something explode in your face. George, maybe. Percy, definitely. You? Never.”

She gave him a long-suffering look but tapped the parchment with her finger. It unfolded itself neatly, revealing glittering gold ink and several doodles of very dramatic hearts.

YN read aloud, for his benefit and, accidentally, for the benefit of the entire end of the Hufflepuff table.

“Dearest YN, light of my life, sunshine of my otherwise tragic existence in Transfiguration…” She paused and shot him a look. “Tragic existence?”

“We both know how I feel about that class,” he said. “It’s dire.”

Rolling her eyes, she continued, “‘You are hereby cordially invited to an afternoon of unparalleled romance and questionable decision-making by your charming host, Fred Gideon Weasley—’”

“It’s actually Fred ‘Absolute Catch’ Weasley now,” he cut in. “Ministry paperwork’s just delayed.”

“—this afternoon at three o’clock in the Hufflepuff common room. Please come prepared for laughter, snacks, and the potential for mild detention.’”

She snorted. “You put ‘mild detention’ on a romantic invitation?”

“It’s called honesty,” Fred said. “It’s the foundation of every healthy relationship.”

Across the table, a Hufflepuff boy muttered, “This is weirdly adorable,” and another girl sighed dreamily.

YN bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning too widely. “I don’t recall agreeing to host romantic chaos in my common room.”

Fred straightened up, adopting his most charming expression. “Is that a yes?”

She pretended to consider, tapping the parchment against her chin. “Depends. There be snacks?”

He gasped. “You wound me by the question that has already been answered for you. Of course there will be snacks.”

She laughed. “Then yes.”

He kissed the top of her head, utterly unconcerned with the stares they were getting from students and professors alike. “Brilliant. See you at three, badger.”

As he walked away toward the Gryffindor table, George called, “Did she accept her fate?”

Fred slung an arm around his twin. “She did. Which just proves my point.”

“What point?” George asked.

“That I’m irresistible,” Fred said smugly.

Across the hall, YN rolled her eyes, cheeks pink, and went back to her toast, still smiling.

The Hufflepuff common room at three o’clock was exactly as YN liked it: warm, golden, and smelling faintly of earthy plants and sugar. Sunlight filtered in through the low, round windows, spilling across the patchwork sofas and plump armchairs.

Fred stood in the middle of the room like he owned the place, hands on his hips, eyes sweeping the ceiling critically. One of her housemates must have let him in and the lot fled to either the dorm rooms or somewhere else in the castle. Beside him was a box labeled: WEASLEYS’ WILDLY SAFE (PROBABLY) ROMANCE KIT.

YN stepped through the round doorway, folding her arms. “You know, there are rules about letting Gryffindors in here.”

“Hufflepuffs are known for their kindness,” Fred said promptly. “Throwing me out after Amelia graciously let me in would be a direct insult to your entire House identity.”

“You are not nearly as charming as you think you are.”

He turned to her slowly, eyes sparkling. “And yet you’re here helplessly in love with me and my antics.”

YN opened her mouth, then shut it again, because she had, in fact, willingly walked in here at the exact time he’d requested. She narrowed her eyes. “That is debatable at times.”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. That was uncalled for. I’ll have you I am about to give you the best afternoon of your life.”

“That’s a bold statement,” she said, walking closer and eyeing the box. “What’s in there? Please tell me nothing is going to explode.”

“Nothing that will leave permanent scars,” he said cheerfully. “Probably.”

“Fred.”

He grinned, then flipped open the lid. Inside were several items arranged with surprising care: a handful of very bright, obviously enchanted roses; a small, floating tea set currently spinning slowly in midair; and what looked like a stack of enchanted cards, all of them shivering as if they wanted to scatter.

YN blinked. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Don’t be.” He pulled out a rose and presented it to her with a flourish. “Step one: flowers for my lovely girlfriend. Completely harmless.”

The rose promptly burped out a tiny puff of glitter.

“That one ate too much breakfast,” Fred said, as though this was normal. “But still harmless.”

YN accepted the glitter-burping rose, fighting a giggle. “You enchanted roses?”

“Weasley brand Romantic Roses,” he said proudly. “They change colour depending on how the recipient feels about the giver.”

She glanced down at the petals. They were a rich, warm gold with faint maroon edges, shimmering softly in the light.

“What does gold mean?” she asked.

He leaned in, studying the flower. “Gold means… hmm.” His voice dropped. “Warmth. Comfort. Happiness.” He looked at her instead of the rose now, suddenly quieter. “Means you like me in that soft, disgustingly fond way you keep trying to deny.”

Her cheeks warmed at the way he was suddenly serious. “Okay, maybe your roses work,” she admitted. “What about the maroon?”

He smirked. “Maroon means you find me devastatingly attractive.”

She snorted. “Did you make that up?”

“I would never falsify rose data,” Fred said gravely. “That would be unethical.”

She laughed, hugging the flower to her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he shot back without thinking.

YN’s heart stuttered. For a second, the room felt very quiet, like the castle itself was holding its breath.

He looked at her, and there it was—no joke, no smirk, just him, suddenly open and a little nervous.

Her chest squeezed. “I’m ridiculously in love with you too, you know.”

The rose in her hand pulsed with a glow so bright it was almost blinding, gold deepening, maroon sharpening. Fred’s jaw dropped.

He recovered quickly, of course, a slow grin spreading over his face. “Step two,” he announced, voice a little rougher. “Snacks.”

With a flick of his wand, the floating tea set zoomed to life. Cups swooped elegantly, and a teapot poured steaming tea into two mugs without spilling a drop. An empty plat floated over to the table in front of the sofa. Then out of nowhere it filled up with her favorite blueberry biscuits and pumpkin pasties.

YN’s eyes widened. “You learned food charms for me?”

He looked extremely pleased with himself. “You’re always sneaking things from the kitchen for me. Thought I’d return the favor. Also, if you tell my mother I can do this, she’ll expect me to be useful at home and that’s a dangerous precedent.”

She laughed and sank onto the sofa, tucking her legs under her. Fred flopped down beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Right then,” he said. “Step three: games.”

“Games?” she repeated, suspicious again. “What kind of games?”

He pulled out the deck of cards, which had started trying to slither away. “Weasley’s Highly Scientific Relationship Compatibility Cards.”

YN pressed her lips together. “Those sound fake.”

“They’re very official.” He coughed. “I made them this morning.”

“Uh-huh.”

He shuffled them, and several cards attempted to jump out of his hands. He glared at them until they settled, then drew the first card.

“Question One,” he announced. “When your boyfriend is about to try a potentially dangerous prank, do you: A) Stop him. B) Help him. C) Inform Madam Pomfrey you’ll be needing the hospital wing pre-warmed.”

YN pursed her lips, pretending to consider. “D) All of the above.”

Fred brightened. “Excellent answer. Shows initiative and foresight.” He flipped the card over. On the back, in messy handwriting, it read: If she chooses anything, you’re lucky, you idiot. Fred snorted. “Accurate.”

YN leaned over to read, laughing. “You wrote insults to yourself on the cards?”

“Motivational insults,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

They went through the deck, each question more absurd than the last:

“If your boyfriend gets hexed into having purple hair, you: A) Laugh. B) Laugh harder. C) Pretend you don’t know him until he bribes you with chocolate.”

“If your girlfriend bakes you biscuits and they are, against all odds, better than your mum’s, you: A) Propose. B) Propose. C) Propose.”

“Wow,” YN said, raising an eyebrow. “Subtle.”

By the time they reached the last card, they were both in stitches, leaning firmly against each other, tea forgotten on the table.

Fred drew the final card with a flourish. “Final question,” he declared. “If you could spend an afternoon anywhere in Hogwarts with your favourite person, where would you go?”

“The library,” YN said instantly.

He stared at her in mock horror. “The library?”

“Yes,” she replied smugly. “It’s quiet. Cozy. Full of books. And no chance of your products spontaneously igniting.”

“My products do not spontaneously ignite,” he protested.

“Fred, one of your roses just burped,” she said.

As if on cue, the rose in her hand emitted another tiny, glittery hiccup.

He pointed at it. “That’s charming, not dangerous.”

YN snickered. “Fine. But still the library with… you.” Her voice softened on the last word.

He relaxed, grin returning, but a little gentler this time. “Good answer. Because—and I cannot stress this enough—anywhere with you is my favorite place.”

She made a face. “That was so cheesy.”

“You love it,” he said.

“I do,” she admitted, cheeks pink.

He wiggled the last card at her. “Want to know what the official, highly scientific compatibility rating is?”

“Oh, definitely.”

He flipped the card over. It simply read: Hopelessly gone on each other. Please snog now.

YN choked on a laugh. “You did not.”

“I did,” he said proudly. “The cards have spoken, YN YLN. We must obey.”

She shook her head, still giggling. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, shifting closer so their knees touched, “you still love me.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before closing the tiny distance between them. Fred’s breath hitched, eyes flickering down to her lips.

“Cards said so,” she whispered.

“Can’t argue with that,” he murmured.

Their lips met in a soft, slightly awkward kiss that turned quickly warm and familiar, like slipping into a favorite jumper. YN’s fingers found their way into his hair, and Fred’s hand settled tentatively at her waist, pulling her just a little closer.

The rose in her lap glowed so brightly for a second that even behind her closed eyes, she saw gold.

They broke apart, both of them breathless and grinning like idiots.

“So,” Fred said, voice a bit rough, “how’s the romance rating now?”

YN looked down at the glowing rose, then up at him. “Off the charts,” she said.

He smirked. “That just proves my point.”

She smiled. “About being irresistible?”

“No,” he said, eyes soft in a way that made her stomach do a somersault. “About you being completely, utterly, unfairly in love with me.”

She poked his side. “You’re just as bad.”

“Correct,” he said.

I stepped down from the train and onto the platform, the scent of coal and damp stone wrapping around me like a memory. Hogwarts had always been the constant in my life, the one place that felt safe even when the world wasn’t. Coming back after everything that had happened—after leaving mid–term to go into hiding while rumors circled about my family, about him—felt surreal.

YN Dumbledore, they’d whispered. As if it were a crime.

My fingers toyed with the silver ring on my right hand, an old family heirloom that had once belonged to my grandmother. I’d caught more than one person staring at it, at my surname on the register, wondering what that meant. What I meant.

“Miss Dumbledore,” a cool drawl cut through the sound of students tumbling onto the platform.

My spine stiffened before I even turned. There was only one person who could make my name sound like both an insult and something unbearably interesting in the same breath.

Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, immaculate as ever in his perfectly pressed school robes. Pale hair swept back, grey eyes half-lidded with boredom—or the appearance of it. His trunk floated behind him with an effortless flick of his wand, because of course he wasn’t going to wrestle with it like everyone else.

“Mister Malfoy,” I said, aiming for neutral and landing somewhere near annoyed.

“You came back,” he said, eyes flickering over my face as if checking for something that might have changed. “I thought maybe you’d decided to stay hidden away in whatever charming cottage the Headmaster tucked you into.”

“You sound disappointed.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smirk. “On the contrary. Term was dreadfully dull without you hexing people for their muutering in the corridors.”

Heat climbed my neck. “I did not hex people.”

“You jinxed Parkinson’s eyebrows clean off her face, Dumbledore,” he reminded me. “They didn’t grow back evenly for weeks.”

“Perhaps she shouldn’t have suggested my uncle was turning students into secret weapons,” I snapped, then caught myself. My temper had always been my least Dumbledore trait.

Draco’s gaze dipped, softened for just a second. “I wasn’t complaining.”

Uncle Albus cleared his throat beside me, and I nearly jumped. I’d forgotten he was still there.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he said mildly. “I trust you had a restful summer.”

“As restful as one can have, sir,” Draco replied, slipping easily into polite mode which was odd for him towards anyone else. “Your… niece’s presence will certainly make this term more interesting.”

My cheeks flamed. “Great niece,” I muttered, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last year. “Twice removed, or something.”

“Family is family,” my uncle said serenely, his blue eyes twinkling in that infuriating way that always made me feel seen and terribly transparent. “Now, you two should head up to the carriages. I the feast will be starting soon, and I would hate for either of you to miss it on my account.”

Draco gave a short nod and turned, starting towards the dark shapes of the waiting carriages. I went to reach for my trunk, but before I could lift it, it rose gracefully into the air.

I blinked. Draco’s wand was in his hand, pointed casually over his shoulder, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“I could have got it,” I called, trotting a few steps to catch up.

“I know,” he said without looking back, his voice oddly quiet amid the noise. “Humor me.”

By the time we reached the castle, my nerves had mostly settled into a steady, humming awareness that had very little to do with the first years and everything to do with the boy at my side.

We weren’t friends. Not exactly.

It had started last year, purely by accident. A shared detention in Filch’s office, both of us fuming for entirely different reasons—me for calling out then hexing a group of Slytherins in the corridor, Draco for being caught out past curfew. We’d argued the entire time, our voices low but sharp, insults traded like spells. But somewhere around the third hour, the edge had dulled, the walls had cracked. I’d said something about the weight of expectation, about being a Dumbledore and never just… YN.

He’d gone very quiet then.

“Try being a Malfoy,” he’d said eventually, eyes fixed on the grimy floor. “Then we’ll compare notes.”

After that, we’d argued less and talked more. Not in public, of course. Publicly, we kept up the performance—him the arrogant Slytherin, me the odd, quiet girl with the too-bright surname and a talent for hexes. But in between classes, in empty classrooms and quiet corners of the library, we’d found a strange sort of truce. A shared understanding.

A shared loneliness.

Now, as we climbed the stone steps together, the candles floating overhead and the familiar scent of wax and parchment wrapping around me, something in my chest loosened.

Home.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until I was standing here again, my shoulder brushing his for just a moment too long as we stepped into the Great Hall.

The ceiling was its usual marvel, a reflection of the twilight sky outside, streaks of deep blue and faint stars. Long tables, house banners, the buzz of hundreds of conversations layered over one another. I caught glimpses of familiar faces—Luna’s dreamy smile at the Ravenclaw table, Harry Potter’s messy dark hair bent towards Ron and Hermione.

And at the center of it all, my uncle at the staff table, watching with that knowing, infuriating fondness.

“Are you going to stand here gawping, or are you going to go sit with your fellow eagle-eyed academics?” Draco murmured, sending a sidelong glance down at me. “You’re clogging up the aisle, Dumbledore.”

“You’re one to talk,” I shot back, but my voice came out softer than I intended. “Shouldn’t you be terrorizing first years or something? Maintaining the Malfoy reputation?”

“Tempting.” His eyes lingered on my face, and I felt the weight of his attention like a touch. “But I find myself… otherwise occupied.”

My breath caught.

Someone bumped into me from behind, jolting me forward. Draco’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist to steady me. For a heartbeat, the noise of the hall faded, everything narrowing to the warmth of his skin against mine, the faint smell of his cologne—clean, sharp, something like pine and smoke.

“You all right?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded, though it took a moment for my brain to remember how to move. “Yeah. Just… crowded.”

His thumb brushed my pulse before he seemed to realize he was still holding me. He let go too quickly, stuffing his hand into his pocket with forced nonchalance.

“Ravenclaw table for you,” he said, clearing his throat. “Slytherin for me. Try not to hex too many people at dinner, Dumbledore. I’d hate to see you banned from dessert your first night back.”

“I make no promises,” I said, but there was a smile tugging at my lips.

I slipped away, the crowd swallowing me up, but I could feel his gaze on my back long after I’d taken my place at the Ravenclaw table.

The feast was a blur of pumpkin juice and roast potatoes and catching up with friends who seemed suddenly smaller compared to everything outside these walls. People asked where I’d been, why I’d left so abruptly last year, if the rumors about my family were true.

I dodged as many questions as I could, offered vague answers when I couldn’t. “Family matter.” “Safety concern.” “Temporary arrangement.”

No one asked the question I feared most: Are you safe now?

Because I wasn’t entirely sure of the answer. I’m Uncle Albus did. I’d like to believe he wouldn’t have allowed me to return if I wasn’t.

When the last pudding vanished and students began filing out of the hall, I felt the weight of the day pressing down over my shoulders. I murmured goodnights, promising I’d unpack later, that I was just going to take a quick walk to clear my head.

The castle at night was quieter, softer. Tapestries shifted in the torchlight, portraits muttered among themselves. I wandered without much thought, feet following paths I’d walked a thousand times before, until I found myself in one of the less-traveled corridors in the dungeons.

I wasn’t alone.

Draco stood at the far end of the corridor, leaning against the stone wall, arms folded. He looked… tired. Not in the dramatic, put-upon way he often did at school, but truly exhausted, shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there last year.

“I thought you’d gone to your common room,” I said quietly, the sound of my voice oddly loud in the empty hallway.

He straightened, one eyebrow arching. “And miss the opportunity to run into you on your normal first night back evening walk? Don’t be ridiculous.”

I walked closer, the sound of my footsteps echoing between us. “You following me, Malfoy?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, but the retort lacked heat. “I come here to be alone.”

“Funny,” I said. “So do I.”

We stood a few feet apart, the silence stretching. For once, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… full.

“How was it?” he asked at last, eyes on the floor rather than my face. “Being away.”

Strange, I wanted to say. Lonely. Like being packed away with secrets and dusty old heirlooms.

“Quiet,” I settled on. “Too quiet. I kind of missed the noise. The chaos. The feeling that something was always about to happen.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Welcome back to the circus, then.”

I leaned against the opposite wall, mirroring his stance, my fingers tracing the rough stone. “What about you? How was your summer?”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then: “Loud. And quiet in all the wrong ways.” He paused, searching for words. “Too many expectations. Not enough choices.”

I met his gaze. “We really should write a book. The Guide to Disappointing Your Families.”

He snorted, and the sound tugged something warm in my chest. “It would be banned in at least three countries before publication.”

“And a bestseller in the rest.”

We smiled at each other then, real smiles, the kind that made the distance between us feel smaller.

His eyes flickered to the ring on my hand. “He kept you away for your safety, didn’t they?” he asked softly.

I swallowed. “He thought it would help. Keep me off the ministry’s radar. Keep people from speculating about what my uncle might do with me. Whether he’d use me as some sort of pawn. Which he would never do. He’s got a strategy, I’m sure. But Uncle Albus would never use me for it without my permission.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “People like that are idiots.”

“Careful,” I said. “You might lose your membership to the Rumor Club.”

He rolled his eyes. “Please. Half of its members can’t tell the difference between fact and what their parents rant about at dinner.”

There was a fierceness in his voice, a quiet rebellion that made my heart skip.

“Why do you care?” I asked before I could stop myself. “About what they say. About… me.”

He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked him directly. His eyes darted away, then back, as if he were making some internal choice.

“Because I know what it’s like,” he said finally, each word deliberate. “To be a name first and a person second. To have people decide who you are before you even open your mouth.”

His gaze caught mine, and I felt pinned in place.

“And,” he added, his voice dropping lower, “because you’re not what they say you are. You never have been. The only thing you really care for is your studies. Which, if you ask me, for you is a form of self-harm and self-preservation all at once.”

The air between us crackled. I suddenly became very aware of how close we were, how the corridor seemed to narrow as he pushed off the wall and took a slow step towards me.

“Draco…” I said, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His hand lifted, hovering near my cheek, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

“You don’t have to be afraid to be here And before you say anything, I know you are,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be afraid of them. Not of what they think. Not of… me.”

My breath hitched. “I’m not afraid of you.”

A faint smile curved his lips. “Good.”

His fingers brushed a stray piece of hair behind my ear, slow and reverent in a way that made my stomach flip. No one had ever touched me like that before—as if I were fragile and dangerous all at once.

“Hogwarts is your home as much as anyone’s,” he murmured. “More, probably. You walk around here like you know every stone by name.”

I swallowed past the sudden tightness in my throat. I hadn’t realized how desperately I needed to hear that until he said it.

“I’ve spent so long feeling like I’m taking up space that belongs to someone else,” I admitted, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “Like I’m borrowing my uncle’s legacy and everyone’s just… waiting to see what I do with it.”

Draco’s eyes softened. “You’re not him and you don’t have to try to be.”

“I know.” I looked down at my hands, twisting the ring. “But sometimes it feels like I’m expected to be. Or to prove I’m not. There’s no in-between.”

His knuckles brushed my chin, nudging it up until I had to look at him again. “Don’t be what they want you to be. Be you.” He smirked faintly. “Infuriatingly stubborn, quick with a hex, smarter than half the professors, annoyingly kind… just you.”

Heat flooded my face. “You seem to pay more attention than you pretend to.”

“I pay attention to things that matter,” he said simply.

The world seemed to narrow to the space between us. His hand slipped from my cheek to the wall beside my head, caging me in without actually touching, while his other hand found mine where it rested at my side. Our fingers brushed, hesitated, then laced together as if it had always been meant to happen that way.

“I thought about you,” he said, so quietly I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. “Over the summer.”

My heart lurched. “You did?”

He gave a tiny, almost self-conscious shrug. “Don’t look so shocked. You’re difficult to forget.”

My laugh came out breathless. “You’re not exactly forgettable either, Malfoy.”

His eyes searched mine, and something unspoken passed between us. This could still be a joke. Banter. An almost.

I didn’t want it to be an almost anymore.

Carefully, as if testing a spell, I squeezed his hand. “I thought about you too,” I admitted. “More than I’d like to admit.”

Something in his expression cracked open, letting through a warmth I’d only glimpsed in stolen moments before. It made him look younger. Softer. More… real.

He stepped closer, closing the last sliver of distance. “YN…”

“Yes?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen this year,” he said, honesty threading through his tone in a way that made my chest ache. “There’s… a lot going on. Things I can’t talk about.” His grip on my hand tightened slightly. “But I know that when I saw you on that platform tonight, I felt—”

He hesitated, as if choosing his next words with ridiculous care.

“—relieved,” he finished finally. “Like maybe it won’t be completely awful. Because you’re here.”

For a Malfoy, it was practically a declaration.

Emotion swelled in my chest so big, so sudden, it almost hurt. I looked up at him, at the boy everyone thought they knew—cold, arrogant, untouchable—and saw the truth instead: someone just as lost and terrified as I was, clinging to whatever light he could find.

Without overthinking it, without giving myself time to spiral, I rose onto my toes and pressed my lips to his.

The kiss was soft, tentative, a question whispered against his mouth. For a heartbeat he went perfectly still, as if stunned. Then his hand slid from the wall to the small of my back, drawing me closer, and he kissed me back.

There was nothing polished or practiced about it. We both bumped noses, and I nearly stepped on his foot. But it was real, and warm, and full of the things we didn’t know how to say out loud.

When we finally broke apart, my heart was racing, my lips tingling. Draco’s cheeks were faintly pink, his chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“Well,” he said hoarsely. “That’s… one way to say nothing and everything at the same time.”

I laughed, and the sound came out shaky, filled with relief. “I thought it was effective.”

His forehead rested lightly against mine, his breath mingling with mine. “You have no idea.”

For a moment, all the fear and uncertainty receded. There was only this: the stone at my back, his hand in mine, the castle humming softly around us like a living thing.

I let my eyes close, letting the warmth of the corridor, of him, seep into my bones.

“It’s good to be home,” I whispered.

I felt his smile against my skin.

He had the decency to wince. “Technically, I slipped it into several pumpkin juices. Yours was just the first to work.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered, clutching my books tighter to my chest as a pair of Ravenclaws walked past, trying very hard not to stare. They failed miserably.

Usually I minded less. Usually I could see the fun beneath the embarrassment. Merlin knew Hufflepuff didn’t get nearly enough laughter in our corner of the dungeons. But today had been different. Today the whispers in the back of my head had been louder. It was almost exactly one year since Cedric—

I swallowed. The feathers rustled when my shoulders hunched.

Fred’s grin faltered as he glanced sideways at me. He knew what today was. There’s no way he couldn’t have. The entire school did, if the awkward silences and sideways glances at breakfast were anything to go by.

His voice softened. “YNN?”

“No,” I cut in, picking up the pace. “Don’t ‘YNN’ me. I am furious with you.”

He sighed dramatically and followed. “I didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” I snapped. “You didn’t think.”

We stopped outside the Gryffindor portrait hole. The Fat Lady gave us both an unimpressed once-over, eyes lingering on my feathers.

“She started moultin’, has she?” the portrait sniffed.

“Not helping,” I muttered.

Fred shifted on his feet, the usual easy confidence gone. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked… unsure.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I was just trying to make you laugh.”

I stared at him. It was ridiculous how those words managed to tug at the guilt wrapped around my anger. I hated that. Hated how being angry with Fred felt like trying to hold water in my fists.

“You could have tried talking to me,” I replied. “Or sitting with me. Or— I don’t know— not turning me into a walking pillow for molting ravens.”

“Phoenix,” he corrected automatically, then flinched at my glare. “Right. Terrible timing. I know.”

He took a breath and rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes.

“How many times do I have to apologize?” he muttered, half to himself, half to me. “I really am sorry, YNN.”

My laugh came out strangled, half annoyed, half something softer. “Oh, so you’re learning to apologize properly now? I should alert the Daily Prophet!”

“Oi,” he protested, hand over his heart. “I am very good at apologizing when I’m wrong, I’ll have you know. I just rarely am wrong.”

I raised an eyebrow. One of the feathers tickled my cheek and I batted it away, grumbling.

“Right now, you’re spectacularly wrong,” I said. “And you still haven’t fixed it.”

He brightened a bit, grabbing onto the practical part of the problem like it was a lifeline. “Ah. That I can do.”

He dug into his pocket, pushing aside what looked suspiciously like Fainting Fancies, a pack of Dungbombs, a half-melted Chocolate Frog, two Exploding Snap cards, and something that squeaked.

“Honestly, Fred,” I said, momentarily distracted. “How could you possibly hold almost the entirety of Zonkos in your pockets?”

“Superior organizational skills and spatial awareness,” he said gravely, then pulled out a small vial. “Aha! Here we are. De-Feathering Draught.”

He uncorked it with a flourish.

“Hold still.”

“Do not pour that on my head,” I warned.

He paused, then snapped his fingers. “So you have learned. The first step to surviving friendship with a Weasley: never trust us with anything involving your head.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t quite hide the tug at my lips. “Maybe I don’t want to be friends with you anymore.”

His expression turned serious so fast it startled me. He looked at me as if I’d said I wanted to drop out of Hogwarts and join the Death Eaters.

“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

And just like that, my anger faltered.

No, I thought. I didn’t.

Fred had been there when everything had happened, when the letters came in like a tornado had tossed them all about the hall and the pitying stares felt like hexes. He’d slipped me sweets during classes when I didn’t feel like eating at meal times. He’d dragged me to watch him and George test their newest pranks just so I’d be somewhere that wasn’t the empty chair in the Hufflepuff common room.

He’d sat beside me in the Owlery at midnight when the nightmares were too much, pretending to be there for "very important business" with Hermes so I didn’t feel like a burden.

“I’m still mad,” I said finally, voice quieter. “But… I don’t mean that.”

His shoulders eased.

“Good,” he said lightly, but there was relief in his eyes. “Because you’re my favorite Diggory.”

“You’ve only met three.”

“And yet you’re still winning,” he grinned.

The familiar pang hit my chest at the slightest mention of Cedric, but it was gentler now. Less like a knife, more like a bruise that hadn’t faded yet.

I sighed. “Just… fix the feathers, Fred.”

He saluted. “At once, Madam.”

With surprising gentleness, he dabbed the potion along my collar, letting it soak into the feathery mess. It fizzled faintly, warm against my skin. Slowly, the feathers began to shrink, dissolving into nothing. The weight of them vanished, and I watched the last stray plume fall away from my hair and disappear.

He stepped back, eyeing me critically. “There. Back to your usual radiant self. Although, for the record, you did pull off the majestic magical bird look.”

“I looked like a plucked turkey,” I said.

“Please, you are far too dignified to be a turkey. Maybe a fancy peacock. One who reads.”

I snorted. “Because reading is the height of peacock sophistication.”

“With you it is,” he said easily. “Any chance you’ll forgive me now?”

I hesitated.

Today hurt. The corridors felt haunted, echoes of laughter from a year ago lurking in every corner. I’d spent most of the morning avoiding the Great Hall, skipping breakfast completely until Fred found me in the library and bribed me out with promises of hot chocolate and a new Skiving Snackbox prototype.

He meant well. He always did. He just had the subtlety of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

“I don’t like being the butt of the joke,” I said quietly. “Not today.”

His expression softened, all the joking stripped away.

“I know,” he said. “I was… I was stupid. I thought—” He broke off, jaw tense. “I thought if I could get you to laugh, it would make today hurt less. You always laugh at my pranks.”

I leaned back against the cool stone wall and stared at my hands.

“I do,” I admitted. “Most of the time. Fred, I… I don’t need you to fix it.”

He frowned. “Fix what?”

“This," I said, pressing my fist lightly against my chest. “Some days it… it just hurts. And that’s… that’s okay. I’ll get through it just like every other time before.”

His face shifted, some of the manic energy fading into something rawer. He leaned against the wall beside me, shoulder brushing mine.

“I hate that it hurts you,” he muttered.

“I know,” I said. “But you being around helps. Even when you’re being an idiot.”

“Well, good,” he said, straightening a bit. “Because I’m excellent at being an idiot.”

I laughed, for real this time, the sound surprising both of us. It echoed softly in the corridor, a small, stubborn kind of joy.

“There it is,” Fred said softly. “There’s my favorite sound.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re awfully sentimental for someone who sells Nose-Biting Teacups out of his satchel.”

“Don’t tell George,” he said. “He’ll ruin my reputation with that kind of knowledge.”

We stood there for a moment in easy silence, the castle murmuring around us. Footsteps and distant laughter, the crackle of a nearby torch, the faint mutter of portraits arguing in the next corridor. Life moving on, even when parts of mine felt frozen in place.

“Fred?” I said after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“I forgive you.”

His answering grin could have powered all the lanterns in Hogwarts.

“Brilliant,” he said. “That means I can show you the next prototype without fear of retribution.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That depends. Will it turn me into a ferret?”

“Tempting,” he mused. “But no. I’ve learned my lesson. Today’s pranks will be… hm. Let’s call them ‘less public humiliation, more mild chaos.’”

“You are not inspiring confidence.”

“Which is why,” he said grandly, “I require your expert opinion. You, YN Diggory, are my moral compass.”

Merlin help him, that might actually be true.

“That is a terrible idea,” I said, but I was smiling. “When it comes to you anyway. You would take what I say and do the opposite.”

He offered me his arm with exaggerated flourish. “Come on then, favorite Diggory. Let’s go test things in an empty classroom before McGonagall catches us loitering.”

I slipped my arm through his, letting him steer us toward the staircase.

“Fred?” I said quietly as we walked.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For… trying. Even when you get it spectacularly wrong.”

He glanced sideways at me, that softer version of his smile appearing again.

“Anytime,” he said. “That’s sort of my specialty. Getting it wrong until it finally goes right.”

We turned the corner, disappearing into the chattering warmth of the castle corridors.

The ache in my chest was still there. It probably always would be. But with Fred’s ridiculous commentary, his half-baked pranks, his stubborn determination to drag me into the light no matter how many times I glared at him…

“Oi, Granger Senior,” Fred called as we passed. “What’s the verdict? Will Professor Flitwick weep tears of joy over your essay or beg you to show some mercy on the rest of us?”

She didn’t look up. “I’d ask if you’ve finished yours, but that would require you starting it.”

I snorted. “She’s got you there.”

Fred clutched his chest. “Betrayed by my own brother.”

Finally, she glanced up, brown eyes warm and amused. There was always something softer about her than Hermione—quieter, like she’d learned long ago that she didn’t need to shout to be heard.

“Have you two eaten?” she asked. “Properly, I mean. Not just sugar from your…inventing and what not.”

Fred and I shared a look.

“That’s a no,” she answered for us, already closing her book. “Wait here.”

She disappeared through the portrait hole, and I tilted my head at Fred.

“Kitchen run?” I guessed.

“Kitchen run,” he confirmed.

Five minutes later, she came back, cheeks pink from the corridor chill, arms full of pilfered snacks: sandwiches, apples, a plate of biscuits that smelled suspiciously like mum’s recipe, and a small wrapped parcel.

“You’ve trained the house-elves,” I told her as she spread everything out. “I’m both impressed and a bit afraid.”

“They like having someone to talk to who doesn’t ask them to iron their hands,” she said lightly. “Now eat. You work better when you’re not about to faint.”

“We work perfectly fine on the brink of fainting,” Fred objected, grabbing a sandwich anyway. “It adds dramatic flair.”

YN rolled her eyes, but she smiled, and I felt that familiar warmth in my chest. It wasn’t like what I had for Angelina or anyone else I’d ever fancied; this was different. YN felt like…home, but in the way a favorite armchair did—comfortable, safe, always there when you needed to collapse into it.

She’d sort of become our unofficial minder, not because anyone asked her to, but because she worried. About her own sister, Harry and Ron, and—somehow—about us. Fred and I blew things up; YN patched us back together. Bandages, potions, stern lectures disguised as gentle questions.

“Right,” she said when we’d demolished half the plate. “What are you planning?”

I blinked. “Who says we’re planning anything?”

She just stared at me. Grangers had a way of doing that—Hermione with that exasperated, “How do you not know this?” look, and YN with something quieter, like she’d already seen the answer and was just waiting for you to admit it.

“Fine,” I sighed. “We might be contemplating a small, tasteful distraction tomorrow. Nothing major.”

“How many people are likely to get hurt?” she asked.

“Define ‘hurt’,” Fred said.

“Bruises, burns, concussions, limbs blown off, singed eyebrows, the list could go on.”

“Nothing of the sort is planned to happen.” I admitted.

“Boys, I swear, if this has anything to do with Umbridge—”

“Of course it has to do with Umbridge,” Fred cut in. “Everything has to do with Umbridge these days. It’s our moral duty.”

YN’s expression softened, the worry creeping in around the edges. We all hated Umbridge—her pink cardigans, her quill, the way she looked at us like we were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. But YN…she feared her. Not for just herself, but for everyone else.

“You heard what she did to those second years,” she said quietly. “Lines with that quill for three hours. Their hands were still bleeding after Madam Pomfrey treated them.”

“Exactly,” Fred said, jaw tight. “And what? We’re supposed to just behave? Smile for the so-called Ministry she represents? No thanks.”

YN’s gaze slid to me, and I felt the weight of it. She never tried to talk us out of being ourselves, but she always made sure we understood the stakes.

“We’re not asking you to join in,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. “That’s what worries me.”

Before I could answer, the portrait hole creaked open again. Lee Jordan, face flushed, hurried inside.

“Weasley,” he hissed. “Both of you. There’s something you need to see.”

Fred and I exchanged a look, then turned to YN.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

She lifted a brow. “You have five minutes.”

It was bad.

Umbridge had posted new decrees again—more pink, more rules, more ways to break us. No groups, no clubs, no gatherings without permission, no fun. And beneath the fresh parchment, tacked up like a trophy, was a confiscated copy of one of our products: a Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bang, pinned like a beetle under glass.

“She’s coming after you now,” Lee said, voice low. “Specifically. Filch is already talking about hunting down your ‘illegal fireworks.’”

“Illegal?” Fred scoffed. “They’re more legal than she is.”

But my stomach was twisting. It wasn’t like we hadn’t had trouble before—detentions, howlers, McGonagall’s look of quiet disappointment—but this felt different. Umbridge wasn’t embarrassed by us; she was threatened. And threatened people played dirty.

By the time we went back to the common room, YN was gone. So were the leftover snacks, though she’d neatly wrapped a biscuit in a napkin and left it on my chair.

I needed to fetch something in the library. Don’t stay up too late. – C

I slipped the biscuit into my pocket, weirdly touched.

The next few days blurred together. Umbridge breathing down our necks with detentions that lasted long into the night. YN’s expression grew more pinched with every passing day, like she was holding too many things inside.

“As your significantly wiser friend,” she told me one evening in the library, “I’d like to suggest you and Fred lay low for a while.”

“We don’t do ‘low,’ YNN,” I said, feet propped on an empty chair. “We do ‘spectacular.’”

“I’m serious.” She closed her book with a soft thud. “She’s watching you. She’s watching all of us, but you two and Harry especially. I don’t trust what she’ll do if you push too far.”

I wanted to say something clever, something that would make her smile, but the words stuck. Instead, I looked at the ink stains on her fingers, the way she worried the edge of her parchment.

“What about you?” I asked. “You’re not exactly keeping your head down either. I saw you arguing with her in Defense.”

YN winced. “That wasn’t my finest moment.”

“It was brilliant,” I said automatically. “Very inspiring. Ten out of ten, would watch you tell her off again.”

Her lips twitched. “She went after Hermione of all people. Number one professor pleaser. That wasn’t going go. I was protecting her.”

“Yeah, well, in the process, you showed protection of everyone.”

The brunette girl looked down at her hands that she had in her lap now with a sad smile.

The breaking point came a week later.

Fred and I had planned a show—our biggest yet. Not just to annoy Umbridge, but to prove she couldn’t suffocate the entire school. It would be glorious: fireworks, swampy corridors, maybe a small explosion or two. Nothing fatal. Maybe.

We had the timing perfect, the supplies ready, Lee on lookout. All we needed was the right moment.

It found us in the form of YN Granger storming into our makeshift lab.

“You’re not seriously doing this now,” she said, hands on her hips.

Fred looked up from the box of Whiz-Bangs. “Hello, YN, lovely to see you too. Want to help light the fuse?”

“No,” she said sharply. “I want you to stop.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

She tossed a folded piece of parchment onto the table. I recognized the official Ministry seal before I even opened it.

“They’re authorizing Umbridge to use harsher punishments,” YN said, voice shaking with anger. “They’re letting her run ‘disciplinary trials’ without approval first. I overheard her bragging about it to Filch. She wants to make an example out of someone.”

“And you think that someone will be us,” Fred said.

“I know it will be you,” she snapped. “She already hates you. She’s just waiting for an excuse she can wave under Fudge’s nose. If you do this—she’ll have it.”

I swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Fred looked stricken, which was a rarity.

“That’s the point,” he said, but it sounded weaker than usual. “We can’t not fight back.”

“Then let someone else do it,” she said. “You two have futures beyond this castle, you know. The joke shop, remember? You can’t build it from a cell in Azkaban.”

The word hung in the air like a Dementor’s breath.

“She can’t send us to Azkaban,” I said, half to her, half to myself. “They wouldn’t—”

“George, they’ve already sent kids there,” she said quietly. “They’re corrupted more now than they have ever been before. Don’t tell me they won’t do it to you.”

The room felt smaller. The jars of ingredients on the shelves, the stacks of prototypes, the careful mess of our dreams—it all pressed in around us, suddenly fragile.

Fred opened his mouth, closed it again, and then shrugged helplessly. “So what, we just stop? Give up? Let her win?”

YN’s eyes shone, but she didn’t look away. “I’m not asking you to stop forever. I’m asking you not to hand her the rope she wants to hang you with.”

I looked at the box of fireworks, at the plans spread out on the table. At Fred, at YN. At the future we talked about late at night in whispers—the joke shop, the freedom, the constant laughter.

“I can’t let you do what you’re thinking of doing,” I heard myself say.

YN froze. “Do what?”

“Take the fall for us,” I said, realizing as I spoke. “Because that’s what you’re gearing up to do, isn’t it? If we go through with this, you’ll march into her office and say it was your idea, or that you helped, or…something ridiculous and noble like that.”

Her silence was answer enough.

“Oh, come on,” Fred groaned. “YNN, don’t be—”

“Don’t be what?” she demanded. “Don’t be willing to protect my friends? My family?”

“You’re not our shield,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. “You’re not a sacrifice we throw at Umbridge’s feet so we can run off and cause mayhem. That’s not how this works.”

Her eyes softened. “George—”

“No.” I stepped closer, heart pounding. “You think I don’t see what you’ve been doing? Talking to professors, intercepting Filch in the corridors, taking detentions for Hermione when you can, covering for us when our ‘detention’ is actually testing a new product. You’re already doing enough. Too much.”

“Someone has to,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “All of us. Together. Not you alone.”

She looked between us, jaw trembling like she was trying not to cry. YN didn’t cry often. When she did, it was like the whole room held its breath.

“What if she hurts you,” she said. “Really hurts you. What if this is the time she doesn’t stop?”

I swallowed hard. “Then we’ll deal with it. We’ll fight back. We’ll have people on our side. You. Harry. Dumbledore, if he ever stops vanishing. But I can’t let you walk into her office and put a target on your back for us.”

I took a breath and forced a grin I didn’t quite feel.

“Besides,” I added, “who’s going to patch us up when we inevitably blow our eyebrows off? Hermione? She’d lecture us into the grave.”

That earned a watery laugh. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Absolutely merciless,” Fred agreed, moving to stand beside me. “You, on the other hand, at least feed us biscuits first.”

YN wiped at her eyes, exhaling shakily. “I hate this,” she said. “I hate sitting here feeling useless while everything falls apart.”

“You’re not useless,” I said. “You’re the one who keeps us from falling apart. That’s not nothing, YNN. That’s everything.”

For a moment, none of us spoke. I could hear the ticking of the old clock on the wall, the faint rumble of footsteps in the corridor above.

“Fine,” she said at last. “Just don’t do the big show tonight. Wait. Watch. Be careful. But if you’re going to keep fighting—and I know you will—then let me help. Not just with bandages after the fact either.”

Fred and I shared a look. This time, there was no argument on either side.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked.

An hour later, our “spectacular” looked very different.

No fireworks. No swamp. No immediate Azkaban sentence.

Instead, YN had helped us craft something more subtle: a chain of enchanted parchments that, when Umbridge posted a new decree, would turn the ink into a mocking rhyme visible only to students. Nothing Umbridge could prove, nothing she could use to charge anyone officially, but enough to make every new rule a joke before it even landed.

“It’s elegant,” Fred admitted, watching the letters crawl across the test parchment. “I feel strangely sophisticated.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I told him.

YN sat on the edge of the table, legs swinging, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Rebellion doesn’t always have to be loud.”

“Spoken like a true Granger,” I said.

She bumped my shoulder with hers. “You love it.”

“Tragically,” I sighed. “It’s very inconvenient.”

We sat there for a while, just talking—about nothing and everything. About our dreams of the joke shop, about Hermione’s latest campaign to get house-elves rights, about childhood stories. The war felt far away and very close at the same time.

When curfew loomed, YN slid off the table and gathered her books.

“Get some sleep,” she told us. “And if you’re going to test that charm, do it somewhere Umbridge isn’t breathing down your neck.”

“Yes, Mum,” Fred said.

She just threw a crumpled scrap of parchment at his head as a comeback.

As she reached the door, I called, “YNN?”

She turned. “Yeah?”

I hesitated, then said, “If you ever decide to do something unbelievably stupid and noble again, like sacrificing yourself for us…remember what I said tonight.”

Her expression softened into something warm and fond and aching.

“I remember everything you say, George,” she replied. “Even the unfortunate bits about farting fireworks.”

“That was one time,” I protested.

She laughed, waved, and slipped out.

Fred nudged me with his elbow. “You know,” he said, “for someone who claims we’re bad influences, she’s getting rather good at keeping up with our antics.”

“She’s always been good at it,” I said, looking at the door she’d vanished through. “She just fights a different way.”

And as I tucked  another of the napkin-wrapped biscuits she’d given me earlier back into my pocket, I knew one thing for certain:

I’d keep blowing things up. I’d keep fighting the invisible fight with the unbarable pink highlighter witch. But I’d also keep YN Granger out of Umbridge’s crosshairs if it was the last thing I did.

Because I couldn’t let her do that.

Not now.

“I am not staring,” I protest, pushing away from the arch and stepping inside. “I’m supervising.”

She glances up, one brow arching in a way that would get most people thrown in the stocks. “Oh, forgive me, my lord. How could I possibly confuse those two?”

I try not to smile. I fail.

Her eyes drop, tracking the faint limp in my step as I cross to the free stool beside her. The bandage around my ribs pulls when I sit, and I have to bite back a wince. Of course, she notices that as well.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed,” she says, softer now. The teasing is still there, but it’s threaded through with something that sounds suspiciously like worry. “Gaius will have both our heads.”

“I have survived worse than a grumpy old physician,” I say. “And besides, if I stayed in my chambers, who would make sure you’re not brewing something that will explode and take half the tower with it?”

She snorts. “You’re thinking of Merlin.”

“Unfortunately, I’m almost always thinking of Merlin,” I mutter. “But this time, I’m thinking of you.”

That makes her pause.

She sets the pestle down, very carefully, as if it suddenly weighs far more than it did a moment ago. “Of me?” she repeats carefully.

I could lie. I could make some joke about her mixing up potions, about needing more salves for the knights. It would be safer. It would be… expected.

But I am tired. Tired of battles, of pretending, of swallowing the words that have been burning in my chest for weeks now.

“Yes,” I say. “Of you.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and humming. I can hear the crackle of the fire, the quiet clink of glass vials from the shelf as the warm air shifts. Somewhere below, in the lower levels of the castle, someone laughs—a quick, bright sound that feels a world away from this little circle of flickering light and shadow.

YN looks down at her hands. Her fingers have always fascinated me. Strong and deft when she’s stitching a wound or tying a sling, yet gentle when she touches a fevered brow. They flex now, curling slightly against the wood of the table.

“You should be resting,” she says at last. “You took a sword to the ribs, Arthur.”

“It was a glancing blow,” I say.

“It knocked you off your horse.”

“A graceful dismount.”

She gives me a look for that. “You crumpled. I saw you.”

“I did not crumple.”

“You absolutely did.”

I should be annoyed. I’m not. The truth is, her arguing with me makes my heart feel lighter, as if the heaviness of the day is something we can volley back and forth between us until it loses its sting.

“You are very disrespectful for someone who was, until recently, only allowed in the upper levels of the castle to take sleep draughts to Morgana,” I say, leaning an elbow on the table.

Her lips twitch, and for a moment I see the girl I first met in the lower corridors—stains on her skirt, hair tied back, chin lifted defiantly when a guard told her she was in the way. I’d noticed her then too, though I told myself it was only because she stood her ground instead of shrinking back.

“Yes, well,” she says now, “someone has to tell the prince of Camelot when he’s being an idiot.”

“Careful,” I murmur. “That sounds suspiciously like you care a great deal.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, quick and sharp. “Of course I care,” she says, as if the alternative would be absurd. “You ride out for this kingdom, for your knights, for your father… for your people. If you fall, Camelot falls with you.”

It’s a good answer. The correct one, the one a loyal subject should give. It is not the answer I wanted.

“So you care,” I say slowly, “for Camelot.”

She swallows. “Yes.”

“And for your prince.”

YN hesitates.

Her eyes meet mine again, and this time they don’t slip away. There is something in them—fear, perhaps, or something that looks very much like it but sits deeper, heavier.

“For my prince,” she says quietly, “I care more than I should if I were being honest.”

The world seems to narrow, pulling tight around that one sentence.

I can hear my own heartbeat, loud and insistent in my ears. My ribs protest when I straighten, but I ignore them, turning fully on the stool so I’m facing her, my knee almost brushing her thigh.

“Then perhaps,” I say, my voice lower than I intended, “we are both guilty of caring more than we should.”

Colour rises in her cheeks. She looks away, then back at me, as if torn between running and staying perfectly still.

“Arthur…” She says my name like it’s something fragile, something she’s not sure she’s allowed to hold. “You can’t— We can’t…”

“Can’t what?” I ask. “Speak the truth?”

Her jaw tightens. “You are the crown prince. I am—”

“YN,” I interrupt. “You are YN. You are the woman who dragged me out from under a fallen horse when the others thought I was gone. You’re the one who stayed awake three nights straight when that fever swept through the lower town just to care for the people who lived within it. You’re the only one who tells me when I’m wrong to my face instead of behind my back.” I pause, swallowing. “You are not just ‘Gaius’ errand girl’. You’re the reason I’m sitting here instead of on a pyre.”

She blinks quickly, as if fighting tears. I hadn’t meant to bring that up, the image of smoke and ash, but the memory is still so close, the smell of burning in my nose.

“If your father knew,” she whispers, “if anyone knew—”

“My father knows many things but understands very few,” I say bitterly before I can stop myself.

Her hand moves, instinctive, reaching out as if to steady me—and then pauses, hovering in the space between us. It’s the barest distance, a breath, a whisper. I can feel the warmth of her skin even without contact.

I look at her hand, then at her.

“Gaius says I’ll heal,” I say, trying for lightness. “He seemed quite confident that the mighty Prince of Camelot will live to be a nuisance another day.”

“He also said you could have died if the blade had gone an inch deeper,” she replies, and now there is no disguising the tremor in her voice. “Do you have any idea what that felt like? Watching you fall? Not knowing if you’d stand back up?”

I do, actually.

I know it because I have watched her step into danger she had no business facing—a plague ward, a burning cottage, a man with a knife and nothing left to lose. I know the sick, hollow drop in the pit of my stomach when I imagine a world in which she does not walk back through the castle gates, hair wind-tossed, eyes bright with some new reckless story.

I reach up and close the space between us, my fingers curling carefully, gently, around her wrist. Her pulse jumps against my thumb, rapid and real.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “For making you feel that.”

Her eyes shine. “Don’t apologise for being brave.”

“I’m not apologising for that,” I say. “I’m apologising for being reckless with something that matters to you.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “You matter to more than just me, Arthur.”

“Perhaps,” I allow. “But right now, I find I’m most interested in the fact that I matter to you.”

Her lips part, and for a moment, there is only the two of us and the faint hiss of the fire.

“You do,” she says finally. “More than is wise. More than is safe.”

“Then we are equally foolish,” I reply, a wry smile tugging at my mouth. “Because I cannot go on pretending that when I ride out, I am thinking only of honour and glory. I think of you, standing on the battlements, trying not to let it show on your face that you’re worried I won’t ride back.”

“You notice that?” she murmurs.

“I notice everything about you,” I say simply.

The truth of it hangs there between us, bare and undeniable.

She laughs then, a soft, helpless sound. “Why do you always say things like that when I’m least prepared to hear them?”

“Years of training,” I say. “Strategic timing.”

“You’re impossible,” she whispers.

“And yet,” I say, “you’re still here.”

“Some would say I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.”

Our faces are closer than they were a moment ago. I’m not entirely sure who moved first. Perhaps it was both of us, drawn together by some quiet force that has tugged us into each other’s orbit from the moment we first met.

“Arthur,” she says again, my name a plea and a warning and a question all in one. “If we do this… there’s no turning back. Not to how things were.”

I think of duty. Of my father’s stern face, of council meetings and arranged marriages and alliances forged in ink and blood. I think of the weight of my chainmail, of the feel of a sword hilt in my hand.

And I think of the way her hand feels under mine. The way her voice softens when she talks to frightened children in the lower town. The way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching—like I am both a miracle and a disaster waiting to happen.

“I don’t want to go back,” I say.

Her breath catches.

“You’ve already saved me from more than you know, more times than you could even know,” I reply. “On the battlefield, yes. But also here.” I touch my free hand briefly to my chest. “In ways I can’t explain to anyone else.”

She studies my face, searching for something, perhaps some sign that I will rescind my words, that this is a momentary madness brought on by blood loss and pain.

I let her look.

Whatever she finds, it seems to answer her doubts, because her shoulders loosen, the tension draining from her as if a string inside her has finally been cut.

Her fingers turn under mine, threading through, and she squeezes my hand like an anchor.

“Then,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, “whatever comes… I think I’ll be okay. As long as you’re here.”

The words hit me harder than any blade.

I could promise her things I have no right to promise—that I will always be here, that nothing will ever separate us. But I know too well the unpredictability of life, of war, of a king’s temper.

What I can promise is this.

I lift her joined hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her bruised knuckles. Her skin is warm and tastes faintly of herbs and iron.

“And I,” I say, “will be more than okay with you at my side.”

Her smile then is small and luminous, the kind of smile that feels like hope.

I lean forward.

For an instant I hesitate, giving her the chance to pull away. She doesn’t. Instead, she closes the remaining distance, and our lips meet in a kiss that is far less perfect than the songs would have you believe.

My ribs ache when I move, and the stool wobbles, and one of us laughs against the other’s mouth—I suspect it’s me—but none of that matters. What matters is the warmth of her, the way her free hand lifts to my jaw as if she’s been waiting a long time to do just that.

When we part, we’re both a little breathless.

“I should send you back to your chambers,” she murmurs, though her fingers are still resting on my cheek. “You need to rest.”

“I am resting,” I say. “This is very… restorative.”

She rolls her eyes, but her thumb strokes lightly along my jaw in a way that makes it very difficult to think about anything else. “If Gaius finds you in here, he’ll throw a fit.”

“I faced a raiding party this morning,” I say solemnly. “I think I can withstand Gaius hurled at me like a particularly cranky spear.”

That earns me another laugh.

She stands then, reluctantly, and I rise with her, ignoring my body’s protests. For a moment we simply stand there, close enough that I can feel the whisper of her breath on my collar.

“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” she says. “But for tonight… stay alive, Arthur.”

I smirk. “On your orders?”

“On mine,” she says firmly.

I straighten, giving her a little half-bow. “As you command, my lady.”

Her eyes soften at that, and she reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead in a gesture so tender it nearly undoes me.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” she says.

“Goodnight, YN.”

I leave the physician’s chambers with the taste of her still on my lips and the echo of her words in my chest.

There will be battles tomorrow. Arguments. Expectations. A father’s fury, perhaps, and a court’s disapproval.

But as I make my slow way back to my room, hand pressed lightly to my ribs, I feel strangely light. As if the weight of my armour has shifted, redistributed, made bearable by another pair of hands willing to help carry it.

I tell myself I’m only looking because it’s useful to keep an eye on my enemies, but she’s not really one. And then she glances up, catches my eye across the hall, and instead of glaring— 

She smirks. 

It’s tiny, crooked, gone in a blink as Weasley shoves a pumpkin pasty in her face and she nearly chokes laughing. But it was there. 

“Draco, are you listening?” Pansy whines at my elbow. 

“No,” I say, because I’m honest when it doesn’t cost me anything. I drop onto the Slytherin bench, Crabbe and Goyle flopping down like a pair of badly trained trolls. 

I load my plate with eggs I won’t finish and sausage I might. My father owled this morning—another reminder not to “embarrass” the family name, as if I’ve been trying to set the Castle on fire in my spare time. It sticks in the back of my head, that letter. It always does. 

“…the Chamber of Secrets,” Theodore Nott is saying quietly on my left. “My father says it’s not just a legend.” 

“Of course it’s not a legend,” I snap automatically, because it’s something I know and knowing things is the only time I feel properly tall. “Salazar Slytherin built it himself. He left a monster in it for his true heir to control. Everyone that can read would know that if they looked in the right book.” 

The words feel good in my mouth. Proper. Powerful. 

Across the hall, someone's laughing . I take an unnecessary sip of pumpkin juice, annoyed with it and myself. 

“She’s looking at you,” Pansy says, sounding offended on my behalf. 

I don’t need to ask who “she” is. I can feel it. I glance up, and sure enough, YN’s head is turned just enough that it might be an accident—but I know better. 

Her gaze flicks from the Slytherin table to the staff table, to her brother, back to me. 

She’s thinking. 

I hate that about her. I hate that I can tell. 

“Must be jealous,” I say lazily, leaning back like I own the bench. “Not everyone can be a Slytherin.” 

Pansy giggles, the sound shrill. “Imagine a Potter in Slytherin.” 

I do imagine it, for half a second. 

YN Potter in green and silver. Not glaring. Not smirking. Sitting next to me. Laughing at my jokes instead of Weasley’s. Cool colors suit her more anyway. She’s always wearing them outside of school hours. 

Stupid thought. I shove it away so hard it almost hurts. 

Filch catches Potter, Granger, and Weasley idiot later that evening, dripping mud and looking guilty enough to be framed in the Entrance Hall like a painting. By breakfast the next morning, everyone’s talking about it. 

By lunch, everyone’s talking about something else. 

The words appear on the wall like blood. 

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR… BEWARE. 

We’re all herded away, but not before I see it. Not before I see the stiff, shape of that cat hanging like a broken toy. 

Everything goes a little quiet in my chest. 

I make a joke about it, of course. In the common room, in the study sessions, in the corridors where the air feels tighter and everyone keeps glancing at the walls like they might start writing on themselves. 

I mimic Potter’s voice, pretend to be turning into a snake. Pansy laughs so hard she snorts. Crabbe and Goyle double over, wheezing. 

YN does not laugh. 

She’s quieter now. Watching more. Sometimes I catch her staring at the wall where the message was written, like if she squints hard enough she’ll find a clue. 

It’s annoying how much I notice that. 

I find her properly for the first time in the library. 

I’m looking for a book on rare serpents—not because I need it, but because if I’m going to talk about the Heir of Slytherin I’m going to know more than everyone else. That’s how this works. Malfoys know things. Malfoys are prepared. 

Madam Pince is fussing in the restricted section, and I slip into one of the back aisles, fingers trailing along the spines. Dust, leather, old magic humming under my palms. 

I turn the corner and nearly walk straight into her. 

YN’s sitting on the floor between two shelves, legs folded, a stack of books around her like a paper fortress. She’s got ink on her cheekbone, a smudge where she must’ve brushed hair out of her face with the wrong hand. Her tie’s crooked. Gryffindor red, but the knot’s pulled loose, like she had enough of the restricted feeling she was getting from it. 

Her eyes flick up, flash wide when she sees me. Then her jaw sets. 

“Malfoy.” 

“Potter.” I lift my chin, because I don’t know how else to stand around her. “Didn’t realise the library allowed people who can’t read.” 

She snorts, closing the book on her lap with a quiet thump. “Funny. I was going to ask Madam Pince what the policy is on ferrets.” 

I bristle despite myself. “Very original. Have the Weasleys been writing your jokes again?” 

She grins, quick and sharp. “No, these are all mine.” 

Silence settles between us. Not comfortable—never that—but not exactly sharp either. More like… crackly. Like the air before a storm. 

“What are you doing here?” I demand, because it’s better than asking why my heart’s beating so fast. 

YN rolls her eyes and gestures at the tower of books. “Knitting.” 

I open my mouth to snap back, then realise what half those titles are. 

Hogwarts: A History. Notable Magical Architects. The Life and Lies of Salazar Slytherin. 

…She’s looking for the Chamber of Secrets. 

“You think you’re going to find it in a dusty old book?” I sneer. It’s easier to sneer than to admit the thought’s occurred to me as well. 

“Maybe,” she says, not rising to the bait. “Or maybe I’m trying to figure out why someone would unleash a monster on a school full of kids and think that makes them the better person.” 

I lean against the shelf, folding my arms, looking down at her. It’s a good position: casual, superior, hiding the way my stomach twists at the word better. 

“You really think the Heir of Slytherin thinks he’s the better guy?” 

She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s weighing me on some invisible scale. It’s… unnerving. 

“I think,” she says slowly, “that lots of people do terrible things because they’re convinced they’re right. And then they never stop to ask if maybe they’re just… scared.” 

I scoff, because that hits too close without touching anything at all. “What would the great YN Potter know about being scared?” 

Her eyes flicker. Just a fraction. Just enough. 

More than you think, something in me whispers. 

I shut it up. 

“Shouldn’t you be off holding Weasley’s hand while he cries over a cat?” I ask instead. 

“Mrs. Norris is fine,” she says sharply. “Petrified, not dead. And Ron doesn’t cry. It’s more like a scared shrill, really.” 

“Oh, excuse me,” I drawl. “I forgot he’s the brave, noble—” 

“Idiot,” she cuts in. “He’s a brave, noble idiot. Get it right.” 

I almost laugh. I don’t mean to. It slips out, a huff of amused air before I can catch it. Her lips twitch in response, like we’ve shared some secret joke. 

Ridiculous. 

She picks up Hogwarts: A History again, but doesn’t open it. Her fingers tap on the cover, restless. 

“Why do you care?” I blurt. 

She blinks. “About what? The giant murder snake in the walls that only Harry and I can hear, but he’s too clueless to pick up that’s what it is?” 

“No.” I hesitate, then roll my shoulders back, committing to it. “About the Mudbloods.” 

The word hangs between us, heavy. It doesn’t feel as satisfying as usual. 

YN’s face goes very still. 

“Because they’re people,” she says eventually. “Because they’re students. Because they’re my friends. Hermione’s my friend.” 

“Granger?” I wrinkle my nose. “She’s insufferable.” 

“She’s brilliant,” YN shoots back, fierce and immediate. “And she works twice as hard as everyone else because people like you look down on her. You know what’s really insufferable, Malfoy? Being told you don’t belong somewhere you do.” 

The words hit something raw. 

I think of Father’s last letter, the way his disappointment seeped through the ink. The way he’d circled my OWL projections and written these are average like it was an obscenity. 

I shove the thought away. 

“Maybe some people don’t belong,” I say, lifting my chin. “This is Slytherin’s school. He wanted purity, power—” 

“And fear,” she interrupts. “Don’t forget that bit. And besides, Salazar wasn’t the only one who created this school. That is why there’s four house and the name is Hogwarts and not Slytherin’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” 

Her eyes are burning now, bright and stubborn. Gryffindor through and through, and yet… there’s something sharp and clever there that feels almost Slytherin. 

“Not everything is fear,” I mutter. 

“Isn’t it?” she asks quietly. 

There’s a strain in her voice I don’t understand, and I hate not understanding things. I push away from the shelf, feeling oddly unsteady. 

“This is pointless,” I say. “You’re not going to talk me into holding hands and singing with the Mudblood Protection League.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says lightly. “I’ve heard you’re allergic to compassion. Terrible rash.” 

My mouth quirks again. I’m going to have to have that hexed out of me. If it could even be done. 

I turn to go, because this is… too much. Too many questions and not enough answers that make me look good. 

“Draco,” she says suddenly. 

I freeze. She’s never called me that before. Not like that. Not just my name, soft and serious and not followed by ‘ferret’ or ‘git.’ 

Slowly, I look back over my shoulder. 

Her gaze is fixed on her hands twisting in the hem of her jumper now, like she’s thinking about dropping something heavy. 

“I know you didn’t do it,” she says. 

My heart does a very stupid thing in my chest. 

“Do what?” I ask, even though I already know. 

“Open the Chamber.” Her eyes lift to meet mine, steady as anything. “I know you didn’t. I don’t think you’d hurt students. Not like that. Not… not just because of their blood.” 

The silence stretches. The library seems to vanish. It’s just her, and me, and the echo of those words. 

I could scoff. I could lash out. I could say you don’t know anything about me and leave. 

What comes out instead is, “You sound very sure of yourself, Potter.” 

“I am,” she says simply. “So… if it turns out one of your friends is involved—” Her throat works on the word, like it’s hard to swallow. “Or your family. I just… I want you to know I won’t think you had anything to do with it. I know others might, but I don’t.” 

The ridiculous spike of relief in my chest makes me angry. 

“You think I care what you think?” I snap. 

Her lips twitch. “Yeah. I do.” 

Infuriating girl. 

I take a step towards her before I know I’ve decided to. The shelf creaks as I lean back against it again, just slightly closer this time. 

“You realise,” I say slowly, “that if my family were involved, that makes you the main enemy they were trying to get rid of.” 

She smiles, but it’s small and tired around the edges. “Draco, I’m a Potter. At this point, I think I was made into the enemy of at least half of the wizarding kind in Britain on the day Harry and I survive You-Know-Who's attack as literal babies. Being your family’s enemy is nothing new. I’ll manage.” 

It’s meant to be a joke. I can hear that. But something in it rings too true. 

I feel my shoulders tense. 

Potter this, Potter that. All my life, I’ve heard his name like a curse and a prophecy. The boy who lived. The boy who humiliated my father’s master. The boy who refused my friendship on the first day of school. 

YN Potter, though… 

She actually looked at my hand on that train, that very first day. Looked, weighed, thought about it. I saw it in her eyes. The hesitation. 

Then Weasley sniggered, and she chose him. 

I never forgot that she almost didn’t. 

I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because she’s looking at me like I’m more than the crest on my robes. Maybe because the words have been sitting inside me like a stone since I saw those letters on the wall. 

“If it is my family,” I hear myself say, low and flat, “that makes you an enemy of mine too.” 

Her face doesn’t flinch the way I expect. Instead, she nods, like she’s been bracing for that. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I figured. Comes with the territory, I guess.” 

I should turn and go. I should. I have the last word lined up in my throat, sharp and clean and safe. 

Instead, she ruins it. 

“I just…” she starts, then stops, looking away. The ink on her cheek glistens faintly. “I don’t know why, but I don’t want you thinking I’ll be… upset with you. For choosing them.” 

It takes me a second to process that. 

She’s worried I’ll think she’ll be upset. 

Something twists, unexpectedly sharp. 

I stare at her, at the way her fingers worry the edge of her sleeve, at the stubborn set of her jaw that doesn’t match the uncertainty in her eyes. 

“YN,” I say, surprising both of us. 

Her breath hitches. 

And then the words spill out without me asking them to, tripping over my own pride as they go. 

“Why would I be upset?” she questions and I know it’s more to herself than to me. “I mean why should I care if you thought I did or didn’t think a certain way?” 

Her eyes snap to mine, wide. Like she’s the one who’s been hit with a hex. 

I push on, because I’ve started and Malfoys don’t do anything halfway. 

“You’re a Potter,” I say, like that explains everything. “You’re a Gryffindor. You’re… you.” My hand makes a helpless, irritated gesture in the air. “You always choose the people you care about. Even when they’re stupid, freckled, hand-me-down-robe disasters. Even when they’re Mudbloods. Even when it’s going to blow up in your face. Even if they are your ‘enemy’.” 

Her mouth opens slightly, like she wants to argue about at least few of those points but can’t quite decide where to start. 

“That’s what you do,” I finish, feeling oddly out of breath. “If it came down to choosing between me and your brother and your friends and your righteous little crusade, I already know I lose. I’d be an idiot to be upset about it because of the fact.” 

The admission tastes bitter and strange on my tongue. But also… lighter. Like saying it puts it somewhere outside of me, where it can’t punch holes through my ribs. 

YN stands slowly, books forgotten at her feet. She’s closer now, close enough that I can see the faint scar on her chin, the one she got when she fell off a toy broom when she was five. I only know that because she was telling the story too loudly in Charms last week. 

She looks at me like she’s seeing something new. 

“Who says you’d lose?” she asks softly. 

I snort, but it comes out half-hearted. “Everyone with half a brain and eyes? Come on, Potter. We both know how this story goes. You lot are the heroes. I’m the villain in the background sneering about blood purity and getting hexed in the third act, down for the count by the fourth. That’s just how it goes.” 

“You don’t have to be,” she says. 

Two simple words. They lodge somewhere behind my ribs like a stubborn spell. 

“I don’t get a choice,” I mutter. 

“You always get a choice,” she insists. “Even if it’s just a small one. Even if it’s just deciding who you don’t hurt today.” 

My throat feels tight. I hate it. 

“This is very inspiring,” I say dryly. “Truly. I feel like writing to The Daily Prophet about your incredible wisdom. Maybe they’ll hire you and give you you’re own column.” 

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. 

“I’m serious,” she says. “If something happens—if it really is about your family—” She hesitates, then squares her shoulders. “Just… know that if you ever don’t choose them? If you choose something else, even for a second? I’ll notice.” 

I stare at her. 

That’s the problem, really. 

YN notices too much. 

She notices when I’m bluffing in class. When my jokes are covering something. When my father’s words slip out of my mouth instead of mine. 

She notices me now, in this stupid, dusty corner of the library, holding my secrets like they’re something fragile instead of dangerous. 

I don’t know how she knows everything. But she does. More than she’s supposed to, really. 

I exhale, long and slow. 

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her. 

“Mm. Takes one to know one,” she says, the corner of her mouth tipping up. “We really are very similar, you know.” 

“Take that back,” I say at once, horrified. 

She laughs, properly this time, the sound bouncing off the high shelves. I look around, half-expecting Madam Pince to swoop in and separate us with a broom. 

No one comes. 

For a moment, it’s just us. 

Slytherin and Gryffindor. Snake and lion. Villain and maybe-hero. 

Enemies, according to the rest of the world. 

Something else entirely, here between the stacks. 

“I should go,” I say eventually, when my heart’s had quite enough of this nonsense. 

She nods, bending to scoop up her books. “Me too. Hermione will start thinking I’ve been kidnapped or something.” 

“Granger wishes she had that much excitement in her life,” I sniff. 

YN smirks. “I’ll tell her you said that.” 

“Don’t you dare,” I shoot back, but my lips are twitching again. 

We step past each other in the narrow aisle. Our shoulders brush, just slightly, fabric against fabric. A silent spark of something I refuse to name. 

“Draco?” she says, as I turn away. 

I glance back, annoyed by how quickly I respond. 

“Yeah?” 

She gives me this look—warm and stubborn and a bit sad around the edges. 

“For the record,” she says, “I hope you never have to choose.” 

The words sit in the air between us, fragile as a glass ornament. I knew exactly what she meant by that without her saying it. 

I swallow, the back of my throat burning. 

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me too.” 

Then I walk away before I say something truly unforgivable, like thank you. 

As I leave the library, I can still feel her eyes on my back. Not like a curse. 

More like… a promise. 

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. 

I tell myself I’ll forget this. 

I tell myself I won’t be upset when she inevitably stands on the other side of a wand from me someday, eyes blazing with that infuriating belief that she’s right. 

But deep down, in the part of me that remembers the way she said my name like it meant something, I know the truth. 

If that day comes, I’ll be furious. 

Not because she chose them. 

But because, in that dusty library aisle with ink on her cheek and fear in her voice, YN Potter gave me something I never asked for— 

A choice. 

And I’m not sure what scares me more: 

My family’s monster in the walls…