#slytherpuff

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It was Pansy Parkinson’s birthday. The Parkinson Manor was a spectacle—a grand, ancient, and imposing structure, surrounded by meticulously tended trees. Its tall stone towers stood in stark contrast to the ethereal silver of the moon on that autumnal night, while the crisp air carried the fresh, melancholy scent of fallen leaves. The entrance hall sparkled with the glow of greenish lights that reflected off the polished marble floor. Music flowed through the vast corridors of the manor, mingling with the voices and laughter of the guests. Pansy never did anything halfway, and her seventeenth birthday party was no exception.

The main hall was teeming with Hogwarts students, predominantly Slytherins, although a few figures from other houses stood out, strategically placed. Groups gathered around enchanted tables laden with exquisite appetisers, while others chatted or danced in the centre of the hall beneath the enchanting glow of chandeliers and floating magical candles.

Mattheo Riddle leaned against a wall near the fireplace. His spot had been carefully chosen, allowing him to observe the entire room without drawing attention to himself. A glass of some drink—nearly forgotten in his hand—served more as a distraction than a necessity. His eyes scanned the scene with the detached air of someone watching a mediocre play, clearly indifferent to the excitement around him. He despised parties, but Pansy had been emphatic: “If you don’t show up, I’ll never invite you to anything again, and you’ll have to live with that.”

And so, here he was, enduring the loud music, empty chatter, and the unbearable feeling of being out of place.

The room buzzed with familiar faces: Blaise was chatting with Daphne near the makeshift bar, Draco was laughing at something Theodore had said in a secluded corner, and at the centre of it all, Pansy shone like a star, greeting her guests with a smile that was as rehearsed as it was charming.

Mattheo let out a deep sigh, raising the glass to his lips and sipping half-heartedly, merely to occupy himself. His thoughts drifted to the garden, which promised a quiet, solitary escape—perfect for smoking a cigarette far from the noise and frivolity of the hall.

You entered the party hesitantly, your measured steps and reserved posture betraying your unease. Your eyes scanned the room cautiously, taking in every detail before allowing yourself to fully step in. You clutched a small, delicately wrapped gift in your hands, your arms tucked close to your body as if forming a barrier against the chaos around you.

This wasn’t your kind of place—not in a bad way, just different from what you were used to. Your hair, styled in a carefully crafted half-updo, fell in soft waves over your shoulders, catching the golden light of the chandeliers and the greenish glow of the magical candles scattered around the room. Your pastel yellow dress, a nod to your Hufflepuff identity, was graceful and perfectly suited to the occasion, modest yet elegant without being over the top.

Stepping inside, you carefully shut the door behind you with a soft thud, masked by the music filling the air. You looked around attentively, moving with the grace of someone trying to avoid drawing attention. Your eyes landed on Pansy, who, upon noticing your arrival, quickly made her way over, a radiant smile lighting up her face.

“I’m so glad you came! I’ve been waiting for you,” Pansy exclaimed excitedly, and you smiled shyly, offering her the neatly wrapped gift. She took it with equal enthusiasm and, without missing a beat, guided you with a gentle touch on your arm, introducing you to her closest friends, most of whom you didn’t know—predominantly Slytherins. To anyone watching from afar, you might have seemed out of place, but you nodded politely, feeling quietly pleased to be surrounded by the friends of your close companion.

You tried to adjust to the atmosphere. The party was loud and full of people, but you knew this was exactly the kind of event Pansy loved, and it had been hard to turn down her insistence—especially on such an important occasion as her seventeenth birthday. What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was the intensity of it all: the loud laughter, the conversations about topics you barely understood or didn’t care about, and the overwhelmingly high volume of the music.

“Relax,” Pansy whispered in your ear, giving your shoulder a light squeeze as she noticed your discomfort. “You’re going to have fun, I promise.”

Her words carried a hint of something unspoken, though you didn’t catch it immediately. She continued introducing you to her friends, eventually steering you toward a more secluded corner near the fireplace, where Mattheo Riddle stood leaning against the wall, his expression bored, as though he were merely fulfilling an obligation. Holding a half-filled glass in one hand, his grey eyes scanned the room with disinterest.

“Mattheo!” Pansy’s voice interrupted his reverie, casual but still confident. “I want you to meet someone. This is my friend [Name]. [Name], this is Mattheo.”

Pansy smiled, looking far too pleased with the situation. “I’m sure you two will get along wonderfully!”

“Uh… hi,” you said softly, offering a timid smile as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, revealing a delicate gold moon-shaped earring that Mattheo noticed with mild indifference.

“Hi,” he replied curtly, his tone brief and aloof.

Pansy watched the exchange, clearly unimpressed by the lack of enthusiasm. “Did you know that [Name] loves taking care of magical creatures? And Mattheo, you have an impressive tolerance for people who talk too much—aren’t you two a perfect match?”

“Funny, Pansy,” Mattheo remarked, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head with a trace of amusement in his otherwise dry tone.

“Thanks, it was sincere,” Pansy quipped with a playful grin before stepping away with a conspiratorial air. “Enjoy yourselves!”

With one last smile, she left you both alone, disappearing into the crowd.

For a moment, the sound of the music and the chatter around you filled the silence as you, uneasy with the quiet, fidgeted with the star-shaped pendant on your necklace.

“So…” you began cautiously, looking at Mattheo. “Do you not like parties in general, or just the people who talk too much?”

The question caught him off guard, and he raised an eyebrow, taking a moment to think before answering. “Depends on the party. And the people.”

You let out a soft, almost inaudible laugh, but it was genuine. “I get that. This isn’t really my kind of place either.”

“Then why’d you come?” Mattheo asked, his tone casual but curious, as if waiting for your answer without much urgency.

“Pansy insisted,” you admitted with a small shrug. “And you?”

“Same.”

At that, you felt a little more at ease, tilting your head slightly towards him. “Well, at least we’ve got that in common.”

“Besides Pansy,” he added, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he warmed to the idea that the conversation wasn’t as tedious as he’d expected.

The silence returned, but this time it felt less strained. You leaned against the wall beside him, gazing up at the ceiling, where floating candles with green flames illuminated the room alongside the warm, golden glow of the grand chandelier, while Mattheo’s eyes followed the movement of the partygoers.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the commotion, you noticed the atmosphere beginning to feel heavier. The grand and magical hall, while impressive, didn’t make you feel at ease. Mattheo, seemingly indifferent to the pressure of the space, appeared entirely unbothered. So, you decided to suggest something.

“How about we head out to the garden?” you asked timidly, looking up at him. “It’s… quieter, maybe?”

Mattheo, still leaning against the wall with his usual impassive expression, raised an eyebrow. “You really think the garden will be quiet, considering how many people are here?”

You smiled, slightly embarrassed. “It’s worth a try, I guess.”

With a sigh, he slipped a hand into his pocket and pushed himself off the wall, nodding. “Fine. Let’s go.”

The Parkinson mansion’s garden was undeniably stunning, but you barely noticed the perfectly trimmed hedges shaped into geometric designs or the softly glowing magical flowers. Your attention was more on the refreshing coolness of the night air and the silence—a welcome contrast to the chaos inside the hall.

The two of you walked in silence for a while. Mattheo observed you discreetly, noticing how your fingers gently brushed against the petals of the flowers along the path, as if you were connecting with their textures and details. There was no urgency in your steps, and eventually, you reached a secluded corner near an ornate fountain illuminated by floating candles casting dancing reflections on the water. He stopped by a tree, crossing his arms and tilting his head back to look at the starry sky.

“Do you always go to Pansy’s parties?” you asked, finally breaking the silence as you strolled slowly, examining the plants with more interest.

“Not a chance,” he replied with a short laugh, as if the idea were absurd. “I try to avoid them, but she’s always got these… oddly persuasive arguments.”

“Like what?” you pressed, curious.

“Like, ‘if you don’t come, I’ll tell everyone you sketch people in your notebook like a frustrated artist,’” he said, smirking slightly.

You blinked, surprised at the confession, then let out a soft laugh. “You draw?”

Mattheo shrugged, almost defensive. “Sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

“It doesn’t sound like something to be embarrassed about,” you said simply, your tone free of judgment. Kneeling beside a bush of blueberries that seemed particularly enchanting, their tiny fruits shimmering under the magical light, you added, “Actually, it sounds pretty interesting.”

He frowned slightly, as if unsure how to respond, before muttering, “You haven’t seen it.”

“Maybe,” you replied with a small smile, still studying the delicate berries. “But it’s good to have a hobby. Everyone should have one.”

He remained quiet, thoughtful, as he watched you. There was something about you that felt disconnected from the party—yet perfectly at home here in the garden. The calmness in your movements, even when you seemed shy or slightly flustered, struck him as unusual.

“So, what’s your hobby?” he asked, breaking the silence this time.

You took a moment before answering, as if reflecting. “I suppose it’s taking care of magical creatures… They don’t need explanations. You just feel and understand them.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by the clarity in your answer, but didn’t comment straight away. It was rare for someone to talk about something so simple with such genuine passion.

“Fair enough,” he finally said, his voice free of sarcasm but still lacking much emotion, as though he were processing your words.

The silence returned, though it was comfortable now—almost natural. Yet, your curiosity about him grew too strong to ignore.

“Do you go to these parties often?”

“Not at all,” he replied, his tone carrying a faint hint of amusement. “Just every now and then. Pansy’s good at twisting my arm. If I don’t show up, she starts predicting my social death.”

You chuckled lightly, your gaze shifting to him rather than the garden around you. “And you always give in?”

“I’m not great at resisting emotional blackmail,” he admitted with a short, slightly insincere smile. There was a coldness in his comment, as though he didn’t place much value on his presence here. “Pansy has a way of turning invitations into ultimatums.”

The floating candles swayed gently around the fountain, their light casting dancing shadows on the stone. You took a step aside, feeling the cool night breeze against your skin. After a few moments of light-hearted conversation, you realised the dialogue had run its course.

“Maybe we should head back,” you suggested, breaking the silence. “Before Pansy comes looking for us.”

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on you. His expression still carried a hint of seriousness, but his eyes had softened somewhat.

“Maybe you’re right,” he finally said, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “But you decide when to go back, not me.”

You chuckled softly, shyly, as though the conversation had taken an unexpected turn, though it didn’t bother you. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

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The Slytherin common room was bathed in a cosy silence, broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire. The flames cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, creating an atmosphere that felt entirely separate from the rest of the castle. Mattheo was sprawled across one of the black leather sofas, his posture completely at ease, as though he belonged to the room itself. He twirled his wand idly between his fingers, his sharp gaze lazily drifting over the surroundings, disinterested.

The peace was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of firm, purposeful footsteps echoing off the cold floor. Mattheo didn’t look up—he didn’t need to. Pansy Parkinson always made her presence known. She strode into the room with the kind of authority that promised trouble, her eyes glinting with determination.

“Riddle,” she started, stopping in front of him with her hands firmly planted on her hips. “Saturday. Hogsmeade. You’re coming with me. Theo, Blaise, Luna, and [Name] will be there too.”

Mattheo didn’t even glance up, continuing to spin his wand between his fingers. His lips curved into a faint smirk. “No.”

“No?” Pansy echoed, raising an eyebrow, her expression morphing into one of incredulity. The set of her jaw only made her look more stubborn. “Come on, you haven’t even heard what I—”

“I’ve heard enough,” he cut her off, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers. His voice was dry, laced with boredom. “And the answer is still no. I’m not going, I don’t want to, and I’m not changing my mind.”

Pansy let out a heavy sigh, though the self-satisfied smile creeping onto her lips only deepened Mattheo’s irritation. “You say that now, but come Saturday, you’ll be there.”

Mattheo let out a short, humourless laugh. “Pansy, I’d love to see you try. I’m not Theo, who does everything you say just because he thinks you’re ‘cute.’”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Pansy shot back, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she crossed her arms. “Is this about [Name]? I saw you talking to her in the garden. You actually looked… sociable.”

“And? We exchanged a few words. That doesn’t mean anything.” His tone hardened as he narrowed his eyes, clearly irritated. Leaning back into the sofa, he added flatly, “If this is some attempt to set me up with someone, just give up now. You know I hate that.”

“Merlin, you’re dramatic,” Pansy scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No one’s setting you up. [Name] doesn’t even care if you’re there, to be honest.”

“Brilliant,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “All the more reason for me not to go.”

Pansy let out a long-suffering sigh, though a mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “I know you, Mattheo. You say you won’t go, but come Saturday, you’ll end up tagging along with Blaise and Theo anyway. You need to connect with the world once in a while, you know.”

“I’m perfectly connected right here, thanks,” he shot back, gesturing around the room before rolling his eyes again. “I’d rather stay here than deal with people who think I owe them the courtesy of being interesting.”

Pansy tilted her head slightly, as though considering his words. “You’re so full of yourself. She’s not even thinking about you like that. And you know what? Maybe you should try acting normal around people who don’t fear you because of your surname.”

Mattheo huffed, but before he could muster a retort, Pansy was already making her way up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. She threw a parting remark over her shoulder, her voice bright with smug amusement. “Saturday, Mattheo. Be there, or I’ll add this to my list of lifelong grudges!”

He stayed where he was, his gaze falling back to the wand in his fingers. It spun faster now, less smoothly than before. Pansy was wrong. He wasn’t going. And if [Name] didn’t care whether he came or not, that was fine by him. A relief, really. A big relief.

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The streets of Hogsmeade buzzed with chatter and laughter, the crunch of footsteps in the snow, and the sweet smell of warm drinks wafting out of nearby shops. Despite the lively atmosphere, Mattheo would still take this over the castle any day—at least here he wasn’t constantly followed by stares and whispers. He walked with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his black overcoat, his expression bored, though his sharp eyes missed nothing.

“So,” Blaise started, nudging Theo with his elbow. “Whose brilliant idea was it to drag him out here? Thought Mattheo was allergic to socialising.”

“Don’t start,” Mattheo muttered without even glancing at them. “I’m only here because someone wouldn’t shut up about how this was going to be ‘fun.’”

Theo laughed, unbothered. “It is fun. You should be thanking me.”

Mattheo opened his mouth to fire back but was cut off as the three of them rounded a corner and found themselves face-to-face with Pansy, Luna, and [Name] standing outside the Three Broomsticks.

“Oh, what are you lot doing here?” Pansy exclaimed, her voice dripping with faux surprise. Only Mattheo caught the teasing glint in her eye.

“Pansy,” he began, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t even try it.”

“Try what?” She blinked at him innocently. “This is pure coincidence.”

Mattheo was about to argue when his attention was pulled to Blaise and Luna. The moment they spotted each other, Luna lit up with a bright smile, and Blaise… Well, he looked like someone had hit him with a softening charm. It was rare to see him like that—genuinely smitten.

Luna stepped closer immediately, lightly tugging Blaise by the arm as she spoke. Whatever she said made him laugh, low and almost shy, a side of him Mattheo hardly ever saw. Blaise was usually so composed, but with Luna, he seemed… different.

That’s when it hit Mattheo. This wasn’t some trap for him. It was for them.

He glanced at Theo, who was watching the scene with a smug smile. Theo shrugged in response, as if to say, Don’t look at me, this wasn’t my idea.

Pansy, however, wasn’t even trying to hide her satisfaction, though she kept her focus firmly on Luna and Blaise.

Mattheo sighed quietly. Right. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this whole outing really was just about those two.

But then his eyes landed on you. You stood a little behind Pansy, a small, almost shy smile playing on your lips as you watched Blaise and Luna. You didn’t seem out of place, exactly—just quiet, like someone unsure where they fit into the group dynamic.

He looked away before you noticed, but Pansy, ever observant, caught the movement.

“Well,” she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Since we’re all here, why don’t we do something together?”

Mattheo was already preparing to decline, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way you, distracted, reached out to catch the falling snowflakes in your hand, that soft, almost enchanted smile still on your face.

He frowned. What was so special about snow, anyway?

“Relax, Riddle,” Pansy said, pulling him back to reality. “I didn’t plan this.”

“You planned this,” he replied flatly.

“And if I did?” She held her hands up, her smile infuriatingly casual. “It’s not the end of the world. Try being social for once.”

Before he could respond, Theo slung an arm casually around his shoulders, as if to stop him from bolting. “Not every day we hang out with such a… diverse group.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but didn’t bother arguing. Judging by how glued Blaise and Luna were to each other, it was pointless. Still, the way Pansy kept glancing at you before whispering something to Theo made him suspicious.

You, meanwhile, seemed completely oblivious to it all. You adjusted your scarf, your attention caught by a nearby shop window where tiny enchanted ice figurines were dancing.

“Alright,” Theo said, breaking the moment of silence. “So, what’s first on the agenda?”

Mattheo let out a heavy sigh and glanced over at you. You were standing a bit apart from the group, but somehow, your eyes met his. A small, tentative smile crossed your face, the kind that seemed unsure of its place, before you quickly looked away.

He considered walking away, but something made him stay. Maybe it was the sense that Pansy would never let him hear the end of it if he left.

“The Three Broomsticks?” he suggested, his voice laced with reluctance. “If we’re doing this, might as well get it over with.”

Pansy’s smile widened, like she knew exactly what he was thinking, but to his annoyance, she said nothing.

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The Three Broomsticks was as crowded as Mattheo had expected. The buzz of conversations and laughter mingled with the clatter of mugs and the sweet smell of butterbeer, creating a lively, almost chaotic atmosphere. For most, it was a place to forget about the pressures of school, but for Mattheo, it felt suffocating. He stood near the entrance, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, ready to leave at any moment.

“See? Told you this would be fun,” Theo said, flashing a carefree grin as he dropped into a chair beside Pansy.

“If this is your idea of fun, I’d rather be back at the castle,” Mattheo replied flatly, choosing the chair furthest from the table.

Pansy, ever the orchestrator, settled in beside Theo and shot a smug look at Mattheo. “Oh, stop being dramatic. You’ll survive.”

Luna and Blaise took their seats next, the pair seemingly lost in their own little world. Blaise leaned in to whisper something, and Luna let out a soft, musical laugh. Mattheo rolled his eyes.

“They’ve already forgotten we’re here,” he muttered, tapping a keyring against the table in an almost absentminded rhythm.

Pansy smirked. “Leave them be. They’re cute.”

Mattheo huffed but didn’t bother replying. His eyes drifted across the room, eventually landing on you. You had chosen a seat near the window, detached from the group’s chatter. The soft glow of candlelight reflected in the glass as you gazed out at the falling snow, your expression calm and contemplative, as though soaking in every detail of the world outside.

For a moment, Mattheo found himself wondering what was so fascinating about the snow. It was just snow—falling endlessly, especially this time of year. But to you, it seemed to hold some deeper meaning, something he couldn’t quite grasp. You watched the flurries with a quiet intensity he found… puzzling.

“Paying attention, or has the snow got you too?” Theo teased, nudging Mattheo as he caught him staring.

Mattheo shot him a sharp look. “Shut up.”

Glancing at you again, he lowered his voice. “Why’s she so quiet?”

Pansy, ever observant, turned her gaze from you to the two whispering boys. “Because that’s how she is. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“Very funny,” Mattheo shot back, narrowing his eyes at her.

Theo chuckled. “She just doesn’t like all the noise. Makes me wonder, though… why’s she here with us?”

“Because you invited her,” Mattheo said dryly, his tone clipped. Theo shrugged, unbothered.

“She’s here for Pansy. And maybe because sometimes people like to shake things up a bit,” Theo replied, as if it were obvious.

Mattheo didn’t respond, his attention drawn back to you. You were still lost in the view outside, but you must have felt the weight of their stares because, after a moment, you turned to face the group. Your smile was small and uncertain, a touch of embarrassment in your eyes. “What?” you asked quietly, your voice soft and cautious.

“Mattheo thinks you’re mysterious,” Theo said boldly, grinning as he leaned back lazily in his chair.

You frowned, your gaze shifting to Mattheo, who let out an irritated scoff. “That’s not what I said.”

“No need to explain yourself, Riddle,” Pansy chimed in with a sly grin, hiding behind the menu.

You gave a shy smile, clearly flustered, and buried yourself in the menu as if it were a shield. Mattheo caught the faint blush creeping across your cheeks, and for some inexplicable reason, it made him glance away, feeling oddly unsettled.

“What’re we ordering?” Blaise asked suddenly, breaking the tension and redirecting the group’s focus.

While the others debated their orders, Mattheo remained silent, his fingers tapping against the table. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about you that left him uneasy—not in a bad way, but in a way that made him feel restless, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with himself.

The waiter arrived, looking a little tired but polite, his quill poised to take orders. Theo and Blaise rattled off their choices with ease, but when it was your turn, you hesitated, your voice so soft that the waiter leaned in.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” the waiter asked, his tone patient.

Mattheo noticed the discomfort on your face as you tried again, your cheeks flushing with self-consciousness. It was such a simple moment, but something about it made Mattheo feel compelled to step in.

“She’ll have a butterbeer,” he said abruptly, leaning back in his chair as if it were no big deal. “And I’ll have the same.”

The waiter blinked, then nodded. “Right, and the rest of you?”

You glanced at Mattheo, your surprise evident. For a moment, he wondered if he’d made things worse. But then you murmured, “Thanks,” so quietly it was almost inaudible. Your smile was small and a little shy, but there was something about it—something genuine—that made Mattheo’s chest tighten unexpectedly.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and while it wasn’t much, it was enough to make Mattheo look away, feeling a strange heat rising in his neck. What the hell was that?

He focused on the table instead, letting his gaze fall on Pansy. She was watching him with her usual smirk, the kind that screamed, I know something you don’t. That look alone was enough to irritate him further.

He clenched his jaw, determined to brush it off. Whatever Pansy thought she saw, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like him to get caught up in whatever game she might be playing. And yet, he couldn’t shake the thought of that small, genuine smile you’d given him—or the way it had made him feel completely out of his depth.

Later, the group had finished their meal and was now strolling leisurely through the softly lit streets of Hogsmeade. Snow fell in delicate flakes, blanketing the rooftops with a fine layer, creating a scene that was ordinary but, in your eyes, uniquely enchanting.

Mattheo walked in silence, his hands casually shoved into his pockets, while you stayed a little ahead with Luna, Blaise, and Pansy. The latter seemed particularly alert, as if she were plotting something in her mind.

“Let’s stop by Honeydukes,” Pansy announced suddenly, pausing beside Blaise and Luna. “I’m absolutely craving those ginger caramels.”

“Now? is probably a nightmare,” Theo grumbled, though his protest was pointless as Pansy was already dragging him firmly towards the shop’s entrance.

Before you could say a word, she turned to you and Mattheo with a sly, self-assured grin.

“How about you two check out the bookshop? We’ll catch up in a bit!”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing uncertainly in the direction of the bookshop and then back at Pansy. But she didn’t wait for a reply. Without giving you a chance to argue, she disappeared into Honeydukes with Theo in tow.

Mattheo let out a quiet sigh, his expression laced with a knowing irritation at Pansy’s obvious intentions. But he didn’t comment. Instead, he gave a small nod towards the bookshop.

“Fancy it?” he asked, his tone straightforward.

You nodded slightly, not trusting your voice to come out steady, and followed him towards the shop.

The interior of the bookshop was warm and serene. Tall shelves were crammed with books, from old, worn-out tomes to pristine, freshly bound editions. The air was filled with the unmistakable scent of aged paper, and the soft glow of strategically placed lamps added to the cosy atmosphere.

Walking slowly down the aisles, you trailed your fingers over the spines of books, savouring the texture of each one. Mattheo had wandered to a quieter section, where he pulled an old, dark-covered book from the shelf and examined it with mild curiosity.

“I’ve read that one,” you remarked casually, stepping closer.

Mattheo looked up at you, his expression faintly surprised. “Have you?”

You nodded, your eyes lighting up shyly but genuinely. “It’s really good, though a bit sad.”

He shrugged, placing the book back and reaching for another.

“That one too,” you said, glancing at the new book in his hand.

He raised an eyebrow, holding the book for a moment before putting it back and selecting yet another.

“Oh, that one’s brilliant!” you exclaimed, a spark of enthusiasm slipping through. “A bit heavy in parts, but it’s one of my favourites.”

Mattheo paused, studying the book in his hand before looking back at you.

“Have you read all of these?” he asked, disbelief evident in his tone.

You hesitated, your gaze flickering away briefly before meeting his again, your cheeks warming under his scrutiny.

“Almost all of them,” you admitted softly. “I just… really like reading.”

A faint, genuine smile tugged at Mattheo’s lips as he shook his head slightly.

“All right,” he said, holding up another book. “How about this one? Have you read it?” He revealed the title: The Great Gatsby.

Your eyes lit up instantly as you nodded. “Yes. It’s a classic. Sad, but so good.”

Mattheo let out a short sigh, glancing at the book with more interest. “Do you cry at all of them, or just the ones I pick because I like the cover?”

Your timid but sincere smile answered before your words. “Only the good ones.”

For a moment, he just watched you, his eyes lingering as you studied the shelves around you with quiet fascination.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “Think I’ll like this one?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Depends. Do you like happy endings?”

Mattheo chuckled lowly, a hint of dry humour in his voice. “Wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

Your expression softened at his response, but you didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you looked up at him, as though trying to understand him better. He shifted uncomfortably under your gaze and glanced away.

“I’ll take it,” he muttered, holding the book firmly. “If it makes me cry, it’s your fault.”

You laughed quietly, the sound lighter this time, as he tucked the book under his arm.

“Do you read much?” you asked, your voice still a little shy as your eyes lifted to meet his.

“Not really.”

The moment was abruptly interrupted by Pansy’s familiar voice cutting through the quiet. She appeared suddenly beside Mattheo, a smug smile on her face.

“You two are taking ages,” she teased, throwing a loaded glance between the two of you. “Buying a book or writing one?”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, refusing to dignify her with an answer, while you glanced away, feeling slightly flustered. Pansy’s satisfied grin made it clear she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. Without ceremony, she tugged Mattheo towards the counter to pay for his book. You followed quietly as they left the shop, snow beginning to fall again outside.

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Once again, the group had gathered, this time in a more comfortable setting, as if they had already gotten used to the rhythm of their regular outings. The Slytherin common room felt cosy and calm, bathed in the soft light of the fire crackling in the hearth, casting a warm, golden glow across the space. Theo and Pansy were chatting animatedly about something trivial, while Blaise and Luna stayed, as usual, wrapped up in their own bubble, oblivious to the world around them.

You and Mattheo, however, were more on the edge of the group, tucked away in a quiet corner where silence hung comfortably in the air. He was staring into the flames, his mind distant, while you flicked through a book, your eyes quickly scanning the shelves of volumes in the common room.

It was you who broke the silence, your voice soft, laced with your usual curiosity.

“Have you finished that book, Mattheo?”

He gave you a look after a brief pause, responding casually.

“Yeah, it was quick to read, just like Cat’s Cradle.”

“You’ve read Cat’s Cradle?” you asked, surprised, your eyes lighting up instantly at the thought that he might be interested in such a quirky book.

Mattheo nodded with a relaxed gesture.

“Mm-hm.”

“I love that book,” you said enthusiastically. “I thought you said you didn’t read much.”

He laughed and shrugged, not giving it much thought.

“Well, what’s ‘much’?”

You laughed, satisfied with the answer, before diving back into your love for the book.

“Cat’s Cradle is just so chaotic, so human, you know? Like a distorted mirror of ourselves.”

Mattheo furrowed his brow, now visibly more interested.

“Human?”

“Yeah,” you continued, gesturing lightly. “The way Vonnegut portrays people, with all their confusing flaws—it’s so real. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but still, it’s genius.”

Mattheo watched you for a moment, trying to understand your perspective before replying in a teasing tone.

“I’m not sure ‘genius’ is the right word.”

You let out a soft laugh, not offended.

“No? And how would you describe it?”

He shrugged, his eyes drifting to the window beside him, watching the snow fall gently outside.

“It’s more like… a bunch of people getting into trouble because they’re too thick to see what’s right in front of them.”

You tilted your head slightly, amused by the simplicity of his argument.

“Exactly. That’s what makes it genius.”

Mattheo blinked, clearly impressed by your response. He wasn’t sure if you were joking or if you really believed it.

“You think stupidity is genius?”

“Nooo,” you said with a sideways smile. “But it makes us reflect on that human stupidity, like a portrait of our own contradictions, in a raw way. It’s uncomfortable, but in a weird way, it’s beautiful.”

Mattheo fell silent for a moment, processing your words.

“Beautiful?” He raised an eyebrow, as if trying to decide whether the comment was fascinating or just plain weird.

“Yes, beautiful,” you insisted, your tone calm but firm. “I think there’s beauty in accepting that we’re flawed, that we’re always trying, even when we know we might fail.”

He let out a low, almost incredulous laugh.

“You’ve got a peculiar way of looking at things.”

“Peculiar?” You laughed back, not losing the lightness of the moment. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Before he could respond, you leaned forward slightly, without thinking too much, and with a gentle gesture, you brushed a stray curl of hair from his face. Your touch was so natural that he barely had time to process it. Your fingers slid smoothly through his dark hair, pushing the curl away, and you did it with such ease that it felt completely normal to you. But for Mattheo, the action was enough to freeze him for a moment.

Mattheo froze. His mind instantly went on alert. The touch, though brief, had triggered a cascade of disconnected thoughts that he had no idea how to sort or deal with at that moment.

You, completely unaware of the inner battle Mattheo was facing, turned your attention back to the book you were skimming through, still intrigued by the shelves in the Slytherin common room. They were filled with delicate details, snakes and symbols, which gave the place a peculiar touch.

Mattheo, on the other hand, remained silent, lost in his own thoughts. He tried to push the moment’s impact aside, but it seemed impossible. The touch was still fresh on his skin, and the echo of your words about the book lingered in his mind.

ಇ

The night was quiet and peaceful at Hogwarts Castle. Mattheo lay in his dormitory, the soft light of the moon streaming through the window, casting a subtle glow over the room. His mind, however, was restless, filled with thoughts that were hard to sort. Almost mechanically, he reached for his wand, and with a subtle motion, began to move it, calling the music.

The first notes of “Crash Into Me” began to fill the room, softly, as Dave Matthews’ voice echoed through the space, enveloping him in a familiar melody. The song seeped into him like a comforting whisper, and something in it gripped him almost viscerally. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be consumed by the music, and, without knowing why, raised his wand again to put the track on repeat.

The words of the song began to take on more meaning, subtly echoing within him, much like the thoughts swirling in his mind that he couldn’t quite organise. It was as if the song spoke directly to him, not in a clear and direct way, but through its rhymes and melody, something in between the lines made him think of you. Your calm presence, yet shrouded in mystery, took shape in his mind.

He turned over in bed, still immersed in confusing thoughts, trying to understand the nameless feeling that overtook him. What was this unease? The music seemed to break something inside him, as if it were unveiling parts of himself he didn’t know existed.

As the chords of the song filled the space around him, a quiet exhaustion began to settle in. He surrendered to the melody, letting himself drift, without haste or resistance. The last thing he thought of before falling asleep was your face.

In his dream, you were beneath the Astronomy Tower. The stars watched silently as you leaned against the balustrade, your hair softly shimmering, floating with the night’s breeze. They saw when you approached him, and the world around seemed to shrink, as if everything became insignificant. You kissed him, a simple, gentle kiss, incredibly soft, full of sincerity. When you pulled away, his eyes opened.

The song “Crash Into Me” still played in his ears, but the sensation of the kiss, the soft touch of your lips, lingered with him, even though the dream dissipated as quickly as it had come. He lay there, motionless, not knowing exactly when he had been struck. The confusion that had once dominated his thoughts now seemed entwined with that fleeting memory, and he allowed himself to feel.

ಇ

Theo’s dormitory was as cosy as ever, lit only by the bedside lamp, casting a soft yellow glow that created an intimate atmosphere. The lazy tendrils of cigarette smoke drifted in the air, mixing with the low hum of music playing from a small gramophone in the corner. Lorenzo was slouched on the sofa, his feet carelessly propped up on the coffee table, while Theo, seated on the floor with his back against the bed, took long drags from his cigarette, releasing the smoke in the air as if following a ritual.

Pansy, meanwhile, leaned against an armchair, distractedly fiddling with her wand. Mattheo remained on the outskirts, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and visibly more distant than usual.

“So,” Pansy began, breaking the silence with a mischievous smile playing on her lips, though her tone remained casual, “I’m thinking of organising another group trip to Hogsmeade next Saturday. You coming?”

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, sceptical. “Who’s going?”

Pansy shrugged nonchalantly. “Me, obviously, Theo, Blaise, Lorenzo, Daphne… if she’s not busy.”

He gave a small nod, considering the idea. Maybe getting out a bit wouldn’t be so bad, even if he wasn’t exactly in the mood.

“And [Name],” Pansy added casually, throwing him a sly sidelong glance.

The effect was immediate. Mattheo froze, quickly averting his gaze. “Ah… no, I don’t think I’ll be going, then.”

Pansy stared at him, taken aback. “You’re not?”

“I’m just not in the mood,” he replied flatly, still avoiding her gaze.

“Not in the mood or running from her?” Pansy pressed, her tone sharp. She uncrossed her arms and stepped away from the armchair, facing him head-on.

He let out a humourless laugh, pushing away from the wall. “Oh, spare me, Pansy. This is just one of your dumb ideas to try and push me onto one of your friends. I’ve told you, it’s not going to work.”

“Push you onto my friends?” she repeated, incredulous, the disbelief clear in her voice. “Merlin’s beard, do you even hear what you’re saying? I’m just organising a trip, it’s not your bloody wedding!”

“Oh, right,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly. “You think I don’t notice? You’re always trying to set people up, like it’s some kind of game. But this isn’t some stupid romance novel. And honestly? She’s none of that, not worth the hassle.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible. Even Lorenzo, who had seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, lifted his gaze, surprised by the bitterness in Mattheo’s voice. Pansy stood still for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh.

“Not worth the hassle?” she repeated, each word laced with icy venom, as she stepped right up to him. “Do you have any idea what utter rubbish you’ve just said?”

Mattheo tried to hold her stare, but there was something in her stance that unsettled him.

“You don’t even believe that,” she continued, her voice firm now. “You’re so terrified of the idea of liking her that you’d rather say something vile like that than admit it to yourself. But guess what, Mattheo? It doesn’t change a thing.”

He crossed his arms, frustration clearly etched on his face. “I’m not scared of anything. You’re the one harassing me with this ridiculous conversation.”

“Ridiculous?” Pansy raised her voice, frustration seeping through every word. “You’re the one acting ridiculous! As if liking someone is some kind of weakness. It’s pathetic, actually—it’s so sad, it’s almost funny.”

“Oh, fuck off, Pansy,” he snapped, his anger boiling over.

She laughed, a sarcastic chuckle escaping her. “I’m just trying to stop you from being an idiot. But, then again, maybe you don’t deserve someone like her. Maybe she’s too good for you, yeah?”

Mattheo clenched his jaw, irritation flashing across his face before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

In the stillness of his own dormitory, he threw himself onto the bed, his chest still heaving from the argument. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to organise his thoughts, but Pansy’s words continued to echo in his mind like an unshakable spell.

“Maybe she’s too good for you.”

He knew he shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t true, and he knew it. She was worth the effort, without a doubt. He remembered the way she spoke about books, how her eyes lit up with passion for things he didn’t even bother to notice. She was kind, funny, incredibly genuine, and, above all, special.

With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Pansy was right. He was an idiot. And, worse yet, an idiot in love.

ಇ

The pub in Hogsmeade was packed, but the noise around Jasmine felt distant as she watched the group of friends play pool with curiosity. The soft lighting gave the place a warm, inviting atmosphere, while the low music in the background punctuated the occasional laughter of Theo and Lorenzo, who were arguing about who the better player was.

Mattheo kept his gaze fixed on you, knowing there was no escaping this. He was already falling, and he knew it. Rather than resist, he decided to enjoy the moment. There was something about your cautious yet charming manner that stirred him in a way he couldn’t quite understand. But soon he realised there was no need to comprehend it. It was as if the fall was inevitable, and somehow, the view would be worth it. All that was left for him to do was relax and let it happen. Maybe it was time to be bolder. Let the fall happen. He was ready for whatever came next and wanted to see how far it could go.

“Go on, who’s next?” Theo asked, twirling the cue stick with a teasing smile, aiming it at you.

“Definitely not me,” you muttered instantly, shrugging behind your butterbeer.

“Oh, come on,” Pansy teased, smiling. “You’ve never played?”

You shook your head, feeling a little out of place. “No idea how to play.”

Before Pansy could insist, Mattheo pushed off from the wall where he had been leaning, arms casually crossed, and approached. “I’ll teach you.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “You don’t have to, I—”

“Come here,” he interrupted, leaving no room for protest. He reached out and, before you could object, gently took hold of your wrist, guiding you to the right spot at the table.

Frozen, you watched him as if he’d just cast a spell. There was something so natural about the gesture – as though you’d shared this kind of proximity for years – that it left you speechless.

“Grab the cue,” he instructed, his voice low and slightly husky. You obeyed, holding the cue with clear hesitation.

Mattheo took a step back, so close that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Like this,” he said, adjusting his hands over yours. His fingers were firm but didn’t squeeze; the touch felt casual, yet it carried an intimacy that made you blush instantly.

He tilted his head, his voice close to your ear. “You need to align with the ball.”

His breath seemed to brush against your skin, and your heart raced. “Right… okay.”

He chuckled softly. “Relax, you’re all tense.”

“I’m not tense!” you protested, though the nervousness in your voice gave you away.

“Of course not,” he teased, shifting his hands slightly to adjust the position. “Now aim here.”

Biting your lip, you tried to focus, even though the closeness made it nearly impossible. The sound of his voice, the way he leaned in, his firm yet careful touch – it was all making your mind spin.

“Ready?” he asked, and you nodded, feeling your face heat up.

With his help, you moved the cue forward, striking the ball harder than you expected. It rolled across the table, hitting a few others before dropping into one of the pockets.

“See?” he said, stepping back slightly but keeping his hand near yours. “That wasn’t so hard.”

You laughed nervously, too shy to meet his eyes. “I think it was more you than me.”

“Maybe,” he replied casually, but his gaze was now locked on yours.

You noticed he was still holding your hand, even though it wasn’t necessary anymore, and for a moment, you were completely speechless. When he finally let go, the touch seemed to linger.

“Next,” he said, handing the cue to Theo, who was already laughing.

You stepped away from the table, trying to regain your composure, but your heart was still racing. Pansy watched you with a mischievous smile, but said nothing – which, in some way, was even more embarrassing.

Mattheo, now leaning back against the wall again, looked relaxed, though a subtle smile played on his lips. He knew exactly what he’d done – and he seemed to be enjoying it.

The night was light, filled with laughter and pool shots. You still felt a bit embarrassed about the last shot, about Mattheo’s unexpected touch, and the way he seemed so at ease. The way he approached so naturally, as if there was an intimacy between you two that you didn’t know how to handle, made you nervous, but also… curious.

At one point, you stepped away to grab the drink you’d left on the table, and Mattheo was right behind you, not wasting a second before taking the empty glass from your hand.

“I’ll get you another,” he said, flashing a casual smile.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him and then at the empty glass he’d taken from your hand. “Hey, I can do it myself.”

He shrugged as he walked away. “So what? Let me do it for you.”

You stared at him as he made his way to the bar, wanting to protest, but knowing he probably wouldn’t care. He was back quickly, drink in hand, placing it gently in front of you.

“Here,” he said, smiling tranquilly.

Still unsure how to react, you responded, “You really don’t listen, do you?”

He laughed easily and sat beside you. “I listen, I just don’t care. And let’s be honest,” he chuckled softly, “you’re not exactly good at hiding that you like it when I do things for you.”

Your face flushed, but you weren’t sure whether you were more surprised by the comment or by how comfortable he seemed with the situation. You tried to change the subject, though your voice still sounded hesitant. “I really could’ve filled my own glass.”

“Sure,” he interrupted with a sly grin, “but I wanted to do it.”

Not knowing how to respond, you looked down, crossing your legs and resting the drink on your thigh, unsure of how to act when Mattheo was messing with your composure. But secretly, you were enjoying this new side of him – unsure of how to react, but liking it all the same.

“I know what I’m doing,” you whispered, more to yourself.

“I know, princess,” he replied with an easy grin, “but I like doing it.”

ಇ

As time passed, your meetings became more frequent. The group hangouts gradually gave way to moments alone, and the relationship between you two became more comfortable and intimate. Being in each other’s company felt natural, easy, almost like an extension of everyday life. Mattheo’s behaviour grew more spontaneous, with fewer of the usual walls he built up when you were around. And it wasn’t just you who noticed; the entire group of friends could see it too.

One night, you were in Mattheo’s dorm. The atmosphere was calm and welcoming, with the scent of scented candles he’d started using now permanently filling the room. They were burning all around, three on the dresser and others on the bedside table. Meanwhile, Mattheo was rummaging through the wardrobe shelves and found a few hidden bottles. It was cheap wine that Theo had bought to settle a silly bet, but had forgotten there. Mattheo remembered it like it had happened yesterday. He looked at the bottle with a smile, laughing to himself. You raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

“I can’t believe you’re going to drink that,” you said, laughing lightly while lying on the black carpet in the middle of the room, fiddling with the radio.

Mattheo shrugged, flashing a carefree smile. “Of course I am, it’s here, right?”

You gave him a sceptical look, but couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity. “That’s a bit weird.”

“It’s nothing,” he replied, walking over and sitting beside you, holding the bottle out. “Try it, go on.”

Hesitant, but tempted, you sat next to him, smiling nervously. You took the bottle from his hand, laughing before bringing it to your lips, keeping your eyes fixed on his.

After a bottle and a half shared between you, the effects of the wine were already clear. The conversation flowed easily, words coming out freely, and you both laughed at anything, letting yourselves enjoy the sense of freedom the moment brought.

Then Mattheo stood up, walked over to the radio, and adjusted the music. Fleetwood Mac, one of his favourite bands, and he knew it well. The soft notes filled the room, creating a relaxing and warm atmosphere. He smiled at you, stood up from the carpet, and waited for you to follow. “Don’t you want to dance?”

You looked at him hesitantly, but he was watching you as if daring you. It didn’t take long before you got up, still a bit loose from the alcohol, and started dancing awkwardly, singing along with Stevie Nicks, a silly grin on your face. Mattheo held your hands and settled on the bed, watching your dance. There was no pretension; it was a spontaneous dance, a bit off-beat, but genuine.

Mattheo watched you with a satisfied smile, but his gaze revealed something more. He saw you differently. You moved with clumsy grace, not caring about the rhythm, and he was completely captivated by the way you threw yourself into the moment, without a hint of self-consciousness. Your movements, though not sensual, were, in that instant, the most captivating thing he’d ever seen. You were so at ease, as if you were dancing just for him. And, in a way, you were.

You laughed, unaware of the effect you had, how your hair shone and moved perfectly with the rhythm of your motions. That sight, so natural, only drew him in more. When the music finally ended, you stopped, out of breath, and looked at him with a mischievous grin, holding onto his shoulders while he watched you from below, his expression one of admiration.

“See? Was this what you wanted?” you asked, regaining your composure, but with a faint blush on your cheeks.

“More than I expected.”

The music still filled the room, but slowly, it became a distant echo, overshadowed by the tension that now dominated the space. The air felt heavier, each heartbeat ringing in your ears as you locked eyes with him. Your hands still rested on his shoulders, and despite the relaxed smile that appeared on his face, there was something in Mattheo’s gaze that made the lightness of the moment take on a new weight.

His eyes were fixed on yours, serious, intense, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. Something in that look seemed ready to spill over, and before you could even question it, the space between you two was vanishing. Mattheo moved, his strong hands reaching up to cradle your face, holding it with a gentleness that contrasted with the fervour in his expression. The world around you faded in the blink of an eye. No more cheap wine, no more candles, no more Stevie Nicks in the background. It was just the two of you.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, filling the silence between you. His gaze didn’t waver, and the proximity made each word feel even more intimate, almost like a confession. A shiver ran down your spine, but you didn’t respond. There were no words that could capture what was going through your mind.

When he finally closed the remaining space between you, his lips found yours, and everything seemed to fall into place. The kiss began firm but soon softened, as if he was exploring each detail, testing, savouring the moment with an almost palpable intensity.

His hands didn’t stay still. One slid to your waist, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, touching your warm skin with a mixture of firmness and care. The other moved up to your neck, fingers light as a caress, but determined, keeping you close, as if he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t slip away.

When his lips left yours, it was only to trace a deliberate path along your jawline, down to the delicate spot on your neck, where he could feel your pulse quicken. Each kiss was meticulous, almost reverent, as you closed your eyes, surrendering to the sensation. The softness of his touch seemed to contradict the intensity he maintained with every movement, and it made the moment all the more overwhelming.

Then, unexpectedly, Mattheo made a quick movement, pulling you onto the bed.

He was firm, but careful, lying you down with precision and security, as if guiding you through a dance he had already mentally rehearsed. Your bodies moulded into the surroundings, as if the moment had been waiting for you both.

Mattheo pulled back slightly, his hands slowly lifting your shirt, with a near ceremonial slowness. There was no rush, just a clear intention in every gesture, as though he was absorbing the significance of what was happening. His eyes scanned your body, but not with haste or crude desire. There was something almost devotional in that gaze, something that made your breath quicken and slow at the same time.

His lips descended to your stomach, touching it with the lightness of a promise. Each kiss seemed to hold something unspoken, something long-kept. Mattheo's fingers traced slow paths along your skin, as though he wanted to memorise every detail, while you let out a sigh that seemed to echo in the intimacy of the room.

Your steps echo. Too loud. Too exposed.

You weren’t even supposed to be here. Just a late walk back from the library, arms full of books for your next Potions essay, scarf half-draped over your shoulder. You’d checked your watch—past curfew, sure, but you’re a Prefect. You had a pass. And you were worried.

Theodore hadn’t shown up to dinner. Again.

He hadn’t replied to your note either—the one you’d left folded neatly into his pillow, reminding him to eat something, please, because he always forgot when he was stressed. You just wanted to check. Maybe bring him his favorite tea from the kitchens. Maybe surprise him with the scarf you knit.

Just a little bit of love. That’s all it was.

That’s when you saw them.

It hits like an icicle through your chest—sharp and so cold it burns. You don’t even register that your legs stop walking. You freeze in place, in the worst possible moment, in the wrong place at the worst time.

He’s there. Theodore Nott.

And she’s with him.

Pressed against the stone wall of the hallway like a scene out of a bad romance novel, except you’re not the one in his arms. Her hands are on him—fingertips brushing over his jaw, the hem of his shirt half-tugged from his trousers. And his hand?

On her hip.

You don’t breathe. Can’t. Won’t. Because breathing means accepting it’s real.

She leans up and kisses him—right on the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t pull away.

Your books slip from your arms and crash against the stone floor. It’s loud enough to startle you back into your own body. Loud enough to startle them, too.

She gasps and jumps back, adjusting her blouse with trembling fingers before bolting down the hall without looking at you.

But he doesn’t run. No—Theodore turns to you slowly, like he’s just been caught doing something minor. Like this is detention-worthy at best.

His mouth opens, slow and almost bored. “Y/N—?”

Your name in his voice feels like a slap.

You don’t even flinch when he says it. You just look at him. You look and look and look, hoping—somehow—that the more you stare, the more the image will change. That this is a dream. That it’s not him.

But it’s him. And his shirt is still rumpled. His lips are still kissed. His expression is still unreadable.

“It’s not what it looked like,” he says, walking toward you with all the urgency of someone fixing a mild inconvenience.

You take a step back.

He pauses.

“She came onto me,” he adds, like it explains anything. “It wasn’t serious.”

You blink. “Did you stop her?”

The silence that follows is damning. You already know the answer.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s the one tired. “It wasn’t anything.”

You try to smile. You really do. But it cracks at the corners, and your lips tremble instead. “You… you promised.”

The words aren’t accusations. They’re reminders. Gentle. Shaky. Just facts.

He shrugs. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

Your heart shatters in slow motion.

You stare down at the scattered books on the floor. They’re all gifts from your friends—titles they lent you, the ones they know help you sleep when Theodore doesn’t come to bed. Little pieces of comfort. And they’re all lying there like casualties.

He notices your silence and steps forward again. This time, his voice softens—not quite genuine, but close enough to mimic it.

“Babe, come on. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I care about you.”

The word care hits your stomach like a rock. Not love. Not even affection. Just… care.

Still, he reaches out. Cupping your face like he’s done a thousand times before—when he wanted something. When he needed forgiveness. When he needed you to believe him.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

You hate how your heart stutters at the words. How part of you wants to fall into him. How badly you want it to be real.

So you nod.

You lie.

“Okay.”

His relief is instant. He pulls you closer, arms looping around your waist. His chin rests atop your head like nothing happened.

Like your chest isn’t caving in.

You let yourself be held.

And you feel sick. ═════ Next Day – Hufflepuff Common Room ═════

The fire crackled lazily, casting soft amber light across the walls. It was supposed to feel warm. Safe. Home.

Instead, the silence after your words landed like a curse.

“I forgave him,” you say quietly, barely above a whisper.

There’s a beat of stillness before Felix jerks up from where he’s sitting on the couch beside Liam.

“WHAT.”

Felix’s voice shot through the cozy warmth of the Hufflepuff common room like a spell misfire. Heads turned. Charlotte almost dropped her mug. Noor whipped around from where she sat curled up with a book, eyes already narrowing into lethal slits.

You stood frozen by the fireplace, scarf still looped around your neck. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Felix was on his feet now, storming toward you with all the fury of a golden retriever pushed past its limit.

“No. No no no. Y/N, please—tell me you’re not serious.”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I forgave him,” you said softly.

Charlotte gasped like you’d just confessed to murder. Noor straight-up dropped her book and stood.

“You what?”

“I—he apologized,” you mumbled, avoiding eye contact. “He said it was just… a moment. That it didn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Noor hissed, storming toward you like she was going to physically shake the sense into your brain.

“Again?!” Charlotte squeaked, stepping up beside you, her fingers tangling with yours automatically. “Y/N, sweetheart, again? How many times has it been now?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

“Exactly!” Noor snapped, arms crossed so tightly across her chest it looked like she was holding herself back from throwing hands. “You don’t even know anymore. That’s how normal this shit has become for you!”

You winced.

Felix exhaled shakily. “Y/N… we talked about this. You said last time was the last time. You were crying in my arms, remember? You said it felt like you were being torn apart.”

Charlotte nodded furiously. “You said he made you feel like a placeholder. That he didn’t see you anymore.”

Your lip trembled. “He was sorry.”

“He’s ALWAYS sorry!” Noor exploded, her voice breaking. “Sorry means fucking nothing if you keep doing the same thing over and over again. That’s not remorse, that’s manipulation.”

Liam was seated on the windowsill nearby, arms folded, eyes half-lidded and sharp. He hadn’t spoken yet—but now he did, cool and calm and terrifying.

“You know what’s wild?” he said, voice low. “He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. Like he knows you’ll forgive him. Like he’s testing how far he can push you before you finally break.”

Charlotte let out a tiny sob, still holding your hand. “Please… just tell me this is some kind of prank. You didn’t really go back to him. You can’t.”

You looked down at your feet.

The floor was spinning.

Felix gently touched your shoulder, his voice trembling. “He didn’t even run after you last time. Do you remember that? You walked out of the Three Broomsticks shaking, and he just stayed there. Didn’t call. Didn’t look. Didn’t care.”

“He was drunk,” you said weakly.

Noor laughed—a hollow, bitter thing. “He’s always drunk. He’s always something. And you always have a damn excuse ready for him.”

“I love him,” you snapped, voice cracking.

Silence.

Charlotte’s bottom lip quivered. Felix looked like he’d been physically slapped. Noor just stared.

“You love him,” Noor repeated slowly. “Does he love you?”

“…He says he does.”

“But do you feel it?”

You blinked back tears.

Felix stepped in, his eyes glassy now too. “Y/N. Loving someone doesn’t mean letting them wreck you. It’s not supposed to hurt like this. You’re not supposed to be afraid of being forgotten.”

You shook your head. “I’m not afraid.”

“Then why,” Noor whispered, “do you keep trying to convince yourself?”

The words gutted you.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around you, tucking her chin into your shoulder. “You’re the best person I know,” she said, her voice muffled. “You bring everyone cookies when they’re sad. You know the difference between people’s fake smiles and real ones. You remember birthdays. You remembered mine when my parents didn’t.”

Your tears finally spilled over.

“And he treats you like you’re disposable,” Felix finished softly. “You deserve a love that picks you back up, not one that pushes you to the floor.”

You looked up at all of them.

Felix, shaking. Noor, fuming. Charlotte, teary-eyed and clinging. Liam, silent but furious.

You felt so, so tired.

“I know it looks bad,” you whispered. “I know he’s done horrible things. I know all of you hate him. But I… I see something in him.”

Noor rolled her eyes so hard she almost collapsed. “You see a fantasy.”

“He could change,” you insisted, voice hoarse.

“He won’t,” Liam said simply.

Charlotte just held you tighter.

“He could,” you repeated, even weaker now.

They didn’t speak.

They just looked at you.

All four of them, in their own ways, breaking in front of you because they couldn’t stand to see you breaking anymore.

“I just… I believe in second chances,” you whispered. “People deserve them.”

“And what about you?” Noor demanded. “When do you get your second chance? When do you stop bleeding for someone who won’t even notice the stain?”

You let the silence sit between all of you.

Felix touched your hand. “Please… don’t do this to yourself again.”

Your throat closed up. You bit down hard on your tongue.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Charlotte looked like she might cry again. Noor looked like she might murder someone. Liam just stood and left the room without a word.

Felix squeezed your hand tighter.

“You can’t,” he murmured, voice breaking now too. “You can’t keep doing this.”

And you didn’t answer.

Because you knew you would.

Again.

══════ Later That Night – Slytherin Dormitories ══════

You slip into Theodore’s room like a ghost. You always do.

Your presence is barely a whisper, barely a breath in the chilled air. The green glow of the enchanted lanterns casts shadows across the stone walls, making everything feel colder than it should. He’s sprawled across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, flipping lazily through a magazine he probably doesn’t care about.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He never is.

He just lifts his gaze lazily and smirks like nothing happened earlier. Like your heart didn’t drop into your stomach the moment you saw him with someone else.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s nothing.

“Hey,” you whisper, stepping closer, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater to keep them from shaking.

You hover for a moment, waiting for… something. A gesture. An apology. An invitation. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word—so you crawl onto the bed beside him, careful not to touch too much, not to hope too loudly.

He tosses the magazine onto the nightstand and finally reaches out, hand resting lazily on your waist like you’re just another accessory to his evening. Like your presence is a background comfort, not a choice he makes.

“You okay?” he asks, voice bored. “Your little group looked like they were about to explode earlier in the Great Hall.”

You force a small smile, your fingers tugging at the edge of his blanket. “They’re just worried.”

He scoffs softly. “They’re always worried. It’s exhausting.”

“They don’t understand you like I do,” you say quietly, the words like pins in your throat.

Theodore chuckles, low and humorless. “They don’t like me, is more accurate.”

“They love me,” you say instead, voice shrinking.

He shrugs. “They love you too much. It’s annoying.”

You glance away. That shouldn't sting, but it does. Your friends loving you shouldn’t be framed like a flaw.

He shifts slightly, arms open, and you take that as your cue. You move toward him automatically—like muscle memory, like reflex, like addiction. His arms wrap around you loosely, and you bury your face into his chest.

He’s warm. He always is. It’s what makes this so hard.

“I don’t want to fight,” you whisper against the fabric of his shirt.

“We’re not fighting,” he mutters, like the thought of arguing is beneath him. “You’re here. That’s all that matters, right?”

You nod against him. You lie again. Because what else are you supposed to do?

His fingers trail up your back in lazy strokes, more out of habit than affection. He doesn’t kiss your forehead. Doesn’t whisper that he’s sorry. Doesn’t even hold you tight.

But you hold onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you from shattering. Because for some reason, he still feels like home—even if he’s the one burning the foundation.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

Yours is breaking.

You woke up early today.

Which was rare. You weren’t a morning person by any means. You were the type who groaned when the sun peeked through the curtains, who clung to your pillow like a lifeline, who mumbled incoherent curses when someone dared to open a window before breakfast. But this morning—this morning was different.

The dormitory was still cloaked in sleepy darkness, only touched by the faintest blue light of dawn leaking in through the frost-rimmed windows. You could hear the soft rustle of bedsheets, the slow breathing of your housemates, and the gentle crackle of the low-burning fireplace in the corner. The world hadn’t quite woken up yet.

But you had.

Your hands moved slowly as you slipped out of bed, careful not to make noise. You didn’t even use your wand—just lit a lantern with your fingers trembling from the cold and from something else you couldn’t name. Not nervousness. Not quite excitement.

Hope.

Hope had a funny way of blooming in your chest like a stubborn flower, even after all the storms.

You padded across the room, still in your socks, and carefully pulled Theodore’s sweater out of the drawer. The dark green one. The one he always let you steal, even if he teased you about it. The one that hung a little too loose on you, made you feel small in a good way, like you could disappear into something that smelled like him. You pressed your nose to the collar for a second. Just a second. Just enough to feel warm.

Then, instead of putting it on like usual, you folded it. Slowly. Deliberately. You smoothed out every wrinkle with your palms and laid it on your bed like it was something sacred. Something meaningful. A quiet ritual between lovers. Or… almost lovers. Or whatever you and Theo were these days.

Next, you reached for the scarf.

Your scarf.

It was your favorite one—the black one you stitched gold stars into last winter when you were bored during the holidays. You’d worn it through the first snow and the second. And the first time Theo had seen it, he’d grinned and pulled it up over your nose and said, “You look adorable, you know that?” like it was a fact, not a compliment. That scarf had stayed with you through every fight, every make-up kiss, every teary apology. It was yours.

But this morning, you wanted him to have it.

You wrapped it gently, folding the ends over each other like you were tucking in a blanket. Then you reached into your drawer, pulled out a tiny piece of parchment, and started writing.

“For after Quidditch. Thought you might be cold. Don’t be late. I miss you already.”

You stared at the note. Bit your lip. Your handwriting looked shaky. Would he think it was clingy? Would he laugh?

You almost crumpled it.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You slipped it between the folds of the scarf. Then you held the whole bundle against your chest for a few seconds, breathing in deeply like maybe if you held it close enough, it would carry some part of your love with it.

You looked at the clock. Too early still. The others were asleep. The whole castle felt like it was holding its breath.

So were you.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, scarf around your neck, cheeks pink from the cold that leaked in through the stones. Your lips were chapped, your hair a little messy, but there was a glow in your eyes you hadn’t seen in a while. You looked… hopeful.

Maybe this time…

Maybe this time he wouldn’t forget.

Maybe this time he’d meet you by the greenhouse like he promised.

Maybe this time he’d wrap the scarf around his neck and smile and say thank you and hold your hand on the walk to Hogsmeade.

Maybe this time he’d see how much you loved him.

You smiled. Nervous. Excited. A little dizzy with it.

It wasn’t even your anniversary or anything—it was just one of those days where your heart was stupidly full, and you thought, Maybe this time, he’ll meet me halfway. You waited for him after class. Right outside the pitch. Even though the wind had already started to pick up and the air carried that sharp, icy warning of winter biting at your cheeks. The sky was grey, blanketed by thick clouds that looked like they might drop snow at any second.

Still, you stood there—gloved hands tucked into your sleeves, rocking on your heels for warmth.

You were early. Of course you were.

You liked the feeling of anticipation. The hope that maybe this time, when practice ended, he’d walk straight over. Maybe this time, he’d be smiling just for you. Not half-tired or distracted. Not already texting someone else. Just you.

You shifted the little paper bag in your arms, trying not to crumple it. Inside: a sandwich you’d made during breakfast. His favorite—peanut butter and strawberry jam, crusts carefully trimmed off because he always wrinkled his nose at them. You’d wrapped it up with parchment and tied it with twine. You even doodled a tiny snake on the note card stuck inside:

"Post-practice fuel. Don’t be late, sleepyhead."

You hugged the bag to your chest.

The wind picked up again, ruffling your scarf. You pulled it tighter. The black one with tiny, gold embroidered stars along the edges—messily stitched by hand, but charming in its imperfection. You remembered staying up late in your dorm to finish it. Needle pricks on your fingers, your tongue poking out in concentration.

He always said you looked cute when you were focused. Said he liked that scarf best.

That’s why you brought it. Just in case he forgot his.

Because he always forgot his.

You smiled softly to yourself, pressing your nose into the collar of your coat. The ache in your hands didn’t matter. The cold didn’t matter. Not if he showed up this time.

Not if he took your hand like he promised.

Not if he wore the scarf and said, “You spoil me.”

Not if he kissed your forehead and muttered something about how you were too good for him—but still leaned into your touch like he needed it.

You waited.

And waited.

You checked your watch. Checked the time. Checked it again.

The ache in your arms started to settle. A kind of disappointed heaviness.

The paper bag crinkled as you hugged it tighter.

The sandwich inside was still warm.

His favorite. ──────────────── It was 4 PM when practice ended.

You knew because you’d been staring at your watch since 3:45. You wanted to be early. You wanted to be the first thing he saw when he came out—hands tucked into your sleeves, scarf fluttering slightly, cheeks pink from the cold, holding his favorite sandwich like some ridiculous rom-com character.

One by one, the other players started trickling off the field.

Laughter. Shouts. Muddy footprints.

But no Theodore.

You stood up straighter. Smoothed your sleeves. Brushed snow off the bench.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

You shifted from foot to foot, your shoes wet now. The grass had frozen beneath you, crisp with frost, and you could feel the chill sneaking into your socks.

You rubbed your hands together. Checked your watch again.

Still no sign.

Maybe he was just taking a while. Maybe he was showering. Maybe he—

“Y/N?”

You turned your head so fast your neck cracked.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Avery—not Liam, but another player from the team. He smiled politely. “You waiting for Theo?”

You nodded, hopeful.

He blinked. “He left, like, twenty minutes ago. Said he had something to do.”

Your heart dropped. “Oh. Um. Okay. Thanks.”

He waved, oblivious, and jogged off toward the castle.

You slowly sat back down.

Your fingers trembled as you placed the sandwich bag in your lap. The wind picked up, tugging at the ends of your scarf like even the air wanted you to go home.

But you stayed.

You told yourself maybe Avery was wrong. Maybe Theodore was just around the corner. Maybe he’d come running, breathless, apologetic, eyes soft with guilt and wanting.

You waited until your toes stopped feeling like toes.

Your phone buzzed once. Then again.

You didn’t check it.

The snow started falling at 5:17.

Thin flakes at first. Then thicker.

You tried to curl into yourself, your scarf wrapped tight around your face.

He’s coming.

He promised.

He wouldn’t forget you. Not this time.

You weren’t angry.

You were just so, so tired.

At 6:07, the Howler arrived.

“IF YOU’RE STILL OUTSIDE, Y/N, I’M GOING TO SCREAM—NO—ACTUALLY—I’M COMING TO FIND YOU, I SWEAR—”

Charlotte’s voice was shrill through the air, echoing off the trees and glass panes of the greenhouse.

You blinked slowly. The tip of your nose was numb.

The greenhouse door slammed open so hard it rattled on its hinges.

“No fucking way.”

Noor stormed out like the wrath of God in a crimson trench coat. You’d never seen her run before—she always walked like she was above the world—but this time? She sprinted.

“Y/N. Are you fucking kidding me?”

You managed a weak smile. “Hey, Noor.”

“Don’t ‘Hey Noor’ me, what the hell are you doing out here?” she barked, skidding to a stop in front of you. “Have you LOST your mind?”

“I was just waiting—”

“For him?” she snarled, eyes wild. “It’s fucking SNOWING, Y/N. You’re shaking like a leaf, your lips are blue, and you’re out here because that bastard forgot about you AGAIN?!”

You flinched, and she immediately froze.

Her voice dropped, but not the fury. It just simmered now—low, dangerous.

“I swear to Merlin, I will drag him by the roots of his pretty little hair and set him on fire.”

You whispered, “Please don’t…”

She crouched down, her coat rustling. Her hands didn’t touch you, not yet, but they hovered—furious and protective all at once. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m okay,” you said. “He probably just got caught up in something.”

Her lip curled. “Yeah. Probably someone else’s bed.”

You winced.

She saw it. And her rage cracked into something uglier. Not softer. Just hurt.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” she whispered. “Why do you let him?”

Before you could answer, more footsteps—Felix, Charlotte, Liam.

Felix’s face was red from running. “Found them?”

“YEAH,” Noor yelled over her shoulder. “I FOUND THEM FREEZING TO DEATH BECAUSE THEIR DUMBASS BOYFRIEND BAILED. AGAIN.”

Charlotte gasped and ran to you. “Oh my god. Y/N—your hands are like ICE!”

Felix was already pulling out the emergency blanket from his bag like he knew this would happen. “I brought this just in case. Here.”

You didn’t resist. You let them wrap it around you.

You let Charlotte fuss over your hair, and Felix pat your back, and Liam stand behind them like a shadow ready to burn the world down.

But you didn’t look at them.

You looked at the path leading back to the castle.

Waiting.

Still hoping.

And that made something inside you crack.

══════ Later That Night. ══════

You didn’t cry.

You just laid in bed, curled on your side, your arms wrapped around your own middle like maybe that would stop your ribs from cracking inward. The blanket was too warm, the silence too loud. Every sound from outside—every laugh, every pair of footsteps—made you tense.

The sandwich was still in the paper bag. Slightly flattened. The scarf you wore that day was now crumpled next to it, still carrying the faint warmth of your hope.

You stared at the ceiling for hours, eyes unfocused.

You hadn’t said a word since you came back.

No one forced you to.

But you weren’t alone. You never were. You could feel them.

Noor, Charlotte, Felix, and Liam—your constants.

Felix had brought you hot cocoa three times. You didn’t touch any of them. The last one had gone cold.

Charlotte curled up on the edge of your bed, rubbing slow circles on your back with the gentlest fingers, murmuring soft things like, “You’re okay. I’m here. Just breathe with me, okay?”

You didn’t respond.

Liam had taken Felix’s spot when he left to get more tea, silent as always, rubbing the back of his boyfriend’s neck while staring out at the dormitory door like he was daring Theodore to walk through it.

And Noor?

Noor was pacing.

Her boots thudded against the common room floor, her cloak swishing behind her, her jaw clenched like she was physically restraining herself from grabbing her wand and storming into the Slytherin dorms with murder in her eyes.

“Coward,” she muttered. “Fucking coward.”

Charlotte gave her a look, silently asking her to keep her voice down.

Noor didn’t care.

“Are we serious right now?” she hissed. “He stood them up. Again. He does this every time. And you’re all just sitting here?”

“Noor,” Felix warned softly.

“No, don’t you ‘Noor’ me, Felix,” she snapped. “I’m done playing quiet for the sake of their feelings. I’m DONE watching them get chewed up and spat out like they’re nothing!”

Her voice cracked.

Yours didn’t move.

Noor stepped closer, crouching beside your bed. “Y/N,” she said, lower now, but her voice still trembled with barely-suppressed rage. “You waited in the freezing cold for three hours. With a sandwich. A scarf. A fucking card. You could’ve gotten sick. You could’ve passed out. You didn’t even eat. And he didn’t show up. Again.”

Still, you said nothing.

Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “Noor…”

“No. No, they need to hear this. He doesn’t care, Y/N. He’s never going to care. You’re not some charity case he’s going to learn to love just because you’re sweet and soft and wait around. He’s a waste of skin. He’s a liar, and he’s cruel, and I swear to Merlin, if I see him near you again—”

“Noor,” Liam said firmly.

She shut up. Barely. Her fists still trembled at her sides.

She turned back to you.

You weren’t crying. That made it worse.

She dropped to her knees, grabbed your hand gently—almost too gently for how furious she looked—and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m yelling. But I love you, okay? You’re my person. You’re one of the only ones I give a shit about. And it kills me watching you act like he loves you back.”

You didn’t squeeze her hand.

You didn’t pull away either.

You just laid there.

Quiet.

Staring at the door.

Waiting. ═════ The Next Day ═════

You found him sitting at the edge of the Slytherin table at breakfast.

Laughing.

Grinning.

Like nothing happened.

He was surrounded by his usual circle—Mattheo tossing bits of toast at Blaise, who dodged lazily while sipping his coffee. Draco was fixing his cufflinks, already looking bored. Pansy was applying lip gloss with a charm-enhanced mirror, and Lorenzo was retelling some story about a sixth year falling into the lake. Astoria sat at the end, quiet, eyes distant as she picked at her eggs.

You approached slowly, scarf folded in your hands, heart thudding so hard it echoed in your ears.

Theodore looked up mid-bite, smirk curling his lips. “Hey,” he said casually, like he hadn’t completely forgotten about you.

Like he hadn’t left you standing in the cold with a sandwich and a hopeful smile.

“Can we talk?” you asked.

Mattheo snorted. “Oop. Trouble in paradise?”

You ignored him.

Theodore leaned back on the bench, all nonchalant charm and unbothered attitude. “What’s up?”

You glanced around. Everyone was watching.

Pansy raised a brow. Blaise looked away. Astoria’s hand froze mid-slice of toast.

You swallowed the tightness in your throat. “You didn’t come yesterday.”

Theodore blinked. “Oh. Right.”

Just oh. Like he’d forgotten his textbooks. Not you.

You waited.

Draco glanced at Theodore, then at you, and let out a quiet exhale like he already knew where this was going.

Theodore scratched his neck, still chewing. “Yeah, I got caught up in something.”

“What?” you asked. Voice small. Already crumbling.

“Dunno. Just… stuff.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, unbothered.

Mattheo chuckled under his breath. “Well, that clears it up.”

Lorenzo elbowed him. “Shut up, man.”

Astoria didn’t look at anyone. She just kept slowly slicing her toast into perfect, untouched squares.

“Are you mad?” Theodore asked, like you were being unreasonable.

“I’m not mad,” you said. And it was true. You were beyond mad. You were tired.

“You look mad,” he said, laughing a little.

“I’m not,” you repeated, even though your throat burned.

He rolled his eyes. “Merlin, you’re being dramatic again.”

That hit.

That hit so hard it made you take a half step back.

And not a single one of them said anything.

Not even Astoria.

You tried to hold it together. You held out the scarf, neatly folded. “I made this for you.”

He took it, blinked at it. Turned it over in his hands like it was a trinket someone gave him out of obligation.

“Yeah?” he said. “Cute.”

That was it.

Mattheo muttered something under his breath—probably mocking.

You tried not to cry.

You waited for him to reach out, to thank you, to care.

He didn’t.

Instead, he glanced over your shoulder and said, “I’ll see you later, yeah? I’ve got to meet someone.”

Your stomach twisted.

Mattheo raised a brow. “Don’t you already have someone?”

Blaise choked on his drink. “He means someone else,” he said with a smirk.

Lorenzo hissed, “Guys—”

Draco didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, pity on his face. The kind that hurt worse than anything else.

Pansy popped her lips and turned away.

And Astoria?

She finally looked up at you.

Just for a second.

And in that second, you saw it. The guilt. The regret.

The part of her that knew.

But she said nothing.

She turned her face away.

And you?

You didn’t ask who Theodore was going to meet.

You didn’t want to know.

══════ That Night – Hufflepuff Common Room ══════

You sat curled up in the corner of the oversized couch, knees drawn to your chest, the heavy common room blanket wrapped around you like it could stitch your cracks back together. The fire crackled lazily across the room, casting warm light against the amber-stained walls—but none of it reached your eyes.

Charlotte lay stretched across the couch beside you, her head resting carefully on your thigh, one arm curled around your waist like she could hold your sadness in place if she hugged tight enough. Her hair smelled like lavender and peppermint. She didn’t say anything. Just held you.

Felix sat on the floor near your feet, leaning against the couch, worry crinkling the corners of his soft brown eyes. He looked up at you every few seconds—his hand resting lightly on your ankle through the blanket like a silent lifeline. In his other hand was a steaming mug of cinnamon hot cocoa. He kept offering it without words, and every time you shook your head, his smile dropped a little lower.

Liam was stretched out beside him on the rug, long legs crossed lazily. One of his hands rested on Felix’s thigh, fingers drawing idle patterns, while the other toyed with the hem of Felix’s sleeve. His eyes never left the fire, but he hadn’t stopped listening for a second. His jaw clenched every time your breath caught.

Noor paced behind the couch. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her boots thudded softly against the rug, her red coat draped over her shoulders like she hadn’t even bothered to take it off when she rushed inside. Arms crossed tight. Eyes furious. Face unreadable in the dim light—until she stopped. Planted herself behind you. Stared down at your slouched form like she was trying not to break something.

You hadn't said a word since you'd come in.

No one had to ask what happened.

They knew.

Felix shifted a little closer. “Y/N…”

Your eyes didn’t move from the fire. Your voice, when it came, was hoarse. “I waited.”

Silence.

You swallowed. Your hand gripped the blanket tighter around your knees. “He didn’t come.”

Charlotte’s arms tightened around your middle. Her voice trembled when she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Noor scoffed sharply. “Of course he didn’t.”

You winced.

Felix reached up and gently brushed your wrist. “You should’ve told us sooner.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” you murmured.

That made Charlotte sit up properly, her hand cupping your cheek as she turned your face toward her. “You’re never a bother.”

“She’s right,” Felix added, his voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Noor’s voice was flat. “You shouldn’t have to go through this at all.”

Liam looked up. “We told you he wouldn’t show.”

You finally looked down at your lap. “I thought he would this time.”

Noor’s pacing picked up again. “You always think he will. And he never does.”

“It was just one afternoon—”

“Stop defending him,” she snapped, spinning on her heel. Her dark eyes blazed. “He’s not worth defending.”

You shrank into yourself.

Charlotte reached for your hand. “Y/N, no one’s blaming you. We just hate seeing you hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.”

No one believed you.

Felix whispered, “You’re allowed to be.”

“I said I’m not.”

Silence. Thick. Cold. Uncomfortable.

Liam sighed quietly and shifted closer to Felix, resting his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “He’s not going to change, Y/N. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Noor slammed her hands on the back of the couch. “Well, we’re going to.”

Charlotte flinched. Felix looked up, startled.

You blinked, slowly.

Noor’s voice cracked. Just a bit. “You keep letting him do this to you. And we’re the ones who have to hold you together afterward. Again. And again. And again.”

You said nothing.

She stepped around the couch this time. Stood in front of you. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you know how hard it is to watch someone you care about willingly drown?”

Your lower lip trembled.

Felix’s hand slid into yours.

Charlotte whispered, “Please say something.”

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You just sat there. Breathing quietly. Tears gathering but refusing to fall.

Charlotte laid her head back against your shoulder and held your hand tighter. Felix leaned against your leg. Liam reached over and pulled the blanket higher around your shoulders like a big brother trying to protect you from the world. Noor stayed standing. Watching.

You finally exhaled. A shaky, hollow sound.

No one spoke after that.

Not until minutes later, when your head finally dropped onto Charlotte’s and your eyes fluttered shut.

Then, in the soft flicker of firelight, Noor turned away from you and stared at the dancing flames.

Her voice was so quiet you barely caught it:

“…He doesn’t deserve you.”

Your hands trembled as you fastened the little bow on the photo album.

You had been working on it for weeks—meticulously printing photos in the library, slipping them into the pages with protective sheets so they wouldn’t wrinkle. You even redid the cover three separate times because the first paper creased, and the second one didn’t feel right. This one, though—this one was perfect. A soft, velvety parchment gold, warm to the touch, like how he used to feel when he'd pull you into his chest on cold mornings.

You picked the ribbon carefully too. First it was silver, then green, then finally a golden thread laced with hints of forest satin—your house and his, tied together, just like you wanted to believe you were. It wasn’t just a bow. It was a symbol. A fragile little knot you kept trying to make hold everything together.

And it wouldn’t tie properly.

You undid it again. Retied it with slow, shaking fingers. You focused on making the loops symmetrical, tugging them into place like you could control the outcome if the bow was perfect enough. Tight enough. Beautiful enough. Like if you just tied it right, maybe he’d finally see all the love you had left to give him.

You whispered under your breath, more to yourself than anything else, “Okay… just one more time. Make it nice. He’ll notice this time.”

Your lips tugged into the faintest smile, trembling. “He likes green. Right? Or… wait, maybe the gold looked better on his desk… it’ll match his eyes. Maybe that’ll make him—” You stopped. Shook your head. “No. Don’t think like that. He’s going to love it. Of course he will.”

You stared down at the album when you finished. Your name was written in tiny cursive in the bottom right corner of the first page, right beneath a caption: “Here’s to everything I remember for both of us.”

You ran your fingers over the cover slowly, like you were trying to press the warmth of your hands into it. Into him.

You flipped through it again. Just to make sure.

The first page: a photo of you and Theodore on the Hogwarts Express—he was asleep with his head on your shoulder. You were smiling into the camera. You remembered how warm he was that day. How he held your hand under the table at lunch.

“I think this was the day I started loving him,” you murmured to no one. “Or maybe it was the day before. Doesn’t matter. I think he loved me that day too.”

The next page: your first Hogsmeade trip. A dried candy wrapper tucked into the corner. A note scribbled in pencil beside it: “You said it tasted like soap. You still ate the whole thing.”

You laughed softly, but it cracked halfway out. “He said I was dramatic,” you said, your voice barely a breath. “But he smiled the whole time… that has to count for something, right?”

Each page bled with memory. The first snowfall you watched together from the Astronomy Tower. The stolen kiss in the Potions classroom. A blurry picture of him laughing—one of the only ones where his guard was down.

You pressed your fingers to that page and closed your eyes.

“I wish you still laughed like this around me…”

There were dried flowers glued in the margins—petals you’d stolen from the Greenhouse during spring. Wrinkled receipts from Honeydukes. A ticket stub from a Quidditch match. Wrapping paper he tore from a gift you gave him months ago, smoothed out and tucked into a pocket.

You paused at a torn-out page from your Transfiguration notebook. Scribbled on the back of it was a doodle—just a tiny little sketch he made of you, passed across the table during a boring lecture.

You smiled. Soft. Fond. Fragile.

“He said he was awful at drawing…” You brushed your thumb across the paper. “But he tried. He tried that day.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at the rest of the album. At everything you gathered. Everything you glued and wrote and colored and built just to remind him.

Every inch of the album was a love letter without words. A thousand little whispers bound in ink, petals, and glue. A prayer that he might look through these pages and remember. Not just the moments—but how deeply you had loved him through all of them.

You sat back, holding the album in your lap. Your fingers curled around the edges as you whispered:

“…I hope he keeps this forever.”

Because in your heart, you already knew.

This might be the last thing he ever gets from you.

You hoped it would be enough.

You hoped he’d remember.

Of you. ══════ The day passed. ══════

You arrived at the Astronomy Tower just past noon, earlier than you should have, heart hammering in your chest with that nervous kind of excitement that only love—real love—could bring.

You had worn your best coat. The one he said made you look “stupidly huggable.” Underneath it was the soft sweater he left in your dorm once, the one that still smelled faintly like his cologne. You hadn’t even told him you still had it.

The gift—your photo album—was tucked safely into your bag. Your hands had spent the entire night before tying the ribbon and redoing it again and again until it sat perfectly. You kept peeking at it throughout the day like it might fall apart without your attention.

You told yourself he’d come.

He said he would.

“Right after practice,” he promised that morning, hand brushing against yours. “The tower, yeah?”

You remembered the way he smiled when he said it—casual, rushed, but familiar.

Familiar enough to believe in.

So you waited.

You leaned against the cool stone railing, watching the students buzz around like ants below. The castle looked beautiful from up here—frost dusting the rooftops, snow starting to fall in gentle flakes. You told yourself that this was going to be the perfect memory. That tonight, when he showed up, you’d give him the album and maybe—just maybe—he’d hold you like he used to. Kiss your forehead. Tell you he was sorry for being distant lately.

Maybe he’d stay.

Time passed.

The sky shifted from pale gold to steel grey. The shadows stretched longer. You traced your name into the thin layer of frost on the railing. Then his. Then a little heart. You smiled at it, even though it came out crooked. The cold made your fingers stiff.

He was probably just late.

You checked the time again.

And again.

You paced a little. Sat down. Stood up. Walked around the tower once. Rechecked your bag to make sure the album hadn’t bent. Tucked the ribbon again. Re-tied it.

Every little movement felt like a ritual to ward off disappointment.

By the time the sky turned blue-black and the first stars started to peek through the clouds, you were still there.

You tried to convince yourself he must’ve forgotten the time. Maybe he had to shower. Maybe he was changing. Maybe he had to stop by the library.

Maybe.

Maybe.

But your fingers were numb now, and the wind had started to bite through the layers of your scarf. Your cheeks stung. You couldn’t feel your toes. Your knees ached from standing too long.

And still—you stayed.

Even when the castle bell chimed once. Then twice.

Even when the candles in the windows began to flicker out.

Even when your chest felt hollow and heavy and achingly quiet.

You waited.

And waited.

But Theodore never came.

You walked back in silence.

It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t calm.

It was the kind of silence that rang in your ears like a scream held just behind your teeth. The kind that filled your chest with a weight so crushing, so thick, it made your lungs burn. Your boots echoed against the stone corridor, each footfall slower than the last, like your legs were dragging the ruins of your heart behind them.

The Astronomy Tower disappeared behind you, swallowed by distance and dark. The wind from the high ledges had bitten at your cheeks, left your fingers trembling, but you hadn’t felt it then.

You didn’t feel much of anything now.

Only cold. And that wasn’t the kind of cold you could fix with fire.

The gift was still in your hands.

A soft package wrapped in silver paper, cradled like it mattered. Like it was still worth something. You stared at it as you walked—at the way the ribbon had frayed from how tightly you’d clutched it all day. The green and gold thread had come undone at one corner, now dragging behind like a wounded limb.

You couldn’t feel your fingers anymore.

You couldn’t feel your face.

You couldn't even feel your own name sitting behind your tongue.

You turned a corner, head low, barely noticing the flicker of torchlight trailing across the old stone walls. The castle groaned quietly around you, an old heartbeat that had no sympathy left to offer.

It was supposed to be a special night.

Just you and Theodore. Like he said. Like he promised.

He told you this morning, voice rough with sleep, lips brushing your forehead as he tugged on his Quidditch gloves, “After practice. Astronomy Tower. I won’t be late.”

You had believed him.

Because of course you did.

You always did.

You let out a breath that shook more than it should have.

Then—laughter.

Soft. Muffled. Familiar.

It slipped through the crack in a nearby classroom door.

You paused.

It was late. Most students were already in their dorms. The halls had emptied hours ago.

But that voice—

Theodore.

You knew it like the inside of your own heart.

You didn’t mean to stop.

But you did.

You didn’t mean to listen.

But you heard your name.

And your body turned cold all over again.

“Honestly?” Theodore’s voice was relaxed, amused. “I don’t even know why I’m still with them.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

There was a pause, then a girl’s giggle followed. One you didn’t recognize.

“They’re kind of clingy, aren’t they?” she said, breathy.

“Kind of?” Pansy’s voice drawled next, sharp as ever. “They follow Theodore around like a damn puppy. Always smiling like an idiot. It’s actually sad.”

“They made you something once, right?” Mattheo added lazily. “That… what was it? A journal?”

“A scrapbook,” Theodore said, laughing now. “With glitter. Pressed flowers. Little notes in the margins like, ‘Our first Hogsmeade date’ and ‘You looked so beautiful this day!’ It was like a six-year-old made it.”

Another chorus of laughter.

You stood still in the hallway, your mouth parted slightly, your eyes locked on the floor like if you stared hard enough, it would swallow you whole.

“They cried last week, didn’t they?” Mattheo added. “When you skipped that library thing.”

“Oh, yeah,” Theodore said. “Tried to act chill but you could see it all over their face. They were devastated. Honestly? It's too easy.”

Someone gasped between laughs.

“Why don’t you just end it?” the girl asked. Her voice was light. Careless. Like the words didn’t carry the weight of your entire world.

A silence.

Then Theodore said, clear as glass,

“Because they’ll always take me back.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

Your feet felt bolted to the floor, your lungs tight and burning. Your ears rang, like the laughter echoing behind that door was bouncing inside your skull.

And your heart—

You felt it.

Not figuratively.

Not like a metaphor.

You physically felt something snap inside your chest. Like a delicate thread had been pulled taut too many times and this was the final pull. The one that broke it clean.

The world blurred around the edges, vision going distant. Your fingers loosened around the gift. The silver paper crinkled slightly as it slipped lower in your grasp.

The ribbon finally fell off.

It floated to the floor like a dead thing.

You didn’t pick it up.

You didn’t open the door. You didn’t confront him. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t ask why.

Because you already knew.

You knew he had never planned to come.

You knew he’d been laughing before you even left the tower.

You knew the version of Theodore you loved didn’t exist anymore—maybe never did.

So you did the only thing you could.

You turned.

And walked away.

Not fast.

Not dramatic.

Not with tears.

You just walked. Quietly. Slowly. Head down. Heart shattered. Gift cradled like a funeral bouquet in your arms.

By the time you reached the Hufflepuff common room, your eyes were glassy, but dry.

Your friends were already inside.

You didn’t say anything as you walked past them.

Not a word.

Not a glance.

You just curled up in your bed, facing the wall.

The photo album still clutched in your hands.

Your scarf still tied tight.

And your heart, for the first time—

Empty. ══════The next day, Great Hall.══════

Breakfast at Hogwarts was loud. Always.

Clattering plates, floating toast racks, enchanted snow drifting lazily from the bewitched ceiling. Students piled into the Great Hall with sleepy eyes and messy hair, laughing, trading notes, stealing bites off each other’s plates.

And then you walked in.

And something shifted.

No one noticed it right away—just a hush that rippled quietly across the room, like the castle itself knew something was about to break.

You didn’t flinch under the weight of the stares.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t say hello.

You just walked.

Through the Hufflepuff table.

Past the Ravenclaws.

Down the path between Gryffindors and Slytherins—until you stood at the end of his table.

Theodore Nott.

His laughter faltered the moment he saw you.

He was surrounded, like always. Pansy twirling her hair beside him, Astoria whispering something to Draco. Blaise lazily chewing his toast. Mattheo talking with his mouth full. Lorenzo leaned back, sipping pumpkin juice like he owned the damn room.

Theodore looked… unbothered.

Relaxed.

Until you dropped the album into his lap.

Hard.

Wrapped in silver paper and a gold-and-green ribbon that now looked almost mocking.

He blinked. “Y/N—?”

“What’s this?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

He turned it over in his hands, confusion flashing across his face.

Then: “Is this a present?”

Your voice was sharp. “It was supposed to be.”

He stared at you.

“You forgot,” you said. “Yesterday.”

His face went blank.

“Oh… right. Shit.”

You almost laughed.

But not the kind that meant joy.

You nodded to the album.

“I spent weeks on that. I stayed up after curfew cutting pages and organizing things, pressing flowers, writing little notes. Things only you would remember, if you cared.”

Now the Slytherins were silent.

Every single one of them had turned to watch.

You took a breath. “Do you want to know what the first page says?”

He didn’t respond.

“It says: You are worth the work.”

His jaw tensed.

“And I believed that. Even when you were distant. Even when you forgot to show up. Even when I waited in the cold for hours with that stupid scarf and a sandwich and a letter that I rewrote five times. I still believed it.”

Now you were raising your voice. Not yelling. But louder. Steadier.

And that’s when the rest of the room noticed.

Hermione Granger had lowered her fork mid-bite.

Ron Weasley was staring while holding a turkey leg.

Harry Potter stopped doing his Charms assignment.

Ginny Weasley froze mid-sip of pumpkin juice.

Neville Longbottom dropped his spoon into his cereal.

Cedric Diggory looked over mid-bite, fork suspended.

Angelina Johnson’s eyebrows flew up.

Lee Jordan whispered something to Katie Bell.

Lavender Brown smacked Seamus on the shoulder and motioned toward the Slytherin table.

Anthony Goldstein paused mid-page of the Daily Prophet.

Padma and Parvati Patil turned in unison.

Cho Chang slowly lowered her teacup.

Even Luna Lovegood blinked from her seat at the Ravenclaw table, dreamy expression sharpening just a bit.

You were shaking now—but you didn’t stop.

You looked right at him. Right at the boy who held your heart like it was optional.

“And you forgot,” you said. “You forgot me. Again. Like I’m just something waiting for you in the background while you play pretend with people who don’t even see you.”

“Y/N—can we please not do this here—”

“Why not?” you snapped. “Embarrassed?”

His mouth opened. Closed.

You took a step closer. “Because you should be. Everyone should see this. See you. See what it looks like to love someone who only ever takes.”

The Great Hall was dead quiet now. Even the ones who don't give a fuck about Hogwarts drama's stopped talking and turned to look.

You could hear your own breathing.

“I told myself you’d change,” you whispered. “I defended you. I lied to people I love to protect the idea of you I had in my head.”

His hands were clenched into fists.

You leaned in just enough for only him to hear—

“I can’t keep bleeding just to prove you’re worth saving.”

Theodore’s throat bobbed. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

You exhaled slowly. “No, you’re not.”

He stood up, fast, knocking over his cup.

Still, no one moved.

“I love you,” he said, desperate now. “I messed up, I know—I’ll fix it, okay? I’ll do better.”

You didn’t blink.

“You had so many chances, Nott.”

Silence.

“I was your comfort. Your safety. Your guarantee. And you treated me like something to return to only when the others left.”

Tears slipped down your cheek. But your voice didn’t shake anymore.

“And I’m done.”

He looked stricken. “Y/N, please—”

You stepped back.

And for the final time, you smiled.

But it was hollow. A goodbye carved into a mouth that had said “I love you” too many times without hearing it back.

“I hope she was worth it.”

And you turned away.

The album slid from his lap to the ground, pages spilling, memories scattering.

The sound it made echoed louder than any argument.

The whole hall watched as you walked away.

And no one followed.

Not even him.

The silence that followed could’ve shattered the stained glass windows.

You didn’t look back.

Not when the album slipped from Theodore’s lap, pages spilling across the floor like torn pieces of your heart. Not when a girl at the Ravenclaw table let out a stunned gasp. Not when the Slytherin table went stiff with discomfort—Pansy frozen mid-hair-twirl, Astoria blinking like her brain had short-circuited.

You just walked.

Every step echoing across the marble like the ending of something sacred.

At the Gryffindor table, Seamus whispered something, but Dean elbowed him quiet. Angelina slowly lowered her fork. George looked at Fred like was that real? Cedric sat frozen at the Hufflepuff table, brows drawn, knuckles pale against the wood. Cho's mouth was slightly open, eyes following your retreating figure. Luna blinked slowly, her radish earrings still.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody even breathed.

And Theodore?

He just stood there, surrounded by the friends who once encouraged his cruelty through silence, staring at the floor like it held the answers he never looked for in you.

The album lay open now—one page revealing a photo of you both on a snowy night near the Black Lake. You were smiling, scarf around your neck, lips pink from the cold, cheeks tucked into his jacket. He was looking at you in the photo, not the camera.

Now he didn’t even look at that.

He didn’t move.

A beat passed. Then another.

And then—

“Y/N!”

Charlotte's chair scraped across the floor with a screech. She was already halfway up, napkin flying from her lap. Her whole body moved before her mind did. Her spoon clattered against a plate.

She shoved past confused students with a panic that made more than a few people stand up in concern.

“Y/N—wait—!”

Your legs were faster.

You didn’t run, but the kind of walk you had was worse. The kind that said if I stop, I’ll break. So I won’t.

You were already pushing through the massive oak doors of the Great Hall when she reached the end of the aisle.

Noor was next—standing with an expression that could burn through metal. Her fists were clenched at her sides, jaw locked. She turned once—looked straight at Theodore. Looked at him like she was about to do something unspeakable.

Then she stormed after Charlotte without a word.

Felix blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a daze. “Oh my god—oh my god, go—go—” she said breathlessly to Liam, grabbing his wrist as he jumped from his seat.

Liam nodded once. Tightly. Quietly. Like he’d just made a silent vow to kill someone.

══════ Outside the Great Hall ══════

The air hit you like a wall.

Cold. Biting. Real.

Your breath curled out in shaky puffs, eyes unfocused, hands still trembling from adrenaline. The corridor felt enormous. Empty. Like the walls were breathing with you. Like the castle itself wanted to cry.

You made it three steps past the entrance before you collapsed onto the stone bench near the stairway. Shoulders shaking. Hands curled in your lap. No tears yet.

Just shock.

Then—

“Hey hey hey hey hey—” Felix’s voice cracked as he slid in beside you, already pulling you into his arms as he reached you first before the others. “Hey, I got you. I got you, Y/N. Please breathe.”

You gasped. Not sobbed. Gasped.

Your body refused to keep it in. You didn’t want to cry—didn’t want to give him that satisfaction—but the tears came anyway. Ugly. Raw. Violent.

And Felix didn’t let go.

He just tucked your head against his shoulder and held you like his life depended on it. “It’s okay, I got you. We’re here. It’s over. You did it. You did it, Y/N. You’re safe.”

You tried to say I’m sorry but your voice was gone.

Noor arrived seconds later. Her boots hit the floor hard, every step like a heartbeat, and the moment she saw you curled up in Felix’s arms, her whole body softened.

She sat on the other side of the bench and said nothing.

Just placed a warm hand on your knee.

And stayed.

Charlotte came next, pink scarf flying behind her like a ribbon in the wind. She dropped to her knees in front of you, instantly cupping your face with shaking hands.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Her voice broke. “You were so brave.”

You sobbed harder.

Liam crouched behind Felix, one hand on his boyfriend’s back, one on yours.

None of them said anything after that.

They didn’t need to.

They just held you.

Because you’d done it.

You’d walked away from someone you loved.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

══════ Back in the Great Hall. ══════

Theodore hadn’t moved.

His hand hovered above the torn-open album, eyes glassy, expression unreadable.

The whole table was still watching him.

Even Mattheo didn’t speak.

Draco had his arms folded, lips tight. Pansy’s face was pale. Blaise wouldn’t even look at him.

Astoria said, very quietly.

“…You deserved that.”

Theodore didn’t answer.

He just stared down.

Not at the photos. Not at the flowers. Not at the ribbon.

But at the space where you had stood.

And realized—for the first time in his life.

You weren’t going to stand there ever again.

Theodore's voice, barely a whisper behind you, sliced through the droning monotone of Professor Quirrell's Defence Against the Dark Arts lecture. "I don't understand why a coward like Professor Quirrell has to be the one teaching us."

Blaise, ever the pragmatist, rolled his eyes. "We don't get to choose, mate. Just sit and listen." He tapped Theodore on the chest with his wand.

Theodore, however, remained restless. His gaze, initially bored, wandered across the room until it landed on you. And when those piercing blue eyes met yours, you swear you saw something flicker within them, a glint of recognition or mischief, you couldn't quite tell.

"Y/N L/N, right?" he asked, his voice a conspiratorial murmur.

Your heart skipped a beat. Had he figured you out? Had your subtle glances towards the Slytherin table, your barely restrained curiosity about them, been so transparent? A hesitant smile crept onto your face, tinged with nervous excitement.

"Ooh, so you're L/N," Blaise chimed in, his voice dripping with sly amusement. "It's good to know we share a class." He rested his chin on his hand, his gaze unwavering as it held yours.

Under the scrutiny of their combined attention, your face flamed hot. You had their attention, just as you'd wanted, but now faced with their direct stares, you suddenly felt tongue-tied. How on earth did you want with this?

"I-I... uhm..."

Theodore let out a low chuckle, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "You're as cute as you look, huh, L/N?"

Blaise, grinned, adding fuel to the fire. "We have a little Hufflepuff that shares a lot, it seems," he teased.

You struggled to form a coherent reply, your mind a jumble of flustered thoughts and racing emotions. Should you play their game, flirt back, embrace the unexpected turn of events? Or retreat back into your comfort zone, pretending their interest held no sway over you?

"Hey Y/N, what's your class after this?" Blaise smiled.

"Herbology," you mumbled, barely audible over Professor Quirrell's droning monologue, but your mind was elsewhere. Theodore and Blaise, Slytherins of all people, were talking to you!

Blaise, ever the cool one, just grunted at your class schedule. "Muggle Studies for me. Bleh."

Theodore, however, flashed you a mischievous grin. "Friday free? Our gang's hitting the Three Broomsticks for Butterbeers. Think they'd like it more if you're joining."

The invitation hung in the air, a tangible thing you could almost touch. You, a nobody, a Hufflepuff, hanging with Slytherins? Unheard of! Your cheeks flushed pink, a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

"Why...?" you started, voice trailing off. Could this be real? Were these guys, practically worshipped by the entire school actually asking you to hang out?

Theodore cut you off with a shrug. "Because we like you, L/N. Simple as that." He winked, eyes glinting with genuine curiosity. The hummingbird in your chest, normally content to coo, went into overdrive.

Friday. Butterbeers. Slytherins. Your heart thumped a wild rhythm against your ribs, fear battling with anticipation. Was this a trap? Did they find you out and decided hex you for invading? Or was this, dare you believe it, the start of something… different?

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