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sirius-archive · 5 years ago

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Chaos Theory Chapter 13

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader, Harry Potter x Reader, Draco Malfoy x Reader, George Weasley x Reader, Fleur Delacour x Original Male Character

Warning: Swearing, mild smut, drug use

Word Count: 6,411

A/N: I’m finally posting this!! I’ve been working on it for ages and I’ve scrapped so many drafts but now I’ve finally settled on one I like! I also apologise for the format; I’m posting on my mobile bc I’m house sitting for a friend. I will repost later when I’m back at home but for now, enjoy.

Please be aware that there is a mild sex scene toward the end of the story and also discussion about underage sex. If this makes you uncomfortable, please stop reading.

P.S thank you to everyone who waited so patiently for this chapter!!!

***

Chapter thirteen

There is an old-fashioned code for people like him; honour among thieves.

Darius has never been that trusting let alone stupid — stupid gets you caught, and he’s far too busy to get caught by the assholes chasing him. Darius has been in the business since he can remember, and he knows all to well that thieves have no honour, that’s why they’re thieves.

Still, He’s always known to a certain degree that his own greedy ambition would thrust him headlong into a nest full of hungry serpents. It’s an occupational hazard, he supposes; there’s always someone with an ulterior motive, which is why he works alone. He can’t deal with snitches.

Snitches are just asking to be killed.

The one that snitched on him is practically begging Darius to kill him, and he’s going to grant the snitch that wish as soon as he gets out of here.

Thanks to the suicidal dumbass, Darius now has to deal with the auror’s who have managed to invade his underground safe house. He can sense them creeping through the sewage, armed with wands that have taken away countless lives.

It’s all very...inconvenient the whole situation is. He’d just settled into his neat, little man cave. Now he has to find a new spot.

Using wandless magic, Darius effortlessly levitates a giant dung bomb from its spot in a box and drops it in front of the door. With a snap of his fingers, Darius ignites the bomb just as the door bursts open in a cloud of dust and dirt.

“I found him!” Auror douchebag murmurs into a hidden mouth piece and Darius smirks.

“Took you long enough,” Darius quips, “Would you like a tea or a coffee? I would offer you something stronger but I’ve run out — I’ll just pop down to the liquor store—“

Auror douchebag’s lips bend into an ugly, menacing smirk, “You’re not leaving here alive, boy. You stole from the wrong people. Give me the book.”

Instead of answering, Darius slants a glare at the auror, noting his height and weight. Darius copies auror douchebag’s stance and posture.

“You’re not leaving here alive, boy,” Darius mimics, almost laughing at auror douchebag’s confused expression, “You stole from the wrong people. Give me the book!”

“Stop that!” Barks auror douchebag, raising his wand, “Give me the damn book!”

“Stop that! Give me the damn book!”

Auror douchebag takes several steps forward, attempting to assert his dominance.

“Stop playing games,” Auror douchebag snaps, “You don’t realise how much danger you’re in.”

Darius takes a decisive step forward, straightening his posture. He’s significantly taller than auror douchebag, and the coward has to take a step back.

“No need to be afraid,” Darius remarks, the beginnings of a smirk flirting around the corners of his lips, “It won’t hurt.”

Auror douchebag snorts, “What are you on about, boy? What won’t hurt?”

“Killing you,” Darius replies, simply, “Well, it won’t hurt me anyway.”

Auror douchebag’s mouth flaps open to spit some dull remark, but before he can finish the dungbomb at his feet explodes. Plumes of thick, acrid smoke fill the air, clouding both auror douchebag and Darius’ vision. Auror douchebag splutters into his fist, distracted long enough for Darius to land a punch to his jaw and a roundhouse kick to his chest.

Auror douchebag flies backward, gasping as the wind is knocked out of his lungs. His head lolls forward, resting on his shoulder as his lids slide shut and he drifts off into unconsciousness.

Darius smirks, “You should have let me go to the liquor store.”

Concentrating hard on auror douchebag’s rugged appearance, Darius’ skin ripples and stretches, bones crunching into place as he morphs into an exact copy. Rising to his feet, Darius transfigures the unconscious body of auror douchebag into a rat just as his partners rush into the room.

They sent the whole god damn brigade, Darius thinks with a flush of pride.

Doubling over, Darius feigns a serious rib injury, rasping on a sharp, jagged breath, “He escaped! He beat my dumb ass and went that way!”

The aurors stupidly follow Darius directions, rushing off to the other end of the sewer. Darius waits until their footsteps fade before grabbing his escape bag and scaling the ladder out of the sewer, smirking as he escapes into the night.

When he finally finds somewhere to lay low — an abandoned mansion that’s most likely haunted — Darius drops onto the creaking, jarrah bed and unzips his bag.

“Finally” He murmurs, staring down at an ancient, leather bound book.

Darius studies the book he had stolen with curiosity, wondering why everyone wants this book so damn much. He opens the first page, noting the snake consuming its tail and the Scarab beetle fluttering its moth-like wings. What a strange illustration...

Beneath it, scrawled on the page in barely-legible chicken scratch, is a strange Latin incantation. Without even realising it, Darius mutters the incantation, not knowing the ripple effect those simple words will unleash on the world he knows, not realising the tragedy contained within the stained pages of the book, not realising what it means to his estranged family...

Not knowing that, three-thousand miles away, (Y/N) Arden startles awake with a loud, piercing scream, having experienced a nightmare that felt more real than anything she’s ever known.

***

The scream comes just as the hour hand of Hermione’s quaint, muggle alarm clock strikes six.

Hermione stumbles out of bed and fumbles for her wand, pushing wiry locks of brown hair out of her face and blinking away the sleep from her eyes. Her heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing through her. She almost feels dizzy from it.

More screams ring through the dormitory, issuing from behind the drawn curtains of (Y/N)’s four poster. Hermione hears Parvati and Lavender stir awake in their own beds, the curtains yanking open to reveal their sleepy expressions. Hermione rushes toward the (Y/N)’s bed, hastily tearing the curtains apart to reveal her terrified friend.

The white linen sheets of her bed are kicked into a tangled heap at her feet as (Y/N) flails. She glistens in the morning light, beads of sweat coating her skin and drenching her sheets. Her eyes are wide and panicked, misty from unshed tears and her breath rattles in the back of her throat.

Without hesitating, Hermione clambers onto the bed and drapes her arms around (Y/N)’s small, trembling form, holding her close. She can feel (Y/N)’s heart thumping in her chest, pounding against Hermione’s like a second heartbeat. Hermione squeezes a little tighter.

“It’s okay,” Hermione coos, “You’re safe.”

“I-I-“ (Y/N) chokes out, swallowing thickly, “It was-it was right there...”

“It was just a nightmare,” Hermione reassures, gently, fingers trailing down the knobs of (Y/N)’s spine, “You’re okay.”

(Y/N) exhales a shaky breath, a sob forming in the back of her throat. She swallows it and steadies her trembling voice.

“A-a nightmare,” she finally whimpers, voice tight and small like a child’s, “Just a nightmare.”

“That’s right, just a nightmare.”

Through her peripherals, Hermione spots Lavender and Parvati peeking through the crack in the curtains, expressions riddled with questioning concern. Hermione dismisses then with a shake of her head and the curtains draw once again, soft footsteps disappearing to the other side of the room.

“What—What was it about?” Hermione asks, slowly, hesitantly, watching (Y/N) carefully.

There’s a long, eerie silence. Hermione doesn’t think (Y/N) will respond, and just as she’s about to give up and go back to sleep, (Y/N) sighs, “There was this huge...shadow monster with these-these long claws and huge teeth and—and scratched something into the mirror.”

“What was it?”

(Y/N) exhales a shaky breath “The truth will set me free...”

Hermione frowns, bites her lip. She’s heard that before, though she’s not sure where.

“What else happened in your nightmare?”

(Y/N) sniffles, “It was...peculiar. Like a dream within a dream...”

“Go on.”

“Well...In my nightmare, I had just woken up from a different nightmare. I don’t really remember but it felt so real!”

(Y/N)’s voice wavers, her bottom lip trembling. Hermione can tell that she doesn’t want to be alone, and after what she’s just heard, Hermione doesn’t blame her.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Hermione whispers into (Y/N)’s hair. She feels (Y/N) nod, tears soaking through the thin cotton of Hermione’s pyjamas.

Hermione settles into the bed beside (Y/N). (Y/N) wraps her arms around Hermione’s waist in a desperate hug that feels as though she’s clinging to her for safety, for reassurance, for comfort. Like she’s drowning in an ocean without a shore, waves crashing over her and pushing her further to their murky depths.

Together, they lie in (Y/N)’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. Raw sobs and sharp knots of air tangle in the back of (Y/N)’s throat.

“Breathe,” Hermione whispers, soothingly, “Just breathe.”

Eventually, (Y/N)’s stuttered breathing smooths and shallows, her long lashes drooping closed. Tears stain (Y/N)’s flushed cheeks and she still trembles from fear, but at least she’s asleep.

Hermione stays by her side, lying awake, watching her with a mixture of worry and curiosity, wondering with a tiny prick of envy how someone could look so pretty when they sleep.

***

Ron — to his eternal frustration — is not as oblivious as everyone thinks.

He notices things. Important things. Sometimes obvious things. He’s noticed things before other people have (except for Hermione because, lets face it, she’s a bloody nerd). He notices (Y/N) –– though, admittedly, everyone does, and he’d have to be half troll to not notice her. This morning, he notices something different about her, something that blurs the line between excitement and unease.

In earnest, Ron doesn’t notice anything peculiar about her at first. When he enters the common room from his dorm, she’s cradling Nightshade and mingling with some of her sixth-year friends. He can tell she’s tired, though almost everyone is feeling sleepy from the previous nights festivities, including himself.

(Y/N) spots him almost immediately and waves goodbye to her friends, practically bounding toward Ron. She flashes a dazzling smile, displaying a perfectly straight row of gleaming teeth, but there’s something about it that seems a little...forced.

“Morning,” she greets, and Ron reaches out to pat the messy bun she had tied on the top of her head. She smiles broadly.

“Sleep well?” Ron asks and (Y/N) sighs.

“No...not at all.”

“Been dreaming of Cedric Diggory all night, eh?”

(Y/N) rolls her eyes, cutting Ron’s snickering off with a well-aimed punch to his shoulder.

“Oh shut up...” she snaps, though her cheeks are pink and the corners of her lips hedge on a smile.

Ron casts a look over her shoulder, watching the group of sixth years she had been talking to.

“How do you have so many friends?” Ron asks, eyes meeting hers again.

She shrugs, “Mainly through that thing called — now, what’s it called now? — social interaction.”

“Huh. Isn’t it annoying?”

“Not really,” (Y/N) answers, “They’re not like my best friends or anything. I’ve only got three best friends...”

“Don’t you mean four?” Jokes a familiar voice from behind Ron.

Ron doesn’t need to turn around to know that his two older brothers, Fred and George, are standing behind him. He exhales heavily, glancing over his shoulder just in time to catch George slap Fred behind the head.

“Who taught you to count?” George snips as he watches Fred rub the back of his head soothingly.

“You don’t count,” Fred explains, “You’re more of (Y/N)’s boyfriend than ‘best friend.’”

Fred winks at (Y/N).

George’s cheeks glow red.

“Didn’t you hear?” Ron chimes in, “(Y/N) is already taken.”

“Thanks, Ronald,” (Y/N) snaps sardonically, narrowing her eyes on him, “I’m relieved to know my privacy is of your utmost concern.”

Ron throws (Y/N) a disbelieving look, “It’s Hogwarts, (Y/N). Nothing stays secret for long.”

(Y/N) snorts, just as Nightshade begins to stir from her doze. She squirms in (Y/N) arms and she gently placed her cat on the floor.

“Looks like George’s old sweater has found a new home,” Ron nods at her sweater, “Are you sure that’s hygienic?”

Ron has to bite back a laugh. It’s almost comical, the way she swims in George’s sweater, so much so she’s had to tuck the excess fabric into the hem of her tennis skirt. He has to admit, she does wear the it well, though he can’t figure out why anyone would want to wear such a monstrosity of a sweater in the first place

George rolls his eyes, “I think now would be a good time to reflect on the memory of Ron projectile vomiting slugs in his second year.”

(Y/N) cringes, “Please don’t. I’ve been trying to erase that memory from my mind for the past two years.”

“Didn’t you nearly catch one, (Y/N)?” Fred smirks.

“Anyway,” Ron snaps, glaring at Fred and George, “It looks better on you than it ever did on George.”

(Y/N) throws her head back and laughs. Her eyes, though shadowed with fatigue, still seem to twinkle with amusement.

Ron casts her a side-long glance. Maybe she is just tired.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Ronald.”

The four of them head down for breakfast, talking about the previous night and laughing amongst themselves. The twins and (Y/N) do most of the laughing, mainly at Ron’s expense, but if that means he gets to cheer his best friend up then he doesn’t mind. He watches with a mixture of relief and joy as the apprehension begins to melt away from (Y/N), leaving her brimming with happiness.

The twins — to Ron’s dismay — decide to sit with Ron and (Y/N) for breakfast, where they wrestle over who gets to sit next to (Y/N). She eventually points out that she can sit between them, though not without watching their pissing contest with amusement. Content with her suggestion, the twins finally settle, Fred a little more so than George, the latter of whom keeps throwing (Y/N) strange looks.

Soon after, the four of them are joined by Hermione and Harry and they all settle in to enjoy their breakfast. To Ron’s relief, the twins decide to leave after breakfast and with bellies full of delicious food, the four of them return to the common room.

“You must be starting a collection of stolen clothes,” Harry jokes, nodding at (Y/N)’s sweater, “You still haven’t given me my hoodie back.”

(Y/N) bites her lip apologetically, “It’s so cozy though...”

Harry’s lips tilt into a smirk, “You can have it, it was Dudley’s old hoodie anyway.”

(Y/N) cringes and laughter erupts between the four of them, the unspoken tension lingering from last night melting from the warmth of each other’s company. When bubbles of laughter fade, Ron and Harry begin to fill them in on what they learned about Hagrid.

“Well I thought he must be,” Hermione says once Ron finishes, shrugging nonchalantly, “I knew he couldn’t be pure giant, because they’re about twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about giants. They can’t all be horrible.”

Ron blinks at Hermione, biting back several scathing comments. Is she bonkers? He always knew that she wasn’t completely sane, but now it almost seemed as though she were deliberately talking crazy to egg Ron on.

“And what do you think about this, (Y/N)?” Ron sighs, rubbing his forehead to keep himself from starting another argument with Hermione.

(Y/N) shrugs, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. The hem of her skirt slides up a little, giving him a glimpse of smooth skin beneath the fabric of her stockings. Ron can’t help but notice the way Harry’s cheeks flush and he has to swallow down the urge to tease Harry.

“Hermione and I figured it out almost straight away,” she says, matter-of-fairly, “Why is it such a big deal? We know Hagrid isn’t like other giants so why should everyone care that he’s a––“

Ron cuts (Y/N) off with a sharp ‘shush’, glancing around to make sure no one heard.

“Keep your voice down,” Ron hisses, “We might know Hagrid’s a You-know-what but no one else does. He could lose his job!”

(Y/N) rolls her eyes, “I’m going to make sure he’s okay,” she says, climbing out of her armchair and flattening the fabric of her skirt, “He’s probably a bit hurt from what happened last night.”

“You’re right,” Hermione says, narrowing her eyes on Harry, “Harry should go with you.”

Harry’s mouth drops open but Hermione gives him a stern, pointed look that withers any argument Harry or Ron could muster up.

“Okay,” (Y/N) shrugs, flashing a brief smile at Harry, “I’ll go and get my cloak. It’s bloody freezing out there.”

When (Y/N) is safely out of range, Harry rounds on Hermione.

“What was that all about?” He snaps.

Hermione leans forward, glancing around the room conspicuously, “(Y/N) had a terrible nightmare last night. She woke up screaming and absolutely terrified. Honestly, if you had seen her...” she cuts herself off with a sharp sigh, “Going with her to see Hagrid night help her open up a little and maybe you can tell her how you feel.”

“I already did that!” Harry grumbles, bitterly, “And she said she loved me as a friend!”

Hermione snaps the book in her hands shut with such ferocity, she startles the sleepy Crookshanks curled up on her lap, “Well who’s fault was that?”

“—Alright, I’m ready.”

The three of them jump.

Swivelling around, Ron forces a smile he hopes looks convincing. (Y/N) arches a brow suspiciously, though to her credit, she doesn’t ask.

“Ready to go?” (Y/N) asks Harry, and Ron spots the way her fingers twitch around her mothers bracelet.

Harry jumps to his feet, mumbling an uneasy ‘yeah’ and the two of them set off, stepping through the portrait hole. Despite himself, Ron can’t help wondering what the bloody hell is going on.

****

Harry is — well...

Nervous doesn’t quite fit it.

He’s certainly uneasy, for reasons obvious to seemingly everyone around him except for the one person who matters, whose always mattered, even when he didn’t realise it. He wonders whether that’s because of she’s blinded by Cedric or if it’s because of something Harry has said or done.

He claws awkwardly at the nape of his neck, clearing his throat every now and again as though he’s trying to gulp down that swirling, heated pool of feelings currently trying to climb its way up his throat.

“Frog in your throat?”

Harry tries his best not to jump. He was so deep in his own thoughts and feelings, he had temporarily forgotten where he was.

(Y/N) stares at him expectantly and Harry sighs.

“Not quite.”

He clears his throat on impulse, and the corner of (Y/N)’s lips twitch.

“Still sulky about last night, then?”

Harry’s jaw slackens.

“What—? I wasn’t — I mean — I was never —?”

“Parvati told me all about it,” (Y/N) interjects, a smile teasing her (perfect) lips “Are you feeling better this morning?”

Harry drags a hand through his hair, grazing his nails over his scalp to stave the prickle sprawling beneath his hair.

“Yeah...though to be honest, Ron was more upset than me.”

(Y/N) snorts, “Yeah he was, wasn’t he?”

“I’m just glad he and Hermione have agreed to disagree.”

“I think that’s the basis of their friendship.”

Harry chuckles, giving her a sidelong glance, “Where did you end up disappearing to last night anyway?”

Guilt briefly crosses over (Y/N)’s face, shadowing the light in her eyes and accentuating the dark circles beneath them.

“I was...I was looking for my brother...” (Y/N) says, so softly he barely manages to catch the hitch in her voice.

“Is he okay?”

(Y/N) bites her lip, hesitating, “No...not really...”

Harry waits for her to elaborate.

She doesn’t.

He wisely decides to let it slide.

“Listen, I’m sorry I ditched you last night,” (Y/N) mumbles, “I didn’t mean to. I guess I was just annoyed at Ron, you know?”

Harry nods in understanding, “At least you made sure Hermione was okay.”

(Y/N) nods and sighs, looping her arm through his, “You’re both assholes, you know.”

Harry laughs. He’s missed her more than he originally realised. He can’t remember ever feeling this relaxed with her since...well since last year. The unease he’d felt entering the conversation has drained away, leaving him warm and content in (Y/N)’s company as they stroll through the castle, approaching Hagrid’s hut at a leisurely rate.

When they make it to Hagrid’s door, Fang gives a couple of raspy barks until he catches their scent and he hears the heavy thump of his tail against the door. A long, groaning noise issues from the other side of the door, like someone choking the engine of an old, rusty motorbike.

Harry shares a worried look with (Y/N).

He knocks.

No answer.

“Huh,” (Y/N) frowns, “Lets try again. Maybe — maybe he didn’t hear —?”

“—Didn’t hear Fang?” Harry asks, stepping away from the door. Another long peal of that strange groaning noise echoes through Hagrids hut. Harry frowns, “And what is that weird noise?”

Harry creeps around the side of the hut, peering in through the window. A hazy sheen of fog covers the glass, but through it he can just make out the sleeping form of Hagrid collapsed on his bed, one giant hand on his stomach while the other clutches an empty bottle.

Harry laughs, “He’s passed out drunk!”

(Y/N) rushes to his side, reaching up on the tips of her toes to stare into the window.

“So he is,” she giggles.

“Best leave him to it, eh?”

(Y/N) nods, grinning at Harry.

The two of them make their way toward the castle, laughing.

“I should brew him a hangover potion,” chortles (Y/N), “Something tells me he’s going to need it.”

Just as they reach the courtyard, a familiar voice rings through the air.

“(Y/N)!”

Harry’s stomach curls into a swampy knot, resentment climbing up the back of his throat. He clenches his jaw shut, grinding his molars as he and (Y/N) turn around.

“Cedric!” she beams as he jogs toward her.

Harry stares as his arms wrap around her waist, embracing her in a hug. Watching them sours the good mood (Y/N) put him in.

When they break apart, Cedric laces their fingers together, beaming broadly at Harry, “Heya Harry. Suppose you heard the news about (Y/N) and I...”

Harry nods curtly, “I heard.”

(Y/N)’s teeth clamp down on her bottom lip, glancing uneasily at Harry.

“We were just on our way back from Hagrids,” (Y/N) says, gazing lovingly up at Cedric, “He’s — er — still asleep. Had a long night I suppose.”

“I think we all did,” Cedric says, giving (Y/N) a look Harry does not like at all. A delicate, spring-pink blush spreads across (Y/N)’s cheeks.

It’s grating.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry snaps.

Cedric smiles sheepishly.

(Y/N)’s blush deepens.

“Anyway,” Cedric continues, “I hope you don’t mind if I steal (Y/N) for a moment? There is something quite important that I need to talk to (Y/N) about.”

Harry does mind. Very much so. But he can’t make a scene, so he bites back several sarcastic remarks and nods his head, “Sure.”

Cedric beams, “Well, see you around then.”

Harry sincerely hopes he doesn’t see Cedric around.

“I’ll meet you back at the common room,” (Y/N) says, giving Harry one of those lovely, reassuring smiles. Harry, though, is too bitter to fully appreciate it, and the fact that he can’t appreciate it only makes him more angry with Cedric.

“Yeah.”

With that, Harry wheels around and leaves, the remainders of his good mood tarnished by Hogwarts favourite champion.

****

Cedric used to be a patient person.

He’s been told by many that it’s one of his defining qualities, that he’s patient with people in the same way that they imagine Helga Hufflepuff being. Cedrics always thought that comparing him with Helga Hufflepuff is an exaggeration to say the least, but since he’s met (Y/N), he’s begun to realise just how patient he used to be.

‘Used to’ being the operative term here.

Because since meeting (Y/N), he has been the most impatient, the most selfish, greedy fool he’s ever known, an idiot in love who has completely surrendered himself to her charms. He can barely wait to be with her and when he’s with her, he’s found that he only wants more — more of her.

“What is it?” She asks when they reach the Hufflepuff common room, concern creeping into her words.

Cedric hesitates, chewing his bottom lip. He really doesn’t have anything romantic planned like their previous dates. He’s just a desperate man trying to soak up as much warmth a woman like (Y/N) emits.

The common room door hisses and slides open, inviting them into the cozy warmth of the room. Cedric leads her inside, checking to see if anyone is there. It’s completely empty. Everyone is out enjoying the snow.

Thank God.

“Wow!” (Y/N) exclaims, gazing at the tree in the centre of the room, “That’s incredible! I wish our common room had a tree in the middle of our—“

“Do you trust me?” Cedric cuts her off, glancing at her lips. (Y/N) nods slowly, curiously, though there’s a glint in her eyes that tells him she knows what’s about to happen.

Cedric kisses her.

She’s surprised at first, taken aback by the ferocity of the kiss, and he worries for one dreadful moment that he overstepped his boundaries. But then she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, her movements swift and desperate and Cedric sighs into the kiss, tongue sliding over her bottom lip.

Relieved and emboldened, Cedric presses her against the wall, hands roaming up and down her sides, relishing in the warmth that hums beneath his touch. Guttural moans rumble at the back of his throat as his brain melts to slosh in his skull, swimming with intoxicating amounts of dopamine and serotonin.

“Is this the important matter you so desperately wanted to discuss?” She rasps when they finally break apart, lips red and swollen. She gasps when Cedric’s lips drag across her jugular, teeth scraping over her thumping pulse. She shudders in response, lolling her head back to grant him more access to her neck.

“I hope you’re not too mad,” He murmurs, breath hot against her skin, “Though something tells me you’re not.”

She whimpers when he kisses her collarbone, arching up into him, “Oh I’m totally furious.”

“I’ll have to make it up to you.”

“I’m not so easy to please.”

His lips travel up the curve of her neck, gliding across her jaw, until his eyes meet hers. They’re blown wide with what Cedric’s horny, caveman hindbrain recognises as lust; syrupy warm and obsidian dark. Those eyes of hers could paralyse even the strongest of men and turn sinners into beggars.

She’s going to be the death of him.

Licking his lips, he leans in close, gazing into her eyes, his voice a mere whisper.

“I’m counting on it.”

Their lips collide.

All he’s been able to think about is this very moment. Since the moment he met her almost a year ago, all he’s wanted to do is drag her into the closest broom closet and kiss her senseless. That desire, matched with an healthy dose of love and adoration, has gradually filled up until it overflowed, drowning him in absolute yearning.

He’s brought back to earth by a tug on his belt, and Cedric realises her nimble fingers are fumbling around it, blindly trying to strip it from his pants.

Cedric leaps back.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, frowning.

Cedric licks his lips and swallows, “I’m not sure you’re ready for—for that...”

(Y/N) reaches out to him, hooking her fingers into his belt and tugging him forward. She reaches up into her toes and whispers into his ear.

“I’m ready, Cedric. I want you.”

Cedric swallows, blood heading straight to the region beneath his belt. His resolve is rapidly dissolving and it takes every ounce of his willpower to step away from her.

“Are you sure, though?” He asks in a soft, reassuring voice, “We’ve only just made our relationship official. We don’t have to rush things...”

(Y/N) peers up at him through doe-like eyes, lashes fluttering as a cute, little frown forms.

“Do you—do you not want this? Want me?”

Cedric bleats a laugh on impulse.

“Merlin, (Y/N)...” Cedric drapes his hands over hers, ducking his chin to catch her gaze, “All I think about is you. You’ve completely consumed me. And you know what? I don’t even care.”

(Y/N) smiles bashfully, her teeth catching her bottom lip. Cedric gives her hands a gentle squeeze.

“All I want is for you to feel comfortable,” Cedric says, softly, “You’re only fourteen (Y/N). Pushing you into a situation you don’t want to be in before you’re ready will hurt you. And the last thing I want to do is hurt you because—“

I love you

Cedric catches himself. He licks his lips and swallows, “—I care about you.”

(Y/N) almost looks relieved. She clearly wasn’t as ready as she thought she was.

“I care about you, too,” she murmurs, reaching up to kiss him.

Eventually, Cedric manages to break away long enough to show her the common room. They take full advantage of the solitude; kissing languidly whenever they get the chance, as though their kisses are oxygen in a vacuum.

They barely manage to stumble into his bedroom and collapse on his bed, giggling between kisses. Time seems to slow to a stop whenever he’s around her, whether they’re making out or chatting. All Cedric knows is her, his anchor that keeps him tethered to reality, that stops him drifting into space.

Cedric wasn’t lying when he said she had completely consumed him. He doesn’t think there is a single cell in his body that doesn’t belong to her. It sounds cliche but it’s true.

Together on his bed, the two of them drift off into a dreamless sleep, warm and comfortable, oblivious to fates cruel, cold plans.

***

Luke wakes with a start.

He groans. His head feels like a small, rabies-infected rodent scratched away at his brain. His stomach feels like the rodent curled up and died inside it.

Blinking blearily, Luke glances around the room.

He’s in a cellar, surrounded by shelves of fire whiskey and butterbeer. He scratches the back of his head. How the fuck did he end up in the basement of the Three Broomsticks.

A chill breeze sweeps through the basement, prickling his skin. With a shock, Luke realises he’s completely naked. Fleurs body is warm and soft beside him; her head resting on his chest, her hair splayed out like a silver halo against his skin. She’s equally naked, which is not a particular thought Luke really needs to process right now; his erection is already poking into her thigh and he can feel the round smoothness of her breasts as her chest rises and falls with her shallow breathing.

Luke carefully manoeuvres Fleur off his chest, stuffing his pitiful excuse of a pillow under her head.

He has to find his clothes.

Climbing to his feet, he steadies himself on a bench, cradling his head in a large hand. His eyes snag on his pants and he dashes toward it, wincing at the obnoxious ache throbbing between his temples.

As he pulls on his pants, snippets of the previous night return to him; the Durmstrang ship, inhaling the Nyx’s blood, getting blind drunk, stumbling around in the snow, having sex in the Beauxbatons carriage, in the prefects bathroom and the Black Lake and in the Three Broomstick’s cellar...

Luke’s heart sinks.

(Y/N)’s face floats across the jigsaw puzzle of memories forming in his mind. She saw him. She knows...

“You look like a bloody mess,” says a cold, sniffy voice from over Luke’s shoulder. Luke turns, spotting a well-dressed boy no older than eighteen sitting on an armchair. His thin lips are pinched, his expression sharp and his eyes narrowed on Luke in disdain.

“Who are you?” Luke croaks, squinting at the boy. He’s not sure if it’s the hangover or the lighting but he doesn’t recognise the intruder. His crisp Posh accent tells Luke that he can’t be from Durmstrang or Beauxbatons.

“Doesn’t matter who I am,” the boy waves his hand at Luke, as though dismissing him, “I’m after your sister.”

“A lot of boys are after my sister,” Luke snaps. Within the span of three minutes, this fucker has proved to be a condescending, arrogant bastard, “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from her.”

The twat rolls his eyes like a little bitch, “Or What? You’ll kill me? I’m afraid you’ll find you can’t kill me.”

A stabbing pain slices down Luke’s skull. Something about this guy reminds Luke of his father. The likeness leaves a sour taste in Luke’s mouth. He curls his fingers into fists, grinding his jaw.

“I may not be able to kill you,” Luke growls, stepping closer to the stranger, “But I can make you wish you were dead.”

“Says the half-naked, hungover imbecile who doesn’t even remember how he got here...” the dense motherfucker has the audacity to scoff, climbing to his dumb feet, “I’ll find her myself.”

“Don’t you dare go near her!” Luke snarls, advancing on the stranger, “I swear to Merlin I will destroy you!”

The stranger barks a cold, mirthless laugh. The more Luke stares at the stranger, the more he’s reminded of his human-stain of a father. The resemblance is uncanny.

The stranger’s expression flickers, anger contorting the handsome features of his face, “You wouldn’t know anything about destruction! You’re just a boy drowning himself in toxins instead of being a man and making a choice! You’re sister is better off without you!”

Luke swallows thickly, the strangers words creating a deep, hollow fissure in his chest.

“Who are you talking to?” Asks a husky voice from behind, accented with crisp and elegant French. Fleur is awake and swimming in his dress shirt. Luke blinks, glancing back over his shoulder at the stranger. He’s gone.

Was that entire conversation real? Or is the Nyx’s blood still lingering in his system. Luke turns to Fleur, forcing a smile.

“No one,” Luke says, hands sliding into his pocket. His fingers twitch around the vial of Nyx’s blood sitting like an anchor in his pocket. He retrieves it, shaking the vial in front of him, “Want some breakfast?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little early?” Fleur asks, walking toward him. She sinks to her knees, her perfect teeth digging into her bottom lip. She peers up at him through a row of long, thick rashes as she purrs “Besides, there are other ways to make you forget...”

Luke stares down at her, watching as she tugs on the zipper of his pants. He lowers his hand, cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheek bone. He guides her up onto her feet.

“You don’t have to do that for me...”

“You don’t mean that,” she says, eyes not quite meeting his. She slides her tongue across her bottom lip.

Carnal desire flares inside of him, jolting straight to his crotch. His hand slides down her face, fingers curling around her throat.

“What if I do?”

“Then you’re a liar,” Fleur says, her fingers reaching into his pants. He groans and she flashes a wicked grin, “A dirty, sexy liar...”

A strange, almost toxic combination of desire and anger simmers in Luke’s veins. A sudden burst of possessiveness pulses through and he slides his hand from her throat to her waist, picking her up and planting her on the bench.

Fleur delighted laughter tapers into a moan when Luke wraps a tight and slightly assertive grip around her neck with one hand. With the other, Luke pops the lid off the vial and inhale the glittering smoke that curls in the air. The chemical mixture travels straight to his head, curling around his brain. The pressure in his head seems to drain, healing his pounding migraine.

Luke’s head is already swimming when he offers her the vial, and when she takes it, he drops to his knees, nudging her legs apart so he can kneel between them. He licks a white hot trail up her inner thigh, smirking smugly when he hears her gasp.

The empty vial falls to the ground with a loud clang.

Fleur wiggles forward.

Luke chuckles, exhaling against her skin and breathing in her scent, “Oh how the tables have turned...”

“If you’re going to do something, do it quick,” Fleur taunts, he can hear the smirk in her voice, “Unless you’ve forgotten...”

“Oh yeah?” Luke leans forward, teasing her with his tongue, “How bad do you want it, Delacour?”

Fleur is panting above him, “My guess? As bad as you do.”

Luke’s heart races, head swimming in a hazy delirium.

He dives forward.

The stranger is already a distant memory, buried in the deepest, darkest crevices of Luke’s haunted mind. He’s never been so happy to forget.

***

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