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sirius-archive · 6 years ago

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Chaos Theory Pt. 4

Warnings: Swearing, Underaged drinking.

Word Count: 6064 (holy Heck)

A/N: omg this is sooooo late I’m sorry guys. Like, really, I am. It’s been freaking insane and I’ve been literally going out of my god damn mind. Anyway, I finally got this finished so yay. Also, I could not find a translator that could properly communicate what I was trying to say so I’m sorry for people who actually speak Latin and read this and are like ....wtf???

Summary: While staying at the Burrow, Reader has an awkward interaction with Harry, and the Trio get into an argument of sorts. She thinks that things can’t get any worse until her father makes a surprise visit.

Chapter Four:

On a good day, Adrien Arden is an award-winning journalist.

The charismatic and charming editor-and-chief of the largest source of wizarding news in the world. A clever leader adored by his colleagues and friends. A winner of several accolades for his service to the wizarding community and a personal friend of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. He’s the handsome, brooding widower with eyes that have the ability to draw you in and a smile worth more than all the gold in Gringotts. During his years at Hogwarts, he had been destined for success; a Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy and was regarded fondly by peers and professors alike.

On a bad day, Adrien Arden is a father.

A perfectionist with standards higher than a crowd of rowdy teenagers at a Weird Sisters concert. A workaholic and a ghost who drifts in and out of your life like the tide; pulling you in when he thinks it’s necessary and pushing you away when he realizes it isn’t.

Sometimes, you pity Adrien Arden.

It must be such a lonely existence; to work and work without receiving a reward. To have such ravenous ambition that has consumed every aspect of your being, pushing you further and further until you reach the edge. To realize that he’s repelled all the people who matter away, to not realize that all those galleons that sparkle and glitter in the family vault are worthless compared to the love and respect of his two children.

And it’s this pity that motivates you to keep a calm and level-head. It’s this pity that compels you to be the good little daughter for the sake of relative peace. And it’s this pity that helps you realize that family is the only way to keep your mother’s wishes alive, even though she isn’t.

Luke, however, is not so forgiving.

You don’t think there was ever a time where Luke got along with your father. Perhaps they are too similar, and for this reason, they clash. Whatever the reason is, though, it’s clear that Luke hates Adrien with every cell in his being, and if anyone ever doubts that, then all they had to do is step into the Weasley’s kitchen and glimpse at the razor-sharp glare Luke is giving your father right now.

A heavy tension blankets the room in uncomfortable warmth, grating against your skin like sandpaper, and you fiddle with your bracelet to expel the nervous energy tickling your fingertips. You can almost feel the anger igniting the air around Luke, stiffening his spine, sharpening the edges of his jaw, curling his hands into fists.

Mrs Weasley must sense it, too, because she rolls her sleeves up and flashes a dimpled smile, “I’ll let you three spend some quality time together.”

Luke scoffs but doesn’t say anything more, most likely out of respect for Mrs Weasley. Mrs Weasley hurries off as your father draws a carefully guarded smile across his lips. It’s polished and professional, much like he is.

“I’m so relieved that you’re all okay,” Adrien says, and for a moment you actually believe him.

“Took you a while to remember we exist,” Luke spits, indignantly. The insult bounces off Adrien’s layers like a Protego spell.

“I’ve been...busy at work,” he says, calmly, “I’m sure you can understand.”

A derisive scoff issues from the back of Luke’s throat.

“It’s okay, father,” you say, trying to keep your tone reassuring, “We know that you’re busy.”

“Too busy to be a father,” Luke mutters, darkly, not meeting his eye.

Adrien ignores the comment, “I don’t have a lot of time but I just wanted to check in and see how you’re both going. Did you have fun at the World Cup anyway?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, “it was nice. I mean, before all of the chaos it was actually a really lovely night.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Adrien smiles fondly.

“Oh, Mr Arden,” says a familiar voice from behind you, and a shy, blushing Hermione steps forward. Ron and Harry follow behind her.

“Hello Hermione,” Adrien flashes her a smile and nods at Ron and Harry, “Hullo boys. Good to see you three again. How are you all?”

Harry shrugs, “We’re good, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, considering the night we just had we’re not exactly going to be prancing around picking flowers and shooting rainbows out of our asses,” Luke snaps, coldly, and Adrien narrows his eyes on him, working his jaw, grinding back whatever he wants to say.

A loud, obnoxious beeping startles you, and Adrien glances down at his screeching watch.

“That’s all I have time for, for now. I have to head back to the office and submit some papers.”

“Glad you could fit us into your tight schedule,” Luke scowls, “Just leave. No one wants you here anyway.”

Your father clears his throat and bends down to embrace you awkwardly. You wrap your arms lightly around his neck, wondering whether its normal for a fatherly embrace to feel like you’re hugging a pole. He pulls away quickly and straightens, moving toward Luke. Luke folds his arms across his chest and steps away, refusing to look at his father. Adrien heaves a heavy sigh.

“I’ll see you...later,” he says and he gives your friends a weary smile, “I’ll send you an owl.”

Adrien walks into the kitchen, thanks a blushing Mrs Weasley for her hospitality, and leaves. You turn to Luke.

“Well that was...” you trail off, silenced by the expression on Luke’s face. His mouth is screwed shut and his eyes are glaring daggers in the direction where your father left, “Luke?”

Luke isn’t listening, though. Instead, he charges forward, nearly knocking you aside, and strides toward the door.

“Luke!” You call out, but Luke reaches for the door knob, yanks it open and slams it shut in your face. You push it open and peek through the crack.

“Why did you really come?” Luke demands, storming up to his father, “You don’t just decide to pop in after weeks of not seeing us!”

Adrien sighs, exasperated, “It’s as I said; I really was concerned for your wellbeing. Both you and your sister.”

Luke lurches forward and for a moment, you think that he’s going to tackle Adrien to the ground in a fit of fury. Instead, he rises up to his father, spine straightened in deadly determination. “Keep my sister out of your rotten mouth.”

Adrien narrows his eyes coldly on your brother, like a sniper taking aim, “Is that a threat, boy? Because if it is, you’d better follow through with it. I did not raise a coward.”

Luke bristles, “You have no right to think of her as your daughter when I was the one who raised her. I looked after her and protected her and held her as she mourned. I was the one who took her to Diagon Alley, bought her her first wand and school robes. I did the job you were supposed to do while you wallowed in self-pity and abandoned us as though your own children were a burden, stopping you from your precious work.”

Adrien steels, a dark expression falling over his sharp features, “Lukas Adrien Arden, if you ever doubt my responsibilities as a father again, I will personally ensure that it is the last thing you do.”

Luke steps back from the looming figure of his father, “You’re up to something, I know it. And I’ll find out, I always do.”

Adrien’s entire demeanour shifts and an amused ghost of a smile teases the corners of his lips, “I don’t doubt that. You are my son after all.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Luke spits, venomously.

“Oh but you are,” Adrien clamps a hand on Luke’s shoulder. Luke struggles under Adrien’s grip, but his grasp is like a vice, locking Luke into submission, “And when the day comes that you realise you are, you’ll regret every bad word you’ve ever said to me.”

You stare as Luke jerks away from Adrien’s grip and staggers backwards. The tension is stifling, like an ominous cloud of thick fog creeping over you, and you have to physically step back from the door to remember how to breathe again.

It’s sort of distressing, seeing Luke so riled up when he’s usually so smooth and refined. He looks and acts like a completely different person like someone has hijacked Luke’s body and is puppeteering his words and actions. It’s a persona that emerges whenever your father is around, a defence mechanism Luke has carefully honed after years of loathing and disgust.

It’s...unhealthy. Unnatural. Worrying.

Stepping away from the door, you turn and start toward Luke’s room, hoping you’ll be able to chat with him later. You doubt you’ll have any luck but he needs to know that you’ll be there for him in all the ways he was for you. Before you can make it up the stairs, though, you walk into a nervous-looking Harry.

“Hey,” he says, tearing a hand through his hair.

“Hey,” you echo, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“I...wanted to apologise-” Harry starts, but you cut him off with a raised hand.

“-You seem to be apologising a lot, lately,” You say, and Harry’s lips quirk into a sheepish smile. You mimic it as you continue, “I don’t know what’s going on, and if you don’t want to tell me then I respect that. I just...I want you to know that you can talk to me. I’m here for you, I always have and I always will be.”

Harry hesitates for a moment, his mouth moving around silent words, as though he’s carefully stringing them together. Laughter echoes from the backyard, ringing through the silence. You’re just about to say something when Harry beats you to it, his voice low, “Follow me.”

Intrigued and a little surprised, you watch as Harry scales the winding stairs, the sound of the floorboards groaning in protest filling the growing distance between the two of you. You start to follow him until you reach his and Rons shared room and he pushes the door open, inviting you in. You climb onto his bed and Harry closes the door behind you, fidgeting nervously with his glasses. Something in his expression seems hesitant, as though he’s debating on what to say. You wait patiently.

“It’s my scar,” he finally murmurs, “It’s been hurting lately and– I think it may be connected to the attack at the World Cup.”

“Oh,” you say, trying to swallow back the distant ache throbbing in your throat, “Oh, Harry. This is...this is serious. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I was going to tell you,” Harry says, quickly, the words flying from his lips like a practised excuse, “In the Forrest when we were looking for the Portkey. But then...then Cedric came and I didn’t get a chance to talk to you alone.”

You study Harry for a long moment, eyes sweeping over his fidgeting form. He seems unsettled, a little nervous, perhaps hesitant, like he’s trying to tackle something on his tongue back into his throat. You figure it could just be his nerves, but you can’t help but wonder if he wants to say more.

“Is that what you guys were arguing about this afternoon?” You ask and Harry nods, “Why was Luke there?”

Harry blinks at you, “What?”

“Why was Luke there?” You reiterate, calmly, “I heard him arguing with you.”

Before he can answer, there is a tentative knock at the door and a moment later, Ginny’s head pokes out from behind it. A small blush blossoms beneath her freckled cheeks when she notices Harry but then her eyes drift toward you and she raises a sharp brow.

“Mum says dinner is ready,” she says, her voice soft.

“Okay,” you and Harry blurt at the same time and Ginny nods as she closes the door.

You slide off Harry’s bed and straighten, “I don’t know about you but I’m starving.”

Harry chortles, his smile loose, relieved “Yeah, I could really go for some roast chicken right about now.”

You smile at Harry, “Thanks for telling me.”

Harry nods and gives a half-hearted smile, “Thanks for listening.”

As you descend the staircase, chatting lightly and smiling easily, a sense of nostalgia overcomes you like a wave of warm sepia and it almost feels like old times without all the secrecy and nervous energy. It almost feels like, for a fleeting moment, it is just you and Harry and nothing between the two of you.

Almost.

***

After a delicious dinner and a scrumptious dessert, you and Hermione sit in front of the fireplace, Hermione in the armchair and you sitting crossed-leg on the floor. Your Quidditch World Cup article sits in your lap as your eyes scan the parchment, reading and re-reading.

“Is Luke okay?” Hermione suddenly asks, not even trying to clip the worry from her voice, “He wasn’t himself at dinner.”

You look up from your work, pushing your hair off your face, “He always gets like that around my dad,” you admit with a small shrug, pretending that it doesn’t bother you, “He just needs his space.”

Hermione nods, though there is an expression of worry creeping over her face and you study her, noting her features carefully. Before you can question her, Fred sidles up to the two of you, eyes glinting mischievously.

“Hey you two,” he greets, smirking wolfishly, “We’ve got a couple bottles of booze and absolutely no regrets. Wanna join us?”

“Please tell me this isn’t a giant orgy or something,” you retort and Hermione blushes furiously.

“Nah,” Fred shakes his head with a grin, “Though I’m open for persuasion.”

You snort and shake your head, smiling, “Only in my nightmares.”

Fred clutches his chest in mock hurt, “Aw, we could have been something special.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“And what exactly are we going to do?” Hermione asks, her brows raised expectantly. Fred straightens importantly.

“Get pissed.”

“She was only asking,” you quip and Fred rolls his eyes.

“Get sloshed. Buzzed. Wasted. Inebriated. Intoxicated,” he narrows his eyes pointedly at you, “Drunk. What else are you supposed to do with fire whiskey? Bathe in it? Because we’ve tried and it’s not…good.”

“But we’re underage?” Hermione says, eying Fred suspiciously.

“So?” Fred shrugs, “You’ve already broken the law by helping a wanted fugitive escape, not to mention several hundred school rules. What’s another stupid law?”

A pale pink blush tickles the apples of her cheeks and Hermione averts her gaze, “Right.”

“Come on guys,” Fred whines, imploring you with large, pleading eyes, “You’re always putting yourselves in constant danger. Why not relax for the night?”

“He’s got a point,” you shrug, turning to Hermione. She chews her bottom lip thoughtfully, giving Fred an appraising look. Finally, she glances at you and gives a small nod.

“Alright,” she says, lifting her chin slightly, more confidently, “but I’m filling my own glass. I don’t want you pouring me a drink.”

“Why? Don’t you trust us?” Fred asks, grinning wickedly.

“You don’t want me to answer that question.”

Fred shakes his head, forlornly, “All you young whipper-snappers going around and breaking an old man’s heart.”

“As (Y/N) said, ‘You’ll get over it.’”

You bark a laugh and high-five Hermione. Fred wipes an imaginary tear away and pouts exaggeratedly.

“We’re meeting at 11pm,” Fred leans in and lowers his voice to a not-so-quiet whisper, “That way, mum and dad will be asleep, and they won’t get suspicious.”

With a smirk and a wink, Fred whirls off and saunters out of the room. You watch him leave, nibbling your bottom lip, twirling and twisting your bracelet between your nimble fingers. Somehow, for some reason, you have a feeling that the night isn’t going to go as smoothly as Fred thinks.

***

At ten to eleven, you, Hermione and Ginny tip-toe out of her bedroom and make a slow start to the stairs.

The corridor looks odd like this; cloaked in darkness and completely void of sound or movement. The Burrow has always felt alive, pulsing with life as though it were a heart pumping blood through the veins of the house. Come night time, that heart seems to falter to a stop, leaving the house eerily quiet. You shiver.

“This is weird,” you whisper, “It’s so quiet. I feel like I’m walking through a graveyard.”

Ginny shudders, and in the pale light of your wand, you see her face contort into a scowl, “Thanks for the commentary. Now I feel paranoid in my own house.”

“It’s okay,” Hermione murmurs, softly, “Mrs Weasley and Mr Weasley are here, too, don’t forget.”

“That makes me feel even better,” Ginny drawls, sardonically, “If a murderer doesn’t leap out and slaughter me where I stand, my mum will.”

“No one is going to kill anyone–”

A loud groan interrupts Hermione mid-speech and you all jump, spinning around to face the source of the noise. Clamping a hand over your mouth, you muffle your shriek as Hermione gasps and staggers backwards toward the railing and Ginny fumbles with her wand. It slips from between her fingers like a stick of butter and clatters on the ground. Heart racing, you raise your wand and heave a sigh of relief.

Harry and Ron both stare at the three of you, eyes wide, faces flushed and chests heaving. Harry bends down and grabs Ginny’s wand, handing it to her with a gentle smile. Ginny squeaks a breathless ‘Thank you,’ and darts back to your side. Ron gawks at you, his expression somewhere between bemusement and frustration.

“Bloody hell,” Ron curses under his breath, “It’s just us.”

“Well don’t sneak up on us!” you hiss, “You nearly scared us to death!”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, sheepishly, “Let’s just go before we get caught.”

You start toward the stairs and begin descending the creaking staircase.

Somehow, every step you make seems to amplify, ringing through the house like a blaring siren, as though the house is designed to alert Mr and Mrs Weasley that their children are sneaking out after curfew. Trying to balance on the tips of your toes, you slowly descend the never-ending staircase, contemplating whether it was such a good idea to leave the comfort of your bed in the first place.

“Luke seemed kind of off at dinner tonight,” Harry mutters leaning forward, “Is he…y’know?”

“He just hates my dad,” You whisper back, surprised that Harry noticed. You’re about to make a joke out of it but Hermione shushes you into silence from over her shoulder. As she turns back, though, she misses a step and stumbles forward.

“Hermione–!” Ron gasps from behind you and you listen for a loud thump, but it never comes. You direct your wand to the end of the staircase and find Hermione lying in someone’s arms.

“Oh, Luke,�� Hermione murmurs, flustered, several shades of red rippling across her face, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he smiles softly at her and she straightens, brushing down her clothes and combing a finger through her hair.

You all reach the bottom of the staircase and playfully punch Luke in the shoulder, “Looks like she fell for you.”

To your surprise, Luke doesn’t respond to your terrible joke. He just scowls and shakes his head, moving toward the back door. You blink at him and follow.

“C’mon, really? Nothing?” you ask as he pushes the door open, “No ‘I thought you were better than corny puns?’”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Luke murmurs, stalking through the backyard and toward the tree house.

“Is he going to be okay?” Hermione asks beside you, watching him with concern in her eyes.

You chew your bottom lip nervously, “I–I don’t know…”

The tree house is actually a lot safer than it looks, which is oddly ironic since Fred and George give no consideration to safety whatsoever.

Thick planks of wood are nailed to a gap in the large tree as though they are sitting in its palm, branches stretching like fingers around it. There is a wooden railing that surrounds the platform, fairy lights intertwined around it. Alternative pop music plays on low, the sound prevented from leaving the treehouse by the silencing charm Fred had cast, containing it in a bubble of sorts. There are light bulbs, all different shapes and sizes, strung together and hanging from the branches overhead that act as a roof. Right in the centre of the ‘roof’ is a large hole that brags a beautiful view of the midnight sky, freckled with stars.

It’s actually kind of beautiful. Serene, almost.

You down the rest of the drink and raise your chin to the stars, lost in their beauty. You can almost feel the stardust raining down on you, sinking into your skin, filling you up with a beautiful, ethereal light, like there is an entire galaxy bursting to life inside of you. You’re not sure if it’s the fire whiskey humming in your veins or not but you feel like you could just step off the balcony of the treehouse and float away.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a familiar voice says from beside you, and you turn to find George Weasley gazing up at the stars with you, an expression of awe painted across his face, “Do you know who else is beautiful?”

“Please, don’t finish that sentence and ruin this beautiful moment,” you murmur and George snorts.

“You don’t like hearing compliments about yourself?”

“I don’t like cheesy pickup lines.”

George shrugs, “That’s fair. Though I was going to say that I was beautiful but never mind.”

You chortle, shaking your head and grinning broadly at him. He echoes it, lips curving into a grin you may never get tired of seeing, “You really know how to cheer a girl up, don’t you?”

“Only the ones I like,” George smiles softly, softer than anything you’ve ever seen him wear.

“Well, I’m grateful anyhow.”

George drapes an arm over your shoulders and pulls you to his side protectively, provoking a laugh to burst boisterously from your lips.

“So, are you and Cedric…?”

You flush, cheeks burning, “I–I don’t really know…”

“Well, just so you know, he talks about you a lot,” George says, “Our friend, Juniper Cross. You know Juniper?” You nod, recalling the beautiful Hufflepuff in George’s year, “Anyway, she says he talks about you like you ‘put the stars in the sky.’ His words, not mine.”

An odd, sort of airy feeling circles around you and floods you like helium, lighter than air, ascending the five layers of the atmospheres and disappearing into the universe.

The moment is broken by Fred, who yanks another bottle of fire whiskey from a crate and holds it over his head.

“Who’s up for a game of ‘Never have I Ever?”

“What’s that?” Hermione asks and Fred blinks at her.

“You’ve never played ‘Never Have I Ever?’” George asks, bewildered, “Hermione, what have you been doing with your life?”

“Never Have I Ever is a classic drinking game,” Luke says, sitting beside Hermione, “Basically, you have to say something that you’ve never done and everyone who has done said thing has to drink. For instance, if I say ‘Never have I ever… snogged a girl from France’–”

“–We would call you a liar,” Fred interjects, and Luke rolls his eyes.

“–Everyone who has snogged a girl from France would have to take a drink.”

“And we would call them liars,” George sniggers and you snort, bumping his fist with your own.

“The person with the most alcohol left in their glass wins,” Luke continues, ignoring the snickering Weasley twins.

“And if you say a ‘Never have I ever’ and no one else has done it either, you have to drink from everyone’s glass,” Fred smirks deviously, and Hermione raises her brows, her fingers finding the hem of her sleeves.

Luke studies her with benevolent eyes, his past frustration melting off his shoulders like ice in the early spring, “If you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to play.”

A gentle shade of soft pink flourishes on the apples of Hermione’s cheeks and her lips quirk into an awkward smile, “No, it’s okay. I’ll play.”

“Are you sure? We’re all friends here, and we want you to be comfortable,” Luke smiles, reassuringly.

Hermione nods, and George claps a brotherly hand on Luke’s shoulder, “Ever the gentleman. If I wasn’t in an exclusive relationship with myself, I would totally date you, man. Like, put out and everything.”

Luke just gives a half-hearted smile and a modest shrug. He looks like such a different person to the Luke you saw earlier that day, seething threats at his own father and brewing in a venomous mood. Even when you met him in the kitchen earlier that night, Luke had seemed guarded and brooding and nothing like the sweet, considerate and boyishly charming man he is with Hermione.

You all sit crossed-leg on the ground in a circle and, with a looming sense of doom, you find yourself sitting between Fred and George, an unsavoury position for anyone to be in. Before you can escape to the other side of the circle, Fred and George begin filling up several glasses and hand them around the group. Fred pauses in front of Ginny, sculling her fire whiskey with a wince and filling her glass with chocolate milk. Ginny folds her arms across her chest, glaring dangerously at her brother.

“No alcohol for anyone under 14,” Fred says, wagging a finger at Ginny, “It rots your brain.”

“Good thing you don’t have one, then,” Ginny grumbles, rolling her eyes and snatching the glass of milk out of her brothers’ hand. Once everyone has their glass, the game begins. Unsurprisingly, George volunteers to go first.

“Never have I ever…met a Norwegian Ridgeback dragon called ‘Norbert’, tried to smuggle Norbert out of Hogwarts but got caught in the process and consequently lost Gryffindor one hundred points,” he says before adding, “Oh, and got sent to detention, too.”

You, Hermione, and Harry exchange guilty glances and take a swig of your drinks. The fiery liquid surges down your throat like molten lava and pools delightfully in your lower belly, the alcohol crackling in your veins.

“Technically, I wasn’t there when they tried to smuggle Norbert out,” Ron argues, raising his arm to reveal the thin scar knitted into his skin, “Norbert bit me, so I was in the Hospital wing.”

“You still met him,” George points out and Ron’s confident expression falls, grumbling as he takes a sip from his cup.

“Alright, Harry, you’re up next,” Fred grins, pointing at Harry with his glass.

Harry’s brows furrow as he thinks, the tip of his tongue poking out between the soft cushions of his lips. Once again, Harry seems so…relaxed. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the company, or both, but it’s a relief to see him so unguarded and it shows in how easily he’s smiling, how warm and inviting his gaze is. And when he catches your eye, his lips quirk up into a small smile and it feels…nostalgic.

It feels like it used to.

“Never have I ever…been kicked out of a bar?”

Fred and George groan in unison and take a swig of their drinks. To everyone’s surprise, Ginny does, too. While the rest of the group gapes at Ginny, their jaws slack and eyes wide in disbelief, Ginny gives a nonchalant shrug, her eyes glistening in the low light as she recalls the moment.

“I may or may not have hexed a certain, misogynistic Ravenclaw who was getting on my nerves,” she gives a sharp, cat-like smirk, resembling her rebellious, older brothers “I don’t regret anything.”

Fred and George pretend to sob tears of pride as they slap Ginny on the back, “Look at how far our precious, little sister has come. We taught you well.”

The game moves around the circle, jokes and laughter thick in the summer air as your drinks slowly begin to dwindle.

When it finally reaches Fred, he flashes a scheming grin, and he raises a confident brow, “Never have I ever…had a crush on Cedric Diggory…”

Everyone narrows their eyes on you expectantly. You sigh, rolling your eyes as Fred sniggers devilishly.

“Fuck you, Fred!” you snip, throwing the rest of your drink back. Your head spins in languid circles as try not to splutter, and in the warm ambience of the room, your eyes find Harry’s; gazes colliding for a long, lingering moment. Harry doesn’t shy away, in fact, he’s the boldest you’ve seen him since the World Cup, and something hooks around your lower belly, yanking it up into your throat.

“Okay, (Y/N), your turn,” Fred juts his chin at your glass and eyes you hopefully. You heave a sigh.

“Alright. Um…” you pause thoughtfully, and then your lips pull into a grin when you catch Ginny’s eyes, “Never have I ever…had a crush on someone in this room.”

Fred and George stare at Ginny and she sighs, taking a swig of her chocolate milk. She pokes her tongue out at you playfully and you give her an apologetic look. She shrugs nonchalantly, though she doesn’t seem entirely bothered. Strange, you think, she must be getting over Harry. You never really anticipated that.

You never anticipated Hermione and Harry taking a nervous sip from their drinks, either.

“Woah,” George says, eyes flitting between the two of them, “What’s going on here?”

They seem hesitant in their answer, weighing their options, gauging each other for a response like they’re dancing tentatively around the subject. You and Ron exchange a surprised look, the tips of Ron’s ears an odd shade of red. Something tight and nasty coils inside of you like a sleeping snake.

Hermione and Harry exchange a look, and Harry shrugs “Nothing. We’re just answering the question.”

You blink at Harry, then at Hermione. They seem to be avoiding your gaze, eyes darting around the room like they’re trying to pull excuses from the air around them. Is that what all the secrecy is about? Are they…?

“So you both have had a crush on someone in this room?”

“Er…” Harry flicks a glance at Hermione and then sweeps his gaze to you before hastily averting your gawking stare, “…yes? Why?”

“Huh,” Fred shrugs, “No reason.”

Hermione frowns, “What? It’s not like we like each other.”

“Whatever you say, Hermione.”

Hermione’s mouth twists into a thin frown and Harry furrows his brows at Fred’s blatant, off-handed remark. Tension has steeled his spine like an iron rod and he fidgets uncomfortably, his nervous mannerisms unspooling as time seems to drag by. The sepia-stained nostalgia that you had so willingly embraced begins to crumble the more he glances between Hermione and Ron, and the needlepoint sting of hurt pricks the inside of your wrist.

“Um, I think it’s your turn, George,” Ron says, quickly, nervously glancing at Harry. Does Ron know something–?

George nods importantly and continues the game, but you’re still rooted in time. As everyone else takes their turn, your eyes continue to stray to Harry, studying, observing, realising, that this is so much more than his scar. His cheeks are rosy, flushed pink from the alcohol and embarrassment, his eyes a startling shade of green against the sun-kissed skin of his face and the electric shock of dishevelled, black hair and as you study him, your head begins to spin.

You take a long swig of your drink, gulping back your anxiety, wishing that you had trusted your gut in the first place.

***

Somehow, you make it back to your room without making a complete fool of yourself.

Hermione’s avoided you for most of the night, though you can tell that she’s nervous by the way she chews her bottom lip; it’s red and raw, the moon-crescent bite marks curved into the delicate skin of her lower lip. You want to talk to her, to ask about the secrecy, but your head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and your eyes are like heavy golf balls stuck into your skull and you really just want to sleep–

You pull your camisole over the top of your head and rip your bra off, an envelope falling out from its grasp.

“Oh,” you say, to no one in particular, “My letter.”

Between the visit from your dad and the Weasley’s drinking game, you had completely forgotten about it. Bending down, you scoop it off the ground and study the envelope. Your name and address are writing in elegant curlicue cursive to the point where it’s nearly unreadable. You squint, following the loops and curls, and turn the envelope over. No return address. Odd. You open it anyway, unfold the letter…

And gasp.

It doesn’t make sense.

Your stomach is twisted into a tight, thick knot, heavy in your abdomen, weighing like an anchor plummeting to the ocean floor. Ice gushes through the deltas of your veins as though it were blood pulsing through the arteries of a cold-blooded monster, freezing your spine, paralysing you.

You can’t tear your eyes away.

You stare down at a photo of you and Cedric at the World Cup, stained in shades of black and grey, frozen in time, smiles fixed onto your faces. And it would have been a beautiful photo, it really had, if it weren’t for the blood-red insignia scarring the back of the photo; a snake eating itself, circling around what looks like a cross between a Scarab and a skull moth.

And, beneath it, eight words strung together, bleeding into the paper like a wound.

Mus uni non habeat fiduciam autem serpens esuriit

A mouse does not trust a hungry snake

Suddenly, you wish you were drunk again.

@marauderskeeper @weaselby418 @acciorinn @hervench @harrvjpotter @depressed-octopods-art (i’m sorry i didn’t tage you before!! i just realised you replied to one of the posts!) @romanofftasha @moonpeachs

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