#slytherin/gryffindor

[animealways]

2nd year

besides the obvious stuff that happens in the books, I think the only thing that comes with a warning should be hints of a toxic/abusive home life btw snape in this is more based on the movies cause book Snape just sucks

2nd year

The Malfoys and the blacks went shopping together, specifically for brooms. For the Nimbus 2001 wich phoebe and and Draco couldn't be happier about.

After all they both wanted to join the quidditch team. Now they're old enough and both their fathers agreed it is a good idea to get their children the best equipment available. ''Can't wait to tell the others'' Draco stated like a proud male peacock would when showing off its feathers.

''Actually, I think it be more fun to wait until we're at Hogwarts''

''What makes you say that?''

''Dray, we're getting Nimbus 2001. Imagine surprising the entire team with these and walking over school grounds while no one had a clue. Can you imagine how priceless everyone's face will be?''

Draco hummed with a nod as he imagined the scene smirking at the idea. ''You're right. It does sound more fun.''

The two kids could hear Narcissa chuckle softly at their plan. ''Always coming up with a clever plan you.''

The gentlewoman put some of Phoebe's hair out of her face while her goddaughter smiled a little. Narcissa was by far the most gentle one of their family.

''Tell me about it. Truly her father's child I suppose.''

Lucretia commented on her daughter who seems to grow every day more into her father's image while Alphard silently smirked.

Phoebe was also particularly excited for her defense against the dark arts this year since 1. With Quirrell gone, she hoped for more exciting lessons 2. Gilderoy Lockhart, a wizard famous for his adventures would be teaching them and since Phoebe read some of his books not that great but the stories were fun she thought the professor would be better...

Oh how wrong she was.

Phoebe still remembers raising an eyebrow at her new professor's overly smiling egotistical way of speaking about himself. Creep. The young girl thought but it wasn't until she saw the 'quiz questions' that she was absolutely baffled.

What is gilderoy lockheart favorite color?

2. What is gilderoy lockheart secret ambition???

"What in Merlin's name is this???" The Slytherin girl asked no one in particular, as Amelia next to her simply looked at how Phoebe felt. When she looked around to look at her fellow classmates, especially her fellow snakes, they seemed just as baffled. When she made eye contact with two of her best friends, Draco and Theo, she immediately knew what they were thinking.

What sort of rubbish professor did we get this year???

Most of the girls on the other hand seemed less taken aback, clearly just blinded by their crush on the handsome man. Phoebe wasn't sure whether that was more stupid or disgusting and decided.

It was both.

Once the quiz was over things did NOT improve. It was the moment when a pixie managed to injure Phoebe's eye and pull on her silky long well-kept hair that Lockheart was a fraud. She grabbed her books off the table and smacked the pixie with it.

The room was filled with screams while Phoebe saw a some poor Gryffindor boy getting snatched by the ears and then hung from the chandelier along with who knows how many broken objects thrown across the room.

Amelia immediately dragged her best friend under the table along with her stuff. Neither girl had to say anything as everyone had the same thought. Once the bell rang everyone ran out of the class in the hopes of not get hanging by the chandelier and fall down the same way Longbottom did.

"This is unbelievable, pure rubbish!" Phoebe said trying to fix her hair, head still sore from the pixie pulling on it. "That man is clearly a fraud! What sort of git is Dumbledore hiring?!" Theo her rather slender short friend caught up with the girls and looked ready to hex the man into next year. "I swear Dumbledore is trying to make us fail."

Amelia sighed out. That sentiment was well shared among the snakes after Dumbledore awarded Gryffindor a million points at the feast last year making Slytherin lose the mere seconds when they were about to win. Only this time it wasn't just the Slytherins ego on the line.

Their grades genuinely were at risk if this is how the entire year will be. ''No.'' Phoebe spoke firm and determently. ''I refuse to fail simply because Dumbledore is an imbecile.''

And she huffed walking towards the dungeons with two best friends trailing behind her. Both curious about what she was planning.

Phoebe from that moment onward hated her new defense against the dark arts. She planned to send some of her books Lockheart wrote back home with a frustrated letter to her parents explaining what happened and that Lockheart might as well be a squib with how useless he seems to be.

'Dumbledore couldn't have hired a more incompetent person for the job if he tried. Honestly, a squib would be better because at least they wouldn't be stupid enough to release a cage full of pixies into the room when they have no means of stopping them. Which led to my black eye and nearly getting my hair pulled out of my head! Please tell this to the board.'

Was only part of what Phoebe wrote. Quickly finishing the letter hastily and pocketing it so she could send it home the next time she was at the owlery. ''Make sure to add how he couldn't even stop the pixies himself.'' Amelia said coldly.

Phoebe also made sure to inform Professor Snape aka her head of house first with her friends still following her. "Yes? Miss black?" The rather intimidating man asked. He was actually Phoebe's favorite staff member not just because she was clearly a favorite student of Snape but because the man was slightly comforting to her.

In the same vein her stern, cold father was but actually around instead of out of the house.

"Professor Snape. I know you probably don't want to hear my complaints about other professors but I can't pretend and ignore the obvious."

"It's Lockheart, isn't it?"

The man scowled while the Slytherin trio was surprised at how quickly their head of house gave in. "Yes, yes it's about Lockheart sir"

"I am. Not surprised."

Well... At least Phoebe didn't have to worry about a possible lecture for bad-mouthing a staff member. "In that case, I'm sure you understand why we rather receive lessons about defense against the dark arts from you, sir" Phoebe said trying to sound as polite as possible knowing Snape wouldn't refuse the offer.

Now that seems to catch Snape off guard and for the first time, Phoebe, Theo, and Amelia thought they saw a genuine smile from the cold man. Snape wanted the job for years after all and students of his willingly went out of their way to ask him for help instead of the actual D.A professor. How else could he take it but as a compliment?

"Of course, I know you're a very busy man but I had hoped maybe occasional lessons to ensure our grades don't slip"

Phoebe quickly added on playing up the star student act.

"Of course. I don't mind not for a diligent student like yourself. It is a waste if you fail merely because your professor is incompetent. Your friends are welcome as are any other Slytherin students who show effort."

Now that's why Phoebe's favorite professor is Snape. She often got special attention and praise for her hard work she rarely got from most especially her parents. She still remembers how the house elves had to heal her after Lucretia's anger was shown for the fact a mudblood had gotten better grades than Phoebe.

"Thank you professor"

The young girl beamed while her friends were pleasantly surpised.

''I swear you're his favorite'' Theo teasingly bumped his shoulder against Phoebe who simply wore it with pride as they walked thru the corridors. ''Clearly with good reason.'' The girl's dimples showed when she smirked with no shame. It brought out a certain family resemblance to her cousin.

Amelia rolled her eyes at her dormmate's shamelessness but she supposed Phoebe had earned some of the right to. ''At least you put it to some good use. Can you imagine if Granger is the only one of our year that actually passes?''

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the first quidditch practice came around her and Draco couldn't be more proud of the fact their family gotten them the best of the best brooms for the entire Slytherin team.

Walking proudly onto the pitch hidden among the taller and much older students. They saw the Gryffindors coming down, who originally booked the pitched first were simply handed a letter.

''I Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice on the quidditch pitch today owing to their need to train their new seeker and chaser''

''A new seeker and chaser.'' Wood said rather distracted. ''Where?''

The 5 large figures moved out of the way letting Phoebe and Draco come in front of them. Both of them smirked, more than pleased with themselves. ''Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son? And Alphard's black daughter?''

Fred asked with clear dislike.

''Funny you mention them,'' Phoebe said smirking with her dimples showing and proudly held her new broom in hand. ''Since me and Dray are on the team now they have gotten the entire team something, pretty nice.''

The entire team of green held out the newly polished handles and 7 sets of golden lettering spelling 'nimbus 2001' under the noses of the lions in the early morning sun.

''Lates model, came out just last month.'' Flint said carelessly and flicked a speck of dust from the handle. ''I believe it outstrips the old 2000 series by a considerable amount as for the clean sweeps.''

Looking over the twins who owned a pair of them. ''Sweeps the board with them.'' For a moment the usually loud lions were left silent.

''Oh look, more lions.'' Phoebe stated as she gestured to Ron and Hermione running towards them.

''What's happening? Why aren't you playing and what's he doing here?'' The ginger boy, Phoebe only met in passing said while he looked over Draco in his green and silver quidditch uniform. ''I'm the new seeker, Weasely.''

The thin blond stated so smugly that his eyes resembled slits. ''Everyone is just admiring the new brooms my father and uncle rad bought our team.''

Ron gapped open-mouth at the superb brooms. ''Good, aren't they? But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms too. I expect a museum would bid for those clean sweep fives.'' The snakes snickered.

''At least no one in the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,'' Hermione said sharply. ''They got in on pure talent.'' Phoebe scoffed at her, still smirking and stepped closer.

''Don't act like you know anything about flying, granger. You can't even raise a toe off the ground. 'Up, uP, Up'.'' Phoebe mimicked Hermione usual sharp voice and brash manners mockingly remembering their flying lessons from last year, making the rest of the snakes laugh again.

''Exactly, don't talk you filthy mudblood.'' Phoebe's eyes immediately widened, almost comically large at her cousin's words. Are you trying to die? Is was she wanted to ask, instead she grabbed Draco by the collar and pulled him back.

Flint dived in front of Draco so the weasely twins couldn't jump him, a Gryffindor girl shrieked ''How dare you?!'' and Ron immediately grabbed his wand yelling. ''You'll pay for that one Malfoy!''

Pointing his wand under Flint's arm. Phoebe saw for a split second the tape on the wand causing her to take multiple steps back before a loud bang echoed around the stadium along with the jet of green light that shot out the wand.

The wrong way, hitting Ron instead of Draco. It reeled him back onto the grass while the lions ran to checked on him.

Before every Slytherin started howling with laughter when the poor Gryffindor spit out a hand full of slugs. Phoebe leaned against her new broom, one hand covering her mouth while Draco banged his fist on the ground as he fell on all fours practically wheezing.

Once everyone's laughter died down the Slytherins took off flying on the pitch since Harry just left to help Ron.

The practice went over pretty well for Phoebe. Being a second year meant she didn't have the arm strength to throw the Quaffle as far as the other chasers but it made her movements more fluid and hold onto the quaffle more easily.

Determent to show how capable she is Phoebe throws the quaffle to Montague letting him attempt to score in one of the hoops only to kick the hard ball in the completely opposite direction. Catching the keeper completely off guard. Flint nodded pleasantly surprised at the tactic. ''Keep it up black.''

Phoebe smirked and winked at Draco. ''Told you I would be more useful than you.'' She flew up to practice the same move but punching it this time leaving her tin-skinned cousin huffing in irritation.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After practice was over Phoebe gladly went into the showers, having extra privacy as the only girl on the Slytherin team and afterward gladly told her best friends Theo and Amelia Flint about the practice.

Theo let out a bark of laughter at the story. ''Weasely really is as dumb as a troll. Who tries to dual with a broken wand?'' Phoebe simply shrugged while looking over her quidditch magazine suppressing a giggle at the memory. ''Well, that explains the trail of slugs I saw in the corridor.'' Amelia, the little sister of the quidditch captain commented grinning at the scene her head came up with. ''He seriously left a trail behind?'' Theo snickered wishing he was there to witness it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn't until hours later that Phoebe, Theo, and Amelia went to the library to study that they ran into Ron Weasely. Still holding a bucket for the slugs he was burping up. Theo snickered at the sight while Amelia's lips thinned to suppress a giggle but Phoebe looked stoically over the thin boy in front of her.

''Why are you still walking around with a bucket?'' Ron simply glared at her for the question. ''Isn't it bloody obvious?'' The irritated retort caused a slug to fall out of his mouth making Theo snicker while Amelia and Phoebe gave a look of disgust.

''You're telling me you have been like this for hours and didn't consider asking a professor or anyone for that matter to remove it?''

Phoebe raised an eyebrow at Ron with an incredulous expression. He opened his mouth again but unfortunately for him it seemed the slugs kept coming out everytime he spoke.

Phoebe decided to take pity on the boy, grabbed her hand from her robe, and cast the counter curse.

''Better?'' Phoebe asked hotly and Ron reluctantly nodded. ''Yeah, thanks...'' And with that interaction, which left the Gryffindor a bit puzzled Phoebe kept walking with her best friends trailing after her curiously.

''Why did you do that?'' Theo asked, missing the free entertainment making which caused Phoebe to roll her eyes. ''Took pity on him.'' The blond shrugged cooly while Amelia this time rolled her eyes at Phoebe's insistence of remaining stoic.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that same week Phoebe found herself in the library trying to find a specific book for herbology when she overheard something. "Still can't believe Dumbledore hired that bloody idiot." "He is not an idiot you have read his book and the things he has done." ''The things he says he has done.''

The blond girl peeked through the shelves to see it was the golden trio talking. She scoffed at the muggleborn words. "Seriously, you too have a crush on that buffoon granger? And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one in your house."

The three lions immediately perked up their heads at me with sour expressions. Gryffindors and Slytherins practically hated each other on sight.

"He is our professor you shouldn't call him a buffoon. It isn't nice."

I scoffed with a air of superiority at Hermione's words.

"You know what isn't nice either? Getting a black eye or nearly getting your hair pulled out by a pixie cause an incompetent professor couldn't stop them or possibly failing a subject cause the professor can't do anything right."

Now that seems to catch her attention. Of course, she only cares about her grades. She needs to get her priorities sorted.

"He clearly is a fraud and Dumbledore hiring him was a horrid choice. You're simply being ignorant, especially if you still crush on him after all that. I thought the best of our year would have better taste in men"

Phoebe left while scoffing one last time leaving the trio in irritated silence. "Can't believe I'm agreeing with a Slytherin..." Ron grumbled out.

[karlrincon]

Rest in peace to an absolute treasure, Dame Maggie Smith.

They’ve been reunited 🤍

[the-sun-is-also-a-star]

me, reading my own incomplete writing : *gasp* and then what happened?

[incorrectquotesharrypotterv]

Theo: I cut my finger

Y/n: I can kiss it, so it'll get better

Theo: That works?

Y/n: Yeah, my mum used to do it when I was little

*later*

Theo: I need you to punch me in the mouth

Draco: Fucking finally

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 23rd. tom riddle — wet dreams, house rivals.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: tom’s been infiltrating your dreams, and you decide it’s time to call him out on it.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNIIII, coercion!!!!, dark!tom, mind manipulation, religious undertones, gryffindor!reader, enemies if you squint, fingering, squirting, begging, dream sex, tom riddle is his own warning, so much praise, dirty talk, verbal sparring.

You've never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a child, the smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, a shift in the walls—would jolt you awake. For years, you chalked it up to some ingrained survival instinct, some form of trauma response to whatever part of your childhood still haunts you. You got used to it.

But lately, it isn't sound that’s been waking you. It isn't movement or foundation shifts, either. It's the dreams.

Dreams—strange, lucid, intense dreams of him. Always him. Dreams that make you feel like you're drowning, like you're flying, like you've found a new level of intoxication that you'd never imagined possible—and each time the dreams wake you up, the sheets (and whatever bottoms you may have been wearing) are always soaked, and your thighs are always shaking.

It's maddening.

They feel too real to be anything but a violation, his presence bleeding into your subconscious regardless of how much you try to fight it. You know it means something is wrong. You'd tried to rationalize yourself into going back to sleep, telling yourself it's just hormones or some form of stress, but you're too smart to believe your own excuses.

You know it's more than that.

He's haunting you in your sleep—in the most unexpected way. The dreams are always lucid enough that you can feel it—you can feel him—his mouth on yours, his hands on your hips, his dick bullying your fucking cervix and his magic on your clit—leaving behind nothing but hunger. Hunger that's so intense it makes you want him in a way it almost scares you.

You tell yourself you hate him, you've always hated him—but denial only lasts for so many days, as you realize you can't look at him or talk to him without the dreams forcing their way to the forefront of your mind, making you remember the feelings and the sensations and how much, despite hating him, you want them to be real.

You wanted to believe it would pass. That this was nothing but a phase, a trick of your overactive mind. But deep down, you knew the truth. Tom Riddle has wormed his way into your head, into your dreams—out of spite—and he's not letting go.

So after a hell of a week of this—with damn near zero hours of sleep—you decide to seek him out. To put an end to this madness. Once and for all.

It takes every ounce of courage and Gryffindor-like reckless bravery you can scrape together just to go through with it, but somehow you do. Somehow, you make it across the castle, make it to his door. You're in your pyjamas, for Merlin's sake. It's 1 a.m., and the slick still coating your thighs from what had to have been your tenth lucid orgasm in a matter of a week is a humiliating reminder of why you're even here at all.

And when the door opens, you have the strange feeling that he's been expecting you, even as he makes a great show of acting surprised to see you, looking you up and down with a lazy, smug glance that makes your pulse quicken so viscerally you lose the last shred of sanity you were pathetically clinging to—

"What the fuck—" you prowl forward without hesitation, forcing him a step back into the room. "—are you doing to me?"

Even if you're not imagining some form of surprise in that smug little smirk, he does his best not to let it show.

"Me?" He says, all pretend innocence, flicking his hand out to shut the door behind you with some spell you don't care to name. "You'll have to be more specific."

You glare at him, refusing to acknowledge how unfairly attractive he looks in just sweatpants and an oversized shirt—because of course, even casual looks like this are a weapon in his arsenal.

"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," you snap, and you're not sure if it's your lack of sleep or some form of desperation-fuelled bravery, but you're suddenly invading his personal space, poking an accusing finger into his shoulder. "You're fucking haunting me—"

He blinks. "I’m haunting you. And how am I doing that?”

There's a part of you that knows it's a trap—that this is probably exactly what the smug bastard in front of you has been wanting, but your brain is so deprived of sleep and your body is so starved of respite that you decide 'fuck it'—you want answers, and you're going to get them.

"You're in my dreams," you say, bluntly, forcing an exhale alongside it. "You've been in them every night for a week straight. I haven't slept a bloody minute."

That's when it happens—the tiniest flash of amusement in his eyes, so brief you might've missed it if you weren't ready to tear his fucking throat out.

"You're accusing me of giving you dreams?" He asks, in a tone that makes you want to grab him by the front of his shirt and make him cut the bullshit, and you can't tell how much of your own expression is irritation and how much is lust. "You think I've somehow managed to invade your mind?"

"Don't be condescending," you spit, trying to focus on the spot between his eyebrows that makes the heat in your core roar the least, "and don't act like you're incapable. As much as I can't bloody stand you, we both know damn well your mind magic is strong enough to do this to me—"

"Mind magic," he echoes with an amused snort, "you think I'm doing some kind of mind magic to invade your dreams, is that it?"

He's so damn good at this, you think—infuriatingly good. The way he's playing it off like the idea is absurd, completely laughable—

"Fucking precisely.” You can't hide the heat from your voice. You don't care to try. "These aren't just dreams. They're—they're strong. I feel you. Your hands, your tongue, your—"

Dick. You can't even bring yourself to say it.

And the bastard just smirks, like he's reading your mind anyway. Like he knows. That glimmer in his eyes—arrogant, insufferable—only confirms it.

"Hm," he says with something bored, running a hand through his hair. "Your subconscious—"

"It's not a bloody subconscious thing," you cut him off, uninterested in whatever bullshit he was about to feed you. "It's you. You're invading my dreams—I feel you—my body fucking feels you—"

He laughs at that. Like some sick, sadistic freak. He actually laughs—

"Listen to yourself." He says, with a mocking tone that makes you want to shove him. "Are you that desperate to hate me that you're pinning your dreams on me?"

"Hate doesn't even begin to cover it," you spit, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. He shifts slightly, his back brushing the wall. "You've got a hell of an ego, but even you have to know this isn't something I'd want. I wouldn't put you in my dreams willingly if you paid me to do it—"

He hums, smirk never faltering, if anything it fucking grows at the tirade.

"You've been dreaming of me for a week," he points out, coolly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. "And now, here you are—standing in my dorm in the middle of the night, dressed like this." He takes a step toward you, now. "Do you know what that's called, sweetheart?"

Your lungs hitch at the pet name. Your mind is at war with your cunt and it's losing—

"Delirium?" You choke out, noticing another flash of something in his eyes as the gap between you closes. "Insomnia? Sleep deprivation?"

He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.

"No," he says, in a tone that makes you seethe. "It's called obsession."

"Oh. The irony," you can't help but hiss at him, heart pounding because he's in your space and you're in his and this shouldn't be getting to you the way it is. "It's rich, coming from you, that you'd put that on me when—when you've been mindfucking me every goddamn night—"

"Mindfucking you?" He repeats, almost lazily, as his gaze drops, sweeping over you—your pyjamas, the clear lack of bra, the flush creeping up your neck. "Is that what you think I've been doing? You think—"

The way he doesn't even deny it—doesn't argue the accusation—makes your blood boil in a way you can't control.

"It's the only explanation. You've been—you've been—" you cut him off but your sentence falters because his gaze is moving so deliberately, dragging over you like he's cataloging your weaknesses, and the anger curdles into something raw and desperate. "God, Tom, I just need it to stop. I'm so fucking tense and tired. I'm so wound I can't even focus—I'm wet all the time—"

His eyes snap up to meet yours at that, and he gives you a look you can't even begin to interpret. You bite your tongue, realizing the words that left your mouth just a moment too late to pull them back, and you know you've lost the upper hand in this, somehow. You feel the ground slipping from under you and you hate the way your body shivers as he takes another slow, deliberate, step forward.

"Is that what you are?” He wets his lips. "You've come all the way here, in the dead of night, in your pyjamas, half out of your mind with exhaustion because you're wet. Isn't that right?"

You know better than to answer, though you feel yourself walking straight into the trap he's set.

"Piss off," you snap, but the bravado in your voice is paper-thin as he takes another step forward. He's so close now that his scent overwhelms you—leather and spice, something sharp and smoky that makes your head spin. You recognize it, of course you do; it's the same as in your dreams, and the familiarity makes your knees feel unsteady. "You're—"

"Don't act so offended," he leans closer, his voice a low murmur, quiet, almost silky as it wraps around you, and suddenly you barely remember what you were so pissed off about. "You can't even deny it. I made you cum tonight, didn't I? In your dreams."

Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"

He takes one more step and now you're backed right up against his desk—and gods, Tom's tall, so much taller than you—and it feels like he's looming over you, caging you in.

"Mhm." There's a flash of triumph in his eyes as you lose your words. He leans down, breath grazing your ear just as he brings two fingers to your temple, pressing the pads against it. "Let's watch, shall we?"

Watc—oh no.

A cold sense of dread washes over you as you catch on to what he's insinuating, merely a second too late—

"Tom—"

He whispers something, something that pulls you under, and the next thing you know—in a flash of consciousness you didn't even consider possible—you're staring at yourself inside a dream you remember all too well. A dream sequence where you're moaning and trembling beneath him, your head thrown back, eyes rolling in unabashed pleasure as he drives into you, hips snapping with thrust after thrust after thrust—

And it's one thing to have felt it in the safety of your dreams, in the dead of night when you woke slick and desperate, clenching around nothing. But this—this is visceral. You can't look away because it's projecting inside your mind: the flush blooming across your chest, the arch of your back, the way your lips part with every desperate breath. You hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth, mingling with his low, guttural grunts—and worst of all, you can feel it.

You can feel every ounce of pleasure he's giving you, as if he's giving it to you now.

"Mm," you hear him hum from infront of you—it's too much—you're lost in the memory, the dream, and it's a strange, voyeuristic, intimate experience to watch yourself and him like that. "You're worse off than I thought."

You’re gripping the wood of his desk so hard your fingertips are numb, heart flying out of the room as his hand slowly slides from your temple down to your jaw, holding you in place—

"Stop it." You manage to hiss at him, trying to force some semblance of control back into yourself—the last thing you need is to start melting against this bastard. "Tom—"

"You feel that?" He murmurs, breath brushing your neck, and you can't even focus on anything but the sensations he's forcing through your memory—seeing him above you, feeling him inside you. "You do, don't you? This is exactly what you've been feeling all week, isn't it?"

You want to snap at him, cuss him out, but oh god—

"Damn you," you hiss, even as his hands slide down to your hips—and it almost feels as if he's touching you twice, as if there are two sets of hands on your body. "Fuck, Tom—"

"Mm, you look good from this angle," he murmurs, and you fucking keen as you watch, in your mind, his hands slide over your stomach, pushing up your shirt and exposing your tits, groping as he fucks you. You keen as you feel it. "You love this, don't you? You want this."

"I—" you gasp, trying to convince him, or yourself, or goddamn anyone. Still fighting some invisible battle between resistance and submission because you hate that he's right. "I—god, what are you doing to me—"

"What am I doing to you?" He whispers, and you're not sure if the question is rhetorical, or if he's giving you permission to ask it. "I'm not doing anything that you aren't letting me do."

Your knees feel like they're about to buckle, and it's taking all your strength just to stay standing because the pleasure playing out in your mind is pouring into your veins and you can't even fathom how it's possible but you can't do anything to fight it—

"Oh, god—" you moan, unbridled, your physical body slumping back onto the desk as you feel the slick between your thighs, growing with every goddamn thrust. "Oh my god—"

He takes the opportunity of you slumped back against the desk and instantly leans down, bringing his lips to your ear—

"Not even god could keep your legs underneath you." His hand creeps up your thigh. "You're helpless."

"Helpless," you repeat, with a shaky gasp, and you hate how much the word turns you on. This is the first time you've ever been called helpless, and you're not even sure that you care. He's got you in his clutches, he's winning, and it's so infuriating and so goddamn perfect. “Tom—please, please touch me. I need to—fuck—"

You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck in a way that has you trembling with want, but—fucking hell, that's not what you need—you need his hands on you, you need him to just—

"What do you need?" He cooes, and there's a sly tone to his voice that makes you want to throw yourself at him all over again. "You need to cum?"

You moan, low and needy, writhing against the desk because this fucker—he knows exactly what he's doing. He’s got the upper hand here and you want it back. You want—

"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "I need you to—I fucking need you—inside me—"

As soon as that leaves your mouth, the dream fades from your vision and he's urging you to lay back. There's a soft thud as he places a hand on the desk next to your head, and he leans down, bringing his lips back to your ear, and you can't remember a time when you've ever wanted anyone else this bad.

"I'm touched," he murmurs, fingers slipping to the waist band of your pyjama pants, "that you want me that bad."

"I hate you," you manage to gasp out, but that's a lie, and you think he knows it. His fingers on your skin as he pulls your pants down make you ache for him, and you're struggling to not make another sound that will give him ammunition. "Why do you have to—"

"Why do I have to what?" He asks, and you know he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. "Tease you? Make you helpless?"

Your pants get hardly half way down your thighs before he decides it's enough and slides a finger through your soaked slit, and you can't hold back the moan that tears itself from your throat.

"Fuck, you're soaked.” He hisses through his teeth. “You've been sitting in your dorm for days, hm? Dreaming of me touching you, wishing you could touch yourself without thinking of me—do you want to cum, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you gasp out, and you're not above begging at this point. "Yes, god, please—I want to fucking cum—"

"There we go," he cooes, and he's enjoying this more than you'd like to acknowledge. "You know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that?"

"I'd say at least a week," you throw back, in a vain attempt to keep a shred of your dignity, but that's hard when he's circling his fingers around your clit and your body is jerking against the desk beneath you. God you really are helpless. "Because that's how long you've been plaguing my head, giving me wet dreams like some goddamn incubus—"

He chuckles at that, and you hate him a little less when he slips two fingers inside you, "You think I'm a demon?"

"You certainly act like one," you choke out, because he's crooking his fingers and your mind is going fuzzy and he's not going to let you get the upper hand back, even for a second. "Fuck—oh, yes, yes, yes."

"You've got me all wrong," he says, with a smile that would be boyish if it wasn't so sinister. "Demons come to punish you. I'm here helping you get that relief you've been needing so badly."

"Just want t-to help me," you moan as his long fingers work you open, thumb brushing your clit, "out of the kindness of your heart—"

"Out of the kindness of my heart,” he repeats, with a mocking tone, and it's the way he murmurs those words that's making your thighs clench around him until he grabs the fabric of your pjs bunched around them and pushes your legs up to your chest, working his fingers impossibly deeper. "Out of the goodness of my soul—it's what I do, darling, I'm known for my benevolence—"

"You're a good man," you know he can tell you're being sarcastic, but his fingers are filling you so fucking full you're nowhere near ready to start a fight again when you're this close to losing your goddamn mind on his desk. "You're such a good man, Tom—“

"Mhm," his breath tickles your ear. "What else am I?"

"So good with your fingers," you're moaning, and he's going to get a bigger ego than he already has. You're too far gone to care. "God, you're so good, I'm going to—"

"Yes, you are," he answers, and it takes you a second to realize that he's not correcting your words anymore. He's simply telling you that you are, in fact, about to fall apart for him. "Give it to me. You've earned it."

You almost want to snap back at him, you almost try to, but you're so far gone the words don't form on your tongue and you're not sure you'd be able to fight the fire pooling in your stomach.

"Oh, fuck—“

He doesn't even let you finish that, he just dips his hips down, bringing his hand that's not buried in your slick up to cover your mouth, muffling those strangled screams before they spill out and echo down the hall—

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low hum against your skin. "Be a good girl. Let it all out for me."

And it's that; that stupid combination of cooing warmth and the phrase 'be a good girl' that sends you over the edge, and you're muffling your gasps and moans and screams against his palm because gods, what would happen if someone heard you? What would happen if people realized what Tom Riddle was doing to you—your house rival, your sworn enemy—

"There we go," you're falling apart and he's watching you as if he owns you, as if this is where you belong—writhing beneath him, release squirting out around his fingers. "Ride it out for me. Such a good girl, you needed this so bad, I can tell you were aching for this."

You're struggling to say anything back, the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan of his name, and you've always known how bad he was, heard from other girls how good he could be with his hands, but this—you've never had this, never been this before.

"Such a fucking mess," he's murmuring, his voice low and rough and so goddamn beautiful. “How'd that feel? Hm?"

"So—so good," it feels like the words are being forced out of your throat, and you're struggling to think with enough clarity to form anything that's not an embarrassing moan of how much you needed this. "Needed it, need more, I—"

"More?" He murmurs as he slips his fingers free, and he's bringing his other hand up to your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he brings his soaked fingers to your lips. "Greedy girl."

You're not thinking about the implication of him calling you that, you're not thinking about how you should fight back, you're not thinking about how much you hate him—you’re just thinking about the sinful taste of you on his fingers, when they press against your tongue. Without a second of hesitation you suck them clean, tasting yourself, and it's obscene. You're obscene. But you don't care, it just makes that ache in you grow worse—you need more, you need him.

Dear god, what happened to you.

“So good," he murmurs, the praise dripping like honey from his tongue. You hum and he exhales. "I'll find you tomorrow."

"You'll find me tomorrow?" You repeat, as he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, and you're struggling for air, your chest heaving beneath your rumpled shirt. "What are you going to do, come into my room?"

"I'll come into much more than your room," he says, with a laugh that dances with promises of sin. "Now go. Before someone finds you here."

You push yourself up on trembling arms, pulling your pants up your thighs, your heart hammering in your chest because—god, that was incredible, you want more of it, and you can hardly even believe it happened. With a breath, you force yourself to move.

You look back at him as you get to the door. Your legs are shaking and you're not going to hold it against yourself for needing the wall to support you as his eyes rake over you, the corners of those lips curled up his signature smirk, and you want to hit him so goddamn bad—but then he speaks, like he read your mind, and it snaps you out of it—

"No dreams tonight." He says. "Scouts honour."

"You're no boy scout," you throw back, and your voice is a little breathier than you'd like. "And this changes nothing."

He smiles, slow and languid and knowing. "Of course."

You want to roll your eyes at the condescension dripping off his tongue, but you're worried that if you stay here any longer the only words on your tongue will be 'do it again'.

"You just owe me." You say as you crack the door open.

"I owe you," he agrees, and you think that his smile is just a little too genuine—like he would give you anything you wanted, just for another taste of that. “I'm keeping score, darling. Sleep well."

You hate him for calling you that, you hate his stupid smile, you hate the way he knows he's got you.

What he doesn’t know, is that you’re going to make him pay.

"Good night," you mutter, and then you open the door and slip out into the hallway.

[myrows]

Regulus is the one who fell first but James definitely fell harder

[rhetorical-conscience]

James: So, what are you in the mood for today?

Regulus: World domination.

James: Love, we've been over th-

Regulus, interrupting: You're my world.

James: Awww, Reg!!!

Regulus:

James:

Regulus:

James: OH.

[mssorceressupreme]

Wanna Be Yours | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: helping a younger student resulted in you and the first-year walking into a prank not meant for you, and as you do so, you catch Fred's attention. the next day he tries to apologise with another prank and it backfires, but this only resulted in him falling even harder for you, he just knew wanted to be yours.

Warnings/tags: hufflepuff!reader (well it suits anyone really :D), love at first sight, he fell first and HARD, fred needs you so bad, pranks gone wrong, teasing, fluffy and cute, fred's a simp a/n: inspired by "Wanna be Yours by Arctic Monkeys"

———

The courtyard was alive with the soft hum of spring—branches swaying in the breeze, birds chirping from the castle walls, and a few students milling about on the cobblestones. Fred crouched behind a large stone pillar, his mischievous grin matching the one plastered across his twin’s face.

Huddled in a corner, the four of them—Fred, George, Lee and Oliver, were planning a revenge prank on Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy for their obnoxious antics during the Quidditch match earlier.

“Are you sure about this?” Oliver Wood asked, trying to sound stern but failing as he bit back a chuckle.

Malfoy had spent most of the game taunting Harry, and Flint’s borderline dirty play had cost Gryffindor two near-goals. That didn’t sit well with Fred and George, so what better way to get back at them than with a prank.

“Hundred percent.” Fred said, smirking as he held up a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “Alright, we rig this near the tree. As soon as they walk by, poof! Total chaos. Then, George, you release the Dungbombs—”

“Already got ‘em primed,” George said, patting his pocket with a devilish grin.

“Don't forget the slime and feathers!” Lee added, holding up a jar of fluorescent green goop in one hand, and a bag of feathers in the other.

Oliver, who had reluctantly joined but couldn’t resist some payback, frowned. “Let’s make sure they’re the only ones who get caught in this mess though, yeah?”

“Relax Wood,” Fred said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nothing can go wrong.”

“Trust us,” George said, “We’ve calculated everything.”

“Right,” Lee affirmed, “It's simple charm, a bit of instant darkness powder, and—bam! Feathers, slime, and a nice little puff of stink powder for good measure.”

George cackled, clapping his twin on the back. “Beautiful. They’ll be too busy cleaning slime and plucking feathers off their robes to bother us for weeks.”

“That's what they deserve for acting like twits during the match.” Lee chimed in. "S'pose they do deserve it." Oliver chuckled, his reluctance turning into enthusiasm.

The trap was simple but effective: a hidden tripwire enchanted to release darkness powder, then a rain of slime and feathers from above, followed by the dungbombs. All they had to do now was wait for their targets. "Now, they're supposed to walk pass here any moment..." Fred told the others, as the four of them watched eagerly.

Fred’s eyes glinted as he nodded toward the enchanted tripwire stretched across the cobblestones, ready to unleash chaos on Flint and Malfoy the moment they stepped on it.

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn't.

From behind a stone archway, you appeared with a small Ravenclaw first-year in tow.

It wasn’t Malfoy or Flint who walked into the courtyard first.

It was you.

You were laughing softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth as you guided a nervous-looking first-year Ravenclaw girl who clutched her books tightly to their chest. The poor kid had taken a wrong turn, and you volunteered to show her the way to the library.

In your arms, you helped carry some of her load, making it easier for the first-year.

“Don’t worry,” you were saying, your voice kind and steady. “The library isn’t far. Just through the next hall and up the staircase."

Fred’s eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. He didn’t hear anything else. It was like the world had narrowed to just you—the way your hair caught the sunlight, the easy grace in your step, and the way your smile seemed to light up the entire courtyard.

How had he not noticed you before?

“Is Fred broken?” George whispered to Lee.

“Looks like it. Never seen him go this quiet before,” Lee replied, smirking.

Oliver elbowed Fred, snapping him out of his trance. “Mate, you’re staring.”

“Shut up,” Fred muttered, his eyes never leaving you.

"Who is she?..." He continued, holding true to Oliver's statement.

“Who?” Lee asked, following his gaze. He snorted when he saw you. “Her? Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Fred.”

Fred didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you but he was quickly snapped out of his trance as you approached the tree.

Oh shit. "Not the tree, don't walk past the tree..." He muttered to himself, hoping you would somehow magically hear him.

It was no use. Disaster struck.

You were met with instant darkness, coughing slightly as the powder released a thick fog around you and the first year.

Before you could grasp the full situation, a torrent of green slime and feathers rained down from above, coating you and the first-year from head to toe. The Dungbombs exploded seconds later, filling the courtyard with an awful stench.

The first-year yelped, clutching her books as the slime dripped down her robes. You froze for a moment, stunned, before shaking your head with a soft laugh.

Fred winced, guilt twisting in his chest.

“Oops,” George muttered, though he didn’t sound all that sorry.

Lee burst out laughing, "Merlin, did we just traumatise a first year?!"

“Poor kid,” Oliver said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Fred, however, barely heard them. He was too busy watching you. Instead of panicking or getting angry, you crouched down immediately, brushing feathers off the first-year’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said gently, your voice soothing. “It’s just a bit of slime and feathers. Another tip, beware of silly pranks, it's all part and parcel of the Hogwarts culture." You comfort the kid, trying to lighten the situation by laughing softly, "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The first-year nodded, her lower lip trembling, and you smiled, guiding her toward a nearby fountain.

Fred couldn’t stop staring. He didn't know who you were, but he did know this, he wanted to be yours.

You were covered in slime and feathers, an absolute mess, yet you still looked radiant.

There was something about the way you put the first-year first, your patience and kindness shining through, that made his heart thud in the best way.

You helped her cleaned as much as you could off her robes, murmuring reassurances the entire time before chanting, "Scourgify!", instantly her robes were as good as new.

Only after she was cleaned up did you finally turn your attention to yourself. With the help of the cleaning spell, the feathers were out of your hair and the slime off your sleeves in no time.

“Merlin! Fred, you’ve got it bad,” Lee said, smirking.

“Oh, leave him,” George teased. “He’s clearly in love.” Fred’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t care. For once, he was speechless.

“How come I’ve never noticed her before?” The red head murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was certain he would’ve remembered someone like you. “Maybe because you’re too busy pranking people,” Oliver said dryly. "Who is she?" Fred asked, ignoring Oliver's remark. "Seen her around a couple of times, especially in the library, she's in Ron's year." Oliver hummed, watching as you conversed with the first-year.

“That explains it,” George quipped. “She’s too smart to bother with Fred’s idiocy.”

Fred scowled, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself, and he felt like everyone had disappeared, you were the only one in sight, to him.

He knew he had to make this right. He needed an excuse to approach you. Right! An apology. And of course, he had to impress you.

The Ravenclaw girl finally gave a small laugh as you finished off explaining the pranking culture at Hogwarts. “Thank you, I-..I think I know my way to the library from here now.” she said softly before hurrying off. ___

The next day, Fred had a plan. A proper one.

Breakfast in the Great Hall hummed with the usual morning chaos: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional bursts of laughter from each houses' table.

Fred stood at the entrance, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. In his hands, he clutched a bouquet of enchanted flowers—slime-free this time—that were charmed to sing a cheerful apology tune when presented.

He wiped his palm against his robes for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is foolproof,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“You say that every time,” George pointed out, his tone dripping with amusement. He nudged Lee, who was barely containing his laughter. “What do you reckon? Will he get through two words before tripping over himself?”

“Five Galleons says he’ll combust,” Lee said, grinning.

“Will you two shut it?” Fred snapped, though the tips of his ears turned red. “This is serious.”

“Serious,” George repeated, mocking Fred’s tone. “You’re holding a singing bouquet, mate. Nothing about this screams ‘serious.’”

“Just watch,” Fred said, his voice low but determined.

That’s when you walked in, and Fred’s stomach flipped.

You were laughing as you entered, your head tilted toward one of your friends. That laugh—light, carefree, and far too distracting—was etched into Fred’s memory, playing on a loop since the previous day.

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your smile. You were radiant.

Fred’s heart thumped in his chest as he stepped forward, the bouquet held out like a peace offering. “Hey!” he called, catching your attention.

You turned to him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Yes?” you said, the corners of your mouth quirking up into a curious smile. What did he want from you?

Fred grinned, his confidence teetering on the edge of unraveling. “Listen, about yesterday—”

But before he could finish, the bouquet let out a sudden pop. A puff of pink smoke erupted, followed by an earsplittingly off-key version of “I’m Sorry About The Slime” that echoed through the Great Hall.

Fred barely had time to react before the bouquet detonated in a second burst, showering him in glitter and knocking him flat on his back.

The Hall erupted into laughter.

Fred groaned, staring at the enchanted ceiling, which now looked even farther away than usual. He could hear George’s loud, obnoxious cackling somewhere to his left.

“Five Galleons,” Lee said smugly.

Fred grimaced, but before he could even begin to think about recovering, a familiar voice broke through the laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only casualty this time.”

Fred turned his head, blinking in disbelief. You had flopped down beside him, lying flat on your back on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Glitter sparkled in your hair, and your grin was wide and unapologetic.

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, his voice caught somewhere between bewilderment and awe.

“Making sure you’re not the only one who looks ridiculous,” you replied, shrugging as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair.”

Fred let out a breathless laugh, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “You’re mental.” But he loved it.

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, glancing at him with a teasing smile.

From across the Hall, George shouted, “Right on, Romeooo!!” His voice was exaggerated and dramatic, and Fred could practically feel the heat rising in his face.

“Oi shut it, George!” Fred yelled, though his tone lacked bite.

You laughed again, and Fred swore his heart might actually burst. “You’ve got quite the fan club,” you said, gesturing toward the group of students, particularly, Fred's 'boys', who were now openly watching the scene unfold and chortling.

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Fred muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who’s usually so good at pranks, this was a spectacular disaster.”

Fred groaned, running a hand through his now glitter-covered hair. “Tell me about it.”

“But,” you added, your voice softening, “I appreciate the effort and the apology.”

Fred looked at you, his heart stuttering. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think you pull off the glitter look better than anyone else here.”

Fred laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the hall faded away. “I reckon you pull it off better than I do.”

“Why thank you, it's actually my dream to be covered in glitter. Shining as bright as a quidditch trophy is the goal." You joked, but Fred smiled warmly.

You do shine bright, he thought.

As you stood up, you reached out a hand to help him up. Fred took it without hesitation, warmth spreading through him at the simple gesture.

“Come on, glitter boy,” you said, your tone teasing but fond. “Let’s get you sitting somewhere before you injure yourself again.”

Fred let you lead him to a bench at the side of the hall, his hand still tingling from where yours had been.

As you both sat down, he turned to face you, his usual confidence returning in a slow, steady wave, “I’m Fred, by the way."

You laughed, tucking a strand of glitter-dusted hair behind your ear. “I know. You and George are kind of hard to miss.”

Fred’s grin widened, his chest fluttering at the sound of your laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of hard to forget...uh?" As if on cue, you told him your name. "Y/N." You smiled. "Y/N..." He repeated back, how fitting, a pretty name for a pretty girl.

Your eyes softened, and for a moment, you studied Fred's features. He did the same, glancing at your lips occasionally.

You'd always seen him from afar, to you he was just a prankster, a jokester, busy with his schemes, you'd never thought you'd actually come face to face with him.

But now that you did, you saw him in a different light, almost.

“If this is how you usually apologise,” you said, your voice light again, “I’m scared to see what happens when you’re not sorry.”

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “Stick around, and I’ll show you.”

You leaned back slightly, your smile lingering. “I just might.”

And in that moment, Fred knew—he didn’t just want to impress you. He wanted you, all of you, your wit, your laughter, your sparkling eyes.

He just wanted to be yours.

[heartthrobin]

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

-

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

-

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

-

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

-

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle. 

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports. 

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge. 

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner. 

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers. 

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor. 

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed. 

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish. 

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster. 

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge. 

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you. 

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone. 

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move. 

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face. 

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches. 

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.” 

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again. 

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“ 

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor. 

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick. 

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.” 

He’s brushing past you. 

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“ 

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded. 

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable. 

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?” 

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked. 

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone. 

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him. 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration. 

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him. 

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.” 

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle. 

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own. 

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.” 

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness. 

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms. 

It’s quiet. 

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks. 

“Why’re you out here alone?” 

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him. 

Why do you care? 

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters. 

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.” 

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t. 

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches. 

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something. 

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent. 

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room. 

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.” 

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

-

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours. 

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!” 

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch. 

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow. 

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction. 

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way. 

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it. 

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets. 

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

-

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

-

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

-

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

-

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[osquish]

re: FIA gala yapping

[animealways]

A broken family of monsters

oc × abusive mother/ mention of child abuse, maiming leading to infertility, torture, killing, generational trauma, cannabilism, and basically everything messed up you could expect from a death eater. (phoebe black visits her only living parent in Azkaban. To tell the truth and see what's still left of her cold, abusive death eater mother) Very long fic lol

The war was over. Voldemort is gone, death eaters are either dead or locked up and the few that didn't were heavily fined leaving them with enough to live but not strive in wealth as they did before the war. Except for the ancient most powerful house of black.

All thanks to phoebe narcissa black.

The war left everyone scarred often quit literally but for phoebe it simply showed her the absolute worst side of herself. Guarded, ruthless and cold. People deemed her a war hero but she didn't care, not much atleast. The title was just to benefit her and her siblings.

The family was left in pieces. Both parents death eaters, father dead, mother locked up in Azkaban, regulus at 15 and Asterum at 5 left in the care of Phoebe who recently turned of age and therefore became head of the house black.

Now the young witch walked through the cold, grim halls of Azkaban before she stood in front of her mother's cell. Cheek was scarred, eyes red as if she hadn't slept properly in days, and her beautiful long hair was now cut so short that it barely reached her shoulders. Phoebe wore a mix of my old wardrobe while also having 'unproper' clothing, such as my leather jacket and a blouse whose two top buttons were left open.

She stared into the cell looking at her mother, once always wearing expensive clothes to show her wealth in nothing but a prison uniform. The older witch looked wide-eyed at her supposed-to-be dead daughter. "..mother." She stood there in the cell just staring at her girl for what seemed ages. Finally, she spoke when she decided it wasn't a hallucination of her imagination.

Lucretia voice was cold, harsh, and filled with a mixture of bitterness and disbelief.

"…I thought you were dead."

That was all she said in response, her body completely unmoving as she continued to stare her firstborn down. Her eyes roamed over every part of her daughter, taking in every little detail.

"I thought the same when that curse of yours hit me." That statement stung Lucretia somewhere deep but she didn't show it. Like mother like daughter. "But Hermione saved me." A mudblood that saved my life was all the mother heard and now on a first name based with the girl she nearly died for. Standing in front of her while she stood behind bars she realized just how different her daughter had become from what the young powerfull witch was raised to be… Yet still had traces of my parents in her which infuriated the death eater. Phoebe stood there fearless and her face hardened at her mother while she could tell her child was deliberately thinking about what to say, the same way her father did.

After a long moment of silence, she spoke, her voice filled with a mixture of disappointment and disgust.

"How… pathetic."

A part of her still loved baby, and a part of her worried, but it was buried deep beneath layers of pride, bitterness, and disappointment.

"You're a black, not some filthy mudblood's pet."

She said harshly, her voice cutting like a blade.

"I raised you better than this. I thought I gave you a stronger backbone, stronger pride."

"You say that but I'm not behind bars for my actions" The young witch reminded her predecessor who was in control now. "Your choices nearly killed me. How exactly does that make you a proper mother?" Tone firm unwavering, and determined to see this through. No matter how many horrible memories it might bring up.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Lucretia's face, and she clenched her jaw, anger beginning to grow inside of her. She tried to control her temper, but her first child's audacity and the truth in her words stung like a slap in the face.

"You dare speak to me like that?"

She hissed, taking a few steps closer to the bars, her eyes narrowing

"I gave you everything. A name, family, power, privilege. I gave you your life."

Each word was punctuated with anger, her voice rising in volume. "And now you have nothing after you nearly murdered me" Phoebe stated unmoving from her stance.

Her grip on the bars tightened, her knuckles turning white from the force of it. Her voice was cold and venomous, her words dripping with anger and bitterness.

"Watch your tone, girl. I am still your mother even if I'm in this cell."

She said through gritted teeth. She struggled to maintain her composure, her body tensing as her temper boiled over. She was struggling between the deep-seated love she had for her child and the overwhelming anger that her daughter was no longer the person she raised her to be.

"I know but look where we are now. Father is dead, you're imprisoned for life and I'm infertile. All for what? Our traditions? Hard to care for them when it gets us killed" Phoebe stated reminding her mother of how they got here but there was one detail that stuck with Lucretia more than anything else the scarred witch said.

I'm infertile. Lost the ability to carry children… And she had the nagging suspicion it was due to that curse...

Her eyes widened, a mix of shock and regret flashed across her face briefly before she composed herself, forcing a stern expression.

"You're… infertile?"

She repeated, her voice slightly wavering. She tried to keep her composure, but a wave of guilt washed over her. She knew the chances of her daughter being able to bear children were slim after that curse, but hearing it be said out loud was like a dagger in her heart. She swallowed back her emotions, not wanting to show any weakness, just as she taught her children to do as well. The woman always prided herself in her motherhood. That her children excelled in whatever she taught them to do only for her to be the reason that her daughter could never start a family of her own... It tugged on something buried deep in hatred and resentment.

"Are you surprised?" No, no one who saw what happened would have been, They would assume she had died yet by some miracle Phoebe lived to tell the tail.

Of course that curse left her with permanent bodily harm it should have killed the girl. The way blood came out of her stomach as if it was a leaking pipe, how she coughed up blood as if she was a human fountain. And yet her own child still disarmed her, standing just a few seconds while coughing up blood before collapsing. She knew her firstborn was resilient, determined, and fierce. It was inherited from her, and was taught how to use it to her advantage

But never in a million years did the woman think it would be used against her. It showed how little she actually knew or understood her own baby.

The memory of her child's body, limp and bleeding in front of her, flashed before her eyes, it felt like a punch to her chest. Her body tensed as guilt and anger coursed through her veins.

"You should have never stood up to me…"

She said, her voice quiet and bitter, brown eyes searching her own kin's face, taking in every detail, trying to discern what other secrets were kept from her. Using her strong will against her mother, just as she had always taught her little girl.

"What happened to you…?"

"I simply saw a chance to live my life. My way. I decided if I was going to die it would be by my choices and not someone else" The hardened, scarred witch stated firmly yet calmly. She had her mother's determination and her father's calm manners. Phoebe was the living result of what they ingrained into her and used it against them.

Hearing those words was like a dagger to her heart. Her baby had turned everything she had taught Phoebe against her, proving how her harsh methods had backfired.

"You've always been stubborn, ever since you were a child."

She said, her voice stern, but a hint of pride mixed with her anger. She couldn't help but feel a pang of respect at your defiance, even if it was against her.

"You're a fool. You're throwing away everything… family, legacy, power, all for what? Happiness?"

"I am my mother's child" Sass came through the young witch's attitude as a response when she was called stubborn "Right, I'm assuming you haven't heard what's been happening outside of your prison" What was that supposed to mean? Her brow furrowed as the bold mentioned what had been happening outside the prison. She was completely cut off, her world now confined to a dark, cold cell. Her curiosity was piqued, but she tried to keep her tone aloof.

"No, I haven't."

She said quietly, her eyes flickering slightly as she looked back at kin, her expression a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty.

"Tell me then."

"I was a spy for the order" That caught her off guard. She assumed her child's betrayal was an impulsive in-moment decision but apparently, it was decided long before the war even started.

"I received an order of Merlin first class" The statement had pride, glad she finally got respect of her own. "I'm the only one of age of our family. I'm the head of our family now. The mansion, the money, the reputation, the power. it's mine now" I won.

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening at the confession.

"You… You betrayed us. You joined the Order?"

She repeated her daughter's words, disbelief and anger evident in her voice. When mentioned phoebe Order of Merlin, her eyes darted to her chest, a mixture of disbelief, pride, and anger warring within her.

But it was when her blood-traitor daughter mentioned becoming the head of the family, that she lost it, her face flushing red with anger.

"You? The head of the Black Family!?"

The sudden anger made Phoebe's spine stand straighter for a mere split second. "Who else would it be? Regulus isn't of age for another two years and doesn't even want to be while Asterum is 5 she needs someone to take care of her" The words fiercely remind Lucretia of the reality outside of her cell. Phoebe was the only adult left standing free. She had to step up.

Her jaw clenched as was reminded her of the reality - that Regulus was too young and that Asterum needed someone to take care of her. She couldn't deny the truth of her child's words. Still, her pride and anger flared up, and she shot back sharply,

"You? You betrayed your family, yet now you're claiming to be the head? The rightful heir? You're no true Black. You're a disgrace!"

"I'm the only thing that kept our family from being shunned!" The young blond snapped, for the first time in her life she yelled back at her mother. Her opinions be damned.

"You think you're choices helped you? the Malfoys lost all their wealth and are shunned" She retorted, fire burning in every word as if holding herself back from roaring the reality into lucretia head.

The Malfoys, their extended family, who also had a death eater among Voldemort's ranks lost everything that gave their name meaning. Phoebe managed to protect her family from the same fate.

Her eyes widened at the snap back, voice rising in volume. Her daughter's words struck a nerve, and her anger flared up even more.

"You think you're some kind of savior?"

She retorted, her voice shaking with anger and frustration.

"The Malfoyles made their choice, and they faced the consequences. So did I! But you, you betrayed everyone!"

She stepped closer to the bars, her eyes blazing with anger.

"You're just a filthy blood traitor. Not worthy of the Black name!"

"Says the woman who followed a homicidal maniac without a nose into war." Phoebe stopped caring how she described Voldemort now he is dead "What in Salazar's name made you think he cared for us or anyone else? He assigned me to punish whoever failed a mission. What type of wizard claims to care for 'pureblood' then proceeds to spill it as if it's a leaking faucet?"

Her face flushed red with anger and embarrassment as the words hit a sore spot. How dare you say these things.

"You know nothing!"

She snapped back, her body tensing in anger.

"The Dark Lord promised us power, power to rule over the mudbloods, the filthy half-bloods, and the blood traitors like you."

Lucretia's eyes narrowed as she looked down at her firstborn, her voice filled with venom.

"He was the one who was going to restore the Black Family to its rightful place!"

"Yet here I am, alive with all the black money and power" Phoebe put a hand on her chest full of pride and unwavering determination, not afraid of her mother anymore.

"So great yet never even consider I was a spy for the order or that Draco helped me" Yes, even the Malfoy heir was in on the secret. Sick of seeing his family getting mistreated by the dark wizard. "You're the blood traitor. How many innocent people regardless of blood status died for these stupid beliefs? what's the point of valuing blood purity if everyone who cares dies?!"

Her face twisted in anger and disbelief at the reveal of Draco's involvement.

"Draco? The boy is a fool."

Her words were sharp, her breathing labored as she struggled to comprehend the situation. But the reminder that her own blood was a spy for the Order was the dagger in her heart.

"How could you do this? To betray your own family? You're a disgrace. I regret ever giving birth to you!"

Phoebe paused at her burning words "And I regret you kept me alive" The statement was full of bitterness and pain. A mirror image of Lucretia's own venomous words.

Her eyes widened, and her face paled as the words of her baby hit her like a punch in the gut. Shame and guilt crept in as the realization of her child being this vicious was a direct result of Lucretia's own doing.

But she quickly composed herself, her mask of coldness falling into place again.

"How dare you! I raised you, cared for you, loved you, even after everything you've done, I still care for your well being…"

"I wished I could believe that" Her face was hard just like her mother, refusing to show the pain. Like mother like daughter. As much as she hated it Phoebe truly was her blood. Whatever Lucretia said Phoebe could turn it right back onto her but different. Like a mirror image.

"I truly wished I could believe you still cared for me but after allowing father to make me a death eater, giving me a dagger for my 14 birthday, training me in combative spells until I bled since I was 8, never even healing me yourself instead it was the house elves who protected me, forcing me to take your beatings without a single flinch or you hit me again, how I hugged you only for you to push me to the ground when I said 'i love you'. I can't believe you ever cared for me, let alone now"

Years of locked pent-up pain went into every word while Phoebe stared down her mother, still wearing that firey determent spirit she taught her daughter to carry wherever she went. Head held high just as her father always did.

Her heart shattered into a million pieces as her own blood recounted the pain of their childhood. She had always believed she was teaching her baby strength, resilience, and determination.

But now, as heard the years of hurt and neglect, she was confronted with the realization that she had failed to truly ever show her baby love and care.

The cold mask of indifference on her face crumbled, replaced by a mixture of anguish and pain.

"I… I thought I was preparing you, making you strong… I thought you were too soft, too gentle…"

"I was 6 when you pushed me to the ground after I said I love you" Pain was audible in Phoebe voice but even now she refused to cry a single tear "I didn't need to be strong. I needed my mother"

"You were weak," she said, the words leaving her mouth before she could even think.

But then she looked at her child's face, the pain in Phoebe's eyes, and she saw the child she pushed away. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again, her voice wavering ever so subtle.

"I couldn't show weakness. I had a role to play, a reputation. I didn't know… how to be gentle."

She swallowed hard, a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Clearly, you always said family came before everything. That the world is cruel and we should be capable of, not just defending ourselves but throwing it right back. Yet you and father brought all the cruelty into our home"

Phoebe took a deep breath to compose herself "Our house should have been the one safe place we had. Instead, you beat us on the regular. My existence was just to fulfill your needs. So was having a literal child eater in our house" A reminder of Fenrir Greyback who terrified Regulus and asterum. The first born was the only one of her kids who could stand in the same room with the cannibalistic werewolf without showing fear.

The only one stone cold and great at lying to hide her true feelings.

Every word her daughter uttered was like a dagger to her heart. She knew in her heart that it was the truth. The cruelty, the beatings, the fear…

She tried to rationalize it by saying it was for her children's own good, that she was making her baby strong. But now, as she looked at the bitter, broken woman her baby who once smiled every time Lucretia dressed her up, spent hours listening to her reading books on magic, loved flying on her toy broom, and always wanted her approval. That bright, eager-to-learn, curious child had become stone cold to her.

She gripped the bars tightly to steady herself.

"I.. I did what I thought was best…"

"Then you're more broken than I am" The blunt statement was filled with the pain of a child who simply craved love. "I hope you're proud cause I became exactly what you raised me to be. I maimed, tortured, and killed people…You know how terrifying it is to realize doing all that with a smile is more natural to me than a simple hug?"

She felt her heart ache listening to her baby's pain. The realization that she had created a monster, all in the name of strength and survival. She had pushed and pushed, hoping to shape her daughter into a strong, unyielding girl.

But what she got was a broken woman who was more comfortable with pain and bloodshed than love and comfort.

"Merlin, what have I done..?"

"You turned me into a weapon that stabbed you in the back"

Lucretia sighed her knuckles turning white again as she squeezed the bars.

"I never thought… I never intended…"

She struggled with her words, trying to articulate the tumultuous thoughts in her mind.

She had wanted her child to be strong, to be a force to be reckoned with. But now she was faced with the reality that she had raised a monster, a weapon that had turned against its creator.

She looked at you, her eyes heavy with regret and sorrow.

"I was… a terrible mother."

"I know… And the worst part is that I still care for you" It felt so stupid, still caring for a mother that put her through hell but that's what prevented Phoebe from becoming a full-blown death eater as her father wanted her to be. Deep down, she cared, she loved, she was open-minded to the impossible, and it wasn't in her nature to be a mindless killer. Everything in her life seems to set her up to be a cruel death eater like her mother, father, and even Uncle Lucius came to be. hidden beneath years of pain and conditioning of what a 'proper pureblood' should be, something that would stay until she died. A caring, kind person who rather die than see her loved ones hurt.

A pang of guilt and sadness washed over Lucretia. She could hear the bitterness in Phoebe's voice, knowing she struggled with the fact that despite everything, she still cared for her mother. Her grip on the bars tightened, her knuckles turning even whiter, as she struggled to find the right response.

"Why?"

She breathed out, a mix of confusion and heartache in her voice, "Why do you still…"

"It's like father always said. Emotions don't make rational sense. It's why there so dangerous" She took a deep, bit shaky breath in.

"You sacrificed everything to make the world what you thought was right. I risked everything to make my life feel right" She paused looking over her mother bitterly yet the bond Phoebe wanted with Lucretia was always there no matter how much she hated it.

She had sacrificed so much for what she believed was right, for the legacy of the Black family, for the glory of Voldemort.

But hearing her own flesh and blood speak, she realized that her baby had risked just as much, if not more, for a different cause. The fierce determination in her baby's blue eyes, and she couldn't help but feel a mixture of admiration and regret and pain.

"Is this… what it was all for?"

She whispered, mostly to herself.

"That's what you should be asking yourself. I got what I fought for" She stated with a small shakey sigh. The most emotion Phoebe ever showed around my mother "I'll visit you next month. Let you know how things are going.." She spoke before taking a step back, looking over the woman who made Phoebe into what she is before walking away quietly.

She watched her world walk away, her heart heavy with regret and sadness. She wanted to reach out, to pull you back, to tell her all the things she should have said so long ago. But instead, she stood silently, her eyes following her baby's every movement until Phoebe disappeared from sight.

It was too late to change the past, but maybe, just maybe, there was still time to make amends.

She looked down at her hands, still gripping the bars tightly, and whispered to herself.

"Next month… "

[melstinybrain]

*barty running frantically around hogwarts*

reg: *sees barty running towards him*

reg: barty, what's going on?

barty: reg, i need your advise.

reg: okay, what's up?

barty: i think i'm having a feeling.

reg: okay...?

barty: how do i make it stop?

[incorrectharrypotterblog]

Hermione: why are threesomes only for sex

Hermione: why can’t I join in on a couples argument if I want to

[plumso]

sweet reverie (theo x reader)

pairing: theodore nott x reader warning: obsessiveness, possessiveness, bitting summary: y/n attempts to place boundaries between them, but it only reveals the extent of his love for her. masterlist song recommendation: fade into you by mazzy star I do not consent to the reposting of my work! reblogging, however, is fine <3

Y/N has only been in two relationships, the first lasting two years and the second lasting a month. Therefore, she believed she understood love and relationships. Despite how young she was or how long the relationship lasted, she thought she was now mature enough to know what she expected and needed from a partner.

But she was wrong. 

“T-Theo, we shouldn’t do this here,” Y/N whispered.

Theo’s face was nestled in her neck, his lips pressed gently on her skin.

“Hm?” he replied, the vibrations causing a shiver down her back.

“People are staring!” she exclaimed. 

The two were at the Great Hall for lunch, but Theo preferred to gnaw on her neck rather than his food. Unsurprisingly, many eyes were on the lovebirds.

Theo chuckled. He moved his head closer to her ear, rubbing his face in her hair, taking in the sweet apple scent of her shampoo. “I don’t care,” he whispered.

Y/N’s heart leaped as he proceeded to whisper sweet nothings. She couldn’t refuse him. Though anxious about everyone’s stares, she couldn’t help but give in. 

Four months have passed since Y/N started dating Theo. In that short span, she has received more love and affection from him than her two exes combined. He has given her more than what she needs, more than she could ever ask for. 

Y/N couldn’t help but giggle as Theo continued to whisper, his warm breath hitting her ears.

Pleased by her response, Theo gently bit her ear.

Shocked, Y/N slightly drew back as her hand covered her ear. She looked at Theo with disbelief, and he responded with a mischievous smile. 

“I’ve always thought you would look good with earrings,” he said, his long fingers drawing a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a slight bite mark on her ear lobe. “It looks nice on you.” 

Y/N’s face flushed. “I-I!” she stammered. She was too flustered to think of a response. 

Theo chuckled, finding her reaction cute. He sighed happily and placed his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “Don’t worry. I’ll buy you real earrings. Consider this as its placeholder.”

Y/N nodded shyly. Her body was still tense from the shock of the bite, but it soon dissipated. She quickly felt warm in his embrace, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Theo smiled. He then handed her a spoon and pushed her plate closer to her. “Alright, you should eat now. Lunchtime is going to end soon.” 

In a daze of warmth and comfort, Y/N nodded. “Thank you,” she hummed, digging her spoon into her fruit parfait.

As the two ate, some of their friends joined them at the table. Theo participated in their conversation, but Y/N remained in her daze, the feel of his teeth still lingering on her skin.

She ran her fingers on the bite marks. Theo would never dare to cause her actual pain, so the marks were shallow. But she could still feel the outlines of his teeth on her skin. 

It didn’t hurt when he bit her. Rather, she felt a tingling sensation in her stomach, a constant feeling when she’s with him. Usually, it would disappear after a few minutes, but she couldn’t shake this one away. 

***

“Hey, Y/N!”

Y/N looked up from her notes and saw her potions partner run up to her. Surrounding students in the library turned and gave them a quick glare. Y/N gave them an apologetic look for the loud disturbance.

“Our project is due soon. Did you want to meet up later and work on it?” He gave Y/N a warm smile, completely ignoring Theo who was sitting right next to her.

Y/N was nervous. Was he ignoring Theo on purpose? Or did he just not see him? Y/N looked at Theo, worried that he would be fuming.

But he wasn’t. He seemed unbothered, his attention focused on his book. It was only till he felt her stare did he look up. Theo gave her a warm smile, wordlessly assuring her he was fine.

Relieved, Y/N smiled back before facing her potions partner. “Uh, yeah. I have a free period after potions. Would that work?”

“Perfect! I have a free period, too. We should hang out more then!” He exclaimed, giving her a charming smile.

Y/N uncomfortably laughed. “Haha, yeah…”

Not noticing her discomfort, he smugly smiled at Theo, as if he had succeded something. “Okay, I’ll see you later then!” 

As he walked away, Y/N anxiously turned to Theo. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“What are you sorry for?” he said with a small chuckle.

“He was kind of… rude to you,” she said, looking down at her fidgeting hands. She didn’t know why, but she felt guilty. It felt like she betrayed Theo by being too nice to her potions partner.

But Theo gave her a warm, knowing smile. “You did nothing wrong.” With his large hands, he gently patted her head. “You’re a nice person. That’s one of the things that I love about you.”

Y/N blushed, feeling shy by his gaze and touch. In times like this, Y/N is reminded that Theo truly sees her, that he understands her.

After a few minutes of flirting, the two turned back to their respective books. But as Y/N tried to refocus on her studies, she couldn’t shake off this uncertain feeling. Theo had perfectly assured her that he was unbothered by it, but she couldn’t fully believe it.

Curious, Y/N slightly tilted her head to take a quick peek at Theo. What she saw then made her eyes widen and her heart drop in shock.

Theo’s usual warm smile was gone. Instead, it was replaced with a dark glare, his eyes directed at her potions partner a few tables away. His eyebrows were furrowed, his hands in a tight ball, his lips in a tight frown. Some blood seeped from his lips, most likely from biting too hard on it. 

Y/N knew that Theo was naturally cold to everyone but her, but he has never seen him angry before. His eyes were filled with bloodlust, his body tense as if he was ready to fight. Seeing this new side of him, Y/N felt a bit scared.

But when she realized that Theo was jealous, that he was mad for her, her face turned beet red. The same tingling sensation came back but in tenfolds. His brooding anger, his dark glare, his dangerous aura - she found it exhilarating.

Realizing that she’s been peeking for too long, Y/N focused her eyes back on her books. But she couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel if he looked at her with that dark, dangerous look in his eyes.

***

After dinner with Theo, Y/N went to the bathroom with her friends to get ready for bed. She placed her skincare bag on one of the sinks before checking her ear closer in the mirror. A few days have passed since Theo bit her ear, and the mark faded later that day. But she continued check it and felt disappointed that his mark was already gone.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Her friend looked at her with a curious smile.

Y/N quickly backed away from the mirror, awkwardly laughing. “Nothing!” she exclaimed. She then started her skincare routine, hoping to seem normal.

“So…” her friend said as she walked over to Y/N. “How’s it going with Theo? Is he treating you well?”

Y/N brightly smiled. “Yes,” she replied shyly. “He treats me really well.”

“We’ve noticed!” One quipped, causing everyone to laugh. “He’s always around you.”

“Yeah, he’s super territorial of you,” another added. “It’s pretty funny.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

But Y/N was shocked. “What do you mean?”

“Oh… well, he’s always glaring down boys around you. Even around us, he’s sort of… protective of you.”

“I see…” Y/N trailed off, getting lost in deep thought. She knew that Theo was a bit… possessive of her, but she considered it normal between a couple. But if her friends noticed it and he’s warding the people around her… is it a bad thing?

Noticing her worried look, her friends attempted to lift her spirits. “W-we don’t think it’s a bad thing!”

“Y-yeah!” one friend added. “For some people, it can be seen as endearing!”

Y/N give a small smile, but was still conflicted. “But could it be a bad thing? If it goes… too far?” Y/N remembers what happened earlier today when Theo continued to glare at her potions partner till he left. His anger seemed like he would snap at any moment.

“Well… it can be toxic. Especially if he’s trying to push your friends away.”

“Remember my last ex?” one friend suddenly added. Y/N nodded in response. “Well, he was so jealous. Any time I would talk to a guy, he would yell at me and call me a cheater. It was suffocating.”

“Ooo, I had an ex like that, too!” another exclaimed. “And he would control what I’m wearing. Every single time we went to Hogsmeade, he would make me change my clothes. It was so weird.”

Y/N nodded, taking in all their experiences. Theo hasn’t done anything remotely close to what her friends’ exes have done, but they have been dating for only a few months. Would he become like that later on?

As her friends continued to talk about their exes, Y/N continued to think about Theo and his possessiveness. She also thinks of how she feels when she notices it, that exhilarating, tingling feeling. Is it bad that she feels excited when he’s like that?

‘Maybe I should set some boundaries for us…’

***

“Y/N?” Theo said softly, his eyes slightly squinted with concern. “Did I do something wrong?”

The two were at Charms class, waiting for Professor Flitwick’s arrival. Theo had been anxious the whole day, concerned of Y/N’s distant behavior.

After that talk with her friends, Y/N spent the following days setting boundaries between her and Theo. She started distancing herself a little, keeping the PDA to a minimum. She even forced herself to be unresponsive whenever he would be extra flirty.

Theo noticed this and was noticeably disappointed. Though his demeanor remained the same around Y/N, he was impatient and moody to others. 

Y/N felt awful. There were many times when she wanted to give in. Every time he hugged her, played with her hair, or give her that handsome smile, she wanted to jump on him and melt in his arms.

“No, of course not,” Y/N replied, giving him a warm smile. “I’ve… been stressed with homework recently.”

“Oh, I see.” Theo smiled in relief, his body becoming noticeably less tense. “I can always help you if you want.”

Theo placed his hand on hers, but Y/N drew her hand back. “O-oh! I have to ask Professor Flitwick something! I’ll be right back,” she rambled before rushing towards the professor.

During the entire class, Theo was silent. He didn’t whisper or joke around with Y/N like he usually does, causing Y/N to feel guilty.

But Y/N was resolved. She knew that Theo was the last man she’d ever be with, the man that she’d marry, the man her children would call “dad” or “papa.”

After class ended, she wanted to do something to uplift his mood, but he was already back to his normal, kind self by then.

***

Y/N’s plans were successful. After weeks of setting boundaries, they now flirted less in public, they weren’t cuddling as much as before, and her friends were around them more often.

She was glad that the two had normal boundaries now. She felt assured that their relationship would benefit from it, that they’d avoid the same fate as her friends did. 

But despite all that, she felt lonely.

Even right now as they walked the halls together. They were still talking as usual, joking and complimenting each other. But Y/N desperately wanted to hold his hands or wrap herself around his buff arm. Yet, she continued to deny herself from that pleasure.

Then, as if he read her mind, Theo wrapped his arm around his waist. From this, a wave of electricity ran through her body. She missed his touch. It’s been a while since he’s held her like that. It was as if he was claiming her to the people around.

But Y/N remained firm in resolve and drew away from his grip. She bit her lips, conflicted and annoyed with her actions, but she continued to walk. However, Theo stopped in place, his eyes looking down. His usual smile had dropped to a small, sad frown.

At that moment, her resolve had broken. She had seen him happy, she had seen him lose patience in others, she had seen him angry, but she had never seen him sad. It was immediate that this was something she hated to see.

“Theo-”

Before Y/N could comfort him, one of her friends ran up to her. “Y/N! Y/N! Did you hear?”

Y/N turned around to face her friend who looked frantic and concerned. “What? What happened?”

“Brian, your potions partner!” she huffed, gasping for air. “He’s in the hospital wing! Apparently, he’s been unconscious for a few days!”

Y/N’s eyes widened and her body stiffened. She didn’t know why, but she was scared to learn more. “R-really…”

“Yeah! Someone said he got in some sort of… freak accident! No one knows what really happened. Madame Pomfrey thinks that maybe a spell he did rebound, but- Oh, Cho! Wait there! I have to tell you something!” Her friend ran off and left the lovebirds behind.

Y/N was afraid to look back. She was inexplicably afraid of Theo. ‘Could Theo have…’

“Y/N…” Theo pleaded softly as if he was still sad about her behavior earlier.

Y/N quickly turned around, ready to comfort him, but he was smiling. His face was stiff, his lips curled unsettlingly as if it was forced. Y/N was a bit thrown off; she’d never seen him so stiff.

Suddenly, Theo took her hand and dragged her away.

“W-wait,” she pleaded, attempting to draw her hand away, but his grip became tighter. He didn’t respond to her pleadings. 

His eyes were dark and brooding. He seemed annoyed as if something finally snapped in him. When Y/N realized this, her skin was prickling with goosebumps as a shiver ran through her body. She completely forgot everything about her potions partner.

Theo then walked into an empty classroom, letting go of Y/N’s hand to cast a lock charm on the door. 

Y/N took a few steps back, feeling a bit anxious about his sudden change in demeanor. “Theo?” she asked softly.

Theo remained silent, making her more anxious. He finally turned around to face her, but he wasn’t smiling. He was angry. For the first time ever, Theo was angry at her. Y/N shivered.

He slowly walked to her, getting closer and closer till she had to bend her neck and look up at him. “Sit,” he said, nodding at the table behind her.

“Theo-”

“Sit,” he said, his voice firm and lower than before.

Y/N nodded, slowly backing herself to the table. She couldn’t refute him.

As she was about to prep herself up, Theo placed his hands on her waist and lifted her, setting her on the table. He then positioned himself between her legs, his arms resting around her waist. 

They were now at eye level, his dark gaze intensifying. Y/N’s breath shortened, feeling uneasy and excited by his intimidating presence. She was anxious about what would come next.

“Kiss me,” he demanded.

Y/N knew better than to defy, so she leaned in and kissed him. He remained stiff, letting himself feel her warm lips softly placed on his. He wanted more.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded, his thumb pressed on her lips.

Though slightly apprehensive, Y/N opened her mouth and he started kissing her deeply. His hands roamed all over her body as if he couldn’t get enough of her warm touch. It was passionate, a little rough, and needy.

Y/N felt a bit light-headed. “T-Theo,” she breathed in between their kisses. She brought up her hands to push him away, but he took hold of them and gripped them against the table. She knew she should try harder to push him away, but she didn’t want to. She couldn’t even think properly.

“Tell me to stop,” he said as he moved down to her neck. He planted gentle kisses before sucking on the skin. This sent shivers down her spine, moans daring to come out. Despite worries about their boundaries or if anyone would walk in on them, she didn’t want him to stop, and he knew that.

He continued to kiss her everywhere - on her cheeks, lips, and neck.  “Do you hate it?” he whispered lowly. When she didn’t answer, he bit her ear. “Do you hate it?” he repeated impatiently.

Y/N felt shy. She didn’t want to admit that she felt excited when he did stuff like that. But feeling weak in his stare, she replied meekly, “No.”

Theo chuckled, his eyes filled with excitement. H nestled back in her neck, biting into her skin. His bite was a bit harder than before, leaving a mark that will last for days. Y/N winced in the pain, but she was more overwhelmed with the twitching feeling in her stomach.

He then drew back, taking in the sight before him. Y/N’s face was flushed, her collar unbuttoned, her hair slightly ruffled. His teeth marks were all over her neck and ear. He looked immensely pleased.

“Look. It’s a matching set now,” he said with a small laugh, tracing his fingers on the marks.

When Theo was about to go in for more, Y/N placed her hand on his chest. “I’m sorry, Theo,” she whimpered, tears falling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Theo looked at her red, teary face, and his body slightly trembled in excitement. “You’re so cute,” he said, gently wiping away her tears with his thumb. His other hand was gripping onto his pants as if he was holding himself back from doing more. More to his precious, tear-eyed girlfriend that sat innocently in front of him. Instead, he caressed her head gently, waiting for her sobs to die down.

After a few tears and a couple of sniffs, Y/N rubbed her eyes and focused them on Theo. His dark gaze had turned gentle. 

“I-I’m sorry for being mean,” she sniffed. “I did it because I… I-” Y/N stammered, her mind racing to find the proper words to explain herself.

But Theo gave his same warm, knowing smile. “It’s okay,” he said softly.

Y/N’s heart sank as she felt more dissapointed. Of course, he already knew everything. After all, he’s the only one who truly understood her.

Y/N shook her head. “No… it’s not okay,” she said stubbornly. She then gripped onto his shirt and laid her head on his chest. “I shouldn’t have compared our relationship to others. I’m sorry.”

Theo chuckled before wrapping his arms around her. “Just don’t ever push me away again. And talk to me if you feel worried.”

Y/N nodded, her head still on his chest.

“Also…” he cupped his hands on her cheeks, bringing her face closer to his. His gaze was strong, a small glint of red in his eyes. “You’re mine. You can never leave me.”

Y/N shivered in excitement, electricity humming throughout her body. She felt her lips curl up in a smile. Pleased by her reaction, Theo’s eyes started to look dangerous again and filled with excitement.

At that moment, she finally accepted that Theo’s love for her was distorted. That it was probably different from what others consider as “healthy.” Some might even call it toxic. His deep, dark, dangerous feelings 

But she didn’t care. She was intoxicated.  His scent, his warm blue eyes, his rough, calloused hands touching gently on her skin - she couldn’t get enough of it.

Y/N nodded. “I’m yours.”

Theo stroked away a strand of hair behind her ears. He then placed his hand behind her head, bringing her into a deep kiss. 

In an empty classroom where Theo placed a lock and silence charm, the two continued to get lost in each other’s touch, making up for all their lost time.

***

a/n: just to clarify, this is not a smut lol. i think i was having a bit too much fun with this one. also, it's so funny how they forgot about the potions partner lol. but i wanted to emphasize how much of a daze she's in when she's around him. anywho, hope you enjoyed it!

here is part one if you want to know how their relationship started <3

[iiilllsam]

the uniform was really fun to draw

[the-colourful-witch]

🚂The Hogwarts Express🚂

I loved working on this piece, putting my own spin on the design of the carriage and the candy trolley :) 🍭 The Hogwarts Express scenes are always so amazing and cozy and fun, so I thought it time to do something with it :)

I hope you enjoy this one! Have fun spotting all the little magical details :) ✨⚡️🚂