#wizards of the dark circle

[synergysilhouette]

Rewriting some of the Winx Club villains (for fun)

I actually had a fun time with rewriting the Winx, and it seemed to have gotten positive reception! Thus, I thought I'd do rewrites for some of the Winx Club villains. Just like with my last post, this is NOT a "what would've made them better" post, but just my own interpretation of the characters based on the show (mainly the first 4 seasons as applicable) and some of the comics. And since I never did a post about recasting the villains (I only did so with the Winx and the Specialists), I'll include my dream voice cast here. Enjoy!

Ancestral Witches--In my rewrite, there's only one ancestral witch; I feel like it fits the primordial vibe more, but this is also because the witches don't have distinct personalities, and the Trix claim descent from all three of them, but this feels like they were moreso their reincarnations than their ancestors (though it could be both). This sole witch would be named Carabosse, named after the wicked fairy the Ancestral Witches are based on. She is created by Darkar as the first evil mortal (albeit with an extended lifespan due to magic, both hers and Darkar's), but she isn't his servant; she's his consort, and they exist as a twisted version of Hades and Persephone from Greek Mythology. Rather than having the same powers as the Trix, Carabosse has the ability of corruption, being the first mortal queen in the magical dimension (and ever, probably), and seen as doing her husband's dream of spreading evil throughout the world. The descendant of the holders of the dragon spark, Oritel, formed the Company of Light to defeat her, but they only managed in destroying her physical body, with her spirit still lingering. She is the first witch, as you may have guessed, and even in death, we are never truly rid of her, due to her divine marriage and long-forgotten magic that makes her influence permeate the most evil parts of the magic dimension.

I'd imagine she dressed in dark blue/black with orange-red gems and patterns, almost like she's made of lava. My ideal voice actor for her would be Colleen Wheeler, who did an AMAZING job of playing Mystique in "X-Men: Evolution."

The Trix--No need for introduction, the sisters of the Ice Kingdom are the most persistent villains in the series. In my rewrite, their realm wouldn't be known as the Ice Kingdom (since it kinda discards Darcy and Stormy), but Distorsione, Italian for distortion, said to be the base of Queen Carabosse. You'd think that being descended from her would offer the Trix some leverage, but the royal family has much closer ties to her while the Trix are distant relatives. The people there are reserved and standoffish, but not necessarily evil, though the Trix essentially ruin that perception and now it's a demonized location in the magical dimension. It's confirmed that the Trix are triplets and were abandoned by their family for the perceived threat they could pose in the future, and upon discovering this, they vowed to take over the magical dimension and retake what they believe to be their birthright. And it's worth noting that for most of the first season, no one knows who they are when they attack the Winx; they have a "Superman" thing going on because of the makeup and clothes change; when in disguise, they dress similarly to their fairy disguises in issue #123 of the comic.

Icy has an on-and-off romance with Darko throughout the series (it's implied that they could've been something positive, but Icy is too focused on power and is willing to mistreat Darko, who, despite having his own issues, cared about Icy but is now mainly just courting her for potential power that he could wield as her consort). She also has a distaste for Bloom, given their powers are polar opposites, as well as the fact that Bloom was automatically revered for her potential while Icy was discarded for it. She also takes particular interest in tormenting Flora and Ariel (my rewritten version of Roxy), since I'd canonize the 4kids statement that she derives power from dead planets, and the fact that she doesn't really have any particular respect for animals and plants. I'd probably base her design on Taylor Swift, particularly during her "Reputation" era. I know the Trix weren't based on celebrities, but I thought it'd be a nice touch. I'd I'd like her to be voiced by Salli Saffioti, since I really liked her performance as Cleo de Nile on Gen 1 and 2 of "Monster High," albeit something a bit less regal. As usual, she wears shades of blue, though I like the idea that she keeps the lighter/brighter tones for her witch look that she does in her civilian clothes.

Darcy is the middle triplet, and is quite interesting due to her relationships with others. While Icy is somewhat conflicting with how she feels about others, sometimes abusing them and sometimes praising and adoring them, Darcy cares about others but believes that abusing them is the best way to show it (influenced by her abandonment and the fact that she's been lied to a lot by people who claimed to care about her growing up). She's attracted to danger and doesn't really understand the typical concepts of love and care, which Icy jokes is influenced by her power over darkness, which will prevent her from ever seeing the light. She often takes delight in torturing Stella with darkness and causing friction between Musa and Riven--she even tells Musa that they can share Riven; Darcy takes the evil half and Musa takes the good half, even going as far as to offer splitting them into two separate people, but Musa points out the unethical boundaries of that (duh) and how her love for Riven meant that she loved him in spite of his flaws and wanted to help him improve on his faults, but only if he recognized them as so. This perplexes Darcy, who has a similar corrupting power to Carabossa (albeit much less powerful) and she believes that she must change those who don't like her or think like her. I'd base her appearance on Olivia Rodrigo, and also have her voiced by Tasia Valenza, since I enjoyed her performance as Poison Ivy in the "Batman: Arkham" video game series, and I feel like her deeper voice captures Darcy well (4kids bias).

Stormy, being the baby triplet, is often left the hand-me-downs of her sisters and is the most mysterious, despite sharing her sisters' interest in chaos and power-seeking. Unlike the more composed Trix, Stormy is much more upfront and aggressive, not usually bothering with manipulation unless she thought it could stir up an immediate reaction. She doesn't really have a love interest, but she does note that if things fell apart for Stella and Brandon, she could pick up the pieces and "see which way the storm blows." I'd also see her as the Trix member who's most likely to choose physical violence (in contrast to Icy, who's most likely to rely on her magic), and feels like she has the most to prove, insecure and afraid that she and her sisters were discarded because of her (being the only one who's powers were apparent and uncontrollable from a young age). She also has it out for Aisha and Tecna, as storms know how to stoke an ocean's ire, and can cause blackouts. I'd base her appearance off of Tate Mcrae, with her voicework being done by Selah Victor, AKA Chloe Bourgeois from "Miraculous Ladybug."

Diaspro--Just to be clear, I'm keeping the "Sky and Brandon swapped identities" subplot, but this lie is revealed BEFORE Bloom and Sky get together. It's also revealed that both Sky and Diaspro are political pawns; they were childhood friends, and when it was revealed that Diaspro was a fairy of gemstones (what's with "the"? Can't there be more fairies like her?), she was betrothed to Sky under the belief that her wealth would enrich Erakylon. While Diaspro submitted to this--being from a poor family and "encouraged" by her relatives to accept the betrothal--she became cruel and callous due to the political games she had to play, as well as never wanting to go back to poverty. She had a crush on Sky, and the betrothal heightened this, but she failed to realize he didn't feel the same, as he became more withdrawn when the betrothal became official. Since he was doing his duty as a prince, he tried to submit to his family's wishes, but rebelled when he developed a crush on Bloom, as well as making friends with the Winx and the Specialists. Diaspro misinterprets this as his friends talking him out of marrying her, and she lashes out at them and tries to tear them apart. Sky is the only one who has sympathy for her at first, and eventually all his friends realize she was dealt a bad hand in life. Until it's revealed Bloom is a princess with the power of the dragon flame (she's originally just said to be a fire fairy to protect her), Sky and Diaspro go through with the illusion that they're engaged. When it breaks off, Diapsro's family has been compensated and rises to the noble ranks, but they still want more. Diapsro informs Sky of their plotting, and she pretends to continue to be villainous to her family and other villains, acting as a double agent for the Winx and the Specialists without turning anyone against her. For her design, I'd base her on Ariana Grande (for obvious reasons), and surprisingly have her voice by Ellen Wong; I think her sweetness as Knives Chau would be great for Diaspro's vulnerability, and it'd be fun to see her act stuck-up. I'd also give her an outfit reminiscent of blue labradorite (you'll recall with my rewrite of Bloom I'd give her a black base with colorful accents reminiscent of the cosmos).

Darkar--Much the same, the dark dragon that contrasts with the great dragon that created the world. I'd make him a bit more nuanced, with his nature being chaos rather than outright evil. In fact, to make him different from other Winx villains, I'll make him lawful evil--which is the Dungeons & Dragons way of saying he's a bad guy who follows the rules. These "rules" would essentially be the laws of nature, that light cannot exist without darkness and vice versa, but one can reign over the other. With his wife gone, he sees the Trix as his daughters/granddaughters (and they are his descendants) and attempts to teach them his ways--though they are puzzled by his lack of unecessary cruelty and restraint, as well as his respect for those who align with good. He reveals that his wife was not constrained by the rules that governed him, and that is likely why the Trix act they way they do. He's also known as the "shadow phoenix" because he'll always be reborn, and there will be an age of darkness once more, and Bloom's descendants (or another descendant who holds the dragon flame; Bloom's extended family is sizeable) will fall into their grasp. Plus Bloom's witch heritage makes her fall into his distortion, bringing out the duality of the dragon flame, both light and shadow. I'd love for him to have a larger-than-life deity appearance to him, and taking inspiration from X-Men's "Dark Phoenix" arc feels natural--thinking on it now, they may have already done that. For his great voice acting as Trigon, I'd love for Kevin Michael Richardson to play him--though Paul St. Peter is a close second.

Valtor--He's iconic as-is and the greatest Winx villain (partially because of how involved he is in every episode, in contrast to previous villains), but I'd make a change to his origins; instead of an older being created from the dragon flame and raised by the Ancestral Witches, he's the biological son of Darkus and Carabossa. Similar to Diaspro, he was used as a pawn all his life, and is only slightly older than the Winx and Specialists. He essentially does everything the same in my book, but there is a sympathetic angle; he was designed to bring about the age of chaos Darkus foretold, and thus has been emotionally, psychologically, and physically abused by his caretakers (since his parents weren't physically around to raise him) until he became a beast of darkness. However, due to the fact that light cannot exist without darkness and vice versa, in a similar way to Bloom being made into Dark Bloom, Valtor is capable of love and light, albeit in a very standoffish, aloof way. Bloom recognizes his loneliness, and for a second it makes her reconsider wanting to be reunited with her own family, who she only knows through second-hand sources. With the power of the Winx, Bloom defeats Valtor, but instead of killing him, she uses her divine abilities to take some of the darkness in his heart and accept it into her own, giving him some of her light in return, knowing that he didn't choose to be who he became, though he's still imprisoned with the Trix in the Lightrock Monastery due to his crimes. It's implied for the rest of the series that he's an antihero, though he tries to be discreet due to the legacy he created. For his voice actor, I'd love for him to be voiced by Neil Newbon; the Astarion parallels are too delicious to ignore.

(NGL, Valtor is a great villain, but I did feel bad for the circumstances surrounding his creation, thus my sympathetic take.)

Tritannus--Due to his repetitive nature in season 5, I'd make Tritannus a supporting villain in season 3, helping to give more focus to Andros as well as keeping his goals streamlined. For a good deal of the season, the merpeople are curropted, with the pandemic eventually reaching King Neptune and Queen Ligea. Nereus also becomes infected, leaving Trittannus to rule the seas. However, when he welches on his promise to help Valtor take over the magical dimension, Valtor pollutes the ocean, transforming Trittanus into a monster. He then helps Valtor in order to regain his original form, as well as having a thing for Icy (who admires his evil tendencies, but his newfound appearance makes this a manipulative relationship only, as she sees a great deal to gain by becoming Queen of the Seas, this being one of her off periods with Darko). His family eventually defeats him, and he is banished to Oblivion, though both his siblings hope to release him from there with time, given his young age and their merciful natures, though Aisha remains skeptical.

I'd probably want him voiced by David Gallagher; I could totally hear Riku's voice when I see him.

Cassandra and Chimera--Amazing side villains, and pretty underrated winx villains overall, Cassandra is the new wife of King Radius and Chimera is her daughter, and both of them treat Stella cruelly and put a spell on Radius to make her resent her. I'd include them a bit more, and make Cassandra seem a bit kinder than she really is, with Chimera viciously tearing down Stella and Cassandra passive-aggressively trying to cheer her up, only to make her feel worse. I'd also make it less obvious that Radius is under a spell; since Stella argues with him frequently following the divorce and now with his surprise marriage, Stella believes that Radius thinks she's turned against him and wishes to take the throne by force, possibly with her mother. Radius IS under a spell, but it's easy for Stella to buy that after all their arguing, it's affected her father's perception of her, especially since his new wife and stepdaughter appear demure and submissive. They're still vain and spoiled, but they know how to curry the kingdom's favor in order to make themselves likeable, craftily working with Valtor to stain Stella's image as a selfish, entitled princess, and convince the nobles that her behavior could result in a coup that could destroy the sun kingdom, even making them think that Stella has become a puppet to Luna (and that Solaria itself could become a puppet state).

I'd base their appearances on Gwen Stefani and Jenna Ortega respectively, with Cassandra being voiced by Jennifer Hale (using a voice similar to her Bayonetta performance) and Chimera being voiced by Diane Guerroerro (since she has "evil Isabella Madrigal" written all over her).

Wizards of the Dark Circle--In my rewrite, they wouldn't be present villains (not that I've written the whole thing out, but that's my current headspace), but instead beings of legend, with their own unique backgrounds. Two of them are fairies, so I guess "Lords of the Dark Circle" would be a better title.

Ogron--Nicknamed the Stormy of the Wizards by the Winx and the Specialists, he's moody and quick to anger, but when he is in his element, he's calm and collected. As a child, he was a precocious wizard who surmised that fairies were the most powerful beings in the magical dimension (outside of the dragon creator), and realized that no matter how powerful he'd become, they'd always win, inspiring his quest to destroy all fairies on Earth, becoming so powerful that he became the Wizard of Negation, capable of stripping powerful creatures of their abilities (which varied by creature, of course). Despite his rage against fairies, he seems to have love and care for other beings, including his fellow wizards. He was eventually defeated by non-Earth fairies and sealed in a stone statue in Gardenia, and with his defeat, no more wizards were born on Earth. Similar to the Winx, I'd give the WOTDC celebrity inspirations, mainly celebrities who were (arguably) at their most famous decades ago, but are still widely respected now. For Ogron, I'd base him off of Johnny Depp and have him voiced by Mark Hamill (he gives me Ozai vibes, what can I say?) I'd also change the group's color scheme to be more individualistic, making his a mix of reds and oranges in a sophisticated, upper-class style rather than his punk aesthetic in the OG version.

Anagan--I'd make him the most "likeable" of the lords; he shows respect for others, flirts, and socializes, being known as the life of the party. He is known as the Wizard of Time, which allowed the wizards to stay ageless and find the Earth fairies (he joins this quest because he sees fairies as inferior to wizards, and not deserving of their power). It's implied that he can also time travel, and that the Winx may encounter him one day, or that they may already have. Due to his skill at seducing fairies, it's stated that he's sired many descendants, but due to Ogron's petrification, no magic came of his descendants, wizard or otherwise. While he escaped the fate of his contemporaries, it's said he's lived a lonely life without them, being known as the shoulder they could cry on and an expert secret-keeper who they consulted. His celebrity inspiration would be Usher, and I'd make his clothes trendy and have a stained glass style and multicolored, highlighting his colorful personality and friendliness (just not to fairies). Keith David would be a fun voice actor for him, in my opinion.

Gantlos--Originally a wizard of destruction, I'd rewrite him as the fairy of memory, and thus the one responsible for erasing Earth's recollection of magic ever being real. He also is the most protective of the group, throwing himself in danger to keep the others safe and being akin to the Pied Piper of Hamlin due to his mesmerizing flute playing. He was ignored as a male fairy within his family, lacking the ability to progress to different forms (likely because he was sheltered and thus could never overcome his insecurities or make a sacrifice), and took on a dark fairy transformation, giving him a new form, but locking him out of the forms other fairies have. Being raised by a rather strict, traditional family, he doesn't share compassion for animals, making Ariel detest him as she learns more about him. However, he does have affection for the elderly. When trying to wipe the entire world's mind of fairies, he became overwhelmed and it destroyed his mind (and failed, thus why we still have fairy tales), making him the second of the Lords to fall and thus buried in a magical crypt by Ogron. I'd base his appearance on Leonardo DiCaprio, and have him voiced by Zahn McClarnon, since I enjoyed him as Olrox in "Castlevania: Nocturne." His fashion sense would be very similar to Dante from the "Devil May Cry" video game, albeit blue.

Duman--Also a fairy in my rewrite, he was a fairy of shifting (which means he could shapeshift). He often downed himself as a loser, not strong as other fairies and eventually fell in with the wrong crowd, making his way into the Wizards of the Dark Circle. He strives to be useful, and due to insecurity, almost never appears as himself unless he's with the other lords. Unlike the other lords, he acknowledges that what he's doing isn't really ethical, but is fine with being bad because he has community. It's mentioned that if he never met the wizards he would've died of loneliness, and thus the lords are like family to him. He has a tendency for gambling, and it's noted that after being tricked by a clever fairy, he was forced to give up his magic power. The lords erased his mind of them, deciding to spare him the pain, and he married a human woman and had a family, which they knew he always wanted. His legacy in the magical world was not forgotten, but the mortal world never knew of him. I'd want his appearance inspired by Brendon Urie, as well as being voiced by Noel Fisher (who I know as Toad in "X-Men: Evolution") would be perfect for this. I'd probably keep his punk aesthetic, though I love him wearing green.

Hope you like these takes. Lemme know what you think, and if you have any questions. Next post for this will be the specialists!

[paintedlady345]

So I remember watching winx when I was younger still watch it sometimes but the one thing I used to wonder when I remembered the winx transforming is if people can see them and when I watched that one clip with the wizards or the black circle again it confirmed it now which is crazy because they transforming in front of everyone meaning they just flashing the villains like??? ya’ll just flashing people out her why not be like other superheroes and transform in private plus none of the villains ever thought to go “hey why not get them while they transform” cause they can’t do anything while transforming they’re basically powering up be like azula she shot aang in the back with a lightning bolt no hesitation instead they stand there like statues waiting to get hit and act surprised when they do like GIRLY GET OUT THE WAY IT AIN’T THAT HARD but yeah still a good show tho thank you for listening to my rant

[lx1920jmax]

The Wizards of the Black Circle and embarrassment.)))

Ogron:

this aristocrat's skin is so pale that it barely blushes, but if it blushes even a little, it becomes very noticeable.;

he doesn't care about embarrassment as such, he's more annoyed that it makes his pale freckles clearly visible on his rosy cheeks.;

he hates his freckles and shakes his head so that his hair covers his face;

his look says: "if you dare to laugh at this, then my red cheeks will be the last thing you will see in your worthless, pathetic life.";

as a last resort, he send away rudely.

[devilheartsblog]

I thought I’d doodle and explain the wizard dynamics in my (now called) Dark Harmony AU:

Her and Ogron have a casual villain-henchman dynamic. He tells her of the plans and some helpful information and she gives insight on each Winx’s weakness or some Believix information he could use against them.

Just like with the other wizards Gantlos is protective of her, but even moreso due to her knowing what actually happened between the wizards and the Earth Fairies, and if this information gets to the Winx and eventually Morgana it could be quite bad for them, at least that’s what they believe

Anagan is the most chill and listens to Musa rant about her life, relationship with Riven and the recent conflict concerning her musician dreams and the Winx, mainly Bloom.

Duman and Musa get along really well and he helps her with her performances at the Frutti Music Bar. He also believes if his illness gets to him Musa can at least put his shapeshifting abilities to good use. He’s pretty excited to have a shapeshifter prodige.

Hope you guys enjoy. I have a lot more instore for this AU, like a fanfic of it! Stay tuned!

[solowinx]

the wizards of the dark circle if they were italian

Omar Ghiaccio

Duccio Fumo

Galliano Cantore

Attanasio Stanziale

i tried to find names that somehow sound similar to the original. then, since their names are part of the celtic calendar, i gave them last names that remind the real meaning of their names.

[spilledmilkfkdies]

Why tf does my mans have a dragon <3 I sure hope that's just him copying abilities <3 And not him having a random evil dragon <3

Shoutout to @1was2bored for reminding me the copy thing was a possibility because I'm gonna be so honest, I forgot??

[ghostsprobably]

loved nabu's video so much!!! the idea that the wizards of the black circle maybe not being just fully evil but more morally grey is also so cool to me. i'm wondering is roxy's video next? will the wizards get their own video? or will you take another monster high break?,(very excited for that too!)

the wizards will get their own video yeah!! I'm excited to talk about them more in depth ahhh

the next video will indeed be monster high, and after that will either be Roxy or Charmix but I think I'm gonna do Charmix first bc it's been a while since the winx got their first redesigns so it's time for an update! and I think I need a little more time to work on Roxy too

[synergysilhouette]

I definitely feel like season 4 of "Winx Club" could've been more original with the main conflict and the villain's fate

It's a shame, since Roxy and the wizards were good characters, but they were rehashing stuff that Bloom and the Trix had already done.

[paintedlady345]

Had to do part two

Andrina daughter of Nereus

Morgan daughter of anagan

[dungeons-n-dragons-n-dumbasses]

[lx1920jmax]

Good morning.)))

[devilheartsblog]

How would The Wizards of the Black Circle get along and thinks of Dark! Musa’s Quillcat, Critty?

[enhaflixer]

psh - BOUND & BEYOND - marriage law au! PART 2

A MARRIAGE LAW HARRY POTTER AU SUNSHINE X GRUMPY 2 LOVERS FIC!! PART 1

wizard diplomat grumpy!sunghoon x witch healer sunshine f!reader

warnings: sex lol, hes emotionally unavailable and it hurts, he also might be a bit mean but its okay.

-

That night, something changed.

The thunderstorm had been brewing all evening, the air heavy with electricity as dark clouds gathered. By midnight, lightning split the sky outside your bedroom window, thunder rolling so close it rattled the glass.

You'd woken disoriented, reaching for your wand on the nightstand to cast a light. In the brief flash before you knocked it to the floor, you saw Sunghoon standing in your doorway, watching the storm with unusual intensity.

"Sorry," you murmured as your wand clattered away, plunging the room back into darkness. "Did I wake you?"

"No," came his reply, unusually soft. "I was already awake."

Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, freezing the moment in stark white light—Sunghoon sitting up against the headboard, his hair disheveled, eyes meeting yours with unexpected directness.

"I'll get my wand," you said, starting to move, when his hand caught yours in the darkness.

"Wait," he said, his voice low. "The storm is... interesting."

You settled back, acutely aware of his fingers still wrapped around yours.

Lightning flashed again, and in that brief illumination, you caught Sunghoon studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. His usual guardedness was gone, replaced by something raw and unfiltered.

"What?" you asked softly, when the darkness returned.

His thumb traced a slow circle on your palm. "You look different in the storm light."

"Different bad?" you asked, pulse quickening at his touch.

"Different... real," he replied, the word seeming to surprise even him.

The next lightning flash revealed him closer than before, his eyes dark with something you couldn't name. The thunder that followed seemed to vibrate through your entire body.

You weren't sure who moved first. Perhaps you both did, drawn together by something neither of you had anticipated. His lips met yours hesitantly, a question more than a demand.

That hesitation lasted exactly three seconds.

What began as exploration transformed into something neither of you had expected. Sunghoon kissed you with focused intensity, his careful control giving way to something hungrier. His hand slid into your hair, cradling your head as he deepened the kiss with unmistakable need.

Your wand remained forgotten on the floor, the room dark except for the occasional lightning that caught you in tableau—his hand in your hair, your fingers gripping his shoulder, bodies drawing inevitably closer.

You gasped against his mouth as his free hand found your waist, pulling you firmly against him. The heat of him through your thin nightclothes was startling, intimate in a way you hadn't prepared for. His palm skimmed up your side, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"Is this—" he pulled back slightly, his voice rougher than you'd ever heard it. "Is this okay?"

The formality of the question, contrasted with his disheveled state and the position of his hands, made you laugh softly. "Very okay," you assured him. "More than okay."

Lightning illuminated his face—his eyes darker than you'd ever seen them, pupils blown wide, his usual perfect composure completely undone. Something flickered in his expression—relief, hunger, something deeper—before darkness claimed the room again.

His lips found yours with new confidence, no longer questioning. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, discovering the surprising warmth of his skin, the definition of muscle beneath your fingertips. He made a sound against your mouth—half groan, half sigh—that sent electricity through your veins rivaling the storm outside.

"I've thought about this," he admitted against your throat, his voice barely audible above the rain. "More than I should have."

The confession—so unlike his usual measured statements—thrilled you more than you wanted to admit. "Me too," you whispered, gasping as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

His hands found the hem of your nightshirt, fingers tracing the edge with deliberate patience. "May I?" he asked, his usual precision still present even in this moment of abandon.

"Yes," you breathed, lifting your arms as he pulled the fabric over your head.

Lightning flashed, giving him a momentary glimpse of you before darkness returned. His sharp intake of breath was audible.

"Beautiful," he murmured, hands hovering just above your skin as if memorizing you by proximity alone. "So beautiful, baby."

The endearment sent a shiver through you. His hands finally made contact, palms warm against your ribs, thumbs tracing maddening circles that slowly moved higher.

You weren't passive in your exploration. Your fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons, pushing the fabric from his shoulders to reveal the body he kept hidden beneath perfect tailoring. Lightning gave you glimpses—broad shoulders, defined chest, the surprising elegance of his collarbones. Your mouth followed the path your eyes had traced, tasting the salt of his skin.

"Angel," he groaned, the word catching as your teeth grazed his shoulder. His hands tightened on your waist, drawing you fully against him.

What followed was a discovery neither of you had anticipated. Sunghoon—controlled, precise Sunghoon—touched you with a reverence that bordered on worship, learning every inch of you with the same focused attention he brought to diplomatic negotiations, but without the clinical distance. His mouth and hands found places that made you gasp, arch, plead.

And you discovered him in return—the places that made his breath catch, the sensitive spot below his ear that made him tense when you kissed it, the way he moaned your name when your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pajamas.

"Wait," he breathed, catching your wrist. "I need—we should—"

Even now, trying to think. So very Sunghoon.

"Stop thinking," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Just feel."

Something in him surrendered then. His remaining clothes joined yours on the floor, and when he covered your body with his, skin to skin with nothing between you, both of you gasped at the sensation.

"Look at me," he said, his voice low and commanding as he positioned himself. When your eyes met his, something passed between you—acknowledgment that this was about more than biology, more than proximity, more than Ministry requirements.

He moved with deliberate control at first, each thrust measured, his eyes never leaving yours. But as your body responded to his, as your hands clutched at his back, as you whispered his name with increasing urgency, that control fractured.

"Let go," you urged, recognizing his struggle to maintain composure even now. "I want to see you let go, Hoon."

His rhythm faltered at the nickname, something vulnerable flashing across his face. Then he buried his face against your neck, his movements becoming less calculated, more primal.

"Baby," he groaned against your skin, the word sounding natural in his desperation. "My angel, my—"

Words failed him as his body took over, his careful precision giving way to something raw and real. You matched him movement for movement, the storm outside echoing the one you created between you.

When release finally claimed you both, lightning illuminated the moment—his face above yours, completely unguarded for the first time since you'd met him, his eyes locked on yours as if you were the only fixed point in a universe suddenly without rules or boundaries.

After, as you lay tangled in the sheets and each other, his fingers traced patterns on your bare shoulder, his touch gentler than you'd imagined possible. The silence between you felt weighted with unspoken questions, but not uncomfortable.

"The Ministry assessment form definitely doesn't have a section for this," you murmured, feeling laughter bubble up in your chest.

For a moment, Sunghoon was silent. Then, to your astonishment, he laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound you'd never heard from him before. "A serious oversight in their protocol," he agreed, his voice warm with humor.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, staring at him through the darkness. "Did you just laugh? Actually laugh?"

"Momentary lapse in judgment," he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "You have that effect on me."

"I like it," you admitted, turning to kiss his palm. "You should lapse more often."

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you with surprising tenderness. "Only with you," he murmured against your hair. "Only like this."

You fell asleep to the sound of the rain and his heartbeat, a smile on your lips and the dangerous feeling in your chest that had nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with the man who'd just let you see behind his carefully maintained walls.

-

Morning brought soft sunlight and an even more unexpected sight—Sunghoon, still in bed beside you, watching you with warm eyes.

"Good morning," he said, his voice lacking its usual crisp efficiency.

"Morning," you replied, waiting for the awkwardness, the retreat behind walls of propriety. It didn't come.

Instead, Sunghoon reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have in weeks," you admitted, studying his face for signs of regret or withdrawal. There were none.

"Hmm," he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "I canceled my morning meeting."

You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Park Sunghoon canceling a Ministry meeting was unprecedented.

"You're looking at me like I've grown a second head," he observed, the corner of his mouth lifting in what you now recognized as his version of a smile.

"It's just... not like you," you said.

"Perhaps I'm discovering new aspects of myself," he replied, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead. "I found I wasn't particularly motivated to leave this bed."

Before you could respond to this startling admission, a furry weight landed on the mattress between you. Nyx, apparently sensing this new development, had come to investigate.

"Your cat has timing issues," Sunghoon observed dryly, though his hand automatically reached out to scratch behind her ears.

"She's curious about the new sleeping arrangement," you said, watching with delight as Nyx butted her head against Sunghoon's hand, demanding more attention.

"The arrangement meets with your approval, I hope?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes serious as they met yours.

"Very much so," you assured him, leaning forward to kiss him properly.

The kiss deepened quickly, morning breath forgotten as Sunghoon pulled you closer. Nyx, disgruntled at being squeezed between you, let out an indignant meow and jumped away.

"Even the cat has better judgment than I do right now," Sunghoon murmured against your lips. "You have a shift in two hours."

"Plenty of time," you whispered, your hand sliding beneath the sheets to trace the warm skin of his chest.

His breath caught, eyes darkening. "Indeed," he agreed, rolling you beneath him with surprising grace. "Time should be used efficiently."

The second time was different—less hesitant, more playful, a discovery of what pleased each other now that the initial tension had broken. Sunghoon, you were delighted to learn, was a quick study, remembering exactly what had made you gasp the night before and expanding on it with creative variations.

Afterward, as you both lay catching your breath, he pressed a kiss to your temple. "I believe I'm developing a new appreciation for mornings," he said, his voice warm with satisfaction.

"Just mornings?" you teased, tracing patterns on his chest.

"Afternoons have potential," he replied seriously. "Evenings as well. I'll need to conduct further research."

You laughed, the sound drawing a genuine smile from him—small but real, transforming his usually stern features into something almost boyish.

"I should make breakfast," you said, making no move to get up.

"I'll cook," Sunghoon offered, surprising you again. "I'm told my pancakes are acceptable."

"You cook?" you asked, unable to hide your astonishment.

"I have many talents beyond diplomatic negotiations," he replied with unexpected playfulness. "Though I rarely bother when it's just for myself."

When you finally made it to the kitchen, wrapped in your robe with your hair still damp from a shared shower (another surprising development), you found Sunghoon already at work. He moved with the same precision he brought to everything, measuring ingredients with exact care, but there was a new ease to his movements, a relaxation in his usually rigid posture.

Most surprising was his interaction with Nyx, who had positioned herself strategically near the stove, watching the proceedings with keen interest.

"This is not for you," Sunghoon informed the cat, who meowed back as if arguing the point. "Your food is in your designated bowl. This is human breakfast."

Another plaintive meow.

"Negotiations will not be successful," he replied solemnly. "Though I suppose a small sample might be permissible."

You watched from the doorway, fascinated by this one-sided conversation. When Sunghoon carefully set aside a tiny piece of pancake on a saucer for Nyx, your heart did something complicated in your chest.

"Are you bribing my cat?" you asked, finally entering the kitchen.

Sunghoon looked up, not at all embarrassed at being caught. "Strategic alliance-building," he corrected. "She has considerable influence in this household."

"She has you wrapped around her paw," you observed, sliding onto a kitchen chair.

"She's persuasive," Sunghoon admitted, placing a perfect stack of pancakes before you. "Much like her owner."

The casual compliment, delivered without his usual careful calculation, created a warm glow in your chest. This new Sunghoon—relaxed, almost playful, comfortable in domestic settings—was a revelation.

Over breakfast, conversation flowed with unexpected ease. Sunghoon spoke of his work without the usual clipped efficiency, asked thoughtful questions about your upcoming shift, and even shared a few stories from his own childhood that revealed a dry humor you'd only glimpsed before.

When it came time for you to leave for your shift, he walked you to the door—another unprecedented gesture. "Dinner tonight?" he suggested, his hand lingering at your waist. "I should be home by six."

"I'll be there," you promised, rising on tiptoe to kiss him goodbye.

He returned the kiss with surprising enthusiasm, his arms tightening around you briefly before letting you go. "Have a good day, My angel," he said softly, the endearment now rich with genuine affection rather than calculated familiarity.

You floated through your shift at St. Mungo's, earning curious glances from colleagues who noticed your unusually sunny mood. Even the most difficult patients couldn't dampen your spirits as memories of the morning kept resurfacing at unexpected moments.

When you returned home that evening, you found Sunghoon already there, setting the table with uncharacteristic care. A bottle of wine was open, breathing, and something that smelled delicious was bubbling on the stove.

"You're cooking again," you observed, hanging up your cloak.

"I'm feeling unusually domestic," he replied, looking up with a warm expression that still startled you with its openness. "How was your shift?"

"Busy but good," you said, moving to his side. "No invisible ears today, thankfully."

His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you against him with casual ease that belied how significant this casual touch was from someone who had once measured appropriate proximity in precise inches. "I missed you," he said simply.

The straightforward admission, free of his usual qualifiers and analytical distance, made your heart flip. "I missed you too."

Dinner was delicious, the conversation easy, and afterwards, you both settled on the sofa with tea—Sunghoon sitting close beside you rather than at his usual careful distance.

Nyx, sensing an opportunity, immediately claimed his lap, settling in with a loud purr.

"Your daughter really does have boundary issues," you teased, watching as Sunghoon's hand automatically began stroking the cat's fur.

"Our daughter," he corrected absently, then froze, seeming startled by his own words.

The casual claim—both of Nyx and of a connection between you that implied shared ownership—hung in the air between you, unexpectedly weighty.

"Yes," you agreed softly, reaching out to scratch Nyx's ears. "Our daughter."

Something flickered in Sunghoon's eyes—warmth and uncertainty mingled in equal measure. But he didn't withdraw the claim, merely nodded once and returned to his tea, his free hand continuing to stroke Nyx's fur.

The days that followed established a new pattern: breakfasts together, shared dinners, evenings spent in comfortable conversation or companionable silence, and nights of increasingly confident exploration. Sunghoon's schedule, once rigid and unyielding, now seemed to revolve around your shared times together, his usual late nights at the Ministry becoming increasingly rare.

Most surprising was his growing bond with Nyx, who had fully adopted him as her second favorite human. He spoke to her constantly, a running commentary that revealed a playful side you'd never imagined existed within him.

"Your preference for my chair has been noted," you overheard him telling the cat one evening as you returned from the kitchen with tea. "However, persistent occupation does not constitute legal ownership."

Nyx meowed back, settling more firmly into his favorite reading chair.

"I propose a compromise," Sunghoon continued seriously. "Shared custody with alternating usage rights."

You couldn't help but laugh, drawing his attention. "Are you negotiating chair rights with a cat?"

"Someone in this house needs to establish boundaries with her," he replied with mock severity. "You clearly encourage her territorial ambitions."

"She's learned from the best diplomat in the house," you countered, setting his tea beside him.

To your surprise, when you made to move away, Sunghoon caught your hand, pulling you down onto his lap—Nyx having relocated to the arm of the chair to observe this development with feline interest.

"What are you doing?" you asked, startled by this unprecedented playfulness.

"Demonstrating proper negotiation technique," he replied, his arms encircling your waist. "When borders are disputed, sometimes creative compromise is required."

His lips found yours in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, his hands sliding beneath your jumper with familiar ease. When you finally broke apart, breathless, Nyx was watching you both with what appeared to be feline judgment.

"I believe we've scandalized our daughter," you murmured against his lips.

"She'll recover," Sunghoon replied, his voice lower than usual. "Though perhaps we should continue this negotiation upstairs."

Later, as you lay entwined in the darkness, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin, Sunghoon spoke softly against your hair. "I never expected this."

"What?" you asked, nestled against his chest.

"This... contentment," he admitted, the word clearly chosen with care. "I approached our arrangement as a professional requirement to be managed. I didn't anticipate..."

"That it could be good?" you supplied when he trailed off.

"That it could feel real," he corrected quietly, his arms tightening slightly around you.

The simple admission, so unlike his usual measured statements, created a warm glow in your chest. You pressed a kiss to his skin, right over his heart. "It feels real to me too."

-

Ten days into this new, unexpected happiness, the first crack appeared.

Your shift at St. Mungo's had run hours longer than scheduled due to a magical accident involving twenty children at a primary school. By the time you finally managed to reverse the effects of an experimental charm gone wrong (all the children had been temporarily transformed into various musical instruments), you were exhausted and running nearly three hours late.

You sent a Patronus message explaining the delay, expecting Sunghoon's usual calm acceptance of work emergencies. Instead, when you finally arrived home well after nine, you found him pacing the living room, his usual composed expression replaced by something that looked remarkably like agitation.

"You're still in your work robes," you observed, surprised to find him waiting rather than eating dinner without you.

"I was concerned," he said, his voice tight. "Your Patronus mentioned children in distress but provided minimal details."

"They're all fine," you assured him, touched by his worry. "Just an experimental charm that went wrong during a music lesson. No lasting harm done, though I suspect young Timothy Wilson will be teased about his trombone transformation for years to come."

Sunghoon didn't smile as you'd expected. Instead, he continued to study you with unusual intensity. "You appear fatigued."

"Exhausted," you confirmed, sinking onto the sofa. "Reversing transformation magic on twenty squirming children isn't exactly restful."

"You work excessive hours," he observed, a hint of criticism entering his voice. "Hospital administration should provide adequate staffing for such emergencies."

"That's how emergency healing works, Sunghoon," you replied, too tired to match his suddenly formal tone. "Sometimes things happen that weren't on the schedule."

"The schedule indicated you would return at six-seventeen," he said, his voice now clipped in a way you hadn't heard in days. "Dinner has been warming for three hours and fourteen minutes."

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this rigid, almost petulant version of Sunghoon with the warm, affectionate man who had kissed you goodbye that morning. "Are you actually upset that I'm late because I was treating children in an emergency?"

"I am not upset," he replied, though his tense posture suggested otherwise. "I am merely noting that predictable scheduling benefits all parties involved."

"Sunghoon," you said, rubbing your temples where a headache was forming. "I can't predict magical emergencies. No healer can."

"Other departments manage to maintain consistent scheduling," he countered. "International diplomatic negotiations rarely extend beyond projected timeframes."

"Well, I'm not a diplomat, and sick children don't care about projected timeframes," you snapped, your patience fraying under the combined weight of exhaustion and his unexpected criticism.

Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, quickly masked by his more familiar analytical distance. "I apologize for the observation," he said stiffly. "Your professional obligations are your concern."

"That's not—" you began, then sighed, too tired for this sudden tension. "I'm sorry I'm late. I missed you too. Can we please just eat and talk about something else?"

For a moment, Sunghoon remained rigid, clearly struggling with something internal. Then, with visible effort, his posture relaxed slightly. "Of course," he said, his voice softening. "You must be hungry. I'll reheat dinner properly."

Dinner was a quieter affair than usual, though by dessert, Sunghoon had mostly returned to his newer, warmer self. When you yawned for the third time over your tea, he insisted on clearing up while you prepared for bed.

"You're dead on your feet, Baby," he said, his hand gentle at the small of your back as he guided you toward the stairs. "Sleep is the priority now."

You were already half-asleep when he joined you, his arms automatically drawing you against his chest in what had become his preferred sleeping position. As consciousness faded, you felt his lips press against your hair.

"I dislike when you're not here," he murmured, so softly you weren't entirely sure you hadn't dreamed it. "It's... unsettling."

-

Two days later, you arrived home to find Sunghoon and Nyx engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation.

"Your request has been considered and rejected," he was telling the cat, who sat on his desk regarding him with unblinking yellow eyes. "The diplomatic pouch is not an appropriate sleeping location regardless of its apparent comfort."

Nyx meowed back, tail twitching.

"Appeals will not be successful," Sunghoon continued solemnly. "The Department has strict regulations about the handling of official correspondence. Even for the Minister's daughter, which you are not."

You couldn't help but laugh, drawing his attention. "Are you explaining international diplomatic protocols to our cat?"

"Someone needs to establish appropriate boundaries," Sunghoon replied, though his expression softened as he looked at you. "She seems to believe my diplomatic credentials extend to her as a family member."

"Our family member," you corrected gently, moving to kiss him hello.

He returned the kiss with unexpected intensity, his arms pulling you close against him. "You're home early," he observed when you finally broke apart.

"Quiet day," you explained, pleasantly surprised by his welcome. "Only three exploding cauldrons and one case of accidental vanishing sickness."

"Fortuitous timing," he said, his voice warming. "I've acquired tickets to the new exhibition at the Magical Artifacts Museum. Their collection of ancient Eastern European healing implements might interest you professionally."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture touched you deeply. "That sounds wonderful," you said, genuinely pleased. "When is it?"

"This evening," Sunghoon replied. "Unless you object to the spontaneity."

You smiled at his careful phrasing. Even in this new, warmer version of himself, Sunghoon's consideration for schedules and planning remained a core part of his personality. "Spontaneity approved," you assured him. "Let me just change quickly."

The exhibition proved fascinating, with Sunghoon's surprising knowledge of Eastern European magical history adding depth to the displays. Watching him explain the cultural significance of various artifacts to you, his usual precision softened by genuine enthusiasm for the subject, you felt another piece of your heart shift irrevocably in his direction.

When he reached for your hand partway through the evening, entwining his fingers with yours as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, you squeezed gently in response, earning a small but genuine smile.

"Thank you for bringing me," you said as you walked home later, still hand in hand. "It was perfect."

"Your enjoyment was evident," he replied, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm. "Your face becomes particularly animated when you encounter new healing techniques."

"You noticed that?" you asked, surprised by this observation.

"I notice everything about you," Sunghoon said simply, the straightforward admission making your heart stutter.

Back home, as you both prepared for bed, you caught him watching you with unusual intensity as you brushed your hair.

"What?" you asked, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"I was considering the statistical improbability of our current circumstances," he said, his tone thoughtful. "The Ministry's compatibility formula, while theoretically sound, could not have accurately predicted this specific outcome."

"You mean we actually liking each other?" you asked with a smile.

Sunghoon's expression remained serious. "I mean the extent to which my daily functioning now appears based on your presence."

The admission—so characteristically Sunghoon in its analytical framing yet so revealing in its content—created a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with physical desire. "Is that your way of saying you care about me?" you teased gently.

Instead of the light response you expected, Sunghoon's expression shifted to something almost troubled. "It seems to be a significantly more complicated emotional response than just caring," he said quietly.

Something in his tone made you set down your brush and turn to face him fully. "Sunghoon?"

He shook his head slightly, as if clearing unwelcome thoughts. "It's nothing of concern," he said, his expression smoothing into something more familiar. "Merely an observation."

Later, as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you couldn't quite shake the memory of that troubled look—as if Sunghoon had realized something that disturbed his carefully ordered world. But his arms remained securely around you, his breathing even and calm against your hair, and eventually you let sleep claim you, the concern fading beneath the comfort of his presence.

-

The next evening, everything changed.

You arrived home from your shift to find the house unusually quiet. No Sunghoon in the kitchen preparing dinner, no Nyx greeting you at the door. A note on the counter explained the absence:

Called to emergency session regarding Bulgarian delegation. Will return late. Dinner in warming drawer. —S

The note was friendly enough, but something about the absence of his now-customary "angel" or any personal closing created a small flicker of unease. You dismissed it as simple haste—emergency diplomatic sessions didn't allow time for niceties.

When Sunghoon hadn't returned by midnight, you finally went to bed alone, the sheets feeling strangely cold without his presence. You woke briefly when he slipped in beside you in the early hours, but he merely pressed a quick kiss to your temple and settled on his side of the bed, maintaining an unusual few inches of space between you.

The pattern continued for three days. Sunghoon left early, returned late, and maintained a polite but noticeable distance when your paths did cross. There were no more casual touches, no more lingering kisses, no more playful conversations with Nyx that you'd grown to love overhearing.

Most telling was his reversion to "Y/N" instead of "angel" in his increasingly brief notes and conversations. It was as if the warm, affectionate man who had shared your bed and your life for the past two weeks had been replaced by the original Sunghoon—polite, distant, and meticulously proper.

By the fourth evening, your concern had transformed into determination. You waited in the living room until you heard his key in the lock just after eleven.

Sunghoon paused in the doorway when he saw you, his face carefully neutral. "You're still awake."

"It seems to be the only way I'll actually see you lately," you replied, unable to keep the hurt from your voice. "What's going on, Sunghoon?"

"I don't know what you mean," he said, hanging his cloak with precise movements that couldn't mask the tension in his shoulders. "The Bulgarian situation has required extensive attention."

"For three straight days?" you asked skeptically. "With no breaks for actual conversations or eye contact when you're home?"

Something flickered in his expression—discomfort, perhaps guilt. "International diplomatic crises rarely observe convenient schedules."

"This isn't about schedules," you said, standing to face him directly. "Something changed. You changed. Three days ago, you were calling Nyx our daughter and holding my hand at museums. Now you're back to formal notes and sleeping as far away from me as possible without falling off the bed."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened visibly, but he didn't deny the observation. "I've been preoccupied with work."

"That's not all it is." You took a step closer, studying his face. "If something's wrong, just tell me. If you're having second thoughts about us—"

"There is no 'us' beyond what the Ministry arranged," Sunghoon interrupted, his voice suddenly hard.

The words hit like a physical blow. "What?"

"This arrangement is not a love match," he continued, his expression closing completely. "It's a Ministry requirement with a specific purpose. We've allowed ourselves to become... distracted from that reality."

"Distracted," you repeated, the word bitter in your mouth. "Is that what you call what's been happening between us? A distraction?"

"A natural consequence of prolonged proximity," Sunghoon said, his tone analytical. "Physical attraction, comfortable familiarity—these are biological responses, not meaningful connections."

"That's not true," you said quietly, fighting to keep your voice steady. "And you know it. What we've shared these past weeks wasn't just biology or proximity. It was real."

"It was pleasant," he conceded, though his gaze shifted away from yours. "But ultimately unsustainable given our circumstances."

"Our circumstances," you echoed. "You mean the fact that we're married?"

"Temporarily aligned by Ministry decree," he corrected. "A situation that could change at any time. Emotional entanglement in such circumstances is... inadvisable."

Understanding dawned with painful clarity. "You're afraid," you said softly. "You started feeling something real for me, and it terrified you."

Sunghoon's expression remained carefully blank, but the tightness around his eyes told you you'd hit the mark. "I am simply being realistic about our situation. The Ministry created this arrangement; the Ministry could dissolve it just as easily. Developing genuine attachment would be imprudent."

"Imprudent," you repeated, the word tasting like ashes. "Heaven forbid you do something imprudent like actually care about your wife."

"Caring is not the issue," Sunghoon said, a rare edge entering his voice. "The management of expectations is the concern."

"So you've decided to manage my expectations by pulling away completely?" You shook your head, hurt turning to anger. "That's cowardly, Sunghoon. And dishonest. If you didn't want this to get serious, you shouldn't have started calling Nyx our daughter and talking about how your daily functioning depends on my presence."

Sunghoon flinched slightly at the reminder of his own words, but his expression remained resolute. "I apologize if my behavior created misconceptions. I should have maintained appropriate boundaries from the beginning."

You stared at him for a long moment, seeing past the careful mask to the genuine turmoil beneath. "You're lying," you said finally. "Not to me, but to yourself. You felt something real, and instead of being brave enough to face it, you're hiding behind work and analysis."

Sunghoon didn't answer, but the muscle working in his jaw told you your words had hit home.

"I'm not asking you to declare undying love, Sunghoon. I'm just asking you to be honest about what's happening between us." You sighed, suddenly exhausted by the emotional weight of the conversation. "But I can't force you to acknowledge feelings you're determined to deny."

You turned toward the stairs, heart heavy with disappointment. "I'll sleep in the guest room tonight."

"Y/N," he said, your name replacing the endearment that had become so natural on his lips. "I—" He stopped, seemingly unable to find the words for whatever he wanted to say.

"It's fine," you told him, though it wasn't. "We'll go back to how things were before. Professional cohabitation. Ministry compliance. Nothing messy or complicated."

You didn't wait for his response, climbing the stairs with your dignity intact despite the ache in your chest. Only when you reached the guest bedroom did you allow yourself to acknowledge the truth: somewhere between reluctant marriage and those precious weeks of genuine connection, you'd fallen in love with Park Sunghoon—his hidden warmth, his dry humor, his awkward but earnest attempts at expressing affection.

And clearly, he wasn't ready to face the fact that he might be falling in love with you too.

-

You didn't speak to Sunghoon for three days after your confrontation.

It wasn't difficult to achieve—he left early each morning and returned late, making it easy to maintain your silent treatment. When you did cross paths, you responded to his polite inquiries with minimal words, never meeting his eyes, never lingering in the same room longer than necessary.

If he noticed your deliberate avoidance (and you knew he did—Sunghoon noticed everything), he made no comment. The polite mask he'd perfected over years of diplomatic service remained firmly in place, betraying nothing of whatever thoughts might be churning beneath.

On the fourth day, you arrived home earlier than usual. Your shift had ended unexpectedly when the magical ailment you'd been treating—a case of enchanted hiccups that caused the patient to float six inches off the ground with each spasm—had suddenly resolved itself. As you quietly entered the house, you heard Sunghoon's voice drifting from his study.

You paused in the hallway, wondering if he had a Floo call with the Ministry. But the soft tone of his voice and the occasional pauses suggested a different kind of conversation entirely.

Curious, you moved closer to the partially open door.

"She's still not talking to me," Sunghoon was saying, his voice lacking its usual composure. "Can't say I blame her."

A familiar meow responded.

"I know, I know," he sighed. "I messed up. But what was I supposed to do?"

You edged closer, peering through the crack in the door. Sunghoon sat at his desk, a forgotten cup of tea beside an open journal. Nyx was perched on top of his papers, her yellow eyes fixed on him as he ran a hand through his usually impeccable hair, leaving it charmingly disheveled.

"It was getting too real," he told the cat quietly. "Too important."

Nyx chirped, a sound somewhere between a meow and a trill.

"That's easy for you to say," he replied with a sad smile. "You've never had your heart broken, have you, my baby?"

The endearment—never before used for the cat—made your heart twist painfully in your chest.

"Your mum deserves better than this," he continued, absently scratching behind Nyx's ears. "Better than someone who can't even..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Nyx butted her head against his hand, purring loudly.

"I miss her," Sunghoon admitted softly, his voice cracking slightly. "It's ridiculous. She's right down the hall and I miss her like she's gone."

The simple confession, spoken when he thought no one was listening, created a complicated ache beneath your ribs. If he missed you, if he cared, why push you away?

"It's safer this way," he murmured, as if answering your unspoken question. "For both of us. The Ministry could end this any time, and then what? I go back to my empty apartment and pretend none of it mattered?"

Nyx meowed again, more insistently.

"You're biased," Sunghoon told her with a hint of his old humor. "Just because she rescued you from that alley doesn't mean she always knows best. She married me, didn't she?"

The self-deprecating joke—so unlike Sunghoon's usual confident demeanor—caught you by surprise.

"Though that wasn't really her choice," he added, his voice softening. "Neither of us chose this, Nyxie. That's what scares me."

He fell silent then, gently stroking Nyx's fur, his face unguarded in a way you'd rarely seen. The pain in his expression was so raw, so human, that you stepped back, suddenly uncomfortable with your eavesdropping. This wasn't the composed diplomat you'd first met. This was just a man—confused, hurting, and afraid of losing something precious before he was ready to admit how much it meant to him.

You retreated quietly to the kitchen, making deliberate noise as you prepared tea, giving Sunghoon time to compose himself before he realized you were home.

When he finally emerged from his study, Nyx trotting at his heels, the mask was mostly back in place—though you could see the slight redness around his eyes, the subtle tension in his shoulders. Something in your chest ached at how hard he was trying to hide his feelings.

"You're home early," he said, his voice carefully steady.

"Case resolved itself," you replied without looking up from your tea.

A silence fell, weighted with everything unsaid. Sunghoon lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, as if wanting to say more. Then, with a small nod, he retreated to his study, Nyx hesitating before following him with a backward glance at you that seemed almost apologetic.

That night, lying alone in the guest bedroom that had become your refuge, you stared at the ceiling and wondered how two people sharing a home could feel so completely separated. Not by walls or distance, but by fear—his fear of vulnerability, of loss, of attachment he couldn't control.

Perhaps the most painful realization was that Sunghoon wasn't cold or unfeeling as you'd first thought. He felt too much, and that terrified him more than anything.

-

Journal Entry: 2 May 2023

Three days of silence. I never thought I'd miss her voice this much.

She still won't look at me. Can't blame her, really. I wouldn't look at me either.

Nyx seems confused by the tension. She keeps looking between us like she's trying to figure out what went wrong. Smart cat. I wish she could tell me how to fix this without making it worse in the long run.

The Ministry assessment is in 18 days. I should be focused on that. Instead, I keep remembering how she looked at me that night—like I'd broken something precious. I suppose I did.

I'm not sleeping well. The bed feels wrong without her. Everything feels wrong.

She laughed in the kitchen yesterday. I was passing by the door and heard it—someone must have sent her a funny owl. For a second, I almost walked in just to see her smile. I stood there like an idiot, hand on the doorknob, unable to move.

This is for the best. It has to be. When the Ministry eventually dissolves these arrangements, clean breaks will be easier than messy ones. I know this. I've seen what happens when people get too attached to things that were never meant to last.

And yet.

I called Nyx "my baby" today. When did that happen? When did her cat become our cat become my baby?

The house feels empty even when we're both in it.

I miss her.

—Sunghoon

-

The Ministry owl arrived at precisely 6:17 AM on a Tuesday morning, tapping insistently at the kitchen window while you prepared your tea. Your silent standoff with Sunghoon had entered its second week, the atmosphere in the house growing increasingly strained despite his tentative attempts to bridge the gap.

The envelope bore the Ministry's official seal—a sight that never brought good news. With a sigh, you opened it, scanning the contents quickly.

OFFICIAL NOTIFICATION MANDATORY MARRIAGE UNITY RETREAT MAY 12-15

Mr. and Mrs. Park,

As per Section 17.3 of the Marriage Unity Act, you are hereby required to attend the Ministry's Three-Month Compatibility Enhancement Retreat at Briar Rose Cottage in the Lake District. This mandatory three-day program facilitates deeper bonding between Ministry-matched couples through supervised therapeutic activities.

Failure to attend constitutes non-compliance with your marriage requirements.

A portkey will activate at your residence at 9:00 AM on May 12th.

Cordially, Euphemia Howell Marriage Compliance Office

You were still staring at the letter when Sunghoon entered the kitchen, his hair damp from the shower, his expression carefully neutral as it had been since your confrontation.

"Good morning," he said, the greeting so formal it made your teeth ache.

You wordlessly handed him the letter, watching as he read it with growing tension around his eyes.

"The retreat," he said flatly. "I'd hoped they might overlook it."

"Apparently not," you replied, your first full sentence to him in days.

Sunghoon set the letter down carefully. "I'll make the necessary arrangements at the Ministry. My schedule can be adjusted."

"How accommodating of you," you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice.

His eyes met yours directly for the first time in days, something flickering in their depths. "Y/N—"

"It's fine," you interrupted, not ready for whatever carefully measured statement he was preparing. "We'll go, we'll convince them we're just fine, and we'll come back to our perfectly efficient cohabitation arrangement."

You left the kitchen before he could respond, the bitter taste in your mouth having nothing to do with your cooling tea.

-

The morning of the retreat arrived with gloomy skies that matched your mood perfectly. You packed with minimal enthusiasm, throwing clothes into a bag without your usual care. What did it matter what you wore to pretend to be happily married to someone who couldn't bear the thought of actually caring for you?

Sunghoon was already in the living room when you came downstairs, his own bag precisely packed beside him, Nyx curled in his lap. The sight of them together—Sunghoon absently stroking the cat while she purred contentedly—created a familiar ache in your chest.

"The portkey will activate in seven minutes," he said, glancing up as you entered. His expression softened slightly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," you lied. In truth, you'd barely slept at all, anxiety about the upcoming retreat keeping you awake until the early hours.

Sunghoon nodded, clearly not believing you but not pressing the issue. He gently moved Nyx to the sofa cushion, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like "Be good, Nyxie. Okay?" before standing to face you.

"I've arranged for Healer Matthews to check on Nyx tomorrow," he said, adjusting his perfectly straight collar. "And I've left extra food in her enchanted bowl."

The fact that he'd thought of Nyx's care—that he'd made arrangements for "your" cat without being asked—made something twist painfully in your chest. How could he be so thoughtful in some ways and so infuriatingly closed off in others?

"Thank you," you said simply, your anger momentarily deflated by this small kindness.

Sunghoon nodded once, retrieving a tarnished silver hairbrush from the coffee table. "This is the portkey. It will activate in approximately three minutes."

You moved to stand beside him, close enough to touch but maintaining a careful distance. The silence between you felt heavier than usual, weighted with the prospect of three days in close quarters under the Ministry's watchful eye.

"It won't be as bad as you think," Sunghoon said suddenly, his voice softer than you expected.

You glanced up, surprised by this attempt at reassurance. "Won't it?"

Something flickered in his eyes—vulnerability, perhaps, quickly masked. "We've managed more difficult challenges."

Before you could respond, the hairbrush began to glow. Sunghoon held it out, and you placed your finger reluctantly against the handle. The familiar, unpleasant jerk behind your navel swept you away, the world spinning in a kaleidoscope of color before resolving into a picturesque cottage garden.

Briar Rose Cottage was undeniably charming—a quaint stone building covered in climbing roses, nestled against a backdrop of rolling hills and the glittering surface of a lake in the distance. In other circumstances, you might have found it breathtaking.

"Mr. and Mrs. Park!" A cheerful voice called from the cottage doorway. A plump witch with rosy cheeks and a clipboard hurried toward you. "Welcome to your Marriage Unity Retreat! I'm Facilitator Penelope, your guide to deeper connection!"

Her enthusiasm was so at odds with the tension between you and Sunghoon that you almost laughed. Beside you, Sunghoon straightened his already perfect posture, slipping into his diplomatic persona with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the welcome," he said smoothly. "We're pleased to be here."

"Delighted!" Facilitator Penelope beamed, checking something off on her clipboard. "Now, let me show you to your cottage. You're in the Primrose Suite—our most romantic accommodation!"

She led you down a winding garden path to a smaller cottage set apart from the main building. The interior was just as charming as the exterior—a cozy sitting room with a crackling fire, a small kitchenette, and a single bedroom visible through an open door, dominated by an enormous four-poster bed strewn with rose petals.

"The bedroom has been specially enchanted for maximum intimacy," Penelope explained with a wink that made you want to sink through the floor. "The roses are self-replenishing, and the lighting adjusts to create the perfect mood!"

Sunghoon's expression remained perfectly neutral, though you noticed the slight tightening of his jaw. "How... thoughtful."

"Your orientation session begins in the main hall at eleven," Penelope continued, apparently oblivious to your discomfort. "That gives you a full hour to get settled in. The handbook on the table outlines all retreat activities. I'll leave you to get... comfortable."

With another suggestive wink, she bustled out, leaving you and Sunghoon in awkward silence.

"Well," you said finally, dropping your bag onto a nearby chair. "This is... a lot."

"Indeed," Sunghoon agreed, picking up the handbook with a slight frown. "According to this, we have a full schedule of 'bonding exercises' planned for the next three days."

You moved to read over his shoulder, uncomfortably aware of his proximity and the familiar scent of his cologne. The handbook listed activities like "Emotional Vulnerability Sessions," "Physical Connection Workshops," and "Guided Intimacy Meditation."

"This is a nightmare," you muttered, stepping away from him.

To your surprise, Sunghoon didn't disagree. "Some of these activities appear designed to create artificial emotional responses through environmental and psychological manipulation."

"You mean they're trying to force us to feel connected," you translated.

"Precisely." He closed the handbook, his expression thoughtful. "However, I believe we have an alternative option."

"Which is?"

"We don't participate."

You stared at him, certain you'd misheard. "But it's mandatory. The letter said—"

"The letter required our attendance at the retreat," Sunghoon corrected. "It did not specify mandatory participation in every scheduled activity."

"So what do you suggest?" you asked, confused by this unexpectedly rebellious stance from someone who typically followed rules to the letter.

"I suggest," he said carefully, "that we register our arrival, make brief appearances at meal times, and otherwise remain in our cottage."

"Just... hide out here for three days?"

"It would be significantly less uncomfortable than participating in 'guided intimacy meditation,' would it not?" He raised an eyebrow, a hint of his dry humor briefly visible.

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tugging at your lips. "I can't argue with that."

Sunghoon nodded once, as if the matter were settled. "I'll inform Facilitator Penelope that you're feeling unwell and need to rest. Food can be brought to the cottage. We can use the time to catch up on work or reading."

The practicality of his solution was so characteristically Sunghoon that it almost made your heart ache. Even now, with things broken between you, he was trying to make the situation more comfortable for you.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "That's... considerate."

Something flickered in his eyes—a brief, unguarded moment before his usual reserve returned. "The retreat's methods are invasive and manipulative. Neither of us should be subjected to them."

Before you could respond, a knock at the door announced Facilitator Penelope's return. Sunghoon straightened his already perfect posture and went to answer it.

"Just checking how you're settling in!" Penelope chirped, trying to peer past him into the cottage.

"Actually," Sunghoon said, his voice taking on the smooth, authoritative tone he used in diplomatic negotiations, "I'm afraid my wife isn't feeling well. The portkey travel was unusually difficult for her."

You quickly sat on the sofa, doing your best to look pale and distressed. It wasn't difficult, given the circumstances.

"Oh dear!" Penelope's cheerful face creased with concern. "Would you like me to call in our healer?"

"That won't be necessary," Sunghoon assured her. "She simply needs rest. We'll need to skip today's activities, I'm afraid."

Penelope looked momentarily flustered. "But the opening ceremony is crucial for establishing group dynamics! And the vulnerability circle is the foundation of the entire retreat experience!"

"I'm sure they are," Sunghoon replied, his tone gently implacable. "However, my wife's health must be the priority. Perhaps we can join tomorrow if she's feeling better."

There was something in the way he said "my wife"—a subtle emphasis, a hint of genuine protectiveness—that made your heart flutter traitorously in your chest.

"Well... I suppose health comes first," Penelope conceded reluctantly. "I'll have meals sent to your cottage. But please do try to join us tomorrow if possible. The magical bond strengthening ceremony cannot be rescheduled."

"We'll do our very best," Sunghoon promised with diplomatic gravity.

After Penelope left, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. "That was impressive. I'd almost believe I was actually ill."

"Years of diplomatic training have some practical applications," Sunghoon replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in what you now recognized as his version of a smile. "We should be left in peace until dinner at least."

An awkward silence fell as you both realized you were now effectively trapped together in the small cottage with nothing but the tension between you for company.

"I brought some patient files to review," you said, moving toward your bag.

"And I have correspondence to answer," Sunghoon nodded, reaching for his own satchel.

You settled on opposite ends of the sofa, carefully maintaining the distance between you as you worked in silence. But unlike the strained atmosphere of the past week, this silence felt almost... peaceful. There was something almost comforting about sitting with Sunghoon like this, each absorbed in your own work but aware of the other's presence.

Hours passed this way, the silence broken only by the occasional turning of pages or scratch of Sunghoon's quill. Outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows and enhancing the cottage's cozy atmosphere despite the awkwardness of your situation.

When lunch arrived—a basket filled with sandwiches, fruit, and two bottles of pumpkin juice—you were surprised to find yourself actually hungry.

"It seems hiding from enforced bonding activities improves the appetite," you observed, selecting a sandwich.

Sunghoon looked up from his correspondence, that almost-smile appearing briefly. "A study should be conducted. The Ministry might reconsider their methodologies."

The small joke—so understated and typically Sunghoon—caught you off guard. For a moment, it felt like before—before the storm night, before the closeness, before the painful withdrawal. Just the two of you, finding unexpected moments of connection in your arranged circumstance.

"I've missed this," you said without thinking, then immediately regretted the admission.

Sunghoon went very still, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Missed what?"

You hesitated, then decided honesty couldn't make things worse than they already were. "Just... talking. Being comfortable. Before everything got so complicated."

He set down his sandwich with careful precision, his expression unreadable. "I've missed it too."

The simple admission hung in the air between you, more meaningful than it should have been.

"Why did you pull away?" you asked finally, the question that had been burning inside you for weeks finally escaping. "We were good together, Sunghoon. Maybe it wasn't planned, maybe it wasn't what either of us expected, but it was real. I know it was."

Sunghoon was silent for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, with uncharacteristic hesitancy: "It was too real."

"What does that even mean?"

He looked at you directly, his carefully maintained composure slipping to reveal something raw beneath. "I don't know how to do this, Y/N. I don't know how to feel this much for someone the Ministry could take away with the stroke of a pen."

The bare honesty of his admission took your breath away. "So you decided to take yourself away first? To protect yourself?"

"To protect us both," he corrected quietly. "Attachments in temporary situations lead to pain. I've seen it happen. I've—" He stopped, something vulnerable flashing across his face. "I've experienced it."

Understanding dawned. "Who was it?"

Sunghoon's jaw tightened, but he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "My mother," he said finally. "She fell in love with a diplomat from another country. When his assignment ended, he left. She never recovered."

"I'm not going to leave you, Sunghoon," you said softly.

"You might not have a choice," he replied, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "The Ministry created this marriage; they can dissolve it just as easily when their population goals are achieved."

"So your solution is to never let yourself care? To never let yourself have anything real because you might lose it someday?" You shook your head, your own emotions rising to the surface. "That's not living, Sunghoon. That's just existing."

"It's safer," he said simply.

"It's lonely," you countered. "And you know what? It didn't work. You still cared. You still got attached. I heard you talking to Nyx."

Sunghoon went very still. "What?"

"I came home early one day last week. I heard you in your study, talking to Nyx." You held his gaze steadily. "You called her 'my baby.' You talked about missing me."

A faint color rose in his cheeks, but he didn't look away. "You weren't meant to hear that."

"But I did. And it told me what you wouldn't—that pushing me away didn't stop you from caring. It just made you miserable." You leaned forward, holding his gaze. "It made us both miserable."

Sunghoon's expression flickered, his careful mask cracking to reveal the conflict beneath. "What would you have me do, Y/N? Pretend this isn't temporary? Pretend we chose each other?"

"No," you said quietly. "I'd have you acknowledge what's already happened. We didn't choose each other, but we did choose to make something real out of this arrangement. We chose each other every day for those few weeks. And it was good, Sunghoon. It was so good."

"And when it ends?" he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Then we'll have had something real," you said simply. "Isn't that better than nothing at all?"

Sunghoon looked away, gazing out at the rain-streaked windows. The silence stretched between you, weighted with the enormity of what you were asking him to risk.

"I don't know if I can," he admitted finally, the words clearly difficult for him. "I don't know if I have the courage for it."

His raw honesty, the vulnerability in his admission, touched something deep in your chest. This wasn't the polished diplomat or the analytical perfectionist. This was just Sunghoon—afraid, uncertain, but finally, completely real with you.

"You were brave enough to call Nyx our daughter," you reminded him gently. "You were brave enough to tell me you needed me. Maybe you can be brave enough for this too."

Sunghoon turned back to you, something shifting in his expression. "You make me want to be," he said quietly. "That's what terrifies me."

The simple admission, spoken without calculation or reserve, made your heart flip in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted whatever you might have said. Sunghoon's expression instantly closed, his diplomatic mask sliding back into place as he rose to answer it.

Facilitator Penelope stood on the threshold, beaming despite the rain dampening her robes. "Just checking on our patient! Feeling any better, Mrs. Park?"

You summoned a weak smile. "Still a bit queasy, I'm afraid."

"Oh dear," Penelope's face fell momentarily before brightening again. "Well, I've brought you both a special tea from our healer! It promotes wellness and—" she lowered her voice conspiratorially "—fertility!"

Sunghoon accepted the steaming mugs with admirable composure, though you noticed the slight tightening around his eyes. "How thoughtful."

"The evening bonding ceremony will begin at seven," Penelope continued cheerfully. "It's a beautiful ritual involving synchronized heartbeat spells! Very powerful for marital harmony!"

"We'll try to attend if my wife's condition improves," Sunghoon assured her, though his tone made it clear this was extremely unlikely.

After Penelope departed, Sunghoon set the mugs down on the table with obvious distaste. "I believe we can safely assume these contain potions designed to lower inhibitions and increase suggestibility."

You eyed the suspiciously shimmering liquid. "So much for the Ministry's ethical standards."

"Indeed." He returned to his seat, slightly closer to you than before. "It seems our conversation must be continued against a backdrop of increasingly invasive Ministry interventions."

"We don't have to continue it," you said carefully, giving him an out if he needed it.

Sunghoon studied you for a moment, something resolving in his expression. "I believe we do," he said quietly. "However uncomfortable it might be."

Your heart gave a hopeful flutter. "Okay."

He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for something difficult. "I apologize for the way I handled things after... after we became intimate. It wasn't well done of me."

The formal phrasing was so characteristically Sunghoon that it almost made you smile despite the seriousness of the moment. "You hurt me," you said simply.

"I know." His voice was low, heavy with regret. "I panicked. The intensity of what I was feeling—it wasn't something I was prepared for. I've spent my life constructing systems to manage emotions, to keep them within acceptable parameters."

"And I disrupted those systems," you guessed.

"Completely," he agreed, a hint of something almost like wonder in his voice. "You made me feel things I couldn't categorize or control. It was... overwhelming."

"So you shut down."

"It seemed the logical solution at the time." A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "I'm beginning to understand it might not have been."

You reached out, touching his hand lightly. "Feelings aren't logical, Sunghoon. They never have been."

He turned his hand over, catching your fingers in his. "I'm not good at this," he admitted, the simple touch seeming to ground him. "I don't know how to be what you need."

"I don't need you to be anything other than what you are," you told him. "I just need you to be honest—with me and with yourself."

Sunghoon's fingers tightened around yours. "When I'm with you, I feel... complete," he said, the words clearly difficult for him. "As if a part of me I didn't know was missing has been found. It's irrational. Unquantifiable. Terrifying."

"It's called falling in love, Sunghoon," you said softly.

His eyes met yours, startled by your directness. "Is that what this is?"

"I think you know it is," you said, your heart pounding as you took this final risk. "I know I do."

For a moment, Sunghoon simply looked at you, something complex and unreadable moving in his eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised his free hand to your cheek.

"I've been so afraid of losing you that I pushed you away," he said quietly. "That doesn't seem particularly logical in retrospect."

A smile touched your lips. "Not your finest strategic decision."

"No," he agreed, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with exquisite gentleness. "But I believe I've developed a better approach."

"Which is?"

"To stop fighting what I feel for you," he said simply. "To accept that some things can't be managed or controlled—they can only be experienced."

Your breath caught at the raw honesty in his voice. "Sunghoon—"

"I love you," he said, the words clear and certain, as if once decided, there could be no hesitation. "I don't know when it happened or how, but I do. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise."

The simple declaration, spoken without qualification or analysis, made your heart soar. You reached for him, drawing him closer. "Say it again."

A smile—a real, unguarded smile that transformed his entire face—curved his lips. "I love you, angel."

This time, when his lips met yours, there was no hesitation, no careful calculation—just the pure, honest connection of two people who had found each other despite everything.

The kiss deepened quickly, weeks of distance and longing crystallizing into urgent need. Sunghoon's arms drew you against him, your body molding to his as if returning to its natural state.

"I've missed you," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with emotion. "So much."

"I've missed you too," you whispered, your hands finding their way into his hair, disheveling his perfect appearance in the way you'd learned he secretly loved.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Sunghoon rested his forehead against yours. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable," he suggested, his eyes darting toward the bedroom door.

"I thought you'd never ask," you smiled, rising and pulling him with you.

The bedroom, with its enormous four-poster and enchanted rose petals, might have seemed tacky under other circumstances. But as Sunghoon closed the door behind you, all that mattered was the way he looked at you—like you were precious, irreplaceable, essential.

His hands framed your face with exquisite tenderness, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure about this? About me?"

"I've never been more sure of anything," you told him, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "I love you, Sunghoon. All of you—the analytical parts, the diplomatic parts, the parts that talk to our cat when you think no one's listening."

A laugh—a genuine, unguarded sound that you'd heard so rarely—escaped him. "I thought I'd imagined you calling her 'our daughter' that night," he admitted, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "When you heard me talking to her—"

"It made me love you even more," you said simply.

Something in his expression shifted, softened, opened completely. Then, with deliberate gentleness, he lowered his mouth to yours.

But Sunghoon surprised you. He pulled away.

You had expected something hungry, desperate, hurried—the way he had kissed you downstairs, the way his hands had gripped your waist like he couldn't stand not touching you. 

But now, standing before you, he was achingly gentle.

His hands hovered over your shoulders before finally resting there, thumbs smoothing over your skin as he leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, so soft, so patient, as if giving you one last chance to stop him.

When you didn’t, he exhaled sharply, like he had been holding his breath.

His fingers trailed down your arms, delicate yet unwavering, before reaching for the hem of your shirt. Slowly—painstakingly slowly—he lifted it, his knuckles grazing your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Every patch of skin revealed was met with his lips. Every inch of you, memorized.

"You are beautiful, my beautiful wifel," he murmured against your collarbone, so softly that the words barely reached you. But you heard them. You felt them.

A shiver ran through you—not just from his touch, but from the way he said it, like he truly meant it.

Sunghoon didn’t rush.

If anything, he seemed to be pacing himself, like he was afraid to move too fast, afraid to miss anything. He traced your body with his hands, his lips following, as if this moment deserved to be experienced, not just lived through.

When he finally reached for his own shirt, your hands beat him to it.

Sunghoon stilled, his breath hitching when your fingers brushed over his stomach, his skin warm under your palms. You felt the faintest tremor when you dragged your nails up his chest—his muscles flexing involuntarily, his heartbeat hammering beneath your touch.

His reaction was intoxicating.

Sunghoon—composed, controlled Sunghoon—undone by you.

His usual restraint cracked the moment you leaned forward, lips brushing, then pressing against the line of his throat.

"Angel," he whispered, voice rougher than before, his hands tightening on your waist.

It was the way he said it—the sheer need in his voice—that made heat bloom deep in your belly.

"I need—"

"I know," you assured him, pulling him closer, molding yourself against him. "Me too."

His control snapped.

Sunghoon had always been meticulous. Attentive. A perfectionist to the core.

But that didn’t prepare you for the way he touched you now.

Like you were something precious. Like every sound you made was a revelation.

He moved slowly, mapping you with his lips, his hands, his breath—learning you, adjusting, testing what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made you tremble.

And when he found the places that made your breath stutter, he lingered.

He kissed down your stomach, his hands smoothing over your thighs, parting them with reverence. And when his lips replaced his hands warm, deliberate, insistent—you gasped his name.

That sound—his name, shaped by your pleasure—did something to him.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as he worked you open, devastatingly precise, like he was memorizing the way your body responded to him.

And it wasn’t just what he was doing—it was the way he looked at you.

His dark eyes, locked onto yours, watching every reaction, like he needed to see you fall apart for him.

This was Sunghoon, letting you in.

When he finally pressed himself against you, his body molding to yours, he hesitated.

A brief, flickering moment of uncertainty.

You lifted your hand to his cheek, tilting his face toward yours. "It's just us, Hoon."

His breath shook.

And when he finally moved, it was everything.

Slow. Deep. Unbelievably tender.

And when he kissed you, you swore you could taste devotion on his lips.

Later, as you lay tangled together in the ridiculous rose-covered bed, Sunghoon traced abstract patterns on your bare shoulder, his expression thoughtful.

"What are you thinking?" you asked, pressing a kiss to his chest.

"That I owe Facilitator Penelope a thank you," he replied, surprising a laugh from you.

"For the fertility tea we didn't drink?"

"For creating the circumstances that finally forced me to be honest," he corrected, his fingers trailing down your spine. "Though I still have no intention of participating in synchronized heartbeat spells."

You laughed again, the sound drawing a smile from him. "Me neither. I think we're managing just fine on our own."

His expression grew serious again, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "I can't promise I won't be afraid sometimes," he said quietly. "This is... new territory for me."

"For both of us," you assured him. "We'll figure it out together."

Sunghoon nodded, something settling in his expression. "Together," he agreed, the word clearly significant to him. "I like the sound of that."

As twilight deepened outside the cottage windows, neither of you made any move to join the evening's activities. The Ministry's mandatory retreat continued without you, the synchronized heartbeat spells and vulnerability exercises proceeding as scheduled while you remained wrapped in each other's arms, creating your own, far more genuine connection.

Later, when dinner arrived via a house-elf who tactfully avoided looking at your disheveled state, Sunghoon accepted the tray with grave courtesy before returning to bed, where you ate between kisses and shared confidences.

"Do you think we should make an appearance tomorrow?" you asked as night fell completely, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I think," Sunghoon said thoughtfully, his fingers tracing lazy patterns in your hair, "that we've already achieved what the retreat intended. Perhaps more effectively than their methods could have managed."

You smiled against his skin. "So that's a no?"

"That's a 'I have no intention of sharing you with anyone for the next two days,'" he clarified, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Mmm, I like this plan," you murmured, settling more comfortably against him. "Very efficient use of our mandatory retreat time."

"I thought you'd approve," he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice—that rare, genuine expression that you now knew was reserved just for you.

Outside, the rain continued to fall gently on the cottage roof. In the main hall, the Ministry's retreat activities carried on without you. But in your rose-scented bedroom, you'd found everything the Ministry had hoped to create and more—not through spells or enforced exercises, but through the simple, profound courage of allowing yourselves to love despite the risks.

As you drifted toward sleep in Sunghoon's arms, you realized that sometimes, the most unlikely beginnings could lead to the most beautiful journeys—if only you were brave enough to take the first step.

And finally, both of you were.

-

The Ministry portkey deposited you both in your living room with the usual disorienting lurch, your bags landing neatly beside you. After three days secluded in the cottage, the familiar surroundings of your home felt both welcoming and slightly strange, as if you were seeing it through new eyes.

"Home sweet home," you murmured, steadying yourself against Sunghoon's arm.

"Indeed," he agreed, his free hand automatically reaching to straighten a picture frame that had tilted during your arrival. Some habits, it seemed, would never change.

A loud meow announced Nyx's presence before she came tearing around the corner, tail high and vibrating with indignation at having been abandoned for three days. She wound herself between your legs, then Sunghoon's, her complaints echoing off the walls.

"Yes, we missed you too," you told her, bending to scratch behind her ears.

To your surprise, Sunghoon crouched down beside you, extending his hand to the aggrieved cat. "I apologize for our absence," he said with complete seriousness. "It was a Ministry requirement, not a voluntary abandonment."

Nyx butted her head against his palm, her purr starting up like a small engine.

"She forgives you faster than she forgives me," you observed with a smile.

"Strategic diplomacy," Sunghoon replied, though his eyes held a warmth that belied the formal words. "I believe bribes may be necessary to fully restore relations."

As if understanding his words, Nyx trotted toward the kitchen, pausing to look back expectantly.

"Our daughter appears to be suggesting dinner," Sunghoon said, rising and offering you his hand.

You took it, allowing him to pull you to your feet and into his arms in one smooth motion. "I'd say she has her priorities straight."

Sunghoon's arms tightened around you, his eyes softening as they met yours. "Food can wait," he murmured, lowering his head to catch your lips in a kiss that made your toes curl.

You melted against him, still marveling at this new version of Sunghoon—one who initiated affection without hesitation, who held you as if afraid you might disappear if he let go. Three days away from the Ministry's watchful eye, three days of honesty and reconnection, had transformed something between you—not erasing his reserved nature, but allowing the warmth beneath to emerge without calculation or restraint.

"Mmm," you sighed when you finally broke apart. "I could get used to being greeted like that."

A small smile curved his lips. "I intend to make it a regular occurrence."

Nyx meowed again, more insistently this time.

"However," Sunghoon added, his expression turning serious, "it appears we have a diplomatic crisis requiring immediate attention."

You laughed, the sound drawing another of those rare, genuine smiles from him. "Heaven forbid we keep the ambassador waiting."

Together, you moved to the kitchen, Nyx trotting ahead with her tail held high in triumph. As Sunghoon prepared her food with his characteristic precision—exactly two scoops, carefully placed in the center of her bowl—you found yourself studying him, still adjusting to the new reality between you.

He looked the same—perfectly pressed robes, immaculate hair, posture straight enough to make a finishing school teacher weep with joy. But there was something different in the way he moved now, a subtle ease that hadn't been there before. The rigid control that had characterized his every gesture had softened, not into sloppiness but into a more natural grace.

When he caught you watching, his eyebrow raised in silent question.

"Nothing," you said, smiling. "Just... happy to be home."

Something flickered in his eyes—warm, intimate, just for you. "As am I, angel."

The simple endearment, now spoken with genuine affection rather than calculated familiarity, sent a pleasant warmth through your chest. Sunghoon moved to the refrigerator, assessing its contents with his usual methodical approach.

"Limited options," he observed. "I don't suppose you'd object to takeaway?"

"Sounds perfect," you agreed, leaning against the counter. "I don't think either of us is in the mood for cooking tonight."

A hint of color rose in Sunghoon's cheeks, his mind clearly revisiting the same memories as yours—of lazy meals in bed, of conversations that stretched into the night, of rediscovering each other with unhurried thoroughness. "Indeed," he said, his voice slightly lower than usual. "We have been... otherwise occupied."

The kitchen suddenly felt several degrees warmer. "Those Ministry retreat cottages certainly provided plenty of... activities," you said innocently.

Sunghoon's eyes darkened. "None of which appeared in their official program."

You laughed, the tension breaking as Sunghoon's lips curved into a small smile. "I'm going to shower while we wait for food," you said, pushing away from the counter. "I feel like I still have rose petals in my hair."

"You do," Sunghoon confirmed, reaching out to pluck a tiny dried petal from behind your ear. "Just here."

His fingers lingered against your skin, the simple touch charged with meaning after everything you'd shared. For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the gravity of the other's presence.

Then Nyx, finished with her dinner, jumped onto the counter between you, breaking the moment.

"Boundaries, daughter," Sunghoon told her, though his tone held no real reproach as he gently set her back on the floor. "We've discussed this."

You shook your head, smiling as you headed for the stairs. "Good luck with that particular diplomatic negotiation. She's outmaneuvered you from day one."

"A temporary tactical advantage," Sunghoon called after you. "I'm developing countermeasures."

Your laughter followed you up the stairs, a lightness in your step that had been missing during the painful weeks of distance. The shower was blissfully hot, washing away the last traces of portkey travel and Ministry interference. As you dried your hair, you could hear Sunghoon moving around downstairs, the familiar sounds of his precise movements oddly comforting.

When you came back downstairs, wearing comfortable pajamas despite the early hour, you found the living room transformed. The lights had been dimmed, a fire crackling in the hearth despite the mild spring evening. Cushions and throw blankets had been arranged on the floor before the fire, and the coffee table held an array of containers from your favorite Indian restaurant.

Sunghoon stood beside this arrangement, looking almost uncertain. "I thought you might prefer a relaxed dinner," he said, his tone casual though his eyes watched you carefully for your reaction.

"It's perfect," you said softly, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. "When did you have time to arrange all this?"

"Efficient time management," he replied, though the slight color in his cheeks suggested he'd moved rather quickly to create this surprise. "The restaurant is only a brief Floo call away."

You moved to him, rising on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

His arm curved around your waist, holding you close for a moment longer than necessary. "You're welcome, angel."

Dinner was a relaxed affair, both of you sitting cross-legged on the cushions, sharing food directly from the containers in a way that would have been unthinkable a month ago. Sunghoon had even changed into casual trousers and a simple shirt—an outfit you'd rarely seen him wear.

"The Ministry assessment is next week," he said as you both finished eating, his tone carefully neutral.

You set down your fork, stomach tightening slightly at the reminder. "Tuesday, isn't it?"

Sunghoon nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Given our attendance at the retreat, they may be more... thorough in their evaluation."

"Because we skipped all the activities?"

"It's possible they've been informed of our non-participation," he confirmed, though he didn't look particularly concerned. "However, I believe our current situation will more than satisfy their requirements."

You smiled, reaching for his hand across the blankets. "You mean the fact that we're actually happy together now?"

His fingers entwined with yours, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm. "Precisely. Though I anticipate they'll have a considerably more invasive set of questions this time."

"Let them ask," you said simply. "We have nothing to hide anymore."

Something flickered in Sunghoon's eyes—a vulnerability that still caught you off guard when it appeared. "No," he agreed softly. "No more hiding."

Nyx chose that moment to insert herself into the conversation, stepping delicately onto Sunghoon's lap and turning three precise circles before settling down with a contented purr.

"I see you've been claimed," you observed, smiling at the sight of your proper, dignified husband absently stroking the cat while she kneaded his leg.

"We've negotiated a mutual non-aggression pact," Sunghoon replied, though the gentle way his fingers moved through Nyx's fur belied the formal description. "She permits me to occupy the residence; I acknowledge her territorial sovereignty."

You laughed, the sound drawing Sunghoon's eyes to your face with unexpected intensity.

"What?" you asked, self-conscious under his steady gaze.

"I like hearing you laugh," he said simply. "I missed it... before."

Before. Such a small word to encompass the painful weeks of distance, the walls built between you, the careful avoidance of anything real.

"I missed a lot of things before," you replied softly. "I'm glad we found our way back."

Sunghoon's expression softened into something almost vulnerable. "As am I." He hesitated, then added quietly, "I'm sorry it took me so long to find the courage."

"You found it," you assured him, squeezing his hand. "That's what matters."

He nodded, something settling in his expression. "The Ministry's requirements brought us together, but what's between us now is our choice. Our creation. Not theirs."

"Our very own diplomatic treaty," you teased gently.

A smile—small but genuine—curved his lips. "With considerably more pleasant negotiation methods than I'm accustomed to."

"Speaking of pleasant negotiations," you said, moving to sit beside him, your shoulder brushing his. "I believe we were discussing Ministry assessments?"

Sunghoon's arm came around you, drawing you against his side as if it were the most natural gesture in the world—which, perhaps, it now was. "I believe we've covered the essential points," he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear that he'd discovered during your time at the cottage.

"Mmm," you sighed, tilting your head to give him better access. "You're sure? No additional preparations required?"

"Perhaps some practical exercises," he suggested, his voice dropping lower. "To ensure consistent performance."

You laughed, turning in his arms to face him properly. "Always so thorough, Mr. Park."

"In all important matters, Mrs. Park," he agreed seriously, though his eyes held a warmth that made your heart flutter. "And nothing is more important than this."

Later, as you lay tangled together in the bed that now truly felt shared, Sunghoon's fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.

"I never expected this," he murmured, his voice soft in the darkness.

"What?" you asked, nestled against his chest.

"Happiness," he said simply. "Real happiness, not just satisfaction or achievement or proper functioning. This... completeness."

The unguarded admission, so unlike his usually measured statements, created a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. "I never expected you," you replied honestly. "The real you, under all those perfect manners and diplomatic phrases."

His arms tightened around you. "For a long time, I wasn't sure the real me existed anymore," he admitted. "I'd spent so many years becoming what was required—the perfect son, the perfect diplomat, the perfect Ministry employee. You made me remember there was more."

You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I like all the versions of you," you told him. "Even the infuriatingly proper one who measured appropriate hand-holding distance."

A soft chuckle—still rare enough to be precious—rumbled through his chest. "I believe those measurements may require revision," he said, his hand finding yours and entwining your fingers. "Current data suggests significantly closer proximity is optimal."

"Optimal, hmm?" you teased, lifting your head to see his face in the moonlight filtering through the curtains.

"Essential," he corrected softly, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "You are essential to me, Y/N. Not because the Ministry decided it, but because I choose it. Because I choose you, every day."

The simple declaration, spoken without qualification or analysis, made your heart swell. "I choose you too," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to his.

As the kiss deepened, as his hands began their now-familiar exploration of your body, as the world narrowed to just the two of you in the darkness, you marveled at how something that began as a Ministry imposition had transformed into the most real, most chosen thing in your life.

Perhaps, you thought fleetingly as Sunghoon rolled you beneath him, sometimes the most reluctant beginnings led to the most passionate endings.

And this was only the beginning.

Epilogue

Six months later

"Nyx, cease and desist immediately," Sunghoon's voice drifted from the study, prompting you to pause in the hallway. "That document is for the Hungarian Minister, not feline consumption."

A plaintive meow followed.

"Your objection is noted but overruled," he continued, his tone serious but warm. "The diplomatic corps does not recognize 'but it looks chewable' as valid grounds for document destruction."

You smiled, leaning against the doorframe to observe the familiar scene—Sunghoon at his desk, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it, Nyx perched regally atop a stack of parchments she had claimed as her sovereign territory.

"Judicial negotiations have concluded," Sunghoon informed the cat, gently lifting her from the documents. "The court finds in favor of the Ministry of Magic."

Nyx meowed indignantly as she was relocated to Sunghoon's lap, though her protests subsided when his hand automatically began stroking her fur.

"You know you're just encouraging her territorial ambitions," you observed, making your presence known.

Sunghoon looked up, his expression immediately softening in the way that still made your heart skip. "She employs highly persuasive methods of negotiation," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in what you now recognized as his version of a smile.

"You're wrapped around her paw," you teased, entering the study.

"A diplomat knows when strategic concessions are necessary for peace," he countered, though he didn't deny the observation.

Six months after your reconciliation at the Ministry retreat, these everyday moments still caught you by surprise—the easy warmth between you, the casual affection, the way Sunghoon's formal facade had softened into something more genuine without losing the essential qualities that made him who he was.

"The Hungarian proposal is finished?" you asked, moving to perch on the edge of his desk.

"Nearly," he confirmed, his free hand automatically reaching for yours, an unconscious gesture that spoke volumes about how far you'd come. "Their approach to international magical education standards is refreshingly progressive."

You listened as he explained the complexities of the proposal, his eyes lighting with the quiet passion he brought to his work. This was the real Sunghoon—brilliant, thoughtful, deeply committed to improving magical cooperation across borders. The fact that he now shared this side of himself with you, without filters or calculation, felt like a gift you unwrapped daily.

"I've been thinking," you said when he finished, your fingers absently playing with his.

"A dangerous pastime," he replied, eyebrow raised in mock concern.

You laughed, still delighted by these glimpses of his dry humor. "The Pediatric Magical Development Center at St. Mungo's is expanding," you continued. "They've asked me to head the new research division for childhood magical stabilization."

Sunghoon's eyes warmed with genuine pride. "That's a well-deserved recognition of your work with unstable magical cores. Your treatment protocol has already improved outcomes significantly."

"It would mean more regular hours," you added, watching his face carefully. "Less emergency shifts."

"That would be...very preferable," he said, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "Though I've grown used to your erratic schedule."

"And there's something else," you continued, heart quickening slightly. "The position includes specialized training in prenatal magical development."

Something flickered in Sunghoon's eyes—a sudden attention, a quiet intensity. "Prenatal development," he repeated, his voice carefully neutral.

"Yes," you confirmed, watching him closely. "They're particularly interested in research on how parents' magical signatures influence fetal magical development."

Sunghoon was silent for a moment, his fingers still moving against yours with unconscious intimacy. "That's a fascinating area of study," he said finally. "With significant practical applications."

"It made me think," you said, gathering your courage. "About us. About the future."

Nyx chose this moment to stretch dramatically in Sunghoon's lap, her paws extending toward the ceiling before she resettled, purring loudly.

"Our daughter approves of serious conversations," Sunghoon observed, his attempt at lightness not quite masking the sudden tension in his shoulders.

"I've been thinking about expanding our family," you said directly, deciding that after everything you'd been through, honesty was always the best approach with Sunghoon. "About having children. Actual human ones, in addition to our feline overlord."

Sunghoon went very still, his expression unreadable in a way you hadn't seen for months. For a moment, you feared you'd misjudged, pushed too far too soon.

"Children," he repeated, the word careful, measured.

"It's just a thought," you backtracked quickly. "Something to consider for the future. There's no rush—"

"Yes," Sunghoon interrupted, his voice unexpectedly firm.

You blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in his tone. "Yes?"

"Yes, I would like to have children with you," he clarified, his eyes holding yours with unwavering conviction. "I've given the matter considerable thought."

Relief flooded through you, followed quickly by curiosity. "You've been thinking about this?"

A hint of color rose in his cheeks. "It would be irresponsible not to consider all aspects of our future together."

"Of course," you agreed, fighting a smile at his characteristically methodical approach to family planning. "And what did your considerations conclude?"

"That I would like five or six," he said matter-of-factly.

You nearly choked. "Five or six what?"

"Children," he replied calmly, as if he'd merely suggested getting a few extra teacups.

"FIVE OR SIX CHILDREN?" Your voice rose to a pitch that startled Nyx from her comfortable position.

Sunghoon blinked, apparently surprised by your reaction. "Is that an unreasonable number?"

"Unreason—Sunghoon! That's half a Quidditch team!" you spluttered, torn between laughter and genuine shock. "Where did you even get that number?"

He looked slightly embarrassed now, adjusting his collar in the way he did when feeling defensive. "I may have prepared a preliminary analysis of optimal family size."

"An analysis," you repeated faintly. "Of course you did."

"It's merely a starting point for negotiation," he added, his tone suggesting he was prepared to be flexible on the exact figure.

"A starting point," you echoed, now fighting genuine laughter. "So generous of you."

"My research indicates that larger families provide numerous benefits, including built-in social structures, diverse personality dynamics, and practical experience with diplomatic conflict resolution," he continued, warming to his subject. "Additionally, having grown up as an only boy,with just a younger sister, I found the experience somewhat... limiting."

You stared at him, this perfectly proper diplomat calmly explaining why he wanted enough children to populate a small classroom, and suddenly you couldn't contain your laughter any longer.

"What?" he asked, looking genuinely puzzled by your reaction.

"Sunghoon," you managed through your laughter, "most people start with one child and see how it goes!"

"Inefficient," he replied with perfect seriousness. "Proper planning prevents—"

"If you say 'poor performance,' I swear I'll hex you," you threatened, still laughing.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I was going to say 'prevents problematic outcomes,' but your version has a certain alliterative appeal."

You slid from the desk into his lap, displacing an indignant Nyx who shot you a betrayed look before stalking from the room. "Let's compromise," you suggested, looping your arms around his neck. "How about we start with one and reassess after I've recovered from growing and birthing an actual human being?"

Sunghoon's arms came around you automatically, his expression softening into something tender. "Your counter-proposal has merit," he conceded. "Though I reserve the right to revisit the total number at a later date."

"Always the diplomat," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Not always," he corrected softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Not with you. Not anymore."

The simple statement, spoken without calculation or reserve, still had the power to make your heart flip in your chest. "I love you," you told him, because you could now, because the words came easily and often between you. "Even when you try to negotiate for a small army of children."

"I love you too," he replied without hesitation, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek. "Although I believe six hardly constitutes an army. Perhaps a specialized task force."

You laughed again, resting your forehead against his. "One at a time, Sunghoon. I promise we'll revisit your task force proposal after the first mission."

"Acceptable terms," he agreed, his lips finding yours with the easy familiarity that still felt like a miracle. "Though I should note that twins run in my family."

You pulled back slightly, narrowing your eyes at him. "You're not serious."

The smile that spread across his face—full, genuine, no longer rare but still precious—was your answer. "Perhaps we should begin with adjusting Nyx to the concept of a sibling," he suggested, his eyes dancing with humor. "She does like to be consulted on household changes."

"A trial run with a stuffed toy might be wise," you agreed, settling more comfortably against him. "Diplomatic relations with our daughter must be maintained."

As Sunghoon's arms tightened around you, as his laughter—no longer a rare occurrence—rumbled through his chest, you marveled at how far you'd come from those first stilted days of Ministry-mandated marriage. From measured proximity to genuine connection, from calculated familiarity to real intimacy, from reluctant cohabitation to a future planned together—with however many children eventually joined your family.

Later that evening, as you watched Sunghoon solemnly explaining to Nyx that future changes to the household structure would not affect her status as "firstborn daughter," you silently thanked the Ministry's ridiculous marriage law and the bureaucratic algorithm that had matched you with this man—this complex, brilliant, unexpectedly tender man who had learned to let himself love despite his fears.

Sometimes the most reluctant hearts, once opened, proved capable of the greatest love of all.

-

"Absolutely not," you said firmly, arms crossed over your chest. "Four is our absolute limit."

Sunghoon looked up from where he sat on the nursery floor, three-year-old twins climbing over him like a jungle gym while their six-month-old sister batted at a magical mobile nearby.

"But I've prepared new charts," he protested mildly, somehow maintaining his dignity despite the toddler attempting to use his shoulder as a launching pad. "The efficiency metrics for five children are significantly superior to four."

"The efficiency metrics for my sanity are currently hovering around critical," you informed him, though you couldn't suppress your smile at the sight of your proper, dignified husband covered in sticky fingerprints and sporting a lopsided sparkly clip in his perfectly arranged hair.

"You said that after the twins," he reminded you, catching your youngest daughter as she began to roll toward the edge of her play mat. "And yet here we are, already discussing the next addition."

"We are not discussing anything," you insisted, even as you bent to kiss the top of his head. "I'm stating a fact. Four children, Sunghoon. That's halfway to your original negotiation position, which I think shows remarkable generosity on my part."

"Mummy, Daddy promised me a brother next," your eldest daughter announced, bouncing on Sunghoon's lap with cheerful disregard for his comfort. "He pinky swore."

You raised an eyebrow at your husband, who had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Diplomatic negotiations with four-year-olds require certain tactical concessions," he explained.

"Tactical concessions," you repeated, fighting laughter. "I see."

Nyx, now elderly but still regal, observed the chaos from her perch atop the bookshelf—the only surface in the house not covered in toys, art supplies, or sticky residue of unknown origin. Her expression suggested both judgment and a certain smug satisfaction at having retained her throne despite the invasion of tiny humans.

"Our firstborn daughter remains skeptical of expansion plans," Sunghoon observed, following your gaze to the cat.

"Our firstborn daughter is the only one showing proper judgment," you replied, finally allowing your smile to break through. "Unlike her father, who apparently thinks we're establishing a new branch of the Ministry."

Sunghoon carefully disentangled himself from the twins, rising to pull you into his arms despite the children immediately wrapping themselves around his legs. "Not the Ministry," he corrected softly, his eyes warm with the love that still made your heart skip after all these years. "Just our own little diplomatic corps. With you as permanent ambassador to my heart."

"That," you informed him, rising on tiptoe to kiss him, "was terrible."

"But effective," he murmured against your lips as your arms tightened around him.

"Four, Sunghoon," you insisted when you broke apart, though you both knew your resolve was weakening. "Final offer."

His smile—still your favorite sight in the world—told you that negotiations were far from concluded. But as your children's laughter filled the room, as Nyx watched over her human siblings with reluctant affection, as Sunghoon held you close in the center of the beautiful chaos you'd created together, you couldn't find it in your heart to mind.

After all, the best diplomatic agreements left room for future amendments.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo @yongbokified @changbinniescurlyhair

[hisfavegirl]

The Serpent’s Flame - Draco Malfoy x Reader.

Summary : Being in your sixth year at Hogwarts meant you were nearly at the top of the food chain, and with your bloodline—the legacy of Salazar Slytherin on your father’s side and the dark, mysterious Gaunt lineage from your mother—you carried a reputation that both intimidated and intrigued. Students whispered about you in the halls. Some feared you, thinking your bloodline gave you a dark edge. Others envied your beauty—long, silver-blonde waves that cascaded past your waist, your tiny frame accentuated by curves most girls only dreamed of. And your emerald green eyes? Hypnotic. Dangerous. Just like a Slytherin should be.

Warning : Smut, Reader is described of having Silver blonde hair and green eyes, Reader is the last bloodline of salazar slytherin after voldemort, Nudity, Semi Public Sexs (Bathroom), Rough Sexs, Fingering, Edging, P in V sexs, Unprotected Sexs.

Draco Malfoy Masterlist.

Wizarding World Masterlist.

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws and @arcielee

The soft echo of your heels against the ancient stone floors of Hogwarts followed you as you strolled alongside Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, the air crisp with that early-winter sharpness that filled the castle in November. Pansy had just delivered a biting remark about a Hufflepuff girl who nearly incinerated the entire left wing of the Potions dungeon, and you let out a low, velvety laugh that lingered in the corridor like perfume.

“Honestly, how do you almost blow up the class with a Calming Draught?” Pansy drawled dramatically.

“Talent,” you mused, your voice as sweet as honey, but threaded with the same venom all Slytherin girls were taught to perfect.

Daphne smirked. “Jealous, Pans? I think you just hate not being the most talked-about disaster in the school.”

You rolled your eyes, lips curved in amusement, fingers grazing your wand tucked discreetly in your thigh holster beneath your skirt. Today, you left your hair down—a rare, silken curtain of long, silver-blonde waves cascading down your back. It shimmered like moonlight with each step. Only Slytherin students ever saw it like this. But today, everyone would.

The towering doors of the Great Hall groaned open under the weight of centuries, and a hush fell over your group as you stepped inside. Your presence pulled heads as if drawn by invisible string—Hufflepuff girls pausing mid-bite, Ravenclaws stealing glances over books, even a few daring Gryffindor boys locking eyes before quickly looking away.

But none of them mattered.

Your gaze found him instantly.

Draco Malfoy.

He sat languidly at the Slytherin table beside Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, his fingers playing idly with the edge of his goblet, but his eyes—those piercing, storm-grey eyes—were already on you. The moment your gaze met his, everything else dulled. Sound, light, movement—it all bled into background.

He was smiling.

Not the cold, calculated smirk he gave to the rest of the world. No, this was different—private, intimate, soft only for you. Like the rare sun behind grey clouds in a storm-wrecked sky. His eyes devoured you slowly, undressing you in a way that made your skin burn beneath your uniform.

You walked toward him, slow and graceful, every sway of your hips deliberate. You were aware of the way his eyes darkened the closer you got. By the time you reached him, the tension crackled like electricity.

Draco stood up before you even reached your seat, pulling out the bench beside him. His hand brushed the small of your back as you slid in, lingering there longer than necessary, thumb tracing slow, subtle circles against your blouse. He leaned in close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You know what that hair does to me,” he murmured, voice low and sinfully smooth.

You turned to him, your full lips parted just slightly, heart beating like wings in your chest. “That’s why I wore it down today. For you.”

He inhaled, sharp and shallow, his hand now resting fully on your thigh beneath the table, hidden from everyone. The warmth of it spread like fire.

“You’re cruel,” he whispered, voice raw with need, “walking in like that. All sweet and untouched on the outside, but I know better.”

Your eyes glinted with mischief, lashes fluttering as you leaned in, your lips brushing his. Not kissing—almost.

“You like cruel,” you whispered. “You like knowing I’m yours and everyone else just wants.”

He groaned softly under his breath, thumb now pressing into your inner thigh. “I want you now.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, voice breathy. “Then come find me after dinner… if you can wait that long.”

His jaw clenched, his desire so tangible you could feel it hum through him. From across the table, Blaise and Theo exchanged knowing looks, smirks playing at their lips.

“I give him ten minutes,” Theo muttered.

“Five, if she keeps playing like that,” Blaise replied. But Draco didn’t even hear them. His entire world was you and he was burning.

The golden light of the enchanted ceiling bathed the Great Hall in a twilight glow, but none of it touched the storm brewing in Draco Malfoy’s eyes.

His hand was still on your thigh, fingers tracing patterns with a possessiveness that was becoming more desperate by the second. You were whispering something soft against his jaw, your voice silk-wrapped seduction, when a voice cut through the magic between you.

The sound of it—Harry Potter’s voice—was a blade through silk.

Your head turned, thick silver-blonde hair catching the light like starlight, cascading over your shoulder as you looked up. Harry stood a few feet away, awkward, tense, holding a folded parchment in his hand. His eyes flicked from your face to Draco’s hand beneath the table.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice unusually soft, and that’s when Draco’s body turned rigid beside you.

Like a predator sensing a threat.

You blinked, curiosity creasing your brow as you tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What is it?”

Before Harry could answer, Draco voice cut him like a thunder.

“That’s enough, Potter,” he said coldly, his voice a low snarl of threat and warning. “You’ve got five seconds to turn around before I forget we’re in the Great Hall.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. He looked at you once more—something unreadable in his eyes—then turned and walked away, his shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides.

You exhaled slowly, letting your body relax as you turned back to Draco.

“Was that necessary?” you murmured, more amused than annoyed.

Draco’s eyes stayed fixed on where Harry had walked off, his breath sharp, his jaw locked so tightly you thought it might crack.

“He said your name like he owned it,” he growled.

You shifted closer, the air between you thick, heavy with unspoken emotion and lust that simmered right beneath the surface. One of your hands slid up his thigh under the table, resting on the spot where his hand still gripped you.

“And do you?” you asked softly, tilting your face up to him, lips parted, eyes teasing.

That got his attention.

His gaze snapped to yours, dark and full of fire. “You know I do.”

You smiled, slow and sinful. “Then show me.”

And before he could say another word, you leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t a shy kiss. It wasn’t sweet or soft.

It was claiming.

Your lips molded to his, full and warm, your mouth opening slightly to invite him deeper. His hand slid up your thigh, squeezing possessively, while his other hand tangled in the back of your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until the entire world dropped away.

He tasted like mint and heat, the kind that burned into you and left you gasping. Your body pressed into his beneath the table, your chest brushing his as his tongue slid against yours in slow, unhurried strokes that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

You kissed him like he was oxygen.

He kissed you like you were fire.

When you finally pulled back—lips swollen, breath caught—his eyes searched yours with something fierce, something raw.

“Mine,” he said, so quietly only you could hear it. “Don’t let him near you again.”

You smiled, brushing your lips over his jaw, down to his neck, lingering just long enough to make him shiver. “I won’t. He doesn’t get to touch what belongs to you.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like he was trying to center himself. When they opened again, they were full of promise—and something darker.

“You’re not going to class after dinner.”

You raised a brow, teasing. “Oh? And where will I be?”

He leaned in, his voice brushing against your lips like a spell. “Bent over the sink in the Prefects’ bathroom with my hands on your hips, making sure you remember who you belong to.”

Your breath caught in your throat, pupils blown wide, heart pounding so loud you were sure the entire table could hear it.

“Then finish your dinner,” you whispered, voice trembling with anticipation, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

The door to the Prefects’ bathroom shut behind you with a resonant click, echoing against the marble and tile like a warning bell. Before the sound even faded, Draco’s wand was in hand, lips curled in a snarl of desire as he cast a nonverbal spell—locking the door and sealing it with silence.

The room was warm with steam, candlelight flickering against the white and gold decor, casting dancing shadows over the water that shimmered in the massive tub like liquid stars.

But Draco didn’t look at any of it.

He was already on you.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave—furious, hungry, a man lost in the storm of everything he’d held back all day. You gasped into the kiss, fingers flying into the front of his robes, clutching him as if you were trying to steady yourself on something that was already pulling you under.

“Fuck, I waited all day,” he growled against your lips, his hands gripping your waist with bruising heat.

You whimpered into his mouth as he walked you backward, and you knew exactly where he was taking you. One swift tug and your leg was lifted—his fingers digging into your thigh as he wrapped it around his waist, his hips grinding into yours through layers of fabric, teasing just enough to drive you mad.

“Draco,” you breathed, voice already wrecked, and the sound made him growl low in his throat like an animal barely restrained.

He kissed you harder.

There was no gentleness. No softness. Just raw, desperate need.

His tongue parted your lips again, claiming, deep, overwhelming. The kiss tasted like every ounce of possessiveness and frustration he’d bottled all day—watching Harry say your name, watching you smile at someone who wasn’t him.

He pressed you to the edge of the sink, lifting you up with ease, both hands gripping your thighs as he forced them wider around him. His palms slid to your ass, squeezing firmly, pulling you against him. The moan that left your lips was so helpless, so breathless, it made his jaw clench.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasped against your neck, dragging his lips down to taste your skin. “Walking in with your hair down… like you didn’t know exactly what that would do to me.”

You gasped as his teeth grazed your throat, your fingers twisting in his soft platinum hair. “I did,” you whispered, wicked and breathless. “I wanted you desperate.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, and what you saw in his gaze made your whole body ache.

“Then congratulations,” he said, voice dark and low, “because I am. I’ve never wanted anything like I want you.”

Your breath caught, lips trembling.

“Prove it.”

And just like that, he was on you again—kissing you with reckless intensity. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to kiss you harder. The other stayed firm on your hip, grounding you as he pressed forward between your thighs, grinding slow, hard, making your whole body tremble with every movement.

You were gasping into his mouth now, dizzy with it, with him, and the way his dominance poured into every kiss, every touch. He was everywhere—hands, mouth, body—owning you completely.

“I hate when anyone else says your name,” he muttered against your lips. “Hate when they look at you.”

“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice low, ruined with want.

He growled, deep and primal, and for a second he just stared at you—chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes burning with a mix of love, obsession, and something far darker.

“I already have,” he said. “But I’ll do it again. And again. Until there’s no part of you that doesn’t know you belong to me.”

Your whole body pulsed with that promise. You didn’t need candles or silk sheets or whispered poetry. You needed him—here, now, and exactly like this.

And as he leaned in again, dragging your lips back to his with bruising, breathless need, you surrendered to every dark, delicious piece of him.

The mirrors fogged with every breath you took, the scent of heated skin and candle wax curling in the air like a spell. The cool marble sink pressed against the back of your thighs, your skirt bunched up carelessly around your waist. Draco stood between your legs like a storm in human form—his breath uneven, his lips swollen from kissing you senseless, and his gaze… ravenous.

His hand slipped under your skirt again, and this time he stilled.

His breath hitched.

You saw the shift in his eyes immediately—like a fuse had been lit.

“You’re not wearing panties,” he muttered, voice rough, low, and shaking with restraint.

Your lips parted, a whisper of a smirk forming on your kiss-bruised mouth. “Not since breakfast.”

His groan was guttural—frustrated, hungry, and sinful all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathed, like the word had been dragged from the deepest part of him.

You were about to tease him again, when he suddenly gripped your hips hard, and before you could gasp, two long fingers thrust into you—deep, hard, with no warning.

Your moan tore from your throat as your head fell back against the mirror behind you. His fingers didn’t hesitate. They curled inside you just right, pressing against that devastating spot he’d memorized like a spell, and your thighs instinctively squeezed around his wrist.

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he whispered against your throat, kissing just below your jaw, voice dark and possessive. “Walking around all day like that. Letting the whole damn castle wonder what you’ve got on under that little Slytherin skirt.”

You whimpered, biting your lip, fingers gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turned white.

“Do you even know what that does to me?” he growled, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder. “Knowing no one else knows how wet you are for me—but I do. I always do.”

You cried out, your body arching off the sink as he curled his fingers again, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his thumb brushing against your clit with maddening slowness. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me desperate. Wanted me angry.”

His voice dropped lower, turning darker.

“Little tease. You’re so fucking filthy, aren’t you? Sitting in class, legs crossed like a good girl, while you drip onto the seat under you. No panties. No shame.”

“Draco,” you gasped, your voice wrecked, body trembling.

He leaned in, mouth right by your ear. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you moaned, your walls clenching around his fingers, every nerve set ablaze.

“Say you did it for me.”

Your lips parted, a breath catching on your tongue. “I didn’t wear them… because I wanted you to lose control.”

And Merlin, did he.

He cursed under his breath, his fingers thrusting even faster, harder, relentless. His body pressed against you, trapping you in his arms, overwhelming you with the smell of him—cologne, sweat, lust.

You couldn’t hold back the sounds now—not when he was unraveling you with every curl of his fingers, every word dripping filth into your ear.

“You’re mine,” he snarled softly. “Every inch of you. And you’ll never go without them again unless I tell you to. Understood?”

Your body arched, overwhelmed by the wave building inside you.

“Yes—yes, Draco—please—”

“Not yet,” he hissed, pulling his hand away suddenly, leaving you aching, gasping, trembling.

You whimpered from the loss, your body shaking in need.

But Draco’s eyes were molten, burning with possession, and his mouth pressed against yours in a kiss that promised you hadn’t even seen the worst of him yet.

“You want to be my filthy little thing?” he murmured against your lips. “Then beg.”

Your breath came in sharp gasps, skin flushed and damp, as you reached out with desperate fingers and took Draco’s hand—still wet from where it had just been inside you. You guided it back between your legs, aching for the pressure, the rhythm, him.

But before you could get it where you needed, he growled—a deep, territorial sound—and yanked his hand back with a firm grip that made your whole body jolt.

“No,” he said roughly, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. “That’s not how this works.”

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the sink as your thighs trembled, frustration and need burning hot through you.

“Draco, please,” you gasped, but he only raised an eyebrow, watching you with a slow, smug tilt of his head.

“Look at you,” he whispered, dragging the backs of his fingers down the inside of your thigh, never quite where you needed. “So needy… shaking for me already. And you really thought you could take control?”

His hand hovered there—close, so close—but never touching. You reached down with your own fingers this time, slipping between your slick folds and thrusting into yourself with a pace that tried to match what he had done before. Your moan echoed through the bathroom, high and aching.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t him.

Draco watched, gaze darkening, jaw clenched, as you tried to pleasure yourself in front of him—hips rolling, body straining, breath ragged. But there was no satisfaction in it. It only made the emptiness sharper. It made your body ache even more.

Your lip trembled. “It’s not the same,” you whispered.

His chuckle was low and wicked. “Of course it’s not,” he said, stepping closer, gripping your wrist and stopping your hand. “Because these—” he guided your fingers out and held your hand between you, slick and trembling— “aren’t mine.”

You whimpered, your knees threatening to give out.

“Say it,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “Say no one can make you feel the way I do.”

Your chest heaved, green eyes wide and glassy as you looked at him.

“No one,” you whispered. “No one, Draco. Please, I need—”

“You need what?” he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek, then your jaw. “Say it. Properly.”

“I need you,” you choked out. “I need your fingers. Your mouth. Your cock. All of it. I need you. Please, Draco, I can’t—”

That was all it took.

The sharp edge of his restraint cracked in half. His eyes blazed as he growled into your mouth, crashing his lips to yours in a brutal kiss. His hand slid between your legs again, and this time, there was no teasing. No slow build.

His fingers thrust back inside you with the same devastating rhythm as before, curling just right, dragging helpless sobs from your throat as your nails raked down his shoulders. The pleasure exploded in white-hot flashes, your body melting and tightening all at once under his dominance.

“Mine,” he growled again and again, breath ragged against your neck. “You don’t touch yourself unless I say. You don’t come unless it’s by me.”

Your fingers clutched at his robes, holding on for dear life as he pushed you to the edge, again and again, the tension between you snapping like a whip in the air.

And you would’ve fallen—shattered and ruined in the best possible way—but his lips brushed your ear as he slowed, pulling back just enough to make you cry out again.

“I’m not done teaching you what happens,” he whispered, “when you forget who owns every inch of you.”

Your moan cracked into a sob of pleasure, your body trembling as Draco’s fingers refused mercy. Each thrust was precise, cruel in how perfectly they curled, making your thighs shake and your breath hitch.

“Draco,” you gasped, your head falling back against the mirror. “I—can’t—I’m—”

But he didn’t slow. He didn’t let up.

He was watching you, eyes dark and locked on your face as though trying to burn every sound and expression into his memory. And then—just when you thought you were going to tip into bliss—he groaned low in his throat, the sound thick with want.

You blinked through your haze just in time to see his free hand move. He tugged at his belt with rough fingers, popped the button, and dragged the zipper down. The sound alone sent a fresh wave of need through you.

“Draco?” you whispered, breathless and trembling.

His eyes never left yours.

He withdrew his fingers from you slowly—cruelly slow—and your body cried out at the loss. A high, helpless sound escaped your lips, your hips shifting toward him in pure instinct.

But he only smirked, gripping his now-freed length in his hand, the tip flushed and aching.

“You think I’m going to let you come without me?” he rasped, voice thick with dominance and need. “After the way you teased me all day—after you begged me like that?”

He stepped in closer, the head of his cock brushing your slick folds. You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his arms, nails digging in.

“You’re mine,” he said again, and then—

He thrust into you in one sharp, punishing stroke.

Your cry echoed through the tiled room, body arching hard against the sink, back bowed from the sudden stretch and heat and overwhelming fullness. It was too much—and not enough.

He was buried deep, deeper than his fingers ever reached, and you felt every inch of him. The thick, throbbing pulse of his cock inside you, the way he fit so perfectly, like you’d been made for him.

Draco groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he held you in place. “So tight,” he breathed. “So fucking perfect around me.”

You couldn’t even form words—your hands flew up to his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he started to move. His pace was ruthless from the start, every thrust rocking you back into the mirror, each one followed by a hiss of pleasure from his lips.

The tension in the air was unbearable. The scent of sex, the heat of your bodies, the way you both breathed each other in like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

“You wanted this,” Draco snarled softly, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Walking around without your panties… so cocky… so filthy.”

“Draco—” you moaned, your voice wrecked.

“You thought you could drive me insane and not pay for it?” he growled, his thrusts slamming harder, faster. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, you won’t be able to think about anyone but me.”

Tears welled in your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming force of it all. The way he filled you, possessed you, ruined you so thoroughly that nothing existed outside of this moment.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he said between clenched teeth, his rhythm unrelenting.

“I’m yours,” you cried, sobbing against his shoulder. “I’m yours—I’ve always been—”

He kissed you hard, a messy, claiming kiss that was all tongue and teeth and desperation.

He pulled back just far enough to press his forehead against yours, his pace never faltering, his breath hot on your lips.

“You feel that?” he whispered, low and dangerous. “That’s me. Only me.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, moaning into his mouth as your body started to break apart beneath his.

The bathroom was filled with the symphony of slick skin, ragged breathing, and your broken cries of his name. The sound of Draco’s hips meeting yours echoed off the stone walls, relentless and sharp, a perfect rhythm that made your entire body tremble with every slam of his hips.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, your thighs shaking around his waist, and your head lolled back helplessly as his cock kept hitting that perfect spot inside you—over and over again. Your eyes rolled, jaw slack, breath catching in short sobs of pleasure.

“Right there,” you gasped, voice high and broken. “Draco—oh, my god—there—”

He growled deep in his chest, watching the way your body responded—how your breasts bounced wildly with every brutal thrust, how your legs twitched around him. His eyes darkened with hunger, possession, adoration.

“You’re a fucking vision,” he rasped, one hand sliding to your waist, the other coming up to grope at your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you whimper. “Look at you. You can’t even think, can you?”

You shook your head desperately, but no words would come. Just moans. Just his name tumbling over and over off your lips like it was the only thing left in your mind.

“Completely cockdrunk for me,” he growled with a twisted smirk, slamming into you harder, faster—each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs. “You love this. Love when I take you like this. When I ruin you.”

Your eyes fluttered, your body arching like a bow, caught between the searing edge of too much and not enough. You tried to respond, to say yes, please, always, but all you could manage was a loud, wrecked cry of his name.

“Say it,” Draco demanded, panting hard against your neck. “Tell me who does this to you. Who you belong to.”

“You—Draco!” you sobbed, lost in the haze of it all. “Only you. Always you. Please—don’t stop—”

His hands gripped you harder, fingers sinking into your hips, dragging your body onto him even deeper. He was in complete control—every move calculated to push you further, to watch you fall apart.

“I could watch you fall apart like this every damn day,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick with dark affection. “So perfect. So desperate. So mine.”

Your vision blurred as the knot inside you tightened, twisting hotter and hotter with every brutal thrust, every filthy word from his lips, every stroke of his body against yours.

And he felt it—felt you spiraling, clenching tighter around him, dragging him closer to his own edge.

“Come for me,” he commanded, slowing just enough to grind deep, right against that spot again. “Show me how much you need me.”

When you shattered, it was silent for a second—like the whole world held its breath. And then you sobbed his name so loud it echoed, your entire body shaking as you convulsed around him.

Draco didn’t stop—he rode it out, watching your face, the way your lips trembled, the tears on your cheeks, your blissed-out, cockdrunk expression like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

You trembled in his arms, your body still quaking from the intensity of your climax, your breath short and gasping—but Draco didn’t stop.

Not even close.

He was still moving inside you with an unforgiving rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, cock dragging through your oversensitive walls like he was determined to leave his mark. The pleasure had tipped over into something almost unbearable, a wildfire dancing along every nerve ending—but still, you took it. Because it was him.

“Draco—” you whimpered, voice broken, hands scrambling for purchase against his back. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled into your ear, biting lightly at your lobe. “You will. You’re gonna take everything I give you.”

The hand on your waist gripped tighter, and the other slid up, fingers curling beneath your chin until he was forcing your head back, making you look into his eyes. They were wild, half-lidded, pupils blown wide with dark lust and something far deeper.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice low and rough. “The way you’re still clenching around me, sucking me back in like you don’t want to let go?”

You cried out as he angled his hips differently—deeper, harder, making your walls flutter helplessly again, dragging you toward a second peak far too soon.

“You love this,” he whispered. “Love how I don’t let you go. How I fuck you like you’re mine.”

“Draco—please—” your words dissolved into a whimper, your body betraying you, tightening around him again like it was begging for more.

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder for a moment as your body pulsed around him again. His control was fraying—he could feel it—but it only made him rougher, more desperate.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

And then he pulled back enough to look at you, his hand still firm on your jaw, holding you in place so you couldn’t look away.

“When we get back to our dorm,” he said darkly, his voice like gravel, “I’m going to bend you over our bed and do it all over again.”

You whimpered—loud, involuntary—and your body clenched around him so hard he nearly dropped to his knees.

He smirked. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to ruin you again. Have you screaming into our sheets.”

Your nails raked down his back as you nodded, nearly delirious from the overstimulation, from how deep he was inside you, from the possessive fire in his voice. “Yes—yes—please, Draco…”

“You’re gonna fall asleep with my come still dripping out of you,” he snarled, snapping his hips harder now, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the chamber like something sacred, something obscene.

“And when you wake up,” he panted, “I’ll still be inside you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from how intensely you felt him, how much he overwhelmed every part of you. You felt him getting close, his rhythm growing erratic, the edge in his voice raw now, ragged.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you sobbed. “You, Draco. I’m yours—always.”

And with one final, punishing thrust, he groaned your name like it burned him, burying himself to the hilt, his whole body trembling as he emptied inside you.

He didn’t move for a long moment—just held you against the sink, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, bodies still connected, still pulsing together like one. His hand slid down your cheek, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered. “And I’ll never stop wanting you.”

You leaned into him, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers found his hair, soft now, comforting despite the ache in your limbs.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered back.

He smiled—dark and soft all at once.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Draco’s arms were firm around you, his stride purposeful as he carried you through the dimly lit corridors of the Slytherin common room. Your head rested weakly against his chest, breath still shallow, limbs boneless from what he’d done to you in the prefects’ bathroom—twice.

The soft crackle of the fire flickered across emerald stone walls, casting shadows as the room buzzed with low conversation. But it all came to a halt the moment the door swung open and Draco stepped inside, your limp, well-fucked form in his arms.

Pansy’s eyes widened. Daphne covered her mouth. Blaise arched a brow and let out a low whistle.

Theodore groaned, tossing his quill on the table. “Again?”

Draco didn’t even slow. His smirk was slow, arrogant, smug in the way only he could be. “She’s exhausted,” he drawled without glancing at them. “Can’t even walk. Thought I’d carry what’s mine.”

Your face flushed against his chest, but you didn’t protest. You couldn’t. You were still trembling, your thighs sticky, your throat raw from moaning his name into stone and silk. Your fingers curled weakly into the collar of his robes as he carried you past your staring friends.

Blaise gave a low chuckle, muttering something about “needing soundproofing spells.”

Draco’s smirk only deepened as he approached the stairs. “Don’t wait up.”

The door to your shared dorm clicked shut behind you, sealing you away from the world. The moment it did, the air shifted. Still thick with the heat between you, with possession and passion that hadn’t yet burned out.

He set you down on the bed gently, the first sign of softness since he had taken you hours ago. But the glint in his storm-grey eyes told you he wasn’t done—not by a long shot.

You tried to sit up, but your muscles ached. Your body trembled with exhaustion, overstimulated and aching in the most delicious way.

Draco leaned over you, brushing your hair back from your face, his thumb gliding softly across your cheek. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Good.”

“Draco…” your voice was hoarse, breathless, pleading—but even now, even broken open like this, you were still looking at him like he hung the stars.

He kissed you slowly this time. No rush. Just a claiming, a reminder.

“Think anyone else would ever see you like this?” he whispered against your lips. “Laid out. Weak. Trembling just from me?”

You shook your head, and he smiled—sharp, wicked, proud.

“Didn’t think so.”

He trailed kisses down your jaw, your throat, his fingers slowly undoing the rest of your clothes. But this time wasn’t about urgency. It was about ownership. Worship.

“You were made for me,” he breathed, eyes scanning every inch of you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. “And I’ll spend every night reminding you.”

Your hand found his hair, fingers sinking into those soft, pale strands. “You already have,” you whispered.

Draco hovered above you, his forehead pressed against yours, and for a brief moment, his eyes weren’t clouded by lust—but something deeper. Fiercer.

“I’ll never let you go,” he said softly. “Never.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, tangled space, surrounded by soft sheets and flickering candlelight, he kissed you again—not to dominate, not to conquer—but to claim.

The moonlight spilled through the tall windows of your shared dorm, casting pale silver onto your skin like liquid stardust. The fire burned low in the hearth, its soft crackle the only sound besides your breathless moans and the rustle of the sheets as Draco moved over you like a shadow possessed.

His hands framed your waist, fingers possessive, reverent—like he was reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That you were real. His.

He hovered above you, his eyes hooded with need as they raked over your body. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Every inch of you is perfect. You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were swallowed by a gasp as his lips wrapped around your nipple, hot and soft and overwhelming. Your back arched off the bed, a breathless moan escaping you as you instinctively threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging tightly.

Draco groaned low against your skin, the vibration sending tingles straight through your chest. He didn’t stop—he sucked harder, his tongue swirling deliberately, almost cruelly, around the sensitive bud. His other hand slid over the curve of your breast, fingers squeezing and massaging to match the rhythm of his mouth.

“Draco,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the twin sensations—his mouth, his hand, his heat pressing you down into the mattress.

He chuckled darkly against your skin, pulling off with a soft, wet pop. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin as he spoke. “You like when I touch you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded, dazed and breathless, your voice barely a whisper. “Yes… always.”

That answer made his eyes flare. He lowered his mouth again, trailing his tongue across your other breast, flicking teasingly before his lips closed around your nipple once more. Your moans turned desperate, thighs shifting beneath him, seeking friction, seeking more.

He grinned against your chest. “So eager,” he breathed. “I haven’t even started yet.”

His voice was like velvet and fire, and you whimpered as he gently bit down—just enough to make you shiver—before sucking again, deeper this time, more possessive.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Every part of you.”

Your hands trembled in his hair, and when he finally pulled away, your chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He looked up at you, hair tousled from your grip, lips glistening, and that wicked gleam in his eyes.

He kissed your sternum, slow and lingering, then moved up to hover over you. His hand cupped your face gently, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip.

“You drive me mad, you know that?” he whispered. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You reached up, caressing his jaw, your voice soft and shaken. “Then show me.”

His smirk returned, full of promise and wicked heat.

“Oh, I intend to.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, as Draco finally pushed inside you—one hard, deep thrust that stole the breath from your lungs. The stretch was immediate, the fullness intense, and your back arched off the bed with a cry that he swallowed in a kiss.

“Merlin,” he growled into your mouth, voice ragged, “you feel like you were made for me.”

His hips didn’t hesitate. His pace was brutal from the start—rhythmic, punishing, like he had no intention of going slow. The bed creaked under the force of his movements, protesting each thrust as he drove himself deeper into you, again and again, without mercy.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to hold onto something, anything, as the pressure inside you built quickly, dizzyingly. His cock hit that spot inside you with precision, every time, like he knew—and of course he did. He knew your body better than anyone ever could. He studied it like a sacred text and mastered it like a spell.

You cried out his name, over and over, your voice shaking with each slam of his hips, and he loved it—every sound, every tremble, every time you clenched tighter around him like you couldn’t help it.

“Louder,” Draco snarled against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Let them all hear how good I fuck you.”

You whimpered, half from his words, half from the way your body was unraveling beneath him. He gripped your hips tighter, pulling you into each thrust with force, his nails digging into your skin, marking you.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze—stormy grey, dark with hunger, fierce with something deeper. His expression twisted with pleasure as he watched your face, saw you lose yourself completely under him.

“You’re mine,” he said, like a vow. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one can.”

You nodded through the haze, your voice breaking. “Yours… always.”

The words made him snarl with satisfaction. He leaned down and kissed you fiercely, his pace never slowing, never faltering. He poured all of it into you—every ounce of control, of possession, of worship twisted with desire.

You didn’t know how long he kept going—minutes? Hours? Time didn’t exist in that room. There was only the sound of your gasps, his groans, the sharp slap of skin against skin, and the bed that shook beneath you.

When your body finally gave out—shaking, aching, overwhelmed—Draco still didn’t stop. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he buried his face in your neck.

“You take me so well,” he whispered. “You always do.”

And in that raw, breathless space between madness and devotion, you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because he was.The room was thick with heat, the air heavy with every moan, every gasp, every echo of skin meeting skin. Your body trembled beneath Draco’s, completely spent, completely his—but he didn’t stop.

He hadn’t slowed since your release—if anything, his thrusts had grown more relentless. Your limbs had gone limp, boneless from pleasure, eyes glazed in the haze of overwhelming sensation. Yet Draco, with that unyielding fire in his eyes, wasn’t finished.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat when he suddenly shifted, his strong hands curling under your thighs. He lifted them with ease, placing your legs over his shoulders. The angle shifted everything—deeper, fuller, blinding.

You cried out, head rolling back against the pillow, hands clutching the sheets as his cock slammed into that spot inside you over and over again with ruthless precision.

“Oh god—Draco—” you choked out, voice wrecked from pleasure.

His pace didn’t falter. If anything, your reaction only spurred him on. He looked down at you, chest heaving, golden hair clinging to his temples with sweat. And then he saw it.

A low, guttural moan left his throat as his hand moved to your lower belly, fingers brushing the slight bulge with awe and wicked satisfaction.

“Look at that,” he growled, voice rough with arousal. “You’re so full of me… I can see myself inside you.”

You sobbed from the overwhelming pleasure, your body twitching with each brutal thrust. The pressure, the stretch, the weight of his words—it all tangled together until your senses blurred.

Draco leaned down, your thighs pushed tighter against your chest, his pace never letting up. His lips brushed your ear, voice low and possessive.

“This is how I want you,” he whispered, breath warm. “Laid out, ruined, trembling—so full of me you can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, barely able to nod, and he kissed your jaw with unexpected tenderness despite the roughness of his movements.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice gentling for just a moment. “Let go, baby. I’ll hold you together.”

And with those words, your body shattered again, a wave of bliss crashing through you so hard it left you gasping for breath, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth.

Draco moaned loudly as you clenched around him, and he drove in deeper, grinding against that spot until your vision blurred. He was wild, wrecked, lost in the feel of you, in the way your body molded to his like it was made for him alone.

When he finally stilled inside you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck, he didn’t pull away. He stayed wrapped around you, as if grounding himself in your warmth, in your surrender.

His lips pressed softly against your cheek, then your collarbone.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured.

And in your dazed, blissful silence—you believed him.

Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline

[agreeewrites]

A Christmas Gift | G.W.

“That's what happens when you love someone,” George replied, smiling. “You want to protect them from anything that might hurt them, even if you know you can't.”

feat. George Weasley x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You go to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to pick out a Christmas gift for your ailing little brother, who adored the shop (and the twins) before he became too ill to go. You find a gift and so much more than you ever dreamed of.

CW: this is really emotional, i’m sorry, but i pinky promise that it has a happyish ending. fred is dead, grief, hurt/comfort, hospital visits, sick sibling/children, some swearing, but also some fun and lightheartedness, plenty of christmasy fluff, first kisses

AN: last Christmas fic of the season!

The early morning snow buffeted at your back as you stepped into Weasely Wizard Wheezes. The store had just opened, you saw someone turn the sign as you finished your breakfast at the Three Broomsticks, but you wanted to beat the holiday rush so you could really take your time.

The smell of cinnamon and woodsmoke, plastic toys and what could only be described as joy, welcomed you inside. An enormous Christmas tree hung upside down from the ceiling, decorated in orange, purple, and gold, with handmade ornaments over every branch and popcorn strings strewn around it. Every shelf was stocked and festively decorated, and soft Christmas music played from the speakers.

You stopped in the doorway, tears welling in your eyes. Your brother would love this. You had hoped that he’d be having a good day today, that maybe, by some miracle, he’d be well enough to come with you. But he’d spiked a fever late last night, and was going in for some imaging today to ensure he hadn’t caught pneumonia…again.

“Morning,” a voice called to you, and you looked up, hastily wiping tears on your sleeve. George Weasley, a man you’d never met but would recognize anywhere, was halfway down the spiral staircase, a cup of coffee in hand. He was dressed in the iconic pinstripe suit, his copper hair a little longer than the last time you’d seen him two years prior, not that he’d remember.

The only reason you remembered was because of your brothers obsession with the Weasley twins. He’d asked to have his hair cut and dyed orange that same afternoon.

More tears welled up, and you cursed yourself, turning away to hide your face. “I’m sorry,” you sniffled, trying to take a deep breath. “I promise I’m not insane.”

You heard him move the rest of the way down the stairs, then approach you, his tall frame taking him across the store in a few strides. He had a bright purple handkerchief in his hand, the triple W embroidered on the corner.

“That’s okay, we like a little insanity around here. What’s your name?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Y/n.” You accepted the handkerchief with a watery smile and dabbed your eyes.

“George. Are you alright, y/n?” he asked.

You sighed, twisting the fabric in your hands. “The holiday’s are just hard.”

He nodded, his jaw flexing, eyes averting from your face to the floor. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment before. You noticed then the dark circles under his eyes, the air of heaviness around his shoulders. “Can I help you find something?” he asked, pivoting quickly.

“Yes, actually. I’m, uh, looking for a gift for my little brother. But he—it has to be something he can play with in bed. Nothing too loud or messy.” Your heart ached as you said it, knowing he would actually love something loud, messy, destructive, as little boys do, but such things weren’t allowed at St. Mungo’s.

George raised an eyebrow. “Strict parents?”

You shook your head, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “He’s in hospital,” you murmured, hating saying the words aloud.

George’s face fell. “Oh—Merlin, I’m really sorry.”

A flicker of understanding passed between you, your broken hearts beating at the same rhythm for a moment. You knew about the death of his twin, Fred, everyone did, and now he knew your pain as well. That knowledge weaved an invisible string of connection between you, forged in empathy.

“We can absolutely find something for him,” George said, his voice painfully sincere. He offered you his arm and you accepted, needing a bit of steadiness. “What kind of things does he like?”

You started to walk through the store, looking around the towering shelves, at a bit of a loss. “Well, he loves Whizz-bangs, and your Pyrotechtrix.”

George smiled, chuckling to himself. “Fun, but not exactly suitable for a hospital.”

“Exactly. But honestly, anything you recommended, he’d absolutely adore, so long as I told him you recommended it.”

“Oh yeah?” George raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you.

Saints, he’s handsome.

“Yeah, he’s a big fan. He used to beg us to stop in every time we came to Diagon Alley so he could watch your demonstrations.”

George’s smile widened, a flush creeping up his neck. “Well, ah, that’s really—” he scratched the back of his head, clearly flustered by the revelation. “That’s very kind,” he managed with a breathy chuckle.

The door jingled as another customer came in and you tensed, George’s eye flicking towards the new customer, then back down to you.

You moved to slip your arm from his. “I can look around, you go ahead—”

“Oi, Ron!” George shouted, a hand cupped around his mouth, his arm tightening around yours so you stayed put.

“What? I’m sorting inventory!” Ron Weasley shouted back, appearing from the back of the store with arms full of boxes. His eyes quickly scanned over you, your joined arms, then back to George, who was nodding his head towards the door. “Welcome to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes!” Ron turned greeted the customer, dropping the boxes where he stood.

You chuckled, leaning a bit closer to George, grateful that he didn’t abandon you.

“You’re my first priority today,” he murmured to you, close enough that you could smell his amber cologne, and you felt your anxiety unspool for the first time in weeks. For this one thing, this small, Christmas gift hunt, you weren’t alone.

You spent the rest of the morning with George, wandering through aisle after aisle as he talked you through every product you showed an interest in. At first, he seemed reluctant to talk about products with stories tied to Fred, like prodding a sore wound, but eventually he was telling story after story, grinning and laughing at the memories of their countless antics.

He encouraged you to share about your brother as well, and by the end, you were both in stitches from laughing, cheeks sore and eyes watery with tears. It warmed your heart to see him light up at the his brother’s memory, to see the love between them still very much burning, and soothed a bit of your fear.

No matter what happened, the love and the memories would remain.

You finally settled on an Aviatomobile and a few muggle magic tricks, nothing explosive, sticky, or illness-causing. George carried the items to the counter, setting them gently on surface, but hesitated when he reached for the register.

He turned, grabbing a gift box from beneath the counter. Carefully, he wrapped each item in branded tissue paper and nestled them into the box, then rearranged them once, then twice, before finally placing the lid and tying an orange bow around it. Then, he grabbed one of the paper ornaments from the counter, where kids could write little messages or drawings to hang on the gravity-defying Christmas tree, and scribbled something on it before securing it to the bow.

“There we go,” he said, pushing it towards you with a sheepish smile.

You reached for you wallet. “How much do I—”

He shook his head, waving you off. “It’s on me. Least I can do for an avid supporter.”

Tears burned behind your eyes again, caught off guard by his generosity. “George, I can’t—”

“Please, just—let me do this for your brother.” George’s eyes held yours, soft around the corners. “It’s what Fred would do.”

You nodded, unable to speak through the lump in your throat.

“Would you want to, uh, maybe get a drink later? Or coffee?” He asked, rubbing the back of his neck, freckled cheeks flushing pink.

You smiled, your heart flipping in your chest. “I’d love to. We could get ice cream at Fortescue's?” You offered.

He smiled back. “Perfect. 7 o’clock?”

“Perfect,” you repeated, fighting a nervous giggle. “I’ll see you later, then.” You hefted the box in your arms and waved goodbye, hurrying out before you said anything embarrassing, or melted into a puddle of goo on the floor.

Halfway down the street, you finally glanced at the paper ornament George attached to the gift.

Sorry, mate. No explosive’s. Sister’s orders. But I’ve got a stash in the back waiting for you when you’re ready. Merry Christmas. - GW

You were fizzing with excitement as you approached the ice cream shop, a soft flurry of snowflakes dancing int the twinkle lights strew across Diagon Alley. Vendors were at every corner, selling steaming beverages, candied nuts, and fried dough. Shoppers wandered from glowing door to glowing door, bundled in thick coats and arms laden with bags. A choir sang Christmas carols on the steps of Gringotts, toads wearing Santa hats cradled in their arms, and you paused to listen while they sang “Carol of the Bells”, trying to collect your scattered mind.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about George for a moment, so wound up that you started getting ready three hours early for a simple ice cream date. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so giddy, so hopeful.

“I like this song,” a familiar voice murmured in your ear and you looked up, finding George standing beside you watching the carolers, the lights reflecting in his brown eyes. He was dressed in a brown wool coat with a Gryffindor scarf around his neck, a white, cable knit sweater and jeans underneath, patches on the knees.

“Me too,” you replied, biting your lips to stop the grin threatening to rise. “How was your day?”

“Chaos. I left Ron to deal with the stragglers. We were supposed to close around six…” he trailed off, his eyes catching on a group of wizards. You followed his eye, and were appalled to find them muttering and pointing at him. And when you looked around, you noticed several groups were doing the same.

Instinctively, you moved closer to him, as if you could shield him somehow.

His fingers twined with yours, warm and calloused. “It’s alright,” he said, turning you to face him. “M’used to it.”

“It’s not alright,” you said, raising your voice and directing a pointed glare at the noisy folks. “It’s rude!”

He chuckled, tugging you away from the carolers. “Easy, love. It doesn’t bother me much anymore. Don’t give them any of your attention.”

You sighed, falling into step beside him, hands still clasped together. “I’m sorry they treat you like that,” you said, glaring daggers at anyone that even glanced in his direction while you walked towards Fortescue's.

“It was worse when we first reopened the shop.” His thumb swiped back and forth across yours, soothing the irritation itching under your skin. “They would come in just to get a look at me. Like my grief was some kind of spectator sport.”

“I can’t imagine having that kind of loss broadcast to the entire world,” you said, glancing at a newspaper stand plastered in the Daily Prophet.

“It’s inhumane,” he replied, stopping in front of the ice cream shop. “But, I’m grateful for it too.”

You raised an eyebrow, facing him in the warm glow of the window.

“Everyone knows how amazing he was,” he murmured, his voice thickening with emotion. He looked down at your joined hands, playing with your fingers. “He’s a hero.”

You squeezed his hand, prompting him to look up at you. “So are you, George," you said, inflecting as much sincerity as you could into your voice. "Y’know, I was there that day, when you and Fred left Hogwarts?”

His eyes widened. “You were?”

You nodded. “I was two years under you, we wouldn’t have crossed paths,” you said, trying to assuage the needless guilt that crossed his face. “But I’ll never forget that moment, watching you guys reclaim the magic that makes Hogwarts, well, Hogwarts. You inspired all of us left behind.”

He gave you a sad smile, his eyes shiny with unshed tears, and brought your knuckles to his lips, brushing a kiss across them. “Thank you for telling me that,” he whispered. “You didn’t get burned, did you?” He asked, worry suddenly creasing his brow.

You giggled. “No, no. No one was hurt besides Umbridge's ego.”

He exhaled, flashing a relieved smile. “Okay, good. Because that would have been a terrible first impression.” He opened the door to the ice cream shop, gesturing for you to step inside.

“My first impression was when you turned Ms. Norris purple during the Halloween feast,” you said, stepping past him and into line, the smell of waffle cones and caramel wafting over you.

George barked a laugh, his head falling back with the force of it, and you smiled. “Better, I suppose.”

“It’s not like I made a great first impression on you, weeping like a sap as soon as I stepped into your store,” you joked, too busy gazing up at his smiling face to notice the line move forward without you.

He shook his head, still chuckling. “No, it was a perfect first impression.”

You ordered your bowls of ice cream, Peppermint Marshmallow Mayhem for George and Gingerbread Dreams for you, and sat at a corner booth by the window, talking about nothing in particular for awhile while you ate.

“So, how’s your brother doing today? You mentioned he had some imaging this afternoon?” George asked, genuine concern creasing his brow.

“He’s doing well, actually. No pneumonia, by Godric’s grace, and his fever broke this afternoon. Still not sure what caused it, but hopefully nothing of concern,” you answered, you heart lifting at his relieved smile.

“Good, I’m really glad to hear that. Now, let me try your ice cream.” He waggled his spoon and you laughed, sliding it towards him. He took the tiniest spoonful, flipping it over to lick it off, and your cheeks warmed at the way his tongue caressed the curve of the spoon.

You knew you were caught when he smirked around the utensil, but he let it slide.

“Here, try mine.” He dug a spoonful out of his bowl, holding it out for you to take a bite with a borderline sinful look in his eye.

“George Weasley,” you teased, shaking your head. “You are such a flirt.”

“Can you blame me? I’m sitting across from my dream woman,” he replied, grinning.

Now your cheeks were really warming, and you leaned forward to take a small bite off the edge of his spoon. Sugary peppermint and creamy marshmallow coated your tongue, and you moaned.

“Good?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Delicious,” you giggled, watching as he ate the rest of the spoonful, and wondered how it would taste on his tongue.

After ice cream, you continued wandering around Diagon Alley, peeking in all the shop windows and sipping warm butter beer, until your noses were pink from the chill, your hair full of glittering snow.

You stopped outside of his shop, the sign flipped to ‘closed’ and only a few lights on inside along with the exterior holiday decor, presumably left on for George.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, stepping a little closer to you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a thrill of excitement pulsing through you. “What?” You asked, picking invisible lint of his lapel just to have something to do with your hands.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I saw you watching the carolers,” he murmured, sliding his glove off and reaching out to cradle your face, his touch gentle, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You leaned your head into his large palm, gazing up at him, freckled, flushed, and starry-eyed. You’d never seen someone look at you with adoration before, and it made your soul sing.

Instead of saying anything, you rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his, a quick, airy peck. But when you went to move back, his hand held you in place, lips just barely touching.

“Again,” he breathed, his other hand coming around to rest on your lower back. “Please?”

You gave the tiniest nod, feeling like your heart might burst out of your chest, and his lips connected with yours again in a slow, languid kiss, the taste of ice cream and butter beer and him making your head go a little fuzzy, your right foot popping up behind you as you leaned into his embrace.

His tongue caressed the seam of your mouth, but he didn’t push further, just a small tease before winding the kiss down until it ended the way it started, with a few barely-there pecks in reluctant departure.

You sighed against him, lowering back onto flat feet, and he smiled, drawing you into his chest for hug. You slipped you arms under his coat, feeling the softness of his sweater and the warmth of his body envelop you.

“Thank you for this,” you murmured. “I really, really needed it.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tight around your body. “So did I. Can we do it again tomorrow? Breakfast? Sunrise picnic?”

You chuckled, tilting your chin up to rest on his sternum. “Breakfast sounds great.”

George beamed, dropping a warm kiss to the frozen tip of your nose. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”

“It’s a date.” You stole one last kiss before slipping away, practically skipping.

You and George saw each other every day for the next week, whether it was to wander around Diagon Alley, looking at the lights and festivities, or grabbing a quick cup of tea between busy shifts. Neither of you could stand being apart for more than a few hours at a time.

Tonight, George invited you to his flat for dinner and muggle Christmas films, and you were dressed in the ugliest Christmas sweater you could find. With a timid hand, you knocked on his door.

It opened under you fist, revealing George on the other side, wearing a maroon sweater with a giant ‘G’ on the front of it and a sauce splattered apron.

“Hey, love.” He tugged you inside, pressing an eager kiss to your lips before ushering you down the hall, his deft fingers unraveling your scarf from your neck and peeling the coat from your shoulders. You laughed at his haste, spinning and hopping as he removed your boots. He stopped only when he finally saw your sweater. “Oh, darling. You look ravishing.” His hands fell to your waist and he pulled you into his chest, a mischievous grin on his face. “Very fashion forward.”

“Thank you, baby,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck. You hadn’t called him that before, but it just rolled right off your tongue, natural as breathing.

He loosed a pleased hum, leaning forward to capture your lips in another, slower kiss. “Like hearin’ you call me baby,” he mumbled against your mouth.

The oven beeped loudly, startling you both.

“Hungry?” He asked with a shy smile.

“Starved.”

He showed you to the dining room, a round table with a vase of flowers at the center, candles strewn on every surface. He pulled a chair out for you and you sat, accepting a kiss on the cheek before he dashed back into the kitchen.

You looked around, having been too caught up in his frantic greeting to take in the space. The rest of the flat was sparsely decorated, purely functional, besides a sagging bookshelf in the living room, and a few photos along the hallway. Not a Christmas decoration was in sight.

George returned with two glasses of wine, the bottle tucked under his arm. “Here we go, a little Pinot Noir for my gorgeous girl.” He set the glasses down then finally sat down in his chair.

“Thank you, baby,” you teased, and he smirked, withdrawing his wand from his apron and waving it towards the kitchen. A moment later, a giant bowl full of pasta, a basket of bread, a salad bowl, and two plates came hovering out of the kitchen, arranging themselves neatly on the table.

“Bon appetite.” He raised his wine glass, a shy little smile on his face, and you raised yours to cheers, so charmed you could cry.

Two hours later, you were curled up on George’s couch, half enjoying Home Alone, half enjoying the feel of each other’s skin under your sweaters, the rich taste of wine on each other’s tongues.

“How come you haven't decorated for Christmas?” You mumbled between languid pecks, his soft lips moving to trail over your jaw.

“Didn't much feel like celebrating this year,” he replied, kissing down your neck, his tongue tracing your pulse.

“And yet here we are, watching corny holiday films,” you chuckled and felt him smile against your neck.

“Things changed.” He lifted his head, capturing your lips in a heavy, open-mouthed kiss that made your blood warm, your heart beat a little quicker in your chest.

Suddenly, something slammed against the window, a frantic scrabbling against glass that had George springing up like something electrocuted him.

“Errol?” George moved toward the window. “No, what the fuck—”

“Oh my god, what are you doing here?!” You cried, jumping up and throwing open the window. Your family owl flew in, landing on the back of the couch. Fear pumped through you and you snatched the letter from his beak, rougher than the poor bird deserved in your panic.

“What is it?” George rested his hands on your hips as you tore it open.

The words on the card made your heart stop.

Mungo’s now, Mum

“George,” you whimpered, sagging against him as terror rocked through you.

He took the letter from your hand and skimmed it. “Go get your coat on, I’ll take you.”

“I—” You were frozen, darkness pulsing at the edges of your vision.

His hands came up to hold your face, shaking you gently. “Honey, we have to go. I’m going to be right here with you, okay? We’re going together. But we have to move now.”

You nodded, clawing through the sludge of fear and clinging to the thread of stability he offered. He helped you into your coat and shooed the owl out, not even bothering to lock up before he was ushering you into his chest.

“Hold onto me,” he ordered, and you did, and suddenly the world was sucked away, a dizzying, horrible tornado of space, and then it spit you back out on the front steps of St. Mungo’s.

“Holy shit,” you gagged, clutching onto George and he held you upright.

“Sorry, love. Never apparated before?” He asked, rubbing your back.

You shook your head.

“Y/n!”

George stiffened, his hands tightening on you, and you looked up.

“Mum!” You cried, rushing to her.

“Oh, hun. I’m sorry to frighten you, he’s okay. Just a scare. I’m so sorry, darling,” she cried, clinging to you.

“Sh, no, it’s alright. I should be here,” you soothed, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the tears from falling. “What happened?”

“He couldn’t breathe, his lungs—pneumonia again,” your mom hiccuped, wiping at her cheeks. “Who’s that?” She asked, looking over your shoulder.

George was were you had left him, hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes bouncing from you and your mom to the strangers mingling on the sidewalk. You could tell his hackles were raised, some protective instinct roused when he’d been startled by the owl.

You waved him over. “Mum, this is George Weasley. George, this is my mum.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” George said, offering her a hand and a shy smile.

She clutched his hand hard and you both winced. “I-you-Weasley—The George Weasley?” She gasped.

“Just George is fine,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

“Oh my, I just can't believe—”

“Mum, can we go see him now?” You interrupted, anxious to see that he was well yourself. “I promise you'll have a proper introduction later.”

“Yes, of course. This way.” She released George and grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the hospital.

George hesitated, until you reached your hand out to him. He immediately threaded your fingers together, falling into step with your frantic mother.

A few moments later, you rushed into your brother's room, finding him upright and smiling, some new tubes in his little nose, but all together looking well.

“Mum, I said to leave her alone!” He argued, crossing his arms over his reindeer pj's.

“Hush you,” you scolded lightly, wrapping him up in a hug and kissing his forehead, noting his lingering fever. “How are you feeling, darling?” You asked, pulling back to hold his face.

“M'okay. They let me have some ice lollies earlier!” He chirped, sticking out his neon blue tongue.

You grinned. “I see, that's excellent.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but then you saw his eyes widen, mouth falling open in shock. You turned to see what he was looking at and realized it was George, who was loitering in the doorway.

“Is that—” your brother started, and George looked up. “Wizard—Wizard Wheezes!”

George’s solemn expression shattered into a wide smile as he stepped into the room, his energy shifting instantly. “Hello, mate! I’m George. Heard your not feeling so good?” George reached out to shake his little hand, and he took it, his fingers dwarfed by George's palm.

“No, no. I'm fine!” Your brother replied, shock melting into excitement. “What are you doing here?”

George glanced down at you. “Your sister has been telling me all about you, and how strong you've been lately,” he said, crouching down beside the bed. “She loves you a lot, y’know?”

You stepped out of the way, tears starting to burn behind your eyes. Your mother slipped her hand into yours, watching the interaction with a hand pressed to her mouth.

“I know, but she worries too much,” your brother answered, and George burst out laughing.

“That's what happens when you love someone,” George replied, smiling. “You want to protect them from anything that might hurt them, even if you know you can't.”

“I’m big like you, I don't need protecting!” He argued.

George nodded, pressing a hand to his chest apologetically. “I can tell. But that doesn't mean they don't want to try anyways. And big guys like us have to protect them in return, yeah?”

Your brother nodded, puffing up his chest. “I'll never let anything happen to my sister. I promise!”

You blew him a kiss, and George gave him a high five.

“That's my buddy. Now, let's see if I've got anything special for heroes like you.” George fished around in his pocket, making dramatic faces while he rummaged in what you thought was an empty pocket.

But then he withdrew what appeared to be a toy airplane that would in no way, shape, or form fit in that pocket without magic. Your brothers face lit up when George threw it in the air and it started to fly, ducking and whizzing around the room.

“Hm, that wasn't what I was looking for,” George said with a dramatic frown, and you giggled. He glanced over his shoulder at you, breaking his frown to smirk at your reaction, and started fishing around in his pockets again.

He pulled out a bouncing ball, then a rubber chicken, a set of chattering teeth, a stuffed teddy bear. Item after item came out of his pockets until your brothers bed was covered in toys and gag items, and a dozen nurses were watching in amazement from the hallway. You and your mom were fighting through silent tears, your heart so big you felt it might explode out of your chest.

Most importantly, your brother was ecstatic, playing with this and that and chattering away at George about the different products and teaching him how to do magic tricks George himself had invented.

But half an hour later, your brother’s nurse came in to administer some of his medication and get him ready for bed. He tried to protest, but his new best friend, George, managed to talk him into not only compliance, but eager acceptance of his medicine.

You stole George away into the now quiet hall, Christmas lights illuminating the dark corridor, and threw your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into his neck, needing to feel him close, to ground you through the onslaught of emotions.

He wrapped his arms around you, his head turning to kiss your temple. “Need some air?” He murmured, and you shook your head no.

“Just need you,” you whispered, holding him tighter.

He let you cry into his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and murmuring reassurances into your hair. When you'd exhausted yourself, you pulled back and he reached up to hold your face, wiping your tears with his thumbs.

“Thank you for doing that,” you sniffled, sliding your hands down his chest, his sweater soft beneath your palms.

“It was my pleasure, love,” he replied, looking you in the eye. “You—him—this, I needed this. Needed you,” he breathed, voice tightening. “I forgot why we did it all, what all the sacrifices were for, and you reminded me. He reminded me.”

You rose on your toes to press a kiss to his lips, not knowing how else to express how you were feeling that wasn't, well, insanely soon.

He kissed you back, passionate enough to steal your breath, but released you when the door to your brother's room opened.

“Darling—oh, I'm sorry. Darling, would you like to come get a cup of coffee with me?” Your mother asked, clearly fighting a grin at discovering you.

“Sure, mum,” you exhaled, reluctantly stepping away from George. “You okay for a minute?”

“Absolutely, I'll keep an eye on him.” He pressed a kiss to your knuckles before releasing you to your mother, a soft smile on his face.

When you returned twenty minutes later, you found George stretched out in the arm chair pulled up right next to your brother’s bed, Rudolph on the television.

“—Fred managed to get the deer into the kitchen with some carrots and loaf of banana bread, and kept him distracted while I tied bells and ornaments—mom’s favorite’s, of course—to it’s antlers.”

Your brother was giggling, curled up with the stuffed bear George conjured earlier, his eyes heavy as he fought to stay awake to hear the story.

“But then we ran out of banana bread and Fred tried to give it some cookies, but by then the deer had discovered the Christmas tree in the corner, with the popcorn strings and cranberries and salt dough ornaments, y’know? So the deer started eating the bloody Christmas tree and we cannot get it out of the house now. It’s found the best sodding snack on earth. So by the time my mom get’s home, half the tree is gone, there’s shi—dirt all over the house, dishes are broken, holes in the walls—”

“What did she do?” Your mom asked, laughing. “I would have sent you out to live with the deer and it’s family.”

George grinned. “We ate nothing but carrots and banana bread for a week. Even for Christmas dinner. It was torture,” he chuckled, turning back to your brother, only to find him sound asleep. “That boring, huh?” He joked, rising from the chair so your mom could take it. But instead, she pulled him in for a hug, surprising him.

“Thank you for doing this, and I’m so sorry about your brother. But I know he’d be so proud of you today,” she murmured, and you saw George’s eyes well, his jaw flexing as he tried to fight it. Your mom pulled back, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then smoothing away her lipstick with her thumb. “You’re a wonderful, wonderful man, George Weasley. And I’m so glad you’re here.”

He nodded, a tear streaking down his face. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very k-kind.”

Your mother passed him to you, his hand gripping your tightly as he fought to keep his composure. “Goodnight, mum. I’ll see you in the morning?”

Your mother nodded, waving you away while she kissed your brothers cheek.

You led George out of the room and down the hall, finding an empty room to slip into. As soon as the door closed behind you, he sank to his knees, great, heaving sobs wracking his body. You lowered yourself to the ground with him, pulling his head into your shoulder and rocking him back and forth, his tears soaking through your sweater and shaking your whole body.

“I miss him,” George gasped like he was in pain, his grip almost bruising around your body.

“I know, baby. I know you do,” you said into his hair, holding his head against your chest. Your own tears began to spill then, for him, for you, for your family, and his, and you clung to one another as the overwhelming grief took it’s pound of flesh.

Slowly, he began to settle, breathing labored, but his tears subsiding. He lifted his head, looking at you through tear-brightened eyes, his lashes dark and spiked with moisture. You leaned forward, kissing away the droplets on his cheeks and jaw, until you felt him start to smile.

“I-it’s been so long since I—” he cleared his throat, reaching up to cup your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb. “I was numb for awhile, so long I sort of forgot what anything else felt like. I meant what I said earlier, you reminded me of what I’d lost, but in the best way.” Tears welled up again, but he smiled through them. “He would have been so fucking jealous that I got you. But Merlin, he would have loved you so much.”

You huffed a laugh, lower lip trembling as your heart soared. “George,” was all you could manage, and he leaned forward to kiss you, rising onto his knees and pulling into into his chest.

Then, that wild spinning sensation enveloped you again, and in a blink you were back on his couch, exactly as you were before, the credits to the movie rolling on the screen, your glasses of wine exactly where you left them.

“Stay with me tonight,” he asked, trailing kisses down your neck as you reoriented yourself. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, we could spend it together.” He lifted his head to look you in the eyes, and you nodded eagerly.

“Yeah,” you said, laughing as he rained kisses over your face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you have the most wonderful holiday season and start of the new year <3

[ethereacals]

so american <3

CHAPTER ONE: ALL AMERICAN B####

summary: Remus grows attached to an American transfer student from Ilvermorny.

trope: idiots in love, grumpy x sunshine, slight fast burn

pairings: remus lupin x gryffindor!american!reader

pt; 1-?

contents; people make fun of readers accent, reader was a thunderbird but is now a gryffindor

wc; 1.9k

new part every friday

THE LONG AWAITED DAY HAD FINALLY ARRIVED

Ever since your mom and dad had let you know that they had gotten job offers with the british Ministry of Magic, you couldn’t wait to finally become a student at Hogwarts.

Sure— Ilvermorny had it’s specialties, but Hogwarts? Hogwarts was easily the best wizarding school in all of the world.

And that’s why you simply couldn’t wait to attend.

You had heard so many incredible things about the teachers, the castle, and even the students.

Though— the excitement wasn’t necessarily fending off the nerves.

You were coming in as a 5th year, a 5th year who had no friends, no house, and no grasp of any sort of british wizarding culture.

People had started their friendships as first years, and closed their inner circles off to outsiders looking in.

So that left you to try and find some sort of place in the world, and everything was new and scary.

Admittedly— it did feel a bit embarrassing as you sat on the boat took 1st years across the Black Lake.

You towered over them, but in this technicalities (except for age and height) you were the same as them.

As the boats neared the boathouse; your anxiety seemed to grow.

Again, you felt a bit silly standing amongst the young 1st years as Professor McGonagall explained the houses and their attributes to everyone before entering the infamous Great Hall.

“Welcome to Hogwarts. Now, in a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates. But before you can take your seats, you must be sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Now while you're here, your house will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn you points. Any rule breaking, and you will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup.” McGonagall smiled warmly, as she answered a few questions from the 1st years with ease.

Allegedly, the ceiling was enchanted to look like a clear night sky.

You couldn’t wait to see it, Ilvermorny had nothing like that.

Back to the houses, you had always wondered what house you would be placed in— even before you attending Hogwarts was a blip on anyone’s radar.

You were a proud representative of Thunderbird back home, hopefully you would make them proud.

Snapping you out of your thoughts, with a swish of her wand— the doors to the Great Hall opened.

Revealing the four large tables, each seemingly representing a different house.

The stares and whispers that followed your arrival were nerve-wracking, you stuck out like a sore thumb.

“All right, will you wait along here, please? Now, before we begin, Professor Dumbledore would like to say a few words.” Professor McGonagall explained, stepping aside so the 1st years could see.

Dumbledore rose from the main table in the center.

“I have a few start-of-term notices I wish to announce. The first years, please note that the Dark Forest is strictly forbidden to all students. Moreover, swimming in the Black Lake is strictly prohibited unless you would like to become lunch for the giant squid who resides inside. Thank you.” Dumbledore seemed to smile softly at you— probably because he could sense your nerves.

Even people at Ilvermorny would boast about Dumbledore.

“When I call your name, you will come forth. I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses.” She began to call up 1st year after 1st year, as chatter rose over the students— seemingly chatting about who was getting placed where.

“Y/N L/N.”

When your name was called, the hall went silent.

You could nearly feel the prying eyes burning into your skin as you stepped up to the stool.

As she placed the hat down on your head, the battered old thing sprung to life.

“Ah… different from the rest, are we?” He inquired, shifting around on your head uncomfortably.

“Y-yes.. I suppose.” You stuttered quietly.

“A Thunderbird, were you? I believe I know where you go.” He began, the anticipation was thick in the air.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

He shouted, and cheers erupted throughout the room. Even McGonagall seemed pleased.

You stepped down from the stool, and towards the Gryffindor table when—

“Psst, Psst!” A ginger-haired girl called you over, a warm smile on her face as her two friends looked in your direction.

You walked towards them, and slid yourself down into the empty seat on the bench.

“You, you’re the new fifth year?” She questioned nicely.

“Yes, I am” You smiled, as her smile dropped— her eyes lighting up in surprise.

“Y—You’re american?!” Her blonde-haired friend exclaimed in bafflement, her hands slamming down on the table as food appeared on the table for the great feast.

“Umm, yes..?” You looked around at the three girls, and one of them gave you a smile.

“I’m Mary, Mary Macdonald. Since these two don’t seem to be giving you a proper introduction— This is Lily Evans, and That’s Marlene Mckinnon.” She stated simply.

“Oh, come on, Mars. I was just about to introduce myself.” Marlene rolled her eyes playfully, and gave Mary a small nudge.

“I’m sorry if we made you feel uncomfortable, I mean— I’ve never met an American before.” Lily apologized, her smile returning to her freckle-stricken face.

“It’s alright, I understand.” You laughed, beaming at Lily.

“Well— This is my one of my boyfriends, Jame— James!”

Lily looked over at James disappointedly, as he was seemingly trying to steal from her plate.

“Sorry, my love.” James smiled guiltily, before turning his attention to you.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N” He shook your hand strongly.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, James.”

His eyes widened comically in response to your response.

“Y—You’re american?” He whispered from across the table, as if he was asking something highly inappropriate.

You giggled, “Yes, I am.”

“Pads, Pads!” Sirius grabbed the shoulders of the boy next to him and jostled him around to get his attention.

“Merlin’s tits— What, Prongs?” Sirius sighed exasperatedly.

“Here— Y/N, say hello again.” James asked of you.

“…Hello.”

Sirius gasped rather dramatically, his eyes nearly widening the same as James’

“She’s… You’re.. not… british?” You bursted into a fit of laughter with Lily, and Sirius looked baffled.

“Wait— Wait— In America… What do you call it when two people snog?” He asked, as Lily shot him a glare.

“What does “snog” mean?” You asked innocently.

“It basically means when two people kiss feverishly.” Marlene explained, as Sirius playfully eyed you up and down.

“I could always… show you?” He joked flirtatiously, and earned a painful jab into the ribs by James.

“So, you mean making out?” You answered, still a bit confused.

“Making out? How uneducated.” Sirius huffed, turning back to this plate full of food.

Suddenly— You met the auburn eyes of a quiet, scarred, gentle giant whose skin was a lovely shade of olive, and littered with freckles.

“Hi, Y/n. I’m sorry about them.” He spoke, leaning over Mary to speak with you.

“It’s alright, I promise.” He didn’t seem very phased by your accent, but on the inside— it drove him crazy.

“My name is Remus, Remus Lupin.” He smiled gently, that smile must have been hand-picked by angels.

“It’s great to meet you, Remus.” You beamed at him.

“You aswell, Y/N”

And that was the day that Remus Lupin fell head over heels for the sweet American girl.

FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Remus throughly enjoyed watching you discover the abundance of magic in Hogwarts.

To you— it seemed like everything was new and exciting.

It felt like everything was new and exciting for him, too.

And for once, Remus actually cared about the place he had honestly been taking for granted for five long years.

Perhaps it was the way that your eyes lit up every time you happened upon an enchanted painting, or all of the questions you asked regarding the logistics behind the giant squid.

For whatever reason, Remus found you extremely intriguing.

Though, Remus vowed he would never tell you.

It would be his last wish in life to force anything upon someone as lovely as you.

So, he stayed quiet.

"Remus, I don't understand!” You sighed exasperatedly.

“What do you mean there’s a room that shifts itself into anything you require? How?” You pointed your finger at the door that had just appeared out of nowhere on a blank wall on the way to the Astronomy Tower.

“No one really knows, Dove. Sorry.” Remus cooed, patting your shoulder consolingly as he led you to Astronomy.

Remus was the only one of your newfound friends that had decided to take Astronomy this year, seeing as Sirius and James took it last year just to get it over with.

You quite enjoyed looking at Remus, admiring how his unexplainable scars were illuminated by the moonlight shining in from the large open walls.

Even in your few first days at Hogwarts, you could tell that you would grow to adore it.

You might have adored spending time with Remus even more, and you were especially in luck since Professor Sinistra assigned three hours of star-charting and you were to do the assignment in partners.

So, that's why you and Remus were up at the Astronomy Tower at 2am on a Friday (with a teachers excuse to be up past curfew).

"Do you ever miss your parents when your away at school?" You asked Remus.

He was certainly the quiet type, and that intrigued you.

"Sometimes, but I usually see them over Christmas break. I mainly write them letters after every full moon." He stated simply, before realizing what he accidentally slipped out.

"After every full moon?" You questioned, furrowing your brow as he seemed to quickly explain himself.

"It's a thing... my mum insists upon." He evaded any other questions regarding the matter, much to your chagrin.

He wished he could open up to you, but he still basically didn't know you.

He had no knowledge what-so-ever on your views on Werewolves.

He couldn't risk destroying a friendship that could eventually be the purest and most authentic he'd ever had.

Sure, James and Sirius were incredible mates, and so was Peter.

But for some unexplainable reason; Remus could speak to you.

He never felt uncomfortable with talking about his thoughts or feelings around you, and he only could hope that you felt the same.

You were both different, well- different but in two very significantly different ways. But you were still two individuals who didn't really fit in with the crowd.

"Have you missed Ilvermorny, yet?" Remus gazed towards you as you switched places. You on the telescope and him charting what you find.

"Same as you, really. Not much, even though I haven't been here for long yet. It feels a bit more... homely, than Ilvermorny ever did." You admitted, concentrating deeply on the assignment.

"I understand, It was probably an interesting change." Remus related deeply.

"An interesting one? Absolutely, but a welcomed change, for sure." You smiled, turning back to face him and explain to him what you had seen in the stars.

Oh, yes. This was the beginning of something truly beautiful.