weasleyreidstyles

[weasleyreidstyles]

in case you are living under a rock, don’t use AI to write your works!!! writing is hard but it’s so rewarding. getting to create something of your own is truly beautiful, don’t be lazy and use a tool that essentially steals from other writers creativity

[weasleyreidstyles]

little sister, my arse (f.w.)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.

A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?

Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider

Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.

Best friends, even.

“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.

Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.

In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.

And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.

Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.

Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.

You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.

You looked hot.

Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.

Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.

He stared at you.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”

You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”

Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.

You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”

“It’s a postage stamp.”

“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.

“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”

Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”

Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”

You rolled your eyes.

Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."

You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."

Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"

He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"

That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”

"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.

"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."

You blinked again, "For what?"

He paused, "To supervise."

"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."

Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."

"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.

Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”

You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."

Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.

He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.

“You’re like a little sister to me.”

He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.

And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.

Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.

But you noticed.

So did everyone else.

And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.

And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.

Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground. Every duel, a performance. Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.

Today was no different.

You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.

But you simply smiled.

Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.

You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.

It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.

Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.

“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.

His face was a picture of panic.

Your internal grin was feral.

He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.

“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.

He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.

"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”

You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)

“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”

Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”

Little sister.

Right.

You tried not to roll your eyes.

Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.

No, it was different when it was you.

When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.

You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.

You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.

As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.

You’d get him eventually. You were patient. And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.

It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.

You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.

Until it wasn’t.

A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”

You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”

“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”

You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”

Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”

You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.

Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”

You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”

“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”

You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”

“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.

Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”

You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”

Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”

You blinked, “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”

“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”

“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”

“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”

He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”

You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”

He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”

That shut you up.

He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.

“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”

He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”

You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”

He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”

Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.

He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”

You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.

“You do?”

You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”

Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.

“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.

You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”

“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”

You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.

It was nothing and everything.

Just a moment. Just a feeling.

But it was these moments that truly made you believe.

You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.

The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.

You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.

A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.

“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”

Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?

It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.

You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”

You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.

But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.

So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.

The small detail you’d failed to factor in?

Your friends hadn’t come alone.

So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.

You weren’t bitter. Not really.

…Okay. Maybe a little.

You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.

Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.

He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.

Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.

You looked up as he stopped in front of you.

“Fred?”

“You look like a lemon.”

You blinked. “Charming.”

He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”

You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”

You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”

You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.

“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”

“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”

“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”

“You won’t.” You said smugly.

You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.

You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”

You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.

“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.

The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”

Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”

The boy hesitated, then walked away.

You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”

Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”

You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”

He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”

The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.

“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.

“Fred—what are you—?”

Then he dipped you.

Dramatically.

One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.

“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”

“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”

He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”

Your breath caught.

He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.

Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.

You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.

So you said nothing. You let him hold you a little too close. Let his fingers linger at your waist. Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.

And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.

At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.

The both of you just lost in your own world.

Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.

Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.

“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”

You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”

He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”

“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”

He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.

“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.

Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”

He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.

“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.

“Angelina, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”

Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”

She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”

His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”

“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”

Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.

Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.

Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.

Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.

Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.

Oh.

Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.

He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.

He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.

“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.

Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”

But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.

“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”

Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”

Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”

George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”

“I didn’t—”

“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”

“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.

“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”

Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”

George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”

Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”

George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are in love with her.”

Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”

George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.

Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.

The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.

He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.

He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.

Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.

So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.

You’d gone all out.

Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.

So you did.

The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.

George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.

“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”

They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.

And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.

The real one.

Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.

And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.

When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.

“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”

He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”

You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.

Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.

He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.

Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.

His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.

“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”

Fred stared at it.

Then at you.

His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.

You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.

There was no warning.

No hesitation.

Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”

You opened your mouth.

He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”

You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.

Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.

The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.

A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.

“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”

George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”

Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.

You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.

His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.

“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”

Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.

You just winked.

And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.

And he always had been.

Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.

Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.

Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.

At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.

George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.

“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”

Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”

“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”

Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.

This went on for days.

He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.

It was, frankly, kind of adorable.

George was having the time of his life.

On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”

Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.

Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.

Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.

Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.

You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.

When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.

Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”

Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.

“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.

Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.

Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.

“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”

You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.

“Moi?”

Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”

You just winked, utterly unapologetic.

You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.

The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.

He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.

He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”

That was when you snapped.

You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.

For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.

He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.

Again and again and again.

But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.

You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.

“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.

Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.

Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?

Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.

“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.

Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.

And now? Now he was properly wrecked.

Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.

“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”

He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—

“Oi!”

The door slammed open.

George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”

Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”

George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”

“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”

George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.

Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.

“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.

You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”

Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”

You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.

Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”

“You do.”

He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”

You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”

You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”

He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”

Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”

He did.

This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.

Bonus:

It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.

Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.

You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.

He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.

“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.

“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.

“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.

You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”

His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.

Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”

Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.

“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”

Fred blinked, “What is that?”

George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”

You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”

Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”

You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”

Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”

“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”

Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.

“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”

Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”

Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.

Bonus Bonus Scene:

It started innocently enough. (Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)

You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along. “You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.

Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.

By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.

Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.

You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.

You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.

You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.

Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.

You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.

Until—

“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”

You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.

Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)

Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.

For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.

Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.

Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.

Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.

Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.

“How long has this been going on?!”

Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”

Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”

You winced. Fred winced.

Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.

Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.

Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.

Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.

“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”

The room fell utterly silent.

Even George stopped laughing.

You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.

Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.

And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.

“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”

You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”

He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”

Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)

The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.

“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”

“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”

“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”

You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”

“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.

“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”

“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.

“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”

At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.

“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.

Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.

You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.

“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.

Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”

“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.

Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”

“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.

And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

[weasleyreidstyles]

hey, i was wondering if you could do a sort angst/fluff one shot for regulus x reader who hates sirius because reg told them about how sirius left him with his parents

Here you go !! I hope you'll like it and that it'll meet what you expected <3

Shattered Constellations

✮ Summary : Request above ↑

✮ Contains : Angst, fluff/comfort

✮ Pairing : Regulus Black x reader

✮ Word Count : 867 words

A soft, gentle rain pattered against the windowpanes of the library, the rhythmic sound a familiar backdrop to Regulus and your quiet afternoon. You were nestled together in a large armchair, a heavy tome of ancient runes open on your lap, though neither of you were truly reading.

Your fingers traced the delicate curve of his jaw, his head resting in the crook of your neck, his dark hair a soft curtain against your skin. This was your sanctuary—this shared silence, the unspoken understanding that flowed between you.

You had met him in your fourth year, a chance encounter in the library when a stack of books toppled over, sending a cascade of leather and parchment to the floor. You'd both scrambled to gather them, and your hands brushed as you reached for the same worn copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

He'd mumbled an apology, his cheeks flushing a faint rose color that you found endearing. From then on, you’d find yourselves gravitating towards each other in the halls and at meal times, your conversations starting with homework and eventually spiraling into everything else.

Your relationship hadn't been a whirlwind, but a slow, steady burn. You had become his confidante, the one person he could truly be himself around. He was the quiet, reserved Slytherin prince to the rest of the world, but with you, he was just Regulus.

You saw the vulnerability behind his cool facade, the weight of expectations he carried on his young shoulders. He wasn't the kind to make grand gestures; instead, he showed his love in small, quiet ways. A hand finding yours under the table, a book of poetry left on your pillow, the way he would listen intently as you spoke about your day. Getting together was more of a mutual realization than a formal confession.

One evening, after a particularly long study session in the common room, his hand had lingered on your cheek as he said goodnight, and the unspoken question in his eyes was all the confirmation you needed. You’d simply leaned in and kissed him, a soft, sure moment that sealed your bond.

But there was a shadow that loomed over your peaceful world—his brother. Sirius. The older brother who had abandoned him, leaving him to bear the full brunt of their parents' suffocating expectations and cold cruelty.

Regulus had confessed it all to you one night, the words spilling out in a broken rush of anger and grief. He’d told you how Sirius had left, how the air in the house had become thick with disappointment and silent accusations, all directed at him, the "good son" who had to make up for his brother's failures.

That night, you held him as he cried, his body shaking with a pain that felt too big for him. You didn't try to fix it, didn't offer empty platitudes. You simply held him, stroking his back and whispering reassurances until the storm subsided.

From that day on, you harbored a deep-seated hatred for Sirius Black. You saw the tangible proof of his abandonment in Regulus's quiet sadness, in the way he would flinch at loud noises, and in the way he would sometimes just stare into the distance, lost in a memory you knew was painful.

You hated Sirius for leaving Regulus to face their parents alone, for making him believe he was not enough.

As the rain outside intensified, a fresh wave of sadness seemed to wash over Regulus. He let out a shaky sigh, his body tensing in your arms. "He wrote to me again," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Sirius."

Your heart clenched with a familiar anger. You didn't have to ask what the letter said. It would be a cheerful, careless note from a brother who was living a life of freedom, completely oblivious to the pain he had left behind. "What did he want?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Regulus shook his head, burying it deeper into your neck. "Just… checking in. Like he's just come back from holiday. He doesn't get it, does he? He doesn't understand what he did to me." His voice cracked on the last word, and you could feel the hot tears starting to fall against your skin.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, your own heart aching for him. "He doesn't," you said, your voice soft now, filled with all the love and fury you felt. "He doesn't have a clue what he put you through. He's selfish, Reg. And he's a fool for not seeing what he has in you."

Regulus just clung to you, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn't mind. You would sit here forever if it meant he could finally let go of the pain for a little while. You hated Sirius Black with a fiery passion, but you loved Regulus more than words could say.

You would be his anchor, his safe harbor, his everything. And you would make sure he never felt alone again, not as long as you were there. You were his and he was yours, and in the small, quiet space you had built for yourselves, that was all that mattered.

꩜ Masterlist

꩜ One shots requests opened

[weasleyreidstyles]

i swear the summer i turned pretty was made to personally rage bait me. i cannot stand belly and jere 😑😑😑😑😑

[weasleyreidstyles]

pairing: azriel x reader

summary: you and azriel are the quietest people in the room

w/c: 1.7k / navigation / inbox / summer of series

a/n: another one. these men won't let me go.

You're not sulking or avoiding conversation, you just don't have anything meaningful to contribute. Not to these discussions- not to the way Rhysand and his Inner Circle are so used to talking. They're discussing relations with other kingdoms, saving unsavory things about the other High Lords, and you've never left the city of Velaris. Not that you'd want to: you love it here, and you've only recently become aware of the horrors outside of the city limits. Perks of getting close with the cousin of your High Lord, you suppose. Still, you have very little to say about the Autumn Court's High Lord when the furthest distance you've traveled was to work and back.

That's where you'd met Morrigan; she'd zipped into your cafe one night- past closing, you hadn’t been quite sure how she’d managed that one, though she explained herself later - begging to use you and the store as collateral.

“I’ve just cheated somebody very vengeful at cards,” She’d admitted, hair as wild as her eyes, her chest heaving, “-and she’s particularly bloodthirsty tonight, but if there’s an innocent bystander around, she won’t blow me up.”

Just then, a face had appeared at the door, expression terrifyingly devilish and looking very much like the type to blow you up regardless. But she’d snarled at the sight of you, a sound eerily audible from behind the glass, and she’d left without another word.

Her name was Amren, and she’s stil upset with you for harboring her fugitive. But she hasn’t blown you up, she just glares particularly viciously at you when you speak, move, or breathe.

You think she might like you, just a little bit.

Morrigan had been charmingly relatable that first night, but surrounded by nobility, she blends right in. They all do, and you do not- not with your work tunic and linen pants on, surrounded by leather and velvet.

They're not unkind to you by any means. Really, you're stunned that despite their luxury, they don't choose arrogance and cruelty even if they could. You're fully relaxed into one of Rhysand's plush velvet couches, Morrigan's feet crossed in your lap.

Mor, for all she's paying attention to the absolutely riveting conversation you have zero contributions to, is an especially observant devil as well. She nudges you in the gut with her toe, “Are you sleeping with your eyes open?”

“No,” You pipe up, your throat briefly raspy with thick disuse, “What?”

One of the men- Cassian, the broad-shouldered one, snickers.

“You haven't said a word all night. Are we boring you?"

She offers you a toothy grin that tells you she's not insulted by your quiet, but you feel the need to explain yourself regardless.

"No," You groan, glancing around at the people you're seated with, "I don't know, I just don't have much to say. I like listening."

"You're like Azriel." Rhysand notes, "Quietest people in the room."

"We should lock them in a closet somewhere and see how long it would take for someone to say something," Mor snickers, tossing her head back against the couch to stare at the ceiling, "Just- hours of dead silence."

The group shares a laugh, but Azriel's voice, deep and startling for how little you've heard it, undercuts their amusement.

"I talk sometimes. When it's worth it. And a discussion about how many shirts Cassian has ripped through by flexing his biceps isn't what I'd consider worth it."

You'd meant what you'd said about listening instead of speaking, but evidently that doesn't count for laughter, as yours rings out over the sitting room. At most you share a quick chuckle with someone seated beside you but Azriel's interjection makes you snort, an ugly, piggish sound that surprises you as much as everyone else.

"I've never heard you laugh before." Mor marvels, which is a complete lie, but you know she means like that- brash and gruff and rugged. She waves her hand dismissively at the shadowsinger, "Azriel, do it again. Say something funny."

"I've heard her laugh." Azriel notes, though his voice is humorless, his eyes flicking towards you before dropping back to the knife in his lap that he'd been inspecting for dulled edges or dirty markings. With the amount of times he looks after Truth-Teller in one day, you're surprised he hasn't sharpened it down to nothing.

"Okay, I've heard her laugh," Mor gushes, "Like- a giggle! A chuckle! Nothing like that! Do it again!"

"I'm not a stand-up comic." Azriel murmurs, his lithe fingers smoothing down Truth-Teller's blade, "But perhaps if any of you were funny once in a while..."

"A smile." Cassian accuses, like a dart flung at your head. He points viciously to where you're biting your lips to flatten out your expression, "Az, seriously! You've got the magic touch!"

"We should lock you in a room together," Rhysand observes, his expression thoughtful, "Perhaps it'd give you both a chance to be heard for once, over these buffoons."

At once Mor is dragging her feet out of your lap, tugging at your arm instead, "Do it! Go- I don't know, sit in the library and brood! Go take a walk through the courtyard and stare wistfully at the stars! Go do whatever quiet people do together!"

You're trying to fight her off but Azriel stands with one fluid, graceful motion, Truth-Teller sheathed back at his side. He twitches his wings- the chairs have been engineered to adapt to them, but he'd been sitting for an awfully long time. He adjusts them, spreading them out until they complement the shadows swirling behind him, "A walk sounds nice. Fresh air free from Cassian's B.O and some peace and quiet."

You assume he means alone, because you know him well enough to know he thrives that way. But evidently, Mor's gotten to his head, because his eyes flick towards you, stunning and awe-inspiring.

"Are you coming?"

To hesitate would be rude, but to agree too suddenly- you're sure there's a reason Mor had pitched locking you and Azriel in a closet. Perhaps you're endeared by the spymaster, perhaps you'd enjoy a small, dark space with the man.

You stand, cutting in front of Rhysand's chair to join Azriel by the balcony doors.

"Y/N," Rhysand grabs your hand, his violet eyes boring into your own as they dance with amusement, "Don't let him keep you up too late. He's a real party animal, he is."

"Right." You nod, watching Azriel shift on his feet by the door, legs and wings restless, "Because he's the one that needs escorting home from Rita's."

"Sometimes!" Cassian barks, "It's not always me!"

"It's always you." Amren shuts him down, giving you an extra glare for good measure, "Azriel broods, he doesn't party."

"Yes, and I'm late for tonight's brooding session," Azriel scoffs, stepping towards you to claim your opposite hand, tugging you out of Rhysand's grip, "Come, Y/N. If we walk down to the city's edge we might not be able to hear them anymore."

Rhysand lets your hand slip out of his own with a roguish grin, and Cassian tries booting Azriel in the ass before he reaches the door.

You're pulled gently into the night air by Azriel's scarred hand, and instead of dropping yours when he's got the chance, he raises your interlocked fingers and squeezes.

"Did you want to go down into the city?" He asks, his eyes shimmering brightly beneath the stars in a way that the overheads in the House of Wind rob him of, "I was teasing, of course, but we can go wherever you'd like."

"I don't think I'm fit for the city right now," You glance down at your casual dress, "This is what I wear to work."

Azriel's mouth curves into a tightly contained smile, "Mor says you run a cafe."

"I do. It's a bit of a library, too. People come and read and sew and paint and do all sorts of things while they have their coffee."

"Is it quiet there?" He asks, tilting his face down towards you beneath the moon.

"It's closed now." You nod, "But even during the day it's calm."

"Then that's where we'll go," He decides, spreading his wings into the night sky and holding his free hand out, "Bridal, or baby?"

"Pardon?" You ask, tilting your head at him with a frown.

"Am I flying you down bridal style," He slows his speech, unwavering eye contact making you feel unsteady on your legs, "Or against me like a baby?"

Oh.

Your cheeks blaze suddenly, and your brain clears instead of thinks. You can't come up with a coherent decision that doesn't reveal something you'd rather keep secret so you leave it up to him: "Whatever's easiest for you."

"Come here," He murmurs, his voice carried on the wind as he decides: bridal.

You're caught behind the back and knees, tipped into his embrace where you wind your arms around his neck. He glances down at you, the motion pudging his chin slightly, "Are you ready?"

"Yes," You hum faintly, clutching him tightly, "Just- go slow? If you can? I'm not really used to... flying."

He chuckles, low and deep in his chest, "Is this your first time?"

"One of." You nod, "Cassian's done it before, once or twice."

"No wonder." He sympathizes, stepping up towards the edge of the balcony with you draped across his arms, "He's a maniac. I'll be careful, I promise."

"I trust you," You hum, but you press your face into his shoulder regardless, eyes squeezed shut as you feel the balcony drop out from beneath you. You fall for only a second, barely enough for you to react, before you're gliding on a current, sailing smoothly towards the city at a gentle slope.

You chance a peek back at the House of Wind that's rapidly disappearing from view the further Azriel flies towards the city. Your cafe is on the outskirts of the village, seated neatly between forest and cobblestone, and one glance upwards reveals the stars the the city is so fondly named after.

They're shining, like the lights below you, and your fear evaporates as Azriel flies you gently down towards solid ground. This is nothing like flying with Cassian- his wings flap gracefully and elegantly, they're not beating against the air.

You find you quite enjoy this flight. As a matter of fact, you quite enjoy the man attached to this particular set of wings, and you let yourself relax into his grip as you head towards a night of peace, quiet, and Azriel.

[weasleyreidstyles]

guess who's officially a woman in STEM🤭🤭🤭

[weasleyreidstyles]

PRENDS MA MAIN | Regulus Black x F!Reader

summary: the Malfoy's spring ball, a startling betrayal, and a rivalry that just might become so much more when a certain grey eyed boy swallows his fear and follows you out of the ballroom and into the rain. [12K]

C/W: cheating (not from reader or regulus), a lil angst, lucius getting revenge for the reader but no scene including the actual act, emotional breakdown/mild panic attack, slightly defensive/mean reader at first, an actually horrendous amount of pining and one almost kiss

A/N: I'm definitely considering a part 2 (that will not be as long as this lmao) where we get that first kiss, so if that's something anyone would like to see, feel free to send me ideas for how their first kiss should go!!

song inspo: love story by indila

It was an awful thing to witness.

A terrible, sickening humiliation, because you had never thought there was reason to look deeper into their interactions together.

You had never believed you needed to think twice about how earlier in the night your boyfriend had looked almost dazed, eyes wide and lips parted, whilst you had descended the stairs towards him with her and Narcissa at your side.

His voice a soft rush, an awed murmur, for the compliments that had fallen from his mouth like flower petals.

There had been no second guess there either - whether his attempts at charm had ever been made for all of you at aIl and instead was just a way for him to compliment her without looking suspicious.

When you had swept arm in arm into the Malfoy’s spring ball, your gaze stolen away by the elegant vines that crawled the length of the walls and up onto the ceiling, housing bright leaves and flowers with pale petals that rained down in soft flutters, tiny glowing lights dancing between them, you had never considered that instead of sharing your awe, his gaze had been taken by her.

And you hadn’t thought anything of it when he’d asked her to dance after the hours had ticked by and he’d only danced once with you.

It was normal, wasn’t it? To dance with friends at these things - especially if they came without a date of their own.

You danced with Lucius all the time and even Barty and Evan on the rare occasion that they wandered over from their table, parting for a few moments from their sullen grey eyed friend that refused to have anything to do with you.

It didn’t mean anything.

Your boyfriend just didn't like the ‘sappy’ sounding music that often drew your wistful gaze to the dancefloor before one of your boys stepped in and offered their hand in his stead. He didn’t like the proximity with so many others watching, the public intimacy of it all.

In his own words, he simply wasn’t one for dancing or dances in general.

But then you’d been too distracted flitting between your friends to notice that one song had ended and another had begun, neither your boyfriend nor your friend returning as the music swelled through the room, softer than it had been previously, slower. Romantic.

It was Lucius who noticed first.

The direction of your friend’s gaze drifting lazily to somewhere beyond your shoulder before those grey eyes of his suddenly sharpened, the warmth in them morphing into something unfathomably colder, crueller, as he glowered at whatever had caught his attention.

Any hint of the slight, soft smile he’d held for you and the girl tucked against his side, gone, like such a light thing had never even existed in the Malfoy heir in the first place.

You didn’t notice until Narcissa registered the way her boyfriend had stiffened beside her and curiously followed his frigid stare, her own terrifying shift in expression and sharp intake of breath being what finally caught your full attention.

It made you forget about the story you had been telling, words trailing off slowly as your eyes flickered between them, brow pinched in a concern before you made to turn around so you could discover the cause of your friend's unhappiness.

It wasn’t exactly rare for Lucius’ mood to turn at the drop of a hat, for someone he didn’t like to cross his path and draw out that withering glare of his.

But for Narcissa to look so incensed too was something else entirely.

“What’s the matter - please don’t tell me it’s Lu’s lovesick stalker and her awful mother trying to convince your parents to break your engagement again. Honestly, it's just becoming a bit alarming now – oh–”

The sound that came out of you was weak. A pitiful noise like you’d been struck in the stomach mid-sentence and you hated it.

Despised the way something in your chest lurched and cracked, tears pricking at your eyes, as you caught sight of them.

They were swaying more than actually dancing. Chest to chest. Her arms wrapped around his neck, his around her waist, not an inch in between them.

But it was the way they were looking at each other was enough to make the sudden onslaught of nausea swirl unforgivingly in your gut. Soft. Starry-eyed. Sickeningly doting.

It looked like they were in love.

Like they had been for months, maybe even longer, and now that they were holding each other it was as if they couldn’t hide it or rather they didn’t care to since it seemed like no one else existed outside of the bubble they had encased themselves in.

Certainly not you or the dozens of other people that they were humiliating you in front of.

You wanted to vomit - prayed in your mind to any deity that would listen, magical or muggle, that you wouldn’t.

Were they truly so disgustingly infatuated with each other that they didn’t realise what they were doing or was it something worse than that, an even deeper betrayal because the both of them knew you.

They knew how you hated to cause a scene because it was so deeply ingrained in your being that emotional outbursts in the presence of others were undignified at best and an unforgivable display of weakness and vulnerability at worst.

Had they planned this because they thought they could count on your silence, your restrained calm - did they believe that it would save them from you?

Honestly, you weren’t too sure you could trust yourself no matter where your opinion on such public displays typically stood or that you knew the consequences from your parents would be severe if you embarrassed them in front of their peers.

There was too much of a searing rage coiling within your chest.

It mixed violently with every other emotion that was surging through you, the blood in your veins bubbling and spitting, your magic crackling with it, and the thought of drawing your wand and reducing their precious moment to cinders and ash grew more alluring with each passing second that they continued on unaware.

How had you been so fucking blind?

Had any of your friends noticed something you hadn’t and just not known how to tell you? Had others?

You watched the way he smiled at her as she laughed, bile rising in the back of your throat as the murmuring of something sweet made her chin tilt up and oh god, they wouldn’t.

They wouldn’t.

They wouldn’t.

They would.

In a blink, his lips were on hers and then you were stumbling back, jaw clenched so tight you thought your teeth might shatter, desperate to choke down the horrified gasp that burned before it ached when it sank back down in your chest like a stone weight.

The fire that had been snaking itself around your too-fast beating heart sputtered and died out, swallowed up by the shock that seemingly drowned everything else with it and in its place, a terrible hollowness had been left. An overwhelming sense of nothing that you were completely unprepared to deal with.

Cold hands on your shoulders caught you before you could embarrass yourself further by tripping over the hem of your dress. And it should have made you feel better when you looked up to find Lucius staring down at you with a dark, livid gleam in his eyes.

A cruel look on his handsome face that told you he would stride over there right now, elegant even in his most wrathful state, and quietly interrupt the traitorous lovesick fools before leading your boyfriend away to another room.

Somewhere private, in another wing perhaps, where no one would hear the screams as he cast curse after curse. The unholiest ones he could imagine, if that was what you wanted.

It should have made you feel better when Narcissa’s gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist, the familiar touch soothing but not enough to stop you from feeling like you were drowning, her voice soft even if the words she directed at the figures still embracing in the middle of the dancefloor weren’t.

Instead, you hardly registered it when her tone grew worried, or when her boyfriend’s hands on your shoulders squeezed briefly to try and bring you back to yourself.

You didn’t really think about how it would look if you went rushing out of there instead of pretending everything was fine like you had always been taught to when things went wrong.

Head high, shoulders straight and expression schooled into the perfect image of cool indifference.

Above it all, as a pureblood should be.

No, all you could focus on was the sickly kind of heat that was rolling over you, creeping around your ribs and up your neck, the way you couldn’t see properly through the thickening gloss of tears, and the fact that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t breathe.

Merlin, you just needed to fucking breathe.

So you tore away from your friends without another word, mumbling excuses and apologies that may or may not have made sense, unable to hear the way Narcissa called for you or how Lucius quietly told her to give you the time you needed to be alone when she tried to follow.

You ducked your chin and wove between tables with their crisp white cloths and intricate centrepieces, heels furiously clicking against the floor as your steps hurried you past guests that hovered at the edge of the dancefloor like vultures.

Their sharp stares tracking every misstep, every fumbled spin and weak lift, expressions gleeful and lips stained blood-red from the wine as they whispered poison into each other's ears.

And where once you wouldn’t have been able to resist saying something, resulting in a hand clapped over your mouth and a smooth apology offered by Lucius that no one could resist being charmed by, now you were just grateful that their attention wasn’t on you.

But someone’s was.

Grey eyes had been drawn to you from the very moment you wandered into the ballroom at the beginning of the night, breath hitching in a too tight chest at how beautiful you looked, stunning in a dress that was more like a work of art.

A divine thing that was all shimmering pearls and exquisite beading, material that spilled like water and floated around your feet as you walked.

The familiar boy had watched, mesmerised, as your own eyes glittered, sweeping over the decor with the kind of delight that made him wish he could capture it forever. Memorise in the depths of his very soul the mischievous smile that you couldn’t fully hide behind your hand whilst Narcissa whispered to you through the elder Malfoy’s welcoming speech.

Your quiet chuckle disguised beneath an awfully fake cough when Lucius’ stern but fond gaze fell on you both from where he stood beside his parents.

He wanted to hoard the soft expression you so rarely bestowed upon others but gave to your boyfriend who in a thousand lifetimes would never be worthy of it.

Never be worthy of you.

To curse the waste of space where he stood for being the one who got to revel in the warmth of it yet not appreciate how lucky that made him, for being the one who got to dance with you but never taking the opportunity beside the required first dance to do so.

For not being as sickeningly and hopelessly in love with you as anyone in their right mind should be, as he unfortunately was, ceaselessly jealous of his own friend when Barty had left his side to steal you away for the next dance.

Spinning you faster and faster, over and over again until you were breathless and flushed with laughter, head tilted back and shining brighter than all the stars in the night sky.

Instead he had settled for simply observing, stare cold and furious and deeply offended on your behalf, at how your boyfriend barely paid you the attention you deserved, how you maybe didn’t notice because your friends, whether intentional or not, were quick to make up for the thankless idiot’s failures.

He had found himself unable to look away when the other boy’s eyes shifted and brightened for someone who wasn’t you, ringed fingers tightening harshly around the glass in his hand when your boyfriend leaned and whispered into your ear, nodding towards the girl who was supposed to be a friend.

You’d smiled like you were warmed by the fact he’d wanted to step in and ensure she had a good time, completely trusting as you’d affectionately waved them off in the direction of the dancefloor before turning back to your conversation.

It felt like watching a train wreck.

That slow motion kind of disaster where waiting for the inevitable was almost as horrific as being stood in the middle of the smoking carnage at the end of it.

The next moments had come in flashes, barely there touches and lighthearted gazes that were respectful until they weren’t. A song change, something slow and sweet that drew them closer, tearing apart the pretence as if it had been crudely sewn with nothing more than flimsy honour and weak fealty.

The hands grew bolder as did the stares and then they were forehead to forehead, smiles pulling at their lips like their lack of loyalty and faithfulness wasn’t a disgrace.

Like they weren’t about to break something infinitely more precious than all the riches in gringotts with their betrayal.

He’d never felt dread like it when he watched you turn, your expression shaded with confusion before shock swept it away like a blank state, mouth dropping into a stunned little ‘o’ as understanding crept in and the hurt began to bloom.

The music sounded like the tinkling swell of a fairytale but this was a nightmare. A horror that didn’t seem to be planning on ending there as bodies sped past, couples twirling in blurs that briefly shielded but couldn’t ultimately hide the moment your boyfriend dipped his chin to meet the girl’s mouth with his own.

Rage flooded him, a foul, deep-seething hatred. Fuelled by the pain that twisted at his heart when you staggered back as if the ground had been swept from beneath you and suddenly he didn’t care quite so much about being the perfect son for his parents to parade around. Used to prove how much better his family was than the others there.

He didn’t even care that you hated him and that he’d spent far too long allowing you to believe he hated you too.

He just wanted to reach for you.

And when you strode out of the room, dress swishing violently around your legs and your head downturned to hide the tremble of your lips, the hot sting of tears that spilled over your lash line, Regulus Black didn’t hesitate before following.

****

The courtyard was cold and empty, shining wet in the light of the little glowing orbs floating around the grounds and smelling like the rain that was coming down in fat droplets when you burst out of the manor doors.

It made the soft colour of your dress grow dark in small, random splotches, hem dragging heavy and sodden over the ground as you struggled to march across the gravel in the direction of a large, almost obnoxiously pretty gazebo.

And when you finally stepped foot beneath the pale marble roof you were almost entirely soaked.

There was the soft pat,pat,pat of your hair dripping rainwater onto the floor as you stood there breathing harshly, the uncomfortable feeling of your gloves sticking to your skin. Cold and clinging.

But none of it mattered as much compared to how glad you felt that no one was around to witness the emotional spiral you were unable to talk yourself out of.

The grief and humiliation that felt like it had blended into a living, breathing entity. A savage beast that was trying with all its might to claw its way out of your heart, tearing through the meat of your lungs and shattering ribs as it ripped its way free.

And maybe you couldn’t kill it before it all became too much because you still hadn’t fully caught your breath yet, chest still heaving against that horrible cinching tightness as you paced.

Or maybe it was because the sight of the roses coiling around the columns of your newfound shelter reminded you of the ones currently encasing your neck and your wrist.

The ones he gifted you.

A matching necklace and bracelet that had felt wrong from the moment he had clasped them.

The wrong colour, the wrong flower, the wrong everything really.

All things your boyfriend should have known but you ultimately decided against mentioning to spare his feelings even when he cooed nonsense about “his favourite flower deserving to be adorned in her favourite flower” much to the approval of your parents that morning.

Even they didn’t know you well enough to realise, it had seemed.

You wondered if he knew what her favourite flowers were - if they were roses - if he bought the set with her in mind and just took the gamble that you would be no different.

The thought made the gifts feel like a dead weight.

A mountainous pressure around your throat and wrist that began to crush you slowly and then all at once until the chaos spilling through your head became too much and your fingers scrambled and tore at the metal.

Your steps halted as you fought and tugged against the clasp and then with a furious shout, you ripped the necklace from your throat. Ignoring the bright spark of pain that streaked across your skin as you flung the glittering jewels as far as you could into the nearby hedges.

The bracelet followed much the same way, yanked violently from your wrist as if it burned and tossed away for the rain and earth to tarnish and bury.

But still you didn’t feel any better, instead your mind refused to stop and went to the other things that reminded you of them.

The gloves and the earrings that you had picked out when she had been with you, the pins in your hair that she had offered to borrow you that just happened to perfectly match his gifts. The shoes… for salazar’s sake, was there anything that wasn’t tainted by them?

The dress, you had thankfully bought alone.

Small mercies.

The pins in your hair forced you to be more careful, more gentle than your rage demanded. And through the steady motions your heart eventually slowed that little bit, your tears along with it, both allowing your lungs to expand a little further with each shuddering breath you could then focus on taking.

Tiny pin pricks of relief lessened the panic that had you in chokehold as more and more shining roses clattered to the ground until your hair was completely free of them, your earrings soon following and disappearing out of sight as they bounced off the marble floor in opposing directions.

When you finally slipped off the gloves, grimacing slightly at the feel of wet material dragging along your skin before you dropped them away from you, you were still seething but too exhausted to keep up being truly murderous.

And too distracted with contemplating whether to just kick your shoes off and apparate home barefoot to hear the approach of someone that had been lingering nearby the entire time, their steps slow and careful like they were afraid to make too much noise lest you took off running once more.

“You know, I always thought that Lucius was the one with all the dramatic flair out of you three.” A familiar voice mused behind you, tone mild, as if they were discussing the changes in weather and not the fact it probably appeared like you were losing your damn mind. “But I can’t say I’ve ever seen him flee a party to undress in the rain when someone’s upset him.”

You took a deep breath and tried not to groan, tried not to curse out loud, because really how worse could your luck get that the last person you wanted to face right now was the one who had stumbled across you rapidly descending into madness.

Or maybe that was being too harsh.

He definitely wasn’t the last person, or even second to it, but the younger Black had been a thorn in your side for almost your entire life and you really couldn’t cope with him choosing now as an opportunity to needle you further.

You were already at a disadvantage after all, not only from the way he had managed to sneak up on you when you were vulnerable, but that when you turned around your breath stuck in your chest at the sight of him.

Because Regulus, as much as you were loath to admit it, was a heart-fumbling kind of pretty on a normal day but stood before you in that moment, lit only by the soft globes of light that lingered against the surrounding night, he was breathtaking.

All dark dress robes embroidered with swirling, golden vines and hair that fell in damp, messy curls around his face, soft strands stirring in the night air and illuminating those grey eyes that refused to leave yours for even a second.

You swallowed and the scowl that twisted at your expression was more of a blessed reflex than a genuine result of the ire that his presence ordinarily inspired.

“You almost sound disappointed.” You responded flatly, a low drawl that lacked its usual withering sting. “I could go back in there and get him for you if you’d like, I’m sure he’d be flattered to know that Narcissa isn’t the only Black interested in seeing what he looks like out of those boring suits he’s constantly wearing.”

He tsked, the noise lightly scolding as he leaned against a shining column. “And risk bringing the wrath of my darling cousin down on my head?” There was a typical air of cool arrogance to the boy as he trailed his fingers over coiling vines before flicking one of the light pink roses in disgust, but the way he softened his voice into a tease, all feigned betrayal and suffering, was new. “I had no idea you could be so cruel.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself, amused by this side of him regardless of your bad mood because he was smirking now, and that too was tinged softer, a mirthful tilt to it instead of the mocking edge you had grown so used to.

It was strange, endearing.

It was almost enough to make you forget the years you had spent finding ways to wipe any smirk he’d previously gave you off his face

Almost.

You rolled your eyes, incapable of resisting scoffing. “Narcissa is an angel, you just have a rather murderous effect on people.”

His smirk deepened at that, a quiet laugh crackling in the back of his throat like it was a sound he didn't make often and you could feel his eyes on you as you turned towards the manor, watching each quiet step that you took until you leaned against the pillar opposite his. Arms crossed protectively over your chest because it felt like the boy was trying his best to see right through you.

“Besides, if I was truly as cruel as you claim, there would be a Shakespearean tragedy currently taking place in the Malfoy’s ballroom,” you muttered with a half-hearted smile, attempting to sound light and failing terribly, “but unfortunately, as you can tell by the lack of screaming and the fact that I’m out here with you, there is not.”

There was a moment of silence, then two, nothing but the patter of rain and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears and you could have cursed yourself for being so open. For not being able to pretend you were incapable of being hurt just a little bit longer in front of someone that you were sure would delight in seeing you so weakened.

But then…

“Pity, it would have been well deserved.” Regulus spat viciously without thinking, tone dark and the pale highs of his cheeks tinting pink when you turned from the Manor to blink at him in surprise. He swallowed his venom back before it could rear again. A second of hesitation before admitting, softer than before. “I saw everything.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh.”

The air grew thick with his confession, heavy and pressing in a way that made you feel suffocated, like you were trapped, pinned down and held hostage so he could observe every second of the reaction you had to his words down to the slightest twitch.

It brought that uncomfortable flush of panic back, the sickly drip of red-hot embarrassment sliding down your spine.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Regulus whispered, his gaze shifting away almost immediately after the words were out of his mouth, darting to anywhere but where you were as he fought with the nervousness of reaching out that metaphorical hand, the raw edge of vulnerability it inspired on both sides.

It made him oblivious to the way you were bristling.

The misinterpretation you had made of his intentions.

But then you were laughing. A dead, humourless sound that had his head snapping towards you, confusion marring his expression at the sudden coldness in your voice, your narrowed eyes that he found already glaring at him.

“So that’s why you're here, to get a closer look at my humiliation?”

He blanched. “No, of course n–”

“To gather some more intimate details to use the next time you’re failing to win one of our arguments?”

Regulus shook his head, hands almost reaching for you as he tried to say your name, soft and soothing, but you didn’t even seem to register it. Defences drawn too high, too quick, and accusations falling from your tongue faster than you could choke them back. Leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “Or maybe you just wanted to go in for the kill right here, easy prey and all that–”

Golden light hit you then, a small globe floating closer and illuminating the planes of your face that allowed him to catch sight of the way you looked, the hardened mask you had slipped on to protect yourself before someone else could hurt you. Lashing out on instinct before they even got the chance.

It was a tactic he knew all too well, and the familiarity made his heart twist.

His ribs constricting over the fact he knew just how badly you were suffering if you had resorted to needing to use it, that you felt you had to because you couldn't comprehend the situation ending any other way than you suffering more at his own hands.

“Is that what you really think?” Regulus interrupted bluntly, but it wasn’t angry, he wasn’t leaping at the chance to fight with you like you had expected either. Instead, he seemed resigned by the conclusions you had leapt to. Not surprised but pained by it all the same.

Or maybe you were just really fucking tired and seeing things, too exhausted to even know what to think anymore because tonight had already proven rather brutally that you couldn’t judge a person's character as well you thought you could.

You were cranky and uncomfortable in your too high heels and your rain-damp dress, uneasy with how the look on the boy’s face was enough to make you feel surprisingly awful. Like you had failed him somehow by assuming the worst.

You stared at each other from opposite sides of the gazebo, his expression resigned, yours wary, before you shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s not like either of us are in the habit of showing kindness or mercy, Black.”

“Maybe not, but I would never - not with this. I despise that you think that low of me.”

“Why?”

“Parce que je ne pourrais jamais te faire de mal, ni même vouloir te faire du mal, bien au contraire en fait.”

You gave him a strange look before glaring once again, more half-hearted than annoyed this time. “You cannot keep derailing our arguments by switching to French, it’s infuriating… and also cheating.”

Regulus ignored the complaint, huffing, but you swore you caught a glimpse of his lips faintly twitching upwards when he dipped his chin. “If you must know, I’m here because Cissa and Lucius were busy taking care of things in there and I thought that you could use someone, even if you didn’t want to talk and just needed somebody there, even if it was someone you hated.”

He swallowed hard and you couldn’t help but stare as his eyes rose to meet yours. “Even if it was just me.”

You let loose a shaky breath at that, chest warming before guilt began to seep its way in through the hollows between your ribs.

“I’m sorry.” You told him, voice hurting, before pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes in frustration because god, what was wrong with you? Attacking him for daring to try and offer some comfort despite all of your messy history, despite it going against his cold, reserved nature. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, of course I don’t think that.”

It hardly felt like enough of an apology to quell the shame you felt at your accusations but it eased the tension slightly. Enough that your walls began to tumble down, brick by crumbling brick, and defeat rose over them, mortifyingly accompanied by the burn of tears gathering in your eyes.

You withdrew before the boy could hopefully suspect, blinking rapidly once your back was turned, and the soft-click of your heels sounded deafening in the silence as you moved towards a small bench and allowed yourself to slump on to it.

“I feel like a joke,” you eventually confessed when you were sure your voice wouldn’t crack, “like there must have been people that knew the whole time and were watching me waiting for when the penny dropped so they could laugh at my ignorance, how blind I’ve been. How unbelievably fucking stupid to have fell for it all.”

“No.” He chastised and there was that sharpness in his voice again, that fire burning in his eyes as he strode over and knelt gracefully before you. “Don’t you dare blame yourself, don’t do them the kindness of relieving even a fraction of the guilt for a moment. They don’t deserve it.”

The hand that he gingerly placed on your knee was a little cold but gentle, his thumb skimming the arch of it in weightless, calming strokes, and you watched the boy with stuttering lungs and an ache in your heart as his stare dimmed. Slipping far away to a time years before.“I don’t think you’ve been blind, nobody expects betrayal from those who are supposed to be closest to us.”

You made a mournful sound of agreement to that, still a little sad for yourself, surprisingly more than a little upset for Regulus who you’d forgotten held the agony and jagged shards of a different kind of betrayal inside him.

But just as you were about to awkwardly lay your hand on his, to try and offer at least a fraction of the comfort he’d been trying to give you despite how difficult you made it, a new and terrible fear seeped into your mind.

“Did you ever suspect anything and feel like you couldn’t tell me because of our history?”

The boy glanced back up at you then, frowning as he searched your face, like he could find the cause of the sudden flare of fear in your voice there, before shaking his head. “I would have told you regardless, even if I thought you’d curse me for it, I would still have told you. So no, I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“You don’t have to lie if you did.” You whispered, still unconvinced. Still entirely too nervous that Regulus could turn on a whim and wound you further with more secrets. More lies.“I know you, Black, nothing escapes your notice, you watch everyone.”

“Maybe, but I think I'd rather let Bella's demonic owl claw my eyes out than choose to watch that idiot.” He scoffed, mildly indignant as he rose to sit beside you, and the loss of his hand on your knee as he did so made you feel colder than you were prepared for. “Especially when there are people far more interesting worth the time.”

“Oh– like who? Which poor soul has earned the delight of your relentless attention?” You joked distractedly, still staring at the place where you felt bare without his touch, confused by the soft buzz beneath your skin that was imploring you to reach across and take his hand and put it back.

“You.”

Your eyes widened, lips parting in shock, as your head snapped up to look at him and though for a moment Regulus looked discomforted, a little stunned himself as if he hadn't meant to let such an admission slip, he didn’t look away either.

Instead the silence stretched into a handful of seconds, a miniscule eternity, with both of you trapped in this new territory of raw, startling honesty by each other's stare as the rain pelted the roof of your marbled sanctuary.

And maybe it was catching.

Maybe it had struck a place you thought was suppressed too deep to be reached like a loosed arrow, because suddenly you found yourself with the insane urge to tell him, it isn't just you, I’ve caught myself watching you as well.

But then Regulus cleared his throat and schooled his expression back into a careful nonchalance, shrugging. "How else would I make sure my favourite rival hasn't finally figured out a way to best me again?"

“Ah, of course, merlin forbid I ever score one extra mark than you again in a few classes.” You attempted to laugh lightly but the sound came out strange, a little strained, a little more bitter than you could make sense of.

Salazar fucking help you, this was madness.

You really needed to go home.

To leave and let yourself process everything that had happened like a sane person instead of whatever this was that you were doing or, even better, to sleep for a week so you could ignore the inevitable questions that would come with morning.

Your parents and their suffocating disappointment that would be heaped upon your shoulders, like you being publicly cheated on was somehow a cause of shame for them.

Maybe you could just obliviate yourself to avoid it all entirely.

There was still the faint sting of betrayal prickling behind your ribs but it had softened considerably, cushioned surprisingly by the presence of the boy sitting beside you.

And you found that if there was a choice between this messy and awkward attempt at comfort, at peace between you however temporary, or the cold loneliness of your room where your thoughts could easily eat you alive once you were trapped with them, then you didn't want to leave him just yet.

Especially not when you felt like you were discovering so much about the youngest black who notoriously kept everything close to his chest, not when you found yourself liking this side of him that he was allowing you to see.

Not even when a cold wind swept around the gazebo and in the spaces between you, whipping up frigid droplets of rain that latched onto your skin and felt like they were biting down into your bones.

You startled whilst Regulus cursed, a shocked laugh bubbling up from your throat when you caught sight of him wiping the wetness away from his face with a look of terrible, personal offence.

It made those grey eyes snap to yours, staring a little oddly, almost far too intensely, but you didn't get the feeling that he was angry at you laughing at him as you would have expected.

It was more like he'd been surprised by the sound of it, like your laugh was something he'd never heard before and he needed that moment or two to understand what he was hearing.

Not that that was actually the case, but Regulus would likely hex himself before he ever told you otherwise.

He would never tell you that he knew full well what your laughter sounded like, that the faint wisps of it he had only ever caught from afar were wrapped in coils around his ribs and haunted his heart. That he knew it well but only at a distance, and never when he was the cause of it.

Not until now at least, where the sound of it had caused something so violently fond to bloom in his chest that it had rendered breathless. Stunned.

He would never tell you that perhaps, from that moment, with rain water still clinging to his cheek and your joy echoing in his ears, he had finally known what his favourite sound in the world was and that nothing else could ever possibly compare.

And maybe he was still just that little bit bewildered when the first shiver overtook you. It had only been a small thing after all, barely strong enough to make your hands quake and sweeping only the faintest of goosebumps up your arms.

Easily missed.

But then the second came on with a vengeance and your trembling snapped him straight out of the trance he had been caught up in, snagging his attention only seconds after it had the chance to begin and making his brows pinch in the middle with concern.

A soft noise of disapproval escaping his parted lips before he began swiftly, and elegantly, shrugging the jacket of his dress robes off.

“You're freezing,” Regulus muttered, the sound of it only vaguely exasperated like he was biting his tongue to stop himself from questioning just how you had beaten him at all last year but didn’t have the brains to wear a coat before barging out into the rain. “take this.”

You couldn't even argue with him.

You weren't allowed the chance before the boy was reaching for you and slipping it far more gently than you expected around your shoulders, wrapping it over the unsteady rise of your chest when your breath caught at his closeness, and then you were too busy being engulfed in the smell of him to summon much of a protest.

Too distracted as you breathed him in.

It was a light and clean scent, a little woodsy. The layer beneath it all something that you couldn't quite give a specific name to, but you would know it anywhere, knew without really understanding how you did, that it belonged only to Regulus.

Not that that meant anything.

It didn't.

Did it?

No, absolutely not.

But his hands were still clasping the jacket when he realised you were frozen in an entirely different sense, staring at him silently like you were trying to figure a puzzle out and had no clue where to begin.

As if he could sense it, his eyes flicked up to yours just as he began to let go and then suddenly he…couldn't.

Or rather, it felt impossible to because there was a dangerous effect to what he had just done that he hadn't considered when your shivering had brought something protective out of him.

Getting so close to you, wrapping you up in his jacket that made you look too comfy the second it enveloped you, too perfect despite how strange it looked with your dress.

Too much like you were his.

It had his heart misbehaving wildly behind his ribs, his throat bobbing as he prayed to anyone that would listen that you couldn't hear the erratic pounding of it that felt deafening to his own ears.

You couldn't.

You were too caught up in your own, too caught up on the fact that Regulus had discovered you blatantly staring at him and was now staring right back at you like he was waiting for you to say something, do something. Anything at all.

It should have felt embarrassing.

It should have felt wrong to be letting yourself act like this. To be entertaining whatever delusion this was, because merlin, you had already been hurt once tonight and allowing yourself to be thoughtless and soft, unguarded, around Regulus Black of all people felt a lot like you were begging to be hurt again.

But his face was only inches from yours. His hair a little wild from the wind, the rain that stubbornly clung to it, and when a drop fell from one of the dark curls above his brow onto the arc of his cheek, looking far too much like a tear for your liking, you had been unable to help yourself.

A little enraptured by the sight of your own fingers rising to gently wipe it away, the feel of his soft, warm skin beneath your touch and the sight of Regulus’ grey eyes widening before they helplessly fluttered shut.

For a second neither of you moved.

You let your hand linger, let your fingers twitch so they brushed against him once more in the barest ghost of a touch whilst Regulus swallowed. Fighting against clasping your hand in his own and holding it there, pressing it deeper into his skin until the feel of it had no choice but to linger long after you left him.

His name was a soft weight on your tongue begging to fall, an airy sigh that was maybe more of a question than a statement. The kind where you weren't quite sure what you were asking but you were helpless to stop yourself from asking it anyway, and even the rain seemed to have fallen quiet like it wanted you to say it.

The world around you going hush like it was giving you a chance to see something important.

But then, the thunder came.

A loud, rolling grumble that slammed down on that pull you felt and made you flinch and pull back as Regulus’ eyes snapped open. That coaxed the rain to fall harder, closer to a downpour than a mere spring shower, and the sound of it felt an awful lot like sanity crashing its way back in.

It forced you to look away towards the manor just so you wouldn't have to look at him. Glaring through the rain at the looming structure like it was at fault that your head was in chaos, like it had everything to do with your cheeks being far too warm and the confusion simmering in your chest.

The panic you felt that the boy beside you might see something you weren't ready for him too, something you weren’t ready to realise had possibly taken root within yourself despite years of surety that you felt the opposite.

“We should go in.” You grumbled, forcing your voice to sound normal in a way that you didn't feel, but goddammit you were determined to get through the night without embarrassing yourself further. “Before Cissa sends Lu to look for us, he'll be furious if we make him get his hair wet.”

There was a pause after you spoke and you could feel Regulus looking at you, waiting for you to say something else.

It felt like he was gauging whether or not you were going to acknowledge what had just happened or maybe he was thinking of doing it himself , but either way, in the end he seemed to quietly decide to offer you the grace to hide by ignoring it just like you were.

Allowing a soft snort escape him instead, followed by a light mutter that made your lips quirk despite yourself.

“And what a tragedy that would be.”

Relieved, you merely shook your head in response, warning. “You're joking now but the last time I messed with Lucius’ hair, he turned mine green for a month.”

Regulus made a rather inelegant noise at that, a choked sounding thing that told you he was struggling not to laugh.

“That was the reason for your so-called rebellious phase in fifth year? Well it could have been worse, I suppose.” He snickered, hands raising in a mock defensive gesture when you whipped your head in his direction to shoot him a withering look. “If it makes you feel any better, when we were children, Cissa once got so mad that she hexed me and made me completely orange.”

You were unable to help the bright shock of laughter that burst from the back of your throat before you could smother it behind your hand at the thought of a surly, bright orange Regulus. “What the hell did you do?”

He had the audacity to look, for a moment, a little scandalised. That familiar haughty look gracing his sharp features as he huffed but his gaze glinted ever so slightly, mirthful. “I never said I had anything to do with it, did it ever occur to you that maybe I was simply caught in the crossfire?”

You just grinned and rolled your eyes, because whilst the entire world seemed to believe the youngest black was above or incapable of causing trouble, you knew better. “Not in the slightest.” You admitted breezily.

“Rude.” Regulus chastised, frowning, or at the very least attempting to because the moment you rose a challenging brow at him in response, his mouth tilted up at one corner. “Fine, honestly, I don't even remember. I just know it took my mother going to my aunt to get Cissa to remove it because everything she tried to undo it wouldn't work.”

You tutted. “See, I told you, you just have a maddening effect on people.”

“Actually,” he laughed softly, still quiet but more easily than he had before, and the sound of it was enough to make something golden rush through because Regulus Black, of all people, apparently had the most beautiful laugh you had ever heard. “I believe the term you used was murderous, or is this just your way of saying you're warming up to me.”

“Don't get too ahead of yourself.” You deadpanned. “It differs from moment to moment.”

“I'd be disappointed if it didn't.” He told you, eyes gleaming. “I rather enjoy that savage little look of yours when I get beneath your skin, I'd hate for it to be gone entirely.”

You were a little flustered, both at his words and the way he was looking at you, the lingering effect of his laugh still buzzing beneath your skin.

You wanted to say something snarky, to ruffle him as he had so easily done to you, but then the wind was blowing strands your hair across your face that you had to impatiently push away, and suddenly your hand was being caught in the hold of Regulus' careful fingers.

The contact made you startle, made you glance at him with wide, stunned eyes but the boy wasn't even looking at you as you did so, at least not at your face anyway.

His attention had instead been captured on the scuffed skin of your wrist. A patch that was torn and sore looking, beaded with dry blood where metal flowers had caught and snagged like thorns.

Concerned eyes rose briefly to yours before they deliberately dropped straight back to the wound and though he didn’t say anything, you could tell that he wanted to.

Instead, Regulus settled for a lightly admonishing click of his tongue as his hand slipped down yours until he could hover his thumb over the rough skin.

You tried to keep your expression neutral despite the way your heart had become a thunderous thing as he ghosted over it once and then again, just shy of true contact, the imitation of a caress that made you more breathless than you cared to admit.

But when he lowered it close enough that there was barely a hairs-width of space between your skin and his, close enough that you expected the pain of him pressing against it, you couldn't help the soft, surprised sound that bubbled out of your throat at the soft rush of magic you felt instead.

It was a cool thing.

Not cold enough to chill but soothing, like the first relieving, gentle sweep of a breeze on a too warm day, as light as whisper, and you watched enraptured at the pale glow that hummed between your skin and his.

The way it made your flesh knit and become smooth once more before your very eyes until all that was left was the tiny specks of dried blood clinging to your skin.

He finally touched you then, rubbing his thumb gently over your wrist until the red cracked and flaked away.

“Do I need to be concerned that there's anywhere else you're slowly bleeding to death from and refusing to tell me?”

You stared at him, dumbfounded, speechless. “Now who's being dramatic… but no, you'll have to find some other way to show off I'm afraid.” You murmured, only half serious when you recovered from the surprise and pinned him with an offended glare. “You never told me you could do wandless magic.”

“And deny myself the pleasure of seeing the expression on your face when you discovered it for yourself? Never.” Regulus smirked, looking far too proud of himself as he carefully placed your hand back in your lap before reaching for the cufflinks gleaming against the dark fabric of his shirt.

You huffed at that. Still somewhat bewildered though amused, and rather a little bit charmed, though you would never admit it. “What are you doing now?”

His gaze shone at you, eyes bright and knowing whilst nimble fingers slipped the cufflinks free until they clinked together in the palm of one pale hand. “Showing off.” Regulus drawled.

You didn't know how to reply to that in a way that wasn't teasing, that didn't have at least a tiny little bite to it with the intention of getting a rise out of the boy who had effortless control around everybody but you.

But you didn't want to fight, you didn't want a war of intelligence when an already exhausting night had led to something softer between you, something easier to breathe around, so you said nothing.

And besides, you were way more interested in what he had planned.

With curiosity sparkling in your veins like a champagne fizz, you watched as Regulus cupped his free hand over the other.

His gaze met yours, brows lightly furrowed and lips parted in concentration, when that same pale glow began to leak through the spaces of his clasped hands, steady, searching, as it flared brighter and brighter until it seemed as if the boy had raised a hand towards the night sky and scooped up a star to hold between his trembling fingers.

A small eternity seemed to pass whilst you were caught within that moment, the one where your breath hitched as his magic reached toward you again, strong enough this time to feel like you were connected to him through it.

And you had to wonder if he felt it too when Regulus offered you a smile that seemed so stripped down of its typical refinedness, so shy almost, that something in your chest ached with it.

It felt like it had been hours rather than seconds when that cool light finally dimmed, receding until the two of you were left with only the soft, twinkling orbs to illuminate you once more.

You missed it almost immediately, a chill taking its place that felt more than skin deep. You nearly embarrassed yourself by saying as much before Regulus slowly lifted his hand and what lay within his palm had you choking on air. Flustered and stunned.

Because where his cufflinks once were now lay a bracelet and a necklace, the chains thin, elegant and lovely. A small, exquisitely crafted flower hung at the centre of both, nestled between leaves that were delicate enough that they didn't crowd, that they only embellished the true beauty of the pieces.

It was a little ridiculous how they had made you gape at him, how your eyes misted at the sight of them and something tightened in your throat, your unsteady chest.

But how could you not when they were so perfect, what other way could you react to them being your favourite colour, your favourite flower, your favourite everything.

And here was Regulus Black, the person you thought had hated you for as long as you could remember, conjuring them for you because he knew.

You whispered his name and he swallowed hard, cheeks warming at the way you looked at him as if he had given you the stars, at the way he had lay a part of himself bare with the gesture and you had understood immediately.

That you knew now without a doubt that Regulus was not lying when he had told you he watched you.

He himself had given you the proof.

He waited for you to say something. For you to brush the whole thing off with a joke or a tease, that little voice in his head that told him this was a horrendous idea, whispering that he might have well shown you his throat for you to rip him apart, but it seemed for the first time in his life like he had disarmed you entirely.

It was perhaps, the softest he had ever seen you, the most human, no walls drawn high or a perfect facade worn like a veil over the real you.

You were wide eyed and cautious, every emotion visible on your face as your hand rose to reach for his own, stopping just shy of touching like you were afraid if you did the moment would crack and crumble. Nothing more than another cruel illusion.

It made him want to take your hand in his, to link his fingers between yours as the chains pressed into both your palms and assure you that this was real. Refusing to allow that insecurity to grow any further.

He didn't. He wasn't that brave enough just yet.

Instead, with a voice that sounded as nervous as you looked, cracking just that little bit whilst he lifted his hand towards you, he asked, “May I?”

The question made something bloom behind your ribs, a soft, wild thing that made your heart beat a little too unruly and your blood pulse with light.

You nodded, unable to trust the strength of your voice, and then you were turning for him. Shaky hands lifting your hair out of the way as Regulus moved closer, almost enough that you could feel the movement of his body as he breathed when he leaned into you, cool metal landing gently between your collarbones and his fingers upon the back of your neck.

You sucked in a sharp breath when the soft buzz you had felt before at his touch returned tenfold and he immediately mistook the sound for discomfort. “I'm sorry–” he whispered, feeling foolish as he winced. “I know my hands are cold–”

“No– no, they're fine, it's not that at all, I l–”

Merlin, no, stop.

You could feel heat searing your cheeks, creeping down the slope of your neck, and you prayed that Regulus couldn't feel it. That he hadn't caught on to the fact you had nearly slipped up and told him you liked how his hands felt on you.

There was silence after that as Regulus fastened the clasp, not an uncomfortable one but restless almost, charged.

It made the air crackle and fizz, made it feel all too warm despite the rain and thunder crashing around the gazebo as you turned before he could shuffle back. Bodies suddenly closer than either of you knew how to be normal about, faces even more so.

You couldn't look away even when his eyes dropped, dark lashes fluttering, skimming over pale skin when he blinked once, twice, a third time, as if he was willing away the intensity that had been burning within them.

He reached for your hand without another word, the bracelet that had been resting upon his leg now circling around the delicate expanse of your wrist and as he bowed his head to concentrate, a familiar song spilled out from the manor door.

It slipped across the grounds and swirled into the air around you, settling over your skin and sinking down deep into your chest. Making your heart clench, your eyes falling closed.

“I’ve always loved this song.” You murmured before you could help yourself, tone wistful. A little heavy with longing. “I used to plead with him to dance with me when it came on but he never did. Said it embarrassed him because it was too romantic and made him look soft. He was furious when I danced with Barty to it.”

“I remember that.”

Your eyes snapped open. “You do?”

Regulus nodded, though his stare remained on the bracelet's fastening, messy curls bobbing with the movement.“It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen you. Lucius had been spinning both you and Cissa around the dancefloor and when that song started, Barty immediately stepped in when he saw your boyfriend wouldn’t and Lucius spun you straight into him.”

You could see it all, exactly as Regulus described.

Another extravagant ballroom, another shimmering dress, your body being guided across the floor by one of your best friend's instead of your boyfriend. The only thing that you were missing was him.

The boy who had watched it all without you ever even realising.

And so you listened, entranced, your breath held among the branches in your lungs without meaning to as he continued. As he secured the bracelet around your wrist but couldn't quite convince himself to let go of your hand.

“I think the smile you gave him when he caught you made him fall in love just a little.” He teased, chin tilting up so he could look at you, the edges of his pretty mouth curling into an unbidden smile like he couldn't help himself. “But it was nothing compared to your laugh, the way it filled the room with something warm and real and made everything brighter.”

Salazar help you, you were pretty sure your heart was about to combust.

Regulus paused and frowned then, grey eyes growing stormy for just a moment. “And then that bastard ruined it by pouting the rest of the night, Barty wanted to kill him for it.”

There was something about the way he said it, how his tone dipped low, dark, ice creeping in beneath his words, that made you wonder if Barty hadn't been the only one with murderous intent towards your boyfriend that night. The only one who had felt soft on you in the moments before it had all been tarnished.

It made something pure rush through your veins at the thought. Made you feel suddenly bolder, braver than you had been earlier.

“So you really weren't bluffing about watching me, were you? You've remembered my favourite flowers, my favourite song, and that I can’t get my own boyfriend to dance with me.” You began, voice calm, quiet, as you drew soft lines along his fingers with your own.

The touch had Regulus’ eyes falling to your joint hands.

Surprise briefly etching itself over his features like he hadn't even realised he had never let go, and when his gaze darted back up to yours he waited quietly for what came next, breath hitching his chest, as he watched you like you were dangerous.

You licked your lips, a readying gesture that the boy's stare helplessly followed, his fingers tightening around yours before you took the plunge. “Care to let me in on how all of this is supposed to aid you against me? It doesn't really seem like the ‘destroy your rival’ kind of information.”

He hummed, nonchalant about it despite the way his cheeks had turned a rather endearing shade of pink. “Maybe that's the point, information that appears innocent can sometimes be the most effective in helping achieve what you want.”

“And what do you want, Regulus?”

He was quiet for a handful of seconds at that, thoughtful.

His eyes flickering between yours, over every inch of your face, and then slowly he pulled back and stood. Ensuring that your hand never once left his as he placed himself in front of you and bowed like the proper gentlemen he had been raised to be.

“Dance with me.” He murmured.

Oh.

You couldn't deny that you were caught off guard by the question, by the strange turn of events and the way the boy was looking down at you. At the crooked little smirk he suddenly bore that was a touch playful and all challenge, his stare twinkling with it.

But even more so, you were captivated.

It made you huff out a disbelieving laugh and then you were narrowing your eyes, feigning suspicion as you pretended to look him up and down. “I don’t know, this feels like a trap.”

“Does it?” Regulus mused, the quirk of his lips morphing into a slow smile. “Don’t tell me you're intimidated by me now.”

You snorted. “Shaking in my heels, I may even faint.”

The words came out sarcastic but hardly biting, full of a more friendly kind of taunt, and when he scoffed and grinned down at you, you were already beaming back. Eyes bright and lovely, soft with new, unfurling affection.

It was the kind of smile that made his heart race. The kind that told him if he held your hand that little bit tighter and gave a small, gentle tug, you would follow the pull until you were on your feet and in his arms.

So he did.

And then he was holding you.

Regulus was gentle with it as his hand placed your own upon his shoulder, the other curving slowly over your waist, a brief moment of indulgence before it slid upwards to rest perfectly against the centre of your back.

He pulled you in further once he was satisfied with your positions, far closer than the dance required or was deemed proper, but he was past caring about rules at that moment and what everyone else expected of him. Concerned only with how your proximity made his head spin and the way you were smiling at him like you knew.

“See, not so terrifying after all.” Regulus teased.

And before you could retort, he was leading you in small, elegant steps. Amusement flaring in his eyes and a slightly self-satisfied twitch to his lips when you startled and clung to him tighter before your muscle memory kicked in.

You shot him a half-hearted glare in response, nose scrunching to hide the way there was laughter bubbling up in your throat, threatening to break free. Airy and delighted.

It continued like that for barely a minute until your steps became more elaborate, until the gazebo felt too small for the way Regulus wanted to sweep you off your feet. To move freely with you, completely unhindered, and spin you over and over until you came beautifully alive in his arms.

He barely gave you any warning before he did it, just a brief glance of those pretty, grey eyes to the storm raging outside and then he was dragging you into the thick of it.

Your shocked laughter only slightly muffled by the downpour of rain as he held you tight and twirled you both across slick stones that crunched beneath your feet and perfectly manicured lawns with their gorgeous rows of blooming flowers. The glimmering light of the enchanted orbs making you both shine.

It felt like a fairytale, a dream you didn't want to wake up from which was surprising given how it had all started.

But now all you cared about was that this beginning felt like the most magical thing in the world, that with Regulus’ laughter rumbling from his chest to your own and his chin dipped to watch you with a smile that rivalled the sun, you were infinitely happier than you had been in a long time.

And as the song reached its crescendo he lifted and spun you until you were both breathless, dipped you until your hair was brushing the damp ground and the most glorious sounds spilled from your lips. The pure joy that he had heard long ago and cherished in secret until now, where he got to bask in being the sole cause of it himself.

When it ended you felt dazed, euphoric. Your bodies were closer than before, arms wound around Regulus’ neck and his hands holding you tight, pressing flush to your back to mold you against him. Each heaving breath was taken with you chests moving together and your cheeks felt as hot from the exertion of it all as his looked.

You were drenched, hair plastered to your faces but the air between you held that familiar tension, something electric. Heavy with anticipation as he leaned closer, his nose nudging your own.

His voice was a low rasp when he murmured your name, a lovely, tortured sounding thing that made you shiver as he drew a hand up your back and along the curve of your neck until he could cup your jaw.

Your brain short-circuited at the touch, lips parting in response and your fingers curling desperately into the collar of his shirt like that alone would stop you from falling if Regulus threatened your ability to remain upright any further than he already was.

You had a sneaking suspicion that he planned on it.

That the way his eyes had gone dark beneath the full fan of his lashes, the way they flickered from your own down to your lips and lingered just a beat too long, meant that Regulus full-heartedly considering kissing you right then.

And maybe what was even worse for your sanity, was that you suspected that you wanted him to as well.

But then, as if waking from a daze or the heavy influence of a spell, Regulus shook his head. Something pained flashing across his features as he gently let you go and stepped back.

“Tu n'as aucune idée à quel point je veux t'embrasser.” He whispered hoarsely. Voice thick with guilt and restrained longing. “Mais je ne peux pas. Je ne veux pas vous brusquer ou profiter.”

You frowned. Not quite upset, because there was no malice in Regulus’ actions, but a little confused. More than a bit curious as you fought against the urge to reach for him again and opened your mouth to–

“As lovely I'm sure the conversation you're having is,” a drawling voice interrupted, calling out effortlessly above the noise of the storm, “if I have to come out there to retrieve either of you, I will personally see to it that your own storm clouds follow you around at every waking moment for the next month.”

The threat came, unsurprisingly, from none other than Lucius who stood beneath the wide doorway to the manor with Narcissa at his side. Both of their gazes regarding you far too closely and matching smirks tugging at the corners of their mouths like they had stumbled across something scandalous.

You rolled your eyes before you turned to them both, expression torn slightly but fond as you looked between them and him before starting to make your way over whilst Regulus followed quietly at your back. “Only the waking moments? You're losing your touch, Lu.”

“It's called leniency, darling.” Your best friend muttered, his stare sharp on the jacket that was hanging off your frame, the way Regulus didn't think as he held his hand out to help you over the pebbled walkway and you took it without hesitation. “I can afford to show a bit of mercy now I've expelled some anger elsewhere.”

The warmth of the manor enveloped you as you stepped inside, and Lucius let out a sound at the sight of you now you were in full light that was half mothering concern, half admonishing, before sauntering over to stand in front of you.

He withdrew his wand, murmuring a spell to dry you off whilst Narcissa did the same for her cousin. Smooth fingers caught at your chin before he turned your head this way and that, inspecting for injuries or signs of distress, both old and new, the possibility of fresh tears caused by the boy who had been known to be cruel to you before.

“You're okay?” He asked, voice stern, cool but not uncaring, and there was a flicker of relief in his eyes when you nodded honestly. “Good, we've had enough tragic medical emergencies for one night and I don't think Cissa would be happy with me if I cursed a member of her family.”

You laughed faintly, astounded by how the night had turned out, but affection flooding warm in your chest for your friends regardless. “My insincere condolences for those harmed, and yeah, I'd be careful with our lovely Narcissa, I've heard she's fond of turning people orange and that it's almost irreversible.”

From the corner of your eyes you saw the way Lucius' brows raised at your comment, the way his gaze snapped questioningly to his girlfriend, who scoffed and muttered a betrayed sounding ‘tell-tale’ at the dark-haired boy beside her.

Your attention for the most part, however, was upon Regulus and though his head was downcast, you could tell that he was smiling. Lips twisting and teeth biting into his cheek to hide his amusement at the joke you had made for him.

And when your two friends had finished their fussing, Narcissa touching up your makeup and hair with an expert flick of her wand, a warm, affectionate kiss laid upon your cheek for extra support as Lucius teasingly advised you both that wearing your own clothes upon reentering the ballroom was probably best unless you wanted to invite whispers, they shared a look between them.

A small, glancing, thing that held a conversation you weren't privy to but you were a hundred percent sure was about you, given the way their eyes flickered briefly over both you and Regulus before they decided to walk ahead instead of beside you.

There was comfort between you and your old rival as you approached the room, a newfound ease to being around each other that made walking back into a potential hell, depending on just how discreet Lucius and Cissa had been in their revenge, that much more bearable.

But there was also that undercurrent of tension still crackling beneath it all, the weight of everything that had transpired between you. A dissolving rivalry and conjured jewellery, a dance that had meant everything and an almost kiss that had left you shaken and breathless with how badly you had wanted it.

Your fingers brushed his when you heeded Lucius’ words and handed the jacket back to him, lingering for a moment too long to be anything but deliberate, and it looked like it physically pained Regulus to pull away.

To slip back on a jacket that now smelled like you and not grasp your hand in his after he'd become enamoured with how right it had felt holding it.

“You cheated again by the way.” You whispered after a moment, eyes still ahead, and just loud enough for him alone to hear when the silence finally grew too much, when you realised belatedly that you missed the sound of his voice.

He glanced at you inquisitively then, brow raising and a teasing, faux exasperation hidden in the way he asked. “How so?”

“When we almost k– before we were interrupted.” You huffed, refusing to look at him because you could feel from the heat of his stare that even a near mention of your almost kiss had Regulus’ eyes dropping distractedly to your mouth. “You spoke French again, it's an unfair advantage.”

He laughed at that, low in his throat as he shook his head. Slowing his pace just that little bit as you drew nearer to the ballroom doors, eager to draw this out just a few moments more. “Just because you find me charming doesn't necessarily mean I'm cheating, ma chérie.” He murmured, leaning into you until his shoulder nudged yours, a touch smug.

It may not have been, he was right, but it was hardly fair the way it made your heart play up, the way something in your stomach flipped when he got a little bit cocky with it but salazar help you, two could play at that game if the boy suddenly wanted to tease.

“It does when you use it to tell me about how you don't want to take advantage, don't you think?” You asked innocently, biting your lip as you fought not to laugh at the way Regulus whipped his head around to stare at you. Disbelief blatant as you sighed, “I mean, you have to know that the whole French thing is pretty hard to resist, so that was just mean.”

He was speechless, lips parted and eyes wide, like you'd completely titled his world from its axis, like he was seeing you in an entirely new light. Bewildered when you came to a stop outside the large, ornate doors and finally looked at him, your grin glowing as you leaned in close just like he had and whispered.

“If you don't want someone to understand you, maybe choose a person who doesn't have at least one best friend that isn't related to you that also has French lineage.”

Regulus let out a quiet curse at that, glaring briefly at the back of the blonde boy's head who stood in front of him. He barely had the chance to offer a smart retort by the time the doors were swinging open, music spilling out and the sound of chatter, the flurry of dancers twirling across the floor, becoming overwhelming.

Lucius and Narcissa entered first, sweeping in like they had never left, like nothing had changed, and then you were next. Your eyes on his and a playful smile curving at your mouth as you backed into the room, almost daring him to follow after you despite what everyone would say.

He wanted to.

He wanted to march after you and gather you up in his arms again, he wanted to kiss you senseless until you melted against him, all slow heat and unguarded adoration that made you forget you had ever received anything less and actually believed yourself deserving of it.

But he couldn't.

Not now.

Especially not when you saw his hesitation and drifted back to him, close enough that only he could hear you but not enough to draw the attention of those with hungry stares that loved to cause problems for others.

You kept your voice soft, your touch even softer as your fingers lightly grazed his own in a sweet gesture that made any tension he held immediately melt.

And he prayed he didn't look as lovesick as he felt when you told him, “I would have kissed you without feeling any pressure by the way, but thank you, for caring enough not to rush me.”

He was happy to wait.

To be nothing more than a friend, a comfort at your side whilst the aftermath of tonight played itself out and you took the time to process what had happened.

To deal with the fallout that came with two high society families feuding because one of the families’ sons had committed a humiliating slight that would absolutely need to be dealt with.

Whilst you grieved properly and healed the way you needed to, without hurry or expectation, for as long as it took.

An eternity if need be.

And then, if you still wanted him to, Regulus would kiss you.

He'd kiss you until you knew without a shadow of a doubt how deeply you were loved by the boy who knew your heart and cherished it as it was.

[weasleyreidstyles]

bloodlines (m.r.) [bonus]

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

Bonus based on this fic

You had reluctantly agreed to meet him by the Black Lake after curfew.

Mostly because he’d looked at you with those stupid, molten eyes and said, “Trust me,” in that tone—the one that made you weak in the knees.

You’d hoped—hoped—he just wanted to mess around by the shore. Kiss you stupid. Maybe ogle your bikini under the moonlight, hands wandering.

Imagine your surprise when you realized it was not to see you in a cute bikini.

He was already waist-deep in the water when you arrived, dark curls dripping, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Clothes off,” He called, “We’re doing this.”

You blinked, “Doing what?”

“You’re learning to swim.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Wait. You’re serious about this?” You asked, arms wrapping tightly around yourself as the midnight mist curled off the lake, “Like—actually swim?”

Mattheo stood confidently in the shallows, bare-chested and smug, droplets sliding down his collarbone. “Yes,” He said simply, like it was obvious, “Did you think I brought you out here just to stare at your arse?”

“Well... yes?”

He sighed—fond, exasperated, and hopelessly in love, “Can’t deny I’m going to cop a feel. But no, today is strictly for educational purposes.”

You narrowed your eyes, “You said this was a date.”

He smirked, “It is. You and me. Water. Wet clothes. Intimate touching. Very romantic.”

You rolled your eyes, but fondness bloomed warm in your chest like wildflowers. He was insufferable, overbearing, smug—and you adored him.

You slid slowly into the lake, hissing at the chill. Mattheo was beside you instantly, hands warm and steady at your waist.

“Easy,” He murmured, “We’ll stay shallow today.”

“I’m not scared of the water.” You muttered, even though your grip on his shoulders said otherwise.

He didn’t call you out. Just kissed your forehead, “I know. You’re my brave girl.”

Something in his tone was far too smug for your taste, but you were too cold to argue. You pressed your chest to his, trying to stop your teeth from chattering.

“I hate you.” You said flatly.

“Come on, pretty girl. Don’t be like that,” He cooed, “I’m just worried you’ll get yourself drowned when I’m not there to save you next time.”

“My next husband will, after I drown you for making me do this.”

“With the way you’re clinging to me, baby, if I go down, you’re coming with me.”

“Well, you do love it when I go down.” You purred, fingers trailing slowly down his chest.

Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist in what was absolutely not a floating technique. Your arms looped around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder as you tried to calm your heart and get used to the chill.

Mattheo’s hands skimmed up and down your hips, like he was trying very, very hard not to enjoy this.

Your lips brushed his jaw. He froze.

“Matty,” You whispered. “I’m cold. Can we please do this another day?”

“Baby,” He said, voice low, “We both know you have no intention of doing this another day.”

“Well,” You said, tightening your hold, “it’s hard to find swimming appealing when it’s the reason I can’t feel my toes… and when it’s the reason my husband is ignoring the fact that I’m in a skimpy bikini right now.”

His grip on your hips tightened—just slightly.

You smirked. Checkmate.

Mattheo exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight.

“You’re not gonna distract me, love.” He murmured, voice ragged, fingers twitching against your bikini strings like they were taunting him.

You could practically feel the internal war going on behind his eyes—honorable swim-coach-Mattheo vs. barely-holding-it-together-Mattheo whose half-naked wife was currently wrapped around him like a siren.

He gave a strangled groan, tipping his head back toward the stars, “Merlin help me…”

“I don’t think Merlin is the one you should be worried about right now.” You giggled, peppering kisses along his throat—along the sharp cut of his jaw and that damn Adam’s apple you loved so much.

Every brush of your lips sparked a heat low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire. It didn’t quite chase away the chill of the lake, but it helped. Especially with the way Mattheo’s breathing stuttered beneath your mouth.

You grinned. “Something wrong, Coach?” You asked innocently, fingers curling into the damp curls at the back of his neck, “You look a little… distracted.”

“Why are you being difficult?” He asked through clenched teeth, “I’m trying to teach you survival skills.”

“I’d survive just fine if you let me stay on the shore in your hoodie and make out like normal people.”

His hands suddenly gripped your thighs, lifting you higher around his waist as he waded back a few steps—far enough that your toes no longer touched the lakebed.

You squeaked and clung tighter, well and truly suspended now in his arms.

“Mattheo!”

His gaze flicked to your mouth.

“Say one more word,” He warned, voice dark, “and this is no longer a swimming lesson.”

You narrowed your eyes, undeterred, “...word.”

That was it. His mouth crashed onto yours.

The lake didn’t matter. The cold didn’t matter. The lesson—completely forgotten.

He kissed you like it was the first time and the last. Hands roaming. Lips urgent. Like he was going to make you feel every ounce of his sheer want in this one kiss.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as you sighed against him, triumphant.

“Lesson over?” You breathed against his lips.

“Lesson,” He growled, kissing down your neck, “postponed.”

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

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@superlegend216

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Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

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Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

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Slytherin Boys Taglist:

@laufeysvalentine

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[weasleyreidstyles]

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“��Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

*

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

Bonus

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

[weasleyreidstyles]

got a tattoo as a little graduation gift from me to me🙈🙈🙈🙈

[weasleyreidstyles]

oh this was so cute!!!

npt: @lushleona @pizzaapeteer @bloodstainedsapphic @weirdowithnobeardo @doremimosasol @obsessedwithceleste @rafeycameronsgf

PICREW TAG GAME!!!

use this picrew maker, and tag your moots!

Me!! It looks quite close to me in irl :3

no pressure tags!:

@whatonearthisgoingon @mrecury42 @mochamoony @yes-ofc-i-bite @acelovesremuslupin @notthesodaa @theheightsarewuthering

[weasleyreidstyles]

saw this so late but thankyou for the tag lovely!!💕

W- way it goes, hippo campus

E- everywhere, niall horan

A- angel baby, troye sivan

S- she, harry styles

L- love me not, ravyn lenae

E- escapism, raye

Y- youngblood, five seconds of summer

R- right where you left me, taylor swift

E- exes, tate mcrae

I- i love you, im sorry, gracie abrams

D- diana, one direction

S- sunsetz, cigarettes after sex

T- this is the life, two door cinema club

Y- you're not harry styles, dylan

L- lucky again, louis tomlinson

E- everywhere, fleetwood mac

S- sunflower, vol. 6, harry styles

npt: @bloodstainedsapphic @pizzaapeteer @lushleona @rafeycameronsgf @weirdowithnobeardo @moonlightttfae

URL Tag Game

Thank you so much @em3eald xxx

Pick a song for every letter in your tumblr-URL. Tag at least as many people as there are letters in your URL!

There's 20 of these so I'm going to put them below the cut

T - To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuaraithe) by Hozier

R - Reruns by Hollie Col

A - About You by The 1975

G - Greek Tragedy by The Wombats

I - Isimo by Bleachers

C - Cosmic Love by Florence + The Machine

A - Alter by Kehlani

L - Lego House by Ed Sheeran

L - Lady Stardust by David Bowie

Y - You're Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan

I - Ivy by Frank Ocean

N - Notos by The Oh Hellos

E - Evermore by Taylor Swift, Bon Iver

V - Video Games by Lana Del Ray

I - I Dreamed A Dream from Les Misérables

T - The Devil And The Liar by Longwave

A - Anything by Adrianne Lenker

B - Brando by Lucy Dacus

L - Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow by Freddie Mercury

E - Eyes Don't Lie by Kingfishr

I tried to do 20, I really did, but I'm too awkward to tag more😭Anyway, no pressure: @starsick1979 @slut-4-remuslupin @cowprintcutie-123 @cherrylusstuff @outromoonyy @raindragon-20 @artachokie @serendipitousstar @lulublack90 @uhhlifeig @august-88 @florence-not-italy @padfootwashere and anyone else

[weasleyreidstyles]

ahhhhh!!!! thankyou for reading, lovely!! more chapters to come soon!!🤭🤭🤭

Serendipity Masterlist!

series status: under construction – here's the link to the remastered series!!!

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

“serendipity is the phenomenon of discovering something interesting or valuable by chance”

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

no use of Y/N, but your general nickname is Meadow. All characters are aged up to be over 18. and Bellatrix isn't Mattheo's mother in this fic (just fyi)

general warning(s): 18+ content, angst, fluff, some canon compliance, some canon divergence, typical wizarding world violence, war, torture, drugging, hospitals, familial problems, mean!harry, mean!ron....

** indicates smut warning

~∞~ chapter one

chapter summary: on the trainride to your sixth year, your friends give you a proposition that you can't refuse.

~∞~ chapter two

chapter summary: it's your first day back as a sixth year student. Classes are more intense and your first lesson with Mattheo ensues.

~∞~ chapter three

chapter summary: the first Hogsmeade trip of the year has a rather unpleasant ending.

~∞~ chapter four

chapter summary: after you end up confined to the Hospital Wing, you're surprised when Professor Dumbledore pays you a visit.

~∞~ chapter five

chapter summary: Mattheo has been avoiding you. You find and confront him after a frustrating week.

~∞~ chapter six **

chapter summary: the growing tension between you and Mattheo snaps. He reveals something about yourself that you has scarcely any prior knowledge of.

~∞~ chapter seven

chapter summary: joyful dinner parties and a switch in point of view. Two juxtaposing starts to the christmas holidays.

~∞~ chapter eight **

chapter summary: you're given plenty of revelations: all equally as daunting as the other.

~∞~ chapter nine

chapter summary: Ginny ambushes you in the library and Ron's birthday is off to a delirious start.

~∞~ chapter ten

chapter summary: in the aftermath of Ron's poisoning, Harry learns a thing or two about where your loyalties lie when he overhears your private conversation with the headmaster.

~∞~ chapter eleven

chapter summary: intent on avoiding him, you underestimate just how desperate Mattheo is to be around you.

~∞~ chapter twelve

chapter summary: new friendships are formed and you finally learn to control your abilities. Mattheo comes to a life altering realisation.

~∞~ chapter thirteen **

chapter summary: idk how to summarise this but i will say it's pure smut...enjoy

~∞~ chapter fourteen

chapter summary: friendships are rekindled and you save Draco from certain death in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, igniting your powers in the process.

~∞~ chapter fifteen

chapter summary: now fully recovered, Draco has a task to complete. The fate of the Wizarding World hangs in the precipice of his actions.

~∞~ chapter sixteen

chapter summary: after a startling and gutting discovery. secrets are revealed and alliances are questioned as Voldemort's tyranny begins to fester into the beginnings of another war.

*invisible string fits into the plot here!!*

~∞~ chapter seventeen

chapter summary: Dumbledore's funeral reveals new allies as you navigate a world without its protector.

~∞~ chapter eighteen

chapter summary: with his new role as a secret spy of the Order, Mattheo begins to grapple with the consequences of the horrors that occur at his father's hand.

~∞~ chapter nineteen

chapter summary: there's a spy in The Order and you make a decision that Mattheo is vocally against in every way.

~∞~ chapter twenty

chapter summary:

series oneshots/headcannons:

~∞~ tulips & starlight – valentines day drabble

~∞~ serendipity hcs (mattheo) – a glimpse at his life pre sixth year

~∞~ invisible string – bonus scene from chapter 16 **

~∞~ snippets of navigating fifth year with fred weasley

~∞~ love is for fools

series taglist:

message me or comment to be added :)

all works are my own (2025©️weasleyreidstyles), do not copy, translate or repost.

[weasleyreidstyles]

Hi ily 🥰

ily 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

[weasleyreidstyles]

mutual reblogged my post which means they still love me 10002992 healed 383782728272 revived

[weasleyreidstyles]

finally sat down to watch tsitp🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

[weasleyreidstyles]

taglist cont.

@moni-cah @taylorann2013 @unstablereader

@gisellesprettylies @nat1221

@formula1mount @yazminetrahan

@angelfrombeneth @zuzmizuzu

@fallingwallsh @anehkael

@atomiccrystalsblog @scytheartemis

@dr4g0ngirl @laniirackssss @maelibo @bunny24sstuff @daardymitta @the-sylver-dragon @yazt09 @val-writes @justdizzie @aparadoxsstuff @evie-119 @niktwazny303 @notjustsomeblonde @taylors--version @milllieeee @phoenix666stuff @writesleah @chericherilvr @roseofsharron438 @moonlightttfae @melsunshine @esposadomd @carlgrimes-twd-lover @sarah3245 @alphaeclipce @boomdolle @skz-xii @vaugarkel @nyxasher @oooof-ifellforyou @clarissa-reid @slytherintaco @aur0rraa @daughterofthemoons-stuff @ashrocker123 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @thatonecomfyjumper @cedyy @eneywey @thatgirljas13 @yourenothingbutnottome @lavenderslilac @mallowsweetie @charliedaltonswife @babyoperabiscuitzipper @genterom903

Serendipity, REMASTERED!

chapter one *ੈ✩‧₊˚

summary: it was supposed to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities and in return she would help him steer his friends from their predestined fates on the wrong side of history. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic! slytherins x fem!reader; platonic golden trio x fem!reader

— no use of Y/N, but your general nickname is Meadow. All characters are aged up to be over 18. and Bellatrix isn't Mattheo's mother in this fic (just fyi) —

warning(s): mention of character death, grief, brief mention of blood

Your fitful sleep was disrupted by a scream. Your scream. You jerked awake, clawing at the silky sheets of your bedding, lungs heaving with uneven breathes. The nightmare...no the memory still scraped along the edges of your subconscious, so vividly that you could still smell the air of the amphitheater; cool and still, thick with a scent that didn't belong to the living world.

You felt like you hadn't even woke up. Like you were still there in the Department of Mysteries, wandering through the hallways, where dust and age clung to the stone walls like a second skin. You could still feel the distinct, metallic tang of magic that hung stagnantly in rooms that had not been accessed for centuries before you had entered them; like old blood on iron, or the lingering trace of a spell gone wrong. You remember the Veil in the centre of the room the most vividly. It was colder than the amphitheater, and despite the very distinctive presence of old magic, it was like there was nothing there – something ancient and void.

When Sirius' body fell through its doorway, something had shifted. You felt it. Magic, raw and unsettled, left a bitter tang in the air. The chill swirled around you, sharper, more personal, as if the room itself had tasted Harry's grief; had feasted on Remus'. You watched in awestruck silence as his body fell further into the void and the distinct scent of his magic quickly overtook your senses. Something imperceptibly him – sandalwood and smoke. But as quickly as it overtook you, it faded into nothing and he was gone.

Harry's scream echoed through your mind, even as you pried your eyes open to face the day ahead.

You didn't leave your room, not when your mother shouted up the stairs to announce breakfast, and certainly not when your father was saying his goodbyes before leaving for work. The plans for the day were long forgotten. You stayed in the same position for hours, staring at your canopy of stars, eyes unfocused and unseeing.

You couldn't bring yourself to move. Why was it fair that you could live, but someone who barely got the chance to, could not.

Your summer holidays were repetitive. Each day the same: wake up screaming; rot in bed until your mother coaxed you out with a cup of tea and a plate of food that you probably wouldn't eat; mope on the setee in the lounge room until the sun set beneath the horizon; go up to your room to sleep off the exhaustion; relive that awful day once more and wake up screaming.

You know its only like this because the guilt knawed at you.

You should have done something. Should have stopped Bellatrix in her ambitions; fought her off before she had the chance to fire the death curse at her own flesh and blood. But the rational part of you knows that there is nothing you could've done to save him.

You hadn't spoken to Harry at all since you all returned from the Ministry. You had hardly spoken to Ron or Hermione either. It wasn't like last summer, when you were forbidden to send or receive any sort of mail, for Harry's safety. This was a different sort of distance.

Self-inflicted and filled with a longing that you refused to sate. Because why should you have the luxury to do so, when Sirius deserved it a thousand times more?

So when Molly Weasley personally invited you to stay at The Burrow for the last few weeks of the summer holidays, your mother took it upon herself to help you pack away your things for the upcoming year and sent you through the floo network without a second thought. She hoped that this change of scenery and being surrounded by your friends would be a well deserved reprieve for you.

The Burrow smelled like fresh bread and rosemary stew and something was bubbling on the stove. A familiar warmth curled in the air, and the walls buzzed softly with enchantments that had long since grown comfortable in their magic. A familiar feeling of nostalgia washed over you as you stepped out of the fireplace and into the bustling kitchen where Molly was stood, awaiting your arrival, alongside one of your closest friends.

You sank into Fred's arms, the overwhelming scent of him, cinnamon and a hint of gunpowder under the fresh, herbal laundry soap from his jumper, wrapped around you like a blanket. You felt like you could finally breathe after being underwater for so many weeks.

"You doing okay, darling?" he mumbled quietly in your ear as your mothers chatted away, seemingly oblivious of your private moment. Your breath hitched choppily as you left his embrace to see his face, speckled with an array of freckles and a slight sunburn.

"Not really." You replied with a huff of a laugh that both of you knew wasn't real. "Haven't slept well since I- since we got back." From the ministry. Is what you don't say out loud. But he knows, gods he knows you're suffering quietly and wants to do everything possible to make it stop. Instead, he pulls you into his arms again and squeezes you tightly before George comes and intercepts you with an abundance of energy that you wish you could tranfer to the depths of your being. Anything to make you feel like you were still breathing.

"My favourite Ravenclaw!" George exclaimed as he pulled you into a bear hug. Your laugh came out tearfully as you accepted his embrace.

"I'm the only Ravenclaw you're friends with, nitwit." You tease lightly and he squeezes you into a proper hug once he sees your tears.

"There's no need for name calling, Meadow." He said, dramatically placing his hands on his chest and flailing in response, which sent you into a fit of laughter that bordered on a sob. "You're my favourite of Ronald's friends, how about that?"

"That's acceptable." You say with a watery smile.

"I thought Finnegan was your favourite." Fred said with a smirk from where he was watching you both, leaning against the kitchen counter beside you.

"That's a load of bollocks! Just because you're jealous of our friendship, Freddie." George retorts with a glare that held no anger in it as he wrapped a muscled arm around your shoulders.

"I've got nothing to be jealous of, you git."

As you watch the twins argue, you already feel a piece if your fractured soul mending, slowly but surely. And when you finally see your three best friends after two whole months of self isolation, you crumble and fall into their awaiting arms.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You were walking to the designated Prefect's compartment, which sat in the middle of the train, with Hermione at your side, your blue and bronze tie clashing with her burgundy and gold one. Your presence at the Ministry that summer had, unfortunately and unsurprisingly, prompted the two of you to be topics of quite a few conversations that you had the displeasure of overhearing as you walked past each open compartment. You sent glares their way.

The air surrounding the students on the train differed exponentially to last year, when everyone was certain that Harry had lied about what had happened during the Third Task, two years ago. As well as whispers about your latest adventure outside of Hogwarts, every compartment you and Hermione drifted past were full of murmurs about how Harry really was telling the truth.

The Dark Lord had returned and everything as they knew it was going to change.

Along with Voldemort's return came a death toll that rose higher and higher each day, with a growing rate that was rapidly becoming too severe to keep track of. Amongst the whispers of Harry's name, were whispers of Voldemort's son. How he was involved in his father's empire of Death Eaters, doing his bidding from inside Hogwarts. How he and his friends needed to be dealt with and sent away from the school. Suffice to say, you couldn't help but agree. At least in terms of sending Riddle away, not so much his friends.

"What do you think will happen this year?" Hermione asked as you both made your way through the throngs of students in the hallway.

"Considering we almost died in June?" you say, a frown painting your face as your mind brings you back to your traumatic memories of that night. "We'll probably face certain death this year, Mione."

Hermione swatted your arm in feined annoyance at your attempt of a joke, though her face was painted with a soft concern that you brushed off with an affectionate eye roll. "Don't put that thought into existence, Meadow."

"I thought you were against all things Divernation." You say with a smirk that is met with a deadpan look of exasperation. Ron was already waiting inside, glaring at Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, who were sat diagonally across from him, when you both entered the compartment. Unlike your Gryffindor companions, you had no issues with them, in fact they were two people you would consider your closest friends, if it wasn't for the prejudice that went both ways – from your friends and some of their's. Theo had been your Patrol Partner last year and you'd formed a loose friendship that had turned into a bond you couldn't live without and Pansy became a much loved plus of Theo's friendship with you.

"Stop glaring at them, Ron." You scold quietly, so as to not draw attention to the three of you. Of course, that has almost never been the case for any of you. "They're my friends, why can't you respect that?"

He said nothing in response to that, but his outright glares had softened to the odd side eye whenever Theo or Pansy would make a suggestion to the Head Boy and Girl.

The Prefect meeting went on for over an hour and you found yourself zoning out multiple times, only picking up bits and pieces of what was being said. You're brought from your daze by the stinging feeling of someone being beyond your mental walls. You flinch in discomfort before glaring at the culprit, who has a cheeky smirk across his handsome face.

'You're going to miss out on important information if you keep daydreaming, tesoro.'

While you admired that he was as talented as he was, Theo had a habit of invading your thoughts with his mindless anecdotes and thoughts whenever it pleased him.

'Stay out of my head, Teddy.'

He turned his attention back to the Head Boy without so much as blinking in your direction, who was busy assigning roles to the new fifth year prefects.

'But it's so fun, and so easy.'

You'd taken to learning legillimency at the start of fifth year, having read about it in a book you'd taken from the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. You wanted to protect your mind, especially with the knowledge that Voldemort was back after Harry had returned with Cedric Diggory's dead body at the end of your fourth year. But it was an exceptionally challenging feat. One which you were admittedly struggling with a lot more than most of the other things you'd learned over the years.

"Now onto you sixth years." the Head Girl announced. "Like last year, you're going to be paired off for nightly patrols."

She began pairing you off one by one. Hermione was with Ernie Macmillan; Ron was paired with Hannah Abbot; Pansy with your Ravenclaw counterpart and Theodore was paired with you, once again. She then paired off the seventh year prefects before the Head Boy dismissed you all.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ron yawned, stretching his muscled arms out and over his head in dramatic fashion as he stepped into the corridor. You pretended not to notice how Hermione's gaze lingered on your friend's arms. But your smirking face gave you away she she not-so-subtly elbowed you in your side. Your smirk widens.

"Thank Merlin that's over. I'm starving." Ron groans as his tall frame overtakes the entirety of the small walkway.

"You're always hungry, Ronald." Hermione mutters as she moves to walk past him, her fascination with his biceps momentarily forgotten as she rolls her eyes at his usual ramblings, which made you laugh in his expense.

"He's a growing boy, Mione! As a future Quidditch star he needs fuel!" You tease.

"Piss off, Meadow." He retorts, but there's no bite to his words. In fact he's grinning alongside you. Your bubble of fun is interrupted by Theo's deep, accented voice.

"My my, it's a wonder why Dumbledore chose you to be a prefect with that attitude, Weasley."

"Fuck off, Nott." Ron snarked, all the laughter that was etched on his face was gone in a blink, turning to face your snickering Slytherin friend, about to take a step towards him when you put a hand on his chest.

"Leave it Ron. Please. He's only trying to get a rise out of you." You say, turning to face a smirking Theo with a berating glare. "I'll meet you both in the compartment in a bit."

Ron left begrudgingly, with Hermione trailing behind him, shouting a promise to save you a seat when you eventually showed up.

"Wanted to get me alone, tesoro? Finally. I've waited so long." he said with a grin, stepping towards you and ushering you back into the, now empty, Prefects compartment.

"Don't flatter yourself, Teddy." you say with an eye roll before you turned to Pansy and brought her into a hug. "I've missed you Pans. Did you have a good summer?"

"It was abysmal. But that makes three of us." she muttered, sharing a not-so-subtle look with Theo. You looked between them questioningly.

"What happened?" you ask, looking between them questioningly, ignoring how Pansy had read you like an open book despite not knowing the minute details. Theo suddenly takes out his wand and mumbles a dual silencing and locking spell on the door, and he turns to face you with a grim expression on his face.

"Seriously, what's going on. You're starting to freak me out with the need for secrecy." You look between them growing more confused by the second.

"Before we tell you anything, you've got to promise not to tell anyone." Pansy says in response, her voice quieter than you'd ever heard it.

"I don't have a choice, tesoro." Theo emphasises. "You cannot tell anyone what I'm about to say. Not even your little circle of Gryffindors. I mean it-"

"Okay Theo. I understand. Please tell me." You say, staring up at your friend with worry painting your face.

He doesn't look you in the eye. Pansy's gaze turns towards the window.

And suddenly it clicks and the nagging thought that had haunted you, alongside yur grief-stricken nightmares, all summer suddenly struck you right in the chest.

Your eyes widened.

"No. Theo please don't tell me-" you stutter and he looks away ashamed. And he tells you the one thing you wish you would have never heard.

'His son is my best friend. My father wants to get into his good graces again; I have no choice.'

Even his voice in your head sounds despondent.

"Oh Teddy." you mumble, wrapping your arms around his neck, hugging him tight.

"I'm to receive the mark during the Christmas holidays." he mumbles dejectively into your hair. "Hell of a Christmas present."

"How good is your legillimens ability?" Pansy asks you. "Can you block people out."

"I can lock my thoughts away if I really focus on it. But anytime people get into my head," you stare pointedly at Theo, who smiles innocently at your accusation, "it gives me the biggest migraine."

"You need to practice more, then." Pansy says, decidedly. "You won't survive if you can't do it instinctively. Mattheo can help you."

You outright laughed and shook your head out of disbelief.

"There is absolutely no way Riddle will help me. He hates my friends, hell he hates me, too."

"Well despite that," Theo intercepts, his brow furrowed with doubt. "Your one of our closest friends, tesoro."

"And we're loyal to a fault." Pansy says, gripping your hand in her's. "It's not limited to our Housemates. He'll help you because we care about you."

It's not much of a secret that Mattheo Riddle had inherited more than just his father's boyish looks and charm. He had inherited some of his powers too, including legillimancy. Rumour has it, he was miles better than the likes of Professor Snape and Dumbledore himself. But you highly doubted that. He was only a few months older than you, so he couldn't possibly be at the same levels as the most powerful wizard of your age. Surely.

Seeing the doubt written across your face, Pansy squeezed your hand again.

"You don't have to trust him. But trust us. Trust that we will make sure he doesn't take the piss and actually helps you."

"What about Harry?" You ask. "And Ron and Hermione, the Order. What am I meant to tell them. They won't be thrilled that I'm spending time with Voldemort's son, let alone taking lessons in Legillimency of all things from him."

"You can put up a tutoring farce or something of the sort." Theo says, as if he knew you were going to counter them immediately. The pinch in the back of your head was enough proof of that.

"Yes!" Pansy agrees, nodding vehemently along with Theo's ramblings. "Matt can't cast a rune to save his life."

"That's because he's absolutely terrible at drawing them. Which is funny, all things considered." Theo says, though he doesn't elaborate as to why and you don't bother to ask. You knew Riddle wasn't the best at Ancient Runes; how he was still enrolled in the class was a mystery to you.

"He's already agreed to help you, as a favour to me." Theo says. "So it's entirely up to you."

"Why are you trusting me with this?" you question, staring between your two friends.

"Like it or not, you're our one way ticket to the right side of this war, tesoro. You know as well as I do that Potter needs as much help as he can get. And you need to protect your mind so that the Dark Lord can't get into your head if you ever have the pleasure of his company." Theo says, all amusement evaporating from his face.

"So are you in?" Pansy asks as she heads towards the door. "Because there's no backing out from here, and I really don't fancy obliviating you."

"Yes, Pans may end up zapping away all your memories rather than this one." She hits Theo's arm and glares at him as he sends her a smug grin.

You know the risks. You don't know what this will mean for your current friendships. But you know that Theo is right. Harry needs all the help he can get. Having Theo and Pansy on your side could be a turning point in this brewing war.

"I'm in." you say, nodding your head in agreement. "But on one condition, keep the snarky comments to a minimum about Ron, Mione and Harry, please. And relay that message to the rest of your friends too."

"Already done, tesoro." Theo says, ruffling your hair, grinning when you swat his hand away with a glare that mirrored Pansy's previous one.

You question what he means for a moment when the back of your skull begins to burn with a dull ache. You cradle the back of your neck with your hand, wincing at the sting as Mattheo's deep, raspy voice fills every corner of your mind.

'Lessons start tomorrow night, Princess. Don't make me regret this.'

He was already in your head and you can only sigh. It was going to be a long year.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

A little while later, you reach the compartment that your other friends had been occupying at the same time that Harry and Neville seemed to be leaving it.

"Where are you two off to?" You ask as they move away from the open doorway, letting you get past them.

"To meet Professor Slughorn." Neville said, although he looked a mixure of nervous and confused.

"Who the hell is that?" you look at Hermione as you go inside, leaving Harry and Neville on their venture.

"A new Professor, apparently." she replied. "What took you so long?"

You knew that your friends, minus maybe Harry, had little to no legillimency skills. But nevertheless, you cleared your mind, as best as you could, of the conversation you'd had with Theo and Pansy.

"Pansy was catching me up on some gossip." you said flipantly as you pulled out a book from your never ending bag. "How else are we meant to know everything that goes on outside of our little circle, now that Lee, Angelina and the twins have graduated?"

Ron and Hermione laugh at that, before Ron's face drops.

"Listen, be careful around them this year, yeah." he said, his voice low, full of concern. "I know they're your friends but we went to see Fred and George's new shop, before you came to stay with us, and watched Malfoy go into Borgin and Burke's with a bunch of known Death Eaters."

Your heart dropped to your stomach. Theo would be participating in those meeting come Christmas time. That must mean that Draco was already involved.

"Well you know what sort of things they sell there." you say hesitantly. "It probably doesn't mean anything."

Hermione scoffed. "Try telling that to Harry. I think he's convinced that Malfoy and Riddle have already been inducted."

"Wouldn't bloody surprise me." Ron mutters venomously. "They're both cut from the same cloth." They all are. That's what worries you.

You fall silent shortly after that. The conversation only picking up again when Neville came back to the compartment, with Ginny following behind him.

Harry was nowhere in sight.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Your bespeckled best friend was unusually absent for the remainder of the train journey. When the Hogwarts Express pulled to a stop in Hogsmeade station and you all found a carriage to settle in, he was still nowhere to be seen.

"Where on Earth is he?" Mione muttered as you clambered onto a carriage.

As you did, you stared at the beautiful winged creatures that guided the vessel up the widing path. All you could see for a brief moment was Sirius' body entering The Veil and his soul physically leaving the planes of which you were stood on. It was strange to think that one day, in the past, he was travelling to school with his friends, just like you were; innocent to the throes of war and true loss.

"He's probably already in a carriage and didn't wait for us. Wouldn't be the first time." Ron assured, although his face betrayed his words as he looked as worried as you and Hermione.

You were unconvinced. Even more so when you split off towards the Ravenclaw table upon arriving to the Great Hall and saw, not to your surprise, Mattheo Riddle with bloody and bruised knuckles.

As you sat beside Luna Lovegood you felt that same painful, prickling sensation that you did on the train. He was watching you, and he continued to watch you with his cold, assessing stare through the sorting ceremony and Dumbledore's welcome speech.

Your attention was brought to the doors of the Great Hall where Harry seemed to materialise, with Snape's looming figure directly behind him. But what you noticed the most in the bright glow of floating candles that bothered you more than his lack of punctuality, was the bloody tissue he was dabbing at his poorly-fixed broken nose, which he did not have when you last saw him hours earlier.

People stared and whispered as he made his way to where Ron and Hermione were sitting. But your attention was pulled to where Crabbe and Goyle were sat snickering from their seats beside Draco.

You narrowed your eyes at Riddle, who was still looking at you.

'Got a staring problem, Princess?'

Merlin he infuriated you. You focused on him as you thought of your response.

'Says you. Did you do that to his face?'

He smirked. 'Did I do what? Potter looks as dashing as ever.'

You didn't give him a response, instead turning your attention to Theo, who was chatting to Lorenzo Berkshire.

'Did Riddle do that to Harry?' You asked and you watch as Theo startles before maintaining the same facade of conversation.

'No. It was Draco. Harry was eavesdropping on his conversation with Blaise. Matt was with me and Enzo.'

'So why the fuck is your oh-so-great friend covered in blood?'

'Some git looked at him the wrong way.'

Your question was answered, but you were still left unsatisfied. And Riddle's stare had still not faltered, which added to your growing bad mood.

'Stop fucking staring at me, Riddle. And stay out of my head.'

He smirked wickedly and finally looked away, taking the prickling sensation along with him, but a migraine remained in its place.

chapter one!! 🤭🤭🤭 its basically the same as the original but a little more developed and it delves a little into meadow's trauma at the start of the year/end of her fifth year. i hope you enjoyed it xoxoxoxo

taglist:

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