Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

it's june after all,

& you're young until september

- Ocean Vuong's Because it's Summer

Chapter Text

Emma, since third year, had been coming alone to King’s Cross Station, Platform 9¾. Though he would never admit it, her dad always had a furrowed brow when saying goodbye to her for the semester. Trying to hug and kiss her as quickly as possible, attempting to make a getaway before he had to interact with people in strange robes.

She didn’t mind; it was one less thing to worry about. Especially with the state that was fifth year, and the increasing resentment building towards muggles and muggleborns,
Emma just wanted to find Pansy and get to a compartment. Elbowing her way through the crowded platform, she searched for the short girl.

Finally, her eyes landed on a mess of black hair and pale hands hugging an older couple furiously, and Emma started towards her. “Pans!” She cried, excited to see her best friend.

The dark hair girl whipped around in excitement, recognising the familiar voice. Pansy quickly kissed her parents one last time, before rushing and embracing her blonde companion.

“Em!” Pansy exclaimed, “Oh my goodness I missed you, and I have so much to tell you! I couldn’t let you know by my letters but-”.
Emma interrupted, “Hold on Pans, wait-wait till we sit down. I’ve been standing all day; I want to get comfy before you tell me everything.”

“Yeah, good idea, I want to find a decent compartment before they’re all taken”. Pansy said, grabbing Emma’s hand and dragging her towards the train. As they climbed the steps and made their way down the hallway, Emma felt a breath leave her that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Although it is sixth year, she still catches the odd glare, judging her house and blood purity. Typically, she would brush it off with a smile, but this year it troubled her more.

Since the fight at the ministry before the beginning of the Summer, people have been talking increasingly about Voldemort’s return. Whispers were going around about muggleborns being taken from their homes, hunted and killed. During the Summer, she couldn’t sleep properly. All she could think about was something happened to her family, and that she would not be there to stop it.

“Let’s go in here.” Pansy’s voice cut through her thoughts. Nodding her head, Emma shuffled towards the compartment, when someone grabbed her wrist.

Startled, Emma threw her head around to face a curly haired brunette.

“Hermione!” She yelped, the brown eyed girl throwing her arms around the blonde. “Emma!”, she exclaimed, “How are you-”

“Merlin, you scared the shit out of me!” Emma said into the girl’s mess of curls. Through them, she could see Pansy in the compartment glaring at the Gryffindor. Emma withdrew from the hug, “Pansy, I’ll be back in two seconds alright?”.

Pansy sat down and rolled her eyes, laughing internally how a Slytherin could befriend the Golden Girl. Emma and Hermione had met in first year, both wanting to learn everything about the world they were so new to. Hermione helped Emma with charms in exchange for a chocolate frog, and they hadn’t looked back since.

“How were your holidays Hermione?” Emma asked while dragging the brunette down the hallway and away from the compartment. Hermione looked eagerly at the light eyed girl, “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Did you hear anything about the fight at the ministry last year?”.

Of course, Emma had. You would have had to been living under several rocks to have missed the gossip at school regarding it, but she was intrigued to find out Hermione’s insider insight. “Yeah, I did. Are you alright?” Emma asked, her brow furrowed.

Sighing, Hermione moved to lean against the window of the hallway. “I just- It’s weird coming back to school after it. Everyone was so shaken, and now that the ministry has confirmed Voldemort’s back everything just feels so real”.

Emma moved to put a hand on the shorter girl’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alright though. I read muggleborns and their families are being taken – is that real?” She asked, shutting her eyes, “I couldn’t sleep over the holidays I was so freaked out”. Opening them, she noticed Hermione nodding her head anxiously.

“It’s true, the main reason I wanted to talk to you was to let you know to watch out this year. I’m here if you need, but especially some of the people that you’re around…” She fades off nervously before clearing her throat, “Anyway. I also wanted to ask if you’d seen Malfoy over the holidays at all?”

Emma’s eyes snap back to Hermione’s. Malfoy? Emma wasn’t particularly close with him, mainly because his best friend glared at her anytime, she entered a room. “Malfoy?” Emma echoed, “I saw him for like a second when I was in Diagon Alley getting stuff for school, but he didn’t really stop to chat. Not that he’s much of a chatter, he kind of just mopes around being all mysterious. Why do you ask? Do you reckon he does go to Madam FouFou’s to get his hair dyed?”

Hermione lit up, “No, I was just interested in if you knew why he was there, I saw him…” She fades off distracted, looking off in the distance. Emma glances to see Harry sticking his head out of a compartment, waving Hermione down.

“You’d better go, I think the chosen one is getting antsy without you” Emma says, turning her head back to Hermione while grinning.

Hermione pulled her into a hug, promising to talk and catch up properly over a study session after class. Emma turned and began walking back to her own compartment, her thoughts drifting back over the fresh conversation.

So, it was true about muggleborns being taken, she thought. I’ll write to Dad tonight, make sure everything is alright. Why was she so intrigued about Malfoy? That she saw him, was she following him? Maybe she does fancy him, I’ll have to ask. Emma reached the compartment, slid the door open and stepped into the compartment, only to freeze mid-thought.

Pansy was no longer alone.

As though Emma’s thought had come to life, Pansy was now sat conversing to Draco Malfoy on her left, while Blaize Zabini listened on her right. They turned to look up at her as she entered.

“Hey Em!” Blaize grinned up at her, “How was the Golden Girl, hm? I’d bet Malfoy would love to know-”

“Shut the fuck up before I transfigure you into a suitcase Blaize,” Malfoy snapped, his cheeks faintly pink.

“Poor wittle Dwaco,” Pansy teased with a grin, poking Malfoy in the cheek with a manicured finger.

Emma laughed, settling into her seat beside Pansy. She felt a little bad for Draco. It wasn’t his fault he had a thing for Hermione Granger. Honestly, who wouldn’t?

From the corner, a low voice cut in. “You lot are louder than a Gryffindor dorm room.”

Emma turned her head to find Theodore Nott sitting sprawled by the window, a book open but clearly ignored in his lap. He didn’t look up as he spoke, just flicked a page lazily.

“You're welcome to switch compartments, Nott,” Emma said, lifting an eyebrow. “I would,” he replied evenly, “but you seem to follow me like some sort of stray kneazle.” Emma scoffed. “Trust me, I’m just here for the snacks and the company, neither of which involves you.”

Pansy snorted, clearly enjoying herself, and Blaise gave Theodore a look of mock offence. “Oi, I’m the snack, thank you very much.”

“You’re the reason silencing spells were invented,” Theodore muttered, finally looking up-just long enough to meet Emma’s gaze with something unreadable before turning back to his book.
Blaise put a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “The betrayal, Theo. I thought we had something.”

“The only thing you have is a second year’s understanding of defensive spells,” Theo replied cooly, still not looking up.

Pansy cackled and leaned into Emma. “I swear, this is why I keep him around. He’s like a cat with a grudge.” Emma rolled her eyes, but her gaze lingered on Theo for half a second longer than she meant it to. He was sitting there like the war hadn’t shaken the ground under all their feet, like everything was beneath his notice. But there was something about the way he kept glancing out the window, like he was somewhere else entirely.

“So,” Emma said suddenly, mostly to Pansy but loud enough for the compartment, “you said you had things to tell me?”

“Oh!” Pansy clapped her hands and sat up straight. “Yes. Merlin, I nearly forgot. So, over the summer - guess who I ran into at Flourish and Blotts?”

“Please tell me it wasn’t Goyle again,” Blaise groaned. “He still thinks you fancy him after that one time you smiled by accident.” Pansy ignored him. “No. Daphne Greengrass. And she’s pregnant.”
“What?” Emma sat up straighter. “You’re kidding.”

“Cross my heart. She’s been engaged to that French wizard - Canet or Cane-something - for over a year now. But apparently, the wedding’s been delayed because her mother’s losing it over the bloodline.” Theodore gave the faintest snort, then turned a page like he wasn’t listening at all.

Pansy grinned wider. “See, even Mr. Mysterious over there is invested.”

“I’m not,” Theo said without looking up. “It’s just tragic how loud your voice is.” Emma chuckled under her breath. “He acts like he’s above the drama, but he’s the first one to eavesdrop.” He looked at her this time - sharp, but not unkind. “Says the girl who talks in her sleep.” Emma blinked. “I do not.”

“You do,” Pansy confirmed cheerfully. “You once whispered ‘Merlin’s soggy socks’ in second year. I was worried for you.”

Blaise snorted out a laugh so hard he choked on his chocolate frog. “Soggy socks—oh that’s staying with me forever.”

Emma groaned, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. This felt good. It felt normal, joking with her friends like nothing in the world has happening, even if it was only for this train ride. She felt lighter than she had in months, which she used to excuse why her eyes drifted over to Theodore.

He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t smirking.

He was watching her reflection in the glass.

Chapter Text

Climbing off the train, the cool air hit Emma like a wall. She blinked quickly, adjusting her eyes to the dim night.

“Show time,” Pansy said beside her, brushing invisible lint off her robes and adjusting her perfectly tied green-and-silver tie.

“I swear, you dress like you’re on the cover of Witch Weekly,” Blaise muttered, slipping on his cloak and stretching like a cat.

Pansy’s arm looped through hers as they walked through the late-summer evening. The scent of damp earth, pine, and rain clung to the air. Lanterns flickered along the path to the carriages, casting long shadows.

The Thestrals waited patiently, eerie and elegant, their bony wings twitching in the breeze. Emma’s hand tightened slightly on her bag at the sight of them. Despite seeing them every year, the creatures still made her insides shudder. She clambered up and threw herself in the seat, waiting for the others to come.

Pansy, Blaize and Malfoy climbed into the carriage chatting away, unknowing of what was pulling it. However, Theodore hesitated slightly too long, staring at the creatures. Emma turned to glance at him, surprised. She wondered to herself, has he always been able to see them? Theodore climbed into the carriage, his usual quiet grace replaced by something more distracted, something heavy. He didn’t look at anyone as he settled opposite Emma, his hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes still flickering toward the unseen creatures pulling them forward.
Emma studied him for a second too long.

She had questions. The kind you didn't just ask in front of others.

Pansy kept talking, oblivious to the shift in energy. “Honestly, if I get paired with Corner again in Charms, I’m hexing myself into the Hospital Wing. He doesn’t even know what a wand movement is, he just flicks it around like -” She made an odd hand gesture that made Malfoy snort.

Blaise laughed, stretching his long legs out until they bumped into Theo’s. “Reckon we’ll be split up more this year anyway. New Ministry mandates, or whatever. Probably paired with someone from Gryffindor just for the irony.”

Draco rolled his eyes, chin in hand as he stared out the window. “Can’t wait.”

Emma, still half-focused on Theo, leaned slightly forward. “Are you alright?” she asked softly.

He blinked, like he’d forgotten she was there. Then, with a slow exhale, he turned his head. “Fine,” he said, but the word landed hollow between them.

It wasn’t the kind of “fine” that invited more questions. It was a warning, sharp-edged and deliberate.

Still, Emma didn’t look away.

“How long have you… seen them?” she asked, her voice barely above the creak of the carriage wheels.

Theo’s jaw ticked. He didn’t answer right away. “Since summer,” he muttered. Then he looked towards the outside of the carriage, signalling the conversation was over.

Emma sat back, something uncomfortably tight blooming in her chest. She knew what that meant – he had seen someone die. Honestly, she knew it wasn’t her business. Not really. And she knew that she shouldn’t have cared. This was the boy that hexed her shoelaces together in third year, trying to make Malfoy laugh. He had copied her homework, handing it in first so she would get a detention from McGonagall. He teased her and mocked her, but for some reason, it didn’t stop her from caring.

Emma told herself she was just being kind person. Anyone would do that, right? Care that a peer had seen someone die? Surely, she thought. Her and Theodore, they could relate over this. Be mature and get over the childish loathing.

The castle came into view then, golden windows glowing through the fog like lanterns in a storm. As the carriage came to a halt and the teenagers climbed out, Emma tried to pay attention to the joke Blaize was telling about the similarities of a troll and Flitch’s cat.

“Merlin, I’m starving,” Pansy muttered, tugging Emma toward the entrance hall. “If I have to sit through the Sorting again before eating, I’ll hex someone.”

Emma nodded absently, her mind still somewhere behind with Theodore, who now trailed several steps behind the group. His hands were buried in his pockets, head slightly down like he was already shrinking into the shadows of the corridor.

“Earth to Em?” Pansy waved a hand in front of her face.

“Sorry,” Emma blinked. “Just thinking.”

Pansy snorted. “Dangerous. Don’t hurt yourself.” Emma stuck out her tongue.

Inside the Great Hall, golden candles floated above enchanted starlight. First-years clustered nervously at the front while the rest of the school began to filter in. Familiar faces, familiar routine.
But the air wasn’t the same. Not this year.

Whispers about the Ministry. Eyes lingering too long on students like Emma. Fear laced between every bite of pumpkin pasty. Which honestly was really sad, Emma really loved pumpkin pasty’s.
Emma slid into her usual seat at the Slytherin table beside Pansy, her gaze flicking instinctively down the row.

Theo sat three seats away, already picking at his food. He hadn’t even looked up.

Emma stabbed her fork into a roast potato, frustrated at herself.

“Woah Em, take it easy. The food’s already dead.” Blaize cackled, playing footsy with Pansy. Emma made a mental note to inquire further later.

It was nothing. He was just another Slytherin with a haunted past. She had enough to worry about without adding Theodore Nott to her list of misplaced concerns.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of food, chatter, and the hum of the castle’s familiar energy. The Sorting Ceremony had come and gone, with the same nostalgic stories shared amongst them. Pansy reflected on Draco having the perfect slick back hair, to which he promptly told her to “Fuck herself with a gnome”.

The tables were full, but Emma's mind kept drifting, always circling back to the same question: What did Theo Nott see that had made him like this?

Woah, she thought. Stop being so nosy. Let it go.

It was becoming hard to defend she was just being a kind person.

Pansy, blissfully unaware of the thoughts swirling in Emma’s head, was talking about the new Hogsmeade trip coming up and already planning out outfits for the visit. Blaise was pretending to pay attention, but his eyes kept drifting lazily toward a group of fourth-year girls. However, Malfoy seemed extra stiff this year, if that was even possible. It seemed that if someone even breathed near him, he’d freak out and Avada them. Maybe something did happen with Hermione in Diagon Alley.

Whatever Emma was feeling about Theodore, it was nothing more than a passing concern, nothing to get worked up about. Plenty of students had lost family members or seen death up close. There were always whispers in the common room about who had survived the war and who hadn’t. It was a part of growing up in this world.

Yet, every time her gaze flickered toward Theo, sitting in his usual spot at the far end of the Slytherin table, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. More to him, more to the way he carried himself like a shadow of someone trying too hard to stay hidden.

She had never spoken to him one-on-one much, and when she did, it was usually accompanied by some sarcastic remark or cutting tone. But tonight was different. She wasn’t thinking about him with disdain, nor was she trying to pretend she didn’t notice him. She noticed everything. The way his lips barely moved when he spoke, as if every word was weighed with effort. How his posture was slightly slouched, as if there was a weight placed on them.

Emma gripped her fork, irritation creeping in as she realised she was staring. God, get a grip, Em. What do you mean “his lips barely moved when he spoke”? She couldn’t stop herself, though. This year, something felt off. It was like there was a crack in the ice where he was concerned, and all she wanted to do was find out what was underneath.

"You’re staring." Pansy's voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and cutting. "Do you fancy him now or something?"

Emma shot her a glare. “Shut up. Maybe Malfoy was right about the gnome.”

Pansy’s smirk only deepened. "Just saying, the brooding type is your style."

Emma rolled her eyes and quickly turned her attention back to her food, though her mind didn’t return to it.

The night stretched on, the conversations at the table a blur, until dessert arrived. The usual banter of empty-headed chatter filled the space around her, but Emma’s focus was shattered the moment she saw Nott stand and make his way toward the exit.

He didn’t look back this time. She watched him walk, each step slow but purposeful, like he had the whole world to think about but no interest in sharing it with anyone.
And something in her snapped. Why do you even care, Emma?

“I’m heading to bed,” Emma muttered, standing abruptly.

Pansy didn’t look up from her conversation with Blaise. “Sure, whatever,” she replied absentmindedly, flicking her hand dismissively.

Emma made her way down to the dorms, the sound of her shoes echoing softly on the stone floor of the winding hallways. She barely noticed the portraits on the walls, all deep in conversation or hissing greetings as she passed them.

When she reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, she paused, her hand hovering over the cool, iron door. She muttered the word, “Hydrus,” the hiss of the serpent’s name curling out of her mouth almost instinctively. The door creaked open with an eerie groan, as if the stone itself had been waiting for her.
The common room greeted her with the familiar chill of the dungeons, the low, flickering light of candles casting shadows that danced across the walls. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and something older, a mix of parchment and old wood, as though the room itself had secrets to share if one was quiet enough to listen. The floor was covered with lush, green rugs, their intricate designs mirroring the dark beauty of the house’s emblem.

Unlike how Hermione had described the Gryffindor common room, the Slytherin space was a different from the warm, cosy chaos Emma had imagined. Here, there was an elegant, almost regal stillness. Large, leather armchairs and plush couches were arranged neatly in the centre of the room, their deep green cushions in stark contrast to the dark, almost black wood of the furniture. The walls were adorned with polished silver, glinting faintly under the candlelight. There were no cluttered stacks of books or brightly coloured tapestries. Instead, everything was ordered, deliberate, and cold—beautiful, but not inviting in the way most places were.

Her gaze drifted to the far side of the room, where floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the wall. The glass was so intricately cut that it fractured the moonlight streaming in, casting patterns of pale light onto the floor. The reflection of the lake outside rippled gently against the windows, giving the room an ethereal glow, as if the very water was alive and moving within the walls.
As she moved to cross the room toward the staircase that led to the dormitories, her steps faltered when she heard a distinct sound—a male clearing his throat, followed by a soft but unmistakable voice. She squinted to see Theodore sitting in one of the leather chairs. Well fuck.

“Stalking me now, are we Ryan?”

It definitely seems like it.

“The only thing I’m stalking, Nott,” Emma shot back, her voice cool but biting, “is the ability to get through one day without your irritating voice in my ear.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking far too entertained by her response. He glanced at her for a moment before turning his attention back to the book in his hands, as if he had better things to do than engage in whatever this was supposed to be.

"Right," he said with a smirk, "Well, you’ve failed that. So, you might just have to resort to stalking me"

Emma rolled her eyes, taking a steadying breath. She wanted to tell him off, to give him a piece of her mind for showing up uninvited in the common room like it was his personal throne. But there was something about the way he sat there, so annoyingly at ease, that made her pause.

“Why did you leave dinner early?” The question escaped before she could stop it.

Theo raised an eyebrow, his smirk shifting into something more calculating. “Despite that being a hypocritical question, I’m confused about why you care?” he asked, tilting his head at her, his gaze unwavering.

Fair play. She should have expected that kind of answer.

Shaking her head, she took a step toward the stairs, her mind momentarily distracted by the unexpected insight he’d given. She wasn’t sure why she’d even asked. It wasn’t like she cared. Right?
But the question lingered in her mind, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that, for some reason, it had been important.

Chapter Text

The first week of classes began in a blur of ink-stained parchment, whispered rumours, and the constant low hum of something shifting in the air. It was as though Hogwarts itself had exhaled over the summer and inhaled something colder, heavier, something that made Emma’s skin prickle even in the warm candlelight of the Great Hall.

It was hard to tell if the tension she felt was coming from the outside world—the growing headlines in the Daily Prophet, the whispers of disappearances—or from the people sitting just across the Slytherin table.

Specifically, a certain boy who had made a hobby of getting under her skin.

Theodore Nott, with his unreadable glances and maddening calm, had somehow wormed his way into the edges of Emma’s thoughts more than she’d like to admit. Every time she caught his eye, he looked half-bored, half-curious—like he was waiting for her to make the next move in a game she didn’t know they were playing.

“Did you finish the Transfiguration essay?” Pansy asked one morning, sliding into the seat beside Emma and stealing a sip of her pumpkin juice before she could protest. After swallowing, she leaned in and sniffed Emma.

“Woah, this is personal” Emma smirked. Pansy looked up, an excited look on her face. “You’re wearing the perfume I got you for your birthday!”

Emma laughed, “You could be a sniffer dog”.

Pansy eyed her, confused, “A what?”

“Never mind.”

“Anyway - I knew it would suit you because it’s not too floral, but there’s that little hint of vanilla—very grown woman with secrets.” Pansy said, sticking her nose in the air.

“Well, I am very grown woman with secrets. And I barely finished the essay,” Emma muttered, pulling the parchment from her bag and tapping her quill against the corner. “I couldn’t focus last night.”

“Because of Theo?” Pansy asked with a smirk that was far too knowing for comfort.

Emma scowled. “No. Because I was tired, and the library smelled like mildew.”

“Mildew and unresolved tension, that feeds into grown woman with secrets” Pansy added with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

“Speaking of tension, what’s going on between you and Blaize?” Emma asked, a smirk tugging at her lips. It was about time she brought it up; Pansy had been circling Blaise like a hawk since the start of term, and Emma wasn’t exactly known for her subtlety.

Pansy, who had been carefully curling the ends of her parchment like she was preparing it for a museum display, froze. Her quill paused mid-flourish.

Emma leaned in across the library table, propping her chin in her hand. “Don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s noticed. You two argue like you’re married and flirt like you’re not.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “He is insufferable.”

“And yet,” Emma drawled, “you keep finding excuses to sit next to him, walk with him, pair up in every class—oh, and let’s not forget that time you accidentally wore blue eyeliner when he said he liked it.”

Pansy scoffed, but a flush crept up her neck. “Coincidence.”

Emma laughed, low and teasing. “Right. Just like it’s a coincidence he always saves you a seat and gives you the last chocolate frog.”

Pansy finally looked up and groaned, pressing her palms to her cheeks. “Merlin’s beard, you’re so annoying when you’re right.”

“I know. It’s my most charming quality,” Emma said with a wink. “So? Do you like him?”

Pansy hesitated—then dropped her hands and shrugged in that exaggerated, casual way that usually meant yes, and it’s killing me. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s not as much of an arse as the rest of them.”

Emma smiled, softening. “That’s practically a love poem coming from you.”

“Shut it.” Pansy grinned back, but her voice was lighter now. “What about you, then?”

Emma blinked. “What about me?”

Pansy raised a brow. “Don’t play dumb. You and Theo Nott, with all your ‘banter’ and ‘tension’ and ‘accidental eye contact across the room like you’re in a dramatic stage play’.”

Emma rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Please. Theo Nott is emotionally unavailable, vaguely threatening, and smells like old books.”

Pansy smirked. “Sounds like your type.”

While Pansy giggled into her book, Emma didn’t dignify her with a response. Instead, she turned her focus to the essay in front of her—though she couldn’t help glancing once across the table to where Theo sat, one hand propped under his chin, absently spinning his wand between his fingers. His eyes flicked up. Caught.

She looked away too quickly.

Outside, the wind howled across the lake, rippling the surface and pressing shadows against the windows. It was going to rain hard. Professor Slughorn’s dungeon would be freezing, and Emma had already mentally prepared to doze through half the lecture.

Except when class rolled around, and she sat at her usual table with Pansy and Blaise, Theo slid into the seat just beside her.

She paused mid-sentence, blinking.

“Problem?” he asked under his breath, not even looking at her as he set his ink bottle down.

“No,” she said stiffly, adjusting her parchment. “Just surprised to see you sit somewhere that doesn’t have a view of your own reflection.”

That earned the faintest quirk of his lips. “Maybe I wanted to see what it was like sitting next to a pathological overachiever.”

Emma turned just enough to give him a narrow-eyed glare. “Maybe I’m regretting being nice to you the other night.”

His smile lingered for a beat. “No, you’re not.”

And much to her own annoyance—she wasn’t.

She saw Hermione enter the room, giving her a grin. The Gryffindor smiled back, her eyes catching on Malfoy. Emma turned to say something, but was interrupted by Professor Slughorn waddling into the dungeon, looking particularly flushed and jolly despite the chill that curled through the stone walls. His pot belly bounced slightly as he clapped his hands, a puff of dust rising from the ancient sleeves of his velvet robes.

“Settle in, settle in!” he boomed. “Today, my dears, we’re going to do something a little different.”

Emma exchanged a glance with Pansy, who looked suspicious. Theo beside her just leaned back in his chair, perfectly uninterested, while Blaise looked two seconds from falling asleep.
Slughorn continued, his hands twitching with excitement. “We’ve had quite a bit of theory to start the year, so today, I thought I’d give you something a little… aromatic.”

At that, he turned dramatically and removed the lid from a small, pearlescent cauldron at the front of the room. A delicate, silvery vapor spiralled upward, curling in the air like silk ribbons.
Emma inhaled instinctively.

The scent hit her like — well like a truck to be perfectly honest. Old parchment, cigarettes, and something else that was clean, earthy, unmistakably warm. Like freshly washed clothes dried in the sun, with a note of something darker, grounding it. Something like—

She blinked.

“You’ll all recognize this,” Slughorn was saying, “as Amortentia—the most powerful love potion in the world. It doesn’t create love, of course, but obsession. Infatuation.” He chuckled. “It smells different to everyone, according to what attracts them most.”

Murmurs rippled through the class, some laughing, others pretending to be grossed out, while secretly leaning closer for another sniff.

Emma tried not to glance sideways. She failed.

Theo was still, unusually so. His gaze was on the cauldron, brows drawn slightly, eyes distant. Emma noticed the shift in him before he even spoke.

“Let’s not pretend this is a lesson in potion-making,” he muttered quietly, so only she could hear. “It’s a test. Emotional leverage, pure and simple.”
She stared at him, startled by the bite in his tone.

“Slughorn likes to know what makes people tick,” Theo added. “This one’s for him.”

“You sound like you’ve been spying on his lesson plans,” Emma replied, unable to stop the sarcasm that rose as defence. “Bit obsessed, aren’t you?”

“Terrified, actually,” he said smoothly, with a smile so faint she wasn’t sure it was there.

Before she could respond, Slughorn was calling their names, pairing them off for the next task.

“Let’s see… Parkinson with Zabini…

Oh, Pansy has so tampered with this.

Finnigan with Thomas, Granger with Potter…” he scanned the list. “Nott and Ryan.”

Yeah. Definitely Pansy.

Emma nearly groaned out loud. She should have seen that coming.

Theodore didn’t react. Just picked up his things, moved to their shared table, and began laying out ingredients like it was nothing.

“Try not to ruin the potion,” he said, passing her a silver stirring rod. “I’d hate to end up obsessed with someone entirely off-brand.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with mock sweetness. “I’m sure your reflection will still be available when this goes wrong.”

They started chopping, stirring, and heating in relative silence—except for the occasional jab from either side, just enough to keep the tension alive.

But as the potion swirled in their cauldron—smooth, shimmery, and humming with energy—Emma caught another whiff of the scent.
The parchment. The smoke. The warmth.

She glanced at Nott, who was leaning over the potion, sleeves rolled, head tilted in focus. There was something strangely calming about the way he moved. Controlled. Collected. And maddeningly quiet, as if he already knew everything you were about to say.

When he looked up and caught her staring, she bristled.

“What?” she asked, too defensively.

“Nothing,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Just wondering what makes you tick.”

“Right now? Poisoning.”

“Lucky we’re in the right place then.”

Emma allowed herself a silent giggle, before they both lapsed into a comfortable silence. She heard Seamus loudly declare his smelled like treacle tart and broom polish, and Hermione snapping at Ron for elbowing her.

The sound of Seamus’ voice reminded her to keep stirring, to ensure the potion wouldn’t blow up in her face. She stirred once clockwise, twice counter. The steam curled around her nose again, too familiar now to ignore. And with it, a prickle of unease she didn’t want to name.

Because she knew exactly what that darker note was now.

It was cedarwood. The faint, clean smokiness of it. And she only knew that because she’d spent a ridiculous amount of time next to Theodore Nott last year in study sessions, they both pretended they weren’t showing up early for.

She clenched her jaw, focusing too hard on slicing up her peppermint sprigs.

Across from her, Nott shifted his gaze, watching her a beat too long. “You don’t like it,” he said.

“What?”

“The potion. You’re uncomfortable.”

Emma’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. “Thanks for the emotional weather report.”

He didn’t rise to the snark. Just nodded once, like he was logging it. “Scent's too personal. Makes it too real.”

She blinked, surprised by the rare openness. He never said anything that wasn’t at least half a riddle. “You’re not wrong.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Theodore chuckled under his breath. “Too late.”

They finished the potion just as Slughorn waddled over, arms folded behind his back, smiling like a proud grandfather. “Very good, very good! Textbook sheen, and I daresay the scent’s strong enough to knock a troll over.”

“Lovely,” Emma said dryly.

Slughorn chuckled. “Bottle a sample each and label it. I’ll want to check the quality later. And if you’ve time, jot down what you smelled—strictly for academic curiosity, of course.”
Emma could feel Theodore glance at her. She didn’t meet his eye.

As Slughorn moved to the next table, praising the Chosen one for his skilled potion making. Rewarding Harry with the vial of Felix Felicis, Emma couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Bunch of bollocks, she thought. Slughorn loved his shiny new toys, especially a prize like Harry Potter.

She slid her labelled vial across the table, watching the shimmer settle as it clinked into place beside Nott’s. He hadn’t written anything down—just folded the parchment neatly and stashed it like it held state secrets. Typical.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t write yours.”

Theo shrugged. “Some things are better left unknown.”

Before she could press him further, Slughorn called the class to attention, dismissing them with a flourish of his velvet sleeves. The chatter began instantly, students shuffling out of the dungeon, pockets rustling with stolen ingredients and barely corked vials.

Emma hung back, organizing their mess with slow, methodical movements. Pansy had already linked arms with Blaise, dragging him off with a knowing smirk, which left Emma and Theodore alone—until she heard footsteps behind her.

“Granger, you dropped this.”

Emma turned in time to see Malfoy—Draco Malfoy, of all people—holding out a thin leather-bound notebook. Hermione was standing stiffly a few feet away, clearly debating whether to accept the offer or hex him on principle.

Emma blinked. So did Theodore.

Hermione stepped forward and took the notebook, fingers brushing his briefly. “Thanks,” she said slowly, wary.

Draco gave a casual shrug, his gaze unreadable. “Wouldn’t want you to lose all that… Gryffindor brilliance.”

Hermione raised a brow. “Did you hit your head on the way in?”

Nott snorted.

Malfoy didn’t rise to it. “Just returning something. Try not to read too much into it, Granger.”

“I never do.”

Emma watched the exchange, something odd settling in her stomach. It wasn’t the tension—it was the lack of it. They weren’t fighting. Not really. It felt... unfinished.
As Hermione walked off, Draco didn’t move right away. He stood there, fidgeting with his cuff, until finally, without looking at anyone, he turned and left.

Theodore gave a low whistle. “Either the world is ending, or Draco’s discovered self-restraint.”

Emma gave him a sideways glance. “Think he’s into her?”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone fell for someone they were supposed to hate.”
That earned him a long look.

***

The dungeons gave way to stone corridors humming with the residual chaos of class changeovers—shouts, clattering feet, and the occasional explosion from a distant Charms classroom. Emma threaded through the crowd, her fingers still faintly smelling like Amortentia, even after washing them twice. She wasn’t sure if it was the potion or something worse—something that lingered just beneath her skin, where Theo’s voice and that maddening smirk had lodged themselves.

She didn’t like it.

Ahead of her, Hermione was walking fast, head down, curls bouncing like she was trying to outrun something. Or someone.

“Hermione!” Emma called, catching up. “Hey—wait.”

Hermione slowed reluctantly, glancing sideways. “Hey. You alright?”

“I should be asking you that,” Emma said, her voice light but her eyes sharp. “That thing with Malfoy earlier…”

Hermione scoffed. “Please don’t say ‘thing.’ There’s no thing. He returned my book and managed to not insult my bloodline. That’s not progress. That’s...bare minimum decency.”
Emma smiled. “I like that. I might get that tattooed, “bare minimum decency”. But it’s odd, right? He didn’t even sneer.”

“That’s the weird part,” Hermione admitted.

They turned a corner, the halls quieting slightly as they moved away from the classrooms. “Still,” Emma added, “if he tries anything, just hex him. I’ve got backup plans involving Pansy and an untraceable Bouncing Bulb.”

That finally drew a laugh out of Hermione.

They reached the Entrance Hall, where Theo leaned against one of the massive pillars, reading something scrawled in a small, beaten notebook. He didn’t look up.

“Speaking of weird Slytherins,” Hermione muttered.

Emma ignored the comment. Kind of. “I’ll catch you at dinner?”

“Sure,” Hermione said, then added, quieter, “Be careful with him.”

Emma blinked. “Which him?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Just gave her a look—the kind that said you already know—and turned away.

By the time Emma reached Theo, he had closed the notebook and tucked it away. “Eavesdropping again?” she asked.

“Accidental proximity,” he said smoothly. “You lot are louder than you think.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t press. They stood there for a beat too long, not speaking.

Then: “So,” he said, “what did you write in your notes?”

Emma raised a brow. “About the potion?”

“Mm.”

“I put down 'potion smells like parchment, laundry, cigarettes, and regret.'”

Theo’s lip twitched. “Poetic.”

She tilted her head. “You didn’t write anything.”

“I told you. Some things are better unsaid.”

Emma crossed her arms. “Or you’re scared to admit what you smelled.”

He met her gaze. “Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t want Slughorn knowing who could undo me.”

The honesty in his voice landed like a weight between them.

She shrugged “Well, I don’t think Slughorn has the brain capacity to be planning this big downfall of the Theodore Nott, unfortunately.”

Then Pansy’s voice echoed from the Great Hall, calling Emma’s name, followed by laughter and Blaise saying something absolutely inappropriate.
Emma stepped back. “Saved by the degenerate duo.”

Theo gave a mock bow. “Until next class, Ryan.”

She shook her head and walked away, but her steps were slower now. More thoughtful.

And behind her, Theo watched her go, his face unreadable—except for the smallest crease between his brows.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Hogwarts were quieter now, the bustle of students fading into the background as Emma made her way back to the common room. The flickering torches cast a warm glow on the stone walls, but her thoughts were far from the comforting embrace of the castle. Instead, they were on the cramped, quiet house in Surrey, with its peeling wallpaper and the constant hum of the city in the distance. The life she had left behind.

She hadn’t been home since the summer, and there were days when she couldn’t quite reconcile her life at Hogwarts with the one she used to know. Back home, there were no enchanted staircases, no talking portraits, no spells that could change the course of the day with a simple flick of a wand. Her father—who was still a little too wary of the magic world, still unsure of the reality Emma had entered.

She missed her mom. Even though she never really knew her, she missed the support a mom would bring. The comfort, the understanding her dad tried to have but lacked. He was a good dad—supportive, loving—but he could never fully understand her world, and Emma couldn’t quite explain it to him without sounding like she was making things up. The magic, the wonder, the constant danger she couldn’t shake off; it was like a dream, but one that was always slipping away as soon as she tried to reach for it.

Sometimes, when she was in her dormitory at night, alone with her thoughts, she would allow herself to miss it. The comfort of her bed back home, the creak in the old floor, even the sound of her father’s voice during one of his never-ending rants about the cost of heating. Those little things she took for granted before discovering the truth about herself, before stepping into a world where nothing was simple, and everything came with a price.

Emma adjusted her bag on her shoulder, pushing the thoughts aside. It wasn’t that she regretted leaving her old life behind—it was just... complicated. She was constantly walking between two worlds: the Muggle one she couldn’t forget, and the magical one that had become her new reality.

And then there was the part of her that felt like an outsider in both.

At Hogwarts, she was part of a community, but it still felt like there was always a barrier between her and the rest of them—between her and people like Draco Malfoy, who seemed to have been born into this world, and people like Hermione, who was so effortlessly brilliant, so far removed from Emma’s Muggle upbringing. Emma had grown up in a world where everything was so... mundane. So simple. No secrets. No hidden histories. And now, here she was—always playing catch-up in a world of wands and spells, trying to fit into something that felt a little too big for her.

A brief flash of movement made Emma stop. Up ahead, Draco and Theo were walking together, deep in conversation, their voices low. Malfoy was saying something with a sort of urgent edge, and Theo’s response was sharp, his tone something Emma couldn’t quite read. She could never quite figure out what was going on with those two. They seemed so... disconnected from everyone else. And for all his bravado, Malfoy never quite seemed at ease in this world of magic.

She shook her head, looking down at her feet. She didn’t know why she still thought about him so much. He was Draco Malfoy, and he had made it very clear where he stood.
As she passed a set of windows, the night sky spread out before her—dark and endless, just like the space between her past and her present.

***

Later that evening, after dinner, Emma found herself alone in the common room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long shadows across the floor, and the occasional murmur of voices from the dorms was the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. She was reading Sherlock Holmes, one of the Muggle novels she still read to feel connected to her old life.

She turned the page, but the words blurred for a moment. Her thoughts had a way of straying when she was alone. Emma hadn’t told her dad about the darker parts of Hogwarts. She hadn’t told him how it felt when a spell could go wrong or when she had to brace herself for an argument in the hallways because of something Malfoy had said.

Emma felt a strange ache in her chest, a longing she couldn’t quite name. She loved her dad. And she missed her mum. She loved them so much it sometimes hurt. But when she saw them again, would she be the same? Would they see the differences? Would they still be proud of her, or would they feel like she had changed in ways they couldn’t follow?

A soft voice broke through her thoughts.

“What kind of name is Sherlock Holmes?”

Emma looked up to see Theo leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

“No better than Theodore Nott.” She retorted.

“Touché”. He smirked, stepping further into the room. “Who is he?”

She smiled, “He solves mysteries with this guy named Watson”.

Nott stepped closer, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Muggle mysteries?”

Emma nodded, pulling the worn book a little closer to her chest. “Yeah. He’s brilliant. Completely insufferable, but brilliant. Always five steps ahead of everyone else.”

Theodore hummed, moving to sit on the armrest of the couch nearest to her. “Sounds familiar.”

She raised a brow.

He gave a mock-wounded look. “I was talking about me, obviously.”

Emma laughed, and the sound startled even her—light, real. She hadn’t expected to laugh tonight, not with the weight of homesickness still pressing on her ribs.

“He’s cold sometimes,” she added, thumbing the edge of the page. “Detached. But he always does the right thing. Even if it costs him.”

For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the fire.

“Why that book?” Theodore asked, voice quieter now.

“It reminds me of my dad”, Emma said, pressing her thumb into the inside of the cover. “Used to read it with me every night when I was little. He’d do all the voices.”

Theodore watched her, something shifting behind his expression—like he was trying to understand a language he didn’t quite speak.

“I bet he misses that,” he said.

Emma gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

Nott stood slowly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Maybe you should read it to me sometime. Save me from the horror of actually picking up a Muggle book.”

Emma snorted. “You’d fall asleep.”

“Possibly,” he said, already halfway to the door, “but I’d listen to the voices.”
Emma was starting to think, maybe, Theodore Nott wasn’t just an all-around arsehole. Which made her feel like she was going insane, resulting in her attempting to sleep the warm feeling off.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Emma wasn’t sure if she dreamt the late-night conversation with Nott or if it had actually happened. But when she got to the Great Hall and spotted him already seated at the Slytherin table, flipping through a newspaper with a bored expression, he didn’t so much as glance at her. Business as usual.

Good. That’s what she wanted. Right?

She sat beside Pansy, who greeted her with a tired groan. “Why does the castle feel colder every bloody year?”

“Because you have the circulation of a corpse,” Blaise muttered through a yawn.

Draco was uncharacteristically quiet, poking at his eggs with a frown, eyes flicking toward the Gryffindor table every few seconds. Emma followed his gaze and sighed. Hermione. It seemed like everyone had their secret little war going on this week.

Except Theodore. He was unreadable, like usual. Not ignoring her—but not engaging either. Which made everything worse, really.

***
Emma couldn’t help but notice he’d been odd since that night.

It started in Transfiguration.

Emma had caught Theodore glaring out the window instead of taking notes, his jaw tight, the muscles in his temple twitching. Professor McGonagall asked him something about wand technique and he answered like he didn’t care. Cold. Dismissive.

Draco glanced at him, brows raising in silent question. Theodore ignored it. When the bell rang, he didn’t wait for anyone, just grabbed his bag and left.

That night in the common room, he didn’t speak to Draco. Didn’t sit with the others. He’d taken a seat near the windows, shadows under his eyes, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading. Emma had hesitated to say anything. But she caught him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking — like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.

Emma helped Pansy with potions homework, looked up, and he was gone. Disappeared to who knows where.

He showed up late to Charms the next day with ink smudged on his collar and a tension in his jaw that hadn’t eased all day. Even Blaise noticed, raising an eyebrow across the breakfast table when Nott barely touched his tea.

Emma didn’t ask. She’d learned not to. He wasn't the type to open up easily, and she wasn't about to pry. He was quieter than usual in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Which was saying something.

He sat through the lesson like a statue—no sarcastic remarks, no half-lidded smirks. Just stillness. His eyes never left the textbook, and his hands were clenched under the desk like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

Emma noticed. Even Pansy leaned over at one point and whispered, “What crawled up his arse and died?”

Draco, who was seated beside Theo, didn’t look much better. He was twitchier than usual, constantly tapping his quill or shaking out his hands like he needed to release energy but couldn’t. He glanced at Theo a few times like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

***
By Thursday, he was practically vibrating with repressed frustration.

She caught him outside the library, jaw tight, lips drawn in a grim line as he read a letter from home. His eyes were unreadable, but Emma caught the slight tremble in his fingers. Before she could say anything, he folded the letter and shoved it in his pocket, brushing past her without a word.

“Nice chat,” she muttered under her breath.

That night in the common room, she tried to ignore the way he paced. He wasn’t studying. Wasn’t speaking. Just pacing, back and forth, like something inside him was about to snap. Emma glanced up from her essay once, then again, and finally slammed her quill down.

“If you walk one more lap around this room, I’m putting a Tracking Charm on you and selling your route to the Ministry.”

Theo stopped. Turned. And looked at her like she’d just punched him.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Ryan.”

Her brows lifted. “Clearly. But you’re making it hard to ignore.”

That was supposed to be it. A bit of snark, a bit of fire—their usual. She hadn’t expected the silence that followed. The tightness in his expression. The way his eyes flickered with something sharp.
By Friday afternoon, it was bubbling just beneath the surface.

They were paired again in Potions—Slughorn had taken a liking to their “spirited collaboration.” Theo didn’t speak unless necessary. Didn’t meet her eye. And when she accidentally grazed his hand while reaching for the powdered moonstone, he flinched like she’d burned him.

After class, she followed him into the hallway.

“What the hell is going on with you?” she asked, voice low but firm. “You’ve been a dick for this whole week, and I’m trying—really trying—not to start something. But I’m running out of patience, Nott.”

He stopped walking, back still to her. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t respond. Then:
“You think everything’s about you, don’t you?” he said quietly.

Emma blinked. “Excuse me?”

He turned. His eyes were colder than she’d ever seen them. “Like your little comments are helpful. Like your jokes matter. Like you’re even meant to be here.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Don’t start this,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You don’t mean that”.

“Why not?” he snapped. “Because it’s true? Because deep down, you know what the rest of us do -”

Then came the blow — hissed through clenched teeth, his gaze finally rising to meet hers. “That you’re a Mudblood pretending you can keep up?”

The words cut sharper than any curse. The hallway fell into suffocating silence.

Theo’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. His fists clenched at his sides. Emma stared at him, stunned. Hurt flickered across her face, quickly replaced by something else—steel.
“I see,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, but it was quiet. Deadly quiet. “Thanks for the clarity.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Add that to the things she knew Nott to be. A blood purist. Of course he was, she shouldn’t have expected him to be anything more.

Chapter Text

Emma Ryan hadn’t said a word to Theodore Nott in six days.

It wasn’t hard. She knew his schedule better than she cared to admit. Since the start of the semester, she subconsciously knew he was always fifteen minutes early to Potions, liked the far end of the Slytherin table at breakfast, hated Transfiguration and always sat left of Blaise to avoid the sun through the stained glass.

So, she just… avoided. Threw herself into studying charms with Hermione, gossiping with Pansy about how the boys looked in their quidditch outfits, and planning their upcoming Hogsmeade trip.
It almost worked. Almost.

Except sometimes she caught herself glancing up in the Great Hall, searching for a head of dark hair.

Or walking slower past the library entrance, in case he was slouched at a table inside.

Or noticing how, even now, he sat three rows behind her in defence against the dark arts—close enough to matter, too far to speak.

Pansy noticed, of course. When it came to drama, Pansy noticed everything.

"You’re brooding," she said one evening, idly flipping through Witch Weekly.

"I’m reading," Emma corrected, poking her in the knee.

"You know," Pansy grinned, "you avoiding him is more obvious than you looking at him."

Emma didn't bother to acknowledge her response. She buried her nose deeper in Standard Book of Spells: Grade Six and pretended she wasn’t listening.

“He’s an arsehole though. If you’d let me, I’d jinx his cock to be tiny and bright pink, so he’d never be able to have sex again.” Pansy muttered, eyeing up the boy in the corner of the room.

Emma gave her an appreciative smile, glancing to where Pansy was looking.

He looked... worse.

Tired, almost hollow. The lines beneath his eyes were deeper. His posture rigid like he was bracing for something that never came. He looks like he hadn’t slept in days.
Serves the wanker right.

Still, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t notice other things too. Like how Draco had snapped at him more than once in the hallway.

Emma caught the end of one argument outside Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"Pull it together," Draco hissed, low and furious. "You’re not the only one with pressure."

Theodore didn't reply. He just stared off down the corridor like he wasn't even there.

***
Saturday was colder than Emma had participated. The sky was a hard, pale blue, the kind that made your fingers ache if you stayed outside too long.

Emma wound a thick scarf twice around her neck, warm red peeking out from beneath her robes. Not because she was cheering for Gryffindor, but because it had been her mom's.

Some things, you wore for yourself.

She tugged the ends of the scarf tighter and made her way toward the library steps, where Hermione was already waiting, a knit hat pulled low over her curls and a book tucked under her arm like she couldn't quite bear to leave it behind.

"Thanks for coming with me to watch practice,” Hermione said, surprise lighting her voice as she fell into step beside Emma. "I thought you’d be" She paused, as though looking for the right thing to say, “preoccupied”.

Emma shrugged, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. "Needed air."

They walked together, as Hermione began to explain how nervous Ron was about training. When they finally reached their seats in the stands, Hermione studied the blonde girl.

"You okay?" Hermione asked softly, after a while.

Emma gave a tight smile. "Fine."

Hermione didn’t push. She never did, not really. Instead, she just turned to watch the practise unfold.

"You know," Hermione said eventually, her voice careful, like she was picking her words one by one, "I used to think everyone like him was the same. That it was simple. Black and white."
Emma kept her gaze forward, heart beating too fast against her ribs.

"But people are… complicated," Hermione continued. "Even the ones who say the worst things. Sometimes especially them."

Emma blinked hard against the wind, feeling something sharp catch behind her ribs.

"I never said who it was," she whispered.

"You didn’t have to," Hermione said gently.

A heavy silence fell between the two girls. It was just the two of them, standing on the cusp of something neither of them knew how to name yet.

"You’re thinking about the war, aren’t you?" Emma said quietly.

Hermione gave a small, humourless smile. "Hard not to, lately. Every conversation feels like it’s waiting to turn into something else."

Emma nodded. She knew exactly what Hermione meant.

It was in the way professors were more snappy, the way students whispered in corners, the way people started carrying their wands a little tighter in their fists. Even the castle itself seemed heavier somehow, its old stones creaking under the weight of the things that hadn't happened yet.

Hermione shifted her book under her arm.

"I keep telling myself it’s not happening yet. That we still have time."

She said it like she was trying to convince herself, not Emma.

“I just hate waiting here for something bad to happen” Emma spoke softly, “I want to do something. I hate the fact that I’m just sitting here, safe, while my dad could go missing any day. I just wish I could do something.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean” Hermione replied.

Emma knew she did. But it still made her heart hurt when she thought about how Hermione hadn’t asked her to join Dumbledore's Army last year. Even though Emma wasn’t a part of that dumb group Umbridge formed last year, Hermione said she hadn’t asked Emma because she couldn’t risk it. Risk her telling Pansy, or Blaise. Emma resented the curly hair girl for it but forgave her after she realised; she would do the same. If it came down to it, Emma would kill for the people she loved. Even if it meant doing fucked up things, she didn’t care about the right or wrong. Emma would do anything to save her found family.

They slowed near the entrance to the pitch, the stands towering ahead, flags flapping stiffly in the cold breeze.

Emma hesitated, chewing her bottom lip.

"And Draco?" Emma asked before she could stop herself.

Hermione’s mouth twisted in a complicated way — not quite a frown, not quite a smile. "What about him?"

"You and him," Emma said. "It’s… different now."

Hermione laughed once under her breath; a sound sharp enough to sting.

"It’s not different. It’s just... less obvious."

Emma turned to her, puzzled.

Hermione shrugged. "He still thinks I’m beneath him. He still calls me ‘Granger’ like it’s an insult. But he hasn’t hexed me in a corridor lately, so... progress?"

Emma smiled despite herself.

"It’s strange," Hermione admitted, voice dropping. "Sometimes I think he hates me because he knows he’s wrong. And sometimes I think he hates me because it’s the only thing he has left that makes him feel like himself."

That sat heavy between them.

Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, thoughtful. "It must be exhausting. Holding onto all that anger."

Hermione smiled again — soft this time, almost sad.

"Yeah. I think it is."

The smell of damp grass filled the air, and for a while, it was easy to pretend they were just two girls going to watch Quidditch practise, and not two girls standing on the edge of a war.

As they climbed the stairs, Hermione nudged Emma gently with her elbow.

"You’re not alone, you know," she said. "Even if it feels like it sometimes."

Emma smiled softly at the brown eyed girl, bumping her with her knee.

"Hermione," she said, voice warm despite the chill. "You’re a legend, you know that?"

Hermione flushed, half rolling her eyes but smiling all the same. "Hardly."

"No, really," Emma insisted, pulling her scarf tighter against the wind. "You’re... brave. And kind. And you see people. Even when they don’t deserve it."

Hermione ducked her head, looking slightly overwhelmed.

"That's what makes it harder," she said softly. "Caring about people... it hurts when they don’t care back."

Emma's heart twisted.

She reached over and squeezed Hermione’s hand briefly before letting go.

"Still worth it," Emma said.

Hermione gave her a grateful smile, small but real.

***

The sun was already low by the time Emma and Hermione made their way up from the pitch, the chill of the late afternoon settling deep in their bones. Practice had gotten... intense. Bludgers flying way too close. Ron had barely dodged a brutal collision with one of the Beaters. He had aimed a little too aggressively — sending a spray of muddy turf straight into the stands.

Slughorn, who’d wandered down to observe in blissful ignorance, caught the worst of it.

A wet splat right against his chest.

Without thinking, Emma had yanked out her wand. "Tergeo."

The mud vanished cleanly from Slughorn’s robes in one smooth motion.

Now, as they climbed the stone path back toward the castle, Emma could still hear his voice trailing after them, full of warmth and amusement:

"Miss Ryan! Impressive spell work. And quick!"

Emma had flushed scarlet, waving him off. "Was nothing."

"On the contrary! Very few students think to help a poor old man before the game’s even over. You know, I’m planning a small get together for a few students – Miss Granger will also be attending. If you’re interested, I’ll owl you the details.”

Emma had blinked. "I—uh—that’s very kind of you."

"Marvelous, you’ll fit right in!” he had exclaimed before tottering up the hill.

Hermione bumped her lightly with her shoulder as they walked. "You're too modest, you know."

Emma snorted. "Hardly. If anything, I’m hoping he forgets I exist before I actually attend the Slug Club dinner."

Hermione laughed — properly, genuinely — the sound of it warm against the cold air. "I wouldn’t count on it. You just saved his dignity and his robes. You're on his radar now. Anyway, at least I’ll have someone to save me from that McLaggen toad."

Emma laughed, wiggling her eyebrows, “I can’t even imagine moaning a name like Cormac. Or McLaggen”.

They girls giggled, bumping into each other while hiking up the hill towards the castle. They fell into a comfortable silence, admiring the view.

"You were really fast, though," Hermione said eventually, softer. "You didn’t even think about it. You just… helped."

Emma shrugged, pulling her scarf higher against the wind. "I guess I’m tired of seeing people get hit with things they don’t deserve."

Hermione looked at her for a long moment — longer than comfortable — before nodding once, like she understood exactly what Emma wasn’t saying.

***

When Theodore reached Draco at the top of the Astronomy Tower, the wind whipped hard around them, biting cold even through their cloaks. "You’re losing it," Draco said flatly, not even looking at him.

Nott didn’t respond. His steps were heavy across the flagstones, every movement stiff with something he couldn’t seem to swallow down.

"You already broke it," Draco said, voice low now, almost bitter. "The cabinet. It’s going to take us twice as long to fix it now. And the meeting with them is in three weeks. Three weeks Theo. What the fuck are we meant to do?”

And he wanted to lash out.

To shove Draco. To shout. To do something that would bleed off the awful, blistering ache building in his chest.

But he didn’t argue, “I’ll figure it out, alright. Let’s just focus on next weekend.”

He stared out into the dark with Draco, the two of them silent, isolated atop the highest point of the castle.

All they could think about was Hogsmeade.

Chapter Text

The week leading up to the Hogsmeade trip crawled by, weighed down with the kind of slow, humming tension Emma couldn’t name.

Assignments were piling up. McGonagall assigned a maddening Transfiguration essay on Vanishing Spells, and Slughorn, bless his enthusiastic heart, tacked on a potion analysis that Emma was ninety percent sure he thought was “light revision.” It wasn’t. It was an academic death sentence.

Emma sat curled into a corner of the Slytherin common room, quill tapping against her knee, pretending to work on Arithmancy while Pansy and Blaise argued nearby about their Hogsmeade outfits.
"You can’t wear green with your complexion," Pansy said flatly, staring lazily over the newest addition of the Daily Prophet. "You’ll look like a hexed toad."

Blaise, unfazed, stretched luxuriously across two armchairs. "I was born to wear green, darling. It’s called House Pride."

Emma, without looking up, muttered, "It's called poor decision making."

Pansy cackled. Blaise clutched his chest dramatically. "Et tu, Ryan?"

Across the room, Theodor hunched over a parchment, scribbling notes with a ferocity that was almost... mechanical. Emma’s smile faded slightly. Normally he'd throw some dry insult back at Blaise or at least smirk. Now? Nothing. Just the frantic scratch of quill on parchment.

"You’re coming to Hogsmeade, aren’t you?" Blaise called lazily across the room.

Nott didn’t even look up. "Maybe."

Maybe? Emma blinked. Since when did Nott 'maybe' anything?

She bit her lip, glancing back at her parchment, willing herself not to care.

"You’ll come," Pansy said, flipping a page. "Otherwise, it’ll just be me babysitting these two disasters."

"Oi," Emma said mildly. "I am a delight."

"You’re a menace," Blaise corrected.

Emma grinned, flicking a balled-up scrap of parchment at him. It bounced harmlessly off his shoulder.

"Careful, Ryan," Blaise said, wiping at his shoulder. "You’ll ruin the money-maker."

"If that’s the money-maker," Emma said sweetly, "we’re all in a recession."

Pansy howled with laughter, even as Theodore’s quill finally stilled. For a second, just a breath, Emma thought he might smile. He didn’t. He just gathered his things wordlessly and disappeared up the boys' staircase.

Emma’s smile faded. “Honestly," she muttered, tossing the pieces onto the table. "How is everyone just... carrying on like nothing's wrong?"

Pansy blinked at her from behind her newspaper. "What do you mean?"

Emma gestured wildly at the stairwell Theo had vanished into. "Haven’t you noticed? Something’s off. With him. With Malfoy. Hell, probably with the entire lot of them." Her voice dropped lower, but the anger was still sharp at the edges. "And we’re just sitting here. Talking about bloody outfits and Hogsmeade trips."

Pansy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What do you suggest we do? Storm the dorm and demand answers?"

Emma slumped back against the cushions; her throat tight. She didn’t know what she wanted. Not really.

Except she did.

She wanted to help.

Because if something bad was coming—and Merlin, it felt like it was—she couldn't just sit back and wait for it to happen. Not again.

Not when people she... people she knew were involved.

“I just..." Emma hesitated, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I’m tired of feeling like we’re all blindfolded, waiting for someone to light the bloody match."

Blaise, surprisingly serious, said, "Sometimes it’s safer not to know."

Emma didn't respond. She just stared at the broken quill pieces and made a silent promise to herself. If something happened, she wouldn’t sit by.

Even if it meant throwing herself into the fire after them.

***
Hogsmeade morning dawned bitterly cold, frost feathering the windows in spiderwebs of silver.

Emma bundled into three layers, including the beanie she had borrowed from Hermione that morning.

Outside the Entrance Hall, students milled about in noisy, steaming clumps of breath. Pansy found her first, tugging Emma’s hat down over her ears with a huff. "You’re a disaster," she said affectionately. "It’s like you dressed yourself blind."

"I did," Emma said solemnly. "It was an artistic choice."

Blaise ambled up, hands shoved into his pockets. "If that's is art, I'm transferring to Beauxbatons."

Behind them, Malfoy and Theodore emerged from the castle, side by side. Nott’s face was unreadable. Malfoy looked sharp, like he had a blade tucked somewhere under his winter coat.

Emma frowned slightly. They barely spoke to anyone else. Theodore especially—he hadn’t so much as glanced their way. If not for Malfoy shoving him toward the path, Emma wasn’t sure he would have moved at all.

Pansy bounced at her side, linking their arms together. "Let’s make a deal," she said brightly. "If I have to suffer through another Draco and Theo brooding session, you have to come into Scrivenshaft's with me and help pick stationery."

"Stationery?" Emma said. "Living life on the edge, Parkinson."

"Handwritten letters are the lost art of seduction," Pansy said primly.

Blaise sidled up behind them, slinging an arm over Emma’s shoulder like he weighed nothing. "Pansy’s trying to seduce every eligible bachelor between Hogwarts and Knockturn Alley," he said gravely. "We need your help. You’re the morally ambiguous one."

Emma elbowed him in the ribs. "Flattered."

She scanned the crowd, searching without thinking — and there they were: Malfoy and Theo, standing a little apart from the swarm of students.

Theodore looked tense, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, jaw locked tight. Draco leaned in slightly, saying something low Emma couldn't hear, and Theo nodded once, sharp and distracted.

They were joined at the hip today. Had been for days, actually.

Draco’s pale face was more pinched than usual, his eyes darting constantly, scanning the crowd like he expected something to jump out at him.

Nott stuck close, quiet, but there was a strange alertness in him too — like he was carrying a secret too big for his pockets.

Something was wrong. Emma could feel it.

But when Theo’s gaze slid over to hers — just for a fraction of a second, fast and guilty — she looked away first.

"Come on," Blaise said, tugging her toward the carriages waiting at the gates. "First stop, Honeydukes. Second stop, therapy."

***

The village shimmered under a thin dusting of snow. Icicles dangled from the shop signs, and every doorway smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke. Emma loved Hogsmeade; it was a reminder of how incredible magic actually was. When she was there, she felt as though she was eleven, walking down Diagon Alley for the first time again.

Inside Honeydukes, the atmosphere was excited—students crammed between shelves, scrambling for Chocolate Frogs and Pepper Imps. Emma and Pansy pushed through the crowd, Blaise trailing behind them with a bored expression.

"Emergency priority: Fudge," Emma declared, grabbing a basket.

Blaise peered into it critically. "All sugar. No nutritional value. Your body is a temple."

"My body is a neglected house and fudge is the structural support," Emma shot back, piling in sweets with abandon.

For a few moments, it was easy to forget the cold weirdness of the week. Easy to laugh, easy to pretend things were normal. Her mind was finally off Theodore and what him and Malfoy were up to.
Blaise gave Emma a lazy once-over, smirking. "If you ever need an intervention, let me know."

Emma twirled dramatically, almost knocking over a precarious tower of Sugar Quills. Pansy caught it just in time, hissing, "Merlin, you're a menace."

"I am the structural integrity of this entire shop," Emma proclaimed, voice grand.

"Tragic," Blaise muttered.

They were laughing again, Emma catching her breath with her arm around Pansy, when a scream ripped through the air.

It cut through Honeydukes like a blade, sharp and high and real — not the shriek of someone finding the last box of Fizzing Whizzbees, but something raw and terrified.

Everyone froze.

For a half-second, the whole shop was suspended in silence, baskets dangling from limp hands, sweets slipping forgotten to the floor. Then chaos broke loose — students scrambling toward the windows, knocking over displays in their panic.

Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs. She bolted for the door, Pansy right behind her, Blaise swearing under his breath.

They spilled out into the street just as another scream came — weaker this time, choked off — and Emma caught sight of the commotion halfway down the main street.

Katie Bell.

She was in the air — not flying, levitating, as though invisible hands were yanking her upwards by invisible threads. Her limbs thrashed helplessly, her face contorted in a silent cry. A crowd was gathering, backing away in horror, no one daring to touch her.

Pansy gasped. Blaise cursed again, sharper this time.

Emma felt ice pour down her spine. Something was wrong. Really wrong. Not prank wrong. Not student-misfiring-a-spell wrong. This was something dark.

She looked around wildly, trying to spot a teacher, anyone who might know what to do — but the street was a blur of shocked faces and half-drawn wands.

And then — with a sudden, terrible force — Katie was slammed to the ground. Hard.

Emma flinched.

Madam Rosmerta and McGonagall were suddenly there, racing toward Katie, McGonagall shouting spells Emma couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears.
And across the crowd — almost hidden — Emma caught a glimpse of something else. A figure, dark cloak, slipping between the buildings, heading away from the chaos.
Her stomach twisted.

Pansy grabbed her arm. "Come on, we need to—"

But Emma wasn’t listening.

Because somewhere deep in her chest, she knew.

This was something evil.

And she needed to find out what.

Chapter Text

The castle had never felt smaller.

News of the attack spread faster than wildfire, reaching every corner of Hogwarts before Emma even made it back to the common room. Katie Bell. Cursed object. Dark magic. Hospital Wing.
Dumbledore investigating. Students were herded back to the castle under heavy watch, and by nightfall, Hogsmeade weekends were suspended indefinitely. No one was allowed outside without a professor trailing behind them.

Emma sat curled up in an armchair in the Slytherin common room, knees pulled to her chest, staring into the green fire. She barely registered the sound of Pansy and Blaise arguing over a game of Exploding Snap nearby.

All she could think about was the way Katie had screamed — the way her body had lifted clean off the ground, as if invisible hands were yanking her apart.

And the figure she had glimpsed in the snow just before it happened. A flash of dark robes, retreating fast.

Her stomach twisted.

She hadn’t seen Malfoy or Nott since they were herded back. They hadn’t come to dinner. Her mind spun with all the things it could mean, none of them good.

"Oi. Earth to Emma," Pansy said, snapping her fingers. "You’ve been staring at the same brick for half an hour. If you’re going to have a breakdown, at least make it dramatic."
Emma forced a smile. "I'm alright."

Blaise snorted. "She's lying. Horribly."

But they didn’t push, and for that she was grateful.

The common room thinned out as curfew crept closer. Blaise disappeared to a chess match with some older Slytherins. Pansy pretended to read a magazine but mostly kept glancing toward Emma, as if worried she might bolt.

The clock chimed ten.

Emma couldn’t sit still any longer. She slipped out, heart pounding, letting the dungeon corridors swallow her.

She didn’t know where she was going — only that if she stayed still, she might actually scream.

Halfway down a deserted hall near the trophy room, voices caught her ear. She froze.

They were low, urgent, angry.

Nott. Malfoy.

Emma edged closer, keeping to the shadows.

"I told you it wasn’t supposed to happen like that," Theodore hissed.

“It happened like that because you’re being too fucking reckless, Theo”.

A sharp scrape of shoes on stone — Nott pacing, from the sound of it.

"I’m not reckless," Nott said tightly. "I’m just trying to get it over and done with.”

There was a bitter kind of laugh from Draco, but it lacked real humour. "You think I don’t want this to stop? You think my father’s not breathing down my neck every bloody second?"

Theodore's voice dropped, rough around the edges. "You’re not the only one being watched, Draco."

Emma’s nails bit into her palms. There was something off about the way he said it — not just stress. Fear.

Draco exhaled sharply, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the strength. When he spoke again, the anger was gone, replaced by something almost pleading.

"I need you, Theo. I can't do this alone."

Another silence. Heavy. Awful.

When Theodore spoke next, Emma barely recognized his voice.

"I know," he said. "You’re my brother Draco. I can’t just fucking leave you."

Her chest twisted at the honesty in it — raw, real.

And it broke something inside Nott too, because the next words came rushed, almost frantic.

"That’s why I’m doing this. That’s why I’m helping. But—" His voice cracked. "There are things I can’t tell you. Not because I don't trust you. It's just- just believe me. Please."

Draco didn’t respond right away. His shoes shifted again, a frustrated scrape. Then, low: "Fine. Just... clear your head. Before it’s too late."

A noise behind her — a shuffle of shoes — made her jolt. Her wand came loose in her hand and clattered to the floor, echoing off the walls of the silent hallway.

The conversation snapped off.

Footsteps. Fast.

Emma quickly retrieved her wand from the floor in a flash. By the time she stood back up, the two boys were towering over her, their shadows cast long and sharp in the moonlight.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.

Nott was the first to step forward, his face tight with something sharp — fear, maybe, sharpened into something uglier.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was low, lethal.

Emma’s fingers tightened on her wand, but she didn’t raise it. "Walking," she said, heart hammering.

"Liar," Draco said at the same time. His hand twitched near his pocket, like he was thinking of drawing his own wand. "You were spying."

"No, I—" she started, but Theodore cut her off.

"How much did you hear?"

His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. There was a wildness to him now, like a cornered animal.

Emma opened her mouth — to lie, to escape, she wasn’t sure — but Theodore stepped closer, crowding her against the wall, not touching but close enough that the threat hung heavy between them.
"Don’t play games, Ryan," he said, his voice almost shaking. "Not with this."

Draco shifted beside him, looking between them, frowning.

Emma lifted her chin. "Alright," she said, forcing the words out past her dry mouth. "I heard you."

Theodore’s whole demeanour suddenly changed. His eyes went from being animalistic and desperate, to the cold grey he usually walked around the halls with. He stood up taller, abruptly calmer, like his mind had gone somewhere else completely.

Draco swore under his breath. "Merlin, Theo, if she talks—"

"She won’t," Nott said smoothly, cutting him off without looking away from her.

Emma stared at him, heart thundering. "You don’t know that."

Theo glanced back at her; his voice was flat.

"I do."

The corridor felt like it was tilting under her feet. The weight of the secret she didn't fully understand yet pressed down, hot and suffocating.

Nott peered down at her when he spoke again.

"You’re in this now," he said. "Whether you like it or not."

And the terrible thing was — Emma wasn’t sure if she did.

"Think carefully, Ryan," Theodore’s voice was sharp and cold, like ice against her skin. She could still feel the weight of his gaze, the way it had pinned her in place, making her feel smaller than ever.

They both turned to walk away, Draco looking back at her briefly before turning around. Emma took a breath, leaning against the castle wall alone.

The hallway felt colder now, the usual warmth of its stone walls replaced by an oppressive chill that followed her as she moved back towards the common room. The corridors were deserted, and the silence was deafening, leaving only the sound of her hurried footsteps to accompany her thoughts. Katie Bell... Were they trying to kill her? Why? Who was forcing them?

Her stomach twisted at the thought. She remembered Theodore and the vulnerability in his voice reassuring Draco that they were brothers. Emma shuddered as she remembered how he switched, his voice and eyes turning to steel. It reminded her of his harsh words. Stay away from me. Mudblood.

To put it bluntly, Emma had never been this confused in her life.

Chapter Text

The next day, Emma woke up with a headache. A valid reaction, if we’re being honest. She got ready, her mind on autopilot as she pulled up her stockings and slid her robes on. The events of last night—Draco begging, Theodore’s secret—still clung to her, making the air she was breathing feel heavy. Every time she closed her eyes, it felt like she was drowning in all the things she didn’t know, and the things Nott was hiding.

As she walked down the steps to the common room, her thoughts still swirling, she found Pansy sitting on one of the couches, staring at her like Emma had dyed her hair purple and grown three heads.

“Holy shit, you look horrible,” Pansy remarked, a dry smile curling on her lips as she tucked her hair behind her ears and pushed herself up from the couch.

“Thanks, Pans. You always know how to make me feel better,” Emma muttered, her voice flat. Pansy’s sharp gaze flicked over Emma’s face, and for a second, Emma almost felt like she could see her thoughts racing. She was used to Pansy’s judgmental stares by now.

“You stayed up late again, didn’t you?” Pansy asked, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve got those bags under your eyes. It’s not like you to look so... miserable.”

Emma didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t even know how to put what she was feeling into words. She couldn’t tell Pansy anything about what happened last night, with went against every fibre of her being. Thankfully, the dark-haired girl didn’t pry any further. Pansy linked her arm with her best friend and dragged her to breakfast.

Every class that day felt like it lasted an eternity. In potions, she felt Draco staring at her from across the table. When Slughorn read out partners for the day, she was relieved to find the Nott was absent. It was one less thing she had to confront.

The day managed to get worse when Snape sneered at her for missing the homework that was due. She always thought deep down, the whole blood purity concept was what made her head of house hate her.

"Perhaps if you spent less time daydreaming and more time on your studies, Miss Ryan," Snape drawled, his black eyes gleaming with disdain. "You might actually manage to complete your work on time."

Emma bit back a retort. It wasn’t like she hadn’t heard the same line a million times before. Instead, she gave him a polite nod, which he ignored as he swept off to berate some other unfortunate soul.

As she gathered her things, Pansy leaned over, her voice a low whisper. "Don’t let him get to you. Poor guy. I don’t think he’s shagged anyone in like 15 years."

Emma raised an eyebrow, half-smiling at the absurdity of the statement. "You really think he’d admit to that?"

Pansy grinned, leaning back in her seat. "Oh, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure even some toads would pass on that particular offer."

Emma snorted, trying not to laugh, but it felt like the first genuine moment of relief she'd had all day. She shook her head, shoulders relaxing a fraction.

"Are you sure you’re, okay?" Pansy asked her as they left the classroom, "You’ve been off the past few days."

Emma opened her mouth to confess that, no, she really was having a shit day, and she just wanted the floor open up and eat her alive.

But as they rounded the corner, Emma nearly collided with someone. She looked up to find Draco Malfoy standing there, a tense expression on his face, clearly waiting for her.
"Emma," he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. "Can we talk?"

Pansy shot Emma a curious glance but didn’t stick around, slipping past with a half-hearted wave. Emma was left alone with Malfoy, who was eyeing her like he was trying to decide if this was a mistake.

He looked around the hallway frantically, looking for any stray students that could overhear their conversation. When he found no one, he leaned against the wall, facing her.

"About what?" Emma asked, crossing her arms over her chest, her annoyance creeping into her tone. She hadn’t forgotten their last encounter—him treating her like some pawn in his little game.
He hesitated, then sighed. "It’s about Theodore."

Emma raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Ok?"

"Look," Draco started, "I know you two don’t exactly... get along. But Theo needs someone. And you’re probably the only person who can get through to him right now."

Emma frowned, her suspicion growing. "So why are you talking to me? I’m sure you’ve got a whole team of Slytherins who’d be more than willing to help."

Draco’s face darkened, his lips curling into a tight line. "This isn’t about helping him for me. It’s about helping him for himself. He’s not doing well. He’s struggling. But he won’t talk to anyone."

"Why come to me, then?" Emma pressed, her patience wearing thin. "I don’t know what’s going on with him. You’ve all been... off lately."

“Because you’re different to him,” Draco said, as if that explained everything. “He doesn’t trust anyone else. And I’ve noticed how you two... interact. He listens when you speak to him, and I don’t know why, but he doesn’t do that with anyone else.”

Emma felt a strange, almost uncomfortable heat rush to her face, thinking back to the night in the common room when they had talked about Sherlock Holmes, or when she asked him about the Thestrals. The implication of Draco’s words made her feel exposed, as if she were suddenly part of something bigger that she hadn’t even realized. "What exactly are you saying, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice laced with defensiveness.

Draco’s gaze flickered uncomfortably, but he didn’t shy away. "I’m saying you’re the only one who might get through to him. You’ve seen it. He listens when you speak."

“How am I meant to help, Malfoy,” Emma said, a knot forming in her throat. “Why are you asking me to fix him? I’m not a fucking veritaserum potion, I can’t just... make him talk.”

Draco looked almost impatient now, his voice dropping lower, edged with a rawness she hadn’t expected. "I’m not asking you to fix him. I’m asking you to help him. You know something’s wrong. You’ve seen it. He’s... cracking, Emma. And if he doesn’t start opening up soon, it’s not going to end well for him."

The words hit Emma harder than she expected. Theodore had been off lately, distant in a way that was different even for him, but hearing Draco confirm it made the weight of the situation real. That still wasn’t an excuse for how horrible he had been towards her, the things he had said.

Emma swallowed hard, trying to process it. "I’m not... You know him so much better than I do. Last time I checked, he wants to hit me in the face with a beater’s bat, so why the fuck would I want to fix him up and make him feel better?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, but there was something else in his expression now—something like frustration, desperation even. "Are you stupid? I’ve said it’s not about fixing him. It’s about keeping him from breaking completely."

Emma rolled her eyes at the blonde boy. “But why is that my issue? He’s always been a wanker, but since the beginning of term he’s been horrible. He was fine, then suddenly he wasn’t, and was calling me a mudblood and telling me to fuck right off.”

“He doesn’t mean half of what he says when he’s like that. You just happened to be standing closest when he decided to set himself on fire. He’s better at burning bridges than building them. If you were raised in his house, you would be the same.” Malfoy hesitated before continuing, his voice quieter now. "I saw how who guys were on the carriage at the beginning of the semester. And he’s-” he paused, as though he was choosing his next words carefully, “He’s mentioned things about you to me before. I just - I don’t know what else to tell you."

Emma’s thoughts were racing, the knot in her stomach tightening as the reality of what Draco was asking her to hit her. "Surely there’s someone else who—"

Draco didn’t let her finish, cutting her off with a sharp, almost impatient motion. "Emma," he said, his voice low and pointed, "you’re different. People that are like you—people who aren’t, you know... Purebloods —aren’t seen as threats. You think Voldemort is going to bother with someone like you?" He didn’t quite meet her eyes as he said it, his words heavy with something that sounded almost like... a calculated kind of logic.

Emma froze, her heart skipping a beat. She was caught off guard, and the words took a moment to sink in. Someone like you. The weight of it hung in the air like a cloak. It wasn’t about her ability to help. It wasn’t even about her understanding of Theodore. It was about something else entirely.

Before she could respond, Draco’s gaze softened just slightly. "I’m not saying you’re expendable or anything," he added quickly, as though realizing how harsh his words might have sounded. "But you’re not... important enough for anyone to target. You’ll never be on their radar. You’re not part of their world. You’re one of the only muggleborns in Slytherin. And that’s why it has to be you."

Emma blinked, processing his words with a growing sense of unease. She wanted to snap, wanted to yell at him for reducing her to a pawn in whatever twisted game they were playing. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not when there was something else bubbling under the surface—a deeper truth that she wasn’t quite ready to face.

She noticed how he used the term muggle born. Knowing Draco, although he was civil to her now, in earlier years the word mudblood would’ve flown out of his mouth without consideration. She wondered what made him shift.

Draco took a step back, as if he knew he’d said enough. "Think about it," he said quietly. "Just... think about it. For him."

Emma nodded as she watched Draco retreat a few steps, her mind still reeling from everything he’d said. But something gnawed at her, something she couldn’t quite ignore. She called after him, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

"Malfoy, what about you though?" she asked, her voice sounding sharper than she intended. "Who do you talk to?"

Draco froze mid-step, his posture stiffening. There was a flash of something in his eyes—something dark, something he clearly didn’t want to show. He turned back to her slowly, his usual cool demeanour slipping for a split second.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" His voice was clipped, defensive.

Emma blinked, taken aback by his reaction. She hadn’t meant to provoke him. "I’m just saying—you’re so desperate for Nott to have someone to talk to, what about you? You can’t be doing this all on your own."

His jaw tightened, and he took a deep breath, like he was weighing his words. “Don’t loose sleep over me. I have-” he said curtly, his gaze flicking away from her. "Someone." he cut himself off, obviously irritated. "That’s all you need to know."

Emma felt the sting of the coldness in his tone, but there was something about the way he said it that didn’t sit right. He was hiding something. But what? She opened her mouth to press him further, but before she could speak, Draco was already striding away from her, his back stiff and his posture radiating a mix of annoyance and something else she couldn’t quite place.
He didn’t look back.

Emma stood there for a moment, the unanswered question hanging in the air. But whatever that was, she knew it wasn’t something she was going to get answers to any time soon.

Chapter Text

The library was unnaturally quiet, even for Hogwarts standards.

The warm glow of floating lanterns cast long, flickering shadows across the heavy tables and worn spines of a thousand dusty books. Emma sat hunched over a Charms textbook, absently tapping her quill against the parchment. She hadn't written a single word. Her mind kept replaying her conversation with Draco earlier that day, over and over like a broken record, each time leaving her feeling more confused than the last.

Across from her, Hermione was scribbling furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. Emma had reluctantly agreed to meet her after dinner to review for their upcoming NEWT exams. She hadn't even wanted to think about exams, but she figured sitting still and pretending to care about schoolwork was better than spiralling in her dormitory bed.

"You're tapping," Hermione said suddenly, not looking up.

Emma blinked, realizing her hand had gone numb from gripping the quill so tightly. "Sorry," she muttered, dropping it with a soft clatter.

Hermione finally glanced up, studying her. Her gaze wasn’t judgmental the way Pansy’s often was, but sharp and observant. Hermione always had a way of seeing straight through bullshit, which, unfortunately for Emma, made her a terrible person to hide feelings from.

"Alright, what is it," Hermione said carefully, setting her own quill down. “Your energy is going to cause me to have a nervous breakdown, so spit it out.”

Emma chewed her lip. For a moment, she considered brushing it off, giving some flippant answer about being tired or stressed. But the words Draco had said earlier that day — about Theodore, about her — still weighed heavy in her chest. She couldn't hold it in anymore.

"It's stupid," Emma said finally, staring down at her blank parchment.

Hermione arched a brow. "You know that's not going to convince me to let it go."

A sigh escaped Emma's lips. She closed the textbook with a soft thud and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Have you ever… cared about someone who makes it really, really hard to care about them?"

Hermione's expression shifted subtly — just a flicker of something in her eyes — but she nodded. "Yes. More than once."

Emma fiddled with the corner of the parchment. "It's like... they push you away. Over and over. And you know you should just stop trying, right? You should just leave it alone. But you can't. Even when they’re cruel. Even when they say horrible things. Some part of you still... feels pulled to them. Like an idiot."

Hermione leaned back in her chair, considering her words carefully. "It's not idiotic. It's human."

Emma huffed. "It feels idiotic."

"Maybe," Hermione said gently. "But the fact that you still care — even when someone is difficult, even when they've hurt you — that says more about you than it does about them."

Emma looked away, pretending to study the rows of books on the far wall. She could feel the weight of Hermione’s gaze, patient and steady.

"I just don't get it," Emma muttered. "Why care about someone who doesn't make it easy? Who almost goes out of their way to make it impossible?"

Hermione was silent for a moment. Then she said, almost too quietly, "Maybe because they're hurting more than they let on."

Emma turned back toward her, startled by the certainty in her voice.

"Sometimes," Hermione continued, "the people who are hardest to love are the ones who need it the most. They don't know how to ask for it properly. They lash out. They test you. Because deep down, they're terrified that no one will stay."

The words hit Emma harder than she wanted to admit.

She thought of Nott pacing in the common room, his face taut with unspoken anger. She thought of the way he pushed her, insulted her, tried to cut her down — like he was daring her to hate him, daring her to leave.

And yet, she hadn't. Not really.

"But what if they never change?" Emma asked in a small voice.

Hermione smiled sadly. "Maybe they won't. But maybe... what they need isn’t someone to change them. Maybe they need someone to just be there, even if they don't realise it yet."

Emma swallowed the lump rising in her throat. "It hurts, though," she whispered.

"I know," Hermione said, her voice kind. "But you wouldn't be sitting here agonising over it if you didn’t already know what you want to do."

Emma hesitated. She thought about Draco's words — You’re different. He listens to you.

She thought about the night Theo had asked if she could see Thestrals.

She thought about the moment — brief but real — where it had felt like he trusted her.

"I don’t know if I can," Emma said honestly.

"You don't have to fix him," Hermione said firmly. "Maybe they just need a friend. That’s all."

Emma's chest tightened painfully. That truth from Hermione hit her like a bus. For a moment, they just sat there, the crackle of the library torches filling the silence.

Emma gazed at Hermione carefully. It was clear she was speaking from experience. She was interested who she had the experience with.

But the blonde, too tangled in her own emotions, didn’t press.

Instead, Emma sat back in her chair, letting Hermione’s words sink in. Slowly, a decision began to form in the pit of her stomach.

Heavy, terrifying — but also somehow... inevitable.

Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe it wasn’t about fixing Nott. Maybe it wasn’t about whether he deserved it, or whether it would hurt.

Maybe it was about showing up anyway. Acting instead of just waiting for something bad to happen.

Emma exhaled shakily and picked up her quill again, her fingers still trembling.

"Thank you," she said softly, meaning it more than she could explain.

Hermione smiled. "Anytime."

And for the first time in days, Emma felt a tiny, stubborn ember of hope light inside her. A fragile thing — but alive, nonetheless.

She didn't know exactly what she was going to do yet.

But she knew this: she wasn't ready to give up on him.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Emma couldn’t sleep. Who would’ve been able to? She had decided to roam the halls than be stuck in her dorm, especially when her mind was just a whirlwind of restless thoughts. She hadn’t meant to leave the common room; she just couldn’t shake the weight of Draco’s words. They had been on loop in her mind all day. He needs help... He might listen to you...

She had tried to sleep, but the thought of Nott—the distance, the coldness—kept her wide awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She needed to clear her head, to get away from everything. So, she found herself climbing the spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower, hoping the fresh air and the quiet would calm her.

When she reached the top, there was someone already there. Sitting on the edge of the tower with his back against the cold stone, was Theodore. At this point it was laughable how she kept ending up in places no one wanted her to be.

He was smoking—no surprise there—and staring out at the dark sky. Emma hesitated in the doorway, watching him for a moment. He was always so composed, always hiding behind that shield of indifference.

Her footsteps were quiet on the stone floor as she approached, her breath catching in her throat when Theodore’s sharp gaze flicked over to her. He shook his head, raising an eyebrow. “You really are stalking me, aren’t you Ryan?”

She ignored that, taking a deep breath to stay calm.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

Nott took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a lazy, controlled manner. “Can’t sleep.”

Emma frowned, eyeing him carefully. “You know, Muggles have a name for that. They call it insomnia.”

Theodore shot her a glare, the usual mask of disdain slipping back into place. “I know what it’s called, Ryan.”

Emma crossed her arms, feeling the slight sting of his coldness. She could feel the invisible walls between them, thick and impenetrable. She knew better than to push, but Draco’s words echoed in her head—he needs someone. He’s struggling, Emma.

She took a hesitant step forward, choosing her words carefully. “Mal- Draco came to me today,” she said, watching him closely.

She knew exactly what she was doing—knew how much weight those words would carry. Using Draco’s first name wasn’t just an accident, wasn’t just a slip of the tongue. It was deliberate. She wasn’t stupid. She knew it would hit harder for Theodore, hearing her say it like that. It wasn’t Malfoy, the last name, the formal title of a pureblood family. It was Draco, his best friend.

Theodore’s eyes darkened, and he took another drag of his cigarette, but said nothing. His silence spoke volumes.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” she continued, the words feeling strange in her mouth, “but... he asked me to help you. To get you to talk.”

Nott’s grip on the cigarette tightened, his knuckles whitening as his jaw clenched. He shook his head, exhaling smoke through his nose in frustration. “I don’t need anyone. Least of all you.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit late for pride?” Emma challenged, her eyes narrowing as she stepped closer, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. “You’re not a Gryffindor. You think things through. You know when to cut your losses.”

“And what’s your point?” he asked, the iciness in his tone betraying the tightness in his chest.

Emma shrugged slightly, pushing her way further into his personal space, her voice lower now, but still steady. “My point is that shutting people out doesn’t make you strong,” she said, not unkindly. “It just makes you lonely.”

She paused, remembering Hermione’s words to her, when they were walking towards the quidditch pitch. I used to think everyone like him was the same. That it was simple. Black and white. But people are complicated.

Emma continued, her tone even. “People are complicated, Theodore. The world isn’t made up of purely good and evil. Not everything is black and white.”

He his eyes hardened, looking up at her. “What do you know about me?” he shot back, voice low, dangerous. “You know fuck all.”

“I know that you’re not as invincible as you want everyone to believe,” Emma said, her voice firm now, not yielding. She could feel the tremor in her own chest but pushed it down. “And I know that Draco—" she caught herself, her words laced with subtle venom, "—would never have come to me if he didn’t think you were in trouble."

Theodore flicked the cigarette to the floor and ground it under his heel, standing to face her fully. Towering over her, he was more intimidating this close. “What do you think you’re gonna do? Fix me? You’ve got your own problems. Just fuck off and leave me be.”

Emma’s heartbeat faster, but she didn’t back down. “I’m not here to fix you, Theo. I’m not some bloody saint.” She paused, feeling the weight of her next words. “But I know that right now, you’ve got fuck all. So, Merlin forbid I just be a decent person and try to be your friend rather than be another enemy.”

Theodore stared at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He looked like he was caught between two instincts — to bolt or to stay. To burn the bridge or reach for it.

“You don’t want to be friends with me, Emma,” he said finally, but the words didn’t hold their usual venom. They were quiet.

She tilted her head, voice soft. “Maybe not. But I want you to have one.”

His breath hitched. Just for a second. His hands were fists at his sides, like if he didn’t keep them clenched, he might fall apart entirely.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You can’t get it. I’m not—”

“What? Worth it?” she cut in gently. “Because you are. Everyone deserves a chance.”

He turned away then, dragging a hand through his hair like he needed to ground himself. His shoulders trembled — whether from cold or something else, Emma couldn’t tell.
“I don’t know how to let people in without dragging them down with me,” he said at last. “It’s not safe.”

Emma took a slow step forward, careful not to startle him. “Then don’t let me in,” she said softly. “Just… let me stand beside you. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

“You think it’s that easy?” His voice cracked — not loud, but raw, scraped thin. “You don’t know what standing beside me means. Who it puts a target on.”

Emma reached out — fingertips brushing the sleeve of his coat — but he stepped back like her touch burned.

The space between them widened, colder than the winter air.

She let her hand fall, swallowing hard. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then I’ll stay out of it. If that’s what you want.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there with his fists clenched and his eyes on the sky like the stars might offer him a way out.

Then, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it, he said, “It’s not.”

But by the time she blinked, he was already walking away.

Emma stayed there a while, alone in the quiet, letting the cold settle into her skin like a reminder. She wasn’t sure what had just happened — wasn’t sure if it was progress or just another version of running in place.

All she knew was that she didn’t regret going.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Emma liked her seat in the back of Charms class. It was just far enough away from Flitwick that he wouldn’t ask her questions but still allowed her to get a good view of the room.

Her quill was tapping absently against her parchment as Flitwick droned on about counter-charms. She should have been taking notes. She wasn’t. Her mind kept flickering back to the Astronomy Tower — to Theodore’s words, his clenched jaw, the ghost of vulnerability in his voice.

He hadn’t told her anything, not really. But the way he had looked at her, it made her feel responsible. She imagined this is how Gryffindors must feel with their hero complexes, always thinking people needed to be saved. It made her feel icky.

From across the room, Nott was a portrait of indifference, arms folded lazily, one boot propped against the leg of his desk. He wasn’t paying attention either. Their eyes met once — briefly — before he looked away, jaw tightening.

Emma sighed, turning her attention back to her parchment, though she knew it was useless. She didn’t know what she expected. A thank you card. A tearful confession of undying love on one knee? Please. What had happened at the Astronomy Tower was as fragile as a first-year’s potions class—stir it one too many times, and the whole thing would crash and burn spectacularly.

Later, as she was packing up, a folded piece of parchment slipped off her desk. Frowning, she bent to pick it up. Definitely not hers—the handwriting looked like someone had written it while falling down a flight of stairs. No name. No signature. Just a few scrawled words:

"Astronomy Tower wasn’t your business. Still isn’t. Stay out of it."

She should have been furious. She should have marched straight over to Nott and thrown the note at his stupid, brooding face.

Instead, she just felt... relieved.

Apparently, Theodore Nott wasn’t ignoring her because he hated her.
He was ignoring her because he was emotionally constipated and didn’t know how to act like a functioning human being.

Honestly, she thought, same.

***
She didn’t see Nott again until dinner.

He sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, next to Draco, tossing pieces of bread onto Blaise Zabini’s plate with deliberate boredom. His laughter was quiet, sharp around the edges, but when Blaise retaliated by flicking pumpkin juice at him, Nott barely reacted.

Just that same practiced carelessness, like he didn’t have a single thing in the world to care about.
Emma stabbed her fork into her shepherd's pie.

She wasn't stupid. She could play along.

If Theo wanted to pretend nothing had happened — if he needed her to stay out of it — fine. She could do that.

But the thing was... pretending wasn’t the same as forgetting. And Emma was spectacularly bad at forgetting.

She really did try. She listened to Pansy prattle about some fifth-year who’d hexed her hair green, she nodded sympathetically at Astoria’s dramatic sighs about Charms homework, and she even laughed when Draco loudly announced that if he had to endure one more week of "pointless academic suffering," he was going to move to France and become a goat farmer.

But every few minutes, her eyes flicked back to Theodore. Like some stupid, broken compass that only knew how to point at trouble.

He wasn’t looking at her. Not once. Not even by accident.

He just lounged there, looking like he didn’t have a single thought rattling around in that sharp, reckless head of his, sipping pumpkin juice and arguing lazily with Blaise over merlin-knows-what.
Emma stabbed her pie again for good measure.

Fine. She could be casual. She could be cool. She could be the picture of "absolutely not thinking about a boy who she typically thought was a wanker and now had caused her to have a Gryffindor martyr complex."

She was so good at pretending, in fact, that she almost convinced herself.
Almost.

Because when Theo stood up to leave — pushing back from the table with a lazy stretch, that careless smirk still stitched across his mouth — Emma felt it.

That tiny, traitorous jolt. Like some stupid part of her was standing up too, even though her body stayed firmly in place.

She shoved another angry forkful of shepherd’s pie into her mouth.

Nope. Nope. Definitely not thinking about him.

Not even a little bit.

Not at all.

Not even —

Theodore glanced over his shoulder.

One brief second. One flicker of blue-grey eyes.

And then he was gone.

Emma nearly choked on her pie.

She didn’t follow him. Of course she didn’t. She was far too dignified for that. Far too self-respecting. And definitely far too irritated.

So, obviously, she waited a few minutes. Emma listened to another one of Pansy’s stories, before excusing herself for “bed”.

She was halfway through pretending to listen when a voice snapped low and sharp behind her.

“Ryan.”

She turned. Theodore was standing there, hands in his pockets, jaw tense, eyes harsh. His hair was a little messier than it had been at dinner, with a cigarette perched behind his ear.

Oh. Good. Angry Nott.

“How lovely,” she said, playing with the end of her braid. “Didn’t think you knew my name when you weren’t using it to be a prat.”

“Walk with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Emma raised an eyebrow but followed anyway, trailing after him as he walked further from Great Hall and into the quieter corridor beyond. The moment they rounded the corner, Theo spun on her.
“Draco talked to me.”

Emma blinked. “Okay?”

“About you,” he snapped, stepping closer. “About last night. About whatever little saviour mission you two think you're on.”

She blinked again, slower this time, letting her expression go flat. “So what, you’re mad Draco talked to me, or mad that I listened?”

“I’m mad you keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Emma crossed her arms. “Right. Because having basic human concern is a crime now?”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Whatever story he fed you—whatever tragic little tale you’ve spun in that bleeding heart of yours—just drop it.”

Hermione’s words flashed in her head from the night before. The people who are hardest to love are the ones who need it the most. They don't know how to ask for it properly. They lash out. They test you.

Emma tilted her head. “Funny, because you didn’t seem quite so eager for me to ‘drop it’ when you didn’t walk away last night.”

Theo scoffed, pacing a few steps like he couldn’t sit still inside his own skin. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Clearly,” she echoed dryly. “Hence the note. Very emotionally mature. Next time maybe send a Howler.”

He stopped pacing and turned sharply. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when I’m sleeping,” she said sweetly, “but thanks for your concern.”

He stared at her for a beat, chest rising and falling like he’d run up a staircase. Then, suddenly, the edge of his mouth twitched—just the tiniest bit. “You’re exhausting.”

Emma smiled, all teeth. “You’re a wanker.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The corridor buzzed with the faint echoes of the Great Hall behind them, but out here, it was just the two of them and that same sharp tension they kept pretending didn’t exist.

Theo finally retrieved the cigarette from behind his ear, not to light, just to fiddle with it. There was still frustration radiating off him but it was less sharp now. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know,” Emma said quietly. “But maybe you need it anyway.”

He looked at her, jaw clenched, like he wanted to argue—but didn’t quite have the energy. Instead, he exhaled, slow and bitter.

“Just… stay out of my head, Ryan.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “You dragged me into it.”

He muttered something under his breath, then turned to leave, but paused, glancing back.

“You’re not as clever as you think you are.”

She smirked. “You’re not nearly as scary as you think you are.”

That earned a small huff, maybe a laugh. It was hard to tell.

And then he was gone again, stalking off down the corridor like he hadn’t just almost had a real conversation.

Emma leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. Her heart was thudding like she’d run a race.

He was infuriating. He was guarded and cold and sharp-edged.

But something was shifting.

Chapter Text

The common room was unusually bright that morning, sunlight streaming in through the enchanted windows that usually muted the lake's greenish glow. Someone had charmed the ceiling to reflect a cloudless spring day, and for once, it didn’t feel like they lived at the bottom of the lake.

Emma sat curled into one of the worn leather armchairs, a half-finished essay sprawled across her lap and a steaming mug of coffee warming her hands. Around her, the Slytherin common room buzzed with an easy energy she wasn’t used to seeing. For once, there were no sharp looks, no whispered insults, no simmering tensions.

Just... friends.

Across from her, Blaise Zabini was dealing cards for a lazy game of Exploding Snap, Theodore half-heartedly flicking his wand to counter the occasional burst of flame. Even Draco looked almost relaxed, leaning back on the couch, a rare smirk tugging at his mouth as he watched Pansy lose spectacularly and curse under her breath.

"You’re terrible at this, Parkinson," Blaise said, tossing another card into the pile with a grin.

"Shove off," Pansy snapped, but there was no real venom behind it. She was laughing, her cheeks flushed pink.

Emma smiled to herself, soaking in the rare feeling of belonging. It was strange, how quickly things could shift. Since their conversation that week, she had barely seen Theodore that week. There were a couple of brief and awkward hellos throughout their classes, but that was the extent of it.

Looking at him now, cigarette tucked behind his ear, an easy smirk playing on his lips — he looked lighter than he had in weeks. There were still shadows under his eyes, bruises of sleepless nights that no amount of laughter could hide. But when she looked at him now, she began to understand why she would overhear girls would giggling his name in the bathroom between classes. There was something effortless about him, a kind of careless charm he didn’t even seem aware of. She thought back to the few Ravenclaw girls he dated, one of which he took to the Yule ball. Emma herself had been stuck on Cedric Diggory at that point in time and was crushed when he had finally chosen Cho. Honestly, most of the girls in her grade felt the same.

"Oi," Draco’s voice startled her, sitting up straighter. "Are we still on for tonight?"

"Course we are," Blaise said, dealing another card lazily. "I heard Montague's invited most of the school. Even some Gryffindicks."

Pansy groaned. "We'll be dead before midnight if Montague's in charge."

Theodore grabbed the cigarette from where it was hiding behind his ear (he didn’t light it though — Emma suspected he just liked having something to do with his hands). "That’s the point of a party, Parkinson."

Emma laughed, setting her coffee down. "Honestly, all this N.E.W.T. prep makes getting absolutely destroyed sound incredibly reasonable."

Draco leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "It's not just about getting wrecked, Ryan. It’s tradition. The Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry, for most of us, it’s more than just Quidditch. It’s... everything. Winning, losing, pride—getting absolutely obliterated is a result of that.”

Blaise smirked lazily from his place by the fire. “We know you take that Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry very seriously Draco. You and Granger really-” Blaise was cut off by Draco swiftly hexing his lips together, shooting him a dark look.

Pansy rolled her eyes, “Anyway, it’s the only night most of us don't end up killing each other by sunrise."

Nott shot Emma a wry look. “Survival of the fittest. And the drunkest.”

"Exactly," Pansy said brightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "These are the only nights you’re allowed to be an absolute disaster, and no one gets to bring it up afterward."

"House honour," Blaise said solemnly, tapping his chest. "Very sacred."

The common room buzzed around them, the energy infectious, crackling with anticipation. "Right, enough lounging about," Blaise said, standing and stretching. "We’ve got a match to win."

The others stirred, gathering scarves and cloaks, their usual lazy movements replaced by an undercurrent of excitement. Emma slipped her essay back into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she joined her peers funnelling out of the common room.

As they emerged into the corridors, the castle seemed to come alive around them. Green and silver banners hung proudly from the walls, charmed to ripple as if caught in a breeze. Students sported scarves and face paint, the Slytherins decked out in shimmering greens while clusters of Gryffindors paraded by in a sea of red and gold, chanting and singing at the top of their lungs.

A third-year Slytherin ran past them waving a massive green flag, nearly knocking into Theodore, who gave the boy a harsh look before he darted away. The smell of crisp spring air mixed with the distant scent of grass and mud from the pitch, carried through the open doors ahead.

"Look at those twats," Draco muttered under his breath as a pack of Gryffindors marched past, banging a drum out of time and singing some tuneless anthem. Emma smirked, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

The crowd thickened as they made their way down to the Quidditch stands, students pouring onto the pathways that led to the pitch. Excitement buzzed in the air like static, everyone jostling for a better spot.

Theodore and Blaise led the way, sauntering with their hands in their pockets through the chaos with practiced ease. Emma stuck close behind, her scarf flapping against her coat, the cheers and chants making her chest vibrate.

They finally found their seats, a few rows up in the Slytherin section, just in time for the announcer's magically amplified voice to boom across the stadium.

The pitch gleamed under the bright afternoon sun, and across the way, a sea of red and gold glared back at them from the Gryffindor stands.

"Merlin, I can already feel the bloodbath," Pansy said, wrinkling her nose as she took her seat beside Emma.

Blaise grinned wickedly. "Exactly how it should be."

Theodore slid into the seat on Emma’s other side, his knee brushing hers briefly. As the players shot out onto the pitch in a blur of green and red, the roar of the crowd erupted around them, and Emma couldn’t help but feel it—the crackling, electric rush of it all.

The whistle blew, and the game began in a flurry of motion, the players darting into the air, their brooms slicing through the wind. Emma could barely keep her eyes focused on the quaffle as it zoomed toward the goalposts, but the energy in the stands was undeniable. She leaned forward in her seat, feeling her pulse quicken with every swoop and dive.

The crowd’s cheers filled her ears, a mix of eager screams from the Slytherin section and the piss poor chants from the Gryffindor side. Emma could make out the faintest hint of a song being sung by the red-and-gold-clad students across the pitch as Ron saved a goal—something about "Weasley is our King" being tossed into the verses.

“Do you remember” Pansy leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. "How I told you Astoria has been shagging Dean?”

“Sorry?” Emma said, her blonde hair whipping in the wind as she faced Pansy. “I thought he was dating Ginny?”

“Eh. I don’t really care. Anyway apparently, when they were at breakfast this morning, Dean told her that Weasley got his hands on a bottle of Felix Felicis."

Emma absorbed that information, nodding. "Yeah. Makes sense. Potter won it off Slughorn at the beginning of term. But I don’t know if Weasley would take it. You know, Gryffindors, pride, I reckon they’d view it as stooping to our level. They get off on doing the right thing.”

Draco scoffed from the row ahead, not taking his eyes off the game. "Weaselby? Please. Of course he’s had it. That prat wouldn’t have saved a single shot without it." He snorted, his lips curling into a sneer. "They have too much pride to lose to us, of course its fucking rigged.”

Theodore, who had been unusually quiet up until now, watched the match with a certain intensity in his eyes. He flicked his cigarette behind his ear, still not lighting it, and then glanced at Emma.
"You think Weasley’s really had it?" he asked, his voice low, almost amused.

Emma shrugged, unsure. "It wouldn’t surprise me. Gryffindors are good at making things dramatic. Maybe they’ve got a bit of help on their side today."

A Slytherin beater swung a bat with precision, sending a bludger careening towards one of the Gryffindor chasers, but it was narrowly avoided. The crowd roared, the tension between the two Houses palpable. Emma felt her throat becoming dry, after Slytherin scored their fifth goal.

On the pitch, the Weasley King was flying like a man possessed. He darted through the air, making impossible saves and seemingly appearing at the right place at the right time. The Slytherin team wasn’t far behind, but for a split second, it almost looked like Weasley could do no wrong.

"That’s it, then," Draco muttered, narrowing his eyes. "I bet you ten galleons he’s on it. He’s never played this well in his life."

"You’re on," Blaise said instantly, his tone amused but eyes sharp.

The game went on the Slytherins pushing forward with every ounce of their competitive energy. But Weasley’s antics were becoming harder to ignore. He swooped through the air with a kind of reckless abandon, pulling off stunts that no one had seen from him before. The Gryffindor crowd was losing their minds.

"Watch him," Pansy sneered, tossing a glance at Emma. "He’s practically glowing. It’s the only explanation for how well he's doing today. No way someone like him could actually be that good."
"Maybe," Nott said quietly, after a beat, "but let’s see if his luck holds. The game’s not over yet."

The game carried on, the tension mounting with every pass, every save, every shot on goal. But despite the Slytherin team's best efforts, Weasley’s almost unnatural precision seemed to be the turning point. He was everywhere at once, reading the game as though he knew exactly where every player would be, where the quaffle would land, and how to block every incoming shot.

The crowd's excitement reached a fever pitch as the match neared its climax. Emma was on the edge of her seat, eyes flicking back and forth between the game and the players, sensing something was about to happen. Then, out of nowhere, Weasley made a miraculous save, stopping a shot that had looked like a guaranteed goal.

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of disbelief and exhilaration as Weasley’s broom whipped him sideways, his hand outstretched in a last-ditch attempt to stop the quaffle from sailing past him. And somehow, impossibly, it stuck. The Slytherin chasers froze mid-flight as they watched the ball sit firmly in Weasley’s grip, his face twisted in concentration.

"That’s not luck," Draco snarled, his voice tight with frustration. "That’s bloody ridiculous."

The Gryffindor side was in absolute pandemonium, their cheers deafening as their Keeper glided back down the pitch, waving the quaffle triumphantly. Even the other Gryffindor players were patting him on the back, clapping him on the shoulders, and shaking their heads in disbelief.

Pansy groaned beside Emma. "This is getting infuriating. If he makes another save like that-"

"Calm down," Theodore muttered, his gaze still fixed on the game. He was watching Weasley with a focused intensity, his eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to figure out exactly how the boy was pulling off these impossible feats.

Blaise gave a low whistle. "If they win this, Weasley’s going to be the hero of the year. Could be the luckiest bloke in the school." He exchanged a glance with Draco. “Plus, he could shag the Golden Girl at any moment he’d like. You sure you’re not just a bit jealous Draco?

“Shut it, Blaise,” Draco snapped, while Emma reached around whacking Blaise on the back of the head for talking about Hermione like that.

Draco was trying, and failing, to hide the frustration that was building within him. "He’s shit. It’s impossible. I’ve had enough of this."

Then, with less than five minutes left on the clock, Weasley made another incredible move, diving to intercept a bludger that had been shot straight toward him. He twisted his body midair, narrowly avoiding the oncoming ball, and caught it with a skill that left Emma speechless.

Potter came whizzing past them, seemingly out of nowhere. The crowd gasped, holding their breaths as he hurtled towards the floor. He reached out, his fingers brushing the air—and then, with an impossible twist, his hand closed around the snitch.

The stadium erupted in wild cheers, the Gryffindor side nearly lifting Potter off the ground in a frenzy of celebration. Emma sat back in her seat, a bitter taste settling in her mouth. She didn’t even notice she’d been holding her breath until she exhaled sharply.

Weasley, still clutching the quaffle from his last save, looked dazed for a moment before the realisation hit him. Gryffindor had won. The match was over, and the Slytherin team had been defeated.
The Slytherin crowd was silent at first, the weight of their defeat settling in like a thick fog. Draco’s face was unreadable, his hands balled into fists as he watched the Gryffindor team celebrate in the distance. Emma, however, couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the way Weasley had played. Even if she suspected there had been some outside help, the boy had played like was meant to be playing with Viktor Krum.

As the teams descended from their brooms, the noise of the stadium slowly quieted. Emma stood up, trying to avoid the looks that were being shot her way from some of the more vocal members of the Slytherin crowd.

“Well,” she said, glancing at Pansy, “at least it wasn’t as embarrassing as I thought it would be.”

Pansy snorted. "You really think they deserve all that, after everything?" She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing in disbelief as the Gryffindors danced in celebration. "I’m not sure I’ll ever get over this."

Emma turned toward the exit, her mind still reeling from the game. She had to admit, it had been a thrilling match, even if the outcome wasn’t what she’d hoped. She couldn’t help but glance at Theodore, who seemed unfazed by the result, his attention already drifting back to the others.

"You know," she said quietly, catching his eye, "if it wasn’t for that bloody potion, I think Gryffindor might’ve actually had a shot."

Nott raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a slight smirk. "Don’t give them too much credit, Ryan. It’s all just part of the game."

As the crowd began to filter out, Emma felt the weight of the rivalry settle back into her chest. She was looking forward to drowning her sorrows.

Chapter Text

Emma was trying to brush out her knotted hair from the wind earlier that day, when someone’s undies flew past her head. She shrieked, barely avoiding them before whipping around to see the culprit who had sent them her way. The normally serene, dimly lit dorm was a whirl of bright colours and hurried movements.

Pansy was perched on the edge of her bed, already clad in a glittering black dress, a grin spreading across her face as she applied a dusting of shimmering powder. Her hair was perfectly styled, curls falling in soft above her shoulders. "Tonight’s going to be a riot," she said with an air of giddy anticipation. "I’m calling it now—Astoria, don’t wear that! It looks like cat piss — I reckon the punch will be spiked again. Especially if Montague has planned the thing."

Poor Astoria threw the dress she was holding back into her wardrobe, glaring at Pansy. “Maybe try the blue one?” Emma offered. The younger girl shrugged, leaving the room to go search her own wardrobe.

Blaise Zabini, who had somehow managed to infiltrate their dorm (the secret passageways were a constant source of amusement for him), lounged across one of the chairs. "Astoria, I think cat piss is a lovely colour on you," he offered as she shut the door. “Pans, you sound like you want the punch to be spiked.” He tossed a bottle of enchanted glitter into the air and watching it float like a shower of stars around him.

Pansy scoffed. “Well, if tonight’s anything like those Ravenclaw parties, I’m expecting it to be. The last one Em and I went too, she ended up shagging Justin Finch-Fletchley in the broom cupboard.”
Emma’s mouth dropped open, mortified by that information now being made public. “You little bitch! You swore you wouldn’t say anything!” she cried, hiding her red face in her hands.

Blaise was cackling across the room, “You shagged a Hufflepuff? Em, what happened to standards? In the broom cupboard too!” He exclaimed.

“Yeah, well, the whole ordeal only lasted like 5 minutes.” she muttered.

This sent Blaise into tears.

"Shut up, Zabini," Emma shot back, though she couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You’ve done worse."

Recovering from his laughing fit, he wiped his eyes. “You’re right, it could’ve been worse. Could’ve had some Gryffindick.”

That’s when Pansy lost it.

Emma was glaring at the girl, praying to whatever muggle god she could to ensure Pansy, for once in her goddamn life, would keep her mouth shut.

Pansy, however, had an unsettlingly innocent smile plastered on her face, clearly enjoying the discomfort she was causing. "Oh, don’t look at me like that, Em," she said sweetly, as if she weren’t about to singlehandedly ruin Emma’s reputation in the span of five seconds. "Everyone knows, by now, that a Weasley twin is quite the catch. Just—" She looked at Emma with feigned curiosity. "—which one was it again? Fred? Or George?"

If looks could kill, Emma would be in Azkaban by now.

Blaise, who had been lounging with his feet up, sat up immediately at the mention of the Weasley twins, his eyes widening with interest. "Wait, hold on," he said, looking between Emma and Pansy with a disbelieving grin. "You’re telling me—" He let out a low whistle. "—you shagged a Weasley twin? Which one?"

Emma’s face was practically on fire now. She crossed her arms tightly, glaring at Pansy like a feral cat that had just been cornered. "Pansy," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "I swear to Merlin—"
But Pansy wasn’t done. "I mean," she continued, completely ignoring Emma's darkening expression, "it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen. You did manage to get through the night without breaking anything this time. That’s an improvement." She gave Emma a teasing look, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Blaise was practically grinning from ear to ear now, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "A Weasley twin?" He leaned forward, clearly enjoying Emma’s discomfort. "Tell me everything. How was it? Did you—"

"Not a word, Blaise," Emma snapped, interrupting him before he could finish. "And Pansy, for the love of whatever dark magic you believe in, if you value your life—"

But Pansy, of course, just waved her off, looking far too entertained by Emma’s distress. "Alright, alright," she said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "I won’t tease you anymore. You know I love you too much for that."

Emma rolled her eyes, giving Pansy the most withering look she could muster. "You’re impossible."

Blaise, now completely ignoring Emma’s obvious annoyance, smirked. "I have to say, this makes the party sound a hell of a lot more interesting than I expected." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. \

Emma turned to him, exasperated. "If you even think about bringing this up I will curse you into next week, Zabini."

"Oh, no worries," Blaise replied, completely unfazed. "I wouldn’t dream of ruining the fun—yet." He flashed her a grin, clearly not taking her threat seriously.

With a dramatic sigh, Emma let it go. Pansy had a way of making things spiral, and the more Emma tried to stop it, the worse it got. Still, she’d need to brace herself for the inevitable teasing that would follow tonight.

But right now? Right now, she had bigger things to deal with. Like surviving whatever chaos Montague had planned for the night.

"Let’s just go," Emma muttered, heading for the door. "If I don’t get out of here now, I might actually hex someone."

Pansy followed her out, still laughing. "Come on, Em, you know we love you. And besides, tonight’s going to be legendary."

Emma shot her a sidelong glance. "If you say so."

***

As Emma stepped into the boys’ dormitory, the atmosphere instantly changed. The dimly lit room, always so chaotic and dishevelled, felt alive with an energy that was only made more intense by the loud, boisterous chatter coming from the group already gathered there. Pansy and Blaise had followed her, practically bouncing in excitement, their laughter and teasing mixing with the smell of firewhiskey and some unidentifiable concoction that someone had spiked.

Theodore was the first to look up as she entered. His eyes met hers across the room, his gaze momentarily catching hers. He looked more relaxed than she had seen him in weeks, his posture easy as he lounged in an armchair, but there was something else in his eyes—something that made her feel like she was suddenly under the spotlight. He leaned forward just slightly, his expression unreadable.

"Now that the party has arrived" Blaise grinned, gesturing to himself and wiggling his eyebrows, “Who’s ready to play a game? I know Em is.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at him, the memory of Pansy’s revelation still fresh in her mind. She had a new plan forming in her head. No more letting the two of them have the last word. Tonight, she would get her revenge—and have a bit of fun while doing it.

She smirked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Be careful Blaise.”

Pansy gave her an exaggerated, innocent look. “Oh, come on, Em, don’t be such a sourpuss. It’s all in good fun.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically, the light from the candles reflecting off her nails. “It’s a drinking game, not a battlefield.”

“Exactly,” Blaise chimed in, lifting his glass. "And speaking of battlefield, Em, it’s always nice to know that the twins’ reputation precedes them. I hear they’re wild on a night out. Who was it you were with last year? Fred? George? Or was it both?”

Emma’s smile tightened. She could feel her pulse spike, but she held it in, ready for her moment. Nott, who had been watching the conversation unfold, raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
“Wait, you mean the Weasley twins?” he asked, leaning forward with genuine interest. "Did you really—?”

Emma flashed a smile that was anything but warm. “Weasley twins, Justin Finch-Fletchley…who’s keeping track?” She shot Pansy a pointed look, making sure she caught every bit of the sarcasm. “Clearly, not everyone can remember who they shagged at these parties.”

Blaise let out a low whistle, clearly entertained. “Oh, this is gold. But hey, no judgment. The Patel twins are a great time.” He winked at Theodore with a smirk.

Nott leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His eyes glinted with interest, but he said nothing more. Emma could feel the heat of the conversation weighing on her now, but she wasn’t done.

"Anyway," she said quickly, "I think it's time for a little game, don't you think?" She glanced around the room, where several of the others had already started getting comfortable, eager for the game to begin.

Blaise grinned. "Ah, I see what you're up to. Fine, you want to get into it? Let’s play truth, dare, or drink."

Pansy clapped her hands, her eyes practically sparkling. "Oh my gods, that’s my favourite!"

The game began with typical dares, harmless at first—Pansy daring some Draco to drink an entire glass of firewhiskey while being upside down, Blaise daring Theodore to give an impromptu speech on his love for Slytherin pride. But when the bottle landed on Emma, she saw the perfect opportunity to turn the tables on Blaise and Pansy.

Blaise grinned at her. "Alright, Em. Truth, dare, or drink?"

Emma smiled sweetly. "Dare."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "You're asking for it. I dare you to kiss the person you find most attractive in this room."

Emma held his gaze, not flinching. She wasn’t about to back down now. “Done,” she said smoothly. She stood up, taking a slow, deliberate step toward Blaise.

The room went quiet as Emma’s gaze flicked toward Pansy. She could almost feel the tension in the air as she slowly crossed the room. Pansy’s eyes widened, clearly trying to figure out what was happening. Without a word, Emma reached out, grabbing Pansy’s wrist and pulling her forward.

"Sorry, Pans," Emma said with a wicked grin, "but this is what you get for running your mouth all night."

With that, Emma kissed Pansy firmly on the lips. Pansy pulled back, bursting into a fit of laughter.

The room whistled for them, but Emma wasn’t finished yet. She turned to Blaise, who was still looking at her with his mouth agape.

“Your turn,” she said, her voice sweet as honey, "I dare you to kiss Pansy."

Blaise blinked, clearly caught off guard, but his expression shifted into a mix of amusement and confusion. “Wait, what?”

"Oh, come on," Emma teased, crossing her arms. "You two always act like you're so much better than everyone else. Let’s see if you’re as good at kissing as you are at running your mouths."

The room waited, breathless, as Blaise exchanged an incredulous look with Pansy. But after a moment, with a dramatic sigh, Blaise leaned forward and kissed her briefly. “Happy now?” he muttered.

Emma smirked, satisfied. "Ecstatic."

As the game wound down, the atmosphere in the room shifted, and Emma could feel the energy ramping up. The awkwardness between Blaise and Pansy was still hanging in the air, but there was an undeniable electricity between them now. They were bickering, but it was playful, charged with something deeper.

Pansy was trying to act like nothing had happened, arms crossed in front of her like a shield. She shot Blaise a look, but there was a softness in her eyes, something she quickly masked with a roll of her eyes. "Oh, please. It’s not like it was anything serious," she huffed, but the flush in her cheeks told a different story.

Blaise, ever the smooth talker, leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. "Right, of course. Just a casual kiss," he said with a smirk, though his eyes were glinting, and there was something almost... uncertain behind his usual cocky demeanour.

Theodore, who had been watching all of this with quiet amusement, finally chimed in with a grin. “You two really are something else,” he said, looking from Blaise to Pansy. "Always playing games, but no one ever wins."

Blaise raised an eyebrow at him, clearly intrigued. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Nott?”

Theodore just shrugged in response.

Emma was practically bouncing in her seat from the excitement of it all. The way Pansy was trying to act cool, the way Blaise kept glancing at her—it was like watching two people who were so obviously into each other but couldn’t admit it to save their lives. She shot Pansy a wink, and the other girl’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

“Don’t you dare,” Pansy warned, though Emma could see the corners of her mouth twitching upward, fighting a smile.

Emma leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "What, like you’re not curious?" she teased. "Who knows, maybe a little more firewhiskey will help you both figure it out."

Pansy shot her a glare, but it was half-hearted. "You’re a menace," she said, but she couldn’t hide the slight blush creeping up her neck.

Emma sat back, arms crossed and a satisfied grin on her face. "Well, that was fun," she said, her voice full of playful mischief. “You two were so convincing, I almost thought you had done this before.”
Pansy rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "You're unbelievable," she muttered, but the laughter in her tone gave her away.

Draco, who had been watching the entire scene unfold with quiet amusement, let out a laugh. "You know, it’s kind of like watching a soap opera. I almost want to take notes."

“Yeah, maybe you should,” Emma teased, leaning back in her chair. "You could learn a thing or two from this." She looked between Pansy and Blaise, who were still clearly avoiding each other’s eyes, their playful bickering only making the atmosphere more charged.

As the night went on, the energy in the room only grew stronger. Everyone was tipsy, the firewhiskey having taken its toll, but Emma felt surprisingly energised. It had been a while since she'd let herself relax and enjoy a night like this. The tension, the teasing, the playful challenges—it felt like the perfect release from everything else.

Pansy, despite herself, leaned over to Blaise with a smirk. "You know," she said with an exaggerated sigh, "I think Em might be right. Maybe you do need to take some notes after all."

Blaise laughed, the sound light and easy. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take it under advisement,” he replied, but there was a warmth in his tone now that hadn’t been there before.

Theodore caught Emma’s eye from across the room, tilting his head to stare at her. He didn’t say anything, but there was something in the look that made Emma feel like she was exactly where she needed to be. Among friends, among chaos, and surrounded by all the things that made nights like this unforgettable.

With a final toast, the group clinked their glasses, the laughter and music filling the room. Emma leaned back, a contented smile on her lips, ready to enjoy the rest of the night. It was far from over, and she wasn’t going anywhere just yet. Not with the energy in the air, not with everything that had just unfolded. Tonight was hers. And it felt damn good.

Chapter Text

The common room was packed. There was loud, thudding music with bottles of firewhisky and something stronger being passed around, Emma’s laughter mingled with the chatter of her friends, watching as students spilled out of doorways, drinks being passed around, and there was a sense of freedom in the air that she couldn’t quite put into words.

There were mainly people from Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and handful of Hufflepuffs. However, Emma was now watching the few brave Gryffindors who wanted to attend a real party filter in, not some PG gathering with first years.

The familiar faces of Ron Weasley and Lavender Brown appeared first, looking slightly flushed and incredibly pleased with themselves. Emma’s eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twisting into a wry smile. “Well, I see someone’s been having fun,” she said, the words carrying a hint of amusement.

“Wotcha, Em,” Ron greeted her, completely oblivious to the insinuation in her tone. “Lav and I were just… celebrating.” He had that smirk of someone who’d been up to no good.
Emma raised an eyebrow. “Celebrating what, exactly?”

Ron shrugged nonchalantly. “You know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

Emma’s eyes flicked to Lavender, who was hanging off Ron’s arm with a dreamy smile. She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or horrified.

Emma grinned. "Where’s Hermione at?" she asked, genuinely curious. Lavendar looked at her like she had just kicked her pet bunny.

The Weasel just shrugged, pointing to the door. As if on cue, Hermione Granger walked in. She had that usual composed, no-nonsense air about her, the kind that was impossible to ignore. Her eyes flicked over the crowd as if she could calculate everything in a single glance, her calmness practically palpable.

And right behind her? Draco Malfoy, of all people, looking ever the mysterious figure with that characteristic sneer. Emma couldn’t help but notice the subtle exchange of glances between him and Hermione. There was something in the way they looked at each other—like two people who knew things no one else did, a connection that went deeper than anyone could guess.

As Hermione made her way deeper into the room, Emma pushed herself off the wall and casually strode over to her. The noise of the party almost swallowed her up, but she made sure to catch Hermione’s eye with a friendly grin.

“Hey, Granger,” Emma called over the clinking of glasses and chatter, her tone light and casual.

Hermione turned toward her, giving her a brief but genuine smile. “Hey, Em,” she replied, her voice carrying the usual calm authority. “How’s it going?”

Emma shrugged, her eyes scanning the crowd around them. “You know, just trying to survive this madness,” she said with a laugh, “I think I’ve had too much to drink already”.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Survival seems like a good strategy, you’re doing well.”

Before Emma could say anything more, a blonde boy came up behind Hermione. Draco acknowledged Emma with a polite nod, before whispering something into Hermione’s ear. She nodded, before turning back to the blue-eyed girl. “Catch you later,” she said, giving her a wink and following the boy.

Emma gaped at them for a moment, but her attention was quickly drawn to Pansy, who was trying to perform a strip show on one of the tables.

***

At one point in the night, Emma found herself deep in conversation with Luna Lovegood, about why muggles weren’t the biggest fans of cockroaches.

“And it’s not just the size,” Emma was saying, her hands gesturing for emphasis. “It’s that they breed faster than you can blink. They’re, like, everywhere. Imagine being in a room, and you suddenly see one scurrying across the floor…”

Luna nodded slowly; her pale eyes unblinking as she tilted her head. She wasn’t quite meeting Emma’s gaze. “Oh, yes. My father once wrote an article about the rare Moonlight Cockroach,” Luna replied in her usual dreamy tone. “They’re not dangerous, of course, but if you catch them at the right time of night, they glow.”

Emma paused, momentarily stunned. “They glow?”

“Oh yes,” Luna said with a smile, as if she were discussing the most mundane of things. “Quite a spectacle, really. But they only appear when the moon is full, and the stars are aligned properly. Most people think they’re just regular cockroaches, but in fact, they’re magical creatures. Muggles never even know.”

Emma blinked, unsure of how to respond. “Well, that’s... one way to think about it, I suppose.”

Luna smiled at her, unfazed by Emma's surprise, and wandered off toward the middle of the room, speaking a soft goodbye before she melted into the crowd.

Emma stood there for a moment, still processing Luna’s strange perspective, when she saw Theodore sitting sprawled on a couch across the room. He was staring at the ceiling like it was going to open and swallow him whole. She moved towards them, dodging hookups and drink spillages. When Emma finally reached the boy, he didn’t realise she was there straight away.

So, she gently slid onto the seat next to him. "You good?" she asked.

He turned and blinked at her slowly, taking second to recognise her. "Peachy." His voice was rough, lazy.

It didn’t take a genius to know he was high — not just drunk.

"Well, you look like shit," she said lightly.

A raised his eyebrows, lazily amused. "Thanks, sweetheart. You always know what to say."

They fell into silence, as the pale girl observed the boy next to her. His eyes unfocused, as his fingers fumbled around his ear. Emma assumed he was looking for the cigarette he usually kept there. When they couldn’t find it, his hands moved to his knees and began to spasm. Emma watched him for a moment, her eyes narrowing with concern. She leaned closer, her voice softening despite her usual teasing tone. "Theodore, you're really not okay, are you?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just kept fidgeting with his hands, staring off into space. It was a strange sight—he was usually so controlled, so contained, but right now he looked almost fragile, lost in his own head. Emma couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. Despite everything good tonight —the games, the jokes, the chaos—she figured he could only be upbeat for so long.

And for some reason, probably due to the drugs and alcohol, he had chosen to let his guard down tonight.

"Do you need me to get you anything?" Emma asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

Theodore slowly turned to her, blinking as if trying to focus. "Nah," he murmured. "I'm good. Just need... quiet." He gave her a crooked smile, which didn’t reach his eyes. "I’ll be fine."
Emma bit her lip, unsure of how to help. She’d seen him like this before—distant, detached—but it had always been fleeting. This felt different. There was a heaviness in the air around him, something unspoken.

"Alright," she said, not wanting to push him too much, but deciding to stay beside him anyway. She reached for a drink nearby, downing it quickly, her own buzz coming in strong now. As she set the glass back on the table, she felt the pull of the room again—the noise, the laughter, the constant movement. It felt like everything was swirling around her, but right now, with Theodore so out of it, she felt strangely out of place.

"Why don’t we get out of here for a bit?" she suggested, her voice light, trying to get him to move.

Theodore just nodded, but it was a slow, lethargic gesture, and she wasn’t sure if he even understood her. Still, she helped him to his feet, her arm supporting him as they made their way to the door. They passed more students—some laughing, some making out in corners, but Emma’s focus stayed entirely on Theodore. She stumbled a bit, trying to keep up the significantly larger boy. She could feel his weight leaning on her, his presence almost like a shield, the chaotic party far behind them as they stepped outside.

The night air hit her like a splash of cold water, causing her to shiver slightly. She pulled Theodore to a small, secluded spot in the hallway outside the dungeons, away from the noise. The party’s sounds were muffled now, the world around them quieter. He leaned back against the cool castle wall, his eyes closing as he tried to settle.

"Feel a little better?" Emma asked, squatting down next to him, her voice low.

Theo didn’t respond right away, but after a moment, he let out a long breath. “Yeah... I guess.”

Emma sat there beside Theodore for a long moment, the soft glow from the distant party the only light between them. As the quiet stretched on, she couldn't help but notice the way his shoulders slumped, the way his head fell slowly against her shoulder, seeking comfort. She froze for a second, her breath catching in her throat at the unexpected gesture.

He wasn’t one to lean on anyone, and yet here he was, nestled against her, lost in whatever dark thoughts were consuming him. His hair brushed against her cheek, and Emma could feel the heat of his skin as he slowly breathed in and out. He smelled faintly of smoke and something earthy, a scent that he always seemed to have.

Her pulse quickened, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let him stay there, her fingers lightly resting on his arm as the world beyond them continued to blur. They were worlds apart from the raucous chaos of the party. Here, it was just the two of them—no expectations, no need to speak.

"You don't have to pretend with me, you know," she whispered softly, her voice low but steady. She wasn’t sure if he heard her, but she spoke anyway, the words almost for her own reassurance as much as for him.

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle from Theodore. "Pretend?" he murmured, his voice a little slurred. "What do you think I’ve been doing all night?"

Emma didn’t answer right away, just leaned her head against his for a moment, the familiar weight of his presence grounding her in the quiet, despite the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. She wasn’t sure what it was, this sudden vulnerability between them, but it was... different.

Finally, Theo shifted, the movement subtle but enough to make Emma blink. "You don't have to stay out here with me," he said, his voice rough. "I’m fine."

Emma hesitated, not entirely sure what he meant by ‘fine.’ But she stayed. "I’m not going anywhere," she replied simply.

They sat in silence for a while longer, the noise from the party continuing to echo in the distance. But as the seconds ticked by, Emma realised that, for once, Theodore wasn’t putting up walls. He was here, with her, in a way that felt rare and fragile.

Then, just as Emma was getting comfortable with the stillness, the sound of footsteps approached from behind. She turned her head to see Draco Malfoy stepping into the soft light, his usual bravado noticeably absent.

At first, he didn’t seem to notice them, his focus elsewhere. But when his eyes caught Emma’s, there was a flicker of something—surprise, maybe, or just a recognition that she hadn’t been the one he expected to find here.

Draco paused for a moment, then cleared his throat, the distance between them growing even more apparent. "Didn’t expect to see you out here," he commented, his voice even, though there was something quieter in it than usual. "What, a little too much for you inside?"

Emma smirked slightly, leaning back against the cool stone. "Maybe. I just needed a break," she answered with a shrug, feeling the weight of the situation between them all settling in.

Draco’s gaze flicked from her to Theodore, who was still leaning against her shoulder, eyes closed. "Is he alright?" Draco asked, his usual indifference replaced by an undercurrent of concern.
Emma hesitated, not wanting to give too much away but also not wanting to dismiss the moment entirely. "He’s fine. Just... enjoying the night in his own way."

Draco studied them both for a moment, a frown pulling at his lips as if contemplating something. "Alright. Just let me know if you need a hand," he added, his voice softer than Emma expected, before he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the darkness.

Emma watched him leave, her thoughts swirling as she looked back at Theodore, who hadn’t moved. The air between them felt different now, charged with a quiet tension that Emma couldn’t quite explain. What had just happened? What was this strange, unspoken connection between them all?

For now, though, all she could do was stay. Just stay with Theodore in this strange moment, waiting for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

It was freezing inside the castle—the kind of cold that didn’t just bite at your skin but sank into your bones and lingered, like a curse. Wind howled against the ancient stone walls, rattling the high windows as snow blurred the outside world in thick, unrelenting waves. The fireplaces were lit, yes, but the warmth they offered was more ceremonial than comforting.

The castle thrummed with holiday energy. Trunks were being zipped shut with hurried excitement, enchanted snowballs darted through corridors, and laughter rang like sleigh bells through the halls.

Someone from Hufflepuff had bewitched mistletoe to hover over random doorways, and even the portraits had gotten into the spirit, humming old carols or debating the merits of mulled wine versus hot butterbeer.

Normally, Emma loved it. The lights. The music. The quiet hush that came over the castle when most students left. Normally, this was her favourite time of year.
This year, she wanted to stab Santa with a candy cane.

She’d written to her dad a few days ago, asking if maybe she could come home a bit early. It hadn’t been a dramatic letter—she hadn’t said how weird everything felt lately, or how the castle air was so heavy it hurt to breathe sometimes—but she’d hoped he’d read between the lines.

His reply came quickly, the parchment still crisp when she unfolded it.

Emma, sweetheart—it's not safe. Not right now. The school owled me directly. They said Muggle-born students are safer staying at Hogwarts over the break, by recommendation by the Ministry. You need to keep your head down and stay close to your professors. Be smart. Stay safe. I'll see you as soon as I can. I love you Ems. —Dad.

She hadn’t written back yet.

The letter was still folded in her pocket, the parchment going soft at the edges where she kept running her fingers over it.

Safe.

She wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. Safe from what? Voldemort?

Because as far as she could tell, she was currently spending her days surrounded by two future, if not present, Death Eaters in designer shoes. Malfoy, with his smug smirk and an ego so inflated it probably had its own Dark Mark. And Nott, who looked like he hadn’t slept since Summer and carried emotional repression like it was a family heirloom. Apparently, even Christmas couldn’t override that.

She sat curled in a worn green armchair near the fire, sleeves pulled down over her hands, watching the flames like they might tell her something useful. The other students buzzed around the common room in twos and threes, draped in scarves and trailing half-zipped trunks, full of sweets and smug excitement.

But all she could think about was the night after the quidditch match.

The party in her mind had blurred around the edges, soaked in music and firewhiskey. She remembered bits of it in sharp, painful flashes: Nott’s breath warm against her ear, his head on her shoulder for a moment in the corridor, his voice low and slurred when he’d said her name like it meant something.

And then Pansy had stumbled into the hallway, pale and swaying, and promptly thrown up all over the floor. Emma had caught her just in time to stop her from falling into it.

Classic.

Emma had spent the next hour cleaning up and half-carrying Pansy upstairs, going to bed smelling like someone else’s sick and regret.

Theodore never said anything about their interaction afterward.

And maybe he didn’t remember. Maybe he did.

But either way, he hadn’t really talked to her since.

He hadn’t said anything particularly mean since that night, which you could class as an improvement. But at least when he was being cruel, he was looking at her. Saying something. Existing in her orbit like a storm cloud that might shit down with rain at any second. Now? Now he was just silent. A ghost with dark circles under his eyes, fiddling with his cigarettes.

He didn’t sneer. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t snap.

He just... didn’t speak. Not that Emma was feeling personally victimised by this. Theodore wasn’t talking to anyone, except Draco when they would disappear for hours.

Emma wasn’t sure if she preferred the version of him that called her a Mudblood or this one—haunted, hollow, and quiet.

And maybe it made her pathetic, but part of her missed the fight. Missed the way he used to lean too close, insult laced in every syllable, voice low like it was meant for her only.

Which, frankly, grossed her out.

Because what kind of twisted psychological mess did you have to be to miss the attention of someone who’d called you a slur with the same casual venom most people reserved for complaining about homework? What part of her brain looked at that and went: yes, that’s preferable to this silence?

The fire crackled. The common room was thinning out as more students left for the holidays. Hogwarts was becoming empty.

But she wasn’t going anywhere. She was stuck.

Because the Ministry said so. Because the school said it was safer. Because apparently being a Mudblood in the outside world was worse than being one in Slytherin House.
And wasn’t that just fucking festive.

***
The parchment in her pocket felt heavier than it had an hour ago. Her fingers twitched toward it again, but she stopped herself. She already knew what it said.

She thought about her dad—his worn duffel coat, his lopsided grin, the way he always over-steeped his tea and claimed it gave it character. She imagined him standing in their kitchen, reading her letter under the ugly fluorescent light he never got around to replacing. And then getting the owl from Hogwarts. And then writing back, trying to sound calm, measured, like everything was fine.

But if the school had reached out to him directly—if they were warning Muggle parents not to bring their children home—then things were worse than he was letting on. A lot worse.

It wasn’t just the storm outside. It was the one waiting beyond the castle gates.

Emma felt a sharp pang in her chest.

Her dad was stubborn. He believed in people. In good things. In the system, even. He’d marched for rights, wrote letters to MPs, paid for her textbooks second-hand and told her she could change the world.

But she didn’t need him to believe in the world right now. She needed him to survive it.

And if that meant hiding—really hiding, the way witches and wizards did during the war—then so be it.

She stood, legs stiff from sitting too long, and made her way up to her dorm. Her roommates were gone already, their beds neat and trunks missing, the whole room echoing with absence. She pulled her writing kit from the drawer, sat at the desk, and lit a small lamp.

The parchment trembled a little as she unrolled it. Or maybe that was just her.

Her quill hovered over the page for a second too long before she finally began to write.

Dad,
You need to go and find somewhere safe and stay there until this all ends. Don’t wait for more owls. Don’t wait for someone to tell you it’s time. It’s already time.
I’ll be okay. Hogwarts is protected. And I have... people. Sort of. Enough. Just promise me you’ll disappear for a while. Promise me you’ll take this seriously.
Don’t be brave. Be smart. Please.
I love you.
—Emma

She signed it, folded it, and pressed the parchment to her lips for half a second before sealing it. Then she grabbed her coat and boots, made the trek through the drafty corridors to the Owlery, and sent it off into the storm.

She hoped to Merlin he listened.

Suddenly, an unknown owl swooped past her, dropping a crisp parchment envelope into her hands.

She turned the smooth paper over to find Slughorn’s lopsided “S”, pressed deep into red wax. She cracked it open and scanned the contents.

Miss Ryan,
I do hope you’ll join us for a bit of seasonal cheer! Formal attire expected. Chocolate fountains inevitable. 8pm. Slug Club Christmas Gathering — as discussed at Quidditch practice.
—H.S.

Right. She’d forgotten about that.

At the time, it had felt like a joke—her, being invited to the Slug Club party. But Hermione had nudged her during practice and whispered, “At least you can help me avoid McLaggen.” So, she’d mumbled an awkward thanks, not really thinking anything would come of it.

Now here it was. A real invitation. On real parchment. With a real chance of chocolate fountains, apparently.

Still holding the letter, she made her way down to the Great Hall, already knowing who she'd find there.

Hermione was at the end of Gryffindor table, reading through some ancient-looking book and scribbling in the margins. She looked up when Emma dropped onto the bench across from her, raising an eyebrow.

“You look like you walked through a blizzard,” Hermione said mildly, setting her quill down.

“I basically did,” Emma replied, handing over the letter. “Also, this came.”

Hermione’s eyes scanned it quickly, then she smiled. “See? Told you.”

Emma tried to return it, but her face didn’t quite cooperate.

Hermione studied her. “You alright?”

There was a pause. Then Emma reached into her coat and pulled out the crumpled parchment she still hadn’t put away.

“My dad got a letter,” she said softly. “From the school. Telling him not to bring me home for the holidays. That it’s not safe for muggle borns out there. He told me to stay put. Said he’d see me soon. I just... sent a letter back telling him to go into hiding.”

Hermione’s face went pale. She reached out, not hesitating, and covered Emma’s hand with hers.

“My parents got the same letter,” she said quietly. “I haven’t told them yet. But... I think I’m going to have to do something.”

Emma frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been researching memory charms,” Hermione said, voice low, like she was afraid of someone overhearing. “If it gets worse—if they start tracking us or going after families—I’m going to alter their memories. Make them think they’re someone else. Australians, maybe. Somewhere far. Somewhere safe.”

A brittle laugh escaped her lips, but there was no real humour in it.

Emma stared at her, the weight of it hitting hard. “You’d do that?”

Hermione nodded, her grip tightening just slightly. “It’s the only way I can make sure they won’t come looking for me. Or get caught because of me.”

For a moment, the noise of the Great Hall faded out completely. Emma felt like she was underwater, the pressure of everything pushing in at once.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” she whispered.

“Neither did I,” Hermione said. “But now… I’m not waiting around for it to get worse.”

They sat in silence, but it wasn’t hollow. It wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of silence that held too much, that made the air feel thick and meaningful.

After a while, Hermione gave her hand one more squeeze. “You should still go to the party. Seriously. You’ve got the invitation now. Wear something pretty. Let Slughorn drone on about his own brilliance while you eat six chocolate-dipped strawberries. Just… give yourself a night to breathe.”

Emma let out a slow breath, something loosening in her chest. “I don’t own anything fancy.”

“I’ll lend you something,” Hermione said instantly. “And I swear, no tulle. I promise.”

That pulled a real smile out of her—small, crooked, a little cracked around the edges, but still there.

“Okay,” Emma said softly. “You win. I’ll go.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the castle was still groaning under the weight of the storm. Snow had buried the windows so deep the light inside was blue and dim, like being underwater. Every hallway was quieter than usual, every stone colder. Even the portraits had bundled themselves in scarves or gone to sleep entirely.

Emma found Theodore in the common room again, in his favourite chair near the firepit. He was hunched slightly, one hand braced against his jaw as he stared at the flames. His other hand twirled a cigarette between his fingers with practiced ease, like it was muscle memory more than habit. The cigarette was bent at the filter like he’d crushed it in his palm and smoothed it back out again.

His eyes didn’t meet hers when she sat down—just skimmed over her like she was furniture.

It made Emma shiver.

But his eyes... his eyes had always been sharp. Cutting. Full of something she couldn’t name, something electric and alive, even when he was being awful. But recently they had been... dull. Guarded. Like the shutters had come down behind them. They were empty, they looked dead. Like he didn’t sleep. Emma was convinced he doesn’t sleep.

It was like he’d locked the real version of himself somewhere deep inside, and whatever she was looking at now was just the echo.

She stared at him a moment too long.

“What?” he said flatly, not looking away from the window.

“Nothing,” she replied quickly. “Just... you look like hell.”

His mouth curled at the corner, but it wasn’t a smile. “Sweet of you.”

Emma pulled her legs up into the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Do you like smoking those?”

He finally looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah.”

“Why—?”

“I like the way it feels,” he muttered. “In my hands and my head. When things are… loud.”

Emma frowned. “Loud?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned the cigarette slowly between his fingers again, eyes dropping to it like it was the only thing tethering him to the room.

“You shouldn’t go to that party,” he said, suddenly.

Emma’s brow furrowed. “What, Slughorn’s thing?”

Theodore nodded once, jaw tightening.

“I already said I’m going. Hermione’s making me.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a second, something flickered there—something sharp and pained—but then it vanished, snuffed out before she could pin it down.

“You don’t understand, Emma,” he said softly. “Some of us don’t get to choose who we’re loyal to.”

Her chest tightened.

She sat very still, unsure what to say. She didn’t know what he meant, not exactly, but the weight in his voice said enough. Said too much.

He looked away again. “Thank you for the other night. At the party.”

Emma froze. Holy awkward. She could feel her face heating up. “Don’t mention it,” she muttered, trying to make herself look busy by playing with the end of her hair.
“You just... seemed to know what to do. Didn’t have to ask.” His fingers tightened around the cigarette. So tightly the paper crinkled.

She blinked, surprised at his words. “Oh, yeah,” she replied, trying to sound casual, even though she was anything but. “The secret ‘How to Handle a Moody, Self-Destructive Slytherin’ guide. It’s a bestseller. Totally.” She immediately regretted it, of course.Great job, Em she thought. You just made it worse.

Then, just like that, he stood up. Abrupt. Hollow-eyed. Still not looking at her.

“They’re monitoring families now,” he said, quiet, but firm. “Muggle-borns. Anyone they think might run. They’re claiming it’s all Ministry-sanctioned.”

Emma stopped in her tracks, heart pounding.

And then he was gone. Out the door, into the corridors, boots echoing until she couldn’t hear them anymore.

***

That night, Emma lay awake in the dormitory long after the others had gone to sleep. Her curtains were drawn shut, wand lit under the blankets, the faint glow illuminating the letter from her dad—creased, soft at the corners, as if it had aged decades in her hands.

It’s not safe. Not right now... Stay close to your professors. Be smart. Stay safe. Love, Dad

She read it again.

And again.

And again.

Outside, the storm raged. Wind slammed against the windows like fists, and snow swallowed the world beyond. Emma felt like the castle wasn’t sheltering her anymore—it was sealing her in. Holding her like a secret. Trapped her between stone walls while the world collapsed outside.

She pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come.

Her mind spun with everything she couldn’t fix. Her father, probably already packing to disappear into some new identity. The Ministry whispering through firelit meetings and surveillance charms. The sharp edge in Theo’s voice. The dullness in his eyes.

The helplessness built in her chest like a scream she couldn’t release, and she buried her face in the pillow. The tears came quietly. No sobs, no sound. Just hot, aching trails down her cheeks until they soaked into the cotton and vanished.

Chapter Text

“Do not let me leave this dorm with glitter eyeshadow,” Hermione warned, eyeing herself in the mirror like she expected it to attack.

Emma grinned as she twisted her wand, fixing a shimmer charm into place on Hermione’s soft curls. “It’s festive. You look like a Christmas fairy with a vendetta.”
“That’s not as comforting as you think.”

Their laughter bounced off the walls, warm and girlish and just a little hysterical. The room smelled like perfume and candle wax and something floral Emma couldn’t place—probably Lavender’s fault. It felt good to dress up, to laugh, to forget for five minutes.

To forget that an owl had returned that morning.

Her dad had written back.

He said he would wait until summer—that they’d go into hiding together. That he was proud of her. That he loved her.

Emma didn’t know how to feel about it. Relief, maybe. Or dread. Or guilt for wishing she could stay in this moment longer, in glitter and perfume and laughter. Because none of this was going to last.
Emma adjusted the sleeves of her dress — pink, off the shoulder — and felt, for a moment, like someone else. Someone lighter. She twirled in front of the mirror. “Snape would hate this.”

Hermione snorted. “Snape hates everything. But yes, I think we’ve achieved full Professor McGonagall heart attack.”

They left the dorm arm-in-arm, heels clicking down the corridor like war drums, laughter bubbling between them. Hermione had curled her hair in soft waves, muttering something about “civil disobedience via aesthetics,” and Emma had on lip gloss so sticky she was certain it could trap a Cornish pixie if she tried hard enough.

The potions classroom had never looked this ridiculous. Golden lights draped the walls like vines, steam curled from floating platters of hors d'oeuvres that looked slightly too alive, and a live orchestra of woodwinds floated in translucent blue above the crowd. It was warm—too warm—and crammed with students, professors, and a truly offensive number of floating candles. Somewhere, Slughorn was laughing like he'd invented merriment. The two girls greeted him with bright smiles and excessive politeness, which seemed to be the only acceptable currency around Slughorn anyway.

“Miss Granger! Miss Ryan!” he beamed, “Radiant, both of you. Ten points to Gryffindor and—” he paused, squinting, “—wherever you’re from, dear.”

“Slytherin,” Emma said sweetly. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Slughorn roared with laughter, clapping her on the back with enough force to dislodge a lung. “That’s the spirit!”

They escaped before he could start listing famous Ministry cousins for the eighth time. Emma was fairly sure he’d already repeated one of them under a different name. Hermione took a goblet of something suspiciously fizzy from a floating tray and muttered, “I swear if he tries to hook me up with one more ‘charming young curse breaker,’ I’m hexing my own ears off.”

“I’m just trying to make it to dessert without tripping over a minor aristocrat,” Emma said.

Hermione chocked mid hors d'oeuvre, causing Emma to nearly spit out her drink. The dark eyed girl had spotted McLaggen, throwing herself tactically behind a decorative suit of armour. “Absolutely not.”

“His face is irking me,” Emma said, deadpan. “Look, don’t worry. He hasn’t proposed. Yet.”

“He cornered me last week in the library and asked if I liked the concept of meat. I don’t know what that means.”

“I think it means you should fake your own death if he makes eye contact.”

They both laughed, but it was interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice.

“Is that really the best plan?” Harry Potter said from behind them, a teasing grin on his face.

Emma shot him a side-eye, then shrugged. “Not a bad one. I mean, I’m all for self-preservation.”

“Sounds like good advice,” Harry quipped, leaning against the nearby pillar. “But just don’t die too dramatically—you know how McLaggen gets. You’ll be giving him ideas for his next proposal.”

Hermione was bright red. “Ok. Next person to use ‘McLaggen’ and ‘proposal’ in the same sentence is getting their hair hexed off.”

Harry’s grin widened, and for a moment, Emma found herself actually enjoying his presence.

They mingled. Danced. Played a silent game of “Most Likely to Cry in the Bathroom Before Dessert” and bet on which Ravenclaw would fall victim to the lethal combo of too much butterbeer and unprocessed academic pressure. Emma caught a glimpse of Professor Sprout aggressively hitting on Professor Vector near the punch bowl. She offered no further comment.
For a brief, shining moment, it felt like the world was kind again.

And then Draco Malfoy walked in.

His hair was damp like he’d just apparated through a snowstorm, and his robes were slightly wrinkled in a way that Draco Malfoy never allowed. He was pale—more than usual—and his expression was brittle, frantic. His eyes scanned the crowd like he’d misplaced something vital.

And then they landed—sharp, purposeful—on Emma.

Before anyone could react, a figure from the door grabbed Draco’s arm and dragged him forward, muttering angrily, “What are you doing here? This isn’t a public event, Malfoy!”

Draco struggled, but his eyes never left Emma’s. “I need to speak with her. It’s important.”

But the person pulling him forward didn’t seem to care. They shoved him toward the edge of the room, causing a ripple of uncomfortable murmurs among the students.

Emma’s stomach dropped. Something was terribly wrong.

“Ah, Draco. There you are,” Snape’s voice rang out, smooth and unreadable. He stepped forward, his hand landing firmly on Draco’s shoulder as he turned the young Slytherin toward him. “I trust everything went... smoothly?”

Draco flinched under Snape’s grip, his eyes flashing with panic. “Fine. Yes. Just—” His words were clipped, rushed. “I— I need to talk to Emma. Now.”

Snape’s expression darkened, and he pulled Draco away. “No need to involve other students. Mr. Malfoy has been under some strain lately—”

“Let her come,” Draco snapped suddenly, his tone sharp and desperate. “You don’t know what they—what Theodore did—”

His name was like a punch to her stomach. Snape glanced at Emma, his dark eyes narrowing with impatience, before giving a slight nod. “Fine,” he muttered, though there was a definite edge to his words. “Miss Ryan. If we could have a moment of your time.”

Emma felt Hermione’s fingers tighten around hers, a quiet but urgent pressure. “Go. Let me know he’s alright,” Hermione murmured, her voice barely a whisper, laced with the same concern Emma felt.

Emma nodded, though her heart raced as she stepped forward, her mind reeling with the sudden intensity of Draco’s plea. She followed Snape and Draco through the side door, her steps echoing in the cold hallway.

Behind her, the door swung shut with a faint click, and for a moment, the weight of the silence was suffocating. Emma could feel every eye on her back as she walked away from the safety of the crowded room, her thoughts swirling in confusion and dread.

Draco’s voice was strained as he spoke to Snape in the shadowed hallway. His words were clipped, but the desperation behind them was clear.

“You can’t—Professor, I—I don’t know who else to ask.” He winced slightly; his face contorted in pain. “They… they’re pushing me too hard. I’m not ready. Not for any of this.” His voice faltered for a moment, but he caught himself, his eyes darting to the floor as if to escape the weight of what he was saying. “They didn’t care. They sent us back here like it was normal, like nothing had happened. Just... ‘get back to your duties -'”

Snape’s gaze was unwavering, sharp and calculating. “Draco, this is not the time. I warned you. You don’t know who else is listening,” he muttered, his voice hard, yet laced with something closer to annoyance than concern.

Draco shook his head, his jaw clenched. “I don’t care,” he bit out, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “I don’t have anyone else. You’re the only one who can help.” His voice cracked, and his composure was beginning to falter. “I don’t know what to do, Professor. I—” He cut himself off quickly, the words caught in his throat as though he realised too late that Emma was approaching.

Emma’s footsteps slowed as she saw the brief flicker of vulnerability on Draco’s face—an emotion she wasn’t used to seeing there, especially not from him. His eyes locked with hers.

“She’s coming with me,” Draco snapped suddenly, his tone sharp and desperate. “Unless you want me to inform my father why you couldn’t attend tonight.”

Snape glanced at Emma, his dark eyes narrowing with impatience, before giving a slight nod. “Fine,” he muttered, though there was a definite edge to his words. “Miss Ryan, I ask you to keep the events that will follow to yourself. Understand that for some reason, these boys—Malfoy, particularly—trust you to an extent. I do not know why, but I will not tolerate any talk of this beyond what is necessary. I am extremely wary of anyone knowing what is happening here.”

Emma nodded quickly, her thoughts still racing. The weight of Snape’s words settled on her, and though she wanted to ask more, she knew better than to press him. She could feel the tension tightening in her chest, her instincts telling her that whatever Draco was involved in, it was dangerous—and she had no idea what she was walking into.

Without another word, Snape turned and stalked off down the hall, heading toward the potions room, muttering under his breath. Draco jerked his head toward Emma, his expression still tight, his eyes pleading with an unspoken urgency.

“Come on,” he whispered, his voice strained. “We need to get to the common room. Quickly.”

Emma didn’t respond. She just ran.

Chapter Text

Emma’s heart pounded in her chest as she and Draco rushed through the corridors, the urgency of the moment driving them forward, the heavy silence between them punctuated only by the sound of their frantic footsteps. Draco didn’t say a word as they neared the entrance to the Slytherin common room, his face pale, eyes flicking nervously over his shoulder.

He quickly spat out the password, pushing open the door before it could even swing wide enough for them to enter. Draco began moving towards the boys’ dormitories, gesturing for Emma to follow.

“He-he just collapsed when we got here. He was shaking, I didn’t know what to do.”

“What happened?”

Draco’s eyes flickered, his face pale. “Crucioed. Five times. Within two hours.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the kind of panic that she hadn’t heard from him before.

It was a punch to Emma’s stomach. He didn’t need to say anything else. She pushed past Draco, feeling her pulse quicken as they reached the door to the dorms. Emma just needed to make sure he was okay, even though part of her was terrified of what she might find.

She swung door open, pausing slightly to steady herself, allowing the room to come into focus. The sight of the dimly lit space only deepened the pit of dread in her stomach and Emma’s eyes immediately fell on Theodore. He was slumped against the wall, his breathing erratic and shallow, the colour drained from his face.

A cold wave of panic surged through her, but she fought it down, moving toward him. Every step felt too slow, as if the room was pressing in on her, suffocating her with the weight of everything she couldn’t control.

Draco lingered in the doorway, his shadow stretching into the room as he stayed back, his face unreadable. His voice was tight as he spoke, low and urgent. “I-I couldn’t... I couldn’t get him to respond.”

“Theodore? It’s Emma.” she whispered, her voice barely audible, crouching next to him.

His eyelids fluttered, and for a split second, she thought he might wake up. But then his breath hitched, a small groan escaping him, and Emma’s fear deepened. He was here, but he wasn’t with her—he was somewhere far away. Emma’s heart clenched as she watched him struggle, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her robes in a vain attempt to steady herself. She could see the cuts on his face now, the small marks of his pain, raw and red against the pale skin of his jaw and cheek. She couldn’t look away. Her fingers hovered over his skin, trembling as though the touch could make a difference, as though it could bring him back from whatever nightmare he was trapped in.

She looked up at Draco.

“Go downstairs, Snape will be here soon. Make sure he hurries.”

Draco hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between Emma and Theodore, his lips pressed into a tight line as though he was about to protest. But one look at her face—the raw desperation in her eyes—silenced him. With a sharp nod, he turned on his heel, his footsteps quick and distant as he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Emma alone with Theodore.

As she carefully moved his head to her lap, she felt the faint warmth of his blood against her skin. His blood slowly seeping through the pink fabric of her dress, staining the soft silk. The crimson marks were seeping into the material, creasing it, ruining it, but Emma didn’t care.

“Theodore, I know all you want to do right now is sleep,” she murmured, her voice breaking the silence, “but you have to stay with me for a little bit longer. Please.”

Her voice was soft, a quiet plea against the stillness of the room, as she adjusted him gently in her lap. Her fingers trembled against his skin, but she forced herself to steady them, unwilling to show the fear clawing at her chest. She needed him to hear her, needed him to hold on just a little longer.

“Theo,” she whispered again, this time her voice barely audible, her blonde hair dangling, creating a shielded curtain around them.

His eyes flickered open just slightly, a faint glimmer of recognition in his gaze, but he didn’t speak. She could see the strain in his face, the fight against whatever was holding him down, and the raw, untold pain behind his eyes.

Her heart twisted at the sight of him— she could see it in the way his brow furrowed, the way he fought against whatever was threatening to drag him under. He was terrified, and she had never felt more helpless in her life.

The room felt impossibly still, the silence stretching out, punctuated only by the shallow, uneven breaths coming from him. But then—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, echoing from the doorway. Emma’s heart skipped a beat as she looked up. Draco and Snape had arrived.

Draco’s eyes darted across the scene before him, settling on Theodore with a sharp, unreadable gaze. His jaw clenched, his hands fidgeting at his sides, as if he was fighting the impulse to do something—anything—to fix this. But there was nothing to be done.

Snape, as cold and collected as ever, stood a step behind Draco, his gaze fixed on the boy in Emma’s arms. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, nor did he offer any words of comfort. His presence alone was commanding enough to fill the room with a quiet tension.

“Move aside, Miss Ryan,” Snape’s voice was low, almost unnervingly calm. Emma hesitated, her arms moving on instinct around the boy in her lap, but she knew she had no choice.
Slowly, with great reluctance, she leaned back slightly, allowing his head to stay propped in her lap. Emma swallowed hard, wiping the blood from her fingers, still not caring about the dress that had been ruined—her only focus now was Theodore.

Snape moved swiftly, taking out a vial from his robes, his sharp eyes flicking to Draco for just a moment. “This will help him,” Snape said in his usual clipped tone. The professor hovered over Theodore for a brief second before uncorking the vial and tipping it carefully into his mouth.

Emma held her breath, watching intently as Snape administered the potion, the sharp scent of it filling the air for just a moment before fading away. Her fingers trembled as they hovered just above Theodore’s skin, longing to touch him but afraid that any movement might cause him more pain. But then—something shifted. Theodore’s body stopped trembling so violently. His breathing, once erratic and shallow, steadied.

His face, still pale and marred by cuts, softened, the tension in his features easing slightly as the effects of the potion took hold. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Emma’s breath catch in her throat.

Snape, however, wasted no time in stepping back, his sharp gaze lingering over Theodore for a moment longer before moving towards the door.

“I’ve done what I can,” Snape said, his voice low but purposeful. “He’ll be fine, eventually. But the damage he’s sustained… it’s not something you can just brush off.” He met Emma’s gaze, his eyes unreadable as always. “He’ll need to be watched carefully for the next few hours. No one can know about this—not your friends, not Madame Pomfrey. No one.”

Snape’s eyes flicked over to Draco, who remained quiet, watching the scene unfold with a frown on his face. “Neither of you is to speak of this to anyone. Understand?”

Emma opened her mouth to protest, to argue that she couldn’t just sit by and pretend nothing had happened, but she saw the finality in Snape’s expression—the same finality that came with a command, not a suggestion.

She closed her mouth, her chest tight with frustration, but she knew there was nothing more to say.

“We’ll stay with him,” Emma said softly, her voice trembling but firm. She wasn’t leaving him.

Snape’s gaze softened just the smallest bit, though his face remained as stern as ever. “See that you do,” he muttered, handing her a small vial. “Draught of peace, when you can.”

He paused for a moment. “I have things to attend to, and you will need to keep him still. If he does not wake by morning, Draco, come and get me.”

With that, Snape turned on his heel and swept out of the room, leaving Emma and Draco alone in the stillness.

Emma stayed with Theodore’s head in her lap for a long moment after Snape left, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in her ears. The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the room, and the weight of everything—his injuries, the fear, the silence—pressed down on her like a second skin.

She glanced up at Draco, who hadn’t moved from where he stood by the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked pale, drained—like someone who’d seen too much too fast.
“You should go,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. “I mean, if you need to. I get it.”

Draco met her eyes, then glanced away. “I just... I need a minute. And I need to—there’s someone I have to see.”

Emma gave a small nod. She didn’t ask who. Emma remembered their conversation, about who Draco confides in. She thinks she knew who he meant.

But right now, she didn’t really give a shit.

“Before you go,” she added, shifting slightly, her legs sore from the stone floor, “can you help me move him? He shouldn’t stay here—not like this.”

Draco stepped forward immediately, his usual hesitation gone. “Yeah. Of course.”

Emma handed him the potion first, given to her by Snape. He placed it on the bedside table, before moving to gently lift Theodore’s head from her lap. His blood had dried onto the fabric of her dress, the once-elegant material now rumpled and stained. She didn’t care. Not in the slightest.

Together, they moved Theo—Draco carefully sliding his arms beneath his back and knees, Emma cradling his head as though it might break. They lifted him slowly, gingerly, every movement deliberate.

Draco placed him on the bed with a gentleness Emma had never seen him possess. He tucked his best friend under the blankets, as if Theodore would break if he was too harsh. Draco stood, gazing down at him for a long moment, his face sharp in the dim firelight. His hands clenched at his sides, then relaxed—twice—as if he was caught between holding on and letting go.

Emma watched him quietly, something unspoken settling in the space between them. His eyes were identifying injuries, noting the blood, counting the bruises. She could see it in his posture, in the way his jaw tightened.

“Draco,” she said softly, “I’ll clean him up. I can take care of the cuts.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t hear his screams. He passed out after the sixth time. I thought he was dead.” He paused. "It was meant for me. The Cruciatus."

Emma's breath hitched, her hand instinctively reaching out, catching Draco’s sleeve like that tiny contact might anchor them both.

“Merlin, Draco—” she breathed, softly.

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.

“He took it,” Draco said, voice low, strangled. “They laughed. Said watching me watch was more fun.”

Emma opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat—too small, too useless against something so cruel. She searched his face, hoping for something to say that could make it better, make it lighter. But there was nothing.

Just pain.

She looked over at Theo, still unconscious, still breathing.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.

Draco didn’t look at her.

So, she said the only thing she could.

“He’s going to be fine. I promise.”

It felt flimsy. Weak. But she meant it with everything she had.

Even if she wasn’t sure it was true.

Draco didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ryan.”

He shook her hand off, stepping back from the bed. Then he turned to Emma. “I have to go. Thank you. For this.”

“Be careful,” she murmured.

“If you need me”, he paused, considering his next words, “I’ll be upstairs. Seventh floor.”

“Okay,” she whispered, meeting his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Draco gave her one last look—nodding his head, as if to thank her. Then he turned and walked out, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Emma exhaled slowly, as if only now remembering how to breathe. She turned back to Theodore, whose hands had begun to spasm under the blanket—sharp, twitching movements that made the sheets rustle. She wasn’t alarmed. She’d seen it before.

She sat down next to him gently, grabbing the Draught of Peace off the bedside table before leaning against the bedhead. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she uncorked the vial, the soft scent of chamomile and lilac drifting up from the potion. It was still warm—Snape must have brewed it recently.

Emma tilted it carefully toward his lips. Their colour had come back, and she noticed the freckles that danced around them—ones she’d never paid attention to before, hidden beneath months of distance, anger, and shadows. When he was sleeping, they made him look young.

He stirred faintly, his brow furrowing at the taste, but instinct seemed to win out. His body seemed to grow heavier, like some invisible weight had loosened its grip on him. His breathing evened, the stuttering rhythm smoothing out as the potion did its work.

Emma let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Her fingers brushed a stray curl from his forehead, tender in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to be until now.
“You scared the shit out of me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “You wanker.”

His hands, which had continued twitching beneath the covers, finally began to settle.

Then, quietly, she began to heal him. Small cuts first—delicate flicks of her wand across the bruised skin of his cheek and jaw. She worked slowly, methodically, her hands finally steady. This she could do. This was something within her power.

The cuts on his hands were deeper, uglier. She hovered her wand there for a moment, teeth pressing into her bottom lip, then murmured Vulnera Sanentur under her breath. The skin began to knit together, slowly, but it would leave a scar.

Emma swallowed hard. She itched to move his sleeve higher. Validate what she already thought.

She knew he was hiding things from her, things he would never say aloud. This would be the first straight answer Emma would get. But as her hand lingered there, her mind was a swirl of emotions—fear, betrayal, worry, guilt.

That dark, twisted symbol that had haunted every corner of his life, dragging him deeper into a world he never asked for.

She hesitated, the battle raging inside her. She thought of her father, Hermione, the other muggle borns. The people she loved. The danger, the risks. All of it.

And then, as if her curiosity and self-restraint had been quietly plotting against her, she saw it. Just the edge. A dark outline on his skin, a sickly-sweet little reminder of everything he couldn’t escape. It looked almost... disgruntled. The skin around it was blotchy and raw, bleeding in some places.

Emma’s stomach gave a little lurch, but not because of the mark. No, it was the cruel realisation that this was his life now. The mark wasn’t a bad habit he could quit. It wasn’t an awkward phase he could grow out of. It was there, permanent and etched into his soul like it had been written in blood.

A strange, uncomfortable feeling bubbled up inside her, and she hated how it felt so much like sympathy—that thing she’d once sworn was reserved for the likes of... well, not him. The old, stubborn resentment stirred in her chest, too, the one that had been there every time she’d squared off against him. But now, seeing the mark, feeling the weight of it all, she realised she wasn’t just angry at him anymore.

She swallowed hard, remembering the night at the astronomy tower. People are complicated. The world isn’t made up of good and evil.
God, what a mess.

Her fingers hovered over the angry, darkened skin like it might bite her if she got too close. Part of her wanted to just—well, fix it. Wave her wand, cast a spell, poof—all gone. But she knew better. It wasn’t something she could magic away. It wasn’t something she could fix.

And yet, there it was—her fingers twitching, wanting to trace that ugly thing on his skin. To soothe it. Maybe to prove, even to herself, that she could make some dent in his burden. But, instead, she pulled her hand back slowly, not sure what was worse—knowing what she’d seen or not knowing what to do with it now. Could she even look at him the same way again? Was this the part where everything changed? Or worse, the part where it had already changed, and she had missed it?

Her head felt too full of questions and what-ifs to think straight. But one thing was clear—she couldn’t just walk away now. Theodore needed her. That was... definitely something she could control.

So, she shifted her focus back to the here and now. His hands. He wasn’t beyond saving, not yet. She could still fix what she could.

And damn it, if she wasn’t going to do just that.

Chapter Text

The fire had long since burned down to embers, casting faint glows across the room, but Emma hardly noticed. She had hadn’t slept. Her fingers were still gently combing through Theodore’s hair, lost in thought. Draco was still on the seventh floor, Emma assumed. The weight of everything pressing on her chest—the dark mark, the promises she couldn’t keep, the fear of what would come next.

A soft groan pulled her from her thoughts, and she froze. Theodore’s eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly, his gaze cloudy and unfocused. His body twitched, restless under the blanket, and Emma’s heart clenched. He was still too pale, too broken.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice soft, though her breath caught in her throat. “Theo? Welcome back.”

His eyes blinked a few times, squinting against the dim light. Then his gaze settled on her, confusion clouding his features before recognition flickered. He looked at her as though he wasn’t entirely sure if she was real.

"What... what happened?" His voice was rough, strained, like he’d been screaming for hours—because, well, he had.

Emma didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, bringing it to his lips. He took a few sips, then winced, clearly feeling the pain still gnawing at him.
"You're safe," she said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind in her chest. "You're here. That’s all that matters."

His brow furrowed, then relaxed, like he was trying to place her words, trying to remember where he was, what had happened. But when his eyes found hers again, there was something different in them—something darker, more distant. The flicker of emotion was gone, replaced with the cold, hard mask that had been there before. The one he wore to protect himself.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp hiss escaped him. His body trembled as the pain seemed to catch up with him all at once, the quiet tremors turning into more violent shakes. Emma’s hand was there immediately, pressing him gently back down.

“Don’t. You need to rest.”

He shook his head, his eyes unfocused for a moment. "I can't just lie here, Emma." His voice had a raw edge to it, as if the weight of what he was hiding was suffocating him.

“Please.” Emma's grip on his arm tightened, trying to find his eyes with hers. “You’ve gone through hell and back tonight. Literally.”

When he looked at her, his expression was vulnerable again. No walls. He was too weak for them right now, she assumed. He shifted again, this time with a resigned sigh, like the weight of everything was finally too much. He let her help him settle back, and as he lay there, the tension in his body seemed to ease—just a little.

“Emma,” he whispered, the sound barely audible, as though he was still too weak to speak. She leaned closer, her heart hammering in her chest, and he repeated it again. "Emma... what happened? I don’t—"

“Not right now, alright?” she snapped, sharper than intended. Her voice trembled with restraint. She tried to pull away, but his hand caught her wrist—firm, surprisingly strong for someone who’d been half-dead an hour ago.

His eyes locked on hers, wide and hazy, but laced with something darker beneath the confusion.

“No,” he croaked. “Don’t walk away. I like you like this, pretending to care.”

Her breath caught. Her entire body froze.

It was as if he had cursed her, using the most painful spell he could conjure.

“You think I pretend to care? she whispered, her voice low and dangerous.

He saw it—the way her jaw clenched, the flare of hurt in her eyes before the fury rose to cover it.

“You think this was easy?” her fingers curling into fists. “Watching you disappear for months, lying to everyone—lying to me—then showing up like this? Beaten within an inch of your life and acting like I’m the problem?”

She closed the distance between them. “Maybe I should’ve just pretended. I should’ve. Maybe then I wouldn’t be losing sleep wondering what the fuck is going on with you.”
Her pulse was wild now. She’d taken the bait, all right— he had no clue what he’d just unleashed.

His grip tightened. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you to—”

“To what? Give a fuck?” she snapped. “You’ve been unravelling for months, Theodore! You’re a fucking mess!” Her breath heaved. She was so close he could feel the heat rolling off her skin, her words landing like slaps.

“Your own best mate came to me—begged me—to help you,” she hissed. “Because even he couldn’t reach you anymore.”

She saw the flicker in his expression—something like guilt, or fear—and it made her press in harder, voice tight.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not an idiot Theodore,” she muttered, eyes locked on his. “I know where you’ve been. I’m not stupid.” Her voice wavered, just for a second, then steadied into steel. “Maybe I don’t know exactly what they did to you, or why. But I know it wasn’t just some wholesome Christmas party you and Draco were at tonight. And I know who they are.”

She paused, breathing hard. “You don’t have to say it. I already know. And it kills me that you still thought you had to go through it alone.”

Theo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the slight tremor in his grip on her wrist betrayed him.

“You really want to know what Draco told me? About tonight?”

Emma’s voice was tight, controlled but seething with frustration. She watched the way his eyes darted away, as if avoiding the confrontation.

Her gaze hardened. “He told me you took a crucio for him. Five times. Two fucking hours of it, Theo. You were tortured—broken—and you would’ve tried to hide it. So, tell me again... how was that easier than letting me help?”

Theodore’s breath hitched. His eyes closed briefly, as if the weight of her words were enough to make him want to disappear. He could feel her anger, her pain—how it burned just as fiercely as the shame he tried to bury.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he whispered hoarsely, voice breaking. “I didn’t think you would want to-”

Her eyes softened, but only just. “You really think I would’ve walked away after everything you’ve been through?” she asked, her voice quieter now, but the hurt still sharp in every word. “You think I would’ve just left you to deal with all of that alone?”

Theo swallowed hard, unable to meet her eyes. He didn’t know how to explain it—the shame of it all, the feeling that if she saw him like this, weak and broken, she’d never look at him the same. But the look in her eyes, the way she was standing there, so close, still waiting for him to say something—he couldn’t take it back anymore.

“Most people do,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know, alright. I just... didn’t want to drag you into my mess. Not like this.”

Emma’s breath caught, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before it hardened again. “Theodore, we’re already in it. You’re not the only one who’s been living in this mess. All of your friends, we just want to help.” She whispered, exasperated. "I’ve been here, Theo. I’ve been here every time you pushed me away. And I’m done letting you decide when I get to care.”

The air between them crackled.

He swallowed hard, his jaw tight. “I don’t... I don’t know how to let people in.”

She didn’t soften.

“Then you’re going to have to learn.”

Chapter Text

Emma woke up with a sharp pain in her neck—like someone had used it to test the strength of a Bludger swing. She blinked hard, trying to orient herself. She sat up off the bedhead, her lower back was plotting a revolt.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, rubbing her neck. “I’ve aged fifty years overnight.”

But as the fog of sleep began to clear, her gaze first fell on her pink gown, bloodied and creased. Then, her eyes moved to Theodore—still asleep, still breathing—and everything came rushing back.
The fight. The blood. The fear. Her voice shouting his name like it could anchor him to the world. His hand in hers, barely holding on.

And now, here he was. Alive. Asleep. Next to her.

Emma’s stomach churned, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him. Hers fingers twitched, like his did last night. Emma wanted to wake him to ensure he was ok, but she hesitated. This is probably the first he had slept properly in months.

He looked so gentle while he was asleep. The sharp angles of his face had softened, the tight lines between his brows finally smooth. In sleep, he didn’t carry the weight of the war or the pressure of keeping secrets. He looked younger. Lighter. Almost like the boy he might’ve been, if life had dealt him a kinder hand. She thought of last night. Of the way his blood had stained her hands and how he shook in her arms.

Emma hugged her knees to her chest, careful not to shift the mattress too much. She didn’t want to wake him—not yet. Not when the shadows had finally let him go, even just for a little while.
She should feel relief. And she did. But it was tangled with something sharp and aching.

Guilt.

Because he had asked her not to go to Slughorn’s. Because she wasn’t there when they had gotten back. Because when he finally collapsed, she didn’t know – she was too busy at a fucking party. What the hell kind of friend did that?

The door creaked open, and Emma tensed slightly, breaking out of her spiral of guilt. Draco stepped into the room, looking like he had just finished a battle with his own thoughts—his hair mussed, his expression carefully guarded.

“How’s he doing?” Draco’s voice was low, like he was afraid the answer would break something fragile.

“Alive,” Emma answered dryly, still staring at Theo. “Still asleep. So, I guess it’s going well?”

Draco didn’t look convinced. “Did he wake up during the night?”

Emma didn’t look at him. Instead, she just nodded slowly. “Yeah, but he fell back asleep. No biggie.”

Draco didn’t respond for a moment. She could almost feel the weight of the things he wasn’t saying. The things neither of them said. He let out a quiet breath before moving into the room more fully.
“Are you alright?” His voice was soft, like he was trying to make sure she wasn’t going to suddenly combust.

Emma shot him a quick glance, then looked away. “I’m great,” she said with a tight smile, the words a little too sharp. “Nothing a bit of caffeine and existential dread can’t fix.”

Draco’s lips twitched, almost like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. After a beat, he just gave a small nod. “Right. Well, go shower or something. You look like you need it.”

Emma eyed him, her gaze flicking to his neck where a dark, purplish bruise marred his otherwise pristine skin. It stood out against his pale complexion, as obvious as it was out of place.

“Says you. Someone had fun last night,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Despite, you know, everything.”

Draco didn’t dignify that with a response, shaking his head. “Just go. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

She stood, her legs grateful to be relieved from the weight of sitting still for so long. Emma shot Draco one last look, her eyes narrowing slightly as she noticed the bruise on his neck again. It was tempting to ask what the hell had happened, but she already knew he wasn’t going to give her an answer. Not yet, anyway. Not when there were more pressing things to deal with.

As she stepped into the hallway, Emma flicked her wand quickly, muttering under her breath to clear the evidence of last night’s party from Draco’s neck. The mark faded instantly. He probably wouldn’t want to hear about it again, anyway.

“You’re welcome, wanker.” she whispered, closing the door behind her.

Emma padded softly down the Slytherin corridor, the cold stone beneath her feet a sharp contrast to the heavy warmth hanging in her chest. The silence was... strange. Not bad, just new. She’d never stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas before—never thought to. Home had always been the default. Even when it wasn’t exactly joyful, it was still tradition. But now? Now she was here.

And it was so quiet.

No murmurs echoing from common rooms. No younger students sprinting down the halls. No Prefects barking orders or Peeves shrieking about something ridiculous. The castle felt like it was exhaling. Resting. It almost didn’t feel like Hogwarts at all—more like some old memory of it.

As she passed the stained-glass windows lining the common room, she paused, just for a moment, to watch the soft grey light filter through the coloured panes. Snow clung to the edges outside. It made everything feel softer, muffled. Like the castle had been wrapped in wool.

She reached the girls' dormitory, hesitating just a second before stepping inside. It was empty, of course. Everyone had gone home. All except her.

Her eyes skimmed the neatly made beds, each one a reminder of someone who wasn’t here. Her own bed looked a bit pathetic in comparison—sheets rumpled, trunk half-unpacked. She ignored it, grabbing fresh clothes and moving toward the bathroom.

The bathroom was the real surprise. Peaceful. Still. For once, no steam fogging the mirrors from someone else's shower, no perfume hanging in the air, no distant sound of music playing from an enchanted wireless. Just her. Emma shed the ruined pink fabric from her body and stepped into the shower.

She turned on the taps, letting the scalding water pour into the basin, steam curling like ghostly ribbons around her. She stepped under it slowly, letting it hit her skin and burn just enough to remind her she was still alive.

The heat dug deep into her muscles, coaxing out the stiffness and ache from the long night on the edge of Theo’s bed. But more than that—it quieted her mind.

The guilt, the fear, the echo of his voice in the dark—they dulled beneath the weight of the water.

For a few moments, it was just her and the steam and the silence.

She pressed her forehead against the cool tile, eyes fluttering shut.

Emma had never felt this consumed by a person. She felt as though he was in her mind, constantly.

Like smoke in her lungs—barely there, but impossible to breathe past. He lingered. In her thoughts, in the silence between classes, in the ache in her chest she couldn’t quite name.
She pressed her palm flat to the tile, grounding herself. Or trying to.

She hadn’t meant for it to get this far. Hadn’t planned for Theodore Nott to become anything more than another horrible dark-eyed Slytherin with secrets he wore like armour. But he wasn’t evil. People just didn’t understand but she was beginning to. Piece by fractured piece.

He wasn’t kind, not exactly. Not in the way people wanted kindness to look. But there were moments—quiet, hidden moments—where his guard slipped. Where she saw the way he looked at Draco when he thought no one was watching, or the way his hands trembled when he was overwhelmed, or how he didn’t flinch when she snapped at him, like he knew she needed to feel angry just to feel something.

It was those moments that had undone her.

Emma exhaled sharply, the sound swallowed by steam. She let her eyes fall shut again, forehead still pressed to the tile like it could absorb her thoughts and give her something steadier in return.
People didn’t understand him because he didn’t let them. And somehow, she’d become the exception to that rule. Or maybe just the mistake.

And if she was being honest with herself—really honest—she didn’t know what terrified her more: the idea that she was wrong about him… or the idea that she was right.
She stayed like that until the heat began to ebb, and her skin prickled with the ghost of goosebumps.

Then, with reluctance, she stepped away from the water.

She wrapped the towel around herself, steam curling off her shoulders like mist as she stepped out. The air bit at her damp skin, chasing away the last of the warmth the shower had offered. Still, she moved slowly, deliberately, as if hurrying might make her thoughts catch up to her.

She dressed in silence. Comfy things. An old Oxford jumper she loved, thick pink socks. She ran a towel through her hair, not bothering to dry it completely. It hung in damp waves down her back, gold in the light.

Her room was still. Undisturbed. Too still. Too quiet.

So she left.

Down the stairs. Across the common room. Back toward the boys' side, where she technically shouldn’t be. But no one was here, except the few other stray students who couldn’t go home for Christmas.

The door to the boys’ dorm was cracked open when she reached it. Voices filtered out—tense, low, sharp.

She paused.

Draco.

“And what, exactly, do you expect me to say, Theo? ‘Good job nearly dying’? ‘Nice work alienating the only people who actually give a damn?’”

Theodore’s voice followed, colder. Quieter. “I don’t expect anything. That’s kind of the point.”

Emma froze.

Fantastic.

She considered turning around—retreating, hiding, doing literally anything else—but her body betrayed her. Her hand knocked lightly against the doorframe before her brain caught up.
Both heads snapped toward her as she stepped inside.

Draco arched a brow. Theodore straightened so fast it was like someone had hexed him.

Emma offered a brittle, half-hearted smile. “Sorry. Thought I’d just come ruin the mood.”

Draco looked between them. His eyes narrowed slightly—calculating, but amused. “Oh, trust me, the mood was ruined ages ago.”

She gave a low, dry laugh and crossed her arms, trying not to notice the way Theo wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Cool. I’ll just stand here awkwardly while you two finish whatever emotionally repressed Slytherin ritual this is.”

Draco snorted. “We were just discussing Theodore’s excellent communication skills.”

Theodore muttered something under his breath and turned away, running a hand through his hair. Emma watched him, pulse fluttering.

“Do I want to know?” she asked, her voice softening.

“No,” they both said—simultaneously.

She blinked. “Well, at least you're finally agreeing on something.”

Draco grabbed his wand from his bed and nodded toward the door. “I’m going for a walk before someone gets hexed. Or cries. Possibly both.”

He brushed past her on the way out, but not before murmuring low enough for only her to hear, “Be gentle. He’s already halfway to hell.”

The door clicked behind him.

Emma was left standing there, facing Theo.

The silence stretched between them, taut and fragile.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her.

So, of course, she broke it. “Nice night for brooding and emotional chaos.”

He let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. “You really have a talent for picking your moments.”

She stepped forward, heart hammering. “Yeah. I try to be consistent.”

Their eyes finally met.

And just like that, everything was loud again. The silence between them was loaded, vibrating with unspoken things.

Emma cleared her throat. “So… how are you feeling?”

Theo didn’t answer right away. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, jaw tight. Still in yesterday’s clothes, still looking like the weight of the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded.

He glanced up at her, slow. “Like I got trampled by a herd of hippogriffs,” he said dryly.

She took a few steps closer, narrowing her eyes at him. “Well, you look slightly better than that.”

A pause.

“The cuts are healing,” he added, quieter now. “Thanks… for that.”

Emma nodded, awkwardly tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Can I see your hands?”

He blinked at her, caught off-guard, then held them out without argument. Palms up. Hesitant.

She took one gently, her fingers brushing his skin. The wounds she’d healed were closing, but a few looked like they’d scar—thin, raised lines where the magic hadn’t fully mended the deeper damage. Her thumb grazed one.

“They’re scarring,” she murmured.

Theo huffed out a humourless breath. “Better than bleeding to death on the floor.”

Her gaze flicked up. “Is that your idea of optimism?”

“Something like that.”

Another pause.

Her hands lingered in his. His didn’t pull away.

The tension between them was unbearable—stifling and sharp, like the room itself was holding its breath. Neither of them seemed to know what to do with it. Or each other.

“You don’t have to keep… fixing me,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse.

Emma’s lips parted, caught in the middle of too many things she didn’t know how to say.

“I know,” she replied, barely a whisper.

Theo’s hands were still in hers—warm and rough. She hadn’t expected that. She’d imagined them cold, somehow. Distant. All sharp edges and bruised knuckles, like the rest of him. But no—there was heat there, quiet and steady. Emma glanced down at the fading cuts, her thumb brushing over the worst of them again, and something twisted in her chest.

She forced a breath, then—because the tension was unbearable, because her heart wouldn’t stop thudding in her throat—she offered the smallest, crooked smile.

“You know,” she said, “you bled all over my dress. Had your head in my lap and everything. Very dramatic.”

That got a reaction. His eyes flicked up, sharp and almost offended. “I was literally dying.”

Emma gave a one-shouldered shrug, lips twitching. “Yeah, well. Some of us handle adversity with a little more grace.”

A beat. Then he huffed—half-laugh, half-exasperated breath—and looked away, but not before she caught the faintest curve of his mouth.

“I’ll add it to the list of things I owe you,” he muttered.

She tilted her head, mock-thoughtful. “Yeah, you’re racking up quite the tab.”

But underneath the levity, the air was still thick with everything they weren’t saying.

She hadn’t let go of his hands. He hadn’t asked her to.

Chapter Text

As if Emma’s luck couldn’t have gotten worse, it wasn’t snowing on Christmas.

The sky was grey, heavy with clouds that threatened to snow but stubbornly refused to follow through. The air had that biting chill, but no magic in it. No sparkle. Just cold wind and damp stone and the kind of quiet that made her feel like the only person left in the world.

The Slytherin common room was dead silent. The fire crackled lazily in the grate, throwing soft light against the greenish walls, but it felt like a mockery of warmth more than anything comforting. She tried not to glance at the stairs to the boys' dorm every five minutes, but it was a losing battle. Theodore and Draco were gone.

For hours.

Again.

So, she did what Hermione would’ve done: cracked open a textbook on Christmas. She read, re-read, highlighted things she already knew, and even corrected a few sloppy footnotes in her Potions guide. She finished one essay. Started another. Switched to reading just for the hell of it.

And still—nothing.

Only a couple of younger students drifted through the common room. So it was just her, the fireplace, and the gnawing feeling in her stomach that maybe she was the only one still stuck on the events of the other day.

By late afternoon, she was fuming. Her Transfiguration book sat abandoned on the floor, her legs curled up under her in one of the high-backed armchairs, the worn green blanket she'd pulled over herself long since kicked off. The fire was burning low now, and the shadows stretched long across the common room.

When the portrait finally swung open—casual, like it hadn’t taken its sweet time all day—Emma didn’t even look up at first.

Then she heard them.

Laughing.

Theodore and Draco stepped inside, voices hushed and smug like they were carrying some shared secret.

Emma stood.

Her book hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” she said flatly.

Theodore stopped mid-step. Draco glanced at him, going to speak.

Emma crossed her arms.

Theo looked... better. Still tired, but healthier. But her frustration didn’t care.

“Where the hell have you been?

Theo opened his mouth. Closed it again. His hand twitched at his side.

Draco, ever the tactician, glanced sideways at him. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Oh, I don’t need to be told anything,” Emma said coolly. “Just a heads-up next time you two disappear for hours while the rest of us are wondering if you’re bleeding out in a corridor somewhere.”

“We were handling something,” Theo said stiffly.

“Of course you were,” she murmured, voice like velvet over ice. “You always are.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, shifting awkwardly in place. “Should I... go?”

“No,” she said, gaze still on Theo. “You might as well stay. You’re part of whatever this is.”

Draco blinked. “Not by choice.”

“Noted.”

Theodore took a step closer. “Ryan—”

“No,” she cut in. “Don’t explain. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not. But clearly, I’m the idiot here.”

He flinched at that, and Draco muttered under his breath, “Brilliant.”

Emma’s attention snapped to him. “Don’t worry, Malfoy. I’m not about to have a breakdown in front of you. I’ll save that for when you’re off plotting your next vanishing act.”

Draco gave Theo a look. “You said she wouldn’t care.”

Emma let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, he told you I wouldn’t care?”

Theo’s jaw clenched. “That’s not what I said—”

“You didn’t say anything,” she snapped. “That’s the entire point.”

She knelt to grab her book, then paused. Straightened.

Her eyes locked with Theo’s.

“If you’re going to bleed all over my dress and pass out with your head in my lap, the least you could do is send an owl. Or don’t. Whatever.”

Draco snorted. “Nice mate.”

Theo muttered, “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Oh, good,” Emma said, tucking the book under her arm. “I’d hate to think you did it just to ruin the fabric.”

***

The Great Hall was quieter than usual. Most of the tables were half-empty, and even the enchanted ceiling looked festive, twinkling with the snow that should’ve been outside. The air smelled like cinnamon and roast goose, but it all felt oddly muted.

Emma sat at the Slytherin table, idly poking at her food with the handle of her fork.

Footsteps echoed in from the corridor—two sets. Familiar.

She didn’t look up until Draco’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Told you she’d still be here.”

Theo’s voice followed, dry as ever. “You also said she wouldn’t murder me.”

“I said she probably wouldn’t.”

Emma sighed. “If you’re done debating my homicidal tendencies…”

Draco slipped into the seat across from her with a faint smirk. Theo hovered, then sat beside her—more cautious than usual. His presence felt closer than it should have.

“We brought you dinner,” Draco offered, gesturing to the house elves who’d brought out fresh plates.

“I’m already surrounded by food,” Emma replied, but the bite in her voice had dulled.

Still, the silence that followed felt... unfinished. So, she filled it.

“Do you guys usually go home for Christmas?” she asked, eyes flicking between them.

Draco nodded without hesitation. “Always. Mother insists. Tradition and all that.”

Theo, however, shook his head.

Emma tilted her head. “Never?”

He looked away. “Not usually, no.”

Theodore cleared his throat and fished something out from the inside of his robes. A small parcel—brown paper, green string, the wrapping just slightly crinkled like he’d carried it around for hours.

He placed it in front of her. “Here.”

Emma blinked. “What is it?”

“It’s not going to explode, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Draco leaned forward, mock-whispering, “He actually put effort into this. Miraculous, I know.”

Theo shot him a look.

Curious now, Emma undid the string and peeled back the paper. Inside was a plain small velvet box.

Her brows knit as she opened it.

A gold bangle sat nestled in deep green lining. It was simple, elegant—thin and slightly worn, like it had been handled often. A faint engraving curled along the inside in delicate, flowing script: Strength in quiet hearts .

The moment her fingers touched it, the metal shimmered and adjusted, resizing ever so slightly until it would fit her wrist perfectly.
Emma stared. “Theo…”

“It was my mum’s,” he said, voice low. “She wore it every day.”

Emma looked up, stunned. “It’s beautiful Theo.”

He nodded once. “She gave it to me before I started school. Said I’d know when to pass it on.”

“She knows you’re giving it to me?”

Theo looked away. “She doesn’t need it anymore.”

There was a flicker in his expression then—something raw and fleeting. Emma didn’t ask. She just held the bangle in her palm like it was something precious.
Because it was.

Across the table, Draco mock-sipped from his goblet, watching the exchange with his usual bored expression, but there was something quietly approving in the tilt of his head.

Emma smiled, soft and surprised. “This is… really thoughtful. Thank you.”

Theodore, visibly uncomfortable, muttered, “Don’t make it weird.”

“Bit late for that,” Draco drawled.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Seriously, though. I didn’t get you anything.”

Theodore shrugged. “I didn’t give it to get something back.”

She quirked a brow. “You sure? Because I distinctly recall bleeding all over my dress while your head was in my lap. Thought that was the trade.”

Theodore groaned. “Can we stop bringing that up now?”

Emma slipped the gold bangle onto her wrist. It slid into place like it had always been meant for her, cool against her skin but somehow comforting. Her fingers lingered over the delicate etching, her chest warm in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Well,” she said, standing, “shall we eat before the potatoes go cold or Theo dies of embarrassment?”

“Too late,” Theo muttered.

They sat together, the three of them—an oddly mismatched trio—with candlelight flickering overhead and warmth beginning to seep back into the night.

***

The astronomy tower was colder than she expected, wind biting at her cheeks as she climbed the steps.

She found him instantly.

Theo was sitting on the stone ledge, one knee pulled up, the other leg hanging loosely over the edge. He was twirling a cigarette between his fingers — not smoking it, just fiddling like he usually did. It was tucked behind his ear one second, then in his hand the next.

Emma stayed quiet at first, just watching him.

Then, gently: “I figured you’d be here.”

Emma crossed the floor slowly, arms wrapped around herself. Her fingers toyed with the gold bracelet at her wrist.

Theodore didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance her way.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to throw myself off.”

“That’s reassuring,” she muttered, stepping closer. “Would’ve been a shit end to Christmas.”

He gave a soft huff. Not quite a laugh.

She hesitated a second, then walked to the ledge and sat beside him. Not touching — but close. Closer than she usually dared.

“I wanted to thank you again,” she said after a moment. “For the gift.”

He shrugged, cigarette still rolling between his fingers. “It wasn’t much.”

“It was thoughtful,” she said. “kind of you. I love it.”

He huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Well, I’m glad. I haven’t had a lot of practice with gifts.”

That shut her up. The wind picked up, tugging her hair across her face, but she didn’t look away from him.

“Theo,” she said gently. “You didn’t have to—”

“I hated Christmas,” he said suddenly.

Emma blinked. He wasn’t looking at her — just past her. At the sky, maybe. Or nowhere at all.

“When I was a kid,” he continued. “It was always the worst time. Everyone else had trees and music and fucking gifts. I had… silence. Or worse.”

He paused. The cigarette stopped moving.

“My father didn’t like distractions. He said the holidays were for reflection. For remembering who we were meant to serve. He’d sit me down and lecture me for hours. About blood. About legacy. About the cost of weakness.”

Emma’s stomach turned. “Theo—”

“Sometimes,” he went on, voice low, “he’d get drunk on firewhisky and call it tradition. Tell me I needed to be hardened. That softness was a disease. That pain was the only way to learn.”
She didn’t realize she’d reached for him until her hand was on his sleeve.

“I used to hide,” he said quietly. “In the laundry cupboard. Or under the piano in the sitting room. Anywhere I could fit. I got good at not breathing. Not making a sound.”
He finally looked at her again. “When I came to Hogwarts, I thought it’d be different. But the letters still came. The threats. The expectations. And I’d see other kids go home for Christmas and come back with stories. Laughing like nothing in the world could ever break them.”

Emma’s heart was a tight fist in her chest.

“I used to pretend I was one of them,” he said. “The other kids. I’d watch them on the train — big trunks, sweets from their mums, letters with 'I love you' at the end. I used to imagine mine was like that. That there was someone waiting for me with cocoa and a scarf they’d knitted too short.”

Emma didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat felt too tight; her tongue too thick.

“I stopped going home second year,” he added, voice distant now. “Told everyone I liked the castle better. That I hated family holidays. That I needed the quiet to study.”

His fingers were curled tightly in his lap, knuckles pale.

“I didn’t want anyone to know the truth. That I was just scared. That home wasn’t… safe.”

There was a pause. Long and heavy.

Emma reached out, gently placing her hand over his. He flinched, barely — not from her touch, but from the tenderness of it.

“You don’t have to be alone in it,” she whispered.

Theo swallowed hard. “Sometimes I think… if I just disappeared, no one would notice. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.”

Emma shook her head, fiercely. “That’s not true.”

He finally looked at her — really looked — and something in his expression cracked. Not broken, but vulnerable in a way that felt brave.

A breath passed between them. His, sharp and cautious. Hers, unsteady and soft. And in that moment, the wind shifted.

A single snowflake drifted down between them.

Emma blinked, then tilted her head upward. More flakes followed — slow and lazy, catching in her lashes and melting on her cheeks. The sky had finally given in.
A hush fell over the tower, the kind only snowfall could bring — like the world had pressed pause.

She nudged his arm gently. “Theo,” she whispered, looking around in awe. “It’s snowing.”

Snow was landing in her bright hair, glinting like frost in the moonlight.

“It is,” he said quietly.

She turned back to him, smiling faintly, about to say something back—But paused.

Because Theo was already watching her. Closely. Intently. Like she was something fragile he didn’t know how to hold.

His eyes lingered on hers, then dipped to her mouth — not calculating, not rehearsed. Just a moment of instinct and feeling and maybe something he didn’t understand yet.
Emma’s breath caught.

Then, like the touch of his gaze was magnetic, he reached out. His fingers brushed a strand of her golden hair, his eyes glazed over, distant, as if he wasn’t entirely there.
For a moment, his hand stayed there, lingering, as if frozen in time.

Emma’s breath hitched at the unexpected softness in him. She didn't move, didn’t speak, just watched him as his gaze shifted back to her eyes, momentarily snapping him out of whatever trance he had been in.

He leaned in, slow and hesitant, like the air between them was something sacred. Like he didn’t want to scare her — or himself.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Their foreheads nearly touched. Her lips parted. Emma’s heart was beating so fast she thought he might hear it.

Then — like he remembered who he was supposed to be, or how dangerous this could be — he pulled back. Barely.

The space between them was less than a breath. But it was there.

Emma didn’t press.

Still, she didn’t move away either.

They sat there, side by side, snow settling silently around them.

Emma’s voice was quiet. “Come back down with me?”

Theo hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to — but because her voice was soft, and safe, and it was terrifying.

He looked at her again, at the flakes caught in her lashes, the pink in her cheeks, the steadiness in her eyes.

Then he gave the faintest nod. “Yeah,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Alright.”

Emma stood first, brushing snow off her skirt. She didn’t reach for his hand. Didn’t need to.

But when she turned to glance back at him, Theo was already moving. Quiet, like always — but this time, not hiding.

They walked down together.

Chapter Text

The first sign that Pansy Parkinson was back at Hogwarts was the scream.

Not a terrified, blood-curdling one — more like a theatrical wail echoing down the dungeons, followed by the unmistakable clack of heeled boots and the sound of luggage being dramatically dragged across stone.

“I’VE BEEN IN HELL,” she declared, bursting through the Slytherin common room entrance like a tragic heroine in a black velvet cloak. “And hell is spelled family Christmas in Wiltshire.”

Emma didn’t look up from her Transfiguration notes, but a grin tugged at her lips. “Welcome back, then.”

Pansy’s eyes locked on her. “EMMA.”

Emma barely had a second to brace before Pansy launched at her, nearly knocking them both off the couch with the force of the hug. “Merlin, I missed you,” she mumbled into her hair. “If I had to hear one more of Aunt Clarisse’s stories about her third kneazle’s gland infection, I was going to hex myself into a shrub.”

Emma laughed, hugging her tightly. “I missed you too. I was stuck with the brooding duo for two long, I’m concerned it’s starting to rub off.”

Blaise followed in behind immediately after. “Did you all survive without me?” he announced.

“Barely,” Emma said, still half-laughing into Pansy’s shoulder. “The castle was eerily quiet without your running commentary.”

“Tragic,” Blaise said, dropping his bag onto a nearby armchair and sprawling across it like he owned the place. “But I’m back now. Your lives have meaning again.”

Pansy pulled away, dramatically wiping a fake tear. “Honestly, this was almost worth the trauma.”

She collapsed onto the couch next to Theodore, who looked mildly alarmed by her proximity, and launched into a rant about butter-churning and Reginald the taxidermy enthusiast — the newest suitor her grandmother had recommended.

“I mean honestly, who collects preserved rodents as a hobby?” Pansy ranted, throwing an arm over the back of the couch like she was performing to an audience. “He had a badger. In a waistcoat. A waistcoat, Theo.”

Theodore blinked. “And I’m the weird one.”

“I told her I’d rather marry a Muggle dentist. She nearly fainted into her gin.”

Across the room, Blaise cackled.

For a moment, everything settled into that comfortable, chaotic ease that only came with the return of friends — the fireplace crackling, Blaise’s laughter echoing, Pansy gesturing wildly with her hands. It was warm. Familiar.

And then Pansy’s attention shifted.

She narrowed her eyes at the space between Emma and Theodore — how they weren’t quite touching, but how Emma leaned slightly in his direction, how Theo’s fingers were grazing the edge of her book even though he wasn’t reading it. The corner of Pansy’s mouth curled with amusement, like a lion scenting something vulnerable.

“Hmm,” she said loudly, “something in the air feels different.”

Emma blinked. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just the smell of suspicious tension,” she said innocently, fluttering her lashes. “Come upstairs with me.”

“What? Why?” Emma said too quickly, definitely not panicking.

“Girl talk,” Pansy said sweetly. Then she hooked her arm through Emma’s and yanked her to her feet. “And I have to give you your Christmas gift!”

“Pansy—!”

“Sorry, boys,” she said over her shoulder. “This one’s under interrogation.”

Draco gave Theodore a look. “Should we be worried?”

He just shrugged. “Probably.”

And just like that, Emma was dragged out of the common room and up the stairs, leaving behind a very confused but definitely-not-flustered Theo Nott.

***

“…bleeding?” Pansy repeated, mid-sentence, her eyes wide like saucers. “He was basically dying on the floor and you didn’t tell me this sooner?!”

Emma groaned, falling back against the headboard. “I am telling you now! I literally got told ‘don’t tell anyone or die’”

“I need more context. Was this poetic bleeding? Like a single tragic cut down the cheek? Or are we talking, like, shirt ripped, doom in his eyes, ‘Emma I didn’t know where else to go’ levels of drama?”

Emma stared at her. “He was just like convulsing on the floor. He looked like hell. I panicked.”

Pansy gasped. “You Florence Nightingaled him.”

“How the fuck do you even know who that is – anyway- I did not! I just… patched him up. Sat with him. Made sure he survived the night.”

“Tenderly sat with him,” Pansy corrected, reaching for another chocolate frog like this was a rom-com screening. “And then he gives you his mother’s fucking gorgeous and probably expensive as fuck bracelet that was — and I quote — ‘weirdly personal and lovely’?”

Emma rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were a little pink. “He just said his mother didn’t need it anymore.”

Pansy’s face dropped into genuine softness for a rare moment. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet for a beat. Then Pansy shot upright like she’d been struck by lightning. “Wait — and you went to the Astronomy Tower and he told you about his dad?”

Emma nodded.

Pansy’s face was unreadable. “He never talks about that.”

“I know.”

“Like, never ever,” she repeated. “Not to Blaise. Barely even to Draco.”

Emma hesitated, brushing her fingers along the frayed edge of her pillow. “He told me… how scared he was. When he was a kid. That he used to hide in cupboards. That Christmas always meant pain. And Hogwarts was supposed to be an escape but even here, the letters still came.”

Pansy looked at her differently then — not teasing, not grinning. Just… still. “And he told you that.”

“Yeah. I think he’s very lonely. Lonelier than he lets on. Maybe even lonelier than he even realises.”

A beat.

Then Pansy exhaled like she’d just accepted a tragic truth. “Merlins cock. You’ve gotten to him.”

Emma snorted. “What does that even mean?”

“It means he’s doomed. And so are you. Doomed with repressed pining and unspeakable sexual tension.”

Emma threw a pillow at her. Pansy caught it with one hand and grinned.

“And just so we’re clear,” Emma continued, leaning back against the pillow, “what’s going on with Blaise and you, exactly?”

Pansy froze. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. I see the way you two look at each other when no one’s around,” Emma teased. “Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, but the faintest pink colour tinged her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emma smirked. “Really? Because I could swear there was eye contact happening as the two of you walked in this morning that had actual weight. Like, suitcase-dropping levels of tension.”

Pansy gave her a sharp look. “It was not—"

Emma held up a hand. “And the other month when you argued about which section of the library was better, it wasn’t about books. There were metaphors. I heard the metaphors, Pansy.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes, but her ears were turning pink. “He’s… Blaise. He’s annoying.”

“Annoying, sure. But you went with him to the owlery twice in the same week. And I know you hate the owlery. The smell alone—”

“Coincidence.”

“And obviously, who can forget the kiss before the party—”

“It was a dare.”

Emma grinned. “You’re deflecting.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m right.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re into Blaise.”

Pansy stared at her, then snatched another chocolate frog and launched it at Emma’s head. Emma ducked, laughing.

“It’s fine,” Emma said, grinning as she adjusted the pillow behind her. “I think it’s kind of sweet. You’re both deflective and sarcastic. It makes sense.”

Pansy looked at her for a long moment, then mumbled, “He’s not just sarcastic.” Emma raised a brow.

“He’s… warm. When no one’s looking,” Pansy said quietly. “And he makes me feel like I don’t have to be on all the time.”

Emma softened. “That sounds… lovely.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it.

“Don’t tell him I said any of that,” she warned.

“Cross my heart,” Emma said, solemnly placing a hand on her chest. “Just like you’re not going to tell Theodore I went back to my room and cried when he gave me that bracelet.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely telling him.”

“Pansy!”
They both burst into laughter, muffled by stolen sweets and quiet dormitory walls, hearts slightly lighter than before.

Chapter Text

The next month flew in a rush of assignments, ink stains, and Hermione persistent attempts to shove advanced study notes into Emma’s hands. It was the start of N.E.W.T. season—if season was the right word for it—more like the trial of endurance season, if Emma was being honest. Hermione, of course, was thriving. For Emma, though, her caffeine consumption was becoming dangerously close to a full-blown addiction.

The library, as usual, was where Hermione had set up camp, surrounded by piles of books and an aura of perfect concentration that Emma had yet to replicate. Emma, on the other hand, was stuck somewhere between stress-eating chocolate frogs and trying to not spill ink all over her notes. But they were here, as usual, the same spot they'd claimed during every stressful exam season since their first year.

This time around, though, the stress wasn’t limited to parchment and Potions essays—Apparition practice had been added into the mix, making everything feel twice as frantic. Once a week, the Great Hall was cleared out for the Ministry-led sessions, and Emma still hadn’t gotten the hang of it. She’d splinched a fingernail last Tuesday and was fairly certain it had been the most embarrassing moment of her life. Hermione, of course, was already reading ahead on the theory and giving her tips that made Emma want to hex something. Still, it was a strange sort of comfort—this cycle of panic, parchment, and poorly-executed Apparition—because at least they were going through it together.

“I swear, every time I see you, Granger, I think the library is just going to swallow you whole one of these days,” Emma said, glancing at the mountain of textbooks that Hermione had lined up with the precision of a military operation.

Hermione didn’t even look up from her textbook as she replied, “You could always join me in the land of preparation and productivity, Em.”

Emma slid into her seat with a grin, balancing a stack of chocolate frogs on her notes like makeshift paperweights. “Tempting, but I’d miss my dramatic meltdowns and late-night existential dread. Besides…” She leaned in a little, voice lowered in mock-conspiracy. “I imagine someone’s keeping you properly distracted from your study schedule these days.”

Hermione blinked, finally looking up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Emma smirked, popping a chocolate frog into her mouth. “Nothing. Just reflecting on Slughorn’s Christmas party— and your deep concern when Draco came in, having a full meltdown. Practically dropped the drink you were holding.”

Hermione stiffened slightly, her quill pausing mid-word. “Right. Because you didn’t immediately race out after him the moment he mentioned that Theodore wasn’t okay.”

The question was tossed casually, like a tennis ball across a desk. But Emma felt it hit square in her chest.

Emma let out a low laugh, shaking her head. “Honestly, I’m still shocked the Sorting Hat didn’t stick you in Slytherin with the rest of us schemers. You’re ruthless.”

Hermione gave her a knowing look, the kind that said I’m not wrong, and you know it.

Emma didn’t bother denying it. “Fine,” she said, rolling her quill between her fingers. “I was worried. But come on—if someone yelled Draco wasn’t okay and stormed out, you wouldn’t just sit there sipping butterbeer either.”

But as she adjusted her quill and tried to focus on her half-written Charms essay, her mind tugged elsewhere—back to Christmas. To that moment on the astronomy tower, where their noses had brushed, and Emma had pulled him out of the cold and into the common room. To the way he had shook in her arms, when she thought he was dying. To the way his voice cracked when he said thank you, like he wasn’t used to being saved. To the rare moment he had touched her hair, as if he wasn’t entirely there.

Since then, things between them had felt... different. Softer. Like they’d stepped cautiously into something neither of them dared name. Theo had started sitting next to her more in class, brushing his hand against hers when he passed her parchment, staying up late to study with her in the common room. For once, she wasn’t questioning it.

But this past week?

Something had shifted again.

He’d started disappearing in the evenings. Avoiding eye contact during meals. Talking more to Draco than usual—quiet, clipped exchanges behind half-closed doors. He still smiled at her when they passed in the corridor, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. And the worst part?

She knew this pattern.

Theo always pulled away when something was wrong. When he was hiding something.

Still, Emma pushed the thought aside. She wasn’t ready to start digging. Not yet.

“I just think we’re both busy,” she added aloud, reaching for her notes. “N.E.W.T.s don’t study themselves.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly but didn’t press. “Right. Well, let me know when you’re done being cryptic and decide to actually talk to someone about it.”

Emma smirked again, grateful for the deflection. “Only if you go first.”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said primly, but her flushed cheeks betrayed her.

They shared a look—equal parts teasing and understanding. The kind of silence that said we’ll circle back to this without either of them having to say it.

Emma tapped the end of her quill against her lips, then glanced down at the messy scrawl of notes in front of her. “You know, I’m seriously starting to consider just winging the Charms exam.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Emma sighed. “I mean, how hard could it be? It’s not like there’s a war brewing, right?”
Hermione, for a split second, looked like she might respond with a snappy remark, but the moment passed. Her face softened with understanding. "I get it, you’re worried. About your dad. It’s been hard, hasn’t it?"

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Emma said, her voice quieter now. “I know he’s not involved in any of this... but I’m still scared, you know? What if the Death Eaters find him and I’m not there? He’s not equipped for any of this, and he doesn’t even know enough to protect himself. It just... I don’t know what I’d do.

“I know,” Hermione leaned back in her chair, her expression serious but full of empathy. “I’m sure your dad’s fine. But I understand. It’s hard not to worry, especially when it feels like everything’s on edge.”

Emma managed a small smile. “Thanks, Hermione. I guess it helps to talk about it.”

“Anytime,” Hermione said with a reassuring nod. "We all feel the pressure. My parents are still in the dark, but I keep thinking about what would happen if they knew. If they ever found out how bad things really are...”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, the unspoken fears hanging between them. It was a reality neither could escape. But just as Emma was about to let the conversation linger in that uneasy space, she shifted gears, hoping to lift the mood.

“Anyway, on a much less depressing note... isn’t Ron’s birthday tomorrow?” Emma grinned, trying to distract herself from the tension. “What’s the plan? A big cake, a singing trio of owls, or something a bit more low-key?”

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. “It’s not exactly a grand affair. He’ll probably get one of those ridiculously large chocolate cakes Mrs. Weasley makes, and maybe a jumper or two from her. But honestly, he’ll be happy with any of it. He’s not exactly hard to please.”

“Fair,” Emma said, chuckling. “It sounds like the perfect Ron birthday.”

Before Hermione could respond, Harry’s voice interrupted the conversation as he approached their table, looking as though he’d just come from a run or a particularly brutal round of Quidditch practise.

“Did I hear something about Ron’s birthday?” Harry asked, slipping into the seat next to Hermione.

Emma smiled at the sight of him. She didn’t mind his interruption—she enjoyed hanging out with him and Hermione, especially the night that was Slughorn’s Christmas party. Despite the absolute shitshow the night turned into, Emma genuinely had fun. It had been nice to just talk with them, even if there were still so many things they couldn’t talk about. It was rare for Emma to be able to relate to people, particularly being a muggle born in Slytherin house.

Hermione handed Harry a spare quill without missing a beat in their conversation. “We were just talking about Ron’s birthday tomorrow. He has absolutely no idea what we’ve planned.”

“Good,” Harry said, dropping his bag onto the table and grinning. “Knowing Ron, he’ll probably just be excited to get a new broom cleaning kit, or more chocolate frogs.”

As they all chuckled, Emma glanced between them, hesitating. Hermione was trying—really trying—to keep things normal for her. She could see it in the way Hermione gently changed the subject, how she avoided the headlines of the Daily Prophet when Emma was nearby. But the anxiety still gnawed at her. And if anyone would tell her the truth, it was Harry.

She turned toward him, her voice quieter now. “Harry... have you heard anything about Muggle attacks lately?”

The shift was instant. Hermione’s shoulders tensed, and Harry’s smile faltered.

“Emma—” Hermione started gently, reaching for her arm, but Emma gave her a small shake of her head.

“I know you’re trying to keep me from spiralling,” Emma said, not unkindly. “But I need to know. My dad’s in London. Completely in the dark. I’ve tried warning him—carefully, subtly—but he just thinks I’m being overly cautious. And maybe I am. But I keep thinking about the Death Eaters. About who they’re targeting.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he didn’t look away from her. “It’s bad,” he said finally. “Worse than they’re letting on publicly. There have been more attacks. Mostly isolated, quiet—but intentional. They’re picking off targets that won’t draw too much attention. Muggles included.”

Emma’s throat tightened. “So it’s only a matter of time.”

“I didn’t say that,” Harry replied, though his voice was grim. “The Order is doing everything they can. But they’re stretched thin. It’s... it’s hard to be everywhere at once.”

Emma exhaled shakily. “It’s not fair. We’re stuck here revising for exams while out there—”

“I get it,” Harry said quietly. “Believe me.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Hermione cleared her throat. “Anyway—Ron’s birthday. Let’s focus on that.”

Emma gave her a grateful look, then brightened a little. “Are you giving him a book again, or something slightly less... informative?”

Hermione’s ears turned pink. “It’s a very useful book—”

“It was about wand care, Hermione,” Harry interjected, deadpan. “He thought it was a joke.”

“I’m giving him sweets this year,” she muttered.

“A step in the right direction,” Emma said with a grin.

Harry smiled, but then glanced at Emma again, this time more serious. “By the way, about what you said before... if you ever need somewhere safe to go—over the summer, I mean—the Burrow’s
always open. You wouldn’t be alone. The Order’s involved.”

Emma blinked, startled. “You—really?” She’d heard whispers about the Order before, vague references from Hermione that always trailed off. But no one had ever said it so plainly. So deliberately.

Harry nodded. “I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t mean it. Things are getting worse out there, and I know you’re Muggle-born. If anything happens… you won’t be left on your own.”

Emma’s throat tightened. For a second, she didn’t know what to say. The fact that Harry—Harry Potter—was offering her protection, a place to go, a way out… It was both comforting and terrifying. Like an unspoken truth had finally been acknowledged. Her fingers moved absently to the gold bracelet at her wrist. She twisted it once, then again—an unconscious habit she’d picked up lately, especially when the fear started to crawl in from the edges. The metal was warm from her skin, familiar. Oddly grounding.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, eyes flicking down to her ink-stained notes. “Really. That means more than you know.”

Harry gave her a soft, almost hesitant smile. “Of course. You don’t have to decide now. Just... if you want to join us, you’re more than welcome.”

For a moment, Emma couldn’t speak, too overwhelmed by the offer and the sincerity in Harry’s eyes. Instead, she gave him a small nod, grateful for the unspoken understanding between them.

Harry didn’t press her. He just returned her nod and picked up his quill again, as if the moment hadn’t just shifted the air between them.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual, filled with the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional crackle from the fire. Emma sat cross-legged on the carpet, frowning at her Ancient Runes essay while Theodore sprawled nearby, scribbling something into a weathered journal.

“I’m just saying,” she said, tapping her quill against the parchment, “you can’t write ‘Runic intent is subjective’ without explaining how. That’s the whole point of the argument.”
Theo didn’t look up. “I’m building suspense.”

“You’re writing a paper, not a thriller.”

“I disagree.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth tugged upward. Theo had wandered in earlier, claiming to be too restless for sleep, and had quietly settled in beside her without asking. He hadn’t really studied—just lounged and occasionally made comments—but his presence was comforting in a way she didn’t want to admit.

There was something about him tonight that felt… lighter. Like a pressure valve had finally released. He wasn’t pacing the room or snapping at Draco or vanishing for hours. He was here. Present. Whole, almost. That subtle but noticeable shift tugged at her curiosity.

She tried to focus on her essay, but her gaze kept drifting. For the past week, Theo had been a closed door—more distant, more cryptic, especially when Draco was around. And while she’d done her best not to let it gnaw at her, the worry had nested deep. But now? Now he was teasing her again. Relaxed. Peaceful.

“Are you going to finish that paper anytime soon, or is it just going to sit there while you critique my genius?” Theo’s voice broke through her thoughts, laced with his usual teasing.
Emma gave him a half-glare, fiddling with the gold bracelet that sat on her wrist. “You’re really asking that now?”

“Why not? I’m interested,” he said, the glint of amusement in his eyes.

She huffed, rolling up the essay. “Fine. I’ll fix it later. Happy?”

They sat in the comfortable silence of the common room, the fire crackling softly as the evening stretched on. Emma tucked her essay away and absentmindedly picked at a stray thread on her sleeve.

The quiet seemed to settle between them, but after a few minutes, Theo’s voice broke the stillness again.

“So, what’s your favourite colour?”

Emma blinked. “What?”

“Favourite colour,” Theo repeated without missing a beat, still half-focused on his journal. “I feel like we always talk about N.E.W.T.s, or impending doom. Thought I’d change things up.”

Emma leaned back against the couch, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “Alright. Fine. It’s pink. There, happy?”

Theo blinked. “Pink?”

“Yes, pink,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “What, did you think I’d say ‘charcoal’ or something suitably tragic because we live in a dungeon?”

He snorted, leaning back against the couch. “No. It makes sense, actually. It was the colour of your dress. That night—”

“The night you bled all over me?”

He offered a sheepish grin. “That’s the one. You looked like you’d stepped out of a story. And then I quite literally ruined the ending.”

Emma felt her heart thud in her chest. Pushing the feeling down, she folded her arms, pretending to scowl. “You’re lucky I’m incredibly forgiving.”

“I’m lucky you still speak to me,” he said quietly, before glancing back at the fire. “Still. That pink stuck with me.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he added, “Mine’s gold.”

Emma blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Gold?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softer now, almost reflective. “It reminds me of… something. Warm. Bright.”

Emma stared at him, then raised an eyebrow. “That’s not very Slytherin of you.”

Theo glanced at her, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe not. But it’s still true.”

Her brow furrowed as she watched him, but before she could ask more, he quickly shifted his attention back to his journal. “Still better than pink though.”

“In your dreams,” she replied, smirking.

Theodore glared at her. Emma just grinned back, the air between them charged with their usual banter. But before either of them could speak, they were both startled by a sudden noise.

The door to the common room slammed open, and Draco burst in, panting, his hair wild and his eyes frantic. He looked like he’d sprinted all the way from the Astronomy Tower.

Theo’s posture snapped upright. Emma froze.

“Merlin,” she muttered, surprised. “Draco?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He was pacing now, like he couldn’t stop moving. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts, his forehead slick with sweat. He glanced around like he was seeing the room but not really registering it. His hands fumbled with his hair before he shook it out, trying to act like nothing was wrong.

Theo was already on his feet, tension radiating from him. He wasn’t relaxed anymore, his usual slouch gone. His eyes tracked every single one of Draco’s erratic movements, his lips pressed into a thin line. Emma noticed something in Theo’s gaze—something sharp, something she couldn’t name.

“What is it?” Emma asked quietly, confused by the sudden shift in the room.

Draco stopped pacing, his hands shaking. His voice, when it came, was rough. “It’s Weasley. Ron Weasley. He’s been poisoned.”

Emma’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Theo froze.

He didn’t move—not even a twitch. For just a moment, his entire body was still, like he’d been frozen in time. His eyes dulled, and it was almost like a veil had come down over him, shutting everything out. Emma took a hesitant step closer, her voice soft. “Theo?”

He blinked once, then turned his gaze back to Draco, his face hardening.

“Hospital wing,” Draco continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I think he’ll be okay, but I’m not sure. Potter’s losing his mind, and Granger nearly hexed me, and Slughorn’s gone mental.”
Theodore’s gaze stayed fixed on Draco, but there was something different in his eyes—something she couldn’t quite place. He was cold. He wasn’t angry, not like before, but there was a calculated distance, like he was pushing everything down into some corner of himself and locking it away.

Draco continued to pace, his voice cracking with panic. “Theo, I—Merlin, I messed up. I didn’t—this wasn’t supposed to happen! We can fix it, right? We have to fix it!”

Theo’s voice was low and controlled. “Stop talking.”

But Draco couldn’t seem to help himself, his words tripping over each other in a frantic rush. “But I—Theo, this could ruin everything. If they—”

“I said stop,” Theo repeated, his tone sharp enough to silence Draco.

Emma couldn’t help the cold shiver that ran down her spine. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how Theo was supposed to act. His posture was rigid, his eyes locked on Draco with an intensity that was so foreign to her it felt like she was looking at a different person.

Her mind raced. She remembered the rotting mark she had seen on his forearm. It felt like an eternity had passed since. A dizzying feeling of déjà vu struck Emma. Back to the first time she had overheard the boys, to the astronomy tower, to Christmas.

“What happened?” Emma asked, stepping forward, her voice laced with a nervous edge. “Theo, I can help. Just tell me what’s going on. Whatever this is. I can help.”

Theo’s gaze snapped to her, and for a split second, his eyes were full of something—something raw and dangerous. A flicker of pain? But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. His face was unreadable again, the cold mask he wore slipping back into place.

“Shut up,” he said, his voice icy. It wasn’t the angry outburst she had expected. It was colder. Detached.

Emma’s heart pounded in her chest, her breath catching. She could feel the walls rising between them, and she hated it. “Theodore—”

“I said shut up,” he repeated, and this time, his voice held a finality that made her freeze.

Draco, still pacing, looked at Theo with wide, desperate eyes, his panic palpable. “Theo, I—Merlin, I can’t think straight, I don’t know what to do—”

Theo’s eyes flicked to Draco, his jaw tightening for a moment, before he spoke again, his voice devoid of emotion. “Go to the room,” he instructed, his tone cold and distant.

The way he said it—there was no care, no concern in his voice. It wasn’t like before, when they had been friends, when they had worked together as equals. This was something else. This was business.

Draco hesitated for a moment, his face flickering with confusion, but then he nodded, quickly turning to leave. Theo didn’t even watch him go. He was focused on the space between them, his back now to Emma, the coldness radiating off him like a thick, invisible fog.

Emma didn’t know what the room was, but the name sounded ominous. The unease in her stomach grew as she tried to make sense of everything. She stepped closer to Theo, her voice quieter now, but with more urgency. “Theo, what’s going on? What are you really doing? I know you're a Death Eater—what do you think I am, stupid? Just tell me! I can help.”

Theo’s shoulders tensed, the tension in his body locking even tighter. He didn’t turn to look at her, didn’t acknowledge her at all. His voice, when it came, was colder than the entire room. “I don’t need your help. Not now. Not ever.”

Her heart sank, the weight of his words hitting her harder than she expected. There was nothing in his voice—no trace of the boy she had known, the boy who had once trusted her.
“I don’t need you to save me,” he added, his words clipped, final.

Emma’s breath hitched in her throat. He was shutting her out. Completely. And it hurt more than she could admit, more than she ever thought possible. The walls between them weren’t just built of secrets anymore—they were built of indifference.

Her voice faltered. “Theo...”

But he was already walking away, leaving her standing there, a thousand questions burning in her mind. He didn’t look back.

“Get some sleep,” he called over his shoulder, his tone empty.

She stood there, staring at the door that had just closed behind him, the silence settling around her like a weight she couldn’t lift. Her mind was spinning. The pieces were all there, but she couldn’t make sense of them. The boy she had known, the boy who had always been by her side, was gone.

Emma stood frozen in the now-empty common room; her fists clenched at her sides. The gold chain suddenly felt heavier on her wrist.

The fire cracked softly behind her, but it felt like all the warmth had drained from the room. From her. From him.

She stared at the spot where Theo had been standing seconds ago, her mind racing to catch up to what had just happened. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or fury—or both—twisting in her chest.

“I don’t need you.”

The words echoed again, louder this time, as if the stone walls were mocking her.

Fine.

She grabbed her rolled-up essay, shoving it into her bag with shaking hands. He didn’t get to say that to her. Not after everything. Not after he bled all over her dress and looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to solid ground.

She made it as far as the corridor before her composure cracked. Her back hit the stone wall just outside the common room, and her breath left her in a shaky gasp. Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned.

But she refused to cry.

Not for him.

Not tonight.

Let him be cold. Let him act like she didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to fall apart in the hallway over a boy who couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her in.

Except she already had.

Chapter Text

The morning of the match was icy and silver, frost curling along the windows of the Great Hall like long, delicate fingers. Emma pulled her cloak tighter as she and Hermione walked up from breakfast, the chatter around them growing louder with every step toward the pitch. She was interested how Gryffindor would fare, particularly without their lucky weasel this week.

“Ron apologised, by the way,” Hermione said out of nowhere. Her voice was neutral, but Emma could hear the shift beneath it.

Emma blinked. “Finally. What’d he say?”

“That he was an idiot. And that he was sorry for how he treated me. And Ginny.” She gave a half-smile. “Surprisingly, it seemed… sincere.”

“Well, nearly being poisoned to death does tend to clarify things,” Emma muttered, tugging her gloves higher.

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting the book she carried in her arm. “Harry’s been off, though. Ever since it happened. I think he blames himself.”

Emma glanced over. “Isn’t that his default setting?”

Hermione didn’t disagree.

As they turned the corner toward the main path to the Quidditch pitch, two figures stepped out from the shadowed corridor leading from the dungeons. Theo and Draco.

Emma’s steps faltered for just a second — but she straightened, lifting her chin like armour. She hadn’t spoken to Theo since that night. Since he’d gone from warmth to ice in the space of a breath. One moment, she’d made him laugh so hard she could see his dimples; the next, he was staring right through her, saying, “I don’t need you.” So, he’d been avoiding her like she carried the Black Plague. But she wasn’t going to let him see that it got to her. Absolutely not.

“Theodore. Draco,” she said casually, nodding as they approached.

Theo didn’t look at her. He walked past without a glance, cigarette behind his ear, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Draco, on the other hand, did look — but only briefly. His face was pale, almost waxy, and his eyes were shadowed with something hollow and sharp. He didn’t speak, just gave Emma the barest flicker of recognition before slowing slightly at the sight of Hermione.

They stood there for a beat too long, something sour curling in the space between them.

Emma watched, confused. Hermione didn’t say anything — didn’t even soften. In fact, her jaw tightened and she stepped directly between Draco and the path ahead, making him swerve slightly to avoid brushing against her. Her book jostled slightly under her arm as she moved.

“Move,” Hermione said flatly.

Draco’s eyes lingered on her for a breath longer than necessary. Then he walked on, stiff and silent.

Emma stared after him. “Okay,” she said slowly, “I know I’m not the best at reading people, but what the fuck was that? Are we both fighting with the depressed duo? Is that, like, a thing we’re doing?”
Hermione exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. “I’m not fighting with anyone.”

Emma gave her a look. “You just shoved past Draco like he hexed your cat.”

“I didn’t shove—” Hermione cut herself off, pressing her lips together. “He was in the way.”

Emma blinked. “Right. Because you two have totally not been making moon eyes at each other for the last week.”

“I wasn’t— It wasn’t like that,” Hermione said quickly, the words sharp and just a little too rehearsed.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “You sound defensive.”

“I’m tired, Emma.”

Emma let out a dry laugh. “You know who else looked tired? Draco. Like, soul-left-his-body tired.”

Hermione said nothing.

They climbed a few more steps in silence before Emma muttered, tugging her scarf tighter against the wind, “You ever get the feeling everyone’s acting in a play you weren’t invited to rehearse?”

Hermione gave a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “All the time.”

As students streamed into the stands around them, Emma glanced sideways. “Theo’s been… weird,” she said finally. “Since our argument. Not just ignoring me, but cagey. Off. Like he’s hiding something.”

Hermione slowed slightly. “Just… maybe give them space. Both of them.”

Emma turned, walking backward to face her. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“That’s not convincing,” Emma muttered. “Come on, Hermione. I know something’s up. With Draco. With Theo. With you, frankly. I’m sick of people knowing shit and leaving me out of it. I only get to find out the bare minimum when they turn up bleeding out and require me to be a fucking nurse.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback.

Emma folded her arms tightly. “Let me guess,” she said, voice sharp. “You want to tell me, but you can’t—not yet. Is that the bloody script you lot are running with lately?”

Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed again. Guilt flashed in her eyes.

Emma let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Brilliant. Just—brilliant. First Theo, now you. I should’ve started taking notes. Or maybe bought a diary for all the times I’ve been vaguely dismissed with a sympathetic look.”

“It’s not like that,” Hermione said quickly. “I swear.”

“Then what is it like, Hermione?” Emma snapped. “Because you keep acting like you know something, and I’m standing here trying to piece it together with matchsticks and guesswork while everyone around me speaks in riddles.”

Hermione looked genuinely torn now. “It’s not my place,” she said quietly. “I don’t have the full story either. And even if I did, it’s not—” She hesitated. “It’s not mine to explain. And I’m not even sure I’d get it right. I just… I know something’s wrong. With Draco. And probably Theo too. But if I say anything, and I’m wrong—”

Emma cut her off with a heavy sigh and a sharp wave of her hand. “Fine. Whatever. Just—don’t act like it’s nothing. Because clearly it’s something.”

Hermione softened, stepping closer. “I’m sorry.”

Emma didn’t answer right away. Her hands twisted around the ends of the scarf she was wearing, messing with the stray threads. Her jaw clenched, the edges of her frustration fraying into something quieter disappointment, maybe. Exhaustion.

“Yeah,” she said eventually, gaze fixed on the Quidditch pitch. “Me too.”

“I just don’t want you getting caught in something messy,” she said simply. “That’s all.”

Emma didn’t answer, because truthfully, she already was caught. Even if no one wanted to admit it.

As they climbed into the stands and settled among the noisy crowd, Emma tried to focus on the game. But her eyes kept flicking toward the Slytherin side, toward Theo—who wasn’t there. Down below, the Gryffindor team began to file onto the pitch. The crowd roared to life.

“Here comes Captain Golden Boy,” Emma said as Harry led the team out. “And McLaggen, looking like he’s about to give us all a lecture on proper jaw-clenching technique.”

Cormac swaggered onto the field, broom in hand, chin raised to the sky like he’d already won.

“Honestly, I hope he flies straight into a goalpost,” Hermione muttered, the tension on her face easing just a little.

The game began in a blur of scarlet and gold, the crack of Beaters’ bats echoing over the roar of the crowd. Ginny flew like a comet, all sharp turns and clean arcs, while Harry soared with single-minded focus. Emma leaned forward in her seat, the cold biting her cheeks, but her blood was pumping too fast to care.

“I’m giving it ten minutes before McLaggen knocks out one of his own teammates,” Emma muttered.

Hermione hummed in agreement, eyes flicking between the players. “He already clipped Demelza when they took off. Honestly, why is he even allowed near a bat?”

“Probably blackmailed McGonagall.”

They laughed—but the moment cracked when McLaggen swerved too sharply and bludgeoned a Bludger straight into the path of one of the Chasers. The girl spiralled to the side with a yelp, narrowly regaining control.

Emma winced, playing with the frayed ends of her scarf. “Merlin. Okay, I know we’re joking, but he’s going to actually kill someone.”

Hermione watched on in horror. “This is a disaster.”

The match only got messier. Bludgers flew fast and low, dodged by inches. Players shouted over one another, the formations breaking down into chaos. Ginny and Harry were doing their best to hold the team together, but Cormac was a wrecking ball in motion, swinging wildly and barking orders no one listened to.

Emma narrowed her eyes as another Chaser barely avoided a rogue Bludger, Cormac shouting something that clearly no one was following. She glanced sideways—and blinked.

“Are you seriously reading right now?” she asked, incredulous.

Hermione, hunched slightly in her seat with a thick book balanced on her knee, didn’t look up. “I needed a distraction.”

Emma let out a disbelieving laugh. “You know it’s bad when the most chaotic game in Hogwarts history is less stressful than your real life.”

Just then, Ginny looped under a Bludger with terrifying precision, dodged a Slytherin Chaser trying to clothesline her, and rocketed straight toward the goalposts. With a flick of her wrist and no hesitation, she launched the Quaffle past the Keeper’s shoulder and scored—clean, fast, brutal.

Emma let out a low whistle. “That. You missed that. Your girl just pulled off a move I’m pretty sure should be illegal.”

Hermione blinked, stunned. “Ginny did that?”

“Ginny did all of that,” Emma said, grinning. “I think she just gave the entire Gryffindor team a reason to keep breathing.”

Hermione’s face lit up with reluctant pride. “She’s incredible.”

Emma smirked. “Told you. Worth looking up from Hogwarts: A History for.”

“It’s not Hogwarts: A History,” Hermione muttered, slipping the book back into her bag.

Emma raised a brow. “Is it something useful? Like How to Hex a Blonde Ferret Without Getting Detention?”

“Shut up,” Hermione said, but she was smiling again, just a little.

Emma leaned back with a satisfied grin, letting the sounds of the match swell around them again.

Then it happened.

A Bludger—fast, mean, and off-course—came screaming toward the stands.

Emma didn’t even have time to react. She turned her head at the sound of the shout—and then pain exploded behind her eyes, white-hot and shattering. The world spun sideways.

She didn’t hear herself fall, or the sound her head made when it hit the floor.

She did hear Hermione screamed her name though.

Everything was noise and light, a metallic taste flooding her mouth. Someone was shouting for Madam Pomfrey. Hands were on her shoulders, her coat, her neck—but they felt distant, like her skin belonged to someone else.

Emma blinked up at the sky, dazed. Her head throbbed with a pressure that felt too big for her skull. Blood—warm and wet—trickled past her temple.

Hermione’s face hovered above her, pale and frantic. “You’re okay,” she said, more to herself than Emma. “You’re okay, just stay still—don’t try to move—Madam Pomfrey’s coming—”

Emma groaned. “Did… did McLaggen just Bludger me in the face?”

Hermione made a choked noise that might’ve been a laugh or a sob. “Yes. The absolute idiot. Oh my god, Emma—don’t joke—”

“Tell that fucker I’ll haunt him,” Emma mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“No, no, no—stay awake,” Hermione urged, pressing something against the side of her head. “You need to stay awake, okay?”

A shadow fell over them—tall, sharp-lined, familiar. Hermione looked up with a start, but Emma couldn’t see past the spots swimming in her vision.

“Emma?”

Theo’s voice cracked through the haze, low and unsteady, with a mix of panic and confusion. He crouched beside her, hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before settling on hers, too tight, like he was afraid she might slip away.

“Emma, stay with me,” he murmured. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Just… breathe. Just stay with me.”

The words didn’t make sense, not really. But his tone—raw, scared—pierced through the fog in her mind.

Then, a sharp voice cut through, cold and commanding.

“Theo, Occlude. Now .”

Draco’s words were like ice. A sharp command, and suddenly, Theo’s hand froze, his pulse visibly slowing beneath her touch. His shoulders stiffened, and there was a shift in his gaze—focusing, locking down.

Theo squeezed his eyes shut briefly, taking a breath like he was forcing something to stay buried, something too raw to show. His hand tightened on hers again, this time more controlled, more distant. She could still feel the tremor in it.

Emma's eyes barley managed to flicker over his face, noticing the absence of the cigarette he always seemed to be fiddling with in moments like this. It was like a part of him was missing, something small that always helped him keep his edge.

He needs it , she thought. She could practically feel the weight of it in the air, that usual pull, the way his fingers would twitch if he wasn’t holding a cigarette.

But there was nothing now. Just the cold, controlled silence in his posture, the brittle calm he was forcing.

Emma’s brain struggled to catch up. Occlude. The word hung in the air like it meant nothing at first, but then, in the stillness between them, she felt it—a sudden absence, like a door slamming shut, the raw panic inside him locked away.

Theo was hiding something, something bigger than just worry for her. And for a moment, she understood something about him she hadn’t before.

She blinked up at him, her vision swimming. Her head hurt, her thoughts were slow, but one thing was clear: he could Occlude .

“Well, if this is it, at least I figured something out about you,” she whispered, her words thick with dizziness. "Didn’t know you could do that, Nott."

Theo didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his eyes still too wide, too intense, like he was keeping a storm locked behind his gaze. But he didn’t need to say anything. She could feel it—the weight of it all pressing down, crushing the words in his chest.

But Draco was still watching, his expression unreadable, his eyes narrowed. “You’re not losing control, Theo. Not here. Not with her.”

Emma’s head swam, her body growing heavier by the second. She saw Blaise’s shoes appear next to her, followed by Pansy’s worried voice. “Nott, is she—she’s going to be okay, right?”

But it all faded into one—the voices, the pressure, everything. And before she knew it, the world went black.

Draco’s voice echoed, though it sounded more like it was coming from the end of a tunnel. “Emma, stay with us—”

But she couldn’t. The last thing she saw before everything faded was Theo’s hand still gripping hers, tense and desperate, and then—nothing.

And in the end, her dramatic exit was a little less heroic and a lot more embarrassing than she would’ve liked. At least she’d figured out one mystery about Nott, right? Even if it meant fainting in front of them all.

Chapter Text

Theodore used to love Quidditch games.

Back when life was only marginally cursed, and his biggest concern was Summer holidays.

Back when the worst injustice at school was Draco being named Seeker — not because he was better (he wasn’t), but because Lucius Malfoy had bribed the team with matching Nimbus 2001s, and Theodore’s father had offered nothing but silence.

Still, Theo had played Chaser. And he’d loved it. The speed. The chaos. The brief, exhilarating moments when nothing mattered — no legacy, no war, no Death Eater politics creeping in through the cracks of his life. Just a ball, a goalpost, and the wind screaming past his ears as he dared gravity to catch him.

Now, he stood half-hidden in the upper stands, wedged behind a crooked wooden column just high enough that the Gryffindors in the middle rows wouldn’t notice him loitering.

To be honest, he wasn’t even really watching the game.

He was watching her.

Emma Ryan sat nestled in the Gryffindor section, shoulder to shoulder with Hermione Granger, as if fate, with its famously poor sense of humour, had jammed them together. They were buried in scarves, surrounded by red-and-gold chaos, but Emma — as always — stood out. Not because she tried. Just because she existed.

Her scarf had slipped off one shoulder, tugged loose by the wind or sheer inattention, and she kept fidgeting with the frayed edge like she could unpick the war thread by thread. Theo shifted the cigarette from behind his ear to his fingers, turning it slowly in his hand. A tic. A pattern. A habit. He didn’t light it — not yet. Just rolled the paper beneath his thumb, slow and restless.

But it was her hair that undid him.

That hair — that ridiculous, impossible shade of blonde — like sunlight had fallen in love with her and refused to leave. It wasn’t just gold. It was blasphemous. Unrepentant. Like it had never known grief.

And it gleamed — shimmered — every time she turned, catching daylight like it had a vendetta against darkness. It moved like a spell, and Theo hated how his chest tightened every time the wind tossed it across her cheek.

He’d hated her once.

Really hated her.

Not the casual sort of contempt he reserved for most people — no, Emma Ryan had clawed under his skin and stayed there. She was the kind who raised her hand before the professor had finished speaking, who answered like she knew she was right and didn’t care who knew it too. Which explained why she was always with Granger.

He still remembered the first time she humiliated him — Charms, fourth year. Flitwick had barely posed the question before Emma cut across Theo’s half-formed answer with something sharper, smarter, and right.

Flitwick had smiled. Half the class had turned to look. Theo’s face had flushed so hot it ached for two days.

She’d met his glare with a bright, maddening smile. Like she hadn’t just made him look like a fool. Like she didn’t even notice that she had.

Another time — Potions — she’d knocked over her vial and ruined both their drafts. The whole table had reeked of burnt peppermint and bitter ash, and Theo had stood there, sputtering, half-covered in boiling pink sludge.

She hadn’t apologised. She’d laughed.

“Guess we both failed that one,” she said, wiping her hands on her cloak like it was just another Tuesday.

And the worst part? She didn’t hate him back.

Not really.

She challenged him, sure — snapped back, stood her ground — but there was no malice in it. No satisfaction in watching him squirm. She’d toss him a look — brow arched, lips pressed like she was daring him to make it worse — and then go back to scribbling like he wasn’t even worth the fight.

It drove him mad.

He told himself he hated her for being a Muggle-born.

But even then, it rang hollow. She made everything feel fragile.

The rules. The traditions. The hierarchy he’d been taught was natural and sacred.

She smiled at people like him and expected them to smile back.

And that — more than anything — made him grind his teeth at night.

And then there was the Yule Ball.

He hadn’t planned on noticing her. He’d brought the Ravenclaw girl he was dating at the time. Tall, clever, polished. The kind of date that looked good on paper.

But when Emma walked in, Theodore had never been more taken aback in his life. Her hair spilled around her like a halo, golden, radiant and unreal. He wasn’t even meant to know what angels were. Not raised the way he was. Not with a family that spat on anything Muggle.

But there she was.

And she looked like something holy.

Theo remembered staring, forgetting to blink. He told himself it was just surprise. Just shock that she scrubbed up decently.

But it wasn’t.

He watched her dance with some Hufflepuff idiot, laughing like nothing could touch her, and felt something twist inside him. Something unfamiliar. Something unwelcome.

It went against everything he believed in — everything he’d been taught — but even hours later, he couldn’t remember his date’s laugh. Couldn’t remember what colour she wore.

Only Emma.

Only how she’d glowed beneath the chandeliers like she belonged there more than anyone else.

Now, he couldn’t stop watching her.

Couldn’t stop feeling her — the echo of her laugh, the shape of her smile, the way she tilted her head when she was curious or defiant or both.

She shouted something to the pitch — probably cheering on some reckless Gryffindor — and grinned, head thrown back, full teeth. Her hair flared like fire in the sun, all impossible warmth and bright defiance.

Theo brought the cigarette back behind his ear, then changed his mind and pulled it down again. Ran it between his fingers like it might distract him from the tightness in his throat.
Draco elbowed him, unimpressed.

“You’re staring like a lovesick Hufflepuff.”

“You’re one to talk,” Theo muttered. “You’ve clocked Granger’s page count since the match started.”

“She’s re-reading Confronting the Faceless,” Draco scoffed. “For the third time this month. Which either means she’s planning a murder or doesn’t understand the concept of light reading.”

“I’m glad you know the specific book she’s reading, too.”

Draco didn’t answer. Just shifted, annoyed at being perceived. His eyes flicked back to Hermione with all the subtlety of a stampeding Hippogriff.

Theo shook his head and finally lit the cigarette, inhaling like it was the only thing holding him together. Smoke curled around his face — thick, biting — but it didn’t dull anything. Especially not her.

Back in the stands, Emma laughed.

Really laughed — head back, eyes closed, unguarded. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in wartime.

And for a moment, everything else fell away.

The war. His father. The meetings. The cabinet. The shadows.

All gone.

Just her. Just Emma. Bright. Stupidly annoying. Alive.

And it hurt.

Because he couldn’t want her like this. Couldn’t have her — not with what he knew, what he was doing, who he was becoming.

Letting her in would only get her hurt.

But every time she laughed, something twisted.

Something old. Something aching. Something desperate.

He exhaled, slow and bitter, and shoved the cigarette back behind his ear and turned to Draco.

Which is probably why he didn’t even see the Bludger—just heard the sickening crack, followed by the sudden silence of a crowd holding its breath.
And then he saw her fall.

Emma.

Scarlet and gold. Arms flailing. Her body collapsing like a ragdoll.

His blood turned to ice.

Theodore moved without thought, pushing past first-years and knocking over a Hufflepuff girl who yelped in protest. He didn't stop. Couldn't. His heart slammed against his ribs as he sprinted down the steps, already knowing it was bad from the way Hermione screamed.

He reached her in seconds.

She was sprawled across the stands—cheek split, hair tangled, blood on her temple. Hermione was kneeling beside her, hands shaking as she pressed something against her head.

Theo dropped to his knees, too fast. “Emma?”

No response. Just a soft groan, her eyelids fluttering like a moth caught in the dark.

His hands hovered—too much, not enough—before they landed on hers, cold and clammy.

“Emma, stay with me,” he whispered, his voice cracking like glass. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Just… breathe. Just stay with me.”

But it was happening again.

That feeling. That helpless, bone-deep panic.

The image of her crumpled body—still, bleeding, eyes unfocused—dragged something loose inside him. Something old. Something buried.

He’d held another hand like this once. One that was so much colder.

He’d sworn he’d never feel it again.

Not again. Not someone else.

The memory pressed in behind his eyes—too close, too loud. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. It wasn’t Emma anymore, not just Emma—it was a blur of screams and pleading and blood on stone floors—

No. No.

Someone was calling for Pomfrey. Someone was touching Emma’s shoulder. It all sounded far away. Everything inside him was unravelling. The walls he’d built were cracking wide open and he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop any of it.

Then—

“Theo, Occlude. Now.”

Draco’s voice, sharp and precise as a blade. A warning. A command.

Theodore froze.

He hadn’t realised how far he’d slipped.

He was spiralling. He could feel it—panic bleeding out of him like poison, drowning everything in its path. Hermione was watching. Blaise. Pansy. Even Draco—his eyes cold, his jaw tight.

Theodore closed his eyes. One breath.

He buried it.

Sealed it.

Forced the terror back into its box and slammed the lid shut.

The panic drained, replaced with cold control. His hands stilled. His face cleared.

He opened his eyes again, now blanketed in the same quiet, practiced calm his father had once called a family necessity. But Emma was still looking at him. Well, not just at him, but through him.

She knew.

Even now, half-conscious, with blood trailing down her pain etched face —she knew.

“Well, if this is it, at least I figured something out about you,” she muttered, slurring slightly. “Didn’t know you could do that, Nott.”

His throat tightened. He didn’t answer.

Draco’s voice broke the moment. “You’re not losing control, Theo. Not here. Not with her.”

Theo didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to. He knew what Draco meant.

Not again.

Pansy and Blaise arrived, their voices flickering at the edge of his awareness. He didn’t let go of Emma’s hand.

Even when her eyes started to roll back, even when her head lolled to the side, even when the colour drained from her lips—he held on.

Her fingers went limp in his.

Then came the worst part.

The moment she stopped responding entirely.

“Theo boy,” Blaise said under his breath, worry cracking through his usual drawl.

“She’s fine,” Theo said, though he didn’t believe it. He forced the words through clenched teeth, his voice flat and numb. “She just needs Pomfrey.”

Where the hell was Pomfrey?

Emma’s face blurred before him, and for one sickening moment, he thought he might throw up.

Because for all the times he told himself she didn’t matter—this girl with fire in her blood and trouble in her smile—he couldn’t let go.

And that scared him more than the blood, more than the fall, more than yelling.

Because it meant she mattered.

More than she was supposed to.

And now she wasn’t moving.

Chapter Text

She was running.

Through the woods, dark and trembling with silence. Wand clenched in her hand, breath burning in her throat. Branches lashed at her skin like clawed fingers. The night pressed in too close—no wind, no sound, just the heavy certainty of being watched.

A flash of green light split the trees behind her.

She dropped, rolled, hit the forest floor hard. Leaves clung wet to her palms. Somewhere—far off or far too close—someone screamed her name.

No—his name.

Theo.

She scrambled up, heart pounding, vision blurred by panic. And there he was.

Just beyond the clearing.

Back turned.

Robes black as ink. A silver mask glinting in his hand.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t answer when she whispered his name like it was the only spell she knew.

The others raised their wands.

She stepped forward. “Theo—”

He turned.

His eyes—gods, his eyes—were shattered glass. Cold and burning all at once. But they met hers. Locked like a curse.

And then, slowly, with a flicker of something deep and broken—he shook his head.

Run, it said.

Run.

***
Emma jolted awake with a gasp.

Her whole body seized, muscles locked in the memory of motion. Her lungs ached from the ghost of a scream she hadn’t let out. Her sheets were damp. Her hands trembled.

Pain bloomed gently at her temple—not sharp, but a warning. A reminder that she was still here. Still alive. But not untouched.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. She barely remembered anything past the heat clawing up her chest and the moment the world had tilted sideways. Theo’s voice—panicked. His arms, catching her.

Now everything was still. Quiet in the way hospital wings always were—like the walls were holding their breath.

Moonlight spilled in through the windows, painting pale lines across the floor. The air carried the clean scent of spell work and too much sage.

And there he was.

Theodore Nott, folded awkwardly into the chair at her bedside, like he’d fought sleep and finally lost.

His head lolled to the side, cheek pressed against his shoulder. One hand hung loosely off the armrest, twitching now and then like he might still be reaching for her. His robes were a disaster. His cloak half-slipped, shirt rumpled and half-untucked, his tie nowhere in sight. His hair—Merlin, his hair—looked like he’d walked through a windstorm and dared it to do its worst.

There was a tight crease between his brows. Even unconscious, the worry hadn’t let go.

Typical. She finally got Theodore Nott to stay still for more than five minutes, and she was too half-dead to enjoy it.

Emma blinked. Once. Twice.

Her heart thudded once, loud and traitorous.

He didn’t look real. Not like this. Not soft and sleep-ruffled, bathed in moonlight like a bloody tragic hero. There was ink on his thumb. Dark smudges beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted. Like he hadn’t left this chair since she collapsed.

Maybe he hadn’t.

The thought made something warm unfurl in her chest, slow and foolish.

She wanted to reach out. To fix the collar of his shirt. To curl her fingers into his and tell him he was an idiot. A beautiful, brooding, impossible idiot.

But she didn’t.

She was suddenly afraid that if she moved—even a twitch—he’d vanish. Like he was part of the dream still clinging to her skin.

So she stayed still.

Watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. The twitch in his brow.

Her head swam again. The edges of the room blurred. Her body sank deeper into the blankets, tethered more by him than the pain.

And just as her eyes fluttered shut—

Ding.

A soft chime rang out through the corridor. The old clock outside must’ve struck the hour.

Ding.

The sound echoed gently, each note a lullaby folded into time.

Ding.

She counted them. Three. Four. Five...

She never made it to six.

Sleep dragged her under before it finished.

And this time, she didn’t dream.

***

Ding.

The first chime roused him, dragging him up from some half-formed dream he didn’t remember having.

Ding.

His neck ached. His legs were numb. His spine felt like it had been transfigured into a plank of wood.

Ding.

He blinked blearily at the moonlit blur around him. Everything felt slow, sticky, like time had gotten caught in honey.

Ding.

The hospital wing. Right. The chair. The girl in the bed.

Emma.

His head snapped up.

She was still. Face half-buried in the pillow, brow relaxed for the first time in what felt like centuries. Her chest rose and fell in soft, even rhythm.

Asleep.

He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

Thank Merlin.

Ding.

He rubbed at his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. His fingers were stiff, ink-smudged, a few trembled like they hadn’t quite forgiven him for passing out.

He’d meant to stay awake.

Had tried—gods, he’d tried—to keep his eyes open, to count her breaths, to be there when she opened her eyes again. In case she needed him. In case she panicked. In case… he didn’t know.

She’d just looked so—

Fragile.

Wrong.

Like something had hollowed her out and left a pale, shaking version behind. The healers had said she’d be fine, eventually. But their faces had been too careful. Their voices too measured. And that had terrified him more than the blood.

Ding.

He glanced at the clock just as the final chime echoed, low and full of sleep.

He sighed, leaning back, only to wince as his spine protested. The chair creaked beneath him—loud in the stillness, like it, too, wanted to file a complaint.

Brilliant. He’d reached the stage of sleep deprivation where furniture had personality.

Theo scrubbed a hand over his face and dragged it through his hair, managing to make it look even more like he’d lost a duel with a blast-ended skrewt. He shifted again, slowly, testing the limits of how uncomfortable a chair could be without being cursed. Verdict: very.

He looked over at Emma.

Still asleep. Still breathing. Still alive.

Thank Merlin for small miracles.

She was the only thing in this mess of a world that made any kind of sense. And of course, that was a massive problem.

Because she was light. And he was darkness. Because she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could be something better, and that terrified him more than anything.

He bit back the urge to say all the stupid, messy things swirling in his head. Instead, he settled for muttering to the empty room, “You’re a right pain in the arse, you know that?”

No answer.

He glanced at her again—still completely out, peaceful even—and felt the weight of every unspoken word pressing down on him. He didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t even know how to start.

His chest tightened. If he let himself think too hard, it would swallow him whole.

So instead, he made a joke. A sarcastic, bitter joke, because that was the closest thing to coping he had left.

“Well, at least you can’t run off and die on me now.”

He grimaced at the bitterness of it.

God, he was a mess.

But he’d stay. Because despite everything crashing down around him, despite the chaos tearing through his life, she was the one thing that made him want to hold on.

Even if he didn’t know how.

Even if he was scared.

Even if it was breaking him.

And as the silence stretched on, broken only by the faint creak of the chair and the distant echo of the clock’s chime, he stayed there.

Because some invisible string, whether cruel or kind, was holding him to her side.

And he wasn’t ready to let go. 

Chapter Text

Familiar voices trickled into Emma’s dream like ink bleeding through parchment.

At first, she tried to ignore them—clinging to the last threads of a dream that, while fuzzy, involved a beach, a very sunny day, and a suspiciously shirtless person that looked like Theodore Nott. But the voices kept getting louder, sharper, harder to pretend weren’t real.

"Finally," a smooth, unmistakably smug voice said. "Took you long enough. We were about to start debating your will."

Emma cracked open one eye, immediately squinting against the sunlight. Blaise Zabini sat perched at the foot of her bed like it was a throne, arms folded, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Her throat was dry. “Zabini?”

“You sound like a toad. Drink something before you speak again.”

A glass of water was thrust into her hands before she could even lift her head. Pansy Parkinson hovered beside her like a tightly wound bat in designer robes, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and muttering about trauma.

Hermione Granger was next to her too, fidgeting with the blanket at Emma’s feet and glancing anxiously toward Madam Pomfrey’s office like she was moments from reporting a health code violation.
The two of them—Pansy and Hermione—were... fussing.

Over her.

Emma blinked. “Am I hallucinating, or are you two in the same room without hexing each other?”

“She started it,” Pansy said flatly.

“She almost died ,” Hermione hissed back.

“And she’s fine now, so I’m allowed to be difficult again.”

Emma took a sip of water and blinked harder, trying to force her brain online. Her ribs ached, her head felt cottony, and her limbs were heavy with the kind of exhaustion that came from magical injuries and emotional disaster.

“Oh, good,” said another voice—this one more cautious, more awkward. “You’re awake.”

She turned her head to find Harry Potter standing near the window, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t quite sure if he should sit or bolt. His fringe was messier than usual, glasses askew.

“Harry?” she croaked.

He gave her a small, polite smile. “How are you feeling?”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “Not nearly dead enough for this level of audience.”

Harry shrugged. “Hermione insisted. And I figured… you took a Bludger to the head yesterday. That’s not exactly a paper cut.”

Right. The Bludger. That match. The fall. Pain. Blood.

And then—

Her breath caught.

Theodore.

She pushed herself up too fast and winced as her side protested. “Where is he?”

Hermione frowned. “What?”

“Theodore. Nott. Junior. Where is he?” she asked, looking around wildly now. “And Draco?”

That got everyone’s attention.

Pansy glanced at Blaise. Blaise raised both eyebrows. Hermione’s lips tightened. And Harry, bless him, folded his arms in that very Gryffindor way that screamed interrogation mode activated .

“That’s what we’d like to know,” he said slowly. “Neither of them have been seen since early this morning. Missed both meals. Haven’t turned up to class”.

Emma felt her stomach drop.

He had been there last night. She hadn’t imagined it. She remembered waking up, however briefly, and seeing Theo in the chair across from her, asleep, spine curled into the world's worst ergonomic position.

He’d stayed.

And now… gone.

“Maybe they’re just skipping class,” Pansy offered. “It’s Nott and Malfoy. Not exactly model students.”

“Or maybe,” Harry said, voice cool, “they’re up to something. Again.”

There was a thick pause.

The kind that settled in your chest like secondhand smoke and made everyone suddenly aware of how loud their breathing was.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, smoothing the already-perfect blanket at the foot of Emma’s bed like it had personally offended her. Pansy sniffed loudly and folded her arms.

Blaise just glared at the Chosen One.

Not subtly, either. It was the kind of look he usually reserved for wrinkled dress robes and off-brand champagne.

“Do you ever take a day off from moral superiority,” he asked, “or is it just a full-time job now?”

Harry didn’t even blink. “You’d be amazed how often I have to pick up the slack.”

“Well,” Emma said brightly, voice hoarse, “on that note, I’m gonna get up now.”

“Maybe don’t—” Hermione started.

Emma threw the blanket back.

“—get up yet,” Hermione finished, wincing as Emma swung one leg over the edge of the bed like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time.

“I’m fine,” Emma lied, wincing again as her side gave a sharp, entirely rude twinge of protest. “Totally, completely... ouch.”

“You’re as pale as Nearly Headless Nick’s ankles,” Blaise said, not looking up. “Please don’t die again. It was terribly inconvenient.”

“Shut up,” Pansy and Hermione said in unison.

Emma steadied herself on the bedpost, ignoring how her legs felt like gelatin. “Seriously. I need to find Theodore. And Draco. Especially Theodore.”

Hermione opened her mouth—probably to ask a hundred deeply reasonable questions—but Harry got there first.

“Why especially Theodore?”

Emma froze.

Pansy arched a brow. Blaise looked up now, mildly intrigued, like someone had just offered him front-row seats to a slow-motion train wreck.

“I didn’t mean—” Emma started, then stopped. “It’s not like that.”

Which sounded better than the reality; I woke up in the middle of the night and saw a boy who might be breaking apart at the seams but stayed anyway, and now he’s gone, and I have no idea why my chest hurts when I say his name out loud .

“It really, really seems like it’s like that,” Blaise offered helpfully.

Hermione looked torn between dragging Emma back into bed and dragging her into an interrogation room.

Harry didn’t press. He just nodded, slowly, like he was mentally cataloguing this for later. “Be careful, Emma.”

Emma met his eyes. “I always am.”

Everyone in the room made a noise of immediate disagreement.

She sighed. “Right. Well. I’m going to stand now. Like a functioning person. Watch and be amazed.”

It was not amazing. It was... deeply average. Slightly wobbly. But upright.

Progress.

Barely.

***
Every step Emma took echoed down the corridor, each one sending a fresh ache through her ribs, her shoulder, and somewhere behind her left eye where the Bludger had landed its most poetic hit. Everything hurt. Breathing, walking, blinking—existing. But pain was background noise now. There were more important things to worry about.

Like the fact that Theodore Nott had vanished.

She’d checked everywhere. The common room. The library. The Astronomy Tower. Even the weird, slightly cursed broom cupboard near the Charms corridor where Fred and George allegedly hid a niffler once.

No Theo.

No Draco.

Just silence, and a growing weight in her chest she couldn’t quite name.

She pressed forward through a dim corridor near the dungeons, muscles stiff and sore with each movement. Her limbs felt like they belonged to someone else—a very battered, very stubborn someone—but she wouldn’t stop. Not until she found them.

She needed to see Theo.

To make sure he was okay.

To ask why he’d disappeared after sitting at her bedside like some kind of sleep-deprived guardian angel.

Her thoughts were mid-spiral when a voice, as sharp and cold as the dungeon air, sliced through the corridor.

"Miss Ryan."

She startled, nearly stumbling into the wall.

Snape stood at the far end of the hall, half-consumed by shadow like he’d been summoned by dramatic timing alone. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between faint irritation and existential regret.

“Professor,” she said, trying not to pant.

"You appear to be in pain,” he observed, blandly. “And yet walking.”

Emma winced. “It’s fine.”

He arched a brow. “It clearly isn’t.”

“I was… looking for someone.”

His silence dared her to elaborate. She didn’t.

Eventually, he said, “You would do well to stop looking.”

Her chest tightened.

She stared. “Why?”

“Because what they’re tangled in is none of your concern.”

“If they’re in danger—”

“They are,” he said flatly. “And they’ve made their choices.”

Emma’s jaw clenched. “They’re my friends.”

Snape looked at her like she’d just declared a Crumple-Horned Snorkack her emotional support animal. “Are they?”

That stopped her.

“People like Mr. Nott,” Snape said, softer now, “don’t get to have friends. Not in the way you mean. And certainly not for long.”

She swallowed hard, searching the professors face. “I’m confused.”

Snape studied her for a long, uncomfortable beat. Then, voice dry as ever:

“Perhaps it’s time you reconsidered Mr. Potter’s offer.”

Emma blinked. “What?”

Snape turned without answering.

“How do you know about that?” she called after him, her voice rising slightly with panic.

But he was already gone, robes flaring out behind him, swallowed by shadows and secrets.

Emma stood there, sore and stunned and entirely out of explanations.

Because clearly, she wasn’t the only one watching Theodore Nott fall apart.

Chapter Text

Theodore managed to avoid Emma for a week.

He had disappeared, again.

And she was so bloody over it.

At first, she'd given him the benefit of the doubt — maybe he needed time, maybe he was dealing with something (clearly, he was always dealing with something), maybe he would do what a semi-functioning human did and talk to her.

But, of course, Theodore Nott didn’t do talking. He did brooding. Avoidance. Glances across crowded rooms like they were in a bloody tragedy.
And now?

He wasn’t even doing that.

No Theo. No Draco. Not in class, not in the Great Hall, not in the corridors. Not even in the library, and that was saying something. Emma knew for a fact Theo had a very emotionally repressed love affair with the restricted section.

She tried not to be worried. She really did.

But anger was easier than fear.

So, she let herself be mad instead.

Let herself pace the common room, stew through Transfiguration, mutter curse words under her breath while shoving toast into her mouth at breakfast. If anyone noticed, they were too polite (or too scared) to comment — except Blaise, of course.

He slid onto the bench beside her at lunch like he had all the time in the world and none of the emotional damage.

“You’re chewing like you want the toast to file a restraining order,” he said mildly.

Emma didn’t even look at him. “Maybe I do.”

“Right. And here I thought Slytherins weren’t meant to eat their feelings.”

“I’m not eating them. I’m aggressively digesting my rage.”

Blaise tilted his head. “Is this about Theodore again, or has the toast personally wronged you?”

She threw him a glare. He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. But just so you know, you’re not exactly subtle. And neither is he, by the way.”

Emma snorted. “Really? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

“Yeah,” Blaise said, quieter now. “I know.”

That made her pause. Blaise never got quiet unless he was about to say something real.

He nudged her shoulder. “You know, you’re like a sister to me.”

Emma blinked. “Er. Thanks?”

He ignored her awkwardness. “My mum wrote to me the other day. Said I should keep my distance from Draco and Theo boy. Said… things are shifting. Fast. Dark.”

The blonde’s throat tightened, fingers drifting over the gold chain that clung to her wrist. “And what do you think?”

Blaise’s jaw clenched. “I think they’re my brothers. And I love them. But they’re going insane.”

Emma let that hang in the air for a moment, heavy and uncomfortable.

She traced a line through the condensation on her goblet. “So what, I’m just supposed to leave it? Leave him?”

“No.” Blaise looked at her then, really looked. “I’m saying… be careful. You’re not like us. You still believe people can be saved.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not,” he said softly. “But it’s dangerous.”

Emma swallowed hard. Every muscle in her body ached, but she was too stubborn to admit it — especially now. She could already feel her anger slipping, grief curling at the edges.
“Yeah, well,” she muttered, pushing her plate away. “I’m done chasing shadows.”

But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie.

***

Emma was still sore — physically, emotionally, cosmically — when she stumbled into the Great Hall with Hermione the next morning, clutching a wrinkled piece of parchment that confirmed it was Apparition Test Day.

Of course it was.

Because nothing screamed “time to splinch yourself” like emotional burnout and a missing Slytherin.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Hermione said as they joined Harry and Ron near the front.

“I’m mentally preparing for my inevitable death,” Emma replied. “Or worse — losing my left arse cheek in front of the entire sixth year.”

Ron snorted. “McLaggen lost part of his eyebrow last time. Looked like a constipated seagull.”

“That’s comforting,” Emma said, deadpan. “Thanks, Weasley.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, slinging his satchel over one shoulder. “Just picture the hoop, focus, and don’t panic .”

Emma gave him a look. “Right. Easier to say when you’re the chosen one who has weekly brushes with death.”

But then, as the others chatted distractedly about hoops and vanishing limbs, Emma shifted closer to Hermione and lowered her voice.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Can I ask you something?”

Hermione glanced at her, immediately alert. “Of course.”

Emma hesitated, then finally asked the thing that had been eating her alive for days.

“Have you… have you seen Draco?”

Hermione froze. Blinked. Her fingers, which had just been adjusting the cuff of her sleeve, stilled completely. “What? Why? Did something happen? Is he—what’s going on?”

Emma winced. “No, nothing. I don’t know. That’s the problem. I just… I haven’t seen him. Or Theo. Not since before the hospital wing. It’s been days.”

Hermione’s expression tightened, worry flickering across her face. She looked around, dropped her voice. “That’s… odd. You’re right. I noticed Draco hasn’t been in Arithmancy. I thought maybe he was avoiding me.”

“Maybe he is,” Emma muttered. “But Theo’s gone too. And I’m getting real sick of it.”

Hermione bit her thumbnail, a nervous habit she only fell into when she was truly rattled. “Do you think something’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said again, her voice sharper than she intended. “But I’m over the disappearing act.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I agree.”

Before Emma could respond, the Ministry instructor called them forward, clipboard in hand.

“Right then. Line up for your Apparition tests.”

They filed into the Entrance Hall where the Ministry Apparition instructor — the same one from their lessons — greeted them with a grim expression and what looked like half a sandwich stuck to his cloak.

After a brisk rundown of Destination. Determination. Deliberation , the testing began.

Hermione went first, obviously. She disappeared with a neat little pop and reappeared inside her hoop like a smug little prefect robot.

“Ten out of ten,” Emma muttered. “Would follow her into battle.”

Harry went next. He vanished — and then reappeared just outside the hoop.

So close. But not quite.

The instructor frowned. “I’m afraid that’s a fail, Mr. Potter. You didn’t reappear inside the designated area.”

Harry looked stunned. “Seriously?”

“Try again in a month,” the man said flatly.

Then came Ron.

Ron, who disappeared with what Emma could only describe as a concerning snap — and reappeared two metres away looking triumphant, until he glanced down and went completely white.

“Bloody— 'mione, do I have all my bits?”

“No!” Hermione yelped. “You’re missing half your eyebrow and—oh my God, your ear!”

“I knew it!” Ron staggered. “I felt colder on one side!”

Emma burst out laughing. Loudly. Too loudly.

“Oh my God , Weasley—”

“Miss Ryan,” the examiner cut in sharply, looking up from his clipboard. “You’re next.”

Emma’s laughter died mid-breath. She cleared her throat, straightened her spine, and gave Ron a sheepish glance.

“Right. No pressure.”

Ron just looked vaguely concussed.

She breathed. Focused. Destination. Determination. Deliberation .

And then—POP.

She landed cleanly inside her hoop. Whole. Not splinched. Not traumatised. Nothing missing.

“I did it?” she asked.

The instructor checked his clipboard. “You did.”

Emma blinked. “I passed?”

“You passed.”

She turned to Hermione, Harry, and Ron — grinning like a maniac.

“Well, at least one of us gets to leave the castle unsupervised,” she said sweetly.

Harry sighed. “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

Ron was still checking his head in the reflection of a window. “My ear feels weird. How long until it grows back?”

Emma patted his shoulder. “If it helps, it draws attention away from your personality.”

Even Hermione laughed at that.

They made their way back through the corridors, Emma slightly ahead, shoulders finally a little straighter.

Her body still ached. Her heart still twisted when she thought of Theo.

But she’d passed.

She’d survived.

And now, if Theodore Nott wanted to keep disappearing on her—well.

She could apparate straight into wherever he was sulking and hex him personally.

Progress.

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to sink behind the hills, casting Hogwarts in that soft, golden light that made everything look like a painting. The lake shimmered. The turrets glowed. Even the Forbidden Forest looked sort of… charming, if you squinted and ignored the fact it was full of freaky things.

Emma tucked her hands into her coat pockets and breathed in the late afternoon air. Cool. Quiet. It really was a home away from home.

Her boots crunched over the gravel path as she made her way back to the castle. She hadn’t meant to wander for so long, but after a week of pretending she wasn’t losing her mind, walking in silence had felt like a small rebellion.

Write to Dad, she reminded herself, mentally filing it under “things responsible daughters do.” She was going to see him soon, which was helping her get through the constant anxiety that tugged at her. He was probably wondering if she was dead, or worse—heartbroken.

Her chest tightened. Draco wasn’t around either. Pansy was too busy with who knows what and if Blaise was worried, he wasn’t showing it.

They were gone. Again. And Emma was so done with people going mysteriously missing like it was a new school sport.

She was halfway up the path toward the castle when a sudden voice made her jump.

“Emma!”

Harry Potter waved at her like a very enthusiastic windmill.

She blinked.

“Um. Hi?”

He jogged up to her, beaming like someone had just handed him a broomstick made of gold. Then—without warning—he raised a hand.

And high-fived her.

Like, properly. Palm slap. Full follow-through.

Emma stared at him. “Potter, what the fuck?”

Harry looked absurdly pleased with himself. “Just… good to see you, that’s all.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re acting weird. What happened? Is Ron vomiting slugs again?”

He just shrugged, still grinning, then wandered off toward the greenhouses like he hadn’t just completely derailed her entire understanding of the universe.

Emma stared after Harry as he vanished around the bend.

“Merlin,” she muttered under her breath. “He’s either finally lost it or he’s on some kind of Ministry-sanctioned drugs.”

She shook her head and resumed her walk, Hogwarts rising like a cathedral in the distance, golden light catching the windows. As odd as things were lately—disappearing Slytherins, cryptic professors, overly enthusiastic Gryffindors—there was something about spring at Hogwarts that softened the edges. A little.

She pushed open the castle doors, the stone cool under her fingers, and made her way up the stairs to the Slytherin common room. The common room was quiet, oddly peaceful. She climbed the stairs with the dull intention of collapsing face-first into bed. Maybe even sob dramatically. She earned it.

Emma pushed open the dormitory door, already mentally checked out. Her back hurt, her ankle was throbbing from that misstep on the stairs, and her soul was somewhere between “done” and “fully combusted.” She just wanted to collapse face-first into her bed and not exist for four to six business days.

Instead, she walked into sin.

Loud sin. Moaning sin.

She froze. Blinked.

“Oh—OH, YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.”

Pansy let out a yelp and flailed an arm toward a blanket, while Blaise — because of course it was Blaise — looked over his shoulder with the casual serenity of someone who had no shame left in his body.

“Evening Ryan,” he said, like this was a tea party and not the defiling of Emma’s entire worldview.

Emma pointed a trembling, accusatory finger. “MY BED?! Are you SERIOUS right now?!”

Pansy, panting and dishevelled, looked up and blinked. “Oh. Hi.”

“HI? HI?!” Emma’s voice hit a register only dogs could hear. “You’re—on my pillow! You’re literally defiling my pillow with your—your face activities!”

Blaise shrugged, completely unbothered. “It was the nearest bed.”

“IT’S THE NEAREST BED TO ME!”

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GO? I LIVE HERE!” Emma was full-body gesturing now, arms flailing like she was conducting a tragic orchestra. “This is not some random corridor! This is my ROOM!”
Pansy had the audacity to start fixing her hair. “Relax, we didn’t, like, shag or anything—yet.”

Emma looked to the heavens. “Salazar Slytherin please smite them. Strike them down where they sit. Smite them on my sheets, you coward.”

“I thought you knew,” Pansy added, now smirking. “You always give me that ‘I know your secrets’ glare. We had literal conversations about this.”

“I DID know!” Emma snapped, pacing like a woman on the verge. “But I didn’t think you’d be this unholy about it! I thought there’d be… a closet involved. A spare classroom. Literally anywhere but the one place I rest my weary, trauma-filled head.”

Emma didn’t wait for a response.

She backed toward the door with the grace of a traumatised house elf, pointing at her defiled mattress like it had personally betrayed her.

“Just—get off my bed. That’s all I ask. Find literally any other surface in this castle. There are, like, 700 rooms. One of which literally shapeshifts to meet your needs.”

Blaise had the audacity to smirk. “Ryan, if you’re done making a scene… the door’s right there.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “I hope Peeves hexes your teeth backwards.”

She turned on her heel, muttering about curses and dental revenge, and practically stormed down the hall. The common room was too warm, too quiet, too full of them. She needed cold air. Altitude. Something dramatic.

Her feet moved on autopilot, up staircases and through stone corridors, until she was climbing the spiral steps of the Astronomy Tower, wind already tugging at her cardigan by the time she reached the top.

It was quiet up here. The last light was bleeding from the sky, painting Hogwarts in soft purples and golds. The wind caught her hair and made her eyes sting, but it was better than watching Blaise’s smug face or burning her sheets out of spite.

She stepped forward—and froze.

There was someone already there.

Someone she hadn’t seen in weeks.

Someone she hadn’t stopped thinking about.

“Theo?”

The name left her mouth before she could stop it, sharp and startled and soaked in every emotion she’d been swallowing since that night in the infirmary. He didn’t move at first. Just stood there with his back to her, shoulders stiff, head bowed slightly like the wind was too heavy.

Then he turned.

Her breath caught.

Bruises. His face was bruised.

A dark one blooming beneath his right eye. Another near his jaw. His lip was split, dry blood flaking against too-pale skin.

Her anger roared up on instinct.

“What the hell—”

“Emma.”

He said it like he hadn’t spoken her name in years. Croaked it, really. Like it had clawed its way out of his throat.

She froze mid-step, stomach flipping. “What—where the fuck have you been?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like she wasn’t real. Like he couldn’t believe she was standing there, alive, intact.

“You’re okay,” he said softly, almost reverently. “You’re okay.”

She took a cautious step forward, tension crackling between them. “Theo, the last time I saw you I was in the hospital wing. That was weeks ago. What the hell happened?”

He didn’t speak. Her eyes found his hands, which were trembling. There were no cigarettes in sight.

“Theodore.”

Still nothing.

She narrowed her eyes. “If it’s nothing, why are you shaking?”

His mouth twitched, and then—his shoulders shuddered. Just slightly at first. A silent quake beneath all that icy composure. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak.

But he broke.

Every inch of him shivered like something inside had finally cracked—like he'd been holding himself together with threadbare sinew and willpower, and now even that had frayed.

And something in her snapped with it.

She didn’t think. Didn’t weigh it. Didn’t stop to ask why. Her feet moved before her mind caught up, crossing the stone floor in two quick strides. She reached out and grabbed him—not harshly, not desperately, just there—arms wrapping tight around his chest like she could anchor him with nothing more than the shape of her body.
He didn’t respond at first.

But he didn’t flinch away either.

He leaned into her like he was too tired to do anything else, and then—slowly, as if afraid to break whatever fragile thing had formed between them—he folded forward, burying his face in the curve of her neck. His breath was hot and ragged against her collarbone, and his hands—Merlin, his hands—curled around the back of her cardigan like she was something sacred, like if he let go, she might dissolve into smoke and leave him all over again.

A sound escaped him—small, muffled, but so raw it made her chest ache. A half-swallowed noise like it had been trapped behind his ribs for years.

She held him tighter.

Fingers threaded into his hair, slow and gentle, the way you'd handle something bruised and feral. His trembling hadn't stopped, but he wasn’t pulling away either. He was leaning. He was letting her.

“What’s happened, Theo?” she whispered, not expecting an answer. Her voice broke halfway through his name. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
His knees buckled beneath them.

He didn’t fall so much as melt, pulling her down with him like the strength had simply left his bones. They hit the stone floor in a graceless heap, and she still didn’t let go. Wouldn’t.

She shifted with him—one leg folded awkwardly beneath her, the other slung half across his—and somehow she ended up in his lap, arms locked around his shoulders, his forehead resting just below her chin. They were a tangle of bruises and blonde hair, limbs folded into each other like they were trying to take up the same space. Like neither of them wanted to be alone in their own skin.

She ran her fingers through the back of his hair again and again, slow and steady. Her cardigan had slipped halfway off her shoulder, but she didn’t bother fixing it.

“Ironic,” she murmured, her lips brushing his temple. “It’s always the Astronomy Tower, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer. But he made another one of those broken, hollow sounds in the back of his throat, like the idea of being held—really held—was foreign. Like it was the first time in years someone had touched him without causing pain, or without flinching back from the darkness that clung to his edges.

She started to pull back just a little, giving him space, but before her hands could slip from his shoulders, a fragile voice, hoarse and low, stopped her:
“Please… don’t.”

Her heart clenched. She froze.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, barely more than breath. “Just… stay.”

She pressed her cheek to the crown of his head, her hand moving over the curve of his back in soft, grounding motions.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I’m here.”

It wasn’t grand or loud or cinematic.

It was quiet. Real.

For a moment, the weight of the world slipped away, held only between them in the stillness of the Astronomy Tower. But then he closed his eyes, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, shadows flickering in his eyes like storm clouds gathering beneath calm skies.

“Emma… something’s coming,” he said, voice rough like he’d swallowed gravel.

Her breath caught. The softness between them cracked under the sudden edge of warning.

“Not this again,” she snapped, tightening her grip like she could hold onto him—and the moment—forever. “Can you just fucking tell me?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed, hardened.

“When I say you’ve got to go, you need to go. No questions.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to show up after weeks and tell me what to do.”

He looked away, biting back whatever words he wanted to say next. When he met her eyes again, exhaustion and warning warred beneath the surface, fierce and undeniable.

“This isn’t about what you want, Emma. It’s about survival. I’m telling you now because it matters. When the time comes, you have to listen.”

She stared at him, jaw tight, chest rising and falling with the weight of everything left unsaid. For a heartbeat, she looked like she might argue again. Like she wanted to claw the truth out of him with her bare hands.

But instead, she exhaled sharply through her nose.

“Fine,” she muttered, clipped and bitter. “Whatever.”

He blinked.

“Just—drop it, Theo,” she added, voice quieter now. “I said fine.”

And even though she didn’t mean it—not really—he let it go. For now.

But the silence that settled between them didn’t feel peaceful anymore. It felt like the hush before a storm.

Chapter Text

Emma didn’t realise that when you held a boy — especially one like Theodore Nott — he didn’t just let you hold him.

He was acting like he might come undone if you let go.

There was something in the way his fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve that night, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was real — like her touch was the only thing anchoring him. And after that, something shifted.

Not all at once. Nothing with Theo ever happened all at once.

It started with the way his hand brushed against hers as they left the Astronomy Tower. The way his fingers slipped between hers as they descended the spiral staircase — slow, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure she’d let him. She did. And she didn’t let go until they reached the corridor, where students might see.

After that, it wasn’t a conversation. It wasn’t even a decision. It just… was.

Small things. Fleeting things.

In Potions, when her hair slipped loose from its bun and fell into her eyes, he’d reach out to tuck it behind her ear — unthinking, like it had become habit. His fingers always lingered just a moment longer than they needed to, and sometimes his knuckles brushed her cheek. She never pulled away.

In the common room, he started sitting beside her again. Still careful, but close enough that his shoulder would find hers when he leaned, like her presence made breathing easier. Sometimes, under the table in the Great Hall, their pinkies would drift close. Brush. Linger. Nothing anyone else would notice. But she always did.

Because this was Theodore Nott.

And boys like him didn’t give lightly.

Not trust. Not touch. Not the flicker of something soft beneath the constant weight he carried. Not the parts of himself that didn’t have sharp edges.

There were still shadows between them — darker than she could reach. Some nights, his silence stretched so far she was sure he’d vanished inside it. But in the spaces between… there was this. A cautious, aching kind of softness.

He muttered under his breath at anyone who looked at her too long. And when she snuck into the common room late at night after studying with Hermione, he was already there — sprawled in an armchair, book in hand, head tilted just enough that she knew he’d been waiting.

So, she wasn’t surprised to see him waiting for her after class.

As the classroom emptied, the chatter and footsteps fading until only a few stragglers remained. Emma gathered her things slowly, reluctant to leave the quiet bubble of the lesson behind. The corridor outside was almost empty, the afternoon sun filtering through the tall windows and casting long, warm shadows on the stone floor.

Theo was leaning against the cold wall near the doorway, arms folded tightly across his chest like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His dark hair was tousled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and his usual sharp gaze was softened by a flicker of something else—unease, maybe.

As Emma stepped closer, she noticed his fingers fiddling with something—a cigarette he’d untucked from behind his ear, now rolling it between his fingers, tapping it lightly against his palm, as if the small motion helped ease the tension coiled inside him.

“You’re late,” he grumbled, voice rough, but not truly angry.

“Studying ran long,” she said softly.

He sighed, shaking his head like he was fighting the weight inside him. “Figures.”

They stood like that for a moment, the silence thick but somehow familiar.

Then a sharp sound broke through—the crackling edge of Draco’s voice echoing down the stone walls. Emma’s breath caught, the quiet tension between her and Theo shifting as she turned toward the noise.

Near the base of the stairs, Draco and Hermione stood locked in a fierce confrontation, their figures cast in long shadows by the slanting afternoon light. To anyone else, it was just another argument, another echo of years-old rivalry.

But Emma knew better.

She watched, breath shallow, as Hermione’s eyes flickered with heartbreak behind the fury. And Draco, for all his sneering words, looked like he was fighting something far more brutal beneath the surface.

Theo’s tired, guarded presence lingered behind her, but all Emma’s attention was on the fracture between them—on the fragile line where anger and care tangled, and where hearts might be breaking in silence.

She watched as Hermione said something low, something that made Draco flinch before he turned sharply on his heel.

“No one asked you to care,” he threw over his shoulder. “So stop.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He walked away stiffly, almost robotic in the way his shoulders stayed tense, like he was holding himself together by force.

Theo’s eyes flicked toward Emma then—a quick, sharp look, heavy with things unsaid.

I’ll talk to you later, it said without words.

Before Emma could respond, he straightened and sauntered after Draco, his steps steady but deliberate, moving into the shadows cast by the fading light.

Hermione stood frozen in the empty corridor. For a second, Emma thought she was going to cry.

She stepped forward.

Hermione turned at the sound of her footsteps. Her eyes were rimmed red, but she blinked hard like she didn’t want Emma to notice.

Emma just said softly, “What happened?”

Hermione hesitated. “Nothing. Just… Draco being a prick.”

Emma gave her a look. “You’re a terrible liar.”

That got a breathy laugh out of her. It didn’t last long.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said finally, voice small. “He’s—he’s been distant. Cold, but not in the usual way. Like he’s… shutting down. And then sometimes he says things that sound like—like he wants me to push him away.”

Emma’s chest tightened. “You’re scared.”

Hermione nodded slowly, like it cost her something to admit it. “Yeah. I am.”

She exhaled shakily, wrapping her arms around herself. “He’s angry all the time, but not at me. At himself. At the world. He lashes out just to create distance. But then he’ll say something that—” Her voice caught. “That makes it obvious he still cares. Like today. He told me to stop caring, but he said it like a warning. Like… like I’d get hurt if I didn’t.”

Emma stayed quiet, letting her speak. She could see the cracks in Hermione’s composure now, the flickers of worry that had been building for weeks.

“I know his father has been adamant on him doing… things,” Hermione whispered. “I think he’s in trouble. Real trouble. But he won’t tell me anything. Every time I try, he just—shuts the door. Locks it. Throws away the key.”

Emma felt her own unease rising. She’d seen it too. In the way Draco walked lately, like he was constantly bracing for impact. In how Theodore had been quieter, distracted, sticking close to him like a shadow.

“He’s pushing you out on purpose,” Emma said gently. “To protect you.”

“I know,” Hermione murmured. “But I don’t want to be protected. I want him to trust me.”

Emma looked at her, eyes soft. “Sometimes… when people are drowning, they think if they grab hold of you, they’ll pull you down too. So they let go first.”

Hermione blinked hard, biting her lip.

“I just wish I knew how to help him,” she said, voice barely audible. “Before it’s too late.”

Emma reached out and gave Hermione’s hand a quick squeeze. “Hey, you’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out—together.”

Hermione gave her a smile. “Thanks Em.”

Emma shrugged with a grin. “Well, someone has to be the adult here. Might as well be me.” She winked, trying to keep things light. “Come on, Granger. Let’s go find something less dramatic to get into. Like… homework.”

Inside, the ache was still there—but for now, she tucked it away behind the sarcasm and the bravado. Fake it till you make it, she thought.

***

Later that night, the dorm was quiet, save for the gentle bubbling of a charm-infused nail polish bottle and the occasional rustle of sheets. Emma sat on her bed, legs crossed, a small lantern hovering overhead. Her nails were freshly painted a deep navy — almost black, but not quite. Pansy lay opposite her on her stomach, swinging her feet idly as she blew on her own glossy fingertips.

“I still say Potter wants the Weasley girl,” Pansy said, breaking the silence with a flick of her hand. “You know, the tall one. Bit too brave for her own good.”

Emma didn’t look up. “Ginny,” she said, amused. “And I don’t think so. He’s probably too busy, like, saving the world.”

“Oh, please. He’s a boy. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, they’re always thinking with their cock’s.”

Emma smirked, swirling the brush back into the bottle. “You’ve clearly thought about this.”

“I think about everything. It’s why I’m always right,” Pansy said breezily, then paused, glancing at her thumbnail with a frown. “Bloody hell. Smudged it.”

Emma held out her hand. “Give it here.”

Pansy grumbled something about how she knew she should’ve waited longer, but offered her hand anyway.

They fell into silence again — warm, easy. The kind that only came from years of proximity.

After a while, Pansy spoke again, softer this time. “Draco hates nail polish.”

Emma blinked. “Pardon?”

“When we were kids. We’d have those fancy tea parties our mothers made us sit through — you know, all doilies and expectations — and my mum would bring polish. He’d glare at it like it was poison. Said his father would lose it if he came home with ‘nonsense’ on his hands.”

Emma didn’t respond at first, just painted a smooth coat over Pansy’s thumbnail, careful and precise.

Pansy kept talking, her voice distant now, like she was sifting through memories she didn’t often touch.

“I remember going to the Manor once when I was little. Everything was white. Too white. Like a mausoleum. Cold, clean, perfect. I dropped a biscuit and panicked like I’d committed treason.” She gave a breathy laugh, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “Lucius just looked at me. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to.”

Emma glanced up at her, surprised. She’d never heard Pansy talk like this.

“It must’ve been hard,” Emma said, quietly. “Being the only heir in a family like that.”

Pansy nodded. “So much pressure. To be the right kind of son. The right kind of Malfoy. I don’t think Draco ever got to just… be. Everything he is now — the arrogance, the control — it’s armour. It has to be. You grow up in a place like that, it’s survive or get swallowed.”

Emma’s heart tugged, but she didn’t speak. She thought about Draco, the shadows under his eyes, the sharp edges to his words lately. The way he’d watched Hermione Granger at the party like she was something complicated and dangerous. Something he didn’t know how to name.

After a pause, she asked, “And Theo?”

Pansy stilled.

“Oh,” she said eventually, pulling her hand back and sitting up straighter. “That house was worse.”

Emma frowned. “Worse?”

Pansy nodded, solemn. “I used to hate going over there. I only did it twice. The Nott estate made the Manor look warm. His father was… not like the others. Crueller. Harsher. You could feel it the second you walked in. Theodore never smiled when his dad was around. Barely spoke. Draco was the Malfoys’ prized possession. Groomed, protected, shown off. But the Notts—” her voice dipped with something like disgust, “—they acted like Theodore was a punishment. Like they resented him just for being born.”

She hesitated, twirling the hem of her sleeve between her fingers.

“I remember he got scolded once for interrupting — and it wasn’t even interrupting. Just a question. His father snapped. I didn’t even understand what he’d done wrong, but Theo looked like he’d been slapped, and it wasn’t even physical. It was worse. Like he was used to shrinking in his own skin.”

Emma’s chest tightened as she fidgeted with the gold chain that hung from her wrist. She could picture it too easily — Theo, stiff-backed and silent, hiding any trace of himself to avoid punishment. No softness. No warmth.

“There was no love in that house,” Pansy said, shaking her head. “Just expectations and silence. And books. Merlin, that house was full of books, like knowledge could make up for affection.”

Emma didn’t speak for a long moment. The blue on her nails had dried. It felt heavier now.

“I wonder if he knows how to be loved,” she said quietly, not really meaning to say it aloud.

Pansy raised a brow but didn’t push. “I think,” she said slowly, “he’s trying to figure that out.”

Emma’s throat tightened.

They didn’t say anything else after that.

Just sat together, dark polish gleaming under candlelight.

Chapter Text

Emma woke up with that quiet, prickling sense that something was off. Like the day had shifted subtly sideways while she was still asleep. The air felt too still. Her pillow too warm. Her limbs too heavy.

And then—

“Get up, you absolute corpse,” Pansy sang, yanking back the curtains with all the sensitivity of a Firewhisky-fueled banshee. “Breakfast! You promised!”

Emma groaned and buried her face in the pillow. “I promised nothing. That was sleepy me. She’s irresponsible.”

“Too late,” Pansy chirped, already rummaging through Emma’s trunk for socks like she owned the place. “We’re getting the good toast today. Blaise asked the elves specially.”
Emma sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. “How the fuck did Blaise ask the elves?”

“Polite intimidation,” Pansy said cheerfully, chucking a pair of socks at Emma’s face. “Now move it, I’m not letting you sleep through good toast day.”

Twenty minutes, one tangled braid, and an aggressively green jumper later, Emma was being dragged bodily through the dungeons by Pansy, who had the determined pace of someone heading into battle.

By the time they made it to the Great Hall, the buzz of the last Quidditch match of the season had taken over like wildfire. Even the Hufflepuffs were animated—some of them were making actual eye contact.

Emma sat across from Pansy and Blaise, who were being aggressively affectionate in that smug couple way that suggested everyone should be jealous of their morning snog and inside jokes.

Pansy was mid-rant about Slytherin’s “superior broom handling” while Blaise idly fed her a strawberry. Emma tried not to gag.

“Not to jinx it,” Blaise added casually, “but Ravenclaw doesn’t stand a chance. Their Keeper still flinches when the Quaffle comes near him.”

“Probably flinching from your ego,” Emma muttered, reaching for toast.

Pansy snorted.

Then the room shifted.

Draco walked in—slowly, stiffly. His complexion had gone from “elegantly pale” to “Victorian ghost.” Shadows pooled under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His shoulders hunched like the weight of the sky had latched onto his spine.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even make eye contact.

Just passed them silently, grabbed a single slice of toast, and left the Hall.

Emma blinked after him. “Well. That wasn’t ominous or anything.”

Pansy made a face. “Maybe he’s been possessed. Again.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “That happens often?”

Pansy stabbed a piece of sausage. “You’d be surprised.”

Her voice was flat, joking—but she didn’t look up from her plate.

***

Later that afternoon, in Ancient Runes, Hermione was half-asleep with her chin propped in one hand, her notes slipping off the desk. Emma nudged her with a quill.

“You’re going to get ink on your face.”

Hermione mumbled something that sounded like runes are a conspiracy, then sat up straighter. Her eyes were glassy.

Emma frowned. Hermione Granger never drifted off in Ancient Runes. She usually lit up at the first mention of glyph syntax or translation layers. If she couldn’t focus, something was seriously wrong.

The blonde tried to focus on the translation in front of her, but her brain kept drifting. “Draco looked like he was about to faint this morning,” she said quietly.

Hermione hummed. “He’s been like that for weeks.”

Emma glanced sideways. “Still not talking to you?”

“Barely. When he does, it’s like… cryptic threats and guilt-trips. Really charming.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Sounds healthy.”

“I think it’s his love language.”

They both snorted, the sound muffled by the low drone of Professor Babbling’s voice and the scratch of quills around them. The brief laugh didn’t quite shake the unease in Emma’s chest, though. That quiet, prickling sense still lingered—like something was inching closer, just out of sight.

When class ended, they packed up in relative silence, energy low, steps sluggish as they wandered into the corridor.

The corridor after class was quiet, dimly lit by slanting afternoon sun. As they passed the girls’ lavatory on the second floor, Emma’s steps slowed slightly. The air felt heavy again. Off. That strange weight pressing down on her chest.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a wail.

“YOU!” shrieked Moaning Myrtle, pointing directly at Hermione, tears streaming down her ghostly cheeks. “YOU KNOW HIM! HELP HIM!”

Hermione blinked. “What—”

“Draco!” Myrtle howled. “And the other one—the quiet one! The blood—so much—!”

Emma was already moving. Her heart slammed into her throat as she pushed past Myrtle, ignoring the freezing chill of the ghost’s presence. Hermione stumbled in behind her.

They rushed into the bathroom—

—and the world tilted.

Theodore and Draco were both on the floor.

Blood.

So much blood.

The tiles were slick with it, pooling beneath them like something out of a nightmare. Draco’s white shirt was blooming red, his body limp, his arm twisted at a horrible angle. Theo was slumped against the far wall, a deep gash across his side, one hand trying to press it closed. His face was grey, his chest barely moving.

And standing in the middle of it all was Harry Potter, wand out, eyes wide and horrified.

“Harry—what the FUCK did you do?” Emma screamed, already sprinting toward Theo, knees skidding against blood-slick tile.

Harry flinched. “I didn’t—! I didn’t know it would—!”

Emma barely registered it. She was already beside Theo, trying to stop the bleeding, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

“Theo. Theo. What’s happened.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

He didn’t answer. Just winced, teeth gritted, blood seeping fast between her fingers.

Emma pressed down harder, panic scraping her throat. “Stay with me, okay? You’re going to be fine. Just—just look at me.”

His eyes fluttered open for half a second, unfocused.

“M’fine,” he slurred, though it sounded more like mudline.

“Yeah, you look great,” Emma snapped, her hands shaking as she assessed the damage. “Bleeding out in a bathroom is totally your colour.”

Myrtle wailed in the background.

Harry was still frozen, his wand trembling.

Hermione stood motionless at the door.

For one awful, suspended moment, she didn’t move.

Her eyes darted between Draco’s crumpled body—pale, bleeding, unmoving—and Harry’s face, pale for an entirely different reason, wand still out and shaking.

“Harry…?” she whispered.

Harry’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Then: “I didn’t mean to—I just—it was a spell in the Prince’s book, I didn’t know what it would do—”

“You didn’t know?” Hermione’s voice cracked, her eyes wild. “You used a spell you didn’t know on—” Her gaze snapped back to Draco. “Oh God, Draco—”
Draco moaned, a soft, gurgling sound that punched the air from her lungs.

And that was it.

She dropped to her knees beside him instantly, hands already reaching for her wand. “No, no, no—Draco, I’m so sorry. You’re going to be fine. Just—just hold still—”
Harry stepped forward, but Hermione cut him off with a glare that was half fury, half panic.

“What did the spell do, Harry? How do I stop it?”

“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “It—it cut him. Slashed—like—”

“Brilliant!” she snapped, her voice thick with disbelief. “That’s so helpful.”

But her wand hand didn’t falter. She started casting healing charms, muttering incantations under her breath, voice trembling but focused. They didn’t work.

Emma was still crouched by Theo, her hands slick with blood, her expression all sharp edges.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me,” she hissed. He just gazed at her through his long dark lashes with dead eyes, “You hear me, Nott? I will hex you back to life.”

Theo made a weak sound that might have been a chuckle, or a groan. Hard to tell.

Hermione pressed her hand harder against Draco’s side. “We need to get them to the hospital wing. Now.”

Harry just stood there, as if the enormity of what he’d done had finally cemented his feet to the floor.

Emma looked up at him, her expression like steel.

“I swear to God, Potter—if he dies—”

“I didn’t mean to!” he snapped, sudden and strangled.

Before anyone could say another word, the bathroom door burst open again—this time with fury.

Snape stormed in, robes billowing, eyes already scanning the scene with surgical sharpness.

“What is—” His words cut off at the sight of Draco. Of all the blood.

In two strides, he was kneeling by Draco’s side, wand already in motion. His face, normally unreadable, twisted into something terrifying.

“Who did this?” he barked, not looking up.

No one spoke.

Then Harry, pale and shaking, said, “I did.”

Snape’s head snapped toward him with something close to murder in his eyes. But he said nothing. Not yet.

He turned back to Draco, muttering spells Emma didn’t recognise—deep, ancient incantations that felt heavy in the air. The gashes along Draco’s chest began to seal, slowly, blood stopping mid-drip and skin knitting back together. Draco twitched, gasped—but didn’t wake.

Emma still had Theo against her, arms tight around him like her own body could keep him conscious. His breathing was shallow, his skin deathly pale.

Snape turned next.

“Step back,” he ordered.

“No,” Emma said immediately, voice firm. “I’m not leaving him.”

“Miss Ryan,” Snape said sharply, “We have been here before. I cannot help him if you’re in the way.”

“He needs someone,” she whispered, gripping Theo’s hand tighter. “He needs me.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. But he didn’t argue.

Instead, he shifted beside her, muttering more spells. Emma flinched as Theo convulsed, blood rising again through his shirt—but then Snape pressed a palm to the boy’s chest, and with one long, whispered incantation, the worst of the bleeding stopped.

Emma let out a shaky breath.

“They will be fine,” Snape said coolly, though his tone was strained.

He rose swiftly to his feet, robes swirling.

“Miss Granger, go,” he snapped.

Hermione stayed frozen, her knees still pressed to the wet tile. “But—Professor, I—Draco—”

“They will be brought to the hospital wing shortly,” Snape interrupted, his voice clipped. “Right now, your presence is neither needed nor helpful. Go.”

She hesitated. Looked at Draco again, pale and still. Looked at Harry—silent, blood on his hands.

Her eyes brimmed with emotion.

“But—” she tried again, voice breaking.

Snape didn’t raise his voice, but something in his glare made the temperature drop ten degrees.

“That is not a request.”

Hermione flinched. After a pause, she slowly got to her feet, fingers shaking as she brushed her skirt down. She turned to Emma, searching her face for a cue.
But Emma wasn’t looking at her.

Snape’s gaze shifted.

“Miss Ryan,” he said, quieter now, but no less firm. “You, too.”

Emma didn’t move. Theo’s blood was under her fingernails, smeared on her sleeves. She held his wrist like it might vanish if she let go.

Snape stepped closer. His voice softened, just enough to sound almost human.

“Go to the hospital wing with Miss Granger. Now.”

Emma’s throat bobbed. She didn’t meet his eyes, but her arms loosened.

She leaned forward one last time, brushing her knuckles along Theo’s jaw. “You better be okay,” she whispered.

Then, slowly, she stood. Legs stiff. Cold. She walked past Snape without a word.

Hermione caught her in the corridor, and for once, said nothing.

They just walked.

Bloodstained shoes echoing behind them.

Chapter Text

Big surprise: Emma didn’t go to the Quidditch match that weekend.

Despite the near-constant threats from Pansy, despite the promise of “Quidditch-themed cupcakes” in the common room, and despite the fact that Blaise had allegedly bet five Galleons on her attendance—Emma chose to spend her Saturday in the infirmary.

Because if Theo Nott could sit beside her hospital bed like a stubborn, glowering gargoyle, she could damn well return the favour.

He looked terrible. Still. His skin was chalky, there was a faint purple bruise blooming along his jawline, and his dark lashes cast shadows under his eyes that made him look less “handsomely mysterious” and more “recently risen from the dead.”

But he was breathing. Even, steady, alive.

Which was more than she’d been able to say when she saw him collapsed on the floor in a pool of blood.

She was already curled up in the world’s most uncomfortable chair beside Theo’s bed when Pansy and Blaise swept past on their way to the match.

They paused in the doorway.

Pansy took one look at Theodore, pale and unconscious under the crisp infirmary sheets, and her expression flickered. Just for a second.

Then she turned to Hermione, who was sitting quietly across from Emma with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, looking utterly drained.

“…Thanks,” Pansy said awkwardly, eyes darting everywhere but Hermione’s face. “For—y’know. Sitting with him.”

Hermione blinked, startled. “Oh. It’s… nothing.”

Pansy made a face like she regretted speaking at all. “It’s not nothing. Just don’t let him die. I have money riding on his snarky survival.”

Then she crossed the room and pulled Emma into a tight hug. “Hey Em.”

“Hey Pans.” She murmured against the dark haired girls shoulder.

“You want me to stay?” Pansy asked, voice quieter now, like it was trying not to crack. “I mean—I can. If you want.”

Emma shook her head, smiling faintly. “Nah. I need someone out there giving live commentary. Preferably with violent bias.”

Pansy snorted. “You’ll get minute-by-minute coverage and excessive dramatics.”

“Perfect,” Emma said. “Go. Be my eyes. I want a four page essay about it when your back.”

Pansy gave her one last squeeze, then stepped back, swallowing something down before turning briskly toward the door.

Blaise, still leaning near the doorway, looked between Emma and Theo with a rare seriousness in his eyes. The usual smug curl of his mouth had flattened into something gentler.

“Take care of our Theo boy,” he said, voice low. “He’s… Well. He’s not good at this part. But he’s trying.”

Emma nodded. “I know.”

Blaise gave her a small salute, half-teasing, then followed Pansy out.

Emma let out a breath and slumped back in her chair.

Hermione gave her a look. “Are you crying over Blaise Zabini being nice?”

“No,” Emma muttered, playing with the gold bangle that sat on her wrist. “I just wasn’t prepared for character development before noon.”

They lapsed into silence, the hum of the infirmary filling the space between them. Emma reached over and adjusted Theo’s blanket, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest like it might stop if she looked away.

He still looked awful. Pale, bruised, still.

Emma shifted in the lumpy chair and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “So just to be clear,” she said quietly, watching his still face, “you’re not allowed to almost die again. I used all my trauma coupons for this semester.”

Across from her, Hermione sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, gaze flicking between Theo and the ceiling like she was doing complicated arithmetic in her head. She looked wrecked. Emma figured she probably did too.

“Draco woke up before,” Hermione said finally. “Snape thinks he’ll be fine physically. But he wouldn’t even look at me.”

Emma was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “Do they know? Harry and Ron?”

Hermione let out a tight breath. “About Draco? Well… I don’t know about before — they know I’ve been off with someone, probably assumed it was just stress — but after what happened in the bathroom?” She trailed off, eyes flicking toward Draco’s still form. “There’s no way Harry doesn’t know. Not after seeing me and you both trying to stop the bleeding. After that, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Emma was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “Do they care?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “How it affects everything. The friendship. The mission. Us.”

Emma stared ahead, brow furrowed. “Feels like everything’s starting to slip sideways.”

“I would die for Harry and Ron,” Hermione said suddenly, her voice firm but distant. “I would. No question.”

Emma turned to look at her.

Hermione’s eyes were on Draco again — pale and still under the infirmary light, the bruising stark against his skin. “But...”

Hermione didn’t finish it. Didn’t need to.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable — just full. Heavy with things unspoken.

And then, as if summoned by the weight of their conversation, the door creaked open.

Emma’s head turned instinctively. Of course. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

Harry stood in the doorway, tension radiating off him like heat from a curse. His shoulders were set, eyes flicking warily around the room like he was half-expecting to find hex marks on the walls or Theo holding a wand to Draco’s throat.

“Hey, Emma,” he said, voice neutral but edged.

Emma raised a brow, unsure whether to laugh or brace for impact.

“Potter,” she replied carefully.

Hermione straightened beside her, suddenly alert. “Harry—”

But he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze had fixed on Draco, pale and unconscious, then slid to the spare cot where Theo lay, bandaged and breathing shallowly.

He cleared his throat. “Hermione,” he said. “Can I… Can we talk?”

Hermione didn’t move at first. Her hand tightened on the edge of the chair.

Emma gave her a look. “Go. I’ll hold down the brooding vigil front.”

Hermione rose reluctantly, shot one last look at Theo, then disappeared with Harry through the door.

The room felt quieter instantly.

Emma slumped in her chair and exhaled. “Well, it’s just us now,” she said to Theo’s unconscious form. “You, me, and this aggressively uncomfortable chair.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. “So here’s the deal,” she said. “You wake up soon, or I start reading aloud from Hogwarts: A History. Chapter One. In chronological order. With voices.”

No movement. No twitch. Nothing.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not bluffing, Nott.”

Still, he didn’t so much as flinch. Emma sighed and sat forward, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands.

“Okay, maybe I don’t actually have Hogwarts: A History on me,” she admitted. “But I could get it. Don’t test me.”

The stillness stretched on. The faint ticking of the clock on the wall felt offensively loud. Theo’s breathing stayed steady, but the calm of it wasn’t reassuring. It felt like a lie. Like his body was here, but the rest of him was hovering somewhere far away—stubbornly out of reach.

Emma studied his face. Tried counting his freckles again. A fine sheen of sweat along his temple. Even unconscious, his brow was furrowed, like he was caught in some kind of invisible fight. It reminded her of the first time they had been in this position, at Christmas. It felt like years had passed.

She reached out, carefully brushing a bit of hair off his forehead.

“You’re not allowed to do this, you know,” she murmured. “Disappear. Leave me here making emotional monologues like some tragic side character in a drama. That’s your thing.”
Still nothing.

Emma sat back, folding her arms tightly across her chest like she could hold the worry in that way. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor, heel clicking in a steady, nervous rhythm.
Outside the windows, the late afternoon sun was starting to dip lower, casting the hospital wing in a gold-tinged hush.

Then—a sound.

A faint, scratchy breath. Not one of the usual, steady ones. This one hitched—sharper, uneven.

Emma’s head snapped toward him.

Theodore’s hand spasmed.

She lurched forward, nearly knocking over her chair in the process.

“Theo?”

His eyelids fluttered. His lips parted just slightly, dry and cracked, like he was trying to say something but couldn’t quite force the words out. His brow tightened, jaw clenching briefly like he was fighting against something unseen.

Emma grabbed his hand. “Hey. You with me?”

A moment passed. Then another.

Finally, his fingers curled faintly around hers.

“Theo,” she said again, voice catching now. “You absolute idiot. You’re not allowed to die dramatically and then just casually come back like it’s no big deal.”

His mouth moved. Barely.

“…dramatic,” he rasped, eyes still shut.

Emma let out a breathless laugh—half joy, half disbelief. “Of course that’s what you heard.”

She gripped his hand while he swallowed with effort. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve earned it. You scared the shit out of everyone. Even Blaise looked emotional for a second. It was horrifying.”

Theo gave the ghost of a smirk, then winced. Emma immediately shifted, smoothing a hand along his shoulder.

“Okay, okay, don’t smirk. Just—lie there and keep not dying.”

His eyes finally opened, hazy and bloodshot, but unmistakably there.

He blinked at her slowly. “You stayed.”

Emma blinked too, then smiled, biting back the sharp lump forming in her throat.

“Yeah. I figured it was my turn.”

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual for a Saturday afternoon, dimly lit and saturated in a lazy green glow from the lake beyond the windows. Emma curled up on the sofa near the fire, half-listening as Pansy and Blaise recounted the latest Gryffindor triumph with a mix of disdain and reluctant amusement.

“No Potter,” Blaise said, looking almost offended by the lack of drama. “He had detention. The Boy Who Lived got benched by the man who hates living.”

Pansy kicked off her shoes and stretched like a cat. “Still won, though. Ginny Weasley caught the Snitch. Ravenclaw’s Seeker barely made it off the ground — complete disaster.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “So Gryffindor’s partying?”

“Obviously,” Pansy said, reaching for a handful of Bertie Bott’s Beans and grimacing as she chewed. “Which means we’re having a party too.”

Emma blinked. “Why? We didn’t even play.”

Pansy tossed a pillow at her. “It’s not about the game. It’s about appearances. Do you want them thinking we’re sulking in here like rejects?”

“Not that you’ve been projecting anything else lately,” Blaise said under his breath, earning a kick to the shin.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Maybe we could just… not throw a pity party in emerald lighting?”

But Pansy was already standing. “Nope. If Gryffindor’s celebrating, we are too. That’s how this works. Pride. Power. Petty vengeance.”

Emma opened her mouth to argue—and that’s when the common room door opened.

The air shifted.

Draco and Theo stepped inside, looking like ghosts who’d remembered their bodies halfway through materialising. Dust clung to their sleeves. Draco’s hair was dishevelled, his eyes ringed with tired tension. Theo was quieter than usual, but his expression was unreadable, locked down tight.

The room went still for half a second.

“Well, hello,” Blaise said flatly. “Good to see you two in high spirits. We thought you’d eloped. Or died dramatically.”

Theo ignored him. Draco blinked slowly, like the light in the room hurt.

Pansy took one look at them and crossed her arms. “Right. Well. Since you’re both breathing again—there’s going to be a party. Tonight. Here.”

Draco looked wary. “A party?”

Pansy arched a brow. “You know. Music. Drinks. People not looking like they just survived a Dementor attack.”

Theo gave a half-hearted shrug and muttered, “Sure.”

Emma tilted her head. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either,” he said, voice low and rough.

“You still look like you got hit by a Bludger,” Blaise observed. “Twice.”

Draco didn’t respond, just stared into the fire like it owed him answers.

But Theo’s gaze slid to Emma then, and for a second, something flickered behind his eyes — recognition, maybe, or relief. She gave him a soft look in return, unsure of what to say.
So she said nothing.

Pansy, on the other hand, was already bouncing off the walls with this newfound energy. “We’ll need music. Alcohol. Ward off the first-years. And I swear, if anyone plays Celestina Warbeck again, I’ll hex them.”

Draco shook his head, collapsing into one of the leather armchairs. “You’re really doing this?”

“You say that every time,” Pansy replied smoothly, “and yet here we are.”

She planted herself in front of him, hands on hips. “Come on, Malfoy, don’t you want an excuse to wear one of your ridiculous waistcoats and pretend you’re not secretly a hundred-year-old wizard trapped in a teen’s body?”

“I like my waistcoats,” he muttered.

Blaise snorted. “We know. I still don’t know how you own more formalwear than the entire staff table.”

Emma watched, amused, as Draco sank lower into the chair, clearly debating the existential consequences of being around other people for more than five minutes.

Pansy ignored him entirely and turned on Theo. “What about you? Are you going to stand in a corner and glower or actually speak to someone with a pulse?”

Theo shrugged. “Glowering seems easier.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fantastic. One emotionally constipated bat and one depressed mannequin. Truly the life of the party.”

Emma snorted. “You really know how to hype people up.”

Pansy winked. “Oh, I haven’t even started.”

She proceeded to turn the Slytherin common room was a war zone of decorations and controlled chaos. Someone had enchanted the lake-facing windows to shimmer with shifting lights in green and silver, casting watery reflections across the floor. Tables were vanishing and reappearing at odd angles, furniture scooted itself out of the way with muttered complaints, and a string of streamers had just tried to commit murder.

Pansy was now stood on a transfigured step stool, wand clamped between her teeth as she muttered a spell to coax another coil of streamers across the arched ceiling. One of them slithered out of reach and tried to wrap around her neck.

“Absolutely not,” she snapped, jabbing it back into obedience with a sharp flick.

Emma passed behind her, arms full of potion bottles in colours that suggested either festive punch or mild poison. “Did we ever confirm if this one’s punch or a slow-acting truth serum?”

“Details,” Blaise called from the other side of the room, where he was charming an old Victrola to play something with a steady bassline and just enough edge to feel like trouble. “It’s Slytherin. Bit of danger keeps things interesting.”

Emma snorted and dropped the bottles next to the refreshment table, which was beginning to look like a mad alchemist’s bar cart.

Astoria and a pair of sixth-years were busy setting floating lanterns at different heights, tweaking the hue and charm duration with meticulous precision. Even Millicent had bothered to show up—though mostly to hex the lighting until it met her aesthetic standards.

Everyone was there… except Draco and Theo.

Again.

They had disappeared not long after Pansy dropped the party bombshell—off to “grab something” with all the transparency of a Niffler in Gringotts. Emma had rolled her eyes but hadn’t pushed. Still, it was hard not to notice their well-timed vanishing act whenever things required actual effort. Or attention. Or honest answers.

They reappeared just as Emma was adjusting the drink table to hide the slightly fizzing bottle.

Draco and Theo stepped through the entrance like they hadn’t missed half a war. Their robes were slightly rumpled, eyes tired, and expressions unreadable.

Draco blinked once at the chaos. “Did we—miss a battle?”

“Only the fun kind,” Pansy said airily. “You avoided the glitter hex. Consider it mercy.”

Theodore looked around, then shrugged. “Looks good.”

Emma gave them both a flat look, arms crossed. “Nice of you to show up once everything’s already done.”

Draco’s smirk was faint. “Didn’t want to get in the way.”

“Right,” Emma muttered. “Wouldn’t want to mess with the aesthetic.”

Theo’s lips twitched.

Pansy flopped down dramatically on the arm of a couch, sipping something vaguely luminescent. “Anyway. It’s ready. Ravenclaws’ll be here soon. They deserve a distraction after losing.”

“Are Gryffindors invited?” Emma asked casually, gaze flicking to Draco—just a beat too long to be casual.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look away.

Pansy cut in smoothly. “Nope. Just Ravenclaws and us. We’re throwing a party, not starting a revolution.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the vibe with friendship and emotional maturity.”

Draco’s smirk returned, this time a little sharper. “Can’t have that.”

Pansy grinned and stretched like a cat. “Now come on. Someone make me a drink before I start hexing the decor into submission again.”

They didn’t play drinking games this time.

Not because they forgot — but because Blaise and Pansy flat-out refused.

“I’m still recovering from last time,” Blaise said, buttoning his shirt with all the enthusiasm of a man headed to his own execution.

“Yeah, I’m still scarred,” Pansy said with a glare, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Blaise glanced at her, a grin growing on his face.

Pansy scoffed, but her ears had gone a bit pink. “I literally am scarred. It’s on my wrist from the time we did exploding shot glass roulette,” she said dryly, twirling a curl around her finger like she couldn’t be bothered. “If you lot want to drink yourself stupid, be my guest. But I’m not ending the night with glitter in my ears and Draco singing Celestina Warbeck again.”

“Hey,” Draco called from across the room, already nursing a drink. “That was a masterpiece. The whole common room cried.”

“Because you hit the high note like a dying banshee,” Theodore said.

“Jealousy,” Draco replied smoothly, raising his glass.

So, the night went completely different to the last party. The usual chaos was swapped for something smoother. No drinking roulette. No dares. No forced chaos.

There weren’t any Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors this time — just Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Which, frankly, meant things were destined to get far more fucked up.

Hufflepuffs had a way of keeping people hydrated and ensuring peace. Gryffindors started dumb dares but at least had the decency to pass out early. Ravenclaws, on the other hand, came armed with complicated drugs, zero impulse control, and a quiet kind of competitiveness that turned casual drinking into a sport.

By ten, someone had transfigured a bookshelf into a makeshift bar. By ten-thirty, a Ravenclaw fifth year was giving an impromptu lecture on the effects of firewhisky on wand accuracy — slurring every third word. And by eleven, the dance floor had unofficially taken over the middle of the common room.

Emma had started slow. A butterbeer. A casual lean against the wall. Quiet, observant.

But then she caught Theo looking at her.

His eyes were dark as he held her stare — not for long, just long enough — and then, with maddening calm, he reached for the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Lit it with a flick of his wand. Smoke curled in the space between them as he looked away, returning to his conversation with Blaise like nothing had happened.

Like she wasn’t even there.

So she tilted her head and smiled — slow and sharp — and let her gaze drift elsewhere. Somewhere deliberately not-Theo. Blaise, maybe. A Ravenclaw boy complimenting her necklace. Didn’t matter. She laughed at something she barely heard and let the sound rise above the music, bright and careless.

Across the room, Theo stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of a windowsill, watching the glow die with the same expression he always wore before picking a fight.

When she passed him twenty minutes later, she brushed his shoulder. Lightly. Like an accident. But they both knew it wasn’t.

He didn’t flinch. Just turned his head, real slow, eyes tracking her like prey, and said nothing.

Later, when she leaned over to fix her shoe and he looked down from where he stood — drink in hand, exhaling smoke — she didn’t look up. But she smirked like she knew. And when she straightened, her hand ghosted across the waistband of his trousers as she passed.

A warning. A provocation.

Game on.

Neither of them spoke to the other — not properly — for most of the night. They didn’t need to. Every move was deliberate. Every glance, every laugh, every step closer or further away. Like chess with too much eye contact and not nearly enough self-control.

Then, there was the pretty dark-haired girl he’d taken to the Yule Ball — the one with the sharp eyeliner and the air of effortless cool, like she’d been born with a flask of firewhisky in her bag and a secret or two tucked under her tongue.

Emma saw her before Theo did. Or maybe he’d already noticed — maybe he was just pretending he hadn’t.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Because the second their eyes met across the room, the girl smiled — slow and fond — like this wasn’t the first time she’d caught Theodore Nott staring. Like she knew him. And then she crossed to him in a single unbothered glide, slipped a hand onto his forearm, and leaned up to whisper something in his ear. They looked good together, like they were made for each other. She took the cigarette from his mouth and put it in her own, and he didn’t bat an eye.

Emma had never wanted to strangle a man more than she wanted to strangle Theodore Nott in that moment.

She turned back to her drink, jaw clenched.

A beat.

Then two.

She glanced back — just to check — and saw Theo’s mouth twitching into something that could’ve been a smile, but wasn’t quite.

Not the way he smiled at her.

Still, the Ravenclaw girl laughed like it was. And that was enough.

Emma downed the rest of her drink, set her glass down with more force than necessary, and stepped into the thick of the crowd.

Screw him. She had pulled Fred fucking Weasley last year. She wasn’t going to let Theodore Nott win.

Her hips found the beat easily, like they’d been waiting for it. The music was low and filthy — the kind that begged you to sin a little. Someone grabbed her hand, spun her. A boy with sandy curls and a Gryffindor-level amount of confidence. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t care.

Her body moved with his like she’d been born in this room, like she had glitter in her veins and absolutely no self-preservation left. He caught her waist, tugging her closer with the casual boldness of someone who thought he was charming. (He kind of was. But still.)

“You’ve got good rhythm,” he said, voice pitched low in her ear.

Emma gave him a crooked smile. "I know. I’m basically a national treasure. Tragic no one’s noticed yet."

That made him laugh — proper laugh, head tipped back — and she decided she liked his laugh. It sounded like a boy who didn’t care if someone was watching. Unlike her.

“Do you flirt like this with everyone?” he asked, eyes trailing down to where her fingers played at the hem of his shirt.

“Only the ones with questionable taste and very little sense of danger,” she said sweetly, letting her hand rest on his chest. “So… you, apparently.”

“Harsh.”

“Honest,” she corrected, grinning now.

He moved with her, smooth and easy, hand still firm on her hip. “You’re trouble.”

“You have no idea.”

And maybe he didn’t — but someone else did. Someone who was standing across the room like a thunderstorm in a black button-down, jaw tight, eyes locked on her like she’d set the entire room on fire.

Good.

She leaned in, letting her lips hover close to Sandy Curls’ jaw, just to drive the knife a little deeper.

Sandy laughed, oblivious. “What are you doing?”

Emma’s smile was sugar-laced poison. “Manifesting poor decisions.”

Across the room, a glass clinked too hard. Blaise turned like he was about to say something — maybe a warning, maybe a “don’t be stupid” — but he didn’t get the chance.

Because Theo was already moving.

He cut through the crowd like a blade — silent, direct, and absolutely livid in a way that didn’t need shouting to be dangerous. People instinctively parted for him, the air around him practically crackling.

Emma didn’t notice him until it was too late.

She’d just thrown her head back laughing — too loud, too tipsy — when a hand closed around her wrist. Firm. Possessive.

“Theo—?” she started, startled.

He didn’t give her time to finish. With one sharp tug, he pulled her clean out of Sandy Curls’ grasp like she weighed nothing at all.

The Ravenclaw — tall, floppy-haired, and still blinking in confusion — tried to follow. “Oi, mate, what’s your—”

Theo stopped, turning slowly. His grip on Emma didn’t loosen.

There was nothing messy about it. No yelling. No pushing. Just a look. One that could slice skin if the lighting hit it right.

“She’s not available,” Theo said coolly. His voice was low, measured, but each word was sharp as glass. “Not tonight. Not to you.”

The guy raised his hands, backing off quickly. “Alright, alright — bloody hell—”

Theo didn’t even spare him another glance. He just turned back to Emma, his hand still curled around her wrist — too tight to be casual, too loose to hurt.

“Theodore,” she snapped, stumbling a little. “What the actual—”

“Outside,” he bit, low and dark, not even sparing her a glance. “Now.”

People turned. Someone laughed. Pansy raised a brow. Blaise winced.

And Emma?

She let him.

“You really pick the dumbest blokes,” he muttered under his breath as he steered her down a quieter corridor off the common room.

He let go the second they were past the door, like she burned.

“Well,” Emma said, rubbing her wrist. “That was subtle.”

He paced away from her, then turned back sharply. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He didn’t answer right away—just took a step forward, then another, until the space between them was barely a breath. His glare sharpened, jaw tight, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and dangerously close. “Are you trying to make me lose it?”

She pushed his shoulder, regaining her ground. “Lose what, exactly? Your fucking mind? Because newsflash, Theo — it’s not all about you.”

He glared at her. “You were all over him.”

Emma laughed, sharp and mean and too loud. “Oh, please. I was dancing.”

“You were practically fucking him.”

“Holy shit. Sorry, Theodore, I didn’t realise you’d claimed me like a bloody chair.”

His jaw clenched. “Emma.”

“What?” she said, eyes sparkling with a dangerous kind of amusement. “You were all over that Ravenclaw chick. What, you get jealous?” She bit the words off, almost daring him to snap.

His expression shifted, something dark flickering in his gaze. “Don’t pretend like it’s the same thing.”

She stepped closer, leaning in, her voice dripping with venom and challenge. “No, Theodore. You don’t get to stand there, all intense, while you were just acting like this year didn’t happen.”

“Don’t do that,” he repeated, this time quieter, more urgent. “Stop acting like I haven’t been trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with you. With us.”

Her heart was hammering now, chest rising and falling too quickly. But she held his gaze, refusing to look away. “Then figure it out, Nott.”

He moved. Fast. Before she could blink, his hand was on her wrist, pulling her towards him. It wasn’t gentle, but there was something desperate about it, like he needed to feel her close, needed to prove something to himself. She tried to push him away, but he wasn’t having it. Instead, his other hand came up to her jaw, cupping it roughly as he forced her face up to meet his.

“Theodore,” she murmured, gazing up at him. His hair had fallen over his brow, just messy enough to make her ache. His eyes — storm-dark and wild — darted over her face like he was searching for something, maybe permission, maybe forgiveness. Maybe a reason not to ruin everything.

There was a cut just beneath his cheekbone, faded but still visible, and something in her chest clenched. His lips were parted like he’d forgotten to breathe, and his jaw was tight — like restraint cost him more than anger ever did.

He was beautiful in a way that hurt.

He stilled, something shifting behind his eyes—like the last of his control was wearing thin.

“Emma,” he rasped, voice hoarse with the weight of whatever he was feeling. “You don’t get it. I’ve been going insane. I don’t know how to act around you anymore. I forget how to fucking breathe when you look at me like that.”

She froze. His words—raw, exposed—sliced through the haze of heat between them, sobering her. Her heart pounded, but her instincts screamed not to give in. Not after everything. Not if it would cost her again.

“Then drown,” she whispered, the words low, deliberate, cutting.

And just like that, the tension snapped.

He kissed her—hard, messy, furious. There was no warning. No softness. Just months of tension, sleepless nights, and unsaid things crashing into that one moment like it had always been inevitable.
And for a second, she kissed him back—because it was all she wanted, all she’d been trying not to want. But then the part of her that remembered how badly it could hurt reared up, and she shoved him back—not far, just enough to breathe, to try and regain her footing.

Only, she couldn’t.

“Theodore,” she whispered, breathless.

His eyes burned. “Call me Theo,” he said, already pulling her back in. “Only ever call me Theo.”

And then they were kissing again—teeth, hands, frustration. Her back hit the stone wall with a thud, his arm bracing beside her head as though he already knew she'd try to run. She didn’t. Couldn’t. She was too far gone.

His mouth left hers only to trail down her neck, finding the hollow of her throat with devastating precision. Her fingers slid into his hair—soft, familiar, dangerous—and he groaned low in his throat, the sound raw, primal, like her touch unravelled something in him.

She gasped when the cool stone wall met her spine, but his body was already there, heat and pressure and possession all at once.

“Theo—” she whispered, her voice trembling with want and warning, like she wasn’t sure which would win.

“Mhm?” he murmured against her skin, lips brushing the base of her throat, the vibration of his voice sending sparks down her spine.

“We should stop,” she managed, even as her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him there.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just pressed a kiss to her jaw, slow, careful—almost reverent. Like punctuation to a thought he hadn’t said aloud.

“You should go,” she said again, softer this time, though her body betrayed her, still leaning into his.

Theo pulled back, just enough to look at her—really look. His gaze was molten, unreadable. There was something dangerous in the way he spoke next, something that made her blood turn to wildfire.

“Go where?” he said, voice like silk and steel. “Here?”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, slow, calculated, sending heat shooting through her veins.

“Or here?”

His lips brushed just beneath her ear—her weak spot—and she gasped, breath hitching.

Emma’s resolve crumbled. Her hands faltered in his hair, her resistance like a thread pulled too tight and ready to snap. “Oh my gods…”

He didn’t wait this time.

His mouth claimed hers again—deeper, fuller. No hesitation. Just fire and gravity and the weight of everything they’d been avoiding. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him, like he needed to feel every inch of her, to memorise her in this moment.

It was her who broke the kiss first, panting against his chest. Her forehead fell forward, grounding herself in the steady thump of his heart.

“This is reckless,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Emma,” His voice was quieter now. Not soft, exactly, but honest. When he bent his head, his lips found her collarbone—not kissing, just being there. Present. Steady. The kind of touch that marked you without leaving a bruise. “I don’t care.”

And this time, she believed him.

He stayed close, his breath warm against her skin, his hands still on her waist like he couldn’t bear to let go. She didn’t move either. Couldn’t. Her heart was thudding too loud, her brain short-circuited, every nerve ending tuned to him.

Eventually, she tilted her head back, eyes finally opening to meet his. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with curses or bloodlines.
She swallowed hard.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, half to herself.

Theo blinked, confused. “What?”

Emma exhaled through a laugh, dazed and breathless and still pressed against the wall.

“Nothing,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching despite everything.

Then, more quietly: “I’m so fucked.”

Theo didn’t even hesitate. His voice was low, dry, and way too sincere.

“Yeah,” he said. “Join the club.”

And then, because neither of them could help themselves, they kissed again.

Hard. Messy. Fucked.

Chapter Text

After that night, everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

The castle still groaned under the weight of end-of-term exams and the occasional cursed staircase, but something unspoken had shifted. Lighter. Brighter. Less like a noose tightening and more like a breath finally exhaled.

Emma noticed it first in Theo.

He didn’t disappear.

That was her first clue. After all, they’d kissed — actually kissed — and that was usually his cue to vanish like a storm cloud: dramatic exit, minimal closure. Every other time they’d made progress — a moment of honesty, her stitching up his bloodied hands— he’d followed it up by evaporating into the air or turning up two days later with a new set of bruises and a new set of walls.
But this time, he didn’t hide.

Actually, he smiled. At her.

Not always directly — Theo was still Theo, and too much warmth might cause him to combust. But in Potions, their elbows would brush under the table, and he’d pretend not to notice — except he always shifted just enough to keep touching her. Once, when she dropped her quill, he beat her to it, passing it back with a faint smirk and a fingertip that lingered just a little too long against her palm.

After they kissed that night, his hands never left her waist as they slipped back through the castle corridors. Not even when they reached the Slytherin common room, and definitely not when she leaned into him to whisper something ridiculous that made him laugh under his breath.

And then there was the moment on the couch two nights later — late, quiet, with only the low fire burning and the sound of parchment rustling. He’d fallen asleep with his head against her shoulder, breath soft and even, like he’d finally let himself rest. She hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. Wouldn’t have dared.

Her birthday arrived a few days later.

Emma woke up to the sound of something fizzing. Then popping. Then a tiny, vicious shriek of delight.

Her eyes opened blearily.

“Morning, birthday bitch,” Pansy grinned from the edge of her bed, wand already twirling. A puff of soft green glitter exploded above Emma’s pillow, trailing silver and Slytherin-themed sparkles through her hair.

“What the hell,” Emma groaned, shielding her face. “It’s not even seven—”

“Exactly. Time to bask in our appreciation.” Pansy snapped her fingers. “Blaise! Gift.”

Blaise Zabini, lounging against the bedpost with the newest edition of The Daily Prophet and a silk dressing gown he absolutely didn’t need to be wearing, held out a small, elegant box with one hand — like it might bite him.

“Happy birthday, menace,” he said. “It’s not cursed. Probably.”

Emma sat up, blinking.

“You guys didn’t have to—”

He sniffed. “Don’t get used to it. Pansy said if I didn’t contribute, she’d shave my eyebrows in my sleep.”

Inside was a ring — dark green enamel and silver, shaped like a snake coiled around a pearl. Beautiful. Striking. Very Slytherin.

“Merlin…”

He didn’t look at her. “Pansy picked it. I just paid.”

“It’s vintage,” Pansy followed, softer now. “It reminded me of you. And before you say anything else — no, I’m not letting you give it back.”

Emma didn’t say anything for a moment. Her fingers curled around it instinctively.

“Thank you.”

“Obviously.”

She couldn’t stop grinning through breakfast. The ring felt heavy in the best way — important, anchored, like a promise tucked onto her hand. Pansy had also charmed a ridiculous satin bow to sit proudly around the handle of her mug, soft pink and sparkling faintly in the candlelight. Emma pretended to scoff at it but didn’t touch the charm — and maybe even turned the mug a little so the ribbon faced outward.

Draco appeared beside her halfway through the meal and smirked down at her plate.

“Celebrating your tragic birth, are we?”

“Celebrating the fact that you haven’t ruined my day yet, yes.”

“Give it time,” he said dryly, but his eyes warmed a little. Then, more quietly, “Happy birthday, Ryan.”

Blaise nudged her with his shoulder. “Tolerate it while it lasts,” he muttered. “Draco’s being emotionally available today. We suspect possession.”

The doors to the Great Hall creaked open mid-breakfast, and a ripple of something — confusion, maybe awe — moved down the Slytherin table.

Because Theodore Nott was grinning.

Not smirking. Not sneering. Grinning — full-on, boyish and obnoxious, like he’d just hexed a teacher and gotten away with it. The change was so shocking that even the enchanted ceiling seemed to pause mid-cloud.

Conversations stuttered. Forks hovered mid-air. Draco, in the middle of spreading marmalade on toast, glanced up — and clearly decided something was deeply wrong. “What the hell—”

“Move,” Theo said, entirely unbothered, gesturing at the bench like he was flicking lint off his sleeve.

The blonde boy blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?” Theo drawled, more amused than irritated, already sliding himself into the gap that didn’t exist until Draco reluctantly shifted sideways with a huff.

And then, without fanfare, Theo dropped onto the bench beside Emma.

Not opposite her. Not across. Right next to her.

He leaned in, warm and too close, and murmured low — just for her: “Happy birthday.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it landed heavy.

Then his arm curled around her shoulder. Lazy. Familiar. Like he’d done it a thousand times before and never once thought twice about it. But his fingers brushed lightly along her arm — deliberate, possessive in that quiet, understated way of his.

Emma didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her heart thudded in her chest, and for a moment, all she could hear was the scratch of a quill nearby and the clink of cutlery resuming around them.

Nobody said a word about it.

But everyone saw.

Pansy looked like she might drop her spoon. Blaise muttered something under his breath that sounded like, about bloody time.

Theodore Nott — untouchable, emotionally constipated, perfectly nonchalant Theo — was sat in the Great Hall with his arm around a girl and a grin on his face.

And not just any girl.

Emma Ryan.

The room gawped.

But Emma?

Emma was fucking thrilled.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide, but she didn’t shrug him off. She let herself lean the tiniest bit into him, let her thigh brush against his under the table, let herself have this.

Because it was public. Because it was bold. Because it was Theo.

And because, for once, he wasn’t pretending.

Emma could feel the looks still on her as she reached for her pumpkin juice. A beat of silence stretched… until Pansy loudly cleared her throat and said, “Right. I’m going to hex the next person who stares like that.”

That got the room moving again — barely.

Theo, for his part, didn’t move. Just leaned in and murmured something obscene in her ear about how people needed to mind their business, which made her choke on her toast and elbow him in the ribs.

It was, honestly, one of the best mornings she could remember.

And it only got better — or worse, depending on how you felt about loud singing.

Because just after lunch, when she tried to sneak off to the library to finish her final assignment for Ancient Runes, she was ambushed.

Literally.

She stepped through the library doors and was immediately met with a full chorus of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUU” echoing off the bookshelves. Two Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff were wildly out of tune. A tiny bright pink cake hovered midair, bobbing along with gold sparklers, and Hermione stood in the centre of it all, arms crossed proudly like she’d organised a bloody parade.

Emma froze. Jaw dropped.

“Kill me,” she whispered.

Hermione beamed. “Absolutely not.”

The cake zoomed toward her like a snitch on a leash. A little sugar figurine in Slytherin robes wobbled on the top — clearly meant to be her, if the bright hair and unimpressed expression were anything to go by.

“This is mortifying,” Emma hissed, cheeks burning as the few other students in the library began clapping.

“You love it,” Hermione said cheerfully, handing her a tiny fork. “And the cake is chocolate, your favourite. I even asked the elves to give it pink icing!”

Emma blinked at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m efficient,” Hermione corrected. “And you’re not allowed to study for the next twenty-five minutes. That’s how long I booked this table for. Celebrating you is a scheduled academic break.”

Despite herself, Emma laughed. Loudly. And let Hermione pull her into the ridiculous birthday scene she’d orchestrated, sugar figurine and all.

Somewhere between the second bite of cake and watching one of the Ravenclaws light a book on fire with a misfired charm meant for a candle, Emma looked around and realised her cheeks hurt from smiling.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of well-wishers, enchanted sparkles trailing from her quill (courtesy of Pansy), and Draco dramatically presenting her with exactly one Sugar Quill and declaring it “the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given, obviously.”

By nightfall, the Slytherin common room had dimmed to its usual low green glow, thick with the smell of fireplace ash and the distant rush of the Black Lake pressing against the windows.

Most of the younger students had cleared out. A few seventh-years lingered in corners, flipping lazily through textbooks or dozing off mid-essay.

And in the far corner of the couch by the hearth sat Theo.

One ankle propped on his opposite knee, shirt sleeves rolled up, a quill spinning idly between his fingers like he couldn’t quite be bothered to commit to actual work. He didn’t look up when she approached — just shifted enough for her to take the spot beside him, already waiting for her.

“You look like someone who was emotionally waterboarded by excessive birthday cheer,” he said, dry.

Emma flopped down with a sigh. “I was serenaded in the library.”

“I heard. Granger’s little coup.” He glanced at her. “The cake looked terrifying, by the way.”

“It had me on it,” she said. “A little mini sugar version of me.”

Theo made a show of shivering. “That’s dark magic.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“I’m known for my empathy.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Emma curled one leg under herself, eyes on the fire, feeling the strange hum beneath her skin — the quiet kind of content that only came after too much sugar and too much affection from people who knew her better than she liked to admit.

Theo nudged her knee with his.

“Hey.”

She looked over. “Yeah?”

His mouth curved — a real smile, soft and slow, just for her. “Come on.”

She blinked. “Where are we going?”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Somewhere you won’t complain. Much.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “That’s the exact thing people say before something horrifying happens.”

Theo just cocked his head. “Do I look horrifying?”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Frequently.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, hand outreached, “you’re still talking to me. Curious.”

Then, softer — almost like an afterthought, except he meant every syllable: “Come on, birthday girl. You’ll like it.”

She didn’t move. Just looked at him, chin tilted, weighing whatever mischief this was going to be against the fact that it was her birthday and she’d spent the entire day not only surviving Hogwarts but somehow enjoying it.

She took his hand.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if this ends with me in detention, I’m telling Snape you seduced me.”

Theo leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

And just like that, they slipped into the quiet of the dungeons — two shadows against the stone — with Theo’s fingers laced through hers and the rest of the world falling away.
The halls stretched quiet and endless under their steps, each turn familiar, each shortcut practiced. Emma followed, one hand still curled in his, the other clutching the hem of her cardigan — the only barrier between her and the light June breeze that soaked into the stone after curfew.

She didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t have to.

The second they reached the winding stairwell to the Astronomy Tower, she rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

Theo glanced back, smirking. “What? Traditions matter.”

They reached the top, and she stopped.

The tower looked the same — all open air and shadow, the stone still cool under her feet. But above, the sky had changed.

Instead of the usual stretch of constellations, hundreds of soft golden lights drifted above them. Firefly-bright. Quiet. They moved slowly, hovering like they had all the time in the world. Some formed loose, swirling clusters — not stars, exactly, but shapes that looked like they belonged in her bedroom back home. That same soft light, the same warmth she used to fall asleep to in her father’s house. Familiar. Safe.

Her breath caught.

“Oh my god.”

Theo said nothing at first. Just leaned against the stone railing, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear with one hand and flicking it alight with the other. The ember lit his face in a glow almost as warm as the lights above them.

“I know you miss home,” he murmured between inhales, “I thought this would remind you off it.”

Her eyes flicked to him — slow, disbelieving.

“Believe it or not,” he added, dragging on the cigarette and exhaling, “Draco helped.”

Emma blinked. “Wait. Draco?”

Theo gave her a sideways look. “He pretends he hates being sentimental, but he’s alarmingly efficient with atmospheric enchantments.”

She laughed — short, shocked, delighted.

He didn’t. He just watched her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now.

Her smile faded. “For what?”

His voice was low, not quite steady. “That I can’t always be better. For you.” He looked away, then back again. “You deserve someone who’s less… me.”

She didn’t speak at first.

Then she stepped forward — just once — and plucked the cigarette gently from his hand. Dropped it. Crushed it out with her shoe.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s one way to make your point.”

She shook her head. “You’re an idiot.”

He tilted his head. “You’ve said that twice now. Still waiting for the birthday appreciation.”

“I’m serious.” Her voice cracked a little. “You don’t have to be better. Just… be here. Like this.”

And maybe it was the lights, or the hour, or the way her voice sounded so completely sure — but Theo leaned in again, slower this time, and let their lips meet.It was a kiss unlike their last: slow, purposeful, every moment held with quiet intention.

She rose to meet him — hands in his collar, pulling him closer, his fingers sliding back into the folds of her cardigan like he had no intention of letting go. The world outside disappeared. The quiet, the tension, the coming storm — it all paused.

Because here, in this moment, with firefly-lights humming above them and something unspoken tangled in their lungs, it felt like maybe they could be more than everything trying to break them.
And when they broke apart, just for breath, just for a second, she whispered: “Thank you.”

He smiled, soft and lopsided, a rare glint of awkward pride in his eyes. “Two gifts this year. Can you believe it? I’ve never done that for anyone before.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Wow, Theodore Nott, the generous gift-giver. I should feel bad I haven’t gotten you anything.”

He caught her gaze, those striking eyes framed by long lashes locking onto hers with a quiet intensity that made her breath hitch. For a moment, she just watched him—tragically handsome in that effortless way he never realised.

“I’m not worried about that,” he said softly. “Emma, you’ve done more than you’ll ever know.”

She shook her head. Kissed him again.

The lights above them spun, slow and silent.

And the world, for a little while, stayed still.

Chapter Text

Emma had slipped into the library like she owned the place — or at least like she was on some kind of high horse. Which, honestly, after the way Theodore had kissed her, felt pretty close. She was riding that high you only get when someone who usually guards himself like a vault lets you in just a little.

The blonde found Theo sprawled in a corner chair, tucked away from anyone who wasn’t looking closely enough. He began explaining some runic cipher to her, his voice low and precise—words she only half caught because her attention was caught by him fiddling with the gold chain that sat on her wrist.

Then, mid-sentence, his eyes flicked up to hers, lingering longer than usual. When their gazes locked, he gave her the smallest, tight smile—half promise, half challenge—and his hand moved before she could stop it, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Emma made a mental note: he was always touching her hair. She hadn’t quite worked out what his hyper fixation was about—whether it was a control thing, some unconscious habit, or just him being quietly obsessed—but it was constant.

Then his gaze slipped away mid-sentence, sharp and alert.

Emma followed it.

Her light eyes found Draco, standing stiffly by the shelves.

Emma squinted, narrowing her gaze. “Can he somehow look paler than usual?” she muttered under her breath, voice low but laced with dry humour. “Or maybe it’s just the lighting. Or, you know, Draco’s always been a little on the ghostly side.”

She smirked, watching the slight tension in Theo’s jaw tighten.

As he stood, towering over her, he tipped her jaw up. “I should see what that’s about,” he said, his hand curling around hers, sending a jolt through her. His voice was calm, but something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

He leaned down and kissed her—brief, deliberate, like a whispered claim. A quiet reminder. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist before he pulled away, and for a second, Emma thought he might say something more. But he just held her gaze for a beat too long, then turned, his robes catching the corner of the table as he disappeared between the stacks.

Emma stayed rooted to the spot, pulse still tripping, like she’d just been marked and dismissed all at once.

Right.

So that had just happened.

She blinked, slow, like her brain was buffering. Her hand drifted to where his fingers had just been—her jaw, her wrist, her hair.

Merlin. She was so screwed.

Emma barely had time to collect herself—was still half in a daze, trying not to smile like an idiot at a bookshelf—when Hermione Granger slid into the seat across from her.

Not walked. Slid. Like someone on a mission.

“Alright,” Hermione said, dropping a pile of parchment between them like a gauntlet. “We need to talk.”

Emma blinked. “Hello to you too.”

“Have you seen Draco?” Hermione asked, voice low and clipped.

That snapped her out of it. “Uh—yeah. Like two minutes ago? He literally just left with Theo.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Not right away. Her whole posture shifted—tense, alert, the way she got when her brain started fitting pieces together faster than she could speak.

“Oh no,” Emma muttered. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Granger.”

“Harry thinks he’s going to try something tonight. Something bad. He gave us what’s left of the Felix.”

The words hit hard. Emma felt them crack against her ribs like she’d been cursed. Her smile slipped. She went very still.

“Try what?” she managed, though the words felt far away.

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “We’re not sure. Harry overheard something — a conversation. He’s convinced it’s tonight.” She exhaled slowly. “Please just… be careful. Don’t be alone with him.”

Emma stared at her. “Has he said anything to you? Draco?”

That made Hermione falter. Not in confusion — in pain.

Her voice cracked on the first word. “No. He’s been—distant.” She looked down at the floor for a second too long, then up again quickly, like she regretted letting herself feel it. “He hasn’t spoken to me in weeks. Not really.”

Emma opened her mouth, then closed it.

The silence between them swelled. The ache behind Hermione’s words hung there, heavy and raw — and all too familiar.

Emma stilled.

Hermione caught it, obviously. “Has Theodore been acting… off?”

That was the thing.

He hadn’t been off. Not in any of the usual ways.

He’d been warm. Affectionate. Present in ways Theo never was before—touching her hair, kissing her in the library, executing very thoughtful birthday gifts.

That wasn’t normal. Not for him.

And that’s what bothered her.

It wasn’t that he was happy. It was that everything felt still. Felt calm. The way he’d been clinging to every moment like he already knew they were running out.

Emma tried to shake it off. “He’s fine.”

The words tasted bitter the second they left her mouth.

Hermione didn’t press. She didn’t need to.

She just looked at her for a long moment — something understanding, something resigned — and nodded once.

“Just… be aware. Be careful. And if something happens…” Hermione’s voice dropped again, brittle now, like it cost her to say, “Come and find me. Please.”

Emma nodded.

But the truth was already coiling in her chest, cold and sick and terrifying.

Then she turned and vanished into the shelves, like a storm cloud retreating into the stacks — heavy, but not yet ready to break.

***
The sun had set hours ago, but Emma hadn’t noticed.

Her tea had gone cold. The mug sat untouched in her hands, steam long gone, her fingers curled loosely around the ceramic like she’d forgotten it was there.

Outside, the grounds were still. Too still. The lake shimmered with the last of the moonlight, but even that looked off — glassy and too perfect, like it was holding its breath.

She pressed her forehead to the cold glass.

Her stomach gave another slow, nauseating roll.

Since her conversation with Hermione, she’d felt it — that taut, invisible string pulling tight inside her. She’d tried distracting herself. Tried to keep studying, go on a walk, something. But the second she stepped into the corridor, it hit her like a wall. The air too thick. Her chest too tight. Her body refusing to move. So she came back here. She needed to talk to Pansy.

It wasn’t like her dorm helped. It was too quiet. Too small. The silence gnawed at her ears.

She’d changed outfits twice. Tried reading. Brushed her hair. Didn’t even recognise herself in the mirror. Her hands were clammy. Her chest ached. Her eyes kept drifting to the clock.

Dinner had passed. Pansy still hadn’t returned.

Emma had checked the common room twice, just to be sure. But the knot in her chest hadn’t eased. It only tightened.

Where was she?

Probably off somewhere snogging Blaise, she told herself. Probably forgot to check the time. Probably—

Probably nothing’s wrong.

Emma didn’t believe that.

Not anymore.

Not after what Hermione had said.

Has Theodore been acting off?

He’d been good. Too good. Too kind. Kissing her like it meant something. Holding her like he wanted things. Like he didn’t already know they were doomed.
And maybe that was what scared her most.

Because Emma wasn’t stupid — and neither was Theodore.

She was glad he seemed happy. God, all she wanted was for him to be okay. To feel safe. Wanted. Whole.

But something about it felt off. Like a calm before something awful.

He was too present. Too steady. He didn’t do steady. Not unless he was trying to make it easier to let go.

And deep down, she knew it — something wasn’t right. He was being good because something worse was coming.

She stood up suddenly, like the thought burned.

Her hand reached for the doorknob. Maybe she could find Pansy. Maybe someone would roll their eyes and call her paranoid. Maybe—

Knock knock.

Two sharp taps.

Emma blinked. Her breath stilled.

“Pansy?” she called, though she already knew it wasn’t.

She opened the door—

And everything in her froze.

Theo stood in the hall.

He looked like he'd run through a battlefield. Shirt wrinkled. Tie askew. His eyes were wild, almost feverish in the dim torchlight. His chest rose and fell like he'd sprinted here.

She barely got a word out.

“Theo—how did you even get here—”

But he was already stepping forward, already reaching for her like he couldn’t waste a second more. His hands cupped her face, rough and sure, and then he kissed her.

Hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was fire and fear and something that tasted like goodbye.

Her back hit the wall. The door slammed shut behind them.

“Woah—” she tried, breathless, trying to catch up to the moment. “Theo, wait—why are you—”

But his mouth moved with frantic purpose, like every second counted. And maybe it did. Because in that moment, he was kissing her like he had never felt anything but hunger before, like he didn’t know how to eat in small bites, like he didn’t know how to survive in moderation.

His hands were everywhere — her face, her waist, her throat. He kissed her like it would stop the world from ending. Like if he kissed her hard enough, long enough, none of it would happen.

And Emma—

Emma let him.

Because she knew.

She knew.

This wasn’t a kiss. It was a countdown.

His hand slid under her jumper. Fingers skating over skin, greedy, reverent, memorising.

She gasped. Not from the touch, but the shift — the urgency behind it. Like he didn’t just need her. He needed proof that she existed. That he had touched something real before whatever came next.
He kissed her again, rougher now. His voice cracked against her lips.

“Because you make me want things I can’t have.”

Her heart caved.

“Because when you look at me like that,” he growled, fingers splayed across her ribcage, “I forget who I am. I forget what I’ve done. What I’m going to do.”

And then her hands were on his face, firm now, pushing him back just enough to breathe. Her pulse was hammering. Her voice low but commanding: “No. Not like this. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Something in him froze. Locked tight. His jaw clenched. He didn’t move, but his eyes—

His eyes snapped to hers like they were the only thing that existed.

Dark. Unreadable. Desperate.

And yet—obsessed. He looked at her like he only wanted her. Like nothing else had ever mattered. His pupils blown wide, breathing shallow, eyes tracing every part of her face like he was trying to memorise it. Worship it. He would only listen to her. Even now—unravelling, half-mad with fear and want—if she told him to stop, he’d stop. If she told him to burn the world down, he might.

She softened only slightly. Slid her hands down to his shoulders, guiding him backward.

“Sit. Just—breathe. Let me help you breathe.”

And for a second — just one second — he let her. He obeyed. For a moment, he looked almost dazed—blinking like the room had tilted, like he didn’t quite know where he was. One hand drifted up without thinking, catching a lock of her golden hair between his fingers like it was the only real thing left in the world. His thumb traced the strands slowly, reverently, like it was sacred. Like she was.
And for a breath, he just stared.

Mouth parted. Breathing uneven. Eyes locked on hers like they were the only thing holding him together. She guided them until they hit the edge of the mattress, pushing him down onto her bed.
But the second they landed, he was on her again — bracing himself over her with one hand planted beside her head, the other dragging her against him like he needed to feel every inch of her. His kiss was feverish. Seared.

A soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. Emma arched into him, breath catching. He tasted like heat and ash. Like the end of something. Like goodbye. His jaw scraped her neck, sucking harshly. His breath was ragged. His hands mapped her hips, her ribs, her curves like he was trying to memorise her from the inside out.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, in between kisses.

“For what?” she whispered, dazed, hands still tangled in his hair.

But he didn’t answer. Not right away.
He just kissed her again, and again, and again.
Like it was the only thing keeping him whole.

Then, barely audible: “Wait for me.”

She stilled.

“What?”

“I need you to wait for me.” His voice broke completely now, gutted and hoarse. “Please, Emma.” Another kiss. “Whatever happens—” A kiss to her jaw. “Whatever you hear—” His forehead pressed to hers. “Just wait.”

And something in the way he said it — that raw, terrified edge beneath all that heat — made her chest splinter.

She kissed him back. Desperately.

Because she was only human.

And he was already slipping away.

His mouth moved to her throat, then lower, over the slope of her shoulder and the hollow of her collarbone. Her hands fisted in his hair like she could stop time. Like if she held on tight enough, he wouldn’t vanish into shadow again.

He shifted over her, weight pressing her back into the mattress as his hands slid under her jumper—rough palms trailing over bare skin, up her ribs, hesitating just beneath the lace of her bra. His breath hitched. He paused, chest heaving.

She didn’t stop him.

Not yet.

Because she knew he was already saying goodbye. Because she knew this was borrowed time.

Her fingers tugged his jumper up, her palm dragging along the warm plane of his stomach, up to his chest. She could feel his heartbeat—wild and uneven, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he looked away for even a second.

She bent her head, her lips brushing softly against his neck, wanting to show him something he rarely knew: gentleness. If this was their last moment, she wanted him to remember her as the only softness he’d ever truly felt.

He kissed her again, slower now but no less intense. His hips pressed into hers, his body so close it was hard to tell where one of them ended and the other began. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like he was trying to memorise her in pieces: her skin, her breath, the shape of her mouth beneath his.

All she could do was nod.

He slid the jumper up and over her head, slow and reverent, like he needed to see her—memorise her. Then he pulled her flush against him, mouth trailing fire across every inch he could reach. But when his hand started to move lower, when his fingers found the edge of her waistband and lingered there—too long, too intent—Emma caught his wrist.

“Theo,” she said softly. “Stop.”

He froze, muscles tense above her.

She pressed her forehead to his. His shoulders sank — just slightly, like a cord had snapped loose inside him. His hands, once frantic, stilled at her waist. The agitated edge of his breathing slowed, rough exhales brushing her cheek in steadier waves.

Her voice was breathless, but clear now.

“We aren’t doing this just for you to disappear again. Tell me the truth, what’s happening.”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.

But she felt it—the flicker in his chest, the tremble in his hands, the war happening behind his eyes.

He looked at her like he wanted to tell her. Like he was dying to tell her.

But still, he stayed silent.

Because whatever this was—whatever had brought him to her door, whatever darkness he was about to vanish into again—it wasn’t over.

So she kept his face in her hands. Grounded him. Breathed with him.

And slowly, slowly, he shifted off her, laying beside her now, breathing ragged, staring up at the ceiling like it might collapse on them both.

But his hand didn’t leave hers.

And his fingers didn’t stop shaking.

Then the door burst open. No knock. No warning.

Draco.

Paper-white and furious, standing in the doorway like he’d seen death. Or was about to.

Emma sat up fast, breath catching sharp, the sheet slipping low across her chest. One arm crossed over herself on reflex — but neither of them looked. The blonde boy didn’t seem to care that Emma was half naked. His attention was pinned to Theo, jaw clenched like he was biting back a scream.

Theo jerked back from her like he’d been hexed, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Draco—what the fuck—”

“It’s time.”

Two words. Ice in her veins.

Theo started to shake. “Can you give me a bloody second?”

Draco’s eyes flicked to Emma.

Something in them cracked — a kind of tight, helpless desperation that didn’t suit him. His mouth opened, then closed again.

He paused. Swallowed. Looked like he was chewing on something he didn’t know how to say. “Can you…”

A breath. A flicker of hesitation.

“Can you tell Granger I’m sorry?”

Emma blinked — throat tight, heart splintering — and nodded once.

Then, finally — and it came out strained and unsteady —

“Thank you.”

And he was gone.

The door shut behind him like a final sentence.

Emma turned to the boy next to her.

“Theo,” she whispered. “Now’s the time to tell me.”

He looked at her. Silent. Already pulling away again.

“We both know you’re a Death Eater,” she said, voice shaking. “You—you’ve exceeded the trauma quota for this year, Nott, just—just tell me.”

He was Occluding. She could see it. That blankness behind his eyes, the practiced nothingness.

“Theodore—Theo—” She reached for him, fingers trembling. “Please. Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out, not now. I’m not—I’m not asking for you to stay, I just—” Her voice cracked around the words. “Don’t lie. Don’t make me remember this night and wonder what was real.”

He cupped her face like it was the last time he’d ever be allowed to.

“Remember what I told you,” he said, voice rough, low, breaking. “At the Astronomy Tower.”

Emma’s breath stuttered. “When you said—‘when I say you’ve got to go, you need to go’?”

He nodded once. The slightest nod. But it felt like the earth giving way beneath her.

“This is it.”

He kissed her then — one last time.

Like it had to last.
Like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
Like he was trying to brand it into her memory — his mouth, his hands, the way he breathed her in like he was already drowning.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers for a second longer.

“Run,” he whispered, voice sharp. “Hide if you have to. Stay safe, Emma.”

She just shook her head at him.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” he whispered.

But his eyes didn’t match the words.

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Emma only sat on the edge of the bed for a second.

Maybe less.

Just long enough for the door to shut behind him.

And then she was moving. Shoving to her feet like the mattress had burned her, legs already propelling her forward, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out the quiet.

The silence screamed.

She wasn’t letting him leave like this. Not with half-truths. Not when his hands were still warm on her skin and her mouth still ached from the way he’d kissed her like it meant everything. Like it was goodbye.

No. No, no, no—

Her fingers closed around the door handle and wrenched it open.

But the corridor was empty.

Already.
Her stomach twisted, like a blade had pierced it. Like the start of something irreversible.

She ran.

Not just because she wanted answers. Not just because she wanted him. Because something in her — something old and instinctive and furious — refused to accept that he could walk out of her life again without a fight.

The stone staircases blurred underfoot. Her lungs burned. The castle screamed above her—magic crashing through the air like thunder, sending tremors through the very bones of the floor.
A wall cracked to her left. She didn’t flinch. She kept moving.

Faster.

Everything was wrong. The castle felt too alive — as if it were gasping with every spell. Magic sparked in the air like static, coating her tongue with the taste of metal. She heard it more than she saw it at first — the unmistakable shriek of chaos, of war breaking open like a wound.

Then she hit the entrance hall—and nearly stumbled.

The world had shifted.

It was jarring. A brutal juxtaposition to the Hogwarts she’d walked through just hours earlier. The laughter. The early summer breeze. The joy in the promise of the closing school year. All of it felt like a distant memory, like it had belonged to a different life.

The lightness was gone.

Stone scorched black. Glass crunched underfoot. Ash rained like snow from a collapsed staircase. The whole place reeked of smoke and spells and blood. And above it all—the eerie, unnatural silence between duels. The inhale before the next scream.

Emma’s vision narrowed. Her wand came up. Her feet kept moving.

She slipped through the broken arch into the Great Hall—

And everything erupted.

Flashes of colour lit up the air like a thunderstorm. Red, green, silver. The ceiling had shattered somewhere above, stars bleeding through the smoke.

Bodies moved everywhere—students, professors, Death Eaters, all twisted in the dance of war. Her mind couldn’t make sense of it fast enough.

But then—

Ginny.

Emma spotted her first—at the centre of it all, wild and burning, her hair like flame as she duelled without mercy. Next to her: Hermione, bruised and bleeding, casting like her magic was the only thing anchoring the floor. A familiar figure—Neville—slumped behind cover, still moving, barely.

Emma’s feet moved before she even registered the motion.

“Emma!” Hermione spotted her through the smoke. “What are you—are you mad?!”

“You said find you if something happened.” Emma’s voice was hoarse, but steady. Her wand was already in her hand. “Something’s happening.”

Hermione didn’t argue.

She just nodded—once—and they folded together like instinct. Ginny shifted without looking, covering their flank. The three of them moved like a spell of their own.

A curse ripped past Emma’s ear. She ducked low, spun, fired back—her blast catching a masked figure full in the chest.

And still—it wasn’t right.

The rhythm of the fight felt off. The spells didn’t land. Some Death Eaters hesitated, missed clean shots. Like they were waiting for something. Or someone.

Emma’s chest tightened.

Her eyes darted through the crowd.

And then—there.

A figure near the edge of the fray. Hood up, movements quick and contained, too graceful to be random.

She’d know him anywhere.

Theodore.

Her breath caught. Her stomach flipped.

He wasn’t fighting. He was moving through it. Avoiding both sides, like a shadow slipping between fire and smoke. Like he was there and not there all at once.

“Theo!” Her voice broke from her throat, loud and sharp and utterly raw.

He turned.

Their eyes locked.

And for a moment, time stopped.

It was like the world had narrowed to just them—across the ruin, through the smoke, with war unravelling in every direction.

He looked like he wanted to run to her.

But he didn’t move.

She took a step toward him.

Then—

A flicker behind him.

Emma’s eyes widened.

“Theo—behind you!”

But it was too late.

A blast of purple light cracked through the air.

Pain exploded in her ribs. Her whole body snapped. Her wand flew from her fingers. The scream tore out of her—high and raw and broken.

She hit the floor.

Hard.

The breath left her in a single, sickening punch. Her vision blurred. Blood poured hot and fast down her side, pooling beneath her. Limbs cold. Chest heaving. Her ears rang, sharp and metallic at first, then everything cut to silence.

No sound.

Not her own gasping breath. Not the pounding of her heart. Not the battle still raging around her.

Just a thick, awful quiet—like someone had dropped her underwater and sealed the surface above.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

Her eyes were locked on him.

Theodore had turned. She saw it—saw the second his expression shattered. His jaw clenched. His eyes went black with fury. His mouth moved, lips forming her name like a threat.

Then he snapped.

Not a scream. A roar.

A command ripped from deep in his chest—incontrollable and final. It cut across the chaos like a battle cry, sharp enough to shake the stones.

He struck without hesitation. His wand slashed the air, violent and precise. The Death Eater behind her didn’t just fly back—he was thrown, cracked against the far wall with a soundless, brutal crunch.

Theodore moved—fast, furious—one step toward her—

And then fire erupted between them. A wall of it.

Blinding. Roaring.

But still, Emma heard nothing.

Just the thudding silence.

Just the look on his face.

Like he’d just watched the only thing in the world that mattered get torn away.

Ginny, she realised distantly. She was the one blocking the curse. Shielding her. The wall of fire—Ginny had raised it. To save her.

To separate them. The smoke swallowed him whole.

Theo disappeared.

Emma’s breath stuttered.

Her hands scrabbled for something. Her wand. His hand. But there was nothing.

Everything hurt. Her bones felt cracked open, her lungs struggling to pull in air. Her blood was everywhere—warm and wet and terrifying.

“Emma!”

Hermione’s voice, cutting through the dark. Close now. Kneeling beside her. Hands pressing hard to her ribs, voice rapid with healing spells.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because he had left.

Again.

And this time… she wasn’t sure she’d survive it.

Chapter Text

"I know you hate me. Come and kiss me. Handsome devil. Fallen angel."

Chapter Text

Emma couldn’t breathe.

Not properly. Not deeply. Not like before.

The air felt warped—too thin, too sharp—as if the whole world had tilted on its axis and she was the only one who noticed. A sick, suffocating quiet clung to everything. It was louder than a scream.

They did it.

They let them in.

They killed him.

Draco. Theodore.

Her Theo—Theodore.

The knowledge hung around her like ash, clinging to her skin, sinking into her lungs. She couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t escape it. One moment blurred into the next—sleep, hunger, time—meaningless, distant. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She only remembered waking up in the hospital wing to the kind of silence that made your skin crawl.

The chair beside her bed was empty.

But she knew exactly which one it was. The same chair Theodore had sat in all night. The one she’d curled into when Harry nearly killed him with Sectumsempra, waiting for him to wake up.

It was stupid. All of it. Naive.

She should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.

But she hadn’t—not until it was too late. Not until the corridors echoed with screams, smoke curling into the sky, and the names she loved turned into the names she feared.

Theodore had walked away. So had Draco. Blaise had too. And Pansy.

But Blaise and Pansy weren’t like the others—not entirely. They’d vanished that night, sure, but Emma knew, deep down, they hadn’t run far. Their parents would’ve hidden them. Protected them. Gilded cages. Warded mansions. They were safe.

Not like Theodore.

Not like Draco.

But knowing that didn’t make it hurt less.

She already missed Blaise’s dumb jokes—the lazy sarcasm, the sly grins that softened sharp moments and made her laugh when she forgot how. Merlin, she needed that now.

And Pansy—

Merlin, she felt homesick without her.

Her first friend. Her sister. The girl who had found her on that first train ride and chosen her, even when Emma had nothing to offer. Even when her blood went against everything Pansy had been raised to value. But Pansy had loved her anyway—fiercely, stubbornly, loudly. Emma hadn’t realised how much she relied on that kind of love until it disappeared.

Now it was like a phantom limb. A missing piece of her.

She missed her so badly it made her chest ache.

To her credit, Hermione hadn’t left her side. She didn’t speak much. She didn’t need to. It was in the quiet way she stayed close, in the tea Emma wouldn’t drink, the food she wouldn’t touch. It was in the way she distracted Madam Pomfrey just long enough for Emma to slip out, hours later, still numb and brittle and raw.

Ginny was a surprise though. fTheir first real moment came outside the hospital wing—just a glance, a quiet thank-you.

“You helped us,” she’d said. “You saved people.”

Emma hadn’t known how to answer. So, Ginny just shrugged and walked beside her instead of ahead.

***

The funeral was a blur.

Black robes. Pale sky. The lake too still, too beautiful for something so final. The White Tomb gleamed at the water’s edge. Cold. Unforgiving. Permanent.

Emma stood near the back, the hem of her robes crusted in dried salt and dirt. The only warmth came from Hermione pressed against one side, Ginny on the other. No one spoke.
There was nothing to say.

Theodore had chosen this.

He chose this.

Not just the mark.

Not just the mask.

He let them in. He let people die. And he didn’t even look back.

And that’s what destroyed her.

Not the branding—she could understand that. Coercion. Survival. She’d seen it in him, long before this—the trembling hands, the cigarettes, the nightmares he never spoke of. The boy who broke in pieces small enough that only she had noticed.

But this?

This was choice.

Emma had never truly admired Dumbledore the way others did. She thought he was brilliant, of course, but too biased. Too distant. He played games with lives and called it strategy.
But he didn’t deserve to die.

Not like that.

Not by them.

She shut her eyes, but it didn’t help. Theodore was still there. His face, that night after Christmas, twisted with something she still couldn’t name. The way he fell apart in her arms at the Astronomy Tower, shaking as she held him. Healing him. The tremble in his hands. The cigarettes. His kiss. Her birthday. The way he begged her to forgive him, to wait for him, that he wanted to be good.

Around her, people wept. Real, aching sobs. But she couldn’t cry.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She felt too heavy. Too hollow.

Theodore was gone. Her friends were gone. And she had no idea what came next.

Her fingers traced the edge of the gold bracelet on her wrist—his mother’s. She hadn’t taken it off, even now. Even when the weight of it felt like it might split her in two.

***

“Emma.”

She turned, startled.

Harry stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, black robes rumpled from the wind. He looked exhausted, but his eyes — they were steady. Kind.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “For fighting with us.”

Emma’s throat ached. “I didn’t do that much.”

“You did,” he said, finally looking at her. “You could’ve run. You didn’t.”

She gave a dry, humourless laugh. “Didn’t exactly have anywhere to go.”

They stood there, side by side in the grass, breathing the same broken air. It smelled like salt and wildflowers.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly. “About Theodore. And the others.”

“They made their choices.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”

She turned to him, brows furrowed. “You knew. You warned everyone. So why are you sorry?”

Harry’s eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. “Because I didn’t want to be right.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Then Emma’s voice, quiet and raw: “I’m sorry about Dumbledore.”

Harry blinked, surprised.

“I know he meant something to you,” she said. “And I know I was close to people who helped… who made it happen. I didn’t know. Not until it was too late. But I still… I still feel like I should’ve seen it.”

He didn’t respond right away. The wind stirred his robes. Then he nodded, slow and honest.

“Thanks,” he said. “That means more than you think.”

Another moment of silence.

Then he cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to speak to me. After… everything.”

She met his eyes — and for the first time in days, she didn’t feel the same surge of anger. Sectumsempra seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Too much has happened,” she said softly. “And… I don’t mind you, Potter.”

He smiled — the real kind, tired but genuine. “Well, I’m glad.”

***

A gust of wind whispered through the trees. Her mind flicked—like it always did now—to her dad. She was meant to go home this summer. That was the plan. But she couldn’t. Not anymore. Not with Theodore and Draco out there. Not when they knew how much he meant to her.

She’d have to hide him. Obliviate him, maybe. Hide the man who raised her like a secret just to keep him alive.

The thought gutted her.

Later, when they joined the others—Hermione, Ron, Ginny—Emma followed without thinking. Instinct. Reflex. Habit.

“I’m not coming back to Hogwarts next year,” Harry said.

Hermione gasped softly. Ron didn’t flinch.

“I’m going after the Horcruxes. I have to finish what Dumbledore started.”

A beat.

“We’re coming with you,” Ron said.

“Obviously,” Hermione added.

Emma didn’t speak right away. Her thoughts were a tangle—her dad, the Order folder she wasn’t meant to see, the boy she thought she knew and the war he chose instead.

“You okay?” Harry asked her.

She shook her head. Then nodded. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to be,” Harry said. “But… I meant what I said. In the library. The Burrow’s always open. Over the summer, I mean.”

Back then, the offer felt impossible. Now it felt like a lifeline.

Harry saw the hesitation. “It still stands.”

She looked around—at Hermione, at Ginny, at Ron. At the quiet ways they reached for her. At Harry, who never asked to be anyone’s hero but did it anyway.

And then there was her.

A step behind. A beat off.

Not because they made her feel like she didn’t belong—they tried. But the ache in her chest said she still didn’t. Not really. She wasn’t built from Burrow summers and shared scars. She was something else.

A stray, caught in the wreckage.

“I don’t…” she started, her voice trembling. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” Hermione said, immediately, softly.

She reached for Emma—not forceful, just enough to let her feel it. “You’re one of us now. That’s it. No one’s asking you to be anything else.”

Emma stared at her.

And finally—quietly, brokenly—she nodded.
The five of them stood together, the moment fragile in their hands. One golden day of peace remained.

Chapter Text

Emma closed the trunk’s lid with a soft click, staring at the empty dorm room as if she could will Pansy back into it. They had always packed together—laughing over the new memories made, last-minute snacks stolen from the kitchens, and whispered plans for summer.

Now it was just her.

The silence pressed into her heart like a knife.

She lingered at the window, fingers resting on the chipped frame. The light moved across the room with the lake, and for a moment, she let herself pretend it was any other summer, and she’d be going home to her dad—to a quiet evening with him making tea, asking about her classes.

But it wasn’t any other summer. And he wouldn’t be there waiting.

It hit her like a punch to the chest.

The last time.

The final time she’d see the light fall across the stone floor like this.

The last time she'd hear the gurgle of the Black Lake through the window if she listened closely enough.

Heavy didn’t even begin to cover it.

Dragging her trunk through the common room felt like walking through ghosts. Faded green walls. Black shiny floors. The familiar scent of smoke and spellwork. Boys lounged across sofas, muttering over games of Exploding Snap. She heard laughter, maybe even Pansy’s—sharp and bright—but it dissolved into nothing before she could hold onto it.

She passed the couch where Theodore had fallen asleep on her shoulder, his weight warm and familiar.

The edge of the rug where she and Blaise had joked back and forth about whose Divination essay was worse—he swore the stars had it out for him; she argued the tea leaves clearly hated her.

Each step forward was a quiet goodbye. A room full of memories that hadn’t quite finished forming, echoes of laughter and arguments that still lived in the corners.

Emma paused at the door, looking back once. Just once.

And then she left.

Her trunk bumped behind her in protest as she went off to find Hermione.

***

The Burrow was the opposite of everything she’d known about magic.

Slytherin was about sleekness, control, and sharp edges. But here, the house leaned at strange angles, its roof sloped like it was shrugging, and the walls faded with personality. The chimney puffed like it had feelings. The garden outside buzzed with gnomes, fluttering laundry, and a rogue rooster that kept appearing on the fence post like it was judging her.

Inside, the Burrow felt… alive. Noisy, yes. Cluttered, chaotic—but in a way that made her chest loosen for the first time in days. Every shelf overflowed with books, knickknacks, and moving photos in frames. The air smelled of cinnamon, warm bread, and dust stirred by magic.

Emma’s trunk thunked down awkwardly just inside the kitchen door. Her boots felt too loud on the floorboards.

Before she could say anything, the short red haired lady that Emma assumed to be Mrs. Weasley turned from the sink, face lighting up.

“Oh, Emma, dear! You must be exhausted. Come in, come in—let me take that for you,” she said, bustling forward with motherly energy that almost knocked Emma off balance.

Emma blinked. “Oh—thank you. I’m so sorry to intrude. I know I’m not exactly—”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Weasley interrupted, waving her off with a flour-dusted hand. “You’re a friend of Hermione’s, that’s good enough for us. And I won’t hear another word about intruding.”

Emma felt her face flush, unexpectedly warmed by the sheer acceptance in the older woman’s voice.

Mr. Weasley emerged from behind a half-sorted pile of magical tools and wires, glasses sliding down his nose.

“Welcome, Emma,” he said kindly, holding out a hand. “We’re glad to have you here. If there’s anything you need, just ask.”

Emma shook his hand, smiling. “Thank you, Mr. Weasley.”

She meant it.

Then came the thud of footsteps on the stairs, as a tall red head rounded the corner. Fred Weasley was yawning, hair sticking up in a way that suggested sleep or an explosion. His eyes skimmed the room lazily, then swept past her without registering

Emma froze. Somehow, she hadn’t accounted for Fred Weasley being part of this whole equation.

He stopped mid-step, blinking like he’d seen a ghost. His mouth opened, closed, then he gave a baffled half-smile.

“Bloody hell.” He shook his head. “Emma Ryan. What… what are you doing here? From beyond the grave or something?”

Emma arched a brow. “You know, dropping by the Burrow unannounced. Typical Tuesday.”

Fred let out a breath that turned into a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Before Fred could recover, George appeared behind him.

“Well, well,” he grinned. “I remember you. You’re the bit of trouble we got tangled up with last year.”

His twin shot him a warning look. “Oi, subtlety, mate.”

Emma tilted her head. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ve had far more scandalous houseguests.”

Fred was still staring, clearly taken aback but recovering fast. “Wasn’t expecting to see a ghost from my more… eventful past standing in Mum’s kitchen.”

She rolled her eyes, brushing past them with her trunk.

George laughed. “You sticking around long?”

“She’s bunking with Ginny and Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley chimed from the kitchen.

***
Later, Ginny led Emma up the narrow, creaky staircase to her bedroom—a cozy little nest tucked under the eaves. The scarlet walls were plastered with posters of Quidditch stars, ribbons, and handwritten notes stuck to the mirror. There were broomsticks stacked in one corner and a half-finished knitted jumper draped over the windowsill like it had given up mid-row. A patchwork quilt covered the beds, soft and inviting, and bookshelves sagged under the weight of well-thumbed novels and a few stray joke items from Fred and George.

Ginny flopped onto the bed beside her with a sigh, looking at the blonde from across the room. “Merlin. It’s loud out there. Feels like everyone’s trying to pretend the world isn’t ending.”
Emma didn’t look up. “Yeah, well. People get weird when they’re not sure if they’re going to die tomorrow.”

Ginny grinned. “You’re cheerful.”

“I try.”

The blue-eyed girl fiddled with a strand of blonde hair, then glanced over. “Where’s Hermione? Still bossing Ron around?”

“Probably. I’ve given up on her.”

Emma smirked. “I figured. You’re stuck with me now.”

“Worse things have happened,” Ginny said easily. Then, after a beat, “You ever hear from him?”

Her light eyebrows furrowed, caught off guard. “Who?”

Ginny gave her a look.

Emma blinked, then let out a dry laugh. “Oh—right. Him. Forgot about that minor life-ruining subplot.”

The freckled girl didn’t drop it. “You miss him?”

Emma’s smile faltered. Just for a second. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

Emma gave a weak shrug. “Because he chose the wrong side. And I should hate him for it.”

Ginny nodded slowly. “Do you?”

Emma paused. “I’m trying to.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment. The wind outside rattled the old windowpane. Emma stared at the ground like it had answers.

Ginny sat up a little. “For what it’s worth... you don’t need permission to miss someone. Even if they messed up.”

Emma’s voice was quieter now. “He didn’t just mess up. He let people die.”

“Doesn’t make it simple,” Ginny said. “But it doesn’t make you weak either.”

Emma looked over. “You’re a lot wiser than I expected.”

“I get that a lot.”

Emma gave her a half-smile. “Well, tell the Chosen One I said hello.”

“You mean Harry?”

Emma gave a small snort. “Mr. saviour of the world.”

Ginny grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Emma shrugged, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “No, just… dramatic. Very on brand for him.”

They both laughed, the sound light against the quiet.

After a moment, Emma leaned back against the headboard. “He kept parts of himself locked up. Not secrets exactly, just... pieces. Like he didn’t think I could handle all of it.”

Ginny nodded. “Maybe he thought protecting you meant not letting you carry it.”

“I don’t need protecting. I needed the truth.”

“Yeah,” Ginny said quietly. “I get that.”

They let the silence stretch for a bit—comfortable, for once.

Then Ginny bumped her shoulder. “You’re not alone in this. Just so you know.”

Emma didn’t respond right away. But she gave a quiet nod, eyes still on the window, and whispered, “Thanks.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that. Just lay in the amber light of early evening, two girls carrying the weight of boys who didn’t quite know how to stay—finding comfort in the fact that they still could.

Chapter Text

The days at the Burrow slid by like honey—slow, sticky, golden.

Morning sunlight spilled through the crooked windows and warmed the mismatched kitchen tiles, creeping up Emma’s ankles as she stood barefoot by the sink, rinsing out teacups that all looked like they’d come from different cupboards. Molly’s wireless crooned Celestina Warbeck’s latest, something about a cauldron of lost love and dragon tears. It played nearly every morning now. Oddly, and somewhat sadly, it reminded Emma of a certain moody blonde.

She fell into quiet rhythms. Chopping carrots with Ginny, laughing when Ron tripped over a loose floorboard for the third time in a week, brushing soot off her sleeves after another backyard experiment from Fred and George. There was something comforting about the Burrow's chaos—it gave her something to cling to, even if it couldn’t quiet the ache beneath her ribs.

She didn’t ask questions, not really. She already knew the answers.

They were going to leave.

Not for Hogwarts. Not for another summer trip. Not even for something safe. They were going to disappear—just like Theodore used to.

She recognized the signs too well. The hush in their voices. The way Ron had stopped unpacking his trunk. The way Hermione kept checking her beaded bag.

Emma sat under the orchard trees most afternoons. Her wand twirled lazy loops above her knees, summoning apples just to let them fall. It gave her something to do with her hands while the world quietly shifted around her.

Fred and George came to sit with her sometimes, bringing pumpkin juice or half-finished joke products they wanted to test. One afternoon, George handed her a tiny sweet that burst into glittering green smoke in her mouth.

“You look like you could use some chaos,” he said with a wink.

“Or a distraction,” Fred added, flopping beside her in the grass.

Emma smiled. “Or both.”

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” George said. “We can hear it from the kitchen.”

“Too many emotions,” Fred agreed. “Takes up all the oxygen. No wonder Mum’s been baking like mad.”

Emma shook her head, biting down a laugh. “It’s nothing. Just… things feel like they’re ending.”

Fred sobered, his grin faltering slightly. “Not ending. Just… changing.”

“Like a bad punchline,” his twin added. “But we’re still in the setup, yeah?”

Emma looked down at her hands. “All of this last year… it’s felt like the beginning of the end of something.” Her voice was quiet, not sad exactly, just tired. “I’ve learnt to hate the calm before the storm.”

Neither twin cracked a joke. For once, they just let the silence settle.

“It’s the quiet before something happens. I hate this part.”

They didn’t push. They just sat with her, the three of them surrounded by the rustle of orchard leaves and the distant sound of Ginny yelling at Ron for something stupid.

When the sun began to sink below the treetops, Fred nudged her shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “if you ever want to blow something up, we’ve got just the thing.”

Emma smiled again, this time a little smaller. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

***

The attic was quiet, bathed in the dusky light filtering through the window, and the soft creak of old floorboards beneath their feet.

Emma climbed the last step and found Hermione already there, curled into the window seat with a worn book resting in her lap—one she clearly hadn’t been reading. Hermione looked up, her expression softening at the sight of her.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Emma said, offering a small smile.

Hermione returned the smile, tired but genuine. “Hey Em.”

Emma settled cross-legged on the rug across from her, letting the familiar silence settle around them. This was why she cherished their friendship—quiet comfort, no pressure to speak until it truly mattered.

Now, it mattered.

“You alright?” Emma asked gently.

Hermione hesitated. “I don’t know. I keep telling myself yes. But nothing feels right.”

Emma nodded, eyes drifting to the window. “Yeah. I keep waking up like I’ve forgotten something important, and then I remember—I haven’t. I just miss the version of him that never really existed.”
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the spine of her book. “I know what you mean.”

A beat passed, then Hermione’s voice, soft and tentative. “Do you ever… wish things were different?”

Emma let out a tired, sad laugh. “Every day.”

Another pause, heavier this time. Then Hermione said what had been building for weeks: “Do you think they ever had a choice?”

The blonde looked up, meeting Hermione’s eyes.

“I mean… Theo. Draco. Do you think they ever stood a chance?”

Emma let out a shaky breath. “Sometimes I think they could’ve walked away. But then I think about their fathers. About how they were raised. About the things they were made to believe before they even understood them.”

The dark eyed girl stared down at her lap. “Draco… he wasn’t evil. He was scared. I saw it eating him alive. He hated what he was doing.”

Emma’s chest tightened. “Same with Theodore,” she said, voice low. “He was—Merlin, he was angry all the time. Closed off. So bloody frustrating. But there was good in him, I could see it.”

She looked down, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve.

“He sat with me the whole night after McLaggen took me out with that Bludger. Didn’t even say much, just… stayed. He gave me gifts, too. Weird, thoughtful ones. Stuff I never even said I liked, but somehow, he just—knew. And when he let himself… he actually listened. Like he heard me. All of me.”

Hermione glanced up, eyes heavy. “That’s what I mean. No one realises that they aren’t monsters. I think life just... broke them too young.”

The blue eyed girl nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“And it makes it harder. Missing someone you know you shouldn’t.”

Emma was silent for a long moment before finally saying, “It’s not like I forgive him. I’m still angry. But I also can’t forget the parts of him that were… kind. That needed someone.”

Hermione exhaled. “Yeah. Do you know how Draco and I stopped hating each other?”

Emma blinked, shaking her head. “No.”

Hermione gave a sad half-smile. “It was September. I ran into him at the astronomy tower. He didn’t see me at first. It was late. I think he went there to be alone, but he looked so tired, and shaking all over. That’s when I knew he wasn’t who everyone thought he was.”

Emma let out a small, ironic chuckle. “The Astronomy Tower. Of course. That’s where it all begins.”

Hermione gave her a long look. “You too?”

Emma nodded. “He didn’t cry or break down or anything like that. But he was… drowning. Losing sleep. Snapping at everyone. So guarded. Draco asked, begged really, for me to speak to Theodore. Then one night, I found him there. Just standing in the cold like he wanted the wind to knock him off. Honestly, he told me to fuck off. But he didn’t mean it. Even then, I understood that.”
Hermione was quiet.

Emma shrugged one shoulder, voice low. “I didn’t really know what I was doing. I just… couldn’t sit back and let him be ruined. I couldn’t stand by while something awful happened—not when I might be able to stop even a piece of it. He needed someone. Even if he didn’t know how to ask.”

Hermione smiled softly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Emma looked down at her hands, voice barely above a whisper. “After a while, I think he started to rely on me. It always followed the same pattern—he’d vanish, like he didn’t exist, and no one else even noticed. But I did. And when he came back… he was broken. Hurt. Shaking. Half-dead sometimes. And I’d heal him. Sit with him. Hold him until he could breathe again. Then he’d disappear all over again.”

Hermione was silent for a long moment. Then, gently, “That sounds… exhausting.”

Emma gave a hollow laugh. “It was.”

Hermione looked out the window. “Draco never said much. But when he did, it wasn’t small talk. It was things like… what if I fail? What if it’s already too late? He was so sure everything was decided for him. He’d never tell me what though, he would just work himself up.”

Emma nodded. “Theodore too. He’d act like he didn’t care, but he did. He cared more than he wanted to.”

Hermione’s voice was low. “They weren’t good to us. But they weren’t monsters either.”

“They were boys,” Emma said softly. “Just boys with terrible fathers and too much pressure. Boys trying to be men in a war they never asked for.”

A quiet beat passed, then Hermione’s voice softened. “I think… Draco’s really torn about his father. He’s always idolised him. But… I think that love is starting to turn into hate.”

Emma looked over; brows raised.

Hermione continued, “He still loves his mum, though. I can see it. She’s not like Lucius. She wants out. Draco knows that.”

“That makes sense.”

“What about Theo’s family?”

Emma hesitated, picking at a thread in the rug. “From what he’s told me… it sounds like the worst place to grow up. His father was—” she paused, searching for the right word, “Cruel. Honestly, it makes sense why Theodore turned out the way he has. Why he acts the way he does, why he is so guarded. He told me his father drank a lot. Theodore used to hide from him. Said he learned early how to stay invisible.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s awful. And… his mother?”

Emma blinked, caught off guard. Her fingers drifted to her wrist, brushing the delicate gold bracelet there. The chain glinted faintly in the fading light.

“He gave me this,” she said quietly. “Said it used to be hers.”

Hermione waited.

“I don’t know much about her,” Emma admitted. “Whenever I asked, he’d go quiet. Like the memory of her was something he couldn’t touch without breaking.”

Hermione’s voice was gentle. “Do you think she’s still alive?”

Emma looked down at the bracelet, thumb grazing the clasp. “I’m not sure.”

The silence stretched, heavier now, filled with all the things they didn’t know but could feel.

“They were raised in cages and told it was a kingdom,” Hermione murmured.

“And we were the first to see them as something more.”

“I think that scared them.”

Emma scoffed. “Clearly.”

They sat together, shadows growing longer around them, hands linked, the weight of memory, heartbreak, and maybe a flicker of hope between them.

They stayed in that quiet, memory-soaked stillness for a while, clutching ghosts they couldn’t quite let go of.

Then Hermione reached out, her hand finding Emma’s. They laced fingers.

Emma asked softly, “What now?”

Hermione exhaled. “We remember who they were. And try not to forget who we are.”

The blonde leaned her head against the brunette’s shoulder.

For a while, they said nothing. The quiet felt safer than words.

Then, softly—like it might break between her teeth—Hermione said, “I’m going to obliviate my parents soon.”

Emma didn’t move. The words landed like a final note.

She’d known for months what she was going to have to do. That she wouldn’t be able to protect her father and keep him at the centre of her life. That she would have to choose.
She’d rehearsed it in her head a hundred times. How she might say goodbye. What spell she’d use.

But hearing Hermione say it aloud—so calmly, so devastatingly—made it real in a way Emma had never let it be.

Hermione’s next words were even softer.

“Would you… come with me?”

Emma drew a slow breath.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” She blinked hard. “He won’t understand. But I think… I think he’d want me to keep him safe.”

Hermione reached for her hand and didn’t let go.

Emma hesitated before continuing; voice raw now. “There’s something else… I should tell you.”

Hermione looked over, eyebrows lifting slightly.

The blue eyed girl swallowed, her throat tight. “That night. The when… before it all happened. Dumbledore. Everything. Draco came to my room, to get Theodore. I think he thought he wasn’t going to see you again. And he said…” she paused, forcing the words out, “he said to tell you he was sorry.”

Hermione froze. Her whole body seemed to still. The words hung in the air like smoke.

Emma continued, her voice gentle. “He looked… defeated. Like he’d already lost. Like saying that was all he could offer you.”

Hermione didn’t speak. Her jaw trembled slightly, and her fingers tightened around Emma’s.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were glassy. “Thank you,” she whispered.

And in that attic, surrounded by fading light and the ghosts of boys they couldn’t save, the girls grieved—not just for what was lost, but for what might’ve been.

Chapter Text

The sky was iron-grey, the clouds heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The world felt hushed, as if it knew what they were about to do.

Emma hadn’t eaten that morning. She’d tried—Hermione had even placed a piece of toast in front of her at the kitchen table—but it had gone cold and untouched. Her stomach had felt like it was caving in on itself, knotted and sour with dread. There hadn’t been space for food.

She’d stared at that piece of toast for what felt like hours, her hands curled around a chipped mug of tea that had long since gone cold. She hadn’t taken a sip. The kitchen around her had been quiet, except for the slow ticking of the clock above the stove. Each second had echoed too loudly. Every sound felt intrusive—Hermione’s soft footsteps, the faint clatter of a spoon, the occasional creak of the Burrow settling in the wind. Emma felt like she was being stretched too thin beneath it all, her nerves fraying at the edges.

Her body was there, at the table. But her mind had already begun to drift—to her father’s face, to the way he smiled when she came home, to how he used to hum while making breakfast, off-key and cheerful. She could picture him so vividly that it made her chest ache. A lump had risen in her throat, thick and immovable. She’d pressed her palm to her ribs, as if she could hold herself together from the outside.

A part of her had wanted to bolt. To run and never look back. But that wasn’t an option. Not now. Not with the war breathing down their necks and the Ministry teetering on the edge of collapse. Not when Voldemort was hunting people like her—people like her father—just for the fact that his daughter was born with magic in her blood
And so, when Hermione had silently reached out her hand, Emma had taken it.

Now, they stood side by side on a quiet street far from the Burrow. The air around them was damp with promise, the sky pressing down on their shoulders like a second weight. Hermione’s grip on her wand was steady. Emma’s fingers, still cold from that untouched tea, curled tightly around her own.

Hermione stood beside her, silent, her eyes fixed on the little white house before them. It was modest, with a blue-painted door and overflowing flower boxes that hadn’t been tended in a while. Emma wondered if the Grangers had waited for Hermione too. If they’d stood by the windows, night after night, hoping for her shadow to appear in the porch light.

“I’ll do it alone,” Hermione said softly, adjusting the hood of her jacket. Her voice was calm—firm—but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes.

Emma looked at her. Really looked at her. There was something extraordinary in Hermione’s stillness—like she was bracing herself against a storm that had already passed through her heart. Emma felt a flicker of awe. For all her cleverness, Hermione had always been kind. But it was in moments like this that Emma saw her strength, raw and unshakable.

“Okay,” Emma whispered.

Hermione disappeared into the house without looking back.

Emma stayed by the fence, her fingers curled tightly around the wooden slats. The air smelled like wet grass and soil. Her eyes didn’t leave the doorway, but her mind wandered, filling in the silence with imagined memories—A younger Hermione, chasing bubbles across the lawn, curling up in a window seat with a book nearly too big for her hands, giggling from behind bathroom doors during failed spell experiments. That house had held love. Ordinary, simple, irreplaceable love.

And soon, Hermione would be the only one who remembered any of it.

The thought made Emma’s chest tighten.

When the wild haired girl finally emerged, her steps were quiet but steady. Her eyes were dry.

“You alright?” Emma asked, barely more than a whisper.

Hermione nodded once. “We need to go,” she said. Her voice didn't waver.

Emma reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. Hermione squeezed back.

Crack .

They apparated.

Emma’s house appeared around them in a blur of rain and concrete. It was smaller, nestled between rows of flats on the edge of the city. The windows were dimly lit, the porch light flickering slightly like it always did when it rained.

“He’s still here?” Hermione asked.

Emma gave a nod she barely felt. Her whole body was numb.

“I did the spell the same way,” Hermione said. “New identity. New life. He’ll believe he’s relocating for work—New York. It’ll stick.” She hesitated, eyes softening. “Try to get in without him seeing you. It’s easier that way.”

Emma nodded again, but her hand trembled as she pushed the door open.

The house smelled like laundry detergent, a bit of dust, and something burnt from breakfast—toast, probably. It hit her like a punch. She was immediately overwhelmed by the scent, by the stillness, by the memories woven into every creak of the floorboards.

This house had been her whole world. The one place where she had always belonged, no exceptions, no questions. Her dad’s mismatched furniture. The poster-covered walls in her bedroom. The crack in the living room tile from when she’d danced around in socks and slipped. She could still hear her dad laughing that day.

This was her home.

Her throat closed up. Her fingers clenched harder around her wand as she stepped inside, each footfall louder than the last.

“Emma?”

She froze.

Her dad was standing at the end of the hall in his slippers, blinking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Ems —where have you been? Oh my God—are you okay? I thought—I thought something happened—why didn’t you call, why didn’t you write?”

Emma’s heart cracked open like a fault line.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, already crying. “I wanted to. I did. I couldn’t—It wasn’t safe—Dad, I—”

He came toward her, voice shaking. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

She grabbed his hands. “I love you. So much. Thank you—for everything. But this… this is the only way you’ll be safe.”

“What are you talking about?” His hands cupped her face, his eyes frantically searching hers. “Ems, please—just tell me what’s going on—”

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest was caving in.

This is what Theodore did to me , she thought. Begged for forgiveness and then left. Just disappeared.

Only… she was doing it too. Because he had left her with no other choice.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

She stepped back, and her wand trembled in her hand. She couldn’t—she couldn’t do this. Not to him. Not to the one person who had always loved her, even when she broke things, even when she cried, even when she was scared.

He was still watching her, confused, worried, hurting—and it was unbearable.

She was breaking.

Her hand dropped slightly.

But then something clicked inside her.

There’s no other way.

Her face twisted as she forced the wand back up. She squeezed her eyes shut, her whole body shaking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered one last time.

“Stupefy.”

Her father crumpled soundlessly to the floor.

Emma knelt beside him, her heart splitting open. She brushed his hair back, fingers trembling, and leaned down to press her forehead to his.

“I love you,” she breathed. “I love you so much.”

She sat back, lifted her wand, and spoke through a shattered whisper.

“Obliviate.”

She couldn’t stay to watch him forget.

She ran.

Out the door, down the stairs, into the street where Hermione was waiting under a tree. Emma couldn’t see for the tears, her lungs clawing for air as she collapsed into Hermione’s arms. She could feel bile in the back of her throat.

“Take me back,” she gasped. “Please—just—take me back.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She gripped her tightly.

Crack.

They landed in the Burrow’s yard. The grass was slick underfoot, and Emma’s knees gave out the moment they touched the ground. She collapsed forward, her arms barely catching her before she hit the earth.

Voices rose around them. Doors slammed open.

“What happened?”

“Emma—what’s wrong?”

“How did it go?”

She didn’t care.

Emma barely managed to gather her blonde hair out of her face before she threw up, hard, her whole body heaving.

Hermione knelt beside her, wordless, her hand on Emma’s back.

And Emma stayed there—on her knees in the mud and the rain—letting tears hit the grass softly, shaking until there was nothing less.

Chapter Text

Emma didn’t leave bed for a week.

People tried.

Hermione came first, every morning and evening, sitting at the edge of the bed, her hand warm on Emma’s arm. “You don’t have to talk,” she’d whisper. “But come downstairs. Just sit with me.” Emma would turn away, eyes burning, throat too full of words she couldn’t speak.

What amazed her most—what confused her, even—was how Hermione seemed okay. As if she’d made peace with it. As if the day they’d stood in her bedroom and cast that spell hadn’t broken her apart. She still smiled. Still got out of bed. Still braided her hair and helped Mrs Weasley with breakfast.

Emma didn’t know how she did it. Didn’t know how Hermione hadn’t shattered.

Ginny came next, cracking jokes at the doorway, offering stolen biscuits and half-finished cups of tea that always went cold. Mrs Weasley tucked a blanket over her shoulders and murmured that no one blamed her—that sometimes grief was heavy, heavier than anything else.

Fred and George alternated watch, telling increasingly absurd stories just outside the room, daring each other to make Emma laugh. They never did.

Even Ron, who had never known what to say around crying girls, appeared once. “The twins are taking bloody bets on when you’ll move,” he mumbled, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “I said you’d get up today. Don’t make me wrong.”

She didn’t. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just lay curled beneath a quilt that smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, eyes fixed on the ceiling, replaying her father’s voice in her head over and over until it blurred into silence.

She only got up because she had to.

The Order was meeting downstairs. And she was invited.

She wasn’t sure if it was the weight of what she’d done, or the need to do something—anything—that finally pushed her up. But when Hermione came to the door that morning and said, “They’d like you there,” Emma sat up without a word. Got dressed. Brushed her hair. Walked out of that room like someone else entirely.

The kitchen was full when she arrived—so many familiar faces, and so many more she only knew from whispers and stories.

Chairs were pulled close around the long wooden table, teacups half-full, parchment spread everywhere. It wasn’t chaotic—not quite—but it had the charged energy of something important. Everyone was here.

Lupin and a pink haired woman seated together. Molly and Arthur, whispering over a map. Fred and George, perched on the edge of the bench. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood near the window; arms folded. Moody, who Emma hadn’t seen since fourth year, loomed in the corner like a statue with a spinning eye. Even Fleur and Bill, hand in hand, nodded as Emma entered.

She froze in the doorway.

Everyone turned.

“She’s here,” Ginny said softly.

Emma swallowed hard.

Lupin stood. “Emma. We’re grateful you came. Please—have a seat.”

She sat beside Hermione, who gave her hand a reassuring squeeze under the table.

Before the meeting began, Lupin cleared his throat.

“I want to acknowledge something first,” he said, voice low and solemn. “Both Hermione and Emma made the kind of sacrifice no one should have to make. To protect their families, they erased themselves from the people they love. That isn’t a small thing. That’s… that’s war. And it’s courage.”

A murmur of agreement passed around the table. Some heads nodded. Moody grunted, which was probably the closest thing to praise he gave.

Emma stared at the table, blinking fast.

“You’re one of us now,” Lupin said, more gently. “And we’re glad to have you.”

She didn’t know what to say. But somehow, the air in her lungs felt a little less heavy.

Lupin glanced around. “Right. On to business.”

The meeting moved into plans for Harry.

“The Ministry’s being watched,” Kingsley said. “And so is Privet Drive. If we don’t move him before his Trace lifts, we lose our shot.”

“We use decoys,” Moody growled. “Polyjuice. Seven Potters.”

There were murmurs. Objections. Hermione leaned forward to clarify. Ron pointed out risks. Emma listened—watched—carefully, though she said nothing. She wasn’t sure she had the right to speak yet.

She noticed how Lupin and Kingsley tracked every word. That the pink haired woman, who was introduced to Emma as Tonks, occasionally glanced at Emma like she was assessing her. When the routes were being sorted, Emma instinctively started calculating—who would be paired, who was safest, where the ambush might come.

Her hand moved toward the map unconsciously.

“Here,” she said quietly, pointing to one of the fallback routes. “This line is wrong. If they’re tracking you through the air, and they’ve got someone high up in Magical Transportation, they’ll notice the reroute in seconds. You’d be boxed in before you hit Guildford.”

A silence fell.

Fred gave a low whistle. “She’s not wrong.”

Lupin raised a brow. Kingsley stepped closer. Moody said nothing, but his magical eye swivelled to her with interest.

Emma pulled her hand back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Kingsley interrupted. “You should have. Good catch.”

When the meeting broke up, chairs scraping and papers rustling, Emma stood, ready to slip out with the others.

And as she stepped into the hall, she felt something deep in her chest—beneath the grief, beneath the bone-deep weariness—something steady had begun to burn.

Purpose.

***

The Burrow was quieter than it had been in days.

The kitchen was empty now. Chairs tucked in. Dishes washed. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, its many hands spinning past “travelling” for most of the Weasley family.

Emma sat curled in a window seat, a blanket around her shoulders, watching the line of trees sway beyond the orchard. The sun had begun its slow dip westward, casting long shadows across the grass. From here, everything looked peaceful.

But it wasn’t.

Six Harrys were going to take off with six guards. The real one was somewhere out there, rocketing through the sky, wand in hand, Voldemort likely chasing him.

She hadn’t said goodbye.

Not properly.

Hermione had hugged her tightly and whispered, “See you soon,” before vanishing in a whirl of red light with Kingsley. Ron had only managed a tight smile at Molly before Tonks dragged him out the door. Fred and George had offered identical grins, but Emma saw the tightness behind them. George’s fingers had trembled slightly as he handed her a half-eaten biscuit, like it might help.
And then they were all gone.

Only three remained: Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, and Emma.

She hadn’t meant to be alone. But when Mrs. Weasley had bustled off to start dinner—her nerves channelled into a relentless need to cook—Emma had ended up here, pressed against the window in the sitting room, knees tucked up, willing the sky to stay calm. Willing nothing to fall from it.

Footsteps approached, then a thud as Ginny dropped onto the couch beside her.

“I couldn’t take another minute with Mum,” Ginny said. “She was hexing the knife to cut the potatoes to viciously.”

Emma offered a faint smile. “She’s worried.”

“I know,” Ginny said, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “That’s the worst part. If I stayed in there another second, I was going to scream.”

The silence that followed was sharp-edged, brittle.

The blonde didn’t feel the need to interrupt it.

After a moment, Ginny glanced sideways. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” Emma said, eyes fixed on the dark garden beyond the window. “You lot just talk too much.”

The ginger haired girl huffed softly, but didn’t bite. “You looked like you were about to hex someone during lunch.”

Emma’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond.

Ginny nudged her knee. “Come on. You don’t have to act fine with me. What’s going on?”

Emma hesitated. Then, after a long pause:
“I didn’t expect you all to take me in.”

Ginny blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t expect your mum to feed me like I was hers,” Emma said, voice low, like it was something she hadn’t meant to say. “Or your dad to talk to me about Muggle politics like it was casual breakfast chat. Ron’s still annoying. But he made space for me. And Fred and George—Merlin help them—they still try to make me laugh every day, like it’s their personal mission. Even Fleur. She didn’t have to be kind. But she is. She asked about my dress for the wedding, said the colours would suit me. And Bill… he told me I could call him family. If I wanted.”

She paused, then added, more quietly, “I barely knew them. But they still acted like I belonged.”

“That’s because you do.”

Emma let out a breath. It sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t.

“I obliviated my dad, Ginny. The last thing he said to me was that he loved me. Then I took it. Took him away. I did that to myself and justified it by believing it was the smart thing to do. Strategic. Clean.”

Ginny reached over, her voice softer now. “You did it to protect him.”

Emma finally looked at her. Her blue eyes were dry, but there was something hollow in them.

“Yeah,” she said. “And now I don’t have a home.”

Ginny leaned back against the cushions, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “You have one now.”

“It’s strange. I didn’t know I needed this until I had it. I’ve always felt like I didn’t quite… fit. At Hogwarts, I mean. People looked, but no one really saw me. Not properly. Except maybe Pansy.”

Ginny tilted her head, curious. Emma continued, voice quiet.

“I was just the Muggle-born in Slytherin. Too quiet. Too weird. Too different.”

Ginny studied her for a second, then asked gently, “And now?”

“I’m still all of those things,” Emma said with a wry twist of her lips. “But somehow, here… it doesn’t matter. They just—”

She shrugged, like the words didn’t quite fit.

“Care.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in the hush that followed, warm and wordless.

Then Emma exhaled slowly, dragging her fingers through her hair as if shaking off the weight of the moment.

“So,” she said, glancing sideways, “moving on from me. Are we ever going to talk about the fact that your very noble, very stupid boyfriend dumped you to save the world?”

Ginny snorted. “There she is.”

Emma grinned. “I mean, he could’ve at least written a dramatic letter. Or left a flower. Tragic hero behaviour demands some flair.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “He thinks he’s protecting me. Typical Harry Potter nonsense.”

“And are you letting him think that?”

“Temporarily,” Ginny said, leaning back. “Let him have his little martyr moment. Then I’m going to find him and hex some sense into him.”

Emma smirked. “There’s the Gryffindor spirit. Heroism through blunt force trauma.”

“Works every time,” Ginny said breezily. Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Speaking of absent boyfriends…”

Emma sighed. “Oh, here we go.”

“Where’s yours?”

Emma let out a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t have one.”

“No, seriously,” Ginny went on. “Tall, moody Slytherin. Constantly looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “You just described half the dungeons.”

“Maybe. But only one of them stared at you all the time. Followed you around like you’d hung the bloody moon. He’s handsome, too.”

Emma’s smirk faltered. “And then he invited half the Death Eater population into Hogwarts. Charming.”

“Some people panic and eat a biscuit,” Ginny said. “Others join a fascist regime. We all cope differently.”

Emma huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s Voldemort’s problem now.”

“You don’t talk about him.”

“I know.”

“You make jokes instead.”

Emma shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

Ginny bumped her shoulder. “When you’re ready to stop doing it, I’m here.”

Emma glanced at her; voice dry. “You’re relentless.”

“You’re obvious.”

“Ginny, I’m a Slytherin. One of the entry requirements is emotional repression. Be happy you’ve made it this far.”

“I think it goes beyond repression. Looks more like emotional constipation to me.”

Emma barked a laugh despite herself. “I actually hate you.”

“Mm. No, you don’t.” Ginny leaned back with a smug grin. “You love me. I’m the sister you didn’t ask for.”

Emma picked at a stray thread in the pillow. “You’re like if trauma bonding had freckles.”

Ginny laughed, but before she could fire back—

A dull thud outside. Then another.

Both girls sat upright.

The front door creaked open. Boots scuffed against the floorboards. A voice groaned through the noise, “Oi—mind the table—”

Emma didn’t wait. She bolted from the room, Ginny right behind her, hearts thudding, instincts kicking.

The kitchen was chaos.

Kingsley came first, dragging a limping Remus, whose robes were torn and bloodied across the shoulder. His mouth was tight, one eye swelling shut, but he nodded once when he saw them.
Tonks followed, one sleeve ripped to the elbow, dirt smudged across her cheek, her pink hair half-faded from exertion. She was grinning, but it looked painful, like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Then came Fred.

He half-carried, half-dragged his twin into the kitchen. Blood soaked the right side of George’s head. His arm hung limp. Half of his ear—no, his ear—was missing.

Fred said nothing at first. His mouth worked like he was trying to form words, but the noise around them drowned everything out.

Then: “He’s fine,” Fred said, too fast, too flat. “He’s—Mum, he just needs—he’s fine.”

He lowered George into a kitchen chair, his arm shaking as he pulled away. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t look down at the blood smeared across his own sleeve, or the skin missing from his knuckles.

Molly gasped, and then she was there, her wand already out, hands moving with firm, practiced urgency as she muttered a spell. Her voice trembled at the edges.

Fred stepped back, jaw set. He tucked his injured hand behind his back, eyes locked on George’s face like he could will him to stay awake.

Then—
“Harry!”

Ginny’s voice cracked through the air.

Emma turned in time to see Hagrid duck through the doorway, cradling a limp, battered figure in his arms.

Harry looked half-dead.

His glasses were gone, his lip was split, blood matted his hair and clung to the collar of his shirt. His eyes were half-lidded, barely focusing.

Ginny didn’t hesitate. She shoved past everyone and threw herself at him before he could fully stand on his own. Hagrid let out a surprised huff but let her take him.
Emma’s throat closed.

Because right behind him—mud-streaked and ash-covered, eyes too wide and shoulders shaking—was a wild haired girl.

“Hermione!”

Emma’s voice cracked.

The brunette barely turned before Emma reached her. They collided, arms around each other, no words, just shaking shoulders and fingers clutching fabric and the shared, silent knowledge that they’d survived something that would never fully let go of them.

“You’re okay,” Emma whispered into her friend’s hair. “You’re okay. Thank Merlin, you’re okay.”

Hermione’s hands curled in her jumper like she might collapse if she let go. Her breath came in short bursts against blonde hair. They stayed like that, pressed together in the eye of the storm, until someone behind them groaned again.

George.

Emma finally pulled back. Hermione nodded at her, moving to speak to a now conscious Harry.

That’s when Emma noticed Fred.

He was off to the side now. George was in good hands—Molly’s hands. But Fred stood rigid, his own injuries carefully ignored. His right sleeve was torn, skin raw and bleeding beneath. His hand was swelling—knuckles split, a jagged cut trailing up his forearm—but he wasn’t moving.

He didn’t want to be seen.

So Emma crossed the room, quick and quiet, and stopped in front of him.

“Sit down,” she said, softly but without room for argument.

Fred didn’t even look at her at first. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Sit, Fred.”

Something in her tone made him obey.

He lowered himself onto a bench stiffly, still watching George out of the corner of his eye.

Emma crouched down in front of him, already rolling up his sleeve. “This is bad. You should’ve said something.”

Fred gave a tired grin. “Well, I thought I’d let George hog the spotlight for once.”

She didn’t laugh.

She pulled her wand from her sleeve and murmured the spell under her breath. Warm light glowed against his skin, dulling the edges of the pain.

Fred winced, then blinked in surprise. “You’ve definitely done this before.”

“Yeah.” Emma’s voice was quiet. “You’re not my first disaster.”

That got the faintest smirk. His gaze drifted again—back to his brother. Molly hadn’t looked up once. Her hands were glowing now, her lips moving rapidly with spells.
Fred didn’t say anything.

Emma didn’t get up. She stayed crouched in front of him, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Close enough that he couldn’t ignore her, but not forcing him to look at her either.
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” she said eventually, quiet but even.

Fred’s jaw ticked. “I’m not trying to.”

“Good. Because standing there pretending your arm isn’t mangled while your brother’s half-conscious isn’t exactly a masterclass in subtlety.”
His mouth twitched. “Didn’t want to get in the way.”

Emma tilted her head, studying him. “You wouldn’t have.”

The taller boy looked down at her then.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” he said, voice lower. “Not George.”

Emma nodded, slow and steady. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a pause. A breath. The noise of the kitchen carried around them—Kingsley barking orders, Hagrid rumbling by the doorway, someone sobbing softly near the stairs.

“He’ll be ok.” Emma murmured softly.

She reached out and adjusted the edge of the bandage on his hand, her wand gliding over the fabric to seal it. “I’ll fix that properly later.”

Fred glanced down, then back at her. “You always patch people up like this, or am I just lucky?”

She gave him a look. Flat. Deadpan. “You’re very dramatic when you’re bleeding.”

He smirked. “You say that like I’m not irresistible the rest of the time.”

Emma arched a brow. “I think the blood loss is getting to your head.”

She didn’t say anything else.

But as she walked away, she knew exactly how it felt to be the one holding your breath for someone else.

And she knew Fred was still holding his.

So she’d held it for him, just long enough.

Then let go.

Chapter Text

The gnome had it coming.

Emma’s wand snapped through the air in a sharp arc, a ribbon of green light trailing behind it like a whip. The squat, potato-faced creature let out a high-pitched squeal as it spun mid-air—again—and sailed over the hedge, landing in the weeds with a satisfying thud.

“That’s the fourth one today,” Ginny remarked, lounging on the grass with a bundle of tangled lights in her lap. “You’re going to traumatize the entire gnome population of Devon.”

Emma exhaled, brushing a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m stress-gnoming. It’s a coping mechanism.”

“Right. Some people knit. You launch living beings.”

Another rustle near the pumpkin patch caught Emma’s attention. She flicked her wand, eyes narrowed. “Call it pest control—with flair.”

It had been five days since Harry arrived.

Five days of awkward silences, half-whispered conversations, and glances that carried more weight than words. The second he stepped into The Burrow, the air shifted—something heavy, unsaid. He, Hermione, and Ron had fallen into formation instantly, retreating into hushed discussions and slamming doors just a little too quickly whenever Emma or Ginny got too close.

They weren’t just catching up.

They were planning something. And whatever it was, it didn’t include her.

Emma told herself she didn’t care. That she had enough on her plate. That she didn’t need to be involved in every secret plan or whispered strategy.

But she did care. Of course she did.

Because while Hermione was slipping further away, and Theodore was... Merlin knew where, Emma was stuck—on the outside of everything. Again.

His name hadn’t been spoken aloud in days, but he lingered in every quiet moment. In the shadows she caught out of the corner of her eye. In the ache she couldn’t quite shake. She missed him.

And she hated that she missed him.

After everything. After what he’d done. After what he’d become part of.

Missing him felt like a betrayal. Of herself. Of the people who had taken her in. Of everything she should believe in.

But the ache remained—a hollow, aching pulse behind her ribs she couldn’t switch off.

She wanted to be furious. She wanted to forget.

Instead, she fiddled with the gold bracelet clinging to her wrist, smiled when expected, and told herself—over and over—that she didn’t care.

She missed her dad, too. But that pain was quieter now. Softer. He was safe. Hidden. Unreachable. Alive. She could live with that. She had to.

The rest—Pansy, Blaise, even bloody Draco—were scattered like shattered glass. And Emma didn’t know which pieces she was still allowed to mourn.

But Ginny?

Ginny had become her saving grace.

Blunt, bright, wickedly funny Ginny Weasley—with her untamed energy and relentless loyalty. She never asked Emma to be okay. Never treated her like she might break. Never demanded explanations.

She just showed up—with dry humour, stolen sweets, and reckless plans to sneak into rooms they had no business being in. And somehow, that was enough to keep Emma’s feet on the ground.
So Emma clung to the one thing she could control: chaos.

The wedding was less than two weeks away, and The Burrow had become a whirlwind of enchanted linens and dangerously hexed floral arrangements. Emma threw herself into the madness with obsessive precision—charming candles, reorganizing seating charts, and arguing with Fleur about centrepiece heights like it was a matter of national security.

It didn’t solve anything. But it made her feel useful.

And for now, that was enough.

“I swear to Merlin, if I have to detangle one more strand of self-looping fairy lights—” Ginny groaned, glaring at the glittering knot in her lap. The lights twitched mischievously, like they knew they were winning.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “You’ll what? Set the wedding on fire?”

“No,” Ginny muttered, wrestling the mess, “but I might hex Mum’s enchanted measuring tape into the next century.”

One of the lights sparked indignantly, letting off a puff of glitter.

Emma snorted. “You’re really capturing the spirit of a joyful wedding.”

Ginny sighed, tossing the lights aside. “Honestly? You’re handling this all better than I expected.”

“This?”

The younger girl tilted her head. “Everything. War. Isolation. Your friends falling off the map. Your dad. The Trio of Secrets and Shadows treating us like furniture.”

Emma blinked. “Wow. Subtle.”

Ginny shrugged. “Not really my thing.”

Emma leaned back, gazing up at a crooked clothesline strung between two trees. The wind tugged at the fabric hanging there, making it ripple like soft applause.

“I don’t know if I am handling it,” Emma said at last. “But pretending is easier than crying.”

A silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable—just honest. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

Then Ginny nudged her shoulder. “Feel like doing some spying tonight?”

Emma glanced sideways, a spark catching behind her tired eyes. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Just then, a low whistle carried across the garden.

They both turned to see Harry strutting towards them, arms folded, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He tossed an apple in Ginny’s direction. She caught it one-handed without looking, then lobbed it back at him with surprising force.

He caught it—barely—then winced. “Oi! Unprovoked attack!”

“Hardly,” Ginny said, standing and brushing grass off her jeans. “You’ve been lurking for ten minutes.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt the gnome massacre,” Harry said, strolling over. “It was strangely cathartic.”

He nudged her lightly with his elbow, nodding at the fairy lights. “Need a hand?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes at the tangled mess. “You offering because you’re feeling helpful, or because you’re avoiding Hermione’s third strategy meeting of the day?”

Harry gave her a sheepish look. “Can’t it be both?”

She laughed, and the sound was soft and unguarded. “You’re rubbish at lying.”

“And you’re terrifying with fairy lights.”

He reached for the knot in her lap, but she caught his wrist before he could touch it. “They bite.”

Harry tilted his head, stepping just a little closer. “So do you.”

Ginny didn’t answer right away. Just looked up at him, chin tilted, gaze steady.

For a moment, the chaos of the Burrow faded—the flapping linens, the distant crash of pans, the faint buzz of gnomes regrouping in the hedge. It was just the two of them. Familiar. Fierce. The only people in the world.

Emma cleared her throat loudly.

“Merlin, I’m surrounded.”

Harry didn’t look away from Ginny. “Tragic, really—some people just aren’t emotionally equipped to witness true love.”

Ginny snorted. “You’re unbearable.”

He grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes. She looked away—not out of bitterness, but something quieter. Something like longing.

Not for Harry. Not even for romance.

But for that feeling: of being chosen, known, tethered.

Something steady in the middle of the storm.

***
The plotting began later that evening—somewhere between a burnt roast dinner and Fleur dramatically weeping over a broken charm bracelet. Emma was elbow-deep in napkin fold experiments, seriously considering hexing the cake topper out of sheer spite, when Ginny leaned across the table with a gleam in her eye and said, “Operation: Secrets and Shadows. Midnight.”

They crouched behind the crooked garden shed, hidden beneath a borrowed invisibility charm that shimmered faintly in the moonlight—not quite perfect, but just enough to keep them cloaked.
“Think they’ll talk out loud this time?” Emma whispered, brushing a leaf off her shoe.

“They’d better,” Ginny muttered. “Or I’m hexing their eyebrows off.”

Footsteps crunched over the gravel. Then came muffled voices—Hermione’s sharp and fast, Ron’s low and tense, and Harry’s clipped with urgency.

Emma held her breath, heart pounding.

“...we have to leave soon,” Harry was saying.

“But not yet,” Hermione snapped. “We’re not ready.”

“Dumbledore said—”

Then nothing.

“Muffliato,” Ginny hissed, eyes narrowing. “Classic.”

They waited a few more minutes, crouched low and still, but no more words broke through the enchanted air.

“Well,” Emma sighed, pulling off a stray branch from her sleeve, “that was anticlimactic.”

“Story of our lives,” Ginny said, already on her feet. “Come on. Let’s go steal dessert.”

Emma grinned, something warm flickering back to life in her chest.

For now, mischief would do.

Chapter Text

If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was just a birthday party.

A good one, even—sun-warmed blankets scattered across the orchard grass, platters balanced on conjured stools, strings of magical lanterns humming softly above like sleepy stars. Music drifted from a charm-tuned wizarding wireless, and a golden Snitch-shaped cake floated gently, its wings fluttering above the spread.

It should have felt lighter than it did.

Emma watched Ginny sitting not far away, arms crossed, chin tilted stubbornly upward. Her eyes burned with a quiet fire—hurt and anger wrapped tightly together. She wasn’t the bright, laughing girl who belonged beside Harry just now. She was a fortress, closed off and braced.

Emma shifted, and Ginny’s glance flickered to her. No words passed between them—none were needed. Emma just offered a small, steadying smile.

“I’m mad at him,” Ginny finally admitted, voice low and raw. “Not the war. Not the danger. Just… Harry. For messing things up when it matters.”

Emma’s mouth twisted into something sympathetic. She rested a hand lightly on Ginny’s arm. “It’s okay to be angry.”

Ginny let out a short, bitter laugh, twisting a half-empty butterbeer bottle between her fingers. “Feels pathetic. He’s out there risking his life and I’m here sulking over mixed signals.”

Emma shook her head. “Wanting to matter to someone doesn’t make you pathetic. Especially when you do.”

Ginny blinked at that. Her mouth parted slightly, like she wasn’t used to hearing it out loud.

Before she could reply, Molly’s voice rang across the orchard. “Ginny! Come help me with the pudding, will you?”

Ginny stood, brushing off the back of her jeans. “Duty calls,” she muttered, but she offered Emma a faint smile—grateful, if tired—before disappearing toward the house.

A moment later, Hermione slid into the vacated seat, tucking her legs underneath her. “She okay?” she asked quietly.

Emma gave a soft nod, eyes still on the spot Ginny had left. “No. But she will be.”

Hermione said nothing, her brow drawn and hands fiddling nervously with her cardigan’s sleeve.

“Are you alright?” the blonde asked softly.

Hermione twisted one of her dark curls before folding her hands to settle in her lap. “Just thinking about what’s coming. And… about Draco.”

Emma blinked, caught off guard. Hermione never talked about him. Not really.

“You know,” she continued quietly, “Draco used to sit like this. All stiff shoulders and fidgeting hands when he thought no one was watching.”

She didn’t push. Just let Hermione have the moment.

Hermione gave a small shrug. “It’s strange, the things you remember.”

Suddenly, the kitchen door slammed open, and Mr. Weasley stepped out with a polite urgency.

“Hermione, dear — Scrimgeour’s here. He’d like a word with you. Harry and Ron are already inside.”

Hermione stood immediately, smoothing her jeans. Her mouth opened as if to say something — goodbye, maybe — but only a breath escaped.

The tension lingered even after he disappeared again inside.

Just then, Fred Weasley’s familiar voice broke through the quiet.

“Been abandoned, have we?”

Emma didn’t jump, but she arched an eyebrow as Fred dropped beside her, long legs stretching out.

“Looks like it.”

Fred clasped a hand dramatically over his heart. “You and me, left behind while the Chosen One, the Brightest Witch, and Mr. Can’t-Summon-a-Sandwich talk strategy with our Ministry overlord.”
Emma smirked. “I’m sure your invitation got lost in the post.”

Fred clicked his tongue. “Damn unreliable birds.”

She glanced at him. His smile was easy but his eyes carried something unreadable.

“You’re awfully close for someone here to complain.”

“And you’re awfully pretty for someone pretending she wants to be alone.”

That caught a real laugh from Emma, low and surprised.

“Fred Weasley, are you flirting with me?”

He put on an exaggerated look of offense. “How dare you! I would never — unless it was working.”

Emma shook her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

“You’re bold for someone whose idea of romance involves firecrackers and nosebleeds.”

“And yet, here you are. Not running.”

“Give it a minute.”

He nudged her foot. “So, what are you wearing to the wedding tomorrow? I need to coordinate my corsage.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “Is that your version of asking me to dance?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

“I haven’t decided,” she murmured, twisting the silver ring on her finger. “Maybe emerald. Something dramatic. Might as well match the existential dread.”

Fred leaned back, grinning. “You Slytherins know how to make a statement.”

“Someone has to. You Gryffindors just set things on fire and hope for the best.”

“You say that like it’s a bad strategy.”

They laughed together, the golden light of the orchard casting long shadows. A peaceful moment, fragile but real.

Fred’s eyes softened. “You alright?”

Emma wanted to say yes. But truth sat heavy.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “Pretending’s easier than crying.”

Fred didn’t say anything for a while. Then he plucked a piece of grass from her hair.

“Well,” he said gently, “then I’ll keep distracting you.”

Emma smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in days.

Fred glanced down at her wrist. “Nice bracelet. Suits you.”

Her fingers curled around the delicate cuff.

The blue eyed girl’s breath caught.

She didn’t show it. Didn’t flinch. But inside, something shifted.

She was thinking of him again.

Theodore’s hands, the faint smoke scent he always carried, the slow drag of his cigarette, the weight of his silences.

She missed him.

And she hated that she did.

Emma tilted her head and shot Fred a dry smile.

“Careful,” she said. “That almost sounded sincere. Flirt with me any harder and I’ll have to rethink my outfit for tomorrow.”

Fred laughed, reckless and bright. “I knew it. You’re wearing something scandalous to the wedding.”

“I told you. Emerald. To ruin Fleur’s life a little.”

“Merlin help us all.”

They laughed again, the orchard glowing softly beneath the flickering lanterns.

Emma felt it—a shift, subtle but certain.

The ground hummed with something no one could name yet.

Harry’s birthday was nearly over.

And the sky felt far too quiet.

***

The morning of the wedding felt too perfect.

The kind of summer day the Ministry might’ve bottled if they still had the time for things like bottled sunshine. The orchard glowed gold under the weight of enchantments and late July heat. Ribbons whispered in the breeze, draped from the great white marquee like threads of silk spun from a daydream. The Burrow had never looked so proud—or so unsuspecting.

Emma didn’t pause to admire it.

She’d been up since dawn, wrist-deep in floral arrangements that kept trying to rearrange themselves. The Delacour’s had brought magic with them—literal magic. Fleur’s relatives moved like they were half-gliding, and even the birds seemed to land softer near them. Emma found herself ducking under floating lanterns and whispering counter-charms before they exploded glitter over the guestbook (again).

She managed to smile through it all, weaving through chaos in her boots and pyjamas, hair piled high and messy with early-morning haste. Stray bits of lavender from the bouquets clung to her blonde waves like confetti. She was too busy to care, too busy to feel the nerves rattling in her chest, too busy to think about sleep deprived Slytherin boys.

When she caught her reflection in the cracked hallway mirror—a streak of dirt across her cheek, her wand tucked behind her ear like a quill, her hair rebelling in three different directions—she just squinted and muttered, “Close enough. They’ll be half-drunk and sentimental anyway.”

Then she was off again, charming a row of collapsing chairs into place and bickering with George about the ribbon colour (“It’s orchid, not lilac, you uncultured swine”).

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, once the preparations had settled into a kind of quiet hum, that she finally slipped upstairs to get ready. The rose-pink dress was already waiting, folded neatly on the bed—borrowed from Ginny, and just a bit too delicate for someone standing on the edge of a war. She touched the fabric like it might vanish.

The colour clung to old memories. It shimmered faintly in the light as she slipped it on, and for a moment, something flickered in her chest. She didn’t let herself name it. Didn’t dwell on why this shade made her hands feel colder, or why her breath caught just a second too long. Her throat tightened, but she kept moving.

Not today.

She turned away from the dress attempted to charm her hair smooth. It curled rebelliously over her shoulders, like it knew she had no real control over anything.
The knock at the door was soft. Familiar.

Emma glanced over just as it creaked open and Hermione peeked in.

She looked pulled together, as always, but there was something brittle around the edges. Her cardigan sleeve was twisted from where she’d been tugging it, and she didn’t meet Emma’s eyes at first.

“Hey,” Hermione said.

Emma moved to lean against the doorframe, wand still in hand. “If this is about the harpsichord player, I already told Fleur’s aunt I’d hex him myself if he started up again.”

Hermione let out a short breath—more sigh than laugh.

“No, it’s not about that.”

“Then come in before someone tries to draft you into napkin duty.”

Hermione hesitated, one hand lingering against the doorframe. Her fingers curled slightly, like they weren’t sure what to do.

She stepped inside.

Emma went back to attempting to tame her hair in the mirror, while watching Hermione in the mirror. She wasn’t really looking at anything—just vaguely toward the window, jaw tight.

Emma lowered her wand, and started to pin whatever hair would cooperate. “You look like you’ve either come to confess a murder or ask for a favour.”

This time, the corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched. She didn’t laugh, but the sound of Emma’s voice seemed to let her breathe a little deeper.

“I needed a moment,” Hermione said softly. “Just… with you.”

That pulled Emma’s attention properly. She turned to face her, gazing up at the curly hair girl from the floor, a hairpin clamped between her teeth.

Hermione didn’t look at her. She was staring out at the orchard, lips pressed thin. Like if she looked directly at Emma, the words might come out wrong.

Emma spat the pin into her palm and waited.

“We’re leaving soon,” Hermione said at last, almost like she was exhaling the words rather than speaking them. “Me, Harry, Ron. I don’t know when exactly—could be tomorrow, could be a week. But… it’s close. I just thought—well. You should know.”

A beat passed. The breeze pushed through the open window, and somewhere in the orchard, someone laughed—one of the twins, probably.

Emma didn’t blink. “I figured.”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged like someone had let go of the string keeping her upright. She finally turned from the window, eyes glassy but not spilling. “I’m sorry. Especially after your dad—”

“No,” Emma cut in, standing up, stepping forward and folding her into a hug before she could say another word. She held her tightly, arms around the girl who had once taught her how to hex someone unconscious.

“Don’t,” Emma whispered into her curls. “You don’t owe me anything. Just come back. That’s all I care about.”

Hermione didn’t answer straight away. She clutched Emma a little tighter, like she was afraid she might disappear if she let go too soon.

Emma pulled back slightly, hands still on Hermione’s arms. “Are you scared?”

Hermione hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted in a thin voice. “But I think we’re doing the right thing.”

“You are,” Emma said, because she had to believe it. “And I’m scared too. But you’re Hermione bloody Granger. If anyone’s going to march into the dark and rip it apart from the inside—it’s you.”

That got a watery laugh from Hermione, who lifted a sleeve to dab at her eyes.

Emma gave a crooked smile. “Your parents would be proud of you, you know. Of who you are. What you’re doing.”

Hermione’s face folded at that—like someone had nudged a wall too hard and revealed the cracks beneath. “Thank you,” she said, the words barely holding together. “Really.”

Emma hesitated, then added softly, “He would be too.”

Hermione blinked. “Who?”

Emma didn’t answer. Just reached for her wand again, like the moment had already passed. But Hermione's gaze lingered, something unreadable flickering across her face.

“Go save the world,” Emma said gently, charming her hair back with a forced sort of calm. “I’ll be here making the wedding look good.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Hermione whispered, and after one last look—one last second of something heavy and unspoken—she slipped from the room.

Emma stood there for a long time afterward, staring out at the orchard, letting the silence settle around her like dust. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. She just stood in her borrowed room, heart thudding like it was keeping time for something she hadn’t yet named.

And then she was gone, disappearing back down the hallway like the goodbye had already begun.

Emma turned to the mirror again, staring at the girl reflected there—the blonde hair tumbling free now, soft around her collarbones, the dress halfway unzipped on the bed behind her. Her skin still smelled faintly of rosewater from the bouquets, and her heart wouldn’t settle.

She was fastening an earring when the door exploded open.

“Get dressed or get drunk—those are your options!” Ginny yelled, bursting into the room with a bottle of violently pink wizarding alcohol in one hand and a feathered hairpiece in the other.

Emma jumped, nearly stabbing herself with an earring. “Sweet Merlin, Ginny!”

“I come bearing booze and bad decisions,” Ginny declared, hopping onto the bed and brandishing the bottle like a wand. “Now put the dress on and pour a glass—we’ve got thirty minutes before I start hexing people just for the fun of it.”

Emma blinked at her from where she was sitting on the floor. “You’re unhinged.”

Ginny dropped onto the bed with a huff. “I’ve been stuck tying chair sashes with Aunt Muriel breathing down my neck for the last hour. She made me do it without magic! Cruel bitch. I deserve chaos. Now, dress. You’re going to look like a hot, magical strawberry trifle.”

Emma sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I look like dessert, someone better flirt with me.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ginny said, waggling her eyebrows. “I saw the way Fred was looking at you earlier.”

Emma rolled her eyes and pulled the dress from the bed. It shimmered in her hands—sleeveless, the hem just a little uneven from wear but still beautiful.

She slipped it on.

The same colour as the night everything changed.

Ginny, for once, was quiet.

“You okay?” she asked.

Emma ran her fingers down the fabric, watching it ripple like a memory she didn’t want to hold. “Looks better without the blood this time,” she said, almost too casually.
The freckled girl tilted her head in confusion. “You look incredible. Seriously. If you don’t pull at least one veela cousin tonight, I’ll be offended.”

Emma took the glass Ginny handed her and clinked it against hers.

“To terrible ideas,” she said.

“To making them look good,” Ginny replied.

They drank, and for a moment, laughter filled the space where grief tried to creep in.

***
The garden glowed with fading light, soft and golden, but beneath the shimmer was a brittle quiet—like glass stretched too thin, ready to shatter. The Burrow was alive with the sounds of celebration: laughter, clinking glasses, music drifting lazily from the marquee. Bill and Fleur’s wedding was meant to be a breath of warmth in the cold creeping ever closer. A reprieve. A moment of something like hope.

And for some, maybe it still was.

She’d spent the entire week helping Mrs Weasley plan, organize, and charm this wedding into something magical. She'd arranged tables, strung lanterns, dried her hands out cleaning dozens of plates with Hermione. She’d even baked—gods help her—she baked. And today, she'd worked herself into a dizzy haze, ensuring it all came together: hexing floating ribbons into place, running between tents, triple-checking seating charts and wandproofing the bloody marquee. Not because she had to.

Because she wanted it to be perfect.

Because she loved this place.

She wasn’t sure when it had happened—when the Burrow stopped being a novelty and became something like home. Even though Emma still ached for Pansy—her first real friend, her shadow and sister in all but blood—Ginny had slipped into that space with fierce ease, becoming just as close, just as loyal. They bickered like siblings, stole each other’s clothes, and protected each other without question. The twins had made her laugh again, even when she didn’t think she could—Fred with his endless teasing, George with his quiet jabs and unexpected wisdom. Bill and Fleur had swept her into wedding planning the moment she showed the slightest competence, dragging her to fittings and tastings and handing her to-do lists like family. Even Charlie, who she barely knew, had treated her like she'd always been part of the chaos—offering stories about dragons and a warm grin that never felt forced. She and Ron didn’t always get on—too many clashing instincts, too much pride—but he’d been there for Emma at her darkest moment, and that loyalty still lingered. And then there were Molly and Arthur. They’d stepped in without bias, without questions that would unravel her. Molly fussed and scolded, pressed second helpings onto her plate, knitted her a lopsided jumper she pretended not to like but never took off on cold nights. Arthur asked about her Muggle dad with soft curiosity—not the kind that pried, but the kind that said I know what you did, and I understand why. They’d become something like parents to her in the aftermath. Something steady. Something kind.

And that made it all hurt more.

Because now, standing in the golden orchard, champagne in hand, surrounded by the only people she had left, she could feel the world tilting—and she didn’t know if she could protect any of it. Her dress felt like a lie. Pink and soft while the world cracked beneath their feet.

The music carried across the garden. Strings and whistles and stomping feet on wooden floorboards. The blonde watched them—people she’d grown to care about, people she’d fought herself not to love too much—dancing, smiling, clinging to something bright while they still could.

Hermione and Ron were close, dancing awkwardly, bumping shoulders. Ron whispered something that made Hermione snort-laugh. Harry lingered in disguise just beside them, red hair and Weasley freckles poorly concealing the tension in his eyes. And Ginny… had been here a moment ago. Golden and wild in her dress, laughing with Luna. Now she was gone.

Emma took another sip, forcing the bitterness down.

“Careful,” came a voice beside her. “You’ll scowl hard enough to crack that punch bowl.”

Fred Weasley slid up next to her, all slouched charm and tie slightly askew. “I helped make it, you know. You can’t glare it to death.”

Emma didn’t look at him. “The punch deserves it.”

Fred whistled low. “Ouch. Cold.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re not used to honesty, are you?”

“I’m used to your honesty,” he said, grinning. “It’s like being punched in the face, but with wit.”

She huffed something like a laugh, dry and tired. “Well, don’t take it personally. I’ve just spent twelve hours wrangling rogue flowers and charming moths out of table linens. Forgive me if I’m not overflowing with optimism.”

Fred tilted his head, studying her. “You did a good job, you know. Everyone’s saying it. My mum’s practically adopted you.”

“She already tried,” Emma muttered. “Started knitting me my second jumper last week.”

“Red and silver, I hope.”

“Slytherin pride,” she said dryly. “Even in captivity.”

Fred chuckled. Then, quieter, “You alright?”

Emma didn’t answer right away. Her eyes traced the soft lights strung through the trees. The laughter. The illusion.

“I wish I could pretend,” she said finally. “Just for a night.”

Fred was silent for a moment. Then, almost gently, “You’re not the only one feeling it.”

Her gaze flicked to his. “But you’re all still trying.”

“We have to.”

She looked away again.

Because the truth was—she wanted to protect all of it. The Burrow. These people. This brief, stolen happiness. She loved it. Loved them. And that love made everything worse. Because she knew at any moment it could be ripped apart.

And worse still… she missed Theodore.

The thought came uninvited, sharp as splinters. His absence ached within her. She hated it—hated herself for it. For still thinking of him. For remembering the way he used to look at her like he saw something she didn't even recognize in herself. For wondering if he was safe. If he still cared. If he was alive.

She should hate him. Should forget him.

But her heart didn’t listen to her logic.

And she hated that too.

She squeezed the glass harder.

Fred bumped her shoulder. “Hey.”

She blinked, eyes stinging.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, voice lower now. “Just… don’t go all noble self-destruction on us, yeah? We like having you here.”

And then—before she could reply—he offered his hand. “Come on. Dance with me.”

She raised a brow. “Really?”

“Emma,” Fred said solemnly, “you look like you need rescuing. And I’m excellent at dramatic rescues.”

Despite herself, she set her glass down and let him pull her into the circle of lights and music. The crowd swayed lazily under fairy lights, laughter rising above the strings.

Fred spun her without warning, catching her waist as she stumbled slightly into him. His hand lingered a little too long. His smirk was all mischief. “See? Natural.”

Emma tried to smile back, tried to let the rhythm carry her somewhere lighter. Fred’s touch was warm on her hip, his charm easy and obvious. He leaned in to murmur something ridiculous in her ear, and she even laughed — once.

But it didn’t land where it should. She twirled, let him catch her, even flirted back once or twice, but her mind kept slipping.

To long fingers brushing her cheek in secret. A voice rough with regret. The way Theodore Nott used to look at her like she was already his, long before she realised she wanted to be.
Fred dipped her, too dramatically, and she barely caught herself. His face was close. Too close.

She steadied herself with a hand on his chest. “You’re dangerous,” she said lightly.

He grinned. “Told you. Dramatic rescues.”

But as he pulled her close again, her smile faltered.

Because she didn’t want to be rescued.

Not by anyone else.

The song faded. Fred kissed her hand like a prat and wandered off toward George, already heckling someone at the dessert table.

Emma stood still for a second. Alone again. The music blurred behind her. Her heart felt too full and too empty all at once.

And then the air shifted—thick, electric.

From the trees, a shimmer of silver burst through the dark.

A lynx. Glowing, powerful, running full-speed across the orchard.

The crowd went still. Wands slid into hands. Faces turned.

Emma’s heart stopped.

The Patronus turned, lifted its head, and Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice broke the silence—booming, terrible, final:
“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

Chapter Text

The sky ripped open.

A boom tore through the orchard like thunder made solid, and Emma hit the ground hard. Her breath vanished on impact. Dirt flew into her eyes, stung her cheeks. Her ears rang like she was underwater and screaming.

Screams erupted around her—high and shrill and real. Someone was already crying. Guests scattered in all directions: robes flaring, heels twisting in grass, chairs toppling. The white silk canopy above her smouldered and collapsed, shredded like tissue. Sparks rained down like fireflies caught in a storm.

Emma coughed and dragged herself onto her side, ribs flaring with pain. Her vision swam. Her mind kicked in—fast, cold.

Think.

Where was her wand?

Another detonation rocked the garden, closer this time. A wall of heat surged across the lawn, curling petals, flipping plates. A lantern exploded above her. Shards of it peppered the grass like falling stars.

Someone grabbed her wrist. She almost slapped them.

“Emma!”

A wand was shoved into her palm—her wand. Familiar weight. Her fingers closed around it like muscle memory. Through the smoke, she saw red—Fred, face pale and frantic.
He dropped to his knees beside her, hands already on her shoulders, shaking her hard.

“You with me? Are you hurt?”

“I—I’m fine,” she rasped, eyes wide. “Fred—Hermione? Harry?”

“They’re gone! They got out—I saw them disapparate. Emma—look at me. We need to go. Now.”

But she wasn’t looking at him anymore—she was scanning the orchard. Calculating. Counting exits. Tracing the angles of spellfire in the distance. Slytherin instinct, sharpened by years of not being able to afford panic.

“Where’s Ginny?” she said. “George? Molly?”

“I don’t know!” Fred snapped. “I don’t—shit—MOVE!”

A curse tore overhead, slashing through the remnants of the canopy. Silverware from the banquet table exploded, forks embedding themselves into the bark behind her. Emma ducked, arm raised, and for the briefest second her gold bracelet flashed in the firelight.

Fred swore again and flung a stunning spell over her shoulder. Emma turned, wand raised, teeth grit. No hesitation. No shaking hands. Her fear twisted into clarity, into the still, deadly quiet of purpose.

Icy focus. Survival first. Slytherin second nature.

She locked eyes with a cloaked figure just as he stepped through the smoke.

A Death Eater.

Tall. Still. Sharp-shouldered. The silver mask hid everything—everything except the way he was standing. He didn’t attack. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, still as stone. Watching her.

Not with arrogance. Not even like a fighter. More like… an observer.

Emma’s heartbeat spiked, but she held firm. Wand aimed. Breath shallow.

There was something wrong about this. Something strange. The way he looked at her—it wasn’t threat. It was something else.

Recognition.

But she didn’t know him. Not by name, not by stance. And yet the air between them thickened, charged with some unspeakable tension.

Why wasn’t he attacking?

Fred saw him a second later and shoved Emma behind him, firing a hex. The Death Eater blocked it—fluid, fast—but didn’t retaliate.

He just stood there.

Frozen.

As if weighing something.

As if waiting for something.

Then—

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Order members were vanishing between flashes of spellfire—some wounded, some dragging others with them. The tide had turned. They were pulling out.

Kingsley’s lynx Patronus bolted through the trees, illuminating the garden with a burst of silver-blue light. A signal.

“Fall back!” someone shouted.

Bill was limping toward the edge of the orchard, his arm slung around a bleeding Auror. Fleur vanished in a swirl of silk and flame, barefoot, wand still raised. Tonks spun mid-duel and grabbed Ginny’s wrist—they disappeared a second later in a puff of gold light.

It was all collapsing. The wedding, the safety, the last illusion of peace. Gone.

“NOW!” Fred bellowed, grabbing her hand.

Emma stumbled after him, feet sliding on broken glass. Another curse scorched the air an inch from her shoulder. She ducked, breath torn from her lungs again. Someone screamed behind her. The ground tilted.

Fred spun sharply.

No warning.

No countdown.

The world snapped around them.

Apparition gripped her spine like a claw and dragged her out of the orchard.

Emma hit the floor hard.

Pain shot through her ribs, but her mind screamed louder. Her breath came ragged and fast—too fast. Her fingers dug into the cold floor, anchoring herself against the chaos inside. Her heart thundered against her ribcage, wild and unrelenting. Fred’s hands closed around her shoulders, steadying, but she jerked away, trembling. Her fingers clawed at her collarbone, desperate for air that wouldn’t come.

She spat out a harsh breath, eyes flicking wildly around the shadowed room.

“Where the fuck are we?” she snarled, scrambling up before Fred could grab her.

The walls closed in—whitewashed, slanting, a low ceiling with exposed timber beams. Sea wind rattled against the windows, and the faint scent of salt and lavender clung to the air. This wasn’t any place she knew. Every instinct screamed danger.

Her breaths came short and sharp, twisting in her chest like a knife. Her vision blurred at the edges. The dull thud of her heartbeat thundered in her ears, louder than anything else.
She moved before the panic could root her down—feet pounding the narrow hallway, muscles coiled and ready to bolt.

Fred’s voice followed her down the hall—low, steady, strained. “Emma, wait—this is safe. I swear it. You’re safe.”

Safe? The word meant nothing. Not now. Not when her pulse was still in her throat, not when every nerve screamed run, hide, fight. Her body didn’t care what Fred said—her body wanted out.

Her fingers clawed at her collarbone, desperate for air that wouldn’t come.

She slammed a door open at the end of the corridor to what she assumed to be a kitchen.

Light poured from inside, but it wasn’t comforting. It was bright. Too bright. It hit her like a slap, and for a breath, she froze.

Movement. A turn of a head.

Molly Weasley.

“Oh—Emma—”

But the rest of her words cracked in her throat. Her face was blotchy, pale under the streaks of soot, her hands wringing the hem of a towel like she didn’t know what else to hold onto. She looked like someone who had been holding up for hours—and was dangerously close to not.

Emma barely had time to react before she was pulled into a hug. Arms—warm, trembling, too tight—and for a split second her muscles seized.

Don’t touch me. Her mind screamed it. Her body almost acted on it.

But Molly wasn’t holding her down. She was holding her up. Rocking gently, muttering something into Emma’s hair—something like “you’re safe, you’re safe now,” even though neither of them really believed it.

Emma’s fists stayed clenched. Rigid. Then—slowly, hesitantly—they unfurled, her hands pressing against Molly’s back like she was trying to feel something solid. Anything real.
Her eyes burned. She didn’t let it break through.

The kitchen was too loud and too quiet all at once. The air hummed with low voices, shuffling feet, the sharp click of mugs against wood. The smell of salt and smoke hung in everything.
Arthur sat slumped near the hearth, whispering urgently with Fred and George—both covered in blood that probably wasn’t all theirs. George was clutching his side, his missing ear raw and dark. Ginny stood just inside the door, shoulders shaking. Tonks was kneeling in the corner with her head in her hands. Bill and Fleur had just arrived, the hem of Fleur’s dress still damp from the rain.

No one was crying properly yet. Not really. Not until it felt safer.

Emma sat down because she had to. Not because she wanted to. Her limbs were still buzzing, her brain stuck in some jagged loop: Where’s your wand? Where’s the threat? Who’s missing?

Someone slid into the chair beside her.

She didn’t look—just tensed.

Then came the voice. Low. Familiar. “You alright?”

Ginny.

Emma turned slightly. Ash streaked the redhead’s face. There was a cut on her cheek and a scorch mark on her shoulder, but her eyes were sharp.

“Still breathing,” Emma managed.

Ginny gave a nod. “You fought like hell.”

Emma looked down at her hands. There was dirt under her nails. Blood at her knuckles. “Didn’t feel like fighting. Just felt like—moving.”

“Good instinct.”

A pause. Ginny’s voice dropped lower. “You shook up Fred.”

Emma glanced at her. “Why?”

“He thought you got hit. Back in the orchard. You didn’t move for a minute.”

Emma blinked. She couldn’t remember that. Her memory was a blur of smoke, light, screaming. “I was fine.”

Ginny didn’t push it. Just leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching the room like a soldier in temporary ceasefire.

A few moments later, Kingsley arrived. Rain still streaked his cloak. Behind him, Remus stepped inside—and Tonks nearly collapsed into him. Their embrace was silent, desperate.

The kitchen fell still.

Kingsley’s voice broke the quiet. “We’ve got forty-eight hours. Grimmauld’s not viable anymore. We split. We hide. We rebuild. Three fallback points. We move in groups.”

Fred nodded sharply. “Shell Cottage stays active?”

“For now,” said Arthur, his voice hoarse. “We rotate guards. We’ll need people watching Grimmauld.”

“We’ve got space here. As long as you don’t mind sand in your tea.” Bill grimaced.

Kingsley nodded. “Good. You’ll be the anchor point.”

The door creaked open again.

Emma didn’t hear footsteps. Just felt the shift in the air.

She turned—

And froze.

Snape.

She was on her feet before she realized it. Chair scraping. Wand out.

Every nerve in her body screamed: threat.

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

The entire room seemed to suck in a breath.

Snape didn’t flinch. “Miss Ryan.”

Emma’s grip tightened.

Remus stepped between them, palms raised. “Emma—he’s not the enemy.”

“Are you bloody serious,” she snapped. “I saw him.”

“You saw what he needed you to see,” Kingsley said quietly.

Her wand didn’t lower. Not yet.

“Why should I believe anything he says?”

“Because if he hadn’t passed us intel last month,” Kingsley said, “you’d all be dead already.”

Emma’s pulse roared in her ears. She stared at Snape. He looked right through her.

Finally—finally—she lowered the wand.

But she didn’t look away.

Kingsley turned to the room. “We divide up. Fred, Ginny—secure perimeters. Fleur, Bill—you’ll run comms through safe owls. Tonks, George—go through the old safehouse list. Discard anything remotely known. Remus—you and Snape will vet the new fallback locations.”

“I’ll find what I can,” Snape said, already turning to leave.

With that, the meeting adjourned. Everyone spilt, and Emma turned to follow Ginny. Until Kingsley’s eyes found her across the room.

“Ryan. Stay behind, please.”

Her stomach sank.

She waited until the room cleared—Fred catching her eye, mouthing you good? She nodded once, barely, and then he was gone.

The silence that followed was deep and strange.

The shift was jarring. The room that had been loud with panic and relief just minutes ago now echoed with stillness. Only the low hum of a ticking clock remained. Emma stayed rooted where she was, arms crossed tight, like she could hold herself together with pressure alone.

Her body thrummed with adrenaline and exhaustion—too wired to collapse, too raw to pretend calm.

She didn’t wait for him to speak.

“I don’t have answers,” she said, voice low, clipped. “If this is about Snape, I’m not changing my mind.”

Kingsley’s face didn’t so much as twitch.

“It’s not about Snape.”

Emma’s jaw clenched. “Then what—”

“It’s about the person who did warn us.”

She frowned. “But… I thought—”

“The tip-off about the Burrow,” he said, stepping closer, voice measured. “The reason you’re still breathing. The reason your friends are alive. That didn’t come from Snape.”

She stared at him, heart thudding. “Then who—?”

“There’s someone inside the Death Eater ranks,” he said. “Deep. Trusted. High enough to hear about attacks like this before they happen. And they’re not loyal to Voldemort.”

Emma’s breath caught. Something was shifting under her feet, and she didn’t like not knowing what.

“They’re not giving us everything. But what they do send—it’s deliberate. Strategic. Surgical.”

“And what,” she said slowly, “does that have to do with me?”

Kingsley didn’t miss a beat. “They’re Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Emma froze.

“You know those families,” Kingsley went on. “You’ve grown up beside them. Danced with their sons, laughed with their daughters. You understand what moves them—what they fear, what they worship. We need that insight.”

Her pulse kicked up again. This wasn’t a compliment. It was an assignment.

“Snape’s too visible,” Kingsley added. “Too many eyes on him. He’s carrying enough weight already. But you?”

He stepped closer, tone shifting.

Her spine straightened.

“You’ve got instincts,” he said. “Discipline. And people talk around you, Emma—they underestimate you. Especially the ones with names that matter. You slip beneath their radar. That’s a strength. That’s how wars are won.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve been watching me?”

He nodded once. “Hermione brought you up.”

She blinked. Of course she did. Brightest witch of her age and all.

“We want you involved,” Kingsley continued. “But in a smart, tactical way. No heroics. Just politics. Reading people. Spotting patterns. Influence. Subtle power.”

The blonde blinked, flicking the gold bangle that hung at her wrist.

“You want me to play chess,” she said, voice quiet.

Kingsley’s lips curved, just slightly.

“I want you to win.”

Chapter Text

Emma woke to screaming.

Not a person this time.

A gull shrieked just beyond the window, its cry sharp as a blade across her senses. Sunlight poured through the curtains—too bright, too real. For a suspended second, her body tensed—heart pounding, magic prickling just beneath her skin, ready to fight.

But it wasn’t a battlefield.

It was her bedroom at Shell Cottage.

She exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from her limbs like ink in water. The room around her was small and slanted, the kind of space that creaked with age and salt. White-painted walls had long since faded to cream. Sea-worn floorboards stretched beneath her toes, sand dusting their edges like sugar. A wardrobe leaned tiredly in one corner, its mirror cracked clean across the centre like a fault line.

Where the Burrow radiated warmth and cluttered charm, Shell Cottage belonged to the sea—weathered, wind-bitten, and quietly resilient. Everything here felt softened by time. The bed she’d been given had faded blue sheets tucked in too tight, the dark blue duvet twisted around her legs. A yellow throw hung across the foot, sun-bleached and unravelling at the corners.

In the next bed, Ginny snored softly, one arm flung dramatically over her eyes like a heroine in a romance novel. Emma huffed a tired breath of amusement.

She sat up carefully, ribs still aching from the day before—too much adrenaline, too little time to feel it properly then. Her body was catching up now, every bruise making itself known.

She let her gaze drift to the window. The sea stretched out just beyond the glass—vast and gleaming, all silver-blue and motion. It sparked a flicker of memory, unbidden and sharp.

She’d only been to the beach once before in her life.

She must’ve been seven. Maybe eight. Her dad had driven them out in his sputtering old car, insisting on “the full British seaside experience.” They’d had sand in their chips, seagulls screaming over melting ice cream, and a faded red bucket for shell-collecting. Emma remembered the way her dad had kicked off his shoes and run into the freezing surf without a second thought, yelling back at her to race him. He’d looked ridiculous—soaked up to the knees, hair windblown, glasses fogged—but he’d laughed like the whole world was light.

Her chest ached.

She blinked quickly and scrubbed at her eyes. No time for that. Not now. Not when she’d made the choice—
To protect him.
To erase herself from his world.

Her fingers curled tight in the blanket. That version of her—running barefoot along the shore, fingers sticky with candy floss, her dad smiling down at her—he didn’t remember her anymore. And he never would.

The wind outside rattled the window slightly, like the sea was knocking to be let in.

Emma shoved the memory down. Folded it neatly. Locked it in the box where the rest of the unspoken things lived.

Downstairs, the floorboards creaked—slow, familiar. Someone was already making tea. The cottage was stirring.

She tugged a jumper over her tank top and padded barefoot down the stairs, every step grounding her more in the strange calm of this new morning.

The kitchen looked like something from a dream.

Molly’s wand flicked and twitched in the air, commanding a small army of spoons and kettles. The table was already half-set. Bill leaned against the back door, long hair tousled by the wind slipping in from the sea. Arthur stood in the corner with the Prophet, squinting through his glasses. George sat at the table, sleep-rumpled, raising a chipped mug at her in greeting. Fleur hummed quietly in French as she stacked toast on a plate.

It was too normal.

Too calm.

Like the world hadn’t just splintered.

Then Remus caught her eye.

He stepped back from the table, face lined and serious. “Emma. Got a message for you.”

She followed him onto the porch, the wooden door creaking as it swung shut behind them. Out here, the sea wind whipped stronger, curling her hair into knots. Gulls circled in the sky. The sea stretched grey and endless.

“Kingsley wants you on a training rotation,” Remus said, voice low and simple. “With Tonks.”

Emma blinked. “What?”

“Orders came through this morning.”

She swallowed hard. “Why me?”

Remus’s gaze was steady. “You’ll have to ask Kingsley.”

She looked out at the sea, arms folded against her chest. That ache crept back in—low and sharp. Her ribs hurt, yes. But the memory hurt more.

“Do you think I’m ready?” she asked, quieter now.

Remus studied her. The way her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve. The faint shadows beneath her eyes. He didn’t answer immediately.

“I think you're already in it,” he said finally. “The question is whether you're going to run from it, or let someone teach you how to survive it.”
She didn’t reply.

Behind them, the screen door slammed open.

“Oi!” Fred’s voice rang out—louder than necessary, as always. “Are you two having some sort of emotional seaside moment? Should I leave you alone or is this a group brooding session?”

Emma turned, startled. Fred stood barefoot on the porch, hair still damp from a shower, wand tucked behind his ear like a pencil. His expression was light, but there was something in his eyes—like he was reading the tension between her and Remus in real time and trying to balance it out.

“I brought backup,” Fred said cheerfully, holding out a bowl of something suspiciously brown. “Mum made porridge. Claims it’ll ‘make you feel better.’ Tastes like sadness and tree bark, but it’s warm.”

Emma cracked a smile despite herself. “How generous.”

Remus patted the blonde gently on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, nodding to Fred before before disappearing inside.

The tall boy settled beside her on the porch bench, handing her the bowl anyway. She accepted it with a grateful nod, warming her fingers against it.

After a beat, he said, quieter, “How’re you holding up?”

Emma looked down at the bowl. “I don’t know.”

“Fair.”

Fred didn’t respond at first. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, watching the water like it might give him the right thing to say.

Then, gentler: “You don’t have to be okay right now. Nobody expects that.”

Emma let the quiet settle before answering. “I keep thinking about how fast everything broke. One second we were just at a wedding. And then…”

She trailed off. Fred didn’t fill the silence.

“It’s stupid,” she said.

“It’s not.”

She turned to look at him, really look at him. There was something about Fred—his steadiness, the way he was always slightly ridiculous until he wasn’t.

“Why are you always nice to me?” she asked, not unkindly.

Fred blinked, caught off guard. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. I just—I feel like I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

“You're one of us now, Em.”

Her throat caught, sudden and sharp.

Fred shifted, nudging her shoulder. “You can sit here and say nothing for hours, and I’d still bring you porridge that tastes like wood chips and misery.”

Emma laughed, watery. “That’s very specific.”

“I’m a man of talent.”

She shook her head, smiling now.

Fred stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Right, I’m off to make a cup of what I generously call coffee and to forcibly wake Ginny.”

He turned to go, then paused in the doorway.

“Yell if you need a distraction. Or a getaway. Or a Weasley twin.”

Emma looked at him, the warmth of the bowl now curling around something in her chest.

“Thanks, Fred.”

His smile was softer than usual. “Anytime.”

Then he vanished back inside with a dramatic flourish of the screen door.

Emma sat a moment longer, letting the wind tangle her hair and the porridge go cold in her hands.

She let herself breathe.

The sea didn’t care who she was. It just was. Unmoving. Indifferent. It didn’t care about sides, or blood, or the weight of choices.

But the blonde did.

She stared out over the waves, her fingers tightening around the now-lukewarm bowl. The wind tugged at her sleeves. Her bracelet pressed against the pulse point on her wrist—a dull, familiar ache she couldn’t shake.

She hadn’t told anyone about the masked figure. About the way they’d watched her and not struck. About how it had felt like the wedding all over again—same silence, same stillness, same deliberate non-action that unsettled her more than any curse ever could.

What kind of Death Eater doesn’t fight?

And why did it feel like they knew her?

The question clawed at the back of her mind, and names followed it in a slow, inevitable march: Blaise. Draco. Pansy.

Theodore.

Her stomach turned.

No. She wouldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t let herself.

Because if it was him—if that was Theodore beneath the mask—then she didn’t know who he was anymore.

Not really.

Not if he could stand there, watching her bleed, and still walk away.

Not if he could join a cause that had forced her to oblivate her father, to watch the Burrow burn, to throw hexes that left her shaking long after the battle was done.

He chose that. Chose them.

And whatever tether had once existed between them—whatever quiet thing that had lingered in the corners of late-night corridors and arguments left unfinished—it had to be cut.

She had to cut it.

She had to hate him.

So she tried.

Even if it didn’t feel like hate.

Even if it never had.

***

“You’re late,” Tonks said mildly, her now purple hair whipping in the wind.

Emma folded her arms, exhaling. “Didn’t realise it was a timed mission.”

“It is now.”

They trained hard—disarming spells, wards, shield charms. Tonks didn’t go easy, and Emma didn’t expect her to. Every spell cracked like lightning between them, the air thick with effort and the sting of overused magic.

Her shields held longer than they used to, but Tonks still broke through every time. Her wards bought her minutes now instead of seconds, but Tonks always found the seam. And when Tonks pressed into her mind, Emma felt herself buckle, clinging desperately to half-formed walls and scraps of emotion.

Still—she was learning.

By the time Tonks finally lowered her wand, Emma’s breath came ragged, her hands stinging from the raw force she’d been channelling too long.

Tonks accioed a flask and tossed it over. “You’re better than you think.”

Emma caught it but didn’t drink. Her fingers tightened around the cool tin, brushing against the edge of her bracelet, hot from exertion.

Her gaze sharpened on Tonks. “When were you going to tell everyone?”

Tonks blinked. “Tell everyone what?”

Emma tilted her head, eyes flicking briefly downward before locking back onto Tonks’ face. “You’re pregnant.”

The smile fell from Tonks’ mouth. Just for a second. Her jaw went rigid.

“You can’t say anything,” she said flatly.

The younger girl shrugged. “I’m great at keeping secrets.”

The silence between them stretched. For the first time all evening, Tonks looked less like an unshakeable Auror and more like a woman standing in the open, exposed.

Emma didn’t give her long. “Why me?”

Tonks frowned. “Why you what?”

“This spy,” Emma pressed, voice low. “Why am I their keeper? You’ve got older, stronger, better people. More trusted people.”

Tonks sighed, perching on a low stone wall and stretching her legs out like she needed the grounding. “Because the others are already running themselves into the ground. We’ve got three healers left. Four field agents full-time. Kingsley’s patching security breaches daily. Remus is drowning in werewolf reports and inferi outbreaks. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are who knows where. And the rest?” She gave a small shrug. “Exhausted. Wounded. Burned out. You’re not.”

Emma opened her mouth.

Tonks cut her off. “Look. We’re not forcing you. You can say no and hide.”

Silence.

“But if you accept,” Tonks continued, more serious now, “this is your responsibility. This is how you help us win. You’re their tether—and ours. You notice shifts, intentions, alliances. That’s your edge. It’s why Kingsley wants you.”

Emma sat slowly beside her, heart thudding. “So I’m not going in?”

“No. You’re not the spy. You’re the spy’s shadow.”

The blonde exhaled.

Tonks looked out over the grey, churning sea. “The first meeting’s being planned. Could be a week, maybe three. You’ll be briefed as soon as we know more.”

Emma stared out at the sea, where waves smashed against rock again and again, like they were trying to reshape the world by force. The spray was cold on her face. Sharp. Real.

Subtle power.

No glory.

Just the long game.

She ran a hand over her face. “I don’t know how to play chess.”

Tonks gave a sideways smirk. “Then learn quick.”

They sat in silence for a beat, both listening to the sea tear itself apart below.

Then Emma turned toward her again. “Can I ask you something?”

Tonks raised an eyebrow, amused. “Since when do you ask?”

Emma didn’t smile. “Aren’t you scared?”

That amused look faded. “Of?”

Emma hesitated, then nodded at Tonks’s stomach—not obviously rounded, but still there. “Of fighting like this while… pregnant.”

Tonks didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted back out to the ocean, expression unreadable.

“I’m terrified,” she said finally. “But not of this.”

Emma frowned. “Then what?”

“That they’ll grow up in this world. One where I didn’t fight for better.” Tonks exhaled through her nose. “I don’t get the luxury of sitting still. Not anymore.”

Emma swallowed, something twisting deep in her chest. “Still. You could’ve said no.”

“I did,” Tonks said simply. “Then I said yes again. Because that’s what it takes, sometimes. Saying yes even when you're afraid.”

Emma was quiet for a long moment.

Her thoughts drifted to the only other beach she’d ever been to. How that memory was hers alone now.

She’d taken it from him, just like she had every other piece of magic-related knowledge, the night she obliviated him.

Her fingers dug into the edge of the stone.

She couldn’t undo that.

But maybe she could make it mean something.

“I’ll do it,” she said quietly.

Tonks gave her a slow, approving nod. “Good.”

The wind picked up again, carrying sea spray and something heavier. Emma stood with it, setting her shoulders against the storm.

No duels.
No glory.
Just shadow.
And survival.

Chapter Text

For weeks, the wind became Emma’s sparring partner.

Tonks trained her hard across the cliffs, rain or shine. No breaks. No shortcuts. They began at dawn, shadows long against the churning grey sea, spells colliding in the cold air like thunderclaps. The ground was treacherous—slick stone, tufts of brittle grass, loose gravel that sent them skidding mid-duel. Emma’s boots were always soaked through by the end of the first hour.

The drills were merciless. Disarming spells fired in rapid succession until Emma’s fingers trembled and her wand dropped from sheer exhaustion. Shield charms flared around her in desperate bursts of light, often too slow, too wide, too weak. Tonks never paused to coddle her. “Again,” she snapped, every time Emma hit the ground or failed to counter. “Faster. Better. Again.”

She learned to layer shields instead of throwing them up raw. To focus her spells tighter, cleaner, so they cut through air instead of sputtering wide. The older girl taught her the art of misdirection—how to feint with her eyes, shift her weight, send an opponent one way while she struck the other. By the end of each day, her shoulders throbbed with strain, her legs barely carried her back to Shell Cottage, and her wand hand had to be wrapped in cloth to stop the shaking. But the next morning, she was up again, hair wind-whipped and teeth gritted, eyes locked on Tonks with quiet fury.

Her gold bracelet, miraculously, was still as polished and delicate as when it had been gifted to her. Despite the bruises, the falls, the battering storms, it endured. She told herself it didn’t matter who had given it—that wasn’t what bound it to her wrist. What mattered was what it meant now: proof that something fragile could survive the fight. The intention, not the person. That was what she carried.

Tonks, despite being ruthless, was absolutely brilliant. Emma has constantly in awe of her teacher. She guided Emma’s stance with a tilt of the chin, a flick of the wrist. Showed her how to anticipate intent—not by watching the wand, but by reading the body, the breath, the pulse of the moment.

“You don’t win by power,” Tonks said once, after flipping Emma flat on her back with a silent jinx. She offered a hand, smirking. “You win by staying one second ahead.”

Emma learned. Slowly. Stubbornly. Through bruises and failures and quiet rage. But she learned.

She stopped flinching when Tonks barked orders. Stopped second-guessing her footing. Her hexes grew sharper, her shields cleaner. The ache in her bones didn’t fade, but it became part of her—like the bracelet, like the wind, like the magic simmering just beneath her skin.

And beneath the blisters and cuts, despite the soreness that settled deep in her spine, Emma found herself quietly, fiercely grateful. Grateful for the rigour, for the pain, for the way it burned away her doubt and left something harder, steadier beneath. The training gave her focus. Purpose. Control. When everything else felt like it was slipping through her fingers, this—this she could hold onto.

Even so, she hadn’t expected to be in a battle so soon.

But then the Patronus came.

Rain hammered the windows of Shell Cottage, lashing sideways against the glass like the sea was trying to crawl its way inside. The fireplace hissed. Emma sat hunched at the table, fingers wrapped tight around a chipped teacup. Her bracelet glinted faintly beneath her sleeve as she turned it, over and over, around her wrist.

The spy’s warning had come to Kingsley less than an hour ago. Now, a lynx burst through the kitchen wall in a silver blaze, scattering cold light across the walls.

“Emergency backup needed. Ambush north of Wells. Death Eaters confirmed. Wounded.”

The voice was Kingsley’s. Clipped. Urgent.

“You’re not going,” Remus said suddenly, looking directly at his lover.

The room stilled.

“What do you mean she’s not going?” Bill asked, incredulous. “She’s Tonks.”

All eyes went to the purple hair girl.

Tonks shot Remus a warning look so quick Emma nearly missed it. A silent shut up, don’t you dare. She gave an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to the front lines. Merlin, calm down. We’re short on numbers — you need shields.”

Emma’s own heart thudded, a decision forming before she even though it through. She stood, voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire.

“Take me.”

Everyone turned.

“No,” said Molly immediately. “You haven’t been cleared for—”

“I’m ready,” she cut in. Her bracelet caught the light as her fingers curled. “Tonks is training me.”

There was a silence. Not doubt—but calculation.

George nodded. “We’ve got your back, Em. Just don’t go trying to out-hero us, yeah?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Molly huffed. “She’s not—”

Ginny appeared in the hallway, face pale. “I want to come.”

“No,” Molly said again, firmer this time. “You’re not of age, Ginny.”

“But Emma—”

“She is,” Remus said, cutting in. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. “She’s been training for weeks. You all know that.”

“Watch her,” he added quietly to Fred and George.

George winked. Fred only tightened his grip on his wand.

“She’s still so young,” Molly whispered.

“So were we, once,” Remus murmured.

Fleur held out an old compass by the cloth underneath it.

Everyone reached for it.

The moment Emma’s fingers closed around the metal, the world yanked sideways.

Portkey travel was violent—like being dragged through a collapsing tunnel by the ribs. When her boots slammed into wet grass, the impact jarred up her spine. She landed hard, knees jolting, breath caught in her throat.

She had never seen war.

Not like this.

There were too many bodies. Too much blood. Too many screams that didn’t sound human. Her boots slipped on the wet grass, thick with mud and worse. Smoke stung her lungs. Spells cracked like gunfire. Her hands were shaking. She hated that they were shaking.

But she moved.

Tonks’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding, “Take the ridge—hold it at all costs!”

Fred swore as a flash of green tore overhead. “C’mon, Em!”

Emma darted after him, fast and low. A red curse scorched past her shoulder. She dropped behind a tree, chest heaving, and Fred fired a counterspell from beside her.

“Right flank’s exposed,” Tonks yelled, shield charm flaring bright blue. “Bill and Fleur are covering the left—George, look for survivors! Fred, keep her alive.”

Fred nodded grimly. “On it.”

Emma didn’t argue. Not with Tonks. Not with Fred.

She wiped dirt from her cheek—mud sucked at her boots as she ran, wand high, eyes scanning. Her mind split into instinct and intent—no time for panic. She ducked under a hex, spun left, and cast a silent Stunning Spell straight into a masked figure’s gut before he even saw her.

The body dropped hard. She didn’t flinch.

Another Death Eater raised their wand—Emma apparated five feet sideways with a burst of static. She reappeared behind them, hit them with a jinx that crumpled them instantly.

Her instincts thrummed, calculating. She moved like she was solving a puzzle, not fighting a war. Fast. Precise. Quiet.

Fred caught up behind a toppled cart, breath ragged. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, eyeing the fallen bodies near her feet. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

She didn’t answer. She flicked her wand toward a group of charging figures, sent a wall of fire roaring up to split them. One dropped screaming. The others scattered.
Fred blinked. “Okay. Yep. Copy that. Staying out of your way.”

Then—

The air cracked with a sound like thunder. The dirt near Emma’s feet exploded. She was thrown sideways, skidding across gravel and roots. Her shoulder slammed into a log.

Fred shouted something, but she didn’t hear it.

She blinked stars from her eyes. Rolled onto her side, gasping. Her golden hair—usually bright as sunlight—was dulled now, matted with sweat and mud, clinging to her face in heavy, tangled strands. It stuck to her mouth, her neck, her lashes—war dragging even the softest parts of her through the dirt.

Pain. Blood. Dirt in her teeth. Her wand half-buried under a chunk of earth.

She tried to move—and froze.

A shadow loomed.

Tall. Masked. Wand raised.

She couldn’t reach her own. Couldn’t even shout. Her mouth worked soundlessly, brain already cataloguing what death might feel like.

The Death Eater aimed—

And then he moved.

Not toward her—but past her.

A jet of white light ripped across the clearing, slamming another Death Eater—one Emma hadn’t seen—into a tree with a crack that made her stomach turn. The masked figure who’d loomed above her spun—fluid, surgical—his wand carving through the air. Silent magic. Lethal precision.

Another attacker fell. Then another. Bound. Disarmed. Downed. One after the other, clean and exact.

Emma had seen good duellists. Seen Tonks fight, Kingsley, even McGonagall.

But this—this was something else.

This wasn’t fighting. This was choreography.

The figure didn’t waste a movement. He flowed like water, dark robes twisting with each pivot. And then—just for a second—he turned toward her.

And hesitated.

The silver mask didn’t reveal anything, but his stillness did.

He was looking at her like he knew her.

Her bracelet burned. A searing line of heat, just under her skin. She gasped, hand going to it.

Fred’s voice rang out from somewhere behind. “Emma!”

She twisted—saw him struggling through wreckage, wand up, trying to get to her.

And when she turned back—the masked man was gone.

No sound. No snap of apparition.

Gone like he’d never been there.

Something small glinted in the dirt near her boot.

Fred finally skidded into the clearing, panting. “What happened—are you okay?”

Emma didn’t answer.

She was staring at the object in the mud.

It was a ring.

Simple. Silver. Worn.

She picked it up with shaking fingers, the bracelet on her wrist still burning. Her breath caught.

The engraving was clear, even in the chaos.

T.N.

strength in quiet hearts

Her stomach dropped.

No.

No way in bloody hell.

Her brain scrambled—matching the duelling style, the height, the silence, the precision. The pause. The way he’d looked at her. Not like prey. Not like an enemy.
Like Theo.

Her lungs locked. Her entire body went still.

“Emma?” Fred asked, his voice close now. He saw her face, and his own expression shifted. “Hey—what is it?”

She curled her fingers around the ring like it might bite her. Her voice came out raw. “We need to go. Now.”

“Wait, what?”

She shoved the ring into her pocket. “The ridge. We’re not holding it—we’re leveling it.”

Fred’s brow creased. “Blowing up the ridge? That’s your plan?”

“We trap them in. Bait them. Then collapse the valley. The tree line will hold the blast if we do it right.”

He stared at her. “Tell me you’re not making this up as we go.”

Emma didn’t even blink. “I’m improvising. Big difference.”

“Yeah? Feels suspiciously like ‘Slytherin for winging it.’”

“Winging it well, Weasley.”

Behind them, the battlefield was a blur of chaos. The Order had splintered under the pressure—Fleur and Tonks were pushing toward the eastern flank, duelling in tight formation. George had been last seen near the fallen oak, helping Bill drag an injured Hestia to cover. Somewhere out in the smoke, Lupin was casting wide-ranging protective wards, but no one had eyes on him now.

They were on their own.

So, the two moved like they’d done this before—Fred throwing out loud, messy spells that cracked branches and shook the ground, while Emma’s magic sliced through gaps with precision. The two of them held the ridge like a choke point, their spells driving the Death Eaters into a funnel of rock and fire.

Smoke stung her eyes. Somewhere behind them, the valley rumbled again with fresh explosions.

Emma planted her feet and cast three layering spells in quick succession, each one pulsing with unstable magic. She wasn’t even sure they’d hold. She could feel the ring burning hotter now—hidden in her pocket, searing through the fabric like it wanted to be noticed.

Fred skidded beside her. “Any chance you know how to blow up a mountain without killing us?”

“Define without killing us,” she muttered.

He grinned. “Knew I liked you.”

“Reducto!” she snapped.

The ridge exploded.

The blast was massive—stone, flame, and air tearing downward in a controlled detonation that collapsed the valley floor. The forest screamed. Fire curled into the trees. And then, silence—unnatural and heavy.

They were both thrown back by the force. Emma hit the dirt hard, rolling through a scorched patch of grass. Her head rang. Her wrist ached.

“Fred?” she coughed. “Fred!”

Nothing.

She forced herself upright, heart pounding. Flames hissed behind her. The treeline glowed orange. Below, shadows were staggering through the smoke.
The ridge exploded in fire and stone. Roots snapped. Trees buckled. Screams echoed down into the valley as the hillside crumbled in a cascade of dirt and flame.
Fred whooped, grabbing her arm as they ducked behind a ward.

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

But Emma didn’t celebrate.

She stared at the fire. At the forest.

At the spot where he’d disappeared.

She felt the ring burn through her pocket.

Her wrist was throbbing.

And for the first time since the battle began—she was shaking.

Not from fear.

From knowing.

Theodore Nott had saved her life.

And she had no idea what that meant.

Chapter Text

“You could’ve gotten everyone killed.”

Lupin didn’t shout. He didn’t have to.

The sitting room crackled with tension, the only sound the snap of wind against the shutters. Rain streaked the windows like claw marks. Everyone was gathered—Fleur, arms crossed and jaw tight; Bill standing behind her like a storm cloud; Kingsley in the corner, all coiled tension and quiet fury. Ginny, who had snuck downstairs earlier now hovered near the wall, not saying a word.

Fred was slouched low in an armchair, one leg stretched out, a bloodied bandage around his ribs. Emma was on the floor, spine pressed to the chair beside him, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them. Her cardigan hung off one shoulder, warm from the fire. Her bright hair was wet—shower-wet, not storm-wet—and still clung to her neck and cheeks. The sleeve of her cardigan had unravelled at the wrist. She kept worrying it with her thumb.

Lupin paced. Kingsley stood with arms crossed near the fire, radiating disapproval.

“You blew the ridge without clearance. You split too far from the group. You baited Death Eaters into a trap and detonated it with half the Order inside a kilometre radius,” Kingsley said coolly. “If that had gone wrong—”

“It didn’t,” Fred snapped.

“Not the point,” Lupin said sharply.

“We saved people,” the older boy pushed. “We stopped them.”

“You nearly cost us half the bloody mission,” Kingsley shot back. “That wasn’t strategy. That was recklessness.”

Fred’s shoulders squared. “She was the one who kept calm. When everything went to hell, Emma kept going. We’d be digging bodies out of that ridge right now if it weren’t for her—”

The blue-eyed girl said nothing. Her fingernails dug crescents into her knees. The ring in her pocket was burning a hole in her thigh.
Theodore.

Kingsley’s voice dropped lower. “You don’t lessen the Death Eaters. You don’t outmanoeuvre them indefinitely. All you have done is provoke them, and they will come back angrier and in greater numbers.”

Fred sat forward, breath harsh. “So what, we let them win?”

“We fight smarter,” Kingsley hissed. “Not like this.”

“I don’t remember a lot of strategy when you were pinned under rubble and screaming for backup—” Fred snapped.

“That’s enough,” Bill barked.

The room seethed. But George, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, straightened.

“They didn’t exactly have options,” he said, voice edged. “We weren’t there. I was halfway across the field trying to keep a girl from bleeding out. You lot were scattered. Don’t pretend they had time to check in.”

Fred looked at his brother—grateful, furious, exhausted.

George didn’t meet his eyes. “They did what they had to.”

Lupin exhaled hard. “It’s not about intent. It’s about consequence. You killed people.”

Silence. Thick and stifling.

Fred faltered. His foot bounced once, then stilled.

Emma didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

They were looking at her now.

“Emma,” Kingsley said, gentler. “What happened?”

She flinched.

Her fingers slid over the fabric of her sleeve again. The burn at her wrist throbbed, dull and persistent beneath the healing charms.

The ring in her pocket was still there. Still real.
He saved her.
A Death Eater. Masked. Silent. Lethal.
He moved like water. Fought like fire. Shielded her with magic so sharp it made her teeth ache.
And then he dropped the ring.
And disappeared.

Theo.
Her Theo.

The one who had chosen the wrong side. Who helped destroy her family. Who broke everything and then held her like she was the only thing left.

She wanted to scream. Or sob. Or throw the ring into the fire and herself after it.

Instead—

“We trapped them,” she said flatly. “Baited them. Collapsed the ridge. Fred cast the first wave. I cast the detonation.”

Lupin’s brows drew together. “With what—how did you pull that off? There’s a crater large enough to swallow half a battalion—”

Emma stood.

Fast.

Fred’s hand twitched toward her, instinctively—but she didn’t see it.

“I don’t know, alright?” Her voice was sharp. Unsteady. “I made it up.”

“You what?” Kingsley asked in disbelief.

“I’m seventeen,” she snapped. “Of course I made it up as I went.”

The room stilled.

She pushed her hands deep into her pockets—ring, wrist, wound—like she could press the pain down if she just shoved hard enough.

“I did what I had to,” she muttered. “And I don’t regret it.”

The twins exchanged a look.

The blonde girl didn’t notice.

Because her heart was screaming and no one could hear it.

She didn’t look at anyone. Just stared straight ahead at nothing in particular.
The glow of the lamps warped in the window glass. Rain traced patterns down the pane like veins. Her reflection didn’t look like her.
Because she couldn’t say what she wanted to.

Couldn’t say Theo saved me.

Couldn’t say I think he’s still in there.

Couldn’t say I think I love him, and I hate myself for it.

And to say his name—
To speak it aloud—
Would be to strike a match in a room full of kerosene and let everything she’d buried burn alive.

So instead, she picked at her sleeve. Clenched her jaw. Tried to ignore her throbbing wrist.

And when Lupin opened his mouth again, she cut him off.

“Can I go now?”

“Emma—”

“Please,” she said. “I’m tired. I need to—just—please.”

Lupin nodded slowly.

She didn’t wait.

She left the room, the ring like fire in her palm.
And she didn’t cry.

She just tried not to picture him—maskless, broken, whispering her name like it still meant something.

Because she was supposed to hate him.
And he had saved her life.
And she didn’t know what that meant anymore.

Fred glanced after her, confusion furrowing into concern.

Emma couldn’t meet his gaze. Couldn’t look at any of them.

She wanted to scream. Or run. Or drag Tonks outside and shove the ring into her hands and say do something, tell me this doesn’t mean what I think it means—
But she didn’t.

Instead, she hurried to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Colloportus” the blonde murmured, her bare feet pressed against the cold tile. Damp air clung to her skin. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror: pale. Hollow-eyed. Like someone had turned her inside out and forgotten to stitch her back together.

She yanked up her sleeve.

The bracelet was still there.

Gold. Thin. Quiet.

Her hand trembled as she grabbed it, pulled hard—once, twice. Nothing. The clasp wouldn’t budge. The chain didn’t stretch. Didn’t even strain. Like it was part of her now.
“Reducto,” she whispered. Then louder. “REDUCTO—”

Still nothing.

Her heartbeat surged in her throat. The panic rising now was different. Old. Ugly.

She gritted her teeth. Pointed her wand at her wrist.

“Diffindo.”

The light sparked—flared—and sputtered out before it even touched the chain. No mark. No noise. No resistance.
Emma hissed and dropped the wand.

“Get off,” she snapped, grabbing at it again with both hands, wrenching, clawing.

Still nothing.

And then—

The pain hit.

Not sharp.

Not surface-level.

This was worse.

Like something had slipped under her skin and set a fire beneath it—slow and spreading and deep. She gasped, clutching the edge of the sink with one hand, the other still fisted around the bracelet.

Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the porcelain, chest heaving.

It felt like her wrist was boiling from the inside out.

But when she looked—

Nothing.

No burn. No mark. No change at all.

Just smooth, unbroken skin beneath a gold chain that shouldn’t exist.

Like it wanted her to forget.

Like it wanted her to pretend.

Her breath caught.

And for a moment, she swore she could feel him—magic like static in the air, like the echo of a heartbeat that wasn’t hers pulsing just under the surface.
She stumbled back from the mirror.

Her whole body was shaking now. She couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think.

She backed into the corner, slid down the wall, pulled her knees into her chest.

The bracelet glinted softly under the bathroom light.

Mocking her.

Tethering her.

And she was supposed to hate him.

And she couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not even now.

So she stayed curled on the tile floor, shaking, alone, and waiting for the fire to go out.

And after a while—
after she stopped clawing at it,
after she let her hand fall limp in her lap,
after she left it alone—
the pain eased.

Not gone.
Just… dulled.
Tamed.

Like it had gotten what it wanted.

Emma exhaled shakily.

Her skin was dry. Her hair stuck to her face. She was seventeen and soaked through with something she didn’t have a name for.
And she didn’t cry.

She just closed her eyes.

And tried to forget how it felt to hear him whisper her name.

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not,” Molly said sharply, slamming her wand down onto the kitchen bench with a clatter that echoed through Shell Cottage. “We are not discussing this again. You’re going back to school, Ginny.”

“I’m not a child!” Ginny’s voice was hoarse with fury. “You’re asking me to sit in a castle while the rest of you fight a war.”

“That castle is still protected,” Molly snapped, eyes bright with fear beneath her frustration. “It’s safer than here.”

Ginny scoffed, throwing her hands in the air. “You cannot be serious. I can’t believe you want me to just go back! After everything? After what they’ve done to students—to Muggle-borns—you want me to sit there and pretend it’s all normal?”

“It’s not about pretending, Ginevra,” Molly said, each word bitten off like it hurt to say them. “It’s about surviving. If we don’t send you back, if we keep you here, we give them a reason to investigate. We can’t afford that.”

“I don’t care,” her daughter shouted. “I won’t be safe there! No one is! I can do more good here—”

“You’re sixteen!” Molly’s voice broke on the last syllable. “You are not going to be a martyr at sixteen.”

“No, but I’ll be a target,” Ginny replied bitterly. “And you’re sending me anyway. That’s what this is, isn’t it? A sacrifice with a smile on it.”

In the corner, Emma didn’t speak.

She sat on the edge of the hearth, elbows braced against her knees, jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ached. The heat from the fire licked at her shins, but she barely felt it. Her ears rang. Her wrist throbbed.

Ginny was right, and wrong, and everything in between.

Emma had never been given the choice to go back. Not as a Muggle-born. She’d been erased from the records before the term even started. Her existence scrubbed from the roll books like a smudge someone didn’t want to see.

It wasn’t about fairness. It was about blood.

She bit down harder.

Across the room, Molly looked exhausted. Her eyes, usually warm even in argument, were tight with worry. This wasn’t just about Ginny. This was about Percy. About Bill’s scars. About Fred and George slipping out too many nights without telling her where. About Ron, supposedly sick in bed with Spattergroit but really Merlin-knew-where with Harry bloody Potter.

It was about every one of her children being a target—and not having enough hands to shield them all.

“You think I want to send you there?” Molly said, quieter now. “You think I sleep at night thinking yes, this is fine? If we don’t send you, they’ll come for us. Someone is going to come knocking. And we’ll have no good reason for why you’re not there.”

Ginny’s voice wavered. “So we lie better.”

Molly’s face crumpled. “I’ve been lying every day for the last year.”

The door burst open behind them, letting in a slap of cold wind and seawater.

Kingsley stepped inside, dripping wet, boots heavy with sand and rain. His presence stilled the room like a charm. He swept his eyes across the chaos—Molly pale and shaking, Ginny red-faced, Tonks stiff-backed near the stairs, Emma silent and unmoving—and said only one thing.

“Tonks. I need a word.”

The purple hair girl blinked. “Me?”

He nodded. She hesitated, then followed him into the back room.

Molly and Ginny picked up exactly where they left off, words sharp and weary, guilt and love knotted so tightly together they couldn’t even tell them apart anymore.

Emma didn’t listen.

Her hands were clenched too tight to feel her fingertips. She stared at the fire, but all she could see was yesterday—the blood in the mud, the ring in her palm, the impossible sharpness of a spell she hadn’t known she could cast.

The room blurred.

She didn’t know how much time passed before Kingsley returned. But when he did, he didn’t speak to Molly. Or Ginny.

He looked straight at her.

“Ryan,” he said, calm and clear. “You’re with us.”

Everything stopped.

Her stomach dropped so fast she thought for a second she might throw up. The breath caught in her throat.

Ginny turned to stare. Molly’s lips parted, confused.

Emma didn’t look at them.

She stood.

And followed.

***
The back room was cooler, quieter. The sea thundered through the walls, crashing endlessly against the rocks below. Tonks leaned against the mantel, arms crossed. Kingsley stood near the old table they used for planning, already laying out parchment and markers.

No one sat.

“The contact sent word,” Kingsley said. “Tomorrow night. Just after dusk.”

Emma swallowed hard.

“You’ll meet them alone.”

Her voice barely worked. “Alone?”

“You’re the only one who can know their identity,” Kingsley replied. “Tonks will handle comms. She’ll be obliviated the moment it’s over.”

Emma blinked. “What?”

“In case she is compromised,” he said. “I can’t risk them extracting a name during torture. Tonks will only know a contact exists, and you and I will be the only ones who know their identity. That’s all.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

Emma’s mind raced. “But… what if I mess it up? What if they don’t show—what if I—”

“You won’t,” Kingsley said.

She didn’t believe him.

Her arms crossed, jaw tight. “You’re putting a lot on someone who can’t even sleep through the night.”
There was no humour in her voice, only the ghost of what might’ve once been sarcasm. She wasn’t looking at him — just the far wall, eyes sharp but unfocused, like she could think her way out of this if she stared hard enough.

“Why me?” she asked, quieter now. “I get there’s no one else. But I’m not… that person. I’m not the one you pick for something like this. I’m not the one you bet the war on. There’s too much riding on this. You can’t afford to be wrong.”

Kingsley didn’t flinch.

“I’m not,” he said. “You think I’d risk this if I wasn’t sure?”

He stepped closer, voice low but firm.

“They asked for you. Not a name. Not a title. You.”

That landed.
Emma swayed. Just slightly — just enough. The floor didn’t tilt, but her stomach did.

Her fingers curled into the pocket of her coat. The ring was still there. Small. Cold. Somehow impossibly heavy — like it had gained weight with every word.

And under her sleeve, the skin of her wrist prickled — a low, hot pulse that had nothing to do with temperature.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, her silence louder than her panic.

Then, finally — dry, brittle, because it was easier than saying I can’t do this:
“Suppose they didn’t make you leader for nothing.”

He unfurled a worn scroll, showing coded instructions and a rough location grid. “Here are your parameters. You secure the space. You say the passphrase first. Then you disarm them. If they’re who they claim to be, they’ll say the confirmation phrase.”

“And if they don’t?”

Kingsley didn’t blink. “Then you run.”

Emma’s mouth went dry.

“You don’t speak their name aloud. Not to Tonks. Not to Molly. Not even to yourself. Not in a dream. Not in a memory.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Emma looked at him—really looked. “Yes.”

He nodded once. “Where do you want the meeting to be?”

She didn’t hesitate. “My dad’s house.”

Tonks and Kingsley exchanged a glance. The air shifted.

“Are you sure you can be there?” Kingsley asked, more gently now. “That it won’t interfere?”

Her voice was steadier than it had any right to be. “I know that house better than anyone. I know the entry points, where to put the wards, where the cracks are. I can keep it secure.”

Kingsley studied her a moment longer. Then stepped back.

“We’ll draw up the plan.”

He turned to go. At the doorway, he paused. “This is riding on you, Emma.”

“I know.”'

“No pressure.”

She gave him a faint, crooked smile. “Wouldn’t be my life if there weren’t.”

Tonks didn’t move. She watched the map for a long time, then turned toward Emma.

“Just us now,” she said. “Are you sure?”

Emma didn’t answer right away. She walked to the window, arms folded tightly over her ribs. The sea was angry again. Wild and grey. It looked how she felt.

“This war,” she murmured. “Everything about it—I’ve just been reacting. Just… surviving.”

She swallowed.

“I never got to choose anything. Who I fight with. Where I go. Who I protect. Even when I had to obliviate him, it wasn’t a real choice. It was just… what had to be done.”
Her hands clenched at her sides.

“I’ve been shoved through every doorway like it was already open. Dragged into the Order. Pushed onto the front lines. Even being a spy keeper—it's not something I claimed. It’s something I was given.”

She turned back to Tonks. Her voice was cracking at the edges, but it didn’t break.

“If this is what we’re doing—if this is who I have to be—then I want something to be mine.”

The room was quiet. Just the fire. Just the sea.

Tonks didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then she nodded.

“Then let’s make it ready.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the world was still.

Ginny’s trunk stood by the door, her wand tucked into her boot, and her Gryffindor scarf half-draped over her shoulder like she couldn’t quite bring herself to wear it properly. The room smelled like tea and dust and ocean salt, and Emma kept waiting for someone to tell her this wasn’t happening. That she wasn’t losing another one.

First Pansy. Then Hermione. Now Ginny.

Three girls who'd carved out places in her chest and then vanished, one by one.

“Be safe,” Emma said, quiet.

Ginny’s smile faltered. “You too.”

They didn’t talk about the fact that Emma wasn’t going with her. That she was staying behind for something secret and terrible and bigger than either of them could name.

The blonde cleared her throat, “I’m serious. Don’t pull some dumb bloody stunt. Lay low.”

“Same goes. Don’t die on me now.”

She snorted. “Please. You trained me well.”

A beat.

And then they hugged. Really hugged. Arms tight. Breathing uneven. No clever words. Just one last moment where it didn’t feel like everything was slipping away.

Ginny whispered, “Come back to me, yeah?”

Emma whispered back, “Promise.”

And then she was gone.

The blonde’s hand dropped to her wrist.

The bracelet wasn’t burning. Not exactly. But it throbbed—low, steady. Like something was coming. Like something had already begun.

She pressed her thumb against it. Nothing changed.

Her stomach turned.

It wasn’t nerves. Not like the panic she'd drowned in when Theodore used to vanish without warning—silent, unreachable, cold.

This was worse.

She felt sick.

“Ready?” Tonks’ voice broke through the quiet behind her.

Emma didn’t turn. “As I’ll ever be.”

The ring marked T.N. sat snug on her finger, nestled against the snake ring Blaise and Pansy had given her on her birthday. That day felt like a hundred years ago. Another life. Another Emma.

She missed them.

***
They apparated straight onto the footpath outside her father’s house.

Emma staggered slightly as the ground re-formed beneath her feet, steadying herself with one hand on the brick fence. The smell hit her first—wet soil, rotting leaves, chimney smoke on the wind.

“We start with the south perimeter,” Tonks said, slipping straight into Auror mode. “Then Disillusionment. Then the internal wards.”

“Right,” Emma muttered, voice flat. She pulled her wand. Her fingers were trembling.

Not from fear. From knowing.

She masked it with sarcasm, because that always worked better than honesty. “Bit anticlimactic, isn’t it? Doom, sure, but I’d thought there be more sparkle.”

Tonks cracked a smile. “You get your sparkle when you make it out alive.”

They worked in silence after that. Ward by ward. Layer after layer.

Tonks conjured a Disillusionment field that shimmered blue before vanishing. Emma whispered perimeter charms, her voice steady even though her hands shook. They embedded trip wires around the back fence, runes that would collapse into a stasis bubble if crossed. Tonks added anti-Apparition spells, detection wards, alert triggers.

Every protective spell had to be carefully linked. If any part of the structure failed, the rest could backfire. It was complicated magic, and for a few minutes Emma forgot everything but the rhythm of it. Focused on the geometry of the wards like it might hold her together.

“Good,” Tonks murmured, double-checking the final rune anchor.

She glanced toward the house. “I set the trap so they’ll be funnelled into the study. It’s the only room with a clear path. There’s a false pressure trigger near the kitchen door, but it won’t trip unless they veer off course.”

Emma nodded.

“That room’s next to yours, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The purple haired girl pulled a package from her pocket. A portkey.

“Get to the study. Do the interaction. Use the protocol. If it feels off—anything—you leave, understand? Say the word and this takes you straight back to Shell Cottage.”

Emma took it, her fingers closing around the edge. Her hand still trembled.

“Hey.” Tonks’s voice softened. “I know this is big. But you’ve got this. You’re sharp, you're paranoid, and you're a hell of a liar.”

Emma huffed. “Wow, thanks.”

The older girl smirked. “And that’s exactly why you’ll survive. Trust your gut. It’s better than any spell.”

Emma didn’t trust anything anymore.

But she hugged her.

Tonks vanished moments later with a soft pop. And Emma was alone. Again.

***
It was hours later.

She lay in her old bed, staring at the ceiling.

The Oasis poster was peeling off the wall, just slightly in the corner. The Cranberries one beside it was still crooked from when she’d first stuck it up. The bookshelf was packed with Sherlock Holmes—all of them annotated in blue ink. Her faded pink quilt still smelled like old lavender detergent.

Her desk still sat under the window, a mix of old Hogwarts notes splayed over the top. It looked like a time capsule. Like Emma Ryan hadn’t grown up. Hadn’t joined a war. Hadn’t lost everything.
Above her, the string of Christmas lights blinked gently. Like they were trying to be comforting.

They weren’t.

The instructions had been clear: the meeting would happen just after dusk.

But it was well past 11:30 now.

Her bracelet still pulsed. Not with pain. Just presence. A reminder. A countdown.

She was crashing—deep down, where no one could see it.

All the cleverness and calculation in the world couldn’t stop the weight in her chest. Her breathing was steady, her face blank, her wand still close under her pillow. But her stomach twisted with every passing minute.

She’d built a hundred versions of this moment in her head. She’d prepared.

And still.

The ring on her finger hadn’t moved. Neither had the clock.

He was late.

Emma rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and curled her fingers into a fist.

It was almost funny, in a warped sort of way.

She was seventeen. She was supposed to be worrying about exams. About house points and detentions and who fancied who.

Instead she was lying in her childhood bedroom, warded into a war zone, waiting for a boy she wasn’t allowed to love.

A boy who’d broken everything.

Who might already be too far gone.

But who’d asked for her.

Not a title. Not a code name. Not even the Order.

Her.

And she hated herself for hoping that meant something.

Her thoughts were cut off by a pop.

Small. Precise. But it landed like a bomb.

Emma shot upright in bed, heart slamming into her throat.

The study.

She moved before her mind could catch up—legs swinging out from under her quilt, wand gripped tight. Her socked feet barely made a sound against the timber, except for the one traitorous floorboard that creaked beneath her heel. She winced. Froze. Waited.

The house held its breath.

Her bracelet softly hummed under her skin, a reminder. Not pain. Just presence. The door to the study was open a crack. Pale moonlight spilled in across the desk, the fireplace, the scuffed floorboards where her dad had once dropped a whisky bottle.

Wards lined every inch of the room—Tonks’ work. Trap spells. Protection enchantments. Magical trip wires hovering like spiderwebs in the air. There was only one way in.
Apparate. Land inside the perimeter. Don’t move.

And he hadn’t moved.

He stood straight, his back to her, head tilted slightly like he could hear her breathing. Weight balanced, planted, as though he’d braced for impact before he even arrived. Hands loose at his sides, but not careless. Every line of him suggested control—deliberate, practiced. The kind of stillness that didn’t come from calm, but from force.

But he didn’t turn.

Her stomach sank.

She lifted her hand on instinct, wand raised and aimed directly between his shoulders.

“What's my favourite colour?” she asked.

Her voice was steady. Cold, almost.

It echoed in the stillness.

Silence answered her first. One second. Two.

Then:
“Pink.”

Emma’s breath hitched.

It was his voice.

Merlin—it was him.

Rougher than she remembered. Deeper, maybe. Everything she had built up, months and months of forced hate, blew up in her face.

Her wand faltered. Only slightly. Her grip tightened again before it could fall.

She didn’t blink.

Still, he didn’t move.

“Take it off,” she said. Her voice cracked at the edges. She swallowed it down. Firmer now. “The mask. Take it off.”

He reached up, slowly, deliberately, and pulled it from his face.

She saw the edge of his profile first—sharper than before. Hair longer, messier. His shoulders were broader and squared like he was bracing for impact.

Then he turned.

And everything inside her dropped.

It was Theo.

Haunted. Gaunt. Eyes dark with exhaustion, like sleep was something he'd stopped believing in.

And he was more beautiful than she remembered.

The same boy who would only let her hold him. Who’d kissed her like he was already grieving it. Who’d lit up the Astronomy Tower for her.

The same boy who had helped build the Vanishing Cabinet.

The boy who’d left.

She stared at him—at his mouth, set tight; his jaw, clenched.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Her fingers shook. Her wand arm lowered. Her lips parted, but no words came.

He looked the same and nothing like she remembered.

Like war had worn him down to bone and silence.

And still, it was him.

She felt the tears building somewhere deep—but she held them down.

This wasn’t the time. It couldn’t be.

She wet her lips and tried to think of something to say. Anything.

Like Where have you been, why did you leave, why are you here now?

But all that spilled from her mouth was:

“Hi, Theodore.”

She said his name like it hurt.

And maybe it did. Maybe it always would.

But he didn’t flinch.

He just looked at her.

And for a single, unbearable moment, they stood in the wreckage of everything they used to be.

Chapter Text

She didn’t know what she expected.

Some reply. Some shift. A flicker of emotion, at least.

But he just stood there.

The mask dangled from his hand, silver glinting dull in the light, his fingers curled like he couldn’t quite unclench. His storm-grey eyes locked on hers—blank, Occluded, giving her nothing.

No warmth. No cruelty. No apology.

Just walls.

Her grip on her wand trembled. She’d promised Tonks. Promised Kingsley.
Disarm on sight. Don’t trust what you remember.

But the problem was, she remembered everything.

Her wand twitched.

His eyes dropped to the movement, then lifted back to hers.
Slowly—deliberately—he turned his wrist and let his wand fall.

It landed with a soft clack.

The sound hit her like a blow.

Still, she didn’t move.
Her pulse thundered in her throat, her knees, her fingertips. Her body begged her to run—to scream—to crumple.

But she stood.
Because she couldn’t believe he was here.
Because she couldn’t trust that he really was.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said at last. His voice was rough, like it had rusted from disuse.

Emma’s throat burned. She wanted to say something sharp. Something that would cut through him like he’d cut through her. But the words had gone stale in her mouth.

“You’re late,” she said finally.

He didn’t smile. “I waited for the all-clear.”

“From who?”

“Myself.”

He looked older—not just his face but his posture, like he’d forgotten how to stand without armour. The vulnerability she knew he possessed seemed absent, leaving sharp lines and sleepless shadows.

“Why now?” she asked.

“You know why.”

“No,” she snapped. “No, I don’t.”

Blue met storm-grey, unyielding.

Her wand twitched again. “You didn’t ask for Kingsley. Or Tonks. Or anyone else. You asked for me.”

“That was a mistake,” he muttered.

“You’re lying.”

“For your sake, yes.”

Her chest burned. She wanted to scream, to hex him, to drag him into the hell he’d left her in. Instead:
“You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m your handler.”

“Yes.”

“Then stop lying to me.”

That cracked something in his eyes. Just for a second. Then the walls slammed back.

Her voice cut sharp. “Good. Then explain this.”

She twisted the ring on her finger. His gaze snapped to it, like a moth to flame.

“You dropped it,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I told you to stop lying.”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smirk, more a ghost of it. “Always too clever.”

Her throat closed. She hated him for that. Hated herself more.

“This isn’t a game, Theodore.”

He didn’t argue. Just watched.

“The bracelet,” she said. “And the ring. They’re connected.”

His throat worked. But he nodded once.

“How?” she pressed.

“Old magic. Paired charm. They don’t send words or thoughts. Just… impressions. Heat. Pulls. Enough to know the other is alive.”

Her knees almost buckled.

“Since Christmas?”

“Yes.”

Her breath shuddered. All those nights—the warmth, the ache, the way she’d thought she was losing her mind—it had been real. Him.

“It burned last night,” she whispered. “Like fire. Like I was being torn apart.”

His eyes darkened. “Because the wards dropped. Too close. The magic reacted.”

She shook her head, fury surging to drown the ache. “You let me think I was going mad.”

“It was safer if you didn’t know.”

Her voice cracked, low and jagged: “You have no idea what you’ve put me through.”

The words hung between them, jagged and heavy. She wanted them to cut him, to land. But he only watched her, and that look—quiet, steady, far too human—tore through everything she’d built up against him. He wasn’t the mask, the Death Eater, the spy. He was just Theo, caught in a war neither of them had chosen.

Her throat ached. “You saved my life last night.”

His fingers spasmed. “You think I would’ve left you?”

Emma froze. The way he said it—like it wasn’t even a question—knocked the air out of her.

“You don’t get it,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I was on my own. I thought I was losing it, and you just…let me. You left me like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said finally, the words dragged out of him. “Not then.”

She let out a sharp, broken laugh. “That’s it? Your still saying the same fucking thing—you think that’s enough? You don’t get to show up and act like I still know who you are.”

His mouth tightened. “If you want me gone, say it. I’ll go.”

She should. She wanted to. The word was on the tip of her tongue—go. Leave. But instead, what came out was: “We’re not finished.”

“Tomorrow, then.” His brow twitched.

Her heart kicked hard. She hated that she nodded. Hated that she needed it. “Fine. You won’t vanish.”

“I won’t.”

She turned like she might leave—but her feet didn’t move. One thread still held.

His voice broke the quiet. “I’ll contact you; your bracelet will pulse three times. I won’t risk it unless I’m sure.”

Her hand drifted to the ring. It was warm—not burning, just alive. Tethered.

She turned back. He hadn’t moved. Still as stone.

Her gaze dropped. Slowly, she slid the ring off her finger.

His eyes flicked to it, sharp, but he didn’t reach.

So she stepped closer—close enough to see the stubble along his jaw, the scar cutting his cheek, the way he refused to flinch.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said, holding it out.

“I know.”

She pressed it into his hand anyway, closing his fingers around it.

“But I expect you to come back.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the ring now a promise clenched in his fist.

“Emma—”

“Don’t,” she said, and suddenly her voice was breaking. “Just live. That's all I’m asking.”

A pause. His hand didn’t loosen.

Then she stepped back, fingers brushing her wand.

The air warped with the shimmer of a Portkey charm—and in the space of a heartbeat, she was gone.

Back to Shell Cottage.

Back to war.