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Chapter Text

8 July 1994

Mafalda Hopkirk took a sip of her lukewarm coffee and leaned back in her battered office chair. The clock on the wall read six—almost time to leave—but summer was always her busiest season.

As the Ministry's lead official for underage sorcery, she knew what the school holidays meant: hundreds of magical children scattered across the country, many of them far too curious for their own good. The ones from Muggle families tended to be more cautious, but also more prone to accidents. And when you added visiting witches and wizards from abroad—dragging along their magically inclined offspring—the chaos quadrupled.

She rarely left before sundown this time of year.

Today alone, she'd sifted through hundreds of reports. Most were routine: accidental bursts of magic from children under thirteen (too young to be held accountable), vague incidents in Diagon Alley (impossible to trace), or harmless misfires by tourists whose travel documents had vanished somewhere between France and King's Cross.

But there was one report today that Mafalda was especially suspicious of.

It had arrived earlier that afternoon, back when her hair was still in its usual tight bun—long before the tension headache had forced her to undo it. She remembered sighing as the envelope landed softly on her desk, its dove-blue hue catching her eye. It was only the fifth of its kind she'd ever received.

Report envelopes came in different colors depending on their origin: white for domestic incidents, and a rainbow of shades for international ones. Each color represented a different country. Wizards and witches on vacation needed to contact the Ministry beforehand so violations against Decrees could quickly be reported back to their home countries.

Dove-blue, however, was new.

She'd first seen that shade about a week ago, and it had stuck with her ever since. She read the first letter half a dozen times, each reading leaving her with more questions than answers.

Unintentional use of the ‚Depulso' Spell 7:52 p.m., „Restaurant la Perla" 

4 Beachfront Street

St. Ives, Cornwall, 

Sorcerer: unknown 

Age: 13-17

She frowned, tapping her pen against the desk. At that age, unintentional magic was nearly unheard of. Thirteen-year-olds had wands. Training. Control. Children that old didn't misfire spells.

There'd been no time to investigate further. But when a second dove-blue letter arrived a few days later—reporting another magical incident in the same coastal town—her instincts kicked in.

St. Ives was a Muggle-heavy area. Witches and wizards didn't vacation there, and none were registered as residents. That meant this likely wasn't a tourist. And it certainly wasn't a coincidence.

There was one thing she was sure of: these dove-blue letters would keep her busy. And she was right—two new ones appeared a few days later, both on the same day.

Unintentional use of the ‚Accio' Spell  

04:16 p.m., Seashell Café, Pier 2

 St. Ives, Cornwall, 

Sorcerer: unknown

Age: 13-17

Two spells. Both unintentional. Both from a child who, by all Ministry standards, should have had full control by now.

She sat forward, chewing absently on her thumbnail—a bad habit she only gave in to when something gnawed at her mind.

Every magical child in Britain received their Hogwarts letter at thirteen. Without exception. Every single one had passed through its halls for the past fifty-two years. So how could a student with a wand—and magical instruction—still be casting spells unknowingly?

It didn't make sense.

It was time to investigate further. She decided to send off two junior agents from the field office to track down the child—which would be quite a difficult task. All incidents had taken place in public—one in the middle of the ocean—and no home or vacation address had been provided yet.

"Davon, Corel—for the love of Merlin, please wear something normal this time. We can't handle another article about suspiciously dressed men wandering around," Mafalda pleaded, eyeing the two young wizards standing in front of her.

The fourth letter had appeared just yesterday, and this time, Mafalda was finally on the lucky side.

Knowingly use of the ‚Accio' Spell 

09:16 p.m.

09:18 p.m.

11:07 p.m.

11:41 p.m.

11:42 p.m.

39 Cornish Street

 St. Ives, Cornwall 

Sorcerer: unknown

Age: 13-17

Five separate timestamps. The spell cast over and over again.

This was no longer accidental. Someone had discovered magic—and had started to play with it.

"Eric, dear, I need your help with something," Mafalda called out, poking her head into the Records and Muggle Liaison office.

Eric Collum was sitting behind his desk, black curls shining beneath the glow of the strange Muggle object he was staring at.

"It's called 'computer.' It's the Muggle version of magic," he'd once explained. "Except slower. And more likely to crash."

"I've got a location I need you to check," Mafalda said, holding up the letter.

Eric grinned and waved her inside. "Give me the address."

Moments later, he turned the screen toward her. "It's a Muggle home. Definitely not a vacation property. Looks like someone lives there full-time."

It was well past six now, when Mafalda opened the fifth letter—her final task of the day, and the one she'd purposely saved for last.

Flight on a Broomstick 

1:07 a.m., Barmaluz Beach

St. Ives, Cornwall, 

Sorcerer: unknown 

Age: 13-17

Mafalda spat the last mouthful of cold coffee onto her neat white blouse as she read the report in shock.

And then, finally, everything became clear.

It wasn't some tourist.

It was an English child who had unknowingly discovered their magic.

And they had already started using it.

Chapter Text

1 July 1994

"Lena, be ready in five—you know your mum hates being late," my father called from downstairs.

We were heading out for dinner at my parents' favorite Italian restaurant, but I wasn't sure I liked what I'd chosen to wear. My baby-blue dress felt too short. I must've grown since last summer, and it clung tighter than I remembered—especially around my thighs and stomach. The constant changes in my body weren't something I welcomed. Unlike other girls, who seemed to embrace every step toward adulthood, I mostly felt insecure about it.

"LENA, NOW!" my mum shouted, snapping me out of my spiral. I rushed downstairs.

My mum was beautiful. Silky brown hair, a warm smile that deepened the soft lines around her ocean-blue eyes, and a sense of fashion every girl envied.

"Are you ready to go? Is that the outfit you chose?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she pointed to my dress.

"I know it's a bit tight, but I didn't have time to change again," I muttered, slipping on my new white Chucks.

"Don't be silly, you look beautiful," she said sweetly—then gave a hard tug at the hem of my dress.

That's when I knew. It was too short for her liking. And, if I was honest, for mine too.

"Come on, girls—daddy needs pizza!" my dad called, already halfway to the car.

We stepped outside, and I took a deep breath of the fresh ocean breeze. Cornwall was beautiful all year round, but there was something extra special about summer. It buzzed with promise. I loved living in St. Ives—not that I had anything to compare it to—but I couldn't imagine a more perfect little town. Blue hydrangeas spilled through sun-bleached wooden fences. The cobbled streets shimmered from the sea air, and children squealed over ice cream cones at the beach. These were the things I loved most.

It was the first day of summer break, and I was looking forward to all the little joys ahead—beach picnics with Mona, crocheting in the hammock on our back porch, and kitesurfing on windy mornings. Not that I was the sporty type, but there was something about gliding across the water that made me feel free. As an overthinker, letting go didn't come naturally. But out on the ocean, just me and the gulls—that was my definition of happiness.

We were barely seated at Vincenzo's when he greeted us with his usual wide smile. My parents had known him for over two decades, which meant we always got the best table—tucked into the corner with a sweeping view of the ocean.

The restaurant was small, just ten round tables in total, strung with fairy lights and heavy with the scent of basil and garlic. We came here often. Mum didn't like cooking, and Dad—raised in a strict, traditional household—could barely fry an egg.

After we ordered—ham and corn pizza for Dad, seafood salad for Mum, and my usual broccoli mushroom pasta—my father gave Mum a quick look, then folded his hands in front of me.

"We need to talk about your future," he said, brows raised like it was a negotiation.

"You know your mum and I would love to see you follow in our footsteps and become a lawyer," he continued. "But the most secure option would be a job in court. It's safe, steady—not too stressful. Perfect for when you want children later on."

Mum smiled and placed a hand over his, glowing with approval.

"I talked to my friend Holly," she added, "and you've got an internship this summer—four weeks at the courthouse. Isn't that great? You'll learn so much. And if it goes well, they'll offer training after you graduate."

They both looked at me, proud of their little master plan.

It wasn't the first time we'd had this conversation. But this was the first time they'd taken action—without telling me.

The silence that followed was heavy. I tried to calm myself using the breathing technique Mona taught me, but it wasn't working.

"You both know I don't want to be a lawyer," I said as evenly as I could. "I don't want to work in court or any kind of office, either. I'm still figuring it out—but that's my decision. Getting me an internship without talking to me first is... bold, to put it nicely. I know you care. I appreciate that. But I'm asking you, again, not to plan my future for me."

I glanced between them. "I'll call Holly tomorrow, thank her, and let her know there was a miscommunication."

I stood, needing space, my pulse pounding in my ears—but before I could turn away, my father grabbed my wrist.

"How dare you speak to your mother like this?" he hissed.

"You should be grateful for everything we've done for you. Your mother stayed home for years just for your well-being—and this is how you repay us? Do you really think you can support yourself selling little crochet plushies or whatever you call them?"

His voice dropped, sharp as glass.

"Grow up, Lena. Be responsible. Stop daydreaming your life away. You will do this internship. We're not discussing it again."

Tears pricked at my eyes, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. This wasn't the first time a conversation had ended like this. But it felt worse than usual. Meaner. Final.

Was he right?

Was I ungrateful?

Was this all just some childish fantasy?

I pulled free from his grip and rushed toward the bathroom, nearly tripping over a potted plant I hadn't seen through blurry eyes.

Inside, I flicked on the light and stared at my reflection. Mascara smudged, cheeks flushed, hair falling from my braided headband. I looked like a mess, trapped in a life that felt more like a cage with floral wallpaper.

And then—I laughed.

Because what else do you do when your life feels like a joke?

I wiped my face, taking deep, slow breaths.

Just as I was about to head back, my mum appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, come on, honey," she said with a sigh. "Don't be so dramatic. We're only trying to help. You know that silly little crochet business of yours is pathetic, right?"

She grinned and held out her hand like she hadn't just stomped all over everything I loved.

In that moment, the calm I usually clung to shattered. I was fuming—my head pounding, my vision blurring with angry tears. Something inside me snapped. I opened my mouth to scream, but before I could get a word out, the heavy wooden bathroom door slammed shut with a deafening bang.

I froze. So did she.

My headache was gone. My chest still heaved with breath, but everything else was... still.

I blinked.

Mum hadn't been anywhere near the door.

I stood there, stunned, listening to the sharp click of her stilettos as she stormed away.

Something had changed. I didn't know what. But I knew I needed to get out of here.

With my takeaway pasta in one hand and my mobile in the other, I walked out of the restaurant without looking back. My parents didn't even notice. And I wasn't in the mood for another argument. I already knew—no matter what I said, they'd never change their minds.

Mona picked up after the first ring.

"Emergency sleepover," I said, breathless. "I'm on my way."

Then my phone died.

Typical. I'd charged it weeks ago, but besides the occasional call or playing Snake, it barely had a purpose.

The first photo of me and Mona was taken fourteen years ago—two toddlers with chubby cheeks and matching hair clips, holding hands at the beach. Our parents had been friends since high school, but when Mona's mum divorced her disrespectful husband a few years back, mine decided they were no longer "proper company."

To their dismay, Mona and I only grew closer.

She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever met—beach-blonde hair, full lips, the kind of effortless beauty people wrote songs about. But she was also full of the filthiest jokes I'd ever heard, and her laugh sounded like a grunting piglet. She was perfect.

"Hello, babyyyy!" Mona squealed as she threw open the door, spotting me at the bottom of the stairs to their tiny pink-and-white Cornish cottage. They'd moved in two years ago, and we'd been inseparable ever since.

Inside, her mum and little brother were curled up on the sofa, munching crisps and watching TV.

"What happened, love?" Martina asked, eyes wide with concern as she patted the space next to her. She was everything my mum wasn't—funny, open-minded, and kind. She was like a second mother to me. Honestly, more like the first.

I sat down beside her and grabbed a handful of crisps. "It's a long story," I sighed, launching into the whole dinner debacle—everything except the slamming door. Not because I meant to hide it. I just... didn't know what to make of it yet.

After dinner and a hot shower, I faced a new problem: I had nothing to wear.

In my rush to escape, I'd forgotten to go back home and pack a few things to stay the night. And now, with my parents already home, there was no way to sneak back in without another confrontation.

Mona's clothes didn't fit me—they were tighter in all the places I felt most insecure. So, when I finally curled up on the spare mattress she used as a couch, wrapped in a patchwork blanket and buried in pillows, I was wearing her twelve-year-old brother's boxer shorts and a faded soccer jersey.

Stunning.

We stayed up far too late, laughing until our stomachs hurt. And for the first time in days, I woke up feeling... almost at peace. Still unsure about what to do next, but that was a problem for future Lena.

My parents had left on a work trip together—something they often did since Mum was back in the office—so I had some time to breathe. I decided not to call Holly. Letting the "internship opportunity" sit unanswered. 

If Mum got a call about me declining, she'd be furious, and I don't want to risk her coming home early. 

At least it might buy me a few peaceful days.

"Come on, girl. Let's get breakfast and coffee—I want a beach walk," Mona said, practically bouncing.

One of our favorite rituals was trying out every bakery, bistro, and food truck in town. St. Ives, being a magnet for holidaymakers, was always full of new flavors. A different restaurant popped up every other week.

We went for buttery croissants and overly sweet coffee with too much milk and sugar. Exactly what our sleep-deprived bodies needed.

By the time I got home in the afternoon, the only thing better than that custard-filled croissant was having the whole house to myself. My parents had left a note: Back in four days. £50 for groceries or pizza.

I loved being alone. Cooking without being lectured about being vegetarian. Watching movies on our mustard-yellow sofa. Falling asleep in the garden without someone asking what time I planned to be productive. From the outside, our house was typical for this area—white walls, wooden shutters, wildflowers bursting from the garden, and a violet door I'd painted myself. Since my parents were gone so often, they'd mostly let me decorate the place how I wanted.

I spent the afternoon grocery shopping, then started on dinner. Mona was at a summer party thrown by one of our classmates. I hadn't been invited—not anymore. I never went, so eventually, they stopped asking. I didn't mind. No fake excuses needed.

After dinner, I went through my yarn stash and decided to crochet a new keychain. My old one was falling apart, and making a new one was a perfect pre-bedtime project. I settled into my squeaky hammock, soft music playing in the background, hands moving automatically as I worked. My grandma had taught me to crochet when I was little, and over the past year, I'd started selling my creations. Enough to quit my weekend job at the local nursery. Enough to start saving for an apartment of my own.

That night, I skipped the movie I'd planned and went to bed early. I wanted to be the first on the beach in the morning—just me and the waves.

The weather was almost perfect when I got up at 5 a.m. the next day. That little crystal my mum gave me years ago, hanging in my window, caught the sunlight and scattered colorful rainbows across my pastel yellow walls and light pink bedding. My room was filled with plants, books, and yarn. It could've easily belonged to a sweet 86-year-old grandma who baked cookies for the neighborhood. But that was far from reality. I only baked cookies for myself.

Getting ready took longer than it should've. I was not a morning person, and 5 a.m. was, in hindsight, a terrible idea. But eventually, I wriggled into my wetsuit and dragged myself outside.

Our house sat opposite a little beach that was never crowded—popular with locals and kitesurfers, but usually quiet. The sun and wind were perfect this morning, though the wind was already stronger than usual. Maybe too strong. Still, I couldn't resist.

The water was freezing, like always. Even in the height of summer, Cornwall's sea never really warmed up. But once my kite caught the wind and pulled me off the beach, I felt it—that lightness. That rush. That freedom.

Everything shrank behind me: the shore, the town, my worries. I was just a speck on the ocean, gliding fast and weightless, gulls crying overhead like wild laughter.

After about an hour of riding and a few little jumps, I felt it—fatigue creeping in. My arms ached. My legs shook. It was time to head back.

But then I looked around.

I was farther out than I'd meant to be.

Much farther.

The wind had picked up. The sun was gone, swallowed by heavy grey clouds. My heart thudded in my chest. I tried adjusting the kite to carry me back toward shore, but it fought me. The wind wasn't just strong anymore—it was vicious.

My ears stung from the speed and salt. The waves crashed harder. The gulls circled and cried, and I could've sworn they were laughing at me.

Then—another sound. A sharp crack, louder than the wind.

Something hard hit my face.

And in the blink of an eye, I realized what had happened.

My carabiner had snapped.

My kite was gone.

Chapter Text

My carabiner had snapped.

My kite was gone.
__________________________________

Adrenaline surged through my veins, but no matter how I angled the board, I couldn't find a way back to shore. The waves were too wild, too forceful, and without my kite, I wasn't really surfing—I was drifting.

In a matter of seconds, panic gripped my chest like a vice.

I somehow managed to stay upright on my board and shut my eyes, forcing myself to breathe deeply. I wasn't ready to drown—but if water was going to fill my lungs, I wanted a few more breaths of ocean air before it did.

And then—
A strange calmness washed over me. Deep and welcoming.

And something cold and metallic landed in my hands.

Before I could even process it, my board lurched forward. The wind caught again. The kite—my kite—was suddenly pulling me toward the beach.

I didn't have time to wonder how it got back. I was too focused on staying alive, my hands tightening around the handle as the shoreline grew clearer. Joggers. Early bakery lights. The promise of a warm house.

The moment my feet hit sand, I collapsed backward, gasping. My whole body trembled. My muscles were burning, my fingers numb from the cold. But I was alive.

After a few minutes, I dragged myself to my feet and stumbled home. Every muscle was burning, my feet and hands feeling numb from the cold wind they were exposed to.
I tossed my gear onto the dew-covered lawn.

I kicked off my wetsuit the second I stepped inside and jumped under the hot shower, shivering as the warmth hit my frozen skin. While the water ran over me, I let the bathtub fill beside me.

Once I could feel my fingers again, I wrapped myself in a dark green towel and padded to the kitchen to make a big mug of apple cinnamon tea. I lit a sage and pine candle and then, finally, I sank into the steaming bath, kneading the ache from my sore muscles and letting the heat bring life back into my limbs.

What had just happened?

My carabiner had broken. The kite was gone. And then... it was back. In my hands. Just in time.
And that strange calmness I'd felt right before it returned—like something had shifted inside me.

I spent the next few hours trying to explain it away. I was lucky. The wind agreed to help me out. I blacked out. Something, anything. Eventually, I told myself I had to let it go. There was no logical answer, and I wasn't about to invent one.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, the slamming door and the lost kite were connected.

To distract myself, I spent the afternoon wandering through town, trying to find a new summer dress. After trying on several that either clung in the wrong places or made me look twelve, I finally found it—cream white, soft flower print, ruffles everywhere. It felt like the kind of dress you'd wear on a day that changes your life. Dramatic? Maybe. But I was having a week.

To celebrate my survival, I treated myself to a cold Coke at the Seashell Café. It sat right on the pier, with faded blue wooden walls and massive flowerpots spilling over with lavender and geraniums. And, of course, my best friend was behind the counter.

Mona had started working there a few weeks ago. Being the wildly outgoing person she was, it suited her perfectly—chatting with tourists, charming the locals, secretly judging anyone who ordered tea without milk and no cake. She wanted to be a journalist someday, and I had no doubt she'd get there—armed with gossip, lipstick, and a terrifying level of determination.

It was almost closing time, and only a few tables were still taken: a couple holding hands, Marc (who was always there), and four grandmas deeply focused on their game of Whist.

Mona stood behind the bar with her back to me, lining up drinks on a tray.

Perfect.

I tiptoed over, grinning.

"BOO!" I whisper-shouted, grabbing her shoulders.

She yelped, jumping so hard she knocked over a bottle of lemonade just as she reached for it.

I let go of her shoulders and reached out, trying to catch it—but I was too late. The big glass bottle was already falling, seconds from exploding into a thousand sticky shards on the old stone floor. I braced for the crash, hands halfway to my ears—when suddenly, something cold and slightly wet landed in my palm.

Mona stared at me, wide-eyed.
"How on earth did you catch that?"

"I... don't know," I said, equally stunned. "I thought it was going to smash—I didn't even feel it. My reaction time must be peaking."

"You should've caught it," I added quickly. "You're the younger one."

"By five months, not five years, Lena," she said, rolling her eyes and swiping the bottle from my hand.

"We're closing in fifteen minutes," she said, grabbing a rag to clean up the splash on the counter. "Let's grab sandwiches and eat by the beach. And for scaring me? You owe me a movie night. They're showing Bad Girls at the cinema."

"Fine, but you're buying the popcorn this time," I grinned, collapsing into my favorite armchair by the café's big front window.

I sipped my Coke, watching little kids build sandcastles on the beach, surfers catching late waves, and the occasional dog zooming after a tennis ball.

And then it hit me.

The kite.
The bottle.
Both had ended up in my hands. Both had been too far, too fast. Both had felt... impossible.

I peeled at the label on my Coke bottle, deep in thought, when Mona dropped into the chair across from me.

"Why the long face?" she asked. "We can skip the movie if you're not up for it."

I hesitated, then told her what happened that morning—every second of the ocean, the missing kite, the rescue that shouldn't have been possible.

By the time I finished, my shoulders were tight again, the headache creeping back.

"You almost died and didn't even think to call me?" Mona said, scandalized.

"Sorry," I said dryly. "Next time I'll call you from the middle of the ocean to say goodbye and that you can keep the lipstick I lent you months ago."

She stared at me. I stuck out my tongue. She stuck out hers further. Naturally.

After a quick stop for ice cream—strawberry for Mona, chocolate for me—we ditched the movie theater idea and decided to watch something at home instead. We also ordered a pizza, obviously.

Choosing a movie was its own form of battle. Mona loved rom-coms and anything with happy endings. I preferred horror. Not that I was brave—I wasn't. At all. I once called Mona in the middle of the night after watching IT, convinced Pennywise was hiding under my bed.

Still, I'd rather be scared out of my mind than reminded of my utterly non-existent love life. I'd never been on a date, never held hands, never even kissed anyone during spin the bottle.

Last year, when we both turned seventeen, Mona made us promise we'd get our first kisses before we turned eighteen. Her birthday was in April. She kissed Jonah Bloom a week later. My 18th birthday was in a few weeks. So far... nothing.

I wasn't the kind of girl boys my age liked. Not outgoing, not overly confident. Just a little weird. I stuck to the people who made me feel safe, and that circle was small—and exactly how I liked it.

In the end, we watched Frank Farmer fall in love with pop icon Rachel Marron. It was the perfect movie for both of us, and we were happily curled up on the sofa, eating our mushroom pizza.

Mona couldn't stay the night—she had the early shift at the café—so she left a little after eleven. I took a long hot shower, changed into an oversized t-shirt, and crawled into bed.
-

It rarely rained in Cornwall this time of year, but that morning, I woke to the soft sound of raindrops tapping against my skylight. I loved the rain—and the cozy promise of a slow, quiet day inside.

I had a few orders waiting to be finished, and what better way to spend my last day home alone than baking cookies and crocheting?

By late afternoon, I'd drifted off for a quick nap in my hammock under the porch roof. When I woke up, there was only one commission to be finished. After embroidering "Marie" on the little bunny I'd crocheted, I packed away my yarn and needles, then headed to the kitchen to make some dinner—munching on the last chocolate chip cookie while I cooked.

I curled up in the window seat with a blanket, a bowl of hot peach pasta and music playing softly in the background, watching the sun sink below the horizon. Everything glowed gold.

And then I laughed.

Two men walked past the beach—one in a full suit with a neon yellow rubber duck ring around his waist, the other rummaging through his overly long cape worn over a floral swimsuit.

Tourists. Absolute icons.

God, I loved this town

-

I woke up feeling restless the next morning. My parents were coming home later that day, and I really wasn't in the mood to face them yet. I rolled around in bed, still sore from kitesurfing, and groaned. My water bottle was across the room on the window seat, and I was way too lazy to get up.

Half-joking, I reached out my hand, hoping it would magically appear. And to my utter shock:
It did.

The bottle floated.

Not rolled.
Not tipped.
Floated.
Straight into my hand.

"What the hell—" I yelped, sitting up so fast my blanket flew off the bed.

I blinked. Then slowly, like I was testing the edge of a nightmare, I reached out again. This time toward a ball of yarn sitting on my desk.

It lifted off the surface and floated gently over to me.

I froze.

Tried to breathe.

Tried to not have a full breakdown.

Okay. Okay.
I was dreaming.
This had to be a dream.

I lay back down immediately, pulled the blanket over my head, and shut my eyes.

Any minute now, I'd wake up for real.

It was almost 11 when I yawned and glanced at the little alarm clock on my wooden nightstand. Phew. It really had just been a dream. I pulled the blanket over my head and let out a relieved laugh, a bit embarrassed that I'd actually believed it was real—even for a few seconds.

A cloudless, sunny day was waiting for me when I finally made my way downstairs to make breakfast. I grabbed a frying pan, cracked some eggs, and whisked them together with salt and chopped chives while a piece of butter melted in the pan.
I reached for the tomatoes across the counter—and without thinking, I extended my hand.

The tomatoes floated.

My hand stopped in midair.

They hovered lazily over, dropped onto the counter like nothing was weird at all.

Okay.
Maybe not a dream.

Maybe I was losing it.

I must've been too stressed after everything that had happened lately. That had to be it.

I ate my omelette with some buttered toast, the tomatoes still sitting where they'd landed, and tried to make sense of it all. But honestly, I couldn't taste anything—just the metallic weight of fear sitting on my tongue.

I thought about calling Mona, laughing it off with her like we always did.
But something held me back.

Because what if... it was real?

And with that terrifying thought in my head, I made a decision.

Sitting cross-legged on the fluffy carpet in the living room, I took a deep breath and tried to focus. My heart was racing, but I needed to know if this was real. If I'd actually lost it—or if something had changed.

I closed my eyes and reached out my hand again.
This time, toward a small flowerpot on the windowsill.

It floated to me without hesitation.

Okay.
Deep breath.

Next, I pointed to the little wooden fish I'd made in primary school—the one hanging slightly crooked on the mint-painted kitchen wall.
It lifted off its hook and slowly drifted into my hand.

I froze. Completely still.
Then I burst into tears.

Not little, soft tears—full-body, ugly cry tears. The kind that came from total confusion and gut-deep fear.

I couldn't talk to anyone. They'd think I was insane, or worse, I'd end up in some government lab like one of those sci-fi movies where the girl starts glowing and never sees daylight again.

Okay, maybe I was spiraling.

But how was I supposed to react when objects started floating across the room on command?

So, I decided to distract myself the best way I knew how.

I headed into the garden.

My kite and board were still lying in the grass where I'd left them. I crouched down to inspect the carabiner more closely, and that's when I saw it—completely rusted through. No wonder it snapped. It must've been from last winter, buried in the garden shed and forgotten.

How did I not see or feel this yesterday? It must've been the early hour that nearly cost me my life. The early bird was trying to kill me.

I started putting my gear away, but when I opened the shed and saw all the garden tools lined up neatly along the wall... an idea hit me.

A very stupid idea.

I shook my head and laughed it off, walking back toward the house.
But it stayed with me.

What if it actually worked?

I knew my parents wouldn't be home for a few more hours. If I was going to do something this ridiculous, now was the time.

"Lena, dear! Haven't seen you in forever," Marlen beamed, waving at me from behind a row of flowerpots.
She owned Beach & Bloom, the plant shop where I'd worked part-time, and she was basically a sweet, gardening goddess with excellent tea and even better gossip.

"How's the crochet business going?"

"It's great! Sorry I haven't been by—school, orders, general chaos..." I smiled and gave her a quick hug.

"I've got a customer picking up a flower arrangement soon," she said, brushing a grey curl behind her ear. "But fancy a cup of tea after?"

I hesitated, torn. "I'd love that, but I'm kind of in a rush today. Next week?"

She smiled warmly. "Of course, sweetheart."

I felt a tiny bit guilty walking away from her, but I was on a mission. A potentially insane one.

The wooden broom section was tucked between watering cans and novelty planters. Most of them were way too expensive for what I had in mind—£34.99 for a broom, seriously? But then I spotted it.
Red plastic, stiff black bristles, £12.99. Absolutely hideous. Absolutely perfect.

I paid in cash and practically sprinted home, not even stopping to enjoy the streets I usually loved. The second I got through the garden gate, I stashed the broom behind the shed. Just as I was heading inside, I heard the sound of a car in the driveway.

Perfect timing.

I grabbed the closest book I could find, flopped onto the sofa, and tried to look deeply engrossed in a paragraph about... something. The front door creaked open.

"Hello," my mum said flatly, not even glancing at me.

The air was thick with tension. They didn't yell. That would've been easier. Instead, I got the silent treatment. Their favorite punishment.

Fine by me.

I waited until they were upstairs, distracted and tired from travel, then grabbed the leftover pizza from two days ago and took it back to my room. I didn't plan on coming out again until they were fast asleep.

With every hour passing by and the sun hiding beneath the horizon, I got more and more nervous.
It was after midnight when I finally felt safe enough to leave my room, tiptoeing down the creaking staircase, trying not to wake my parents.

I'd never sneaked out at night before, and I can't hide that I found it quite thrilling to quietly lean up against them.

It must've looked ridiculous—a teenage girl in a giant knitted sweater, holding a cheap plastic broom and sneaking down to the beach in the middle of the night.

Snickering at the absolute stupidness of my mission, I reached my destination—a small cove surrounded by cliffs.

I had never been to the beach at night before, and I couldn't help but wonder why I'd been holding back on so many amazing things.

The sea was calm, and strangely, so were my nerves.

It wouldn't work anyway, that much I was sure of—so why worry in the first place?

But still—I laid the broom in front of me, took a deep breath, and reached out my hand.

It floated up to meet me.

No hesitation. I wasn't surprised about that part.

I straddled it awkwardly and slowly sat down. It wobbled, but held. My feet dangled just above the sand, and I let out a nervous laugh—half terror, half joy.

"This can't be real," I whispered. "It can't."

But it was.

I leaned forward and kicked off the ground, managing to hover about a meter in the air. The breeze tugged at my sweater, the salt air filled my lungs, and I grinned like an idiot.

While leaning forward, I managed to safely make it back to the ground.

Again.

This time, I wanted to actually fly—but after several attempts, I still wasn't sure how to move the broom forward. I ended up bouncing up and down along the beach, the broom lurching a few feet before sinking again. I couldn't gain any height either—every time I leaned back, I just slipped right off.

After a couple of hours of trying, I finally collapsed onto the sand—frustrated, a little sore, but smiling.

I still had no idea what was happening to me.

But so far?

I was really enjoying it.

Chapter Text

"Albus," a grey-haired woman sighed.
"I'm afraid I must disagree this time," she said, laying a hand on the violet velvet sleeve of the man standing in front of her.

"We must let things unfold, Minerva," he replied gently, pacing around his circular, book-covered office. Occasionally, he reached out to pet the flaming red bird perched nearby. "It's not for us to decide her path."

"She'll be in great danger her entire life," Minerva said, worry tightening her voice.
"You've heard the rumors—Voldemort hiding, plotting his return. Hate crimes against Muggles rising again. What do you think his followers will do if they hear about a Muggle-born girl with no magical lineage suddenly developing powers?"

She frowned. "It's their deepest fear, Albus—Muggles. They'll see her as a threat. They'll panic that she could infect others. She'll live as Potter does—under constant risk. Do you really want to place that burden on another innocent child?"

"I'm afraid this is my final decision," Dumbledore said firmly. He raised his wand to his temple, drew out a shimmering thread of memory, and guided it into a small, opulent glass vial.

For a moment, silence hung between them.

"We will protect her," he said at last. "From every force that means her harm—until she is well enough trained to protect herself."

Minerva's lips pressed into a thin line. She still believed it would be kinder to alter the girl's memory—to let her live a carefree, ordinary Muggle life.

"She needs someone she can trust," she said at last. "People who can help her make sense of this. It will be a shock—and we don't have long. Until Hogwarts reopens, we'll have to teach her everything we can. But Albus..." she sighed. "I'm afraid she won't be skilled enough to convince anyone she's a transfer from Ilvermorny."

"We'll settle that in time," he said, slipping a liquorice pastille into his mouth. "For now, she needs only one thing."

He smiled, eyes twinkling faintly.

"A safe place to grow."

"And I know exactly where to send her."

Chapter Text

Still absolutely mesmerized by what happened last night, I woke up pretty late this morning. The sun was almost rising when I got home, leaving my broom at the beach, hidden behind some big rocks. 

I planned on going back that night, figuring out how to properly fly. 

Wildly smiling I arrived in the kitchen, brewing myself a big cup of overly sweetened coffee. My parents had  left for work which gave me the opportunity to test out my newly gained skills.

Not only was I now able to summon things from as far as the garden, I was also able to let things fly away from me. 

Mona was coming over for dinner that night, hoping my parents wouldn't try to get back to the conversation we had last week, I spent the day harvesting vegetables from our garden, carefully relocating tiny snails that tried to eat my salad, getting some missing ingredients from the little farmer's market and delivering my finished crochet orders.

I was standing in the kitchen, listening to some indie music while wearing my cute new dress and preparing dinner. Relieved that my parents still weren't talking to me, I chopped up some grapes to add to the goat cheese salad I planned to serve. 

Mum and dad were setting the table on our patio when the doorbell rang. Excited that Mona had arrived early, I sprinted to the door, opening it in a hurry. 

But it was not Mona I was looking at. 

In front of me, calmly standing under branches of  purple wisteria, was an amused smiling man. 

I could barely see his face, was it covered from long white hair that merged into his even longer beard. 

It took me a couple of seconds before I could say something, distracted by his long light blue robe, that was tightened with a thick golden cord, opulent rings and halfmoon shaped glasses.

„Hello sir", I said with a steady voice.

„We're not religious and aren't looking to talk about god, nor interested in joining some sort of cult or commune." I slowly closed the door, smiling at him apologetic.

„Miss May, I am Professor Albus Dumbledore and I want to talk about the remarkable magical abilities you discovered a few days ago", he snickered, obviously amused about my assumption of him being a cult leader.

Breathe.

„I don't know what you're talking about Mister Dumbledore and I'd prefer not to carry this conversation any further." I closed the door. 

My heart was pounding and I was surprised about myself for playing it cool, was I normally someone that couldn't hide their emotions. I never needed one of those mood rings. I had my face.

After nervously waiting for a few moments, I checked through the peephole, relieved to see that he was gone.

Mona was already there, had she used the garden entrance, when I made my way through the kitchen, grabbing my finished salad on the way out. There was no time to think about the encounter now so I tried to calm my nerves to get through this evening as fast as possible.

After two hours of casual smalltalk between my parents and Mona and silence between me and my parents, I excused myself, pretending to have a stomach flu, making sure that nobody would come to check on me. I threw an apologizing look at Mona and promised to text her later. 

Running to my bedroom, taking two steps at once, I collapsed on the floor, letting out all emotions I held back. 

The government was behind me, I knew it. 

And I'll spend the rest of my life in a lab, where they'll experiment on me. My mind was racing between wanting to pack a suitcase and try to fly away on my plastic broom and telling my parents in hope they'll protect me. 

It took me a few moments to realize tiny little tapping noises through my sobs.

When I turned my head to see what causes them, I jumped at the sight of two big orange eyes looking at me through my window. 

I have never seen an owl in St. Ives and for sure not one with a massive letter in its beak.

Opening my window, being sure it'll instantly fly away, I managed to catch the letter it let go before shaking it's brownish feathers and taking off. 

                                
Ms. Lena May

Pastel Bedroom, 1st floor
39 Cornish Street
St Ives, Cornwall

Sealed with a red wax stamp, the letter looked almost antique. I hesitated for a moment, took some deep breaths and opened the yellowish envelope eagerly.

Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardy

Dear Ms. May

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on 1 September.

Please have all your personal belongings packed by tomorrow, 3 pm. 

Fnd enclosed a list of all necessary equipment.

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

I laughed hysterically when I found yet another, smaller piece of parchment behind the list of absurd things to supply. 

Miss May,  

unfortunately I was unable to deliver this letter in person. While your interpretation of my request was both unique and refreshing, there remains much that we need to discuss. 

I will be awaiting you at the beach at 2 pm tomorrow. 

In the meantime, I kindly ask that you refrain from wandering, attempting to fly, or using magic.

Albus Dumbledore 

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 

Enjoying a hot bubble bath, inhaling the lavender scent, I was sure about one thing. The government wasn't behind me after all.

Hours of thinking later, there were only a few possibility's left. 

It was either part of a new prank show they came up with, cameras hidden all over my place and strings attached to objects.

Or it was real.

To make sure that I wasn't the victim of a stupid prank show, I closed my eyes and only thought about the little bottle of vanilla essential oil in the cupboard next to my nightstand instead of reaching my hand out for it, so that the cameras knew what I wanted. 

A small plop and a tiny plastic bottle falling in my lap later, I was sure that it can't be a tv production. 

That left only one option. 

I was a freaking witch!!!

Or mental.

I awoke early next morning after a restless night full of anxiety and excitement. Glad my parents were at work as always, I started packing without knowing what I would pack for. 

‚All personal belongings' it said, so I assumed to be gone for a while. Maybe Hogwarts was some kind of boarding school where I would only be home during school breaks. 

But if term starts in September, why would I need to have everything ready today? 

There were only 2 hours left to speculate after I put everything I needed in two old Suitcases I found in the attic. 

Way too nervous to eat, I packed myself an apple and some water to head out to the beach early. I wanted to enjoy the potentially last hours here by crocheting at my favorite spot. I knew I'd miss everything terribly.  My garden, long strolls by the sea, even my parents. But most of all: Mona

Thinking back and forth about calling her, I decided to text her, saying I didn't feel better. I felt bad for lying, but I didn't want her to be involved in something I wasn't sure she'd be comfortable with. 

„I personally enjoy knitting more than crocheting,  but as I get older, I sometimes get confused by all the different needles while making socks", a snickering voice said, sitting down at my blanket next to me. 

Professor Dumbledore opened a small box of lemon drops, took two, and offered me some, which I happily accepted. They were incredibly sour, and he grinned at me, seeing my furrowed eyebrows. 

„It seems you have a penchant for bending the rules, doesn't it..." referring to my use of magic he asked me to cease. 

„I wanted to make sure that this is all real and no tv production with strings attached to everything", i said sheepishly shrugging my shoulders.

„... and truly one of a kind", he finished his sentence, looking at me encouragingly. 

„You are undoubtedly wondering, Miss May, what is happening to you. And, to be entirely honest, both the Ministry of Magic and I are equally uncertain. It is a rare, indeed unique occurrence, when a Muggle suddenly manifests magical powers and we have yet to uncover the reason behind it. However, that is a matter you need not concern yourself with. What is utmost importance now is for you to contemplate the possibility of embracing a life within the wizarding world. Should you choose this path, be prepared to face trials and challenges that will not only shape you but also guide you in discovering your true place within this realm."

It took a moment for me to process. I'd never heard the word ‚Muggle' but from the context he must have been referring to non-magic people. 

„What if I decide against it, Professor?", I swallowed hard.

„Well, should you continue the Muggle life you've known, I shall ensure that all memory of our conversation, as well as the events of the past week fades from your mind. But I must ask, wouldn't that be an incredible missed opportunity, like turning down an adventure simply because it's a bit too.... magical?", he smirked, putting another handful of lemon drops in his mouth. 

„School starts in 6 weeks, am I staying here till then?" I nervously asked, trying to add some single crochets to my row, keeping my hands busy.

„You will leave with me today. I see in your face that you've already made your decision, though I am certain there are questions lingering - those will have to wait.  Come, there's only one last thing to be done before you can go on your way." he said, calmly getting up, shaking the sand off of his velvet grey robe.

I gulped, thinking about what was about to unfold.

It was a quiet march back to our house, with Dumbledore allowing me to gather my thoughts. 

I tried to soak in everything I could. The salty air tickling my nose, the smell of fresh bread from Adriana's bakery. Tears were welling up in my eyes but I needed to be strong for a bit longer, have I always dreamed of breaking free from my parents planned through future. 

When we entered my beautiful flower sprinkled garden a prickling sensation rushed through my body. I was never enjoying fights with my parents but seeing their faces, realizing their daughter was a witch, made me snicker. 

There was no need to imagine;  they had already been home, unusually early. 

„Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. May, my name is Albus Dumbledore." Professor Dumbledore said, with a calm look on his face, folding his hands in front of him. 

My father, a tall man with a receding hairline, turned around, a glass of wine in his hand, to see who this uninvited guest was, while grabbing my mom's hand as if they were about to be attacked. He opened his mouth to say something when Dumbledore raised his hand to signal that it was not on him to speak.

„I must admit this is a rather unusual conversation to have, but one that I believe will be of great importance to your family. It seems that your daughter, Lena, has come into a most extraordinary gift - she is a witch."

My father immediately burst out laughing. 

„Where have you found this circus clown, Lena?" he asked, pointing up and down at Dumbledore.

„I thought you'd come up with another excuse for not wanting to take responsibility for your future,  but having an actor tell us this absurdity is pathetic, even for you." 

Not recognizing myself, I smiled devilishly  at him, reaching out my hand to take a sip from his wineglass that escaped his grip to float over to me. 

„If you say so."

Yes, there it was - the horror on my parents' faces.  

Dumbledore took the change to try to lift the spirits.

„I understand this may be overwhelming, but rest assured, she will be safe. We will help her navigate this new world, and though there will be challenges, she is not alone", he reassured.

„Now, with this newfound knowledge of her abilities, it is time for Lena to take her first steps into the world of magic. She will be joining us at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where she will receive the guidance and education she needs to fully understand and harness her gift. It is a place of great wonder, and while it may seem daunting at first, I have no doubt she will thrive", Dumbledore said, looking at me with a warm smile.

„Of course, she will return home during school breaks, so you won't be without her for too long."

Now it was up to my mom to find courage to speak. Her usually kind eyes were filled with disgust.

„If all of that is true, there is no place for her to go home to anymore", she spat and tears immediately started rolling down my face which, on the other hand, seemed to encourage my dad.

„There are professionals who can help you with your mental illness, Lena. We'll make sure to find you the best ones to get back to yourself. But if you leave the house now, you will not only lose us, but all our financial support and your home to." he smiled proudly at himself, certain I would obey.

Dumbledore rested his hand on my shoulder. 

„Miss May, sometimes we must step into the unknown to find our true path. Remember there is no shame in choosing what is right for you. 

If you are ready to leave now, I would kindly ask for you to hold tight to my arm." Dumbledore insisted.

And without a second thought I nodded, holding on to his arm tightly.

______________

Robert and Patricia May stood in their small living room, too stunned to speak, as their daughter suddenly vanished from the spot where she had been only seconds ago. 

They had lost her, and all that remained was the love that lingered in everything she had touched. A colorful crocheted blanket draped over the mustard-yellow sofa. Oddly shaped bowls and plates she made with her own hands.

And the purple door she had painted months ago - the door  she would never be allowed to walk through again.

Chapter Text

I had no time to prepare. One moment, I was standing in my familiar, cozy living room, and the next, everything around me seemed to implode.
It felt as if I were being sucked into a vacuum, as if my body was being squeezed into a space far too small. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
The world around me twisted and blurred.

And then, in an instant, everything stopped. My feet hit solid ground again, but it didn't feel quite real. The air was different here, thicker, colder, and my head spun. I felt lightheaded, dizzy, like the world around me was still shifting, refusing to settle. My stomach churned, and I staggered a little, trying to steady myself. The only thing that was certain was the deafening crack that echoed in my ears, like the snap of a branch in a storm.

Where was I? My mind raced as I tried to make sense of it, but my body still felt off, like I wasn't fully in control.

I was alone, feeling out of place in my floral summer dress, surrounded by old, crooked houses that seemed to lean into each other. The sun hid behind dark clouds, trying not to be seen on a place like this, casting everything a dull, grayish hue.

Turning around, trying to find where to go, I realized I was standing in front of an old, black door. The knob golden, though covered in layers of dirt and time. Without thinking too long, afraid I might start to cry again, I grabbed the opulent handle which was coiled with a sneaky golden snake, and knocked thrice.

„Welcome to 12 Grimmauld Place!"
The door swung open and a seemingly drunken man in his late thirty's was grinning down at me. Teeth as yellow as my bedroom walls, madness in his eyes and clothes caked in dirt and disgust.
Before I could even react, a hand pulled him back out of the way.
„Sirius don't you dare scare the girl" a moon-faced woman with ginger locks around her kind eyes scolded, chasing the madman away as he shrugged nonchalantly.

„Come on in, love, we've been waiting for you!"
She smiled at me motherly, taking my cold hands in hers and guiding me through a dark, musty hallway.

„Sit down, sit down, here, have some pumpkin juice, you look like you've seen a ghost!", handing me a cup full of orange liquid, she gently setting me down on a wooden kitchen chair.
Still unable to process everything that had just happened, I couldn't get a word out.

So I decided to take a sip. It was deliciously sweet, reminding me of late summer evenings at home. Tears welled up in my eyes as the crushing reality hit me - there was no home for me to return to anymore.

Two large hands gently caressed my shoulders, offering a quiet promise that everything would be alright in the end. In sight came another man, ginger hair and kind eyes just like his sister.. or wife? He sat down next to her, taking her hand in his, both of them gazing at me with worried eyes.

„We're Molly and Arthur Weasley", he said, his voice higher than I expected.

I gulped, trying to get some words out without my voice breaking.

„Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley..." I started, but Molly gently interrupted me.

"No, no, love, please call us Molly and Arthur." She smiled, her tone as warm as the cup of tea she absentmindedly stirred.
"We'll be spending plenty of time together, so no need for formalities."

„Thank you for welcoming me here into your home. As you may already know, everything is new to me, have I just recently found out, that I'm a witch." I smiled apologetically at them, feeling a bit foolish for saying it, still half-expecting a production crew to jump out of a cupboard. But nothing like this happened.

„I'm sure you'll have hundreds of questions and we'll answer them all. Our children will arrive early tomorrow morning so we have the evening to talk about everything." Arthur said.
„Thank you Mr. ... Arthur, that means a lot to me. Dumbledore was a bit ... vague in his explanations" I smiled shyly, and Molly chuckled.
„Yes, Dumbledore is truly one of a kind."

After showing me the room I'd be staying in for the next six weeks and giving me a tour of the rest of the house, assuring me it had been empty for a long time and that they'd make sure to clean it within the next month, the evening was filled with long conversations about the wizarding world, dragons (I mean, come on!), and everything I needed to know about Hogwarts. The only thing Molly and Arthur weren't entirely comfortable with was discussing my sudden emergence of magical abilities, but they promised me that Professor McGonagall would soon shed light on everything

I also found out how I'd be spending the upcoming weeks. Being five years behind in joining Hogwarts, I'd need to dedicate the entire summer break to private lessons. Every. Single. Day. From sunrise to sunset. That seemed a little excessive—but who was I to complain?
I needed special approval to perform magic during the school break, being underage, but I was eager to learn as much as I could, because I didn't want to be surrounded by thirteen-year-olds when term starts.

Spending time with Molly and Arthur, enjoying Molly's delicious food, felt as easy as breathing. They had seven children and clearly knew how to provide comfort and security, even in this filthy house.
Sirius Black, an escaped, falsely convicted murderer and the owner of the house, was unpredictable, having been tortured for years, lived as a dog for another, and struggling to find his way back to a normal.
This la vida was a little bit to loca if you ask me.

Ending the evening on lighter note, Mr. Weasley didn't grow tired of asking me dozens of questions about Muggle objects, showing an especially high interest in my mobile phone.
„Fascinating, absolutely fantastic these Muggles", he beamed at his wife.

„Look at that, Molly! You press some buttons, and that snake eats a brick!"

I suppressed a laugh; his eyes were shining like a child's on Christmas Eve.

„I'd love to call my best friend Mona to let her know I'm okay and what's happened to me. She's the only family I have left, but I have no signal here. Can I go outside for a moment?"
It felt strange to ask, but from Molly's answer, I wasn't mistaken.

„Lena, dear, I'm sorry, but you can't tell your friend. The wizarding world is a secret to Muggles, and besides your parents, no one from your former contacts can know. The Ministry of Magic allows no exceptions to this rule, and even your parents can't tell anyone else, even if they tried."

I was crushed, and my heart felt as though the last spark had finally died inside me. Mona was all that was left. I could still keep in contact, Molly assured me, as I was ugly crying on the dusty, dark green sofa, relieved that their teenage sons wouldn't arrive until the next morning.
I'd be allowed to send her a letter as soon as I was at Hogwarts.
And I was sure Mona would love a new post-owl.

It was well past midnight when I made my way up to my room, the house-elf muttering insults at me as it tried to calm a screaming portrait of a woman.
Mental, as I said.

After several minutes of dark brown fluid coming out of the showerhead and me cleaning the small bathroom next to my bedroom, I finally jumped under the shower, promising myself to clean my new room tomorrow and make it a bit more livable.

My luggage arrived magically when I enteredü the house, but unpacking would have to wait until everything was a bit tidier.
Hiding under the dark, dusty covers and wearing my old St. Ives tourist shirt, it took me a while to fall asleep, drifting into a deep dream of dragons and snakes.

Chapter Text

I woke up to loud voices echoing through the house. For a second, I forgot where I was—until I spotted the cracked ceiling above me, the dust motes floating in the dim light, and the distinct scent of old books and something slightly burnt. Right. I was in a haunted house with a possibly unhinged wizard.
What a fantastic way to start the day.

I stretched, still tired from yesterday's whirlwind of emotions, when the thought of not only losing my parents but Mona as well hit me like a train. It's always those first few seconds of the morning after something terrible happens—the brief peace before reality comes crashing back down. My alarm clock, the one I had brought from home, beeped. 7:00 a.m. I let out a loud sigh and decided to get ready. Crying wouldn't fix anything.

Just as I was about to roll out of bed, my door slammed open.

"Blimey, she really exists," a voice declared.

I blinked, completely thrown off. Two red-haired boys—no, young men—stood in my doorway, looking far too entertained by my confusion.

"Not a dream then, Georgie?"

"Looks quite real, Freddie. Though she doesn't seem thrilled to see us."

Without thinking, I grabbed the nearest object—a pillow—and hurled it straight at them.

Fred ducked just in time, laughing. "Oi! Feisty one, isn't she?"

George, unfortunately, wasn't as fast. The pillow smacked him right in the face with a satisfying thud.

He let out a dramatic gasp. "She attacks unprovoked! Mum didn't warn us about this!"

I scoffed, crossing my arms. "Oh, unprovoked, was it? You two storm into my room at an ungodly hour, and expect me to roll out a red carpet? Do you want me to explain the word ‚privacy' to you?"

Fred grinned. "Well, when you put it like that—"

"—still seems like an overreaction," George cut in, rubbing his face.

"Want me to throw something heavier?" I challenged.

They exchanged an amused glance when Molly's voice rang through the hall.

"Fred! George! Leave the poor girl alone and come help with breakfast!"

Fred sighed as if he were truly suffering. "Alas, duty calls. But don't worry, Lena—"

"—we'll be back," George finished with a wink before both disappeared in a blur of red hair and snickers.

Getting ready provided a small sense of normalcy, so I took my time. I settled on jeans and a thin, knitted jumper I had finished earlier this week, all the while processing what had just happened.

When I finally made my way downstairs, the kitchen was buzzing with life. Plates floated through the air, eggs sizzled on the stove, and Sirius was laughing loudly at something Arthur had said.

The moment I stepped in, all eyes turned to me.

"Ah! Sleeping Beauty is awake!" one of the twins announced.

I rolled my eyes, choosing to ignore them.

Molly hurried over and placed a plate of eggs and buttered toast in front of me before patting my shoulder. "Don't mind these two, dear." she said, shooting them a warning look.

I glanced at the twins, who were grinning as they shoveled food into their mouths.

Gathered around the large wooden table besides the people I already knew were two other boys and girls. Ron and Ginny were easy to recognize—they shared the same vibrant red hair as their parents and the twins. That left the other two to be Hermione and Harry, Ron's best friends.

„I'm Hermione Granger, you must be Lena! Molly and Arthur told us all about you!" the brown- haired girl said excitedly, turning a bit red.

„I'm Ginny!", the other girl said, giving me an unexpected but warm hug. „Hermione and I are so happy to finally have some girl support here!"
„And that's Harry!" she added, pointing at the shyest one of them, who waved at me with a polite smile. Molly had told me over tea the night before, how Harry survived a deadly curse as a baby and became The Boy Who Lived. She spoke with warmth but also a hint of sadness—like she wished he were just a normal boy.

"So," Ron who shook my hand with a warm (and sweaty) grip, "you really didn't know you were a witch?"

I shook my head. "Not a clue. I found out a week ago. Let's say I'm as shocked as you are," I laughed nervously, trying to tame my nerves.

Ginny, the youngest, leaned forward. "And you grew up with Muggles? Like Hermione?"

I nodded, but before I could say anything, one of the twins cut in. "But unlike Hermione, she's not been studying magic for years. Which means—"

"—she's a complete disaster waiting to happen," said the other.

I glared at them. "I'm right here, you know."

One winked. "We know."
I was pretty sure this one was Fred—his nose was slightly wider—but I wasn't entirely confident yet.

Arthur, thankfully, steered the conversation away,  diving into yet another question about Muggle technology.

The rest of breakfast passed with me answering Arthur's endless curiosity, fielding even more questions about my sudden magical awakening, listening to Sirius make wildly inappropriate jokes that had Molly swatting at him with a dish towel, and watching the twins exchange conspiratorial glances I absolutely did not trust

And just when I thought I had finally survived the morning, Molly cleared her throat.

"Right then! Time to go to Diagon Alley to get yourself a wand and everything you need for Hogwarts."

Molly led us to a large, soot-stained fireplace in the living room, where a brass pot filled with glittering green powder sat on the mantel.

I should've known I wouldn't be getting there by normal means.

"Floo Powder," Hermione explained when she saw my confused expression.

"We use it to travel through fireplaces," Ron added.

"It's perfectly safe," Arthur assured me.

"Unless you pronounce your destination wrong, right Georgie?" Fred said cheerfully.

"Or step out at the wrong moment," George added.

"Or sneeze while you're in the middle of it—"

"Alright, that's enough," Molly cut them off. "Lena, dear, just take a pinch, say 'Diagon Alley' clearly and throw it in. And don't worry, I'll be right behind you."

I swallowed. There was nothing about stepping into a literal fire that sounded 'perfectly safe' to me.

„Come on, Lena," Fred said, still smirking. "Ladies first."

"Unless you're scared," George added. "Wouldn't blame you. First-timers tend to scream a lot."

"Or cry," Fred said.

"Or throw up."

"Or all three, if we're lucky." they said in unison.

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed a handful of powder and stepped inside.

"Diagon Alley!" I called while throwing the powder in. The fire roaring emerald green.

The last thing I heard before spinning out of sight was the twins calling after me—

"Try not to embarrass yourself too much!"

The moment the green flames roared around me, I felt myself being sucked into a whirlwind. My stomach lurched as I spun violently, flashes of different fireplaces zipping past in a nauseating blur. I barely had time to brace myself before I was unceremoniously spat out of the Floo network like a human hairball.

Trying to get out of the fireplace, I felt my feet slip on the slick layer of soot beneath me. With all the grace of a newborn deer, I landed on all fours, coughing as a cloud of ash billowed around me.

I was a mess. My hands were pitch black, my jeans were covered in grime, and judging by the horrified look the shopkeeper was giving me, my face wasn't faring any better.

For a moment, I just stayed there, trying to process how my life had come to this.

Groaned, pushing myself up just as another burst of green flames erupted behind me. One by one, the others arrived—Molly, Arthur, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry, all stepping neatly out of the fireplace like normal, functioning human beings.

And then, with a twin pop, Fred and George arrived.

Silence.

I looked up, meeting their wide, delighted eyes.

Then, in perfect unison, they burst into laughter.

Fred clutched his chest. "Merlin's beard, George, we've lost her! The soot monster has taken her place!"

George staggered back as if in shock. "It's tragic, really. She was so young. So full of life. And now—" he gestured vaguely at me, eyes sparkling with mischief, "—this."

I scowled, wiping my face with the sleeve of my jumper—only to realize too late that my sleeve was also covered in soot. Judging by the way the twins' grins stretched even wider, I had just made it worse.

My face burned as I frantically patted at my cheeks, probably just smearing the dirt around even more. Great. Absolutely fantastic. My grand entrance into the wizarding world, and I looked like I had just lost a fistfight with a chimney.

Fred actually wheezed. "Oh—OH—brilliant! George, do you see—"

George stumbled back, laughing so hard he had to grip Fred for support. "She—she just smeared it everywhere!"

I turned to a shop window in horror. My reflection stared back—a walking disaster. My entire forehead was now covered in black streaks, and my attempt to fix it had only made it worse.

"OH, it's even better than I imagined," George gasped, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Wait—WAIT—hold still—"

Before I could react, Fred licked his thumb and reached for my face.

I shrieked, dodging back. "ABSOLUTELY NOT!"

Fred leaned in, inspecting me like I was some fascinating new creature. "You know, George, I think we might've found the world's first human Niffler."

George nodded solemnly. "Covered in soot, a bit dazed, and likely to bite if provoked."

I shot him a glare, still trying to rub the dirt off my face with my equally filthy hands. "Oh, shut up—"
I really need to find me a therapist that can help me be meaner.

"Careful!" Fred yelped, grabbing George's arm. "It's getting aggressive!"

Molly, who had been checking that everyone arrived safely, turned at the commotion and sighed. "Honestly, you two. If you spent half as much time studying as you do teasing, you might've actually passed all your exams."

Fred clutched his chest dramatically. "Mother, your words wound me."

"Good," she said, swatting his arm lightly as she walked past. "Now stop tormenting the poor girl and wipe that soot off your faces before you scare the shopkeepers."

I sighed in relief as they finally backed off—though not without sending me one last, cheeky grin.

After brushing of most of the dust and giving my face a quick wash in a nearby restroom, we stepped out into the bustling street of Diagon Alley.

The cobbled street stretched out before me, lined with crooked buildings that leaned at odd angles, their colorful shop signs swinging gently in the breeze. People in robes hurried past, chatting, laughing, haggling with shopkeepers. Cauldrons bubbled in storefront displays, broomsticks hovered just above the ground, and owls hooted from a shop filled with cages. The air smelled of fresh parchment, something sugary from a nearby bakery, and an underlying scent of magic itself—if magic even had a scent.

I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in, completely awestruck.

Molly and Arthur chuckled at my expression. "Quite something, isn't it?" Arthur said fondly.

I nodded dumbly. "It's... incredible."

Molly patted my arm. "Come along, dear. Lots to do before the day is over!"

Before we could get started, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Harry, and the twins all took off in different directions.
They already got their supply's and wanted to use the time to stroll around.

"Try not to get lost, May!" Fred added with a wink, before disappearing into the crowd with George.

It was just me, Molly, and Arthur now, and I still had no idea what I was doing.

First we made our way to Gringotts, the towering bank that loomed over Diagon Alley. Inside, goblins scurried about, their sharp eyes scanning every visitor, their long fingers moving with eerie precision as they handled stacks of gold.

I handed over the stack of Muggle money I had saved over the years—birthday gifts, money I earned from selling crochet plushies, everything I had ever put aside—and watched as it was exchanged for golden Galleons, silver Sickles, and tiny bronze Knuts. The weight of the pouch in my hands felt strange, heavier than I expected, as if it carried more than just coins. It was the last true link to my old life, now converted into something entirely new.

I tried not to think too much about the goblins. There was something unsettling about them—the way their sharp eyes seemed to see right through me, as if they knew all my secrets. I decided then and there that they were officially on my "do not think about unless I need something to overanalyze when I'm bored" list.

We decided to start at Madam Malkin's, where I was fitted for my Hogwarts robes. The fabric was soft and heavy, it felt strange to wear something so different from my usual clothes.

"Could be worse," I muttered as I studied myself in the mirror, my teal-colored eyes still puffy from crying yesterday. I was not used to wearing black, did I usually choose quite colorful outfits.

Our next stop was Slugs & Jiggers, where Molly helped me pick out all the ingredients for my Potions kit. The shop smelled overwhelmingly of herbs, dried roots, and something I was pretty sure was pickled eyeballs. I tried not to look too closely at the jars on the shelves when we left.

Many shops and a handful of Galleons later, it was finally time to get my wand.

The air was thick with dust and something else—something electric, when we stepped into Ollivander's. Thousands of wands lined the walls, stacked haphazardly in their little boxes, as if waiting for the right person to wake them up. Mr. Ollivander himself was an ancient-looking man with wild, silvery eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light.

"Ah," he murmured, studying me with unsettling intensity. "I was expecting you."

Okay, well. That was creepy.

Before I could question what he meant, he was already pulling down boxes, muttering to himself.

"Here—try this. Maple, dragon heartstring, twelve inches, quite springy."

I barely had time to wrap my fingers around the handle before a loud BANG sent a whole row of wand boxes crashing to the floor.

I gasped, dropping the wand like it was cursed. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry—"

But Ollivander didn't look the least bit bothered. If anything, he seemed excited.

"Not to worry, not to worry. That's the process!" He handed me another. "Perhaps this—Beechwood, phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches, rather stubborn."

The second I gave it a test swish, the shop's candles flickered wildly, one of them bursting in a dramatic spray of sparks. I yelped and nearly dropped it on my foot.

Ollivander hummed thoughtfully. "Curious. Very curious."

We went through half a dozen wands, and each one was worse than the last—knocking over shelves, sending parchments flying, even cracking a mirror at the back of the shop.

Then—just as I was about to suggest that maybe magic just wasn't for me, Ollivander suddenly froze. His eyes flicked toward a small, unopened box tucked away on a high shelf.

"Hmm," he murmured, stretching up to retrieve it. "This one... is new. Finished it just today, in fact."

He placed the box in front of me and lifted the lid.

Inside lay a wand unlike any other I'd seen. The wood had a rich, warm tone, like autumn leaves bathed in golden light. Intricately carved patterns spiraled around the handle, mimicking the texture of yarn, as if it had been carefully wrapped by hand. Tiny wooden marguerites bloomed along the length of the wand, trailing up like delicate vines. It felt both sturdy and gentle, as if it has been made just for me.

Pine wood, unicorn hair," Ollivander said softly. "Flexible. Loyal. A most unusual combination."

I reached out, expecting another explosion, but the moment my fingers closed around the handle—

Everything stilled.

The buzzing energy in the air seemed to settle around me, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. A soft, warm glow pulsed from the tip, sending a pleasant tingle up my arm.

I exhaled.
This was mine.

Ollivander beamed. "Ahh. There it is."

Just as I was about to thank Mr. Ollivander, a movement outside the shop caught my eye.

Two figures stood pressed up against the glass, noses practically squashed against it. Identical grins stretched across their faces, eyes alight with the kind of glee that sent a chill down my spine.

Oh, no.

I went completely still, hoping—praying—that maybe they hadn't seen too much. Maybe they had just arrived. Maybe—

One of them raised his hand in a slow, mocking wave.

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole

By the time I stepped outside, they were already waiting, casually leaning against the wall like they hadn't just spent the last several minutes witnessing my absolute humiliation.

"Blimey, took you long enough, Mayhem,"
Fred, I was quite confident,  announced, loud enough for several passing witches to turn and stare.

I froze mid-step.

George shook his head, looking far too pleased with himself. "Oh, don't play innocent. You earned that one."

"Excuse me?"

George smirked. "Don't be modest. You nearly burned down the shop, took out an entire shelf of wands, and I think poor old Ollivander had to duck for his life at one point. A true natural."

Fred sighed dramatically. "So much destruction, so little time. And to think, you haven't even started school yet."

George placed a hand over his heart. "We're so proud."

Fred slung an arm around his twin. "And, of course, there's your surname—May. Mayhem. It's like destiny itself hand-delivered this nickname to us."

I groaned, burying my burning face in my hands. "No. Absolutely not."

Fred patted my shoulder sympathetically. "Don't fight it, Mayhem. It'll only make it stick harder."

George wiped at his eyes, still snickering. "Alright, alright. Let's be fair, Freddie. She's suffered enough."

Fred sighed, shaking his head. "Suppose you're right."

I exhaled, still thinking about a good comeback.

Then he patted my head, like I was a small child, apparently taking my silence as agreement.

"Atta girl, Mayhem."

The rage that filled me could have powered the entire town of St. Ives.

But before I could strangle them both, Molly appeared at my side, looking mildly concerned.

„Are you three coming, or should I leave you to torment poor Lena a bit longer?"

Fred slung an arm around her shoulders. "Mum, we'd never torment her."

"Of course not," George agreed, grinning down at me. "We're just helping her adjust."

Molly rolled her eyes, about to say something, when Hermione appeared beside me, linking arms with me—clearly noticing how uncomfortable I was.

"Hey, Lena! Want to come with me to Eeylops Owl Emporium? We could find you a little fluffy friend!"

Chapter Text

Grateful for an escape from the twins, I let her lead me into Eeylops Owl Emporium, the scent of hay and feathers filling the dimly lit shop. Rows of cages lined the walls, each holding owls of various sizes and colors—some sleeping, some hooting softly, others watching us with sharp, intelligent eyes.

As we wandered through the aisles, Hermione sighed, crossing her arms. "It's awful, isn't it? Keeping them locked up like this."

I nodded, running my fingers over one of the bars, my chest tightening. "Yeah... they look so cramped. It's horrible." My voice was quieter now, a lump forming in my throat. "I mean, imagine being stuck in a tiny space like this, barely able to move, just waiting for someone to decide if you're worth taking home."

Hermione gave me a long look, her expression softening. "Yeah," she murmured. "I know what you mean."

I scanned the cages, feeling guilty for every owl I passed. They all deserved to be free. But one, in particular, caught my eye—a massive owl, its speckled brown and white feathers ruffled, golden eyes staring right at me.

"This one," I murmured, stepping closer. It barely fit in its cage, its sharp beak poking through the bars as if demanding to be let out.

Hermione blinked. "Are you sure? That's probably the biggest owl in the shop!"

"Yeah," I said, my chest tightening at the sight of it. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

A small smile tugged at Hermione's lips. "I think you and Hagrid would get along."

The shopkeeper came over, glancing at the owl before raising an eyebrow at me. "That one's got a temper. You sure you can handle it?"

„Yes, and I want to let her out of the cage immediately," I said, reaching forward to unlock it.

Before the shopkeeper could protest, the owl hopped forward and stretched its massive wings, flapping them a few times before soaring up—and landing squarely on my shoulder.

I froze. It was heavy. Its claws gripped my jumper, but not painfully, and it let out a deep, satisfied hoot, as if perching on me was the most natural thing in the world.

Hermione stared. The shopkeeper gaped.

I, meanwhile, was too busy trying not to topple over. "Okay," I wheezed. "That's... a choice."

The owl ruffled its feathers and nuzzled my cheek.

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, probably to hide her laughter. I could already imagine how utterly ridiculous I looked, like I was being swallowed by a feathery beast.

I shot her a glare, laughing. "Not. A. Word."

She promptly failed to suppress a giggle. "I was just going to say... you're definitely going to turn heads at Hogwarts."

With a sigh, I reached up to scratch the owl's chest, and it let out a pleased chirrup.

"Well," I muttered, "at least one of us is happy about this."

Hermione smiled warmly at me, and for the first time in days, I felt something settle in my chest—like maybe I wasn't so alone in all of this. I had found a new friend.

Or, I thought as the owl let out another deep hoot, maybe even two.

-

As Hermione and I made our way toward the little café where we were supposed to meet the others, my stomach was already twisting with dread. I didn't even have to see the twins to know exactly how they would react.

With every step, I could feel the weight of my new feathery companion - Steven, as I had hastily decided, who still refused to leave my shoulder, its sharp claws gripping my jumper like it had claimed me as its personal perch.

As we approached, it became painfully clear that we had arrived last. Everyone was already gathered, chatting amongst themselves—until they spotted me.

The conversation died instantly.

Every single pair of eyes locked onto me. Or, more accurately, onto the oversized owl currently using me as a tree branch.

"Merlin's beard, George," Fred said, loud enough for the entire café to hear. "She's multiplied."

I clenched my jaw, my face already heating up.

„So, does it have a name, or are you waiting for it to whisper one to you in a shared moment of cosmic understanding?"

I exhaled through my nose, deciding to just get it over with. "His name is Steven."

Silence.

Then George let out a loud snort. "Steven?"

Fred doubled over, clutching his stomach. "You got this absolute beast of a bird... and named it Steven?"

Ron coughed into his fist, but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Ginny, on the other hand, just shook her head. "Honestly, it's kind of perfect."

Fred wiped at his eyes. „What's next? Getting a dragon and calling it Daniel?"

I crossed my arms, trying to ignore how very aware I was of the entire café still watching me. "I happen to think it suits him."

George wiped at his eyes, still grinning. "Oh, absolutely. Nothing says mystical owl companion like Steven."

That did it—everyone burst into laughter, even Hermione. I sighed, accepting my fate. As the laughter died down, Arthur clapped his hands together. "Alright, I think it's time we head back."

The journey back through the Floo Network was just as unpleasant as before, but at least this time, I was somewhat prepared. I bent my knees, braced myself—

—and still ended up stumbling out of the fireplace, barely managing to stay on my feet.

Fred and George, of course, made sure they had front-row seats—insisting on going before me just so they wouldn't miss the show.

"Progress!" Fred declared, grinning. "This time she only looks half like she was thrown out of a moving train."

"Give it a week," George added. "She might actually land on her feet. Like a very confused cat."

I shoot them both a withering glare before stalking off without a word.

Steven had taken off just before we used the Floo Network, disappearing into the night with a powerful flap of his wings. He seemed to be enjoying his newfound freedom, soaring high above the rooftops, completely unbothered by the chaos below.

Back at Grimmauld Place,  I retreated to my room immediately, determined to avoid the twins for as long as possible. I finally decided to clean my room and make it more livable, so I set to work, wiping the thick layer of dust off the furniture and trying to make the room feel a little less like a forgotten relic.

Unpacking my suitcase helped, too—folding my clothes into the small wardrobe, stacking my yarn neatly on the nightstand, and placing my favorite candle beside it.

Just as I was about to sit down and breathe for a moment, a sharp thud against the window made me jump.

I turned to see Steven perched on the sill, golden eyes peering in at me. He knocked again—just once—then, as soon as I moved to open the window, he spread his massive wings and took off into the night.

I stared after him, baffled.

"Seriously?" I muttered. "You just came to check in?"

But he was already gone, vanishing into the darkness like some kind of feathery enigma.

A knock on my door pulled me from my thoughts. "Lena, dear, dinner's ready!" Molly called.

With one last glance at the window—just in case Steven decided to return—I headed downstairs. The kitchen was just as lively as it had been at breakfast, everyone talking over each other as plates floated through the air and cutlery clinked against dishes.

I slid into an empty seat, offering Molly a grateful smile as she placed a heaping plate of food in front of me. I picked up my fork and absentmindedly pushed the piece of roast to the side, focusing on the vegetables instead.

It didn't take long for someone to notice.

"You don't like the roast?" Ginny asked, tilting her head.

I shook my head, swallowing my bite of potatoes before answering. "Oh, no, it's not that. I just don't eat meat."

The conversation didn't even have time to move on before the twins pounced.

Fred gasped, clutching his chest. "You mean to tell me—"

"—you willingly give up bacon?" George finished, looking personally offended.

Ron stared at me like I'd just said I didn't believe in magic.

I rolled my eyes. "It's really not that shocking."

Molly shushed them with a sharp look before smiling at me. "I wish you'd told me sooner, dear. I would have made something else for you."

"Oh, no, it's fine, really! The vegetables are great," I assured her, sending the twins a half-hearted glare as they continued whispering about the tragedy of a bacon-less life.

Arthur cleared his throat, steering the conversation away. "Lena, Professor McGonagall will be arriving tomorrow to discuss your studies and what the next few weeks will look like."

I sat up straighter, nerves creeping in. "Oh. Right."

"She'll make sure you're caught up before term starts," he added kindly.

I nodded, but the reminder of just how behind I was made my stomach twist.

I was still mulling it over when I caught Harry watching me.

"You're handling all of this... really well."

I let out a short laugh. "Oh, trust me, I'm not."

He didn't smile. "No, I mean it. If I'd found out this way, about being a wizard... I don't know how I would've dealt with it."

Something in his expression made my breath catch. Because I knew his story—or at least the basics of it. And I knew he wasn't just saying that to be nice.

I glanced down at my plate, suddenly finding it hard to meet his gaze. "I guess I'm just trying not to think about it too much. Because if I do, it gets... overwhelming. It's just... I feel like everybody's watching me. Like I'm some kind of curiosity."

Harry nodded slowly, like he understood that better than most.

And in that moment, I realized we weren't so different.

-

After dinner, I curled up on the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me as I picked up my crochet project. The soft yarn ran through my fingers as I worked, the familiar rhythm grounding me after a long, exhausting day. I was crocheting a tiny mouse for Steven. Not that he seemed particularly interested in toys, but it gave me something to focus on.

I had barely completed a few stitches when Ron plopped down beside me, looking at my hands like I was performing advanced magic. "What are you making?"

"A mouse," I said, looping the yarn around the hook.

"For Steven?" Ginny asked, settling on my other side.

I nodded, pulling the yarn through. "Figured he deserves a little gift."

"Can I try?" Ginny asked, leaning closer.

„Sure" I said, before handing her the hook. Unlike Ron—who I suspected would have turned my yarn into an unsalvageable mess—Ginny actually listened when I showed her how to make a stitch. Her movements were clumsy, but she picked it up quickly, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Across the room, Hermione sat at the table, deeply engrossed in her book, her quill scratching against parchment. The whole scene was quiet. Peaceful

Which, of course, meant it wouldn't last.

Fred and George strolled in, their identical grins widening as they spotted me with my crochet project.

Fred tilted his head. "Would you look at that, Georgie? Our little agent of chaos has decided to retire and become a granny."

George sighed dramatically. "They grow up so fast."

I didn't look up. "You two should try it. Might keep you from terrorizing the rest of the house."

Fred gasped, clutching his chest. "Terrorizing? Us?"

"We're deeply wounded," George added.

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right."

Fred ignored him, stepping closer. "So, what are we making? A pair of socks for the elderly? A doily for your tea table?"

"A mouse for Steven," Ginny said before I could answer, her focus still on her stitches.

There was a brief pause. Then—

"You got the world's most intimidating owl," George said slowly, "and you're giving him a stuffed mouse?"

Fred grinned. "That's adorable."

I sighed, turning back to my yarn. "Should've known better than to expect you two to leave me alone."

"Don't worry, Mayhem," Fred said, clapping a hand to his chest. "We've got very important business to attend to."

George wiggled his fingers in a wave. "You'll see soon enough."

And with that, they disappeared, leaving me to wonder—not for the first time—whether I should be worried.

After finishing the last stitch on Steve's new friend, I held it up for inspection. Satisfied, I set it aside and stretched, my muscles aching from the long day.

A hot shower was exactly what I needed. The warm water washed away the lingering soot, dust, and the general stress of navigating a magical shopping trip under the relentless teasing of the twins. By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, my eyelids were already drooping.

Back in my room, I closed the door and—after a moment of consideration—turned the lock. Just in case. With Fred and George lurking around, it seemed like the a smart thing to do.

Steven wasn't back yet, but I placed the little mouse on the windowsill for him. Then, finally, I crawled under the covers, sinking into the mattress with a relieved sigh.

But sleep didn't come.

I laid in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts running in circles. Tomorrow, everything would become even more real. I should be excited — But all I could think about was how small I felt in this huge, unfamiliar world. How out of place.

I turned onto my side, hugging the blanket closer. The twins' teasing replayed in my mind, their laughter echoing louder than it should. I knew they were just joking, that they probably didn't mean anything by it—but it still stung. It reminded me too much of the way kids used to laugh at me back at primary school, how they would whisper behind my back, giggle when I spoke up in class, push me aside like I didn't belong. Like I was just... there to be laughed at.

I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes shut. I didn't want to think about that.

I missed home. Mona, even my parents. St. Ives with all it's beauty. It felt like a lifetime ago. A life I could never go back to.

I curled up tighter, pressing my face into the pillow. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe I'd wake up and it wouldn't feel so heavy.
But deep down, I wasn't so sure.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I woke up feeling... lighter. Not completely, but enough to notice. The weight in my chest hadn't disappeared, but at least it didn't feel quite as suffocating anymore.

I stretched and sat up, blinking at the sunlight filtering through the curtains. A familiar shape on the windowsill caught my eye—Steven, fast asleep, his feathers ruffled slightly by the wind. He looked peaceful, completely unbothered by the world. I wished I could say the same for myself.

Lying awake last night, I had come to a decision: If I wanted to survive Fred and George, I needed a strategy. The teasing didn't seem mean—just relentless. So, instead of reacting, I'd try something else. Step One: Be nice and polite, no matter what. If I didn't give them the reaction they were hoping for, maybe they'd lose interest and I wouldn't need to come up with a Step Two.

With that in mind, I got dressed and made my way downstairs, where the scent of warm porridge and cinnamon filled the air. The kitchen was quiet—only Hermione and the twins were gathered around the table, the rest of the house still asleep.

"Good Morning, dear," Molly greeted, placing a bowl in front of me.

"Morning," I said, offering her a small smile. "Thanks."

I reached for the honey, but before I could grab it, a hand slid it toward me.

"For you, Mayhem," Fred said with an exaggerated flourish.

I hesitated, but then, with my best pleasant and unbothered voice, I said, "Oh, thank you, Fred. How thoughtful."

He blinked. So did George.

Fred leaned forward, looking almost offended. "Did you just tell us apart?"

George frowned. "Without even hesitating?"

I smiled politely, setting my spoon down. "Your faces might be equally unfortunate, but at least they're ugly in different ways." I gestured vaguely between them. "Fred's got that 'up to no good' gremlin look, while George has the 'accidentally set something on fire and is pretending it was on purpose' face."
Wow. I followed Step One so consistently. Bravo.

Fred gasped, clutching his chest. "That's—"

"—incredibly accurate," George finished, looking genuinely impressed.

He leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. "You know, Lena, it's almost concerning how much attention you've given our faces."

Fred mirrored him, grinning. "Makes a bloke wonder... Have you been staring at us when we're not looking?"

My mouth opened—then closed.

Damn it.

Fred's grin turned downright wicked. George raised an eyebrow, smirking like he'd just won a bet.

"Oh, interesting," Fred drawled, tilting his head. "She's got all these clever little insults—until we start wondering if she's been admiring us."

George leaned in slightly, voice low and amused. "Makes you think, doesn't it? All that attention to detail..."

I scoffed, willing the heat in my face to disappear. "Please."

Fred tapped his chin, pretending to think. "Oh, no, I think we're onto something, Georgie."

George nodded solemnly. "It's alright, love. If you wanted to stare, you could've just asked."

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm. Do not let them win.

"I wasn't staring," I said, aiming for indifference but landing somewhere around flustered.

Fred grinned wider. "You sure? Because that blush is saying otherwise."

George nodded, mock sympathy in his eyes. "Poor thing. Must be so difficult, trying to pretend you're not hopelessly smitten."

I huffed, pushing my chair back. "You know what? I think I'll eat somewhere else. Somewhere far away from whatever stupidity you two are infected with."

I stood up with as much dignity as I could muster—only for my foot to catch on the chair leg. Before I could even process what was happening, I stumbled forward, arms flailing, and barely caught myself on the table. My spoon clattered to the floor.

For a second, there was silence.

Then Fred let out a low whistle. "Merlin, George see, she's falling for us!"

I closed my eyes, willing the floor to swallow me whole.

George clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Poor thing. Completely helpless. Can't even stand properly around us."

I shot him a glare, cheeks burning.

I grabbed my bowl, refusing to dignify them with a response and went to the living room. A moment later, Hermione appeared in the doorway, holding her own bowl of porridge.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, a knowing smile on her face.

I groaned, slumping back. "If you're here to tease me too, I might actually start screaming."

Hermione sat beside me, gracefully tucking her legs under herself. "Oh no, I think the twins have done quite enough of that already." She took a bite of her porridge before adding, "Though I must say, that was impressive."

I shot her a look. "Me tripping?"

"No," she said, fighting a smirk. "You actually making them speechless for a second."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

Hermione stirred her porridge, looking amused. "Fred and George—they're relentless when they tease people. They always have a comeback, always know exactly what to say. But when you hit them with that 'ugly in different ways' comment?" She smiled. "You stopped them. Just for a second. And that, Lena, is impressive."

I considered that, glancing toward the kitchen. Laughter still drifted from inside, the twins no doubt still very pleased with themselves.

"I'd feel more victorious if I hadn't immediately humiliated myself right after," I muttered, poking at my porridge.

Hermione gave me a sympathetic pat on the arm. "Small victories."

She set her bowl down, watching me closely. "Are you nervous about today?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could, the doorbell rang. My stomach twisted.

Molly's warm voice floated in from the hallway. "Oh, Minerva! Come in, dear."

I straightened, smoothing my hands over my lap. I had never seen Professor McGonagall before, but I knew she was important. Respected. Strict, but fair. When she stepped into the room, I felt the weight of her presence immediately.

She was tall, with neatly pressed green robes and a sharp, intelligent gaze. But to my surprise, there was kindness in her eyes, a quiet understanding as she looked at me.

"Miss Granger, Miss May," she greeted, her tone gentler than I expected. "I imagine you have quite a few questions."

I swallowed and nodded.

She gave a small, approving smile. "Shall we?"

I glanced at Hermione, who gave me an encouraging nod, and followed McGonagall into the next room, my nerves battling with a cautious sense of relief, the sound of the door clicking shut behind us feeling oddly final. She gestured toward the sofa, and I sat down, my hands clasped tightly in my lap.

She took the armchair across from me, studying me for a moment before speaking. "I understand that all of this must be overwhelming."

I nodded stiffly.

McGonagall sighed, folding her hands. "The Ministry is still investigating how this happened. There has never been a case like yours—someone born to Muggle parents suddenly developing magical abilities so late in life.
The Ministry is hoping to find answers in your ancestry. Have there been any rumors of magic in your family? A distant relative, perhaps?"

I frowned, shaking my head. "Not that I know of. My parents never mentioned anything like that."

McGonagall sighed again, more to herself than to me. "That's what we thought."

I hesitated. "Why does it matter so much? I mean, I have magic now. Isn't that enough?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she took off her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose before fixing me with a serious look. "Miss May, I need you to understand something. Not all wizards and witches are good."

McGonagall's expression darkened. "If the wrong people were to learn about your sudden magical abilities, they would see you as a threat. Therefore It is crucial that you do not discuss your origins with anyone besides a few trusted people."

My stomach dropped. "A threat?"

"The Dark Lord believed in blood purity above all else. They feared change, deviation from their beliefs. If his followers were to discover a Muggle suddenly gained magic, they would see it as an anomaly—one that could infect others, one that needed to be... eliminated."

I stared at her. "You mean they'd want to kill me."

She gave me a pointed look.

I let out a breath, dragging a hand down my face. "Great. Love that for me."

"That is why you will be attending Hogwarts under a false identity," she continued. "Officially, you have transferred from Ilvermorny, the american wizarding school, due to your family's relocation. This story will allow you to integrate without drawing suspicion. However, to maintain this cover, you must gain as much knowledge as possible in a short period of time. Any gaps in your education could raise questions."

She reached into her robes, pulling out a small case filled with tiny glass vials. "These will assist you."

I took the case, eyeing the shimmering liquid inside. "What are they?"

"A memory enhancement potion. For twelve hours after taking it, you will retain everything you learn perfectly. The effects last for roughly six months—long enough for you to practice and commit the knowledge permanently to memory."

I looked up at her, surprised. "This sounds... kind of incredible."

"It is," she admitted, a small smile appearing on her lips. "But it is no replacement for true understanding. The potion will help, but you must still put in the effort."

I turned the vial over in my hand, the weight of everything settling onto my shoulders. I had no idea how I was going to pull this off. But I did know one thing—failure wasn't an option.

McGonagall gave me a moment to process everything before she reached into her robes again, this time pulling out a neatly rolled parchment.

"This is your study plan," she said, handing it to me.

I unrolled it, my eyes widening at the sheer number of subjects listed:
Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy and Herbology.

Besides that I could decide between six electric subjects. I chose Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, which sounded quite fitting for my personality.

She made a note on a separate parchment before looking up. "Then it is settled. Your lessons will begin tomorrow."

I ran my fingers over the parchment, still struggling to grasp the reality of it all. "What about books? I don't exactly have a school list."

"Hogwarts will provide what you need," she assured me. "Once your professors assess your progress, we will determine which year's curriculum suits you best."

McGonagall glanced at the parchment once more before adding, "You will also need to learn how to fly a broom. Properly". Her lips twitched slightly.
Oh, so she knows about my little adventure, too.

"As luck would have it," McGonagall continued, "you happen to be surrounded by students who are quite skilled fliers. I am sure they would be more than happy to assist you in practicing."

I highly doubted the twins would pass up an opportunity to see me make a fool of myself, but at least it meant I wouldn't have to figure it out alone.

"You may use the backyard for practice," she added, her tone making it clear that only the backyard was an option.

McGonagall stood up and paused at the door, glancing back at me. "One last thing before I go," she said. "Hogwarts students are sorted into houses upon their arrival."

I nodded. "I've heard about that."

She inclined her head. "Given your... unique circumstances, we have decided it would be best to conduct your Sorting here at Grimmauld Place, rather than at Hogwarts. This will help keep unnecessary attention off you."

That actually made sense. The last thing I needed was to stand there with a bunch of first-years while everyone whispered about me.

"I will return in a few weeks as your Transfiguration teacher," she continued. "We'll conduct the ceremony then."

She adjusted her glasses, giving me one last assessing look. „Remember, Miss May—Hogwarts has always been a home to those who need it. I have no doubt you will find your place there."

And with that, she disappeared.

-

I sat there for a long time after McGonagall left, staring at the case of vials in my hands. Everything was starting to feel overwhelmingly real. Up until now, I'd been reacting—just rolling with the chaos as it unfolded. But this was different. This was a plan, a structured path forward.

I was going to Hogwarts with a backstory that wasn't mine. And if I slipped up—if anyone figured out what I really was—I'd be in serious danger.

A shiver ran down my spine.

I took a deep breath and set the case down beside me, rubbing my temples. I needed to process this, but more than that—I needed to move. Sitting here, drowning in my thoughts, wasn't helping.

So, I stood up, squared my shoulders, and walked back toward the kitchen.

The moment I stepped inside, every head turned in my direction.

"Well?" Ron asked, leaning forward eagerly. "What did she say?"

"She's not sending you off to be studied in some secret Ministry lab, is she?" Sirius added, only half-joking.

I let out a breath, rolling my shoulders. "No. But... there is a lot."

So, I told them.
I told them about my cover story, about how I'd be pretending to be an Ilvermorny transfer. I told them about the study plan, the potion. And then I told them about the other thing.

Molly pressed a hand to her chest, looking horrified. Arthur frowned deeply. Hermione looked like she'd already started forming a research plan in her head.

But it was Fred and George's reaction that caught me off guard.

They weren't smiling.

They weren't making jokes.

They were both just... staring at me, brows furrowed.

"That's mental," George muttered after a moment, shaking his head. "They think you could just—what, spread magic like a cold?"

"That's the idea," I said, shifting uncomfortably.

Fred scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Idiots. All of them."

George crossed his arms. "Well, if anyone comes after you, just let us know. We've got some excellent tricks for that sort of thing."

I blinked at them, warmth creeping into my chest. "Thanks."

Fred's grin returned, but there was an edge to it now. "And speaking of things you need to learn—McGonagall said you need to fly, yeah?"

I sighed, already sensing where this was going. "Yes."

"Brilliant," George said. "We volunteer as instructors."

„No," I said firmly, cutting them off before they could go any further. "I want Harry to teach me."
From across the room, Harry shot me a thumbs-up, looking both surprised and pleased.
The twins froze.

Then, Fred clutched his chest dramatically. "Betrayed. By our own student before we even got the chance."

George shook his head. "Heartbreaking, really."

I rolled my eyes. "I actually want to learn how to fly, not end up in a hospital before I even set foot at Hogwarts."

Fred scoffed. "As if we'd let you get seriously injured."

George nodded. "Only minor, character-building injuries."

I took a huge bite of the apple cake Molly had offered me, savoring the sweetness before grinning. "By the way," I said casually, "I've actually tried flying before."

Ginny perked up, already grinning. "Oh, this I have to hear."

I leaned back in my chair. "Well, after realizing I could make things float, I figured—why not see if I could make myself float? So, I bought a broom - a bright red plastic one with black bristles - and waited until it was late, went to the beach, and gave it a shot. It didn't exactly go well—I managed to lift off, but all I really did was bounce up and down. I don't think I made it more than a few meters in any direction."

Fred and George stared at me for a long second before Fred finally said, "Hold on—you tried to fly... on a plastic broom?"

"It was the cheapest one," I said defensively.

"Merlin, that might be the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"I did get off the ground," I pointed out.

"Oh, well, in that case," George said "Someone alert the Quidditch scouts! We've got a prodigy on our hands."

I rolled my eyes. "Alright, alright, laugh it up. At least I tried."

Fred grinned „Bouncing up and down on a broom in the middle of the night? Lena, if you wanted a good ride, you should've just asked me."

Snap!

Fred barely had time to dodge before Molly's dishtowel struck him across the arm.

"Ow! Bloody hell, Mum!"

"Mind your tongue, Fred Weasley!"

Fred rubbed his arm, grinning shamelessly. "I was only offering my expertise!"

Molly raised the towel again, and he ducked behind George, who wisely decided to shut up before becoming the next target.

Laughing, I pushed back from the table and turned to Harry. "Alright, let's do this."

Harry nodded, standing up as well. "You ready?"

"More than ready."

Molly made sure the twins were too busy with chores to spy on us, so Harry and I headed outside without an audience.

Flying turned out to be easy—almost like kiting. Keeping my balance felt natural, and after just a few rounds around the backyard, Harry looked at me, shaking his head in amusement.

"Well," he said, "that was quick."

I grinned as I landed smoothly. "Told you I was a natural."

-

The evening had been a welcome comfort—Ginny practicing her crochet stitches with Harry trying (and mostly failing) to help, Hermione absorbed in her book, and Ron grinning triumphantly over yet another wizarding chess victory against me.

After taking a hot shower, I was sitting by the window, gently stroking Steven's feathers as he nestled against his new crochet mouse. The cool night air drifted in, carrying the faint scent of summer, and for a moment, I simply watched the stars, letting my thoughts wander.
It was still so much to take in but having an actual plan - and the memorize potions - steadied my nerves. Everyone offered to help, even Fred and George - in their very own way.
I didn't feel alone anymore. New - still.
But not alone.

The second I lay down on my bed, a series of sharp pops erupted beneath me. Golden sparks shot up from under the blanket, crackling like tiny fireworks before fizzling out in a shower of shimmering dust.

I screamed—half startled, half outraged—as the last spark died, leaving behind only a faint trace of glittery smoke.

Laughter erupted from outside the door.

Oh. Oh. That's why I hadn't seen them all evening.

Shaking my head, I swiped at the lingering sparkles on my pillow, biting back a smile.

With a quiet chuckle, I closed my eyes and drifted off almost immediately.

Chapter Text

I woke up early the next morning, my whole body buzzing with anticipation. Today, my studies would finally begin—hopefully keeping me too busy to dwell on how much I missed home. It was always worse when I was alone. Normally, I liked spending time by myself, but here?

Something about this house made solitude feel... ominous. Maybe it was the way the walls seemed to press in, like they were trying to swallow me whole. Or the constant, barely-there whispers that made my skin crawl. Kreacher hissing insults at me whenever I so much as breathed in his general direction. And the ever-watching paintings followed my every move, their gazes cold and unsettling.

So, no, I wasn't exactly thrilled about being alone here. If I had to choose, I'd even prefer spending time with Fred and George—voluntarily.
Yeah. That's how bad it was.

Dressed in comfy trousers and an oversized sweater, I hurried downstairs, doing my best to avoid Kreacher and his ever-screeching Mrs. Black. The house was always cold, even in the height of summer.

To my surprise, Molly was already in the kitchen, busy preparing breakfast. So much for my big plan to surprise everyone. Still, I couldn't bring myself to be disappointed. Having someone cook for me, take care of me—it wasn't something I was used to, and I was more grateful than I could ever put into words.

"Good morning, Molly," I said, stepping forward and giving her a quick hug. She looked surprised but smiled warmly.

"Good morning, love. You're up early."

"I guess I'm just excited to start lessons today," I admitted. "And I wanted to surprise everyone with breakfast—but clearly, I'm too late for that." I grinned, grabbing a knife to help her cut the strawberries.
Molly beamed. "Nonsense, dear. You can help me finish up."

And so we worked side by side, preparing breakfast together. I sliced fruit, buttered toast, and flipped pancakes. By the time the smell of warm food filled the kitchen, the house had begun to stir.

One by one, people started making their way downstairs. First Arthur, giving me a kind smile before pecking Molly on the cheek. Then Ron, still half-asleep, mumbling something about bacon. Next was Ginny, followed by Harry, who rubbed his eyes, and Hermione, who looked entirely too awake for this early hour, then Fred and George.

„Well, well, look at this," Fred announced "Mayhem, voluntarily awake before noon. Never thought I'd see the day."

George smirked, eyeing my oversized sweater. "And looking absolutely ravishing in what I can only assume is her attempt at a new fashion statement—'Homeless but Make It Cozy.'"

I rolled my eyes, tossing a strawberry at his face. He caught it effortlessly and popped it into his mouth. "Delicious," he said with a wink.

Molly clapped her hands together. "Enough, you three. Sit down and eat before everything gets cold."

Breakfast was spent going over my study plan, assigning cleaning tasks to the others, and discussing plans for the rest of the summer.

The first four weeks would follow a regular schedule—Charms starting today, Potions next week, then Defense Against the Dark Arts, and finally Transfiguration. After that, things would get... intense. With only six weeks to cover nine subjects, week five would be brutal: History of Magic and Divination during the day, Astrology at night. To survive on barely any sleep, I'd be given another potion to keep me going.

That week was also when everyone—except Sirius, who still couldn't risk showing his face in public—would be leaving for the Quidditch World Cup final. But instead of coming back here afterward, they'd return to the Burrow. It made sense. This house wasn't exactly a summer retreat. They hadn't stayed here because they wanted to—only to keep me company. And now that I'd be buried in studies anyway, there was no reason for them to stay.

The last week of my studies would take place at Hogwarts, where I'd focus on Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. I told myself that was a good thing—it would give me time to get used to the castle before everyone else arrived.

Still, the thought of being left alone in this house for an entire week made my stomach twist. I'd gotten used to the noise, the constant company, the way the Weasleys, Harry and Hermione filled every space with warmth. Without them, the house would feel colder, darker—just me, Sirius, and the ghosts of the past whispering through the walls.

Professor McGonagall had assured me this was the safest place for now, at least until we knew if my cover story would hold. This house was also the headquarters of some secret order they promised to explain later. But none of that changed the fact that for a whole week, I'd be stuck here. Almost alone.

Fred and George, of course, noticed the look on my face.

"Aww, would you look at that, George?" Fred said, nudging his twin. "Absolutely devastated."

"Tragic," George agreed, shaking his head. "Two whole weeks without us. Don't know how she'll go on."

"Maybe she won't," Fred mused. "Might just waste away from heartbreak."

"I'll manage," I deadpanned.

"Will you, though?" Fred smirked. "No charming distractions, no dashing humor, no devastatingly handsome twins to keep you entertained..."

I rolled my eyes. "You two are so full of yourselves."

George grinned. "She's just in denial. Bet she won't last a day before she starts missing us."

"Oh, definitely," I said, feigning distress.
"I'll go to bed at night, wishing I had you to keep me occupied."

Silence.

Fred and George stared at me.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Had I just—?

My face went hot. "I—I didn't mean—I meant with fireworks... like yesterday.."

Fred's grin stretched even wider. "Ohhh, is that what you meant?"

George cocked his head, eyes glinting. "Because it sounded like you meant something else entirely."

I could feel the heat rushing to my face. "Obviously, that's what I meant!" I blurted out, far too quickly to sound convincing.

George let out a low whistle. "Blimey, Fred, didn't realize she was gonna miss us that much."

Fred smirked. "Think we should cancel our plans? Wouldn't want to leave her all... frustrated."

I choked on air, coughing as Ron clapped me on the back, looking slightly amused.

George shook his head with a dramatic sigh. "Nah, she'll be fine. I'm sure she can keep herself occupied."

Fred nodded sagely. "True, true. Still, if you need assistance, Mayhem —"

"—STOP." My voice was about three octaves higher than usual.

Fred and George just grinned.

Molly, thankfully, chose that moment to turn around with a plate of cookies. "What are you three going on about?"

"Nothing, Mom," George said smoothly. "Just checking in on Lena's... needs while we're gone."

I made a strangled noise.

Molly frowned. "That's very sweet of you, dear."

Fred patted her shoulder.
"Oh, we're just naturally caring, Mom."

I buried my face in my hands.

George mimicked my earlier tone with a dramatic sigh. "She'll go to bed at night, wishing she had us to keep her occupied."

I let out a muffled sigh into my hands as they burst into laughter.

-

The whole day passed in a blur of lessons and practice with Professor Flitwick. We worked through a mix of charms, starting with the basics and quickly moving on to more complicated spells. He was patient and encouraging, always pointing out where I could improve, and before long, I could feel myself making real progress. Molly had brought us food throughout the day—sandwiches, fruit, and even a batch of warm scones, ensuring we were well-fed while we worked.
By the time the sun began to set, I was exhausted but strangely proud of how much I'd learned in such a short time.
As the last charm was perfected, I was proud — finally feeling a small sense of ownership over the magic that had once felt so overwhelming.

Tired but satisfied, I left the room, heading downstairs for a late dinner.
When I entered the kitchen, I noticed that everyone else had already finished their meal. The sounds of laughter and conversation floated in from the living room. I grabbed a bowl of soup, eating in silence.

Just as I was finishing up, Hermione appeared in the doorway. "Hey," she said softly, glancing at me. "How's it going? How are the lessons?"

I offered her a tired smile. "It's going well. I mean, it's a lot, but I'm getting there. Flitwick's been really great, actually. He's patient and... well, I'm starting to feel like I'm getting control over it all."

Hermione's expression softened, her eyes thoughtful. "That's really good to hear. It's got to be tough, right? You're doing so much in such a short time."

I nodded, picking up my spoon again. "Yeah, but it's good. I feel like I'm making progress, even if I don't have a lot of time to breathe."

She smiled, sitting across from me. "Well, if you need any help, you know I'm here, right? We can study together—if you want. I know it's a lot, but you don't have to do it alone."

I felt a warmth spread through me at her words. Despite the pressure of the situation, it was comforting to know I had her here with me."Thanks, Hermione. I might take you up on that.„

She smiled brightly. "Anytime."

After finishing my soup, Hermione stood up with me, offering me a reassuring smile as we made our way into the living room.

As we entered, Ginny looked up from the couch, a curious expression on her face. "How was it?" she asked, her tone warm. "How's the magic coming along?"

"It's going well," I said, settling next to her. "Flitwick's been great, actually. I'm starting to feel like I'm making progress."

Ginny nodded approvingly. "That's awesome! I knew you'd catch on fast. Want to crochet with me while we relax? I think I've finally got the hang of it!"

I smiled, excited by the suggestion. "Sure, I'd love to. Do you also want to try Hermione?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow and grinned. "I've never really tried it before, but why not? I'm up for learning."

Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Sirius were gathered around the coffee table, playing a tense game of Exploding Snap. Every now and then, a card would explode in a puff of smoke, and they'd groan or laugh depending on whose turn it was.

"Got you again, Ron!" Harry grinned, holding up his card triumphantly.

Ron's face scrunched up, but there was a playful glint in his eye. "You're cheating, I swear. This isn't even fair!"

Sirius chuckled, tossing his own card into the pile. "It's all part of the fun, Ron. Maybe next time you'll get him."

I couldn't help but smile as I watched them. Even though I had been isolated with my lessons all day, it was moments like this—surrounded by laughter and easy company—that made me feel like I started to belong here.

After spending some relaxed time crocheting and laughing with the girls, Fred and George eventually joined us. They were deeply absorbed in their business plans, sitting on the opposite sofa with large slices of caramel tart in front of them.

I was in a bold mood, but a hint of disappointment lingered. They hadn't teased me again, not even acknowledged, and I couldn't help but wonder—had they thought my comment earlier was too inappropriate? A wave of uncertainty washed over me. Were they disgusted, avoiding me now?

Before I could spiral into overthinking, I decided to take charge. This time, it was my turn.

As George picked up his plate, eyes still glued to the papers in front of him, I gathered my thoughts. I had done this before without a wand, and I was sure it would work again. Just as George was about to bite into his cake, I casually floated the slice toward me. Without looking up, I caught it midair and took a bite.

"Mmh.. delicious" I said with a grin, eyes focused on my crochet project.

Fred watched his twin take a dramatic bite of thin air, unable to hold back his laughter

"Well, well," he said with a smirk, leaning forward, "if I'd known you were that desperate for a bite of our tart, you could've just asked, Mayhem."

George followed up with a raised eyebrow. "Or maybe you're just... hungry for something else?" His voice dropped in a teasing tone, his eyes scanning me with exaggerated interest.

"I didn't ask for your cake, I just borrowed it," I said, as nonchalantly as possible, barely glancing up.

Fred snorted. "Borrowed, huh? Well, I hope you're not planning on taking anything else without asking."

I glanced up from my crochet, shooting them a sweet smile. "Oh, don't worry. There's nothing else you've got that I want."

Fred's eyes lit up, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back in his chair. "Oh, really? Nothing at all?" he teased, raising an eyebrow. "Because I could have sworn you were eyeing something else."

Game time.

I leaned forward, letting my gaze linger on him with an intentional slowness, my eyes locking with his as I let the moment stretch on just a bit too long.

"Well, Freddie," I said, my voice dropping just slightly, the words deliberate and playful, "now that you mention it... there is something I desperately want from you."

His expression shifted, as he watched me, completely caught off guard. And just as he stood frozen, his piece of tart floated over to me as well.

"Here, Ginny," I said sweetly. "Have some cake!"

Fred blinked, his mouth dropping open slightly. His usual smirk faltered, then morphed into a more intrigued expression as he looked me up and down, his eyes lingering a bit too long.

George chuckled quietly, his grin widening as he shook his head. "Honestly, I think she's got more guts than we thought, Fred."

„Well, well," Fred said, voice low and teasing, "if I'd known you were gonna be that bold, Mayhem, we would've started playing dirty too."
He leaned back but not entirely, just enough to shift his body slightly toward me, his eyes gleaming with a mix of challenge and amusement.
„But remember—if you're gonna play the game, you'd better be ready for whatever we throw back"

I met his gaze, my heart racing as the realization hit—I might've just bitten off more than I could chew. But I couldn't back out now.
After all, I'd started this mess.

Chapter Text

The week had passed in a blur of spells, notes, and endless charm incantations. Flitwick was a fantastic teacher, and I genuinely enjoyed his lessons. But, despite the excitement of learning, I was absolutely exhausted.

The days were long. Each morning started early, eating breakfast alone in the kitchen. Not even Molly was awake, but she made sure to prep breakfast for me before she went to bed every night. It was heartwarming, and Molly had started to become a motherly figure for me.
By the time dinner came around, I was mentally drained. The study sessions stretched into the night, with barely enough time to sleep before the next one began. I could feel myself growing more and more tired as the days went by, and by the end of each session, all I wanted to do was rest.

The others were always around, chatting and laughing, but I just didn't have the energy to join in. I'd make my way down to dinner, try to be present for a while, but as soon as the last bite of food was finished, I'd excuse myself and head up to my room. Often I'd eat alone because they were already done with their meal. It wasn't that I didn't want to spend time with them but my brain was on overload and I could barely hold a conversation longer than two sentences.

Fred and George, however, didn't get the hint. Ever since the tart incident, they had decided this was war. My notes scrambled into nonsense, my ink turned invisible, and once, my textbook sang every time I opened it. At first, I tried ignoring them. Surely, they'd get bored if I didn't react.

They didn't.

If anything, it only made them worse. As if they were waiting—begging—for me to snap. And the worst part? I wanted to.

Not because I was truly mad, but because deep down, I wished they'd just stop. That instead of making my life harder, they'd notice I was drowning and pull me out.

One evening, I finally let it slip.

"I swear, if you two don't quit messing with my things—" I started, exhausted.

Fred smirked. "Ooooh, is that a threat?"

George leaned forward. "Because if it is, I do hope you remember—you started this war."

I huffed, rubbing my temples. "Do you two ever let something go?"

Fred grinned. "Not a chance."

"Especially not when we're winning," George added.

I looked at them, at their stupid grins, and something inside me twisted. I don't want a war. I wanted them to sit with me. To keep me company in the mornings. To tell me it was okay to feel overwhelmed.

I stopped for a second in the doorway, my grip tightening on the frame. For a brief moment, I thought about telling them—really telling them—how drained I was, how much I wished they'd just see it.

But then Fred nudged George, already grinning about their next move, and I knew it wouldn't matter.

-

The second week brought a shift in my studies—Charms made way for Potions, and with it came a new, rather unexpected mentor: Horace Slughorn.

Slughorn was nothing like I had imagined a Potions Master to be. If anything, he was the opposite of what I had expected after hearing stories about Snape. Where I had braced myself for cold indifference, Slughorn greeted me with warmth, enthusiasm, and an almost comical level of self-importance. He was round-bellied, with a thick mustache and a voice that always seemed on the verge of laughter, especially when talking about his most promising students.

And to my surprise, I quickly became one of them.

Potions came to me easily. The first day, Slughorn had set me a series of 'beginner exercises,' watching with mild curiosity as I crushed, stirred, and brewed my way through them. That curiosity quickly turned to fascination when he realized I didn't need any help. By the end of the lesson, he was beaming, clapping me on the back as if I had just won some grand prize.

"Exceptional, my dear! Simply exceptional! You have a natural instinct for this—precision, patience, an eye for detail... ah, yes, a true talent!"

I wasn't sure about that. To me, Potions felt a lot like cooking. Following recipes, adjusting flavors, knowing which herbs worked together and which ones didn't—it all translated seamlessly into brewing. The only real difference was that, in this kitchen, one wrong move could make your cauldron explode.

By the end of the week, Slughorn had made up his mind about me.

"You know," he mused, watching me put the finishing touches on a flawless Draught of Peace, "it's a shame you're not in your proper year just yet. The NEWT-level curriculum would be a far better challenge for you."

I glanced up, confused. "Aren't I—?"

"Technically, technically," he waved his hand, "you're not sixteen until the term starts, so you would normally be placed a year below. But it would be a crime to let this talent go to waste! I think I'll have a word with Minerva—yes, yes, I will."

And just like that, he made up his mind. He was going to ask McGonagall to place me into the sixth-year Potions class.

-

Fred and George's pranks didn't stop. If anything, they intensified.

I kept my head down, tried to bury myself in my studies, and steered clear of them as much as I could. But it didn't stop. They'd set up more pranks when I wasn't looking, always waiting for me to catch them in the act. It was getting harder and harder to pretend it didn't bother me.

I started avoiding them whenever I could. During meals, I slipped to the furthest corner of the room, hiding behind books or pretending to be busy with something else. Even when I had to face them, I did my best to keep it short. I could feel them watching me, waiting for some sort of reaction.

It was as if they didn't see how overwhelmed I was, how tired I was, or how desperately I just wanted them to stop. And yet, every prank felt like another blow to my already-fragile patience. They didn't get it. They didn't see how much I was struggling.

It hurt. And as much as I tried to tell myself it didn't, the weight of their playful cruelty left me feeling more and more alone. It was like they only wanted to see how far they could push me before I snapped. They never stopped to ask if I was okay.
And I wasn't.

-

The third week arrived with a familiar sense of dread. I had already learned to anticipate the days ahead—how I would wake up exhausted, how the hours seemed to slip away, each minute filled with the pressure to understand and master something new. But, despite the overwhelming exhaustion, there was one class that stood out from the rest:
Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Professor Lupin was calm—too calm for someone who had fought through so much. His presence was steady, warm, and surprisingly comforting. He didn't speak like most professors and asked me to call him „Remus" right away.
He spoke like someone who understood the weight of the world, yet still found a way to smile through it.

"Ready to begin?" he asked on our first morning together, his voice soft but inviting.

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat. "Yeah. I mean... I guess so."

"Good," he said with a slight smile, giving me a look of quiet encouragement. "Now, Defense Against the Dark Arts isn't just about the spells. It's about understanding the magic you're facing, understanding yourself. It's a personal journey. I'll be guiding you, but you'll be the one to learn the most important part."

I looked at him, curious. "What's that?"

"To trust your instincts," Remus said simply, leaning back in his chair. "You already have a lot of power inside you, Lena. We'll need to focus on how to channel that energy, how to focus it into your magic."

I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, but I trusted him enough to follow his lead. And the lessons he gave me weren't like the others. They weren't fast-paced or frantic. We didn't rush through spells. He didn't try to push me too far beyond what I could handle. Instead, he spent time helping me connect with the magic inside me, helping me focus my thoughts, helping me believe in my own strength.

As the week went on, we dove into the concept of Patronus magic. At first, I was intimidated. How could I possibly conjure a Patronus? I didn't even fully understand the magic I was wielding. But Lupin encouraged me, gently guiding me through it.

"Do you remember what I said about trusting your instincts?" he asked one afternoon, as we sat across from one another. The sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, casting a faint glow over the space. "This isn't about the technicalities of the spell. It's about focusing on your happiest memory. But don't force it. Let the memory come to you naturally."

I closed my eyes, trying to picture something. A memory that might be happy enough to pull the magic out of me. I thought of the beach, of my old life—of kiting through the waves, feeling the rush of wind against my skin. I focused on the freedom I felt in that moment, the peace that came with it.

But as I waved my wand, nothing happened.

Lupin watched quietly from across the room, his expression unreadable, but I could feel his steady presence. He didn't rush me. He just waited. "You're trying too hard," he said after a while, a gentle tone in his voice. "Let go of the pressure. You've already created a connection, now let it flow."

I frowned. "But nothing happened."

"That's okay," Lupin said, his voice reassuring. "You're still learning. The most important thing is to not force it. You have to feel the magic, not just think about it."

I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. Slowly, I began to picture the memory again—not forcing it, but just letting it come. And this time, as I raised my wand, something shifted inside me.

A light, a presence—it was like something big, something wild, stirring within me. And then, with a sudden rush, I saw it.

A massive humpback whale.

It was beautiful, in its own way. The silver shimmer of the whale filled the room, a vast shape moving through the air like it was swimming in the ocean. It felt powerful, calm, and alive. I could almost hear the song of the whale, echoing in my mind, a deep, resonating sound that made me feel something I couldn't quite put into words.

Lupin smiled softly, but there was a warmth in his expression that felt like approval. "That's it, Lena," he said, his voice low and thoughtful.
"You're doing well," Lupin said quietly, his gaze on the Patronus. "You've connected with your inner strength. That's a huge step."

I nodded, still a little in awe of the whale, but also a little confused. "Why a whale?" I asked, mostly to myself.

Lupin's smile softened, and he leaned forward slightly, his eyes twinkling with quiet understanding. "The whale represents something deep, something powerful but gentle. I think it suits you."

I looked at him, surprised. "How do you know?"

Lupin paused for a moment, then spoke, his tone almost thoughtful. "I've spent years studying magic, and even longer studying people. The Patronus you summon is often tied to something deep inside you. The magic you've used here is a reflection of who you are, of what you're capable of."

There was something else in his words, something that felt too close to home, but I didn't press it. I simply nodded, letting the understanding settle over me. It felt... right. There was something comforting about being with him—like he knew exactly what I was going through, even without me saying a word. And somehow, in that moment, I felt understood. More than I had in a long time.

As the lesson ended, Lupin gave me one last, thoughtful look.

"You're doing well, Lena," he repeated, his voice soft and warm. "You're stronger than you think."

I smiled, unsure of what to say, but grateful. Grateful for his patience, for his calm.

"And tomorrow," Remus added with a mischievous glint in his eye, "we'll have a fun lesson."

-

It was the first evening in days that I was able to join the others for dinner, and I could feel a welcome sense of relief settle over me. After the lessons with Remus—which had lifted my mood and brought a flicker of energy back into my tired body—I was genuinely looking forward to this small moment of normalcy.

As I made my way down the stairs, I saw Ginny and Harry already in the midst of setting the table. To my surprise, Remus was joining us for dinner—a welcome addition. I could only hope his presence might restrain the twins -  he had been their teacher last year as well.

The smell of Molly's cooking greeted me as soon as I entered the small kitchen —rich, savory, and mouth-watering. She had outdone herself today, preparing pasta—my favorite dish. The sight of it, paired with the scent of garlic and herbs, immediately lifted my spirits, and my stomach gave a little impatient flutter.

The table quickly filled with people—Remus, Ginny, Harry, Hermione, and Molly—laughing and chatting as they took their seats, while Sirius, Arthur, and Ron were deep in discussion about Ministry affairs. Fred and George, of course, winked at me as they sat down. To my surprise, I didn't mind today. Maybe it was never really about them—I just hadn't had the mental energy to keep up with them these past few weeks.

I could feel the warmth of their laughter filling the room, and for the first time in days, I found myself genuinely relaxing, allowing the good humor to wash over me. It had been a while since I had been able to truly enjoy an evening with them, and the simple pleasure of this shared meal felt like a balm to my soul.

"Tomorrow we'll be working with a boggart," Remus said casually, his voice warm and friendly as he twirled another forkful of pasta. He had a habit of speaking in that way, like we were all just a group of friends, which I appreciated more than I realized.

"Anyone fancy joining us? The more, the merrier."

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow over the long wooden table. The scent of freshly brewed tea and warm toast filled the air, mixing with the laughter and chatter of everyone gathered for breakfast. For once, I wasn't dragging myself downstairs half-asleep or too tired to function—I actually felt like part of the group again.

Molly had outdone herself, as usual, setting out plates of eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh fruit. Arthur was already sipping his tea, buried in the Daily Prophet, while Sirius and Remus were deep in conversation at the far end of the table. Ron, still looking half-asleep, was slowly buttering a piece of toast like it required all of his focus. Ginny and Hermione sat beside me, whispering about something I was too distracted to catch.

The excitement in the room was unmistakable. Today was the boggart lesson, and judging by the way Harry, Ron, and Hermione were grinning, it was more of a fun event than an actual test of skill. They had already faced a boggart before—back in their third year with Remus—so they knew exactly what to expect.

Ginny, on the other hand, was practically bouncing in her seat. "I can't wait," she said, beaming. "I mean, I know it's supposed to be scary, but Riddikulus sounds like such a fun spell."

"You say that now," Ron muttered, biting into his toast. "Just wait until you're face-to-face with whatever nightmare's hiding in that wardrobe."

"Oh, come on," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "You handled it just fine, and so did Harry."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, well, I don't think Snape in a dress is going to come back this time."

At that, the whole table burst into laughter, and even Remus chuckled into his tea. "I certainly hope not," he said, shaking his head.

I smiled, but there was a small knot in my stomach. Unlike the others, I had no idea what my boggart would be. I'd never faced one before, and the thought of some deep, hidden fear exposing itself in front of everyone made me a little uneasy.

Of course, Fred and George picked up on it immediately.

"Ahh, but what about you, Mayhem?" Fred leaned forward, smirking. "What do you reckon your boggart's going to be?"

"Something terrifying, no doubt," George added, eyes glinting with mischief. "Like being forced to wake up before noon."

I rolled my eyes, buttering a piece of toast. "Hilarious," I said dryly.

"Or maybe—" Fred gasped dramatically, nudging George. "What if it's—studying?"

George clutched his heart. "The horror!"

I threw a piece of toast at them. Fred caught it mid-air and took a bite,

"You know," I mused, tilting my head, "if I had to guess, your boggart is probably GIRLS."

There was a beat of silence. Then Ginny snorted into her tea.

Fred's smirk widened. "Girls, huh?"

"Makes sense," I said casually, taking a sip of my tea. "Explains why neither of you has a girlfriend."

Hermione gasped. "Lena!"

But the twins were already grinning at each other like they had just been given a challenge.

"Ouch," George said, hand over his chest. "That one actually hurt."

"Deeply wounded," Fred agreed, shaking his head. "And here I thought you had a soft spot for us."

I smirked. "Not when it comes to facts."

Fred leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Careful, Mayhem, if you keep teasing us like that, people might start to think you're flirting."

I matched his look, feigning innocence. "Oh? And what would you do about that?"

George raised an eyebrow. "Depends. Are you flirting?"

I pretended to think. "Well, I don't know," I said sweetly. "Would that scare you?"

Fred's smirk never wavered. If anything, it grew. "Not in the slightest."

George grinned. "Why, are we scaring you?"

Something about the way they both looked at me—amused, challenging, far too confident—made me hesitate for half a second too long.

"I—" I cleared my throat and forced an easy smile. "Obviously not."

Fred hummed. "Hmm. That didn't sound entirely convincing, did it, Georgie?"

"Not at all," George mused, shaking his head. "Poor Mayhem. Big, scary boggart hasn't even shown up yet, and she's already rattled."

I rolled my eyes, feeling my face warm slightly. "Oh, shut up."

Before they could keep pushing, Molly suddenly turned around, wiping her hands on her apron. "Speaking of which," she said, looking at the twins with a suspiciously sweet expression. "Why don't you two have girlfriends? Hmm?"

The twins groaned in unison.

"Mum—" Fred started, exasperated.

"—Not this again," George finished.

Molly folded her arms. "It's a valid question! You're both charming young men—"

Fred shot me a look. "See? Even Mum says so."

I scoffed. "Molly is obligated to say that."

Molly ignored me. "—And yet, no lovely witches in your lives. Why is that?"

Fred cleared his throat. "Ah, well, you see, it's very complicated, Mum—"

"Very complicated," George echoed, nodding.

"Loads of factors at play."

"Timing."

"Fate."

"Market demand."

I snorted into my tea. "Market demand?"

Fred turned to me with a smirk. "Well, Mayhem, a product as high quality as us? We can't just be given away to anyone."

George sighed dramatically. "Exactly. There'd be riots. Absolute chaos."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, the entire female population is devastated."

Fred pressed a hand to his chest. "A tragic reality we live with every day."

Molly huffed. "Oh, honestly, you two."
She shook her head, muttering about her "impossible sons" as she waved her wand, clearing up some of the plates. "Well, girlfriends or not, you lot better hurry and finish up. You don't want to be late."

I took a deep breath, the teasing momentarily forgotten as the reality of the lesson set in.

-

The drawing room of Grimmauld Place had been cleared for practice, dust swirling in the morning light filtering through the grimy windows. We stood in a loose semicircle around a large, rattling wardrobe, its doors trembling under the weight of the creature trapped inside. I could feel the excitement buzzing through the room—everyone but Ginny and I had already faced a boggart before, and they all seemed eager to take their turn.

Remus stood at the front, his wand relaxed at his side. "Alright, who wants to go first?"

Harry stepped forward without hesitation, wand already raised. The wardrobe burst open, and a Dementor glided out, the temperature dropping instantly. But before the chill could fully sink into my bones, Harry took a steady breath.

"Riddikulus!"

The Dementor tripped on its own tattered robes and slammed face-first into the floor, writhing as if caught in invisible strings. Laughter rippled through the group, and with another flick of Harry's wand, the creature retreated back into the wardrobe.

Ron was next, looking tense as he stepped forward. The wardrobe burst open again—this time, an enormous spider scuttled out, its grotesque legs twitching in anticipation. Ron paled but raised his wand.

"Riddikulus!"

The spider suddenly found itself rolling onto eight mismatched roller skates. It teetered dangerously, its legs splaying in every direction before crashing onto its back with a comical thud. Laughter erupted, even from Ron, and with a wave of his wand, the boggart vanished once more.

Hermione's turn came, and as expected, her worst fear was something intangible but deeply personal. Professor McGonagall stepped out of the wardrobe, face tight with disappointment, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger. You've failed everything."

Hermione went stiff, her knuckles whitening around her wand. "Riddikulus!" she said quickly, voice slightly breathless.

The McGonagall-boggart suddenly pulled out a bright pink party hat and a kazoo, blowing into it with a loud, undignified squeak. That was enough to snap her out of it, and as laughter rippled through the room, she stepped back, looking relieved.

Ginny took a deep breath and approached next. The boggart shifted, twisting into a tall, dark-haired boy, his expression cruelly amused.

Tom Riddle.

The room went silent. Ginny's face drained of color, but she held her ground. His lips parted as if to speak, but before he could, Ginny flicked her wand.

"Riddikulus!"

Riddle's smirk melted away, replaced with a horrified expression as his robes suddenly transformed into a lacy pink nightgown. A massive bonnet appeared on his head, and the diary he was holding was replaced with an enormous baby bottle. The sight was so absurd that Ginny let out a shaky laugh, and the boggart recoiled, retreating once again.

Then came Fred and George.

I expected something ridiculous. Maybe Percy giving them a long-winded speech about "Ministry-approved career paths" or the two of them in suits and ties, doomed to a life of desk work. But the boggart shifted, and my stomach twisted at what emerged.

George let out a sharp breath.

It was... Fred.

Lying motionless on the floor, eyes unseeing, his usual smirk nowhere in sight.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then the boggart changed again—now it was George, slumped against the wall, his head lolling to the side like a broken doll.

The twins didn't hesitate.

"Riddikulus!" they said together, their voices steady.

The lifeless figures twitched, then abruptly shot upright. An obnoxiously loud snore echoed through the room, and suddenly, their boggart selves rolled over onto bright pink satin pillows, curling up like overgrown babies. Fred's boggart-self sucked his thumb. George's twitched, then dramatically muttered, "Five more minutes, Mum," before flopping onto its side.

The tension broke instantly. Laughter rang out, but I couldn't stop staring at them.

Fred and George were grinning, unbothered by the moment of vulnerability they had just shared with the entire room.

They weren't embarrassed. They didn't brush it off. They just... accepted it.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling like I had seen something I wasn't meant to.

Then, before I could dwell on it too long, Remus turned to me.

"Lena?"

As the last echoes of laughter faded, the boggart twisted again, shifting violently in the air. It curled in on itself like smoke, its form melting and reshaping as it sought its next victim. My breath hitched as it turned toward me.

My turn.

I stepped forward, gripping my wand a little tighter, my pulse drumming in my ears. The boggart twisted and shifted, searching, sensing, feeding on whatever fear it could pull from me.

And then—

Something huge and green came flying straight at me.

I jerked back on instinct, my breath catching, my hands tightening around my wand.

A grasshopper.

No. Not just a grasshopper.

A monstrosity.

It thudded onto the floor, far too large, its grotesquely oversized legs twitching, its bulging black eyes locked onto mine. It made an awful clicking sound, and my entire body tensed. Then—

It jumped.

I barely swallowed a yelp, my heart hammering in my chest, my skin crawling as if the thing was already on me.

Somewhere behind me, someone snorted.

"What the—?" Fred's voice broke through the room, half startled, half laughing.

"Mayhem," George said, sounding incredulous, "is your boggart a grasshopper?"

I barely heard them. My jaw was tight, my breath shallow, my mind trying to process what I was seeing.

A grasshopper.

Of all the things in the world.

My fingers twitched around my wand, my chest rising and falling a little too quickly. Why? I thought. Why this?

And then it hit me.

Because if this was what the boggart had chosen—if this was what remained—

Everything that once made me feel safe was gone. My home was no longer mine. My parents had cast me aside without hesitation. And Mona...

I had already lived my worst nightmares.
Not in fleeting moments, not in passing fears—
But in reality.

The realization settled over me like a weight—not crushing, but cold. A quiet, unshakable truth that pressed deep into my bones.

I exhaled sharply, the panic ebbing just enough for me to refocus. The boggart twitched, clicking its awful legs, preparing to jump again.

Not this time.

I gritted my teeth and lifted my wand, finally forcing myself to look at it properly.

"Riddikulus!"

With a loud pop, the giant grasshopper's legs stretched out like rubber bands, wobbling uncontrollably. A tiny top hat appeared on its stupid head, and when it jumped, it squeaked like a dog toy.

Laughter erupted around me.

Ginny actually snorted, clutching her stomach. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking with barely contained amusement. Ron let out a loud, barking laugh, and even Hermione, who usually tried to be composed, was grinning.

As soon as the doors slammed shut, Remus flicked his wand, locking it back in place.

"Well done, Lena," he said with a knowing smile.

I forced a laugh, my smile strained and brittle, while inside, tears threatened to spill over. I knew that the absurdity of the boggart was meant to be funny, yet every jibe about a giant grasshopper only reminded me of what I had already lost.
All those heart-wrenching truths laid buried beneath the silliness.

"A—A grasshopper?!" Fred choked out. "Merlin's beard, I thought we'd seen it all—"

"Oh, this is golden," George wheezed. "Absolutely brilliant."

Fred wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "I think I'm actually crying."

George added, with a smirk, "Yeah, I mean, what's scarier than a giant grasshopper? Nothing, apparently!" Their words rang out, each one another playful stab, and I bit my lip, determined not to let them see the tears I almost felt.

-

After the laughter died down and the boggart was safely locked away, the others gradually trickled out of the drawing room, still buzzing from the lesson. I lingered behind with Remus, helping him clear up.

He didn't press me, didn't comment on how I wasn't laughing like the rest of them. But after a few quiet minutes, he finally spoke.

"You handled that well," he said, his voice steady but gentle.

I swallowed, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "I just... I don't get it," I admitted. "I was expecting something worse."

Remus set down his wand and leaned against the desk, watching me carefully. He didn't say anything, waiting for me to continue.

I hesitated, then sighed. "I've already lost everything I was afraid of losing. My parents, my home, my best friend. That should've been my boggart. But instead, it's a stupid grasshopper."

Remus studied me for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he nodded slowly. "The thing about fear, Lena, is that it doesn't always work the way we expect it to." He folded his arms, his expression thoughtful. "Your deepest fears—the ones you were expecting—those are wounds. Painful, yes. But you've already survived them. You've already lived through them. They can't haunt you the same way anymore."

I swallowed hard.

"But a boggart," he continued, "it doesn't just choose the greatest loss you've suffered. It picks at what's left. What lingers beneath the surface." He tilted his head. "A grasshopper might seem ridiculous, but maybe that's why your mind clung to it. It's a fear that's still raw. Still untouched by reality."

I exhaled slowly, nodding, it made sense in a strange, unsettling way.

"Still," I muttered, rubbing my face. "Doesn't make it any less humiliating."

Remus actually chuckled. "No, I suppose not."

-

The rest of the day passed in a blur of lessons. I was grateful for the distraction, throwing myself into whatever he assigned me, but my mind kept drifting. I couldn't stop thinking about the boggart.
About what it said about me.

When dinner finally rolled around, I wasn't sure if I wanted to join. But skipping another meal would just make people notice, and the last thing I wanted was for anyone—especially Fred and George—to pry.

So I forced myself downstairs, slipping into my usual seat at the long table.

Conversations swirled around me, warm and familiar. Ron and Harry were arguing about some Quidditch statistic, Hermione was debating something with Sirius, and Ginny was chatting animatedly with Remus about dueling techniques. It should have felt normal. Comfortable.

But I couldn't seem to focus.

I pushed the food around my plate, nodding along to whatever Ginny was saying, but my mind felt detached, like I was watching everything happen through a fog.

And then, of course, Fred and George zeroed in.

"So, Mayhem," Fred's grin unmistakably mischievous. "Recovered from your terrifying battle with the monstrous grasshopper?"

George leaned against the table, smirking. "Or should we be on guard in case another one comes hopping out of the shadows?"

I mustered a half-smile, but I didn't have the energy to match their teasing. "Very funny," I muttered, stabbing at a piece of potato.

Fred hummed, tilting his head. "Not your usual comeback. What's the matter? Still shaken?"

George tapped his chin. "You know, if you need someone to walk you to bed, just in case a rogue cricket decides to attack, we'd be happy to volunteer."

Fred grinned. "Anything for your safety, of course."

Normally, I would have thrown something at them. Snarked back. But the weight in my chest was too heavy, my mind too tangled in thoughts I didn't want to have. So instead, I forced a smile and said, "I think I'll manage."

George frowned slightly, like he'd expected more.

Fred nudged my arm. "Come on, Mayhem. Don't tell me we've finally broken you."

I shook my head, pushing back from the table. "No, just tired," I said lightly, though it wasn't entirely a lie. "I think I'll turn in early."

Fred and George exchanged a look. A look I was all too familiar with.

I narrowed my eyes. "What?"

They grinned in perfect synchrony.

"Oh, nothing," Fred said innocently.

"Absolutely nothing," George echoed.

I crossed my arms. "That is the least convincing 'nothing' I've ever heard."

Fred leaned in slightly. "Well, if you're really that curious, I suppose you could always leave your door unlocked tonight."

George waggled his eyebrows. "You know. For... security reasons."

Something about their tone sent a warning bell through my brain, but I was too tired to pick it apart.

I rolled my eyes, standing up. "Goodnight, idiots."

And with that, I turned and left, fully aware that whatever they were planning—I probably wasn't going to like it.

Chapter Text

I woke up to something skittering across my thigh.

At first, I was too drowsy to react. My fingers twitched, brushing at whatever it was.

And then I heard it.

Click. Click. Click.

My breath caught in my throat.

That sound—I knew that sound.

I turned my head, barely awake, and—

Something huge and green launched toward me.

I screamed.

Not a startled yelp. Not a gasp.
A bloodcurdling, gut-wrenching, terror-stricken scream.

The kind that rips from your throat before you even know what's happening.

I scrambled back against the headboard, my legs tangling in the sheets, my chest tight, heaving, shaking.

They were everywhere.

The bed. The floor. The walls.
Crawling, twitching, moving.

Some jumped, hitting the walls before landing on the covers. Others just sat there, watching me with bulging black eyes.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't think.

I clawed at the sheets, trying to shove them off me, my breath rapid, too fast, too shallow.

Another one jumped.

I shrieked, shoving myself away so violently that I almost tumbled off the bed. My hands were shaking too hard to grab my wand.

I needed to get out.

Now.

But the second my foot hit the ground, I saw them crawling across the floor, blocking my way to the door, and—

I sobbed. A raw, desperate sound I couldn't even recognize as my own.

And then—

Footsteps.

A door slamming open.

Light flooded the room.

"Lena?!" Ginny's voice. Panicked. Sharp.

More voices. Too many.

Sirius. Remus. Harry. Ron. Hermione. Molly. Arthur.

And then them.

Fred and George.

For one suspended second, the room froze.

And then—Remus reacted first.

"Finite Incantatem!"

A wave of magic rippled through the room.

And just like that— the grasshoppers vanished.

Everything was gone.

Except for my ragged breathing. Except for the shaking in my hands.

I could still feel them.

Crawling up my arms.

Jumping toward my face.

The room spun.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to ground myself, trying to breathe.

And then—

A laugh.

Fred.

A nervous chuckle, like he was still riding the high of the joke.

"Bloody hell, Mayhem," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't think you'd actually—"

"YOU TWO"

Molly's voice sliced through the room. Sharp. Furious.

Fred's grin dropped.

George, who had been standing frozen, swallowed hard.

Ginny turned toward them, her face dark with disbelief.

"Wait." She took a step closer. "You did this?"

Fred hesitated. "It was—"

"Just a joke," George finished.

A joke.

A joke.

The words echoed.

And something cracked inside me.
I wasn't just shaking because of the grasshoppers.
It was the realization that I was just a joke to them.
I wasn't their friend.
I wasn't someone they cared about.

I was entertainment.

Everything I had been holding in—

The loss of my home.

The rejection of my parents.

The slow fading of Mona.

The aching, inescapable loneliness.

It all boiled over.

I gasped, my hands clutching at my arms like I could physically hold myself together.

But I couldn't.

I wasn't together.

I had been barely holding on for weeks.

And this?

This was too much.

My legs buckled.

I barely made it to the floor before the first sob tore through me.

I tried to stop it.

I bit my lip, my shoulders trembling, my breath hiccuping out of my chest in painful, broken gasps.
I curled into myself, my forehead pressing against my knees, and I cried.

Not quiet. Not soft.

Deep, aching, uncontrollable sobs.

The kind that shook my entire body.

The kind that felt too big to hold in.

No one spoke.

No one knew what to say.

Until Molly's voice, low and seething.

"GET OUT."

The twins didn't move.

Then footsteps approached.

A hesitant voice.

"Lena?"

Fred.

I stayed silent.

A shift of movement. Then another voice.

A step closer.

"Lena, please—"

George reached for me. His fingers barely brushed my arm.

I recoiled so fast it was instinct. My breath hitched, my whole body seizing up.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The words ripped out of me, sharp and broken.

George stumbled back like I had burned him.

Fred froze.

And then—

Sirius was there.

"That's enough," his voice came like a warning growl.

Remus appeared next to him, his usual calm replaced with something cold and severe.

"You should go," he said, voice low but firm.

"But we just—" Fred started.

Remus' expression darkened. "I wasn't asking."

They hesitated.

Then, reluctantly, Fred and George backed away.

I heard their footsteps retreat.

I exhaled shakily, squeezing my eyes shut.

A pause.

Then a warm hand—Sirius' hand—gently rested on my shoulder.

"We've got you, kid," he murmured.

Chapter Text

The night stretched on, thick and suffocating.

I hadn't stopped shaking since they left.

Every inch of me felt raw, exposed in a way I didn't know how to fix.

Ginny let out a slow breath beside me, still tense, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "I swear to Merlin, I'm going to hex them both into next week."

Hermione, sitting on my other side, shot her a look but didn't argue. "That was beyond cruel," she muttered, tucking her legs under herself as she reached for the end of my blanket and adjusted it around my shoulders, like I wasn't already wrapped in it properly. "I mean—how could they think that was funny?"

Ginny scoffed. "Because they're brainless gits, that's how."

I didn't answer. I just stared down at my hands, my fingers clenching and unclenching against the fabric, my breath still unsteady. Ginny's anger simmered beside me, hot and unwavering, while Hermione's worry sat heavier, quieter. She hesitated for a second before reaching up, fingers gently carding through my hair, detangling it like it was something she could fix, something she could do when there was nothing else.

For a long time, none of us spoke, but they stayed close, letting me fall apart without making me feel like I had to hold myself together for their sake.

Then, a quiet thump against the window broke the silence.

Hermione got up first, unlatching it just as a dark blur swooped inside. Steven landed on the sill, his feathers ruffled from the flight, and with a soft hoot, he stretched out his talon and dropped something small and familiar into my lap.

The tiny crochet mouse I made for him.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers closing around it, my throat tightening. Ginny reached over, rubbing her thumb against the worn fabric, her voice softer than before. "You have the best owl in existence."

Hermione sat back down beside me, pressing her shoulder against mine. "You don't have to talk about it," she said quietly, "but we're here. Whenever you do."

I nodded, still gripping the little mouse as if it could anchor me to the moment, to them, to the fact that, despite everything, I wasn't completely alone.

And yet, no matter how much their presence grounded me, no matter how much I told myself I was safe now, I still couldn't sleep.

The hours stretched on, and at some point, long after both Ginny and Hermione had dozed off beside me, their bodies curled close in quiet solidarity, I finally gave up. Careful not to wake them, I pushed back the blanket, slipped out from under their warmth, and stepped into the cool, quiet darkness of the hallway.

The dim glow of candlelight flickered from the kitchen, and I hesitated in the doorway, not expecting anyone to be awake. But as I stepped inside, I found Sirius sitting at the table, a half-empty glass of firewhiskey in front of him, his expression unreadable as he stared into the flickering light.

He glanced up at the sound of my footsteps, his sharp eyes scanning over me, taking in my exhaustion, the redness around my eyes, the way my arms wrapped around myself like I was trying to hold in something too fragile to let slip through the cracks.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual, a little rough around the edges.

I shook my head, moving toward the cupboard to get a glass, my hands unsteady as I poured myself some water. "Not really," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Sirius didn't push. He didn't pry. He simply gestured toward the chair across from him, an unspoken invitation, and after a moment's hesitation, I sat down.

For a while, neither of us spoke. He took a slow sip of his drink, and I traced the rim of my glass with my finger, staring into the water as if it held answers I wasn't sure I wanted.

Then he sighed. "Y'know, I've been accused of many things in my life, but being good at comforting people has never been one of them."

Despite myself, I let out a weak huff of laughter. "You're not doing too bad."

He smirked. "That's because I haven't tried yet."

His expression turned more serious, his dark eyes watching me closely. "But if you need to talk, I'm here."

I swallowed hard, staring into my glass.

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Look," he said, his voice quieter now. "I know what it's like to feel like you don't belong anywhere."

I tensed.

"But I also know what it's like to find a place where you do," he continued, voice steady. "Even if it takes time. Even if you don't believe it yet."

Something in my chest tightened, but it wasn't the suffocating weight of earlier. It was something different. Something that made me feel seen.

I had thought Sirius was reckless, wild, unbothered by the things that weighed other people down.

But looking at him now, I realized I had been wrong.

-

A gentle but firm knock on the door pulled me from the restless haze of sleep, and for a moment. My body felt heavy, my head thick with exhaustion, the weight of the previous night still clinging to me like a second skin. The room was quiet, save for the distant murmur of voices somewhere downstairs, and when I finally forced my eyes open, I realized Ginny and Hermione were gone.

They must have left to let me sleep.

The knock came again.

"Lena?" Remus' voice, calm and steady, drifted through the door. "Can I come in?"

I sat up slowly, rubbing my face before clearing my throat. "Yeah," I managed, my voice hoarse from sleep.

The door creaked open, and Remus stepped inside, his expression unreadable but soft in a way that made something deep in my chest unclench just a little. He was holding a tray with a teapot and some toast, a clear sign that Molly had sent him up, but he didn't push it on me, just set it down on the bedside table as he leaned against the post of my bed.

"There won't be any lessons today. Or tomorrow."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What? But—"

"You need rest, Lena." There was no room for argument in his voice, but it wasn't harsh. It was just... final. "You've been pushing yourself non-stop since you got here. After last night, I think it's time you take a step back."

I swallowed, staring down at my hands. "I don't want to fall behind."

Remus let out a small huff of amusement, shaking his head. "You won't. You're doing better than you think. He gave me a small, knowing look. „You'll join fourth-year classes with Harry, Ron, and Hermione."

That got my attention. I looked up, startled. "What?"

"We decided it's the best fit for you," he said simply. "You're catching up quickly, and we don't want to overload you after last night. This gives you time to breathe. And you need that."

I exhaled slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. Maybe he was right. Maybe I did need a moment to just... exist without feeling like I had to prove something.

Remus pushed off from the bedpost, nodding toward the tray. "Eat something," he said, his voice softer now. "And take today for yourself. No expectations. No pressure."

He gave me one last glance before turning toward the door. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the soft scent of tea filling the room, and the lingering warmth of knowing, I can finally rest.

After Remus left, I sat in bed for a long time, staring at the tray of untouched food beside me. The weight of exhaustion still pressed against my limbs, but beneath it, something restless stirred. The longer I sat there, the more my skin prickled with unease, a slow-building discomfort that clawed its way into my chest.

I could still feel them.

The grasshoppers.

The memory of them clung to my skin like an invisible stain. My room still felt tainted, like their presence had seeped into the walls, into the sheets, into the very air.

I had to do something.

I worked through the room methodically, trying to scrub away every inch of the nightmare from last night. It wasn't just the bedding; it was the walls, the floor, my clothes, my desk—anything that might have been touched by them. My skin still prickled, still crawled with the phantom feeling of tiny legs skittering over me. It had only been magic, I kept telling myself, but the logic didn't help. I needed it gone. All of it.

The scent of fresh linens filled the room as I changed the sheets, but it didn't bring the comfort it usually did. I kept wiping down the same spot on my bedside table, over and over, my fingers tightening around the rag, my breath coming a little too fast.

Because suddenly, I wasn't just scrubbing away the grasshoppers anymore.

I was scrubbing away everything.

The loneliness.

The rejection.

The gnawing ache of knowing I had nowhere left to go.

I braced my hands against the mattress, my breath stuttering as the weight of it all crashed over me again.

I couldn't wash this away.

I couldn't clean this out of me.

I couldn't fix what was already broken.

My knees buckled, and I sank onto the floor, my hands clutching at the fabric of my sleeves, gripping so tightly my knuckles ached. My chest heaved, but no air seemed to reach my lungs, and before I could stop myself, a raw, choked sob tore out of me.

This time, there was no laughter in the hallway. No teasing voices. No one waiting for me to react.

Just silence.

Just me.

And then, a knock.

Soft, hesitant, as if the person on the other side already knew they were stepping into fragile territory. I sucked in a shaky breath, my hands still clenched tightly around the fabric of my sleeves, trying to pull myself together before I had to face anyone.

"Lena, dear?" Molly's voice was gentle, full of warmth and worry. "May I come in?"

I exhaled slowly, pressing my palms against the floor, willing myself to move. "Yeah," I said hoarsely, not trusting my voice to sound any steadier.

The door creaked open, and Molly stepped inside, carrying a tray with fresh tea, a bowl of soup, and a plate of bread, her eyes scanning the room in that way only mothers could—seeing everything, even the things I didn't want her to see. Her gaze lingered on the fresh sheets, the cleaning supplies scattered around, the damp rag still clutched in my hand.

"Oh, sweetheart," she sighed softly, crossing the room before I could protest. She set the tray down on the desk, then knelt beside me without hesitation, placing a warm hand on my back.

I stiffened slightly, but her touch wasn't intrusive. It was grounding.

"You don't have to do this," she said, nodding toward the cleaned room.

My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, staring at the floor. "I just... needed it gone."

Molly sighed, rubbing gentle circles on my back. "I understand."

For a long moment, she just sat with me, letting the silence stretch, not rushing me to speak. I could feel the weight of everything pressing behind my ribs, so much I wanted to say, but I didn't know where to start.

Then, after a pause, she spoke again, voice softer. "Fred and George feel awful."

I scoffed before I could stop myself.

Molly didn't chastise me for it. She just continued, choosing her words carefully.
"They haven't spoken much today," she continued softly. "Not even to each other."

I swallowed but said nothing.

Molly hesitated, then sighed again. "I found George sitting at the kitchen table at dawn, just staring at the wall. And Fred—" She shook her head. "He looked like he was going to be sick when I told him you were still asleep."

She sighed. "They wanted to come up and apologize, but I told them no. That you needed space."

I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.

Molly hesitated, then turned fully toward me, placing a warm, steady hand over mine. "I won't make excuses for them, Lena. What they did was thoughtless and cruel. And if you don't want to see them, you don't have to. You deserve to feel safe here." She squeezed my hand gently. "They can be right prats sometimes, but they are not bad boys. And they are not heartless, even if they made a terrible, terrible mistake."

I didn't say anything to that.

Because right now, I didn't know if I believed it.

Molly must have sensed as much, because she didn't push. Instead, she gave me one last comforting pat before moving to the tray of food, picking it up and holding it toward me. "Now, why don't you eat something, dear? I won't leave until you do."

I huffed a small, tired breath, but I didn't argue. My hands were still unsteady as I took the cup of tea, the warmth seeping into my fingertips.

Molly sat beside me while I took a slow sip, not saying another word, just keeping me company in the quiet.

After Molly left, the room felt quieter, less suffocating, but the weight in my chest still lingered.

Slowly, I peeled myself off the floor and made my way to the bathroom down the hall. The pipes groaned as I turned the water on. Steam curled around me as I stepped under the hot spray, the warmth seeping into my stiff muscles, washing away the sweat and grime from the night before.

I stood there for what felt like forever, my forehead resting against the cool tile as the water rushed over me. I scrubbed at my skin harder than necessary, as if I could erase everything.

But as the minutes passed, the knot in my chest loosened, just a little. The rhythmic pounding of water, the scent of the soap, the sheer normalcy of it—it was enough to make me feel like I was slowly stitching myself back together, piece by piece.

By the time I stepped out, wrapping myself in a fresh towel, I felt lighter. Not okay. But better.

Back in my room, I moved without really thinking, drawn to the small comforts I could control. I pulled open the drawer of my nightstand, digging through until I found the little tin of lavender-scented balm Mona had given me last Christmas. I rubbed a bit onto my wrists, breathing in the faint, calming scent. I put on my favorite comfy pants and sweater.

Then, I lit the candle I had brought from home. It was small, barely used, the wax still smooth and untouched. The warm glow flickered, casting soft light against the walls, chasing away the dim, heavy feeling that had settled over the room.

I rearranged the books on my desk, lined up the few trinkets I had collected since coming here, placed Steven's tiny crochet mouse beside my pillow.

Little things. Small acts of reclaiming.

By the time I was done, the room felt different. Not entirely mine again.

But it felt less like theirs. Less like the place where I had fallen apart.

The second a knock came at the door, my stomach twisted.

I froze, every muscle in my body going rigid.

"Lena?" Harry's voice.

And then Ron: "Oi, let us in, will you?"

I let out a breath, my shoulders sagging in relief. Not them.

Crossing the room, I opened the door to find both of them standing there, Ron holding an armful of Honeydukes sweets, Harry balancing a Wizard's Chess board and a deck of Exploding Snap cards under one arm.

"What are you—?" I started, but Ron just grinned and pushed past me, dropping the sweets onto my bed like he owned the place.

"We figured you could use some cheering up," Harry said with a small smile, stepping inside after him.

I blinked at them, caught between surprise and something else—something warmer.

A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down. They weren't pushing me to talk, weren't treating me like I was breakable. They were just here.

We settled onto the floor, the pile of sweets between us, and for a while, I let myself forget.

Ron, as expected, was ruthless at chess, barely letting Harry take a turn before obliterating his pieces with well-placed moves. "You play like a first-year," he told him, shaking his head in disappointment.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't think losing at chess is a major character flaw, Ron."

"Maybe not," Ron said, studying the board, "but it's still embarrassing."

"Do I want to know how you got so good at this?" I asked, popping a piece of Honeydukes chocolate into my mouth.

Ron smirked. "Growing up with Fred and George. You learn to strategize quickly when you're under constant threat of sabotage."

I snorted, shaking my head, but before I could respond, Ginny appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, a wicked little smirk on her face.

"Did I miss anything good?" she asked, stepping inside.

"Only Harry's pathetic attempt at chess," Ron said without looking up.

Ginny rolled her eyes, then turned to me, her expression softening. "You feeling a bit better?"

I nodded. "Yeah. A little."

Her smirk returned. "Good. Because I got revenge for you."

Harry looked up, alarmed. "Ginny, what did you do?"

She perched on the edge of my bed, looking smug. "Oh, just a little something. Let's just say Fred and George won't be able to look at their beds without flinching for the next week."

I raised an eyebrow. "Ginny..."

She held up her hands innocently. "Hey, no permanent damage. Just... a taste of their own medicine."

I huffed out a small laugh, shaking my head. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Ginny just winked. "Smart girl."

As the night stretched on, the four of us shifted to Exploding Snap, Harry finally winning at something as Ron nearly set his sleeve on fire twice.

And when Hermione came up later with a fresh plate of dinner, she didn't question why we were all sprawled on the floor, half-eaten chocolates and playing cards scattered around us. She just smiled, sat beside me, and handed me a plate.

As the night wore on, the warmth of their presence lingered, but one by one, they drifted away. Ginny stretched with a satisfied smirk, muttering something about needing to see the results of her revenge in the morning before slipping out the door. Ron followed soon after, grumbling about how he needed sleep to maintain his "strategic genius" for the next chess match, while Harry gave me a quiet nod before heading out behind him.

I turned to find Hermione still sitting cross-legged on my bed, flipping absently through one of my books. She didn't look like she was planning to leave.

"You staying?" I asked, tilting my head.

She didn't even glance up. "Obviously."

Something warm flickered in my chest.

I exhaled, something loosening in me, and without another word, I climbed into bed beside her. She didn't move, just pulled the blankets higher over both of us and continued reading.

And as my eyes grew heavier, as exhaustion finally pulled me under, one last thought curled itself around my ribs.

Fred and George never came.

Not to check on me. Not to apologize.

And even though I had sworn to myself I didn't care, that I didn't want to see them, a hollow ache settled deep in my chest.

Because I had at least thought they would try.

But they hadn't.

And now, I knew for sure.

I was done.

Chapter Text

I woke early. The room was quiet, bathed in the soft grey light of early morning, but something inside me had shifted. The ache of yesterday, the humiliation, the sting of betrayal—it was still there, but it had hardened into something stronger. It didn't weigh me down anymore. Instead, it settled into a cold, steady resolve.

I wasn't a joke. I wasn't a fool. And I wasn't going to let Fred and George Weasley, of all people, dictate how I saw myself.

I threw off the blankets and sat up, stretching out my arms as the cool air bit at my skin. The house, and Hermione next to me, were still asleep, but I didn't care. My mind was already set. I refused to shrink into myself, to let them see how much they had hurt me. I refused to let them think they had won.

Moving to the wardrobe, I pulled out my new summer dress with delicate floral patterns, ruffles along the hem and sleeves, light and airy, meant for warm afternoons, not the drafty halls of Grimmauld Place. It had been my favorite thing I bought, back when my world had made sense. I smoothed the fabric between my fingers, remembering the way I had twirled in front of the dressing room mirror, the way Mona had laughed when I showed her, and said it made me look like a painting.

Today, I wore it for war.

Even if the house was cold. Even if the others would think I was ridiculous. It didn't matter.

I plugged in the curling iron, letting it heat up as I gathered my hair. Curling each strand carefully, I watched the waves take shape, cascading over my shoulders like sunlight trapped in silk. It was different from how I usually wore it—softer, more deliberate.

Then came the makeup. Just enough to brighten my complexion, to make sure my eyes looked sharp, to hide the exhaustion from the night before. I added a bit of color to my lips, a touch of blush to my cheeks. Not to conceal anything. Not to cover myself up.

But to control how they saw me.

When I was done, I stepped back and met my own gaze in the mirror.

I saw me.

Teal-blue eyes, clear and sharp. Hair like golden honey, glowing in the morning light. And something deeper—something unbreakable.

I tilted my chin up slightly.

They wanted me weak. They wanted me small. But if they need a villain—

I let my lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile.

They'll get one.

-

The house was still quiet when I stepped into the hallway. The wooden floor was cold beneath my bare feet, but I barely noticed.

The voices of the others drifted up from the kitchen—the usual breakfast chatter, the clinking of dishes, the smell of tea and toast warming the air.

I stepped into the room.

The reaction was immediate.

Ron, mid-bite into a piece of toast, nearly choked. His eyes bulged as he coughed, slamming a fist against his chest. Hermione, who had been pouring herself juice, stilled for half a second before a knowing smile curved her lips.

Ginny took one look at me and grinned, nodding slowly, as if to say now that's how you make an entrance.

Harry blinked in confusion, looking between the others as if he had missed something.

George stilled, his fingers tightening around his fork. His jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

Fred, on the other hand—

"Well, there she is!"

His voice cut through the room like nothing had happened.
His fork clattered onto his plate as he leaned back in his chair, arms stretching lazily behind his head.
His grin was bright, easy, familiar. The kind of grin that said good, she's over it.

"I was beginning to think we'd have to send out a search party!" he said lightly, shooting a glance at George. "I mean, hiding in your room all day? Come on, Mayhem, that's not like you."

I didn't respond.

I simply walked past him, ignoring the comment entirely, and took my seat at the far end of the table.

I didn't look at him. I didn't react.

Fred barely hesitated.

"Blimey, look at you," he continued, grinning as he gestured at my dress. "Bit fancy for breakfast, isn't it? You running off to meet a secret admirer after this?"

Still, I said nothing. I reached for the teapot and calmly poured myself a cup, adding a bit of honey as though Fred Weasley weren't speaking at all.

George, I noticed, was watching me closely, his brows slightly furrowed.

Fred, undeterred, leaned forward on his elbows. "Come on, you can tell us," he said, his tone playful, as if we were back to normal. As if he hadn't completely shattered my trust thirty hours ago.

"Who's the lucky bloke?"

Silence.

Ron swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Fred and me.

Even Remus, seated at the end of the table with his cup of tea, had set down the Daily Prophet and was now watching me with mild curiosity.

Fred's grin faltered just slightly.

"Alright, now I'm just offended," he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. "Nothing? Not even a snarky comeback? I thought we were friends, Mayhem—"

Friends

I set my teacup down deliberately.
And then, finally, I lifted my gaze to him.

Fred's expression was open, easy, expectant. He truly thought I'd laugh. That I'd roll my eyes, throw a piece of toast at him, say something sarcastic to match his energy.

He thought things were fine.

And that was the moment I realized: he hadn't learned a thing.

I licked a crumb from my thumb and stood up.

Slow. Measured. Like a predator in no particular rush to catch its prey, I was walking toward them.

Fred's grin widened as I approached, like he thought I was about to play along.

I reached them, placing one hand on each of their thighs.

Not too high. But almost.

Fred stiffened.

George inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

I leaned in, close enough that I could feel the warmth of their skin, close enough that when I spoke, it was just for them.

"If you ever come near me again... if you ever talk to me again... I'll cut your fucking throats."

Fred's grin vanished.

George didn't move.

I let my fingers trail slightly against their legs—just a whisper of pressure. A reminder.

"I may not be an expert at magic," I murmured, voice velvet-smooth, "but I know how to handle a knife."

I heard George swallow.

Fred's hand twitched against the table.

"You wouldn't be the first carrots I behead."

I felt Fred's breath hitch, and pulled back just enough to see their faces, my hands still resting exactly where they were.

I smiled.

Slow. Sweet. Dangerous.

Then, I patted them both, once, like I was thanking them for their time.

And just as smoothly as I had leaned in, I pulled away.

I turned, flicking my curls over my shoulder as I walked back to my seat—slow, casual, untouched.

Silence.

Complete. Utter. Silence.

I picked up my tea, taking a delicate sip, and finally broke the tension.

"Remus," I said pleasantly, glancing at him, who had been watching with mild curiosity, "I'd like my lessons to continue today."

Remus, calm as ever, took a sip of his own tea.

"Of course, Lena."

He set down the Daily Prophet, and his lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

"Shall we start after breakfast?"

"That sounds perfect," I said lightly.

And just like that, I moved on.

Like nothing had happened.

Like they weren't even there.

Across the table, Fred sat frozen, his mouth slightly open.
George let out a slow, controlled breath, rubbing a hand over his face.

Ginny wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Oh, this is the best morning I've had in ages."

A quiet chuckle.

Sirius, who had been lazily twirling his spoon in his tea, leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised in amused approval.

"Brutal," he murmured, almost admiringly.

A rustle of newspaper.

Remus turned a page without looking up.

"Necessary," he remarked, voice even.

Sirius huffed another laugh, shaking his head as if impressed.

I simply smiled and continued drinking my tea.

After all—they wanted a villain.

Now, they had one.

Chapter Text

Remus was going easy on me.

I noticed it almost immediately. At first, I thought maybe I was just getting better—that after weeks of training, I was finally catching up to where I was supposed to be. But no. That wasn't it.

He was holding back.

We still covered spells, still practiced defense techniques, but the pressure was gone. Where before, he had pushed me to the absolute edge of exhaustion, now he was letting me take breaks. Letting me breathe. Letting me feel comfortable.

I wasn't sure how I felt about it.

Something about it felt off, like I was being prepared for something instead of trained for it. The weight behind each lesson had shifted, as if he was watching me closely, making sure I was ready.

Ready for what?

Still, I didn't complain.
A week ago, I would have dropped dead for an easier session. Now, though, with all the extra energy I wasn't burning out, I found myself noticing other things.

Like the fact that Remus was always here.
Every breakfast. Every dinner.

I caught him and Sirius talking late at night more than once. Not Order business. Just... them.

Harry had mentioned it offhand, how the two had been best friends since school, but there was something else there. Something quiet and unspoken, like Remus wasn't just sticking around for my sake.

And when I casually brought it up, Sirius just smirked, took a long sip of firewhiskey, and said, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Cryptic bastard.

-

The twins and I avoided each other.
Not in a dramatic, storm-out-of-the-room, refuse-to-be-in-the-same-space way. No, this was quieter, more calculated, but there was an unspoken rule now. They didn't talk to me. I didn't talk to them.

And yet... I could feel them watching me.
It was never for long, never obvious, but I caught it. The way George kept his expression locked and unreadable, like he had made peace with whatever conclusion he had drawn about me. And then there was Fred.

He would look at me—not like George, not like he had shut the book on whatever had happened—but like he wanted to say something. Like he was thinking about it.

And every single time, I made sure to pretend I hadn't noticed.

Because what was I supposed to do with that? Walk up to him and say, Sorry, boys, I know I threatened to slit your throats at breakfast, but I was on my period and didn't have time for rationality?

Yeah. No.

I wasn't apologizing.

But.

I groaned into my hands, flopping back against the pillows as the memory hit me like a brick to the face.

Because, Merlin's beard, I had been dramatic.

I had walked across the kitchen, put my hands on their thighs like some femme fatale in a noir film, leaned in way too close, and delivered an actual death threat.
And then, as if that wasn't enough, I had patted them.

I pressed my hands over my face like I could physically block out the memory.
Oh my God.

Had I been trying to give them a psychological thriller experience? A near-death encounter with the mafia? I should have worn a cloak and swept dramatically out of the kitchen. Maybe thrown in a sinister cackle.

I groaned into my pillow, half-cringing, half-smirking.

Maybe they deserved it.

Because honestly? They had pushed me to my breaking point. And instead of crying, instead of crumbling, instead of letting them think they had any power over me— I had made sure they would never forget what happened.

So maybe I had leaned into my inner villain. Maybe I had embraced the dramatics.

But for the first time in a long time, I had stood up for myself.

I wasn't a joke.
I wasn't something to be toyed with.
I wasn't the girl they could laugh at and then expect to brush it off like it didn't matter.

I flopped back onto the pillows again, grinning up at the ceiling.

I let out a slow breath, shaking my head. Maybe I'd been hormonal, dramatic, and borderline feral.

But was I wrong?

Not in the slightest.

-

Transfiguration was not for the weak.

I learned that very quickly under McGonagall's sharp gaze, where a misplaced flick of the wand could turn a teacup into something almost resembling a tortoise—but not quite.

The first time I tried, the cup grew legs but kept its handle. The second time, it scuttled away like an escaped convict.

By the third lesson, I had improved significantly.
There was something about the focus, the precision, the deliberate intent behind the magic that made sense in a way the wilder spells didn't.

Still, it wasn't easy.

"The intention must be clear," she told me one afternoon, pacing behind my chair as I worked. "Magic is not just waving a wand and hoping for the best, Miss May. It is knowing exactly what you want, and making it so."

She watched as I flicked my wand toward the matchstick on the desk, my movements careful, my focus sharp.

The matchstick shivered—then melted into polished silver, reflecting the candlelight like liquid metal.

McGonagall nodded once, a barely-there sign of approval.

"You have a strong grasp of transmutation," she said, peering at the silver matchstick. "Your technique is better than I expected for someone who has not had formal training."

I blinked, straightening a little. That was... a compliment. A rare one.

"I—thank you," I said, blinking at my own matchstick like I had no idea how I'd done it.

McGonagall pursed her lips. "Don't look so shocked, Miss May. You have talent. It would be a waste not to recognize it."

Warmth crept up my neck. Compliments weren't exactly common in her lessons, so I took that one and ran with it.

The next day, we worked on animal transfiguration.

"Transforming an inanimate object is one thing," McGonagall said, setting a small beetle down on the desk in front of me. "But transfiguring a living creature into something else requires more precision. They are not static. They move, they think. If your control is lacking, you may alter their shape—but not their function."

"Watch carefully."

McGonagall tapped the beetle with her wand, and in the blink of an eye, it shifted into a perfect, polished button.

With another flick, the button twitched, trembled, and then unfolded back into a beetle, which scurried away like nothing had happened.

Okay. That was cool.

I rolled back my shoulders, focused, and tapped my wand against the desk.

The beetle shuddered—and with a soft pop, it turned into a marble.

McGonagall made a thoughtful noise, stepping closer to examine it.

"Not quite," she said, "but an improvement. The structure is there, but the magic is still stabilizing. Try again."

I took a slow breath, concentrating harder this time.

The marble wobbled—then softened, shifting into a smooth, round button.

McGonagall gave a small nod of approval.

"Well done, Miss May."

I grinned. "And now, back to a beetle?"

"If you please."

I tapped the button again, - imagining the beetle perfectly in my mind - its tiny legs, its hard shell, the way it had twitched before scuttling away—

With another soft pop, the beetle reappeared.
It sat there for a moment, unmoving. Then it shook itself off and bolted off the desk.

McGonagall made a quiet sound, something almost like amusement.

"Not bad at all."

-

The living room at Grimmauld Place was warmer than usual this evening, the kind of night where the storm outside felt distant, softened by the golden glow of the fire and the quiet hum of conversation. The air smelled faintly of butter cake and old parchment, and for once, the house felt alive—not haunted, not suffocating, just... comfortable.

Harry and Ron were on the floor, their Exploding Snap game long abandoned as Ron launched into yet another Quidditch monologue, using wild hand gestures and exaggerated dramatics to make up for the fact that Harry had heard this story at least six times before.

Hermione, curled up in an armchair, had her book open, quill tucked behind her ear, but I could see the way her lips twitched whenever Ron got particularly passionate. Ginny had claimed the other armchair, legs dangling over one armrest, practicing her crochet stitches, brow furrowed in concentration, carefully working through the steps I had shown her.

I was sprawled across the couch, a book open on my lap, pretending to read while I let the warmth of the fire sink into my skin.

"So, Lena," Ron drawled, grinning like he had been waiting for the perfect moment. "How's Transfiguration going? Should we start worrying about our cups growing legs at breakfast?"

Hermione smirked, not even looking up from her book. "I still maintain that the cup was just demonstrating excellent survival instincts."

Ginny grinned, resting her chin on her palm. "Honestly, I'd have run too, if I saw Lena coming at me with a wand."

I rolled my eyes, pretending to focus on my book as I flipped a page lazily. "Hilarious. Truly. You should all consider stand-up comedy as a backup career.

"But really," he continued, nudging Harry with his elbow, "McGonagall did say she was impressed, didn't she? Said Lena has a strong grasp of Transfiguration—"

Ginny smirked. "She just didn't specify what she was grasping."

I sighed dramatically, ready to come up with some kind of comeback—

But I never got the chance.

Because Fred cut in before I could.

"Alright, enough."

His voice was firm, sharp, and left no room for argument.
The teasing stopped instantly.

It wasn't what he said—it was how he said it.

Ginny's eyebrows shot up. Even Ron blinked.

"What?" Ron said, frowning like he had misheard. "I was just—"

Fred leaned forward slightly, not quite glaring, but close.

"Yeah, I know what you were just doing," he said. His tone was still light, still easy, but there was something else beneath it. Something that wasn't quite playful.

Ron hesitated. "It's not like she—"

"She gets it, Ron," Fred interrupted smoothly, cutting him off without hesitation.

His voice wasn't harsh, wasn't angry—but there was something protective in it, something final.

And that was the part that caught me off guard.

I had expected the teasing. I had expected to bite back, roll my eyes, throw something sarcastic into the mix.

I had not expected Fred to stop it before I even had to.

I glanced up, watching him now, properly.

He was still leaning back, relaxed on the couch, fingers tapping lightly against his knee, but his eyes were sharper than usual, watching Ron with something like a quiet warning.

And George noticed.
I could feel it in the way his head turned slightly toward Fred, his expression unreadable, his usual easy smirk absent. His fingers tapped once against his knee, a fleeting, restless movement—like he wanted to say something but chose not to.

There was a beat of silence. Then he redirected.

"So, Harry," he said, his tone smooth, far too casual, "remind me—who's leading in our Exploding Snap tournament? Oh, right—me."

Harry groaned, immediately falling into the new conversation. "It was one game, George."

George smirked. "Yes. And it was the most important game of your life."

Just like that, the moment passed.

The teasing didn't return.

And as I returned to my book, pretending I hadn't noticed, I caught Fred's gaze flicker toward me—just for a second.

And then, just as quickly, he looked away.

-

By the end of the week, I had transformed quills into needles, matches into silver, and turned at least four buttons into living beetles.

McGonagall wasn't exactly lavish with praise, but there was something in her subtle nods and small, approving glances that made me sit a little straighter.

She wasn't too hard on me, not like I had expected.
She corrected mistakes immediately, but she wasn't cruel.

And after everything, I realized that was what I needed most.

I had spent so long feeling like I was behind everyone else, constantly playing catch-up, constantly second-guessing whether I even deserved to be here.

But McGonagall?
She never once treated me like I didn't belong.

"That concludes our private lessons, Miss May," she said after finishing our final practice, placing her hands behind her back. "You have demonstrated strong progress, and I expect you will transition well into Hogwarts' academic structure."

I rolled my shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from hours of spellwork.

"Your class placements have been finalized so far," she continued. "Given your unique situation, we have assigned you to year levels based on your demonstrated skill and educational needs."

I nodded, sitting up a little straighter. "Alright."

"You will be placed in Fifth-Year Transfiguration and Charms. Your understanding of both subjects is strong, and Professor Flitwick has noted your natural ability in spellwork."

That wasn't a surprise. Charms had felt natural, and Transfiguration—while difficult—had clicked under McGonagall's sharp instruction.

"For Defense Against the Dark Arts," she continued, "you will join Fourth Year."

That meant being in class with Harry, Ron, and Hermione instead of a bunch of unfamiliar faces. Lupin had already been helping me adjust to DADA, but knowing I'd be with my friends made it easier. It wasn't a step down—it was a step into something familiar.

McGonagall seemed to catch the change in my expression. "Given your prior training under Professor Lupin," she said, "this placement is not a reflection of your abilities, but rather an opportunity to develop a structured approach to combat magic. You will be refining techniques, not relearning them."

I nodded quickly. "I get it. I'm actually... glad."

McGonagall's brows lifted slightly, like she had expected an argument and wasn't quite sure what to do with my cooperation.

Satisfied, she moved to the next parchment.

"And Potions," she said, "will be in Sixth Year."

Slughorn had let it slip weeks ago, praising my brewing skills with that same delighted "I've discovered a promising student" glint in his eyes.

So I just hummed and nodded.

McGonagall blinked. "You don't seem surprised."

I shrugged. "Slughorn told me already."

Her lips pursed in disapproval. "Of course he did."

She paused, then added, "He speaks highly of your abilities. If at any point you find the coursework overwhelming, you may consult me or Professor Snape for additional guidance."

I hesitated, glancing at the parchment.

Sixth-Year Potions.
N.E.W.T-level coursework.

And being in the same class as Fred and George Weasley.

"Thanks," I said after a moment, keeping my tone neutral. "I'll let you know if I need help."

McGonagall nodded once, then gestured toward the parchment.

"As Ilvermorny operates on a different academic structure, your class placements will be explained as having been determined by entrance examinations prior to enrollment. That should avoid any unnecessary confusion among your peers."

Right. My Ilvermorny education. The perfect cover story.

A neat little excuse for why I had skipped ahead in some classes and fallen behind in others. For why I had zero knowledge of Hogwarts but enough magical ability to be placed in advanced subjects.
It made sure no one would be asking too many questions.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it.

McGonagall nodded. Then, in a rare moment of almost warmth, she tilted her head slightly, studying me in that way that made me feel like she saw more than just my magic—like she saw me.

"You are a capable witch, Miss May," she said simply. "You've proven as much already. Do not let anyone make you doubt it."

Something in my chest tightened—not in a bad way.

I swallowed, sitting a little straighter. "I won't."

"Good."

Then, without missing a beat, she reached for the final parchment.

"Now," she said, her voice returning to its usual measured cadence.

"Are you ready for your Sorting?"

Chapter Text

The living room of 12 Grimmauld Place had been transformed. Colorful banners hung from the walls, a warm fire crackled in the hearth, and the table—usually cluttered with business plans from the twins and abandoned teacups—was covered in a deep purple tablecloth. Candles floated lazily in the air, flickering softly, their light reflecting off the golden plates stacked neatly in preparation for what looked like a full feast.

Molly Weasley had gone all out.
I took it all in, feeling something unfamiliar twist in my chest. A deep warmth. It has been years since someone made so much effort for me. My parents never really cared about celebrating, going out for dinner was their way of a feast.

But this was for me.

I turned my gaze toward the people gathered around the room. Arthur stood beside Molly, beaming with quiet pride. Sirius lounged near the fireplace, arms crossed, looking perfectly at ease but watching me with something that almost resembled fondness. Remus was next to him, a small, knowing smile on his face. Professor McGonagall stood tall, her usual stern demeanor softened just slightly for the occasion.

Then there were the others—Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny, standing near the table, all grinning expectantly. Fred and George were further back, leaning casually against the wall, unreadable.

A realization settled over me as I let my gaze travel across the room.

They were all Gryffindors.
Every single one of them.

And now, they were looking at me, waiting, expecting— hoping.

McGonagall cleared her throat, drawing my attention back to the wooden stool placed at the center of the room. And on it, looking far less impressive than I'd imagined in my head, sat the Sorting Hat.

I swallowed.

This was it. The moment that would officially determine where I belonged.

I took a slow step forward, my heartbeat steady but a little too loud in my ears. The room was silent, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire as I lowered myself onto the stool.

Just as I was about to sit down, Ron—ever the tactful one—decided to speak.

"Well, no pressure or anything," he said, grinning, "but it'd be dead awkward if you didn't end up in Gryffindor."

Hermione smacked his arm. "Ron!"

"What?" He shrugged. "I'm just saying—imagine if she got put somewhere else. Bit of a mood killer, wouldn't it?"

I shot him a look, my fingers tightening around the edge of the stool. "Thanks, Ron. That's really helping with the nerves."

Ginny snorted. "Ignore him. But, you know... just for fun—maybe don't pick Slytherin?"

I groaned, rubbing my face. "Oh my God, all of you, shut up."

Laughter rippled through the room, and McGonagall cleared her throat with a pointed look.

"Enough, Mr. Weasley," she said, though I swore I saw the corner of her mouth twitch slightly.

Ron just grinned, clearly unbothered.

I took a deep breath and finally sat down.

McGonagall lifted the hat and gently placed it over my head.

The moment it slipped over my eyes, the world darkened.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then—

"Ah, interesting... very interesting."

My stomach twisted.

„Bold. Clever. A little ruthless when necessary... but underneath, still a heart full of fire."

I swallowed hard, my fingers gripping the edge of the stool.

"A sharp tongue, a sharper wit, and yet—" the hat paused, as if sifting through my very soul. "You care. You care deeply, even when you try not to. Oh, yes.. I know where you belong..."

I braced myself.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The word rang out, fast and decisive, without even a second of hesitation.

For a moment, I just sat there, blinking into the darkness. Before I could fully process it, the hat was lifted from my head, and the room erupted.

Cheers, applause, celebratory shouts—it was overwhelming, loud, warm. Ron whooped, throwing his fists in the air. Ginny grinned triumphantly, slapping the table in excitement. Hermione clapped, beaming at me, and even McGonagall—who had certainly seen hundreds of sortings in her lifetime—nodded approvingly.

Sirius let out a sharp, amused whistle from where he stood. Remus chuckled, shaking his head like he wasn't the least bit surprised.

Molly, looking teary-eyed, rushed forward to embrace me.

"Oh, Lena, dear! Welcome to the Gryffindor-family!" she said, squeezing me tight, her warmth pressing into my bones.

I grinned, something light and untethered unfurling in my chest.

I had a House. A place. A family.

I stepped back, brushing off the sudden emotion creeping up my throat, and was immediately intercepted by Arthur, who patted my shoulder warmly.

"Couldn't have been any other House," he said with a smile. "A true Gryffindor."

I barely had time to respond before Hermione, Harry, and Ginny reached me, their excitement tangible.

"You belong with us," Hermione said, smiling.

"Obviously," Ginny added, elbowing me.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. No surprise there."

I laughed, running a hand through my hair, still processing the whirlwind of congratulations.

But as I took in the room again, my gaze fell on Fred and George.

They were not clapping.
They weren't cheering.

Instead, they looked—annoyed? Begrudging? Defeated.

And Ron—standing between them—was grinning as he held out his hand.

George sighed dramatically and dug into his pocket, pulling out a Galleon and dropping it into Ron's waiting palm.

Fred did the same, shaking his head.

A bet.

I cocked an eyebrow, smirking. Of course they had bet on this.

I turned to Ron, still smugly tucking the winnings into his pocket.

"So," I said casually, "did they think I'd be a Slytherin after my little breakfast performance?"

I would have found that amusing, honestly. It would have made sense.

But Ron's smirk faltered. He suddenly looked uncomfortable, scratching the back of his neck.

"Well..." he started, avoiding my gaze. "Not exactly."

I narrowed my eyes.

Ron shifted his weight. "Er... they actually bet that you... uh... wouldn't get sorted at all."

Silence.

The warmth in my chest turned ice-cold.
I felt my lips part slightly, but no words came out.

They bet... that I wouldn't get sorted?

Not that I'd be in Slytherin, not that I'd be some unexpected wildcard in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff

But that I wouldn't belong anywhere at all.

A dull ringing filled my ears.

After Fred stepping in when the others teased me. After that flicker of something I'd seen in his expression, like he had actually thought about what happened.

I had almost started to believe that they regretted it. That maybe, just maybe, they felt a little bit sorry.

But this?

This wasn't just a joke. It wasn't harmless teasing.

They had bet on something that cut deeper than they realized.

The air in the room suddenly felt too thick.

Ron, oblivious, chuckled awkwardly. "I mean—obviously, they were wrong—"

But I wasn't listening anymore.

I forced my lips into a smirk, forced a shrug that I hoped looked effortless.

"Well," I said, voice light, sharp, detached, "I'm glad they were wrong."

I turned away before I could see their reactions, before I could let this ruin my moment.

Because I belonged here.

And no bet, no matter how cruel, was going to take that away from me.

-

The celebration carried on, loud and boisterous, a blur of warm laughter, clinking glasses, and excited chatter. Plates of food appeared, courtesy of Molly's endless dedication, and the feast truly began. I let myself be swept up in it—accepting congratulations, answering Hermione's eager questions about what the Sorting Hat had told me, and listening to Sirius launch into an exaggerated tale about his own Sorting that had McGonagall pursing her lips in exasperation.

I laughed, I smiled, I ate.

And for the most part, it was easy.

But I was terrible at hiding my emotions—always had been. My face gave everything away if I wasn't careful. I tried anyway—smiling when I didn't quite feel it, laughing at the right moments, keeping my expression just controlled enough that no one would look too closely.

So no one would notice.

But every so often, my eyes flickered toward Fred and George.

They had rejoined the group at some point, blending seamlessly into the noise. Fred had a drink in his hand, his smirk perfectly in place as he leaned back in his chair, occasionally making a passing joke that had Ginny rolling her eyes and Harry snorting into his pumpkin juice. George, equally at ease, was reaching for another helping of potatoes while casually arguing with Ron about some Quidditch statistic I couldn't bring myself to care about.

Like nothing had happened.

Like I wasn't sitting here, pretending my stomach wasn't twisted in knots, pretending I didn't hear their bet echoing in my ears.

Wouldn't get sorted at all.

It shouldn't have hurt. It shouldn't have mattered.

But it did.

And yet—I wasn't about to let them see it.

So I smiled. I laughed when Sirius winked at me over his goblet. I cheered when Arthur raised a toast to my "official" welcome into the wizarding world. I even allowed myself to bask in the way McGonagall's lips twitched in approval as she reminded me that Gryffindor had a long history of accepting those with "reckless bravery."

I let myself enjoy it.
Even if, deep down, I felt something else entirely.

At one point, Sirius leaned over and nudged my arm. "You alright, kid?"

His voice was quiet, casual.

I glanced up, ready with a bright, convincing smile. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

His dark eyes flickered, searching mine.

I held his gaze steadily, unflinching.

Then, he huffed out a quiet chuckle, leaning back in his chair as he took a sip of his drink. "Good," he said, his tone easy but his expression knowing. "Because anyone who bets against you is a bloody idiot."

My fingers tightened slightly around my goblet.

And that's when Molly raised her glass. "Lena, dear, why don't you make the toast?"

I stood up, feeling the weight of every gaze on me, the warmth of celebration still buzzing in the air.

I lifted my glass, let my eyes sweep over the room—let them linger on Fred and George.
A little to long.
Thinking.

"To Fred and George," I said smoothly, raising my glass higher, my smile just a little too sharp.
"I hope it was worth the Galleon."

A beat of silence.

Fred's easy expression flickered. George exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his glass.

Ron choked on his drink.

Sirius, who had been swirling the last of his firewhiskey, smirked and raised his own glass lazily. "To the twins," he drawled, eyes glinting. "May their next bet cost them more than just some Galleons."

Molly, oblivious at first, started to smile—then paused, glancing between me, Sirius, and the twins, her brows knitting slightly. Her mouth parted, as if considering whether to say something, but then—perhaps deciding against it—she simply raised her glass and took a sip.

A beat passed.

Then, as if a spell had been broken, glasses clinked, laughter resumed, and the celebration carried on as if nothing had happened.

And I sat back down, sipping my drink—like I hadn't just won.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, the warmth of last night's celebration still clung to the air but it had been replaced by a different kind of energy—one that came with packed trunks, last-minute shouts, and the controlled chaos of getting 8 people out the door on time.

Breakfast was rushed, conversations overlapping as everyone scrambled to make sure they had everything. The Portkey was set to leave in an hour, and judging by the way Ron was tearing through the house in search of his missing sock, they were not on schedule.

Sirius, who had been watching the madness unfold with clear amusement, leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee. "You'd think they were preparing for battle," he mused, smirking over the rim of his mug.

"They are," I said, watching as Ron nearly tripped over a chair in his pursuit of said sock. "It's just a battle against their own lack of organization."

Fred, dragging his trunk toward the door, smirked. "Oi, careful, Ron, that sock's looking vicious. Might take your foot off if you're not careful."

"Honestly," George added, tossing an apple in the air, "we should've packed emergency socks for him. Poor bloke might not survive out there."

Ron shot them a glare but was too busy stuffing his foot into his shoe to argue.

Ginny rolled her eyes, grabbing her own bag. "I, for one, am shocked you two are actually packed on time."

Fred gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "Ginevra, please. We are professionals."

George nodded. "Never been late a day in our lives."

"Except for all the times we were."

"Well, yes, but those don't count."

Molly, exasperated but fond, shooed them toward the door. "Enough, enough, everyone needs to be ready to go now—honestly, you lot will be the death of me."

One by one, they made their way toward the exit, pausing just long enough to say their goodbyes.

Arthur gave me a warm smile, squeezing my shoulder. "Take care, Lena. We'll see you soon, alright?"

Ron, finally victorious in his sock hunt, clapped me on the back. "Try not to let the old house drive you mad."

Ginny grinned, nudging my arm. "Or Sirius, for that matter."

Hermione squeezed my hand. "You'll do great with your studies. I just know it. If you need anything, send an owl, okay?"

Harry nodded, giving me an easy smile. "You're going to be fine. And, uh, you can always ask Sirius to smuggle you out if you get bored."

Sirius snorted. "Absolutely not. Kid's on house arrest, same as me."

Everyone laughed, and for a second, it almost felt normal.

Then, slowly, the goodbyes started to dwindle.

And only two people were left.

George and Fred.

They stood near the doorway, trunks in hand, both looking... unsure.

I raised an eyebrow, waiting.

George shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, clearing his throat, he threw on a smirk. "Try not to miss us too much, Mayhem."

The joke was effortless, casual—expected.

But something about it felt forced.

I didn't answer.

His smirk faltered for half a second. Just long enough for me to catch it.

Then, he nodded, almost to himself, and turned away.

And then—there was Fred.

Still standing there.

Still watching me.

The house had fallen into silence around us, the others already stepping outside, their voices distant.

Fred didn't move.
For a moment, neither of us did.

Then, quietly—soft, but weighted—

"Goodbye"

It wasn't a joke.
It wasn't teasing.
It wasn't light.

Just a word.

And something about the way he said it—like it meant more, left an ache behind that I wasn't ready to look at.

His eyes—glistening with something unspoken, something raw—held mine for a fraction too long.

And then he turned and walked away.

The door shut behind them.

And just like that, they were gone.

The house was empty.

I stood there, still staring at the door, my stomach twisting into something I couldn't quite name.

A slow sip of coffee.
I turned my head. Sirius was still by the counter, watching the door for a second, then turning to me with a lazy grin. "Well, that wasn't dramatic at all"

I exhaled, rubbing my hands over my face. "Shut up."

"Don't worry, kid. Just us now."

Sirius just grinned, nudging my shoulder before throwing an arm around me. "Come on, Lena. Let's go see what kind of trouble we can get into while the house is finally ours."

I let out a short laugh, rolling my eyes.

-

The next week passed in a haze of sleepless nights, endless cups of tea, and more prophecies than I ever wanted to hear in my lifetime.

Mornings belonged to Professor Trelawney.

Which meant dragging myself upstairs alone, stepping into a perfume cloud thick enough to suffocate me, and settling in for hours of vague doom predictions and enough tea to hydrate an entire village.

Trelawney was... a character.

The large, misty glasses. The shawls that made her look like she had fought off an aggressive curtain and lost. The way she appeared out of nowhere, whispering things like, "Your aura is positively trembling today, my dear..."

To be fair, she wasn't bad.

A little dramatic? Absolutely.
A bit unsettling? Sure.
But oddly sweet, in a "your great-aunt thinks she can talk to ghosts and keeps crystals in her purse" kind of way.

She took Divination very seriously. And maybe that was why I couldn't bring myself to roll my eyes as hard as I wanted to when she declared that my future was "shrouded in mystery and uncertainty."

But as I sat there, staring into yet another cup of tea leaves, watching Trelawney float around the room like a lost spirit, a horrifying thought hit me.

What if this was my future?

What if, in a few years, I'd be sitting in some dark tower, wrapped in way too many scarves, rambling about fate to terrified teenagers while drowning in questionable amounts of tea?

Actually, no—not tea.

Yarn.

I'd be sitting alone in my candlelit room, surrounded by hundreds of crocheted blankets and sad, one-eyed stuffed animals, muttering about "the energies of the universe" while everyone avoided me at dinner parties.

Because, obviously, I'd be alone.

I'd sworn off friendship entirely after being betrayed in my youth by two redheaded nightmares.

That would be my life.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, stifling the sudden, uncontrollable urge to laugh.

Trelawney mistook this for me receiving a vision.

"Oh, my dear," she gasped, clutching her chest. "Do you see something?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my expression into something mysterious and foreboding.

"...Yes," I said gravely, swirling my teacup for effect.

Trelawney leaned in eagerly, eyes wide. "What is it, child?"

I sighed dramatically, staring into the tea leaves.

"Loneliness," I whispered. "And... an ungodly amount of crocheting."

Trelawney clutched her pearls and I took a sip of tea to stop myself from absolutely losing it.

-

Afternoons were dedicated to History of Magic.

Or, as I liked to call it, a slow descent into madness.
Professor Binns was a ghost. Not in the cool, mysterious way that Sirius sometimes was when he crept around the house. No. Binns was a boring ghost.

He droned on endlessly, his voice a monotone lullaby of wars, treaties, goblin rebellions, and dates that I was sure not even the goblins cared about anymore.

I didn't have to do anything—just listen—but that somehow made it worse.

At one point, I started keeping a tally of how many times he said "however" in a single lecture.

The record was fourteen.

Sometimes, I tried to pay attention. Really, I did. But the problem with sitting alone in a silent room while a ghost recited history like an outdated audiobook was that my mind had nothing to do but wander.

And lately, it had been wandering a lot.

Mostly, to them.

I didn't want it to. It was stupid, pointless. But my brain, the traitor, kept circling back, slipping into thoughts of Weasley jokes and lazy grins, of teasing words that always carried just enough truth to make them linger.

I'd find myself staring blankly at the wall, Binns' voice nothing but a dull hum in the background, as my mind replayed conversations I hadn't meant to remember. The last morning at Grimmauld Place. The casual jokes, the forced smiles. The way George had smirked but hadn't quite met my eyes.

The way Fred had looked at me.
The way he had said goodbye.

I shook my head, pressing my fingers against my temples. This was ridiculous. I wasn't some pathetic idiot pining over people who clearly didn't care as much as I had let myself believe. They had placed their bets, laughed at my expense, walked away.

That should have been the end of it.

And yet there was this ache.

Not just for them.
For all of them.

For Hermione, who would have rolled her eyes at my inability to focus, but still helped me catch up without question. For Ginny, who would have leaned over and whispered something outrageous just to make me laugh. For Ron and Harry, who probably would have found a way to turn even History of Magic into some kind of disaster.

For all of them, who had been here one moment and gone the next.

I exhaled sharply, snapping my quill against the parchment.

Enough.

I wasn't going to waste my time thinking about people who weren't here.

I focused back on the lecture.

However.

Fifteen.

-

Then, as if my brain wasn't already melting, there was Astrology.

Unlike the others, this was a night class, which meant climbing up to the coldest part of the house, staring at the stars through a telescope, and mapping constellations with hands too frozen to hold a quill properly.

The lack of sleep should have destroyed me, but thanks to the potion I was taking, I felt strangely fine.

And, weirdly? I actually liked it.

There was something comforting about the night sky, the stars stretching infinitely above me, burning long before I existed and still burning long after I was gone.

Unlike tea leaves and ghost lectures, this was real.

Constant. Unchanging. True.
And after a long day of lessons, it was the one thing that made sense.

Sirius was the other.

Somewhere between late-night kitchen raids, arguing over the best way to brew tea, and dramatic storytelling that included far too many made-up details, he had settled into something like... family.

We spent hours finding ways to guilt-trip Remus into buying us takeout.

"Remus," Sirius groaned one evening, sprawled across the couch. "I'm starving. Be a good friend and fetch us something greasy and terrible for our health."

Remus, without looking up from his book, sighed. "You have food here."

"Yes, but I don't want that food, Moony. I want something wrapped in grease-proof paper that slowly destroys my insides."

I nodded solemnly. "Please Remus, we've been so good all week."

Remus sighed again.

Half an hour later, we were sitting at the table, happily devouring pizza while Sirius grinned like he had single-handedly won the war.

It was easy. Fun. Exactly what I needed to survive the mind-numbing horror of History of Magic and the existential dread of Divination.

-

One afternoon, just as I was about to drag myself downstairs for another mind-numbing hour with Professor Binns, a familiar thunk against my window made me turn.

Errol.

I smiled as I reached out, running a gentle finger over his feathery head. "Poor thing," I murmured, carefully adjusting him so he didn't topple straight into my inkwell. "Bet that flight nearly finished you off, huh?"

Errol let out a faint, wheezy hoot, barely keeping his eyes open as he slumped against Steven, who fluffed up proudly beside him.

"Alright, you can rest here for a bit," I assured him, nudging a small dish of water closer. "Steven will keep watch."

Steven, ever the dramatic guardian, let out a quiet hoot of agreement, shifting his weight like he had just been given a highly classified mission.

I snorted, shaking my head before returning my attention to the letter.

____________________________

Lena,

Hope you're surviving Grimmauld Place without going completely insane (though, honestly, if you're already mad, Trelawney's probably thrilled).

The Quidditch World Cup final was INSANE—Ron nearly had an aneurysm.

But—it wasn't all fun.

Right after the match, everything went mad. Death Eaters attacked the camps. We barely made it out before the whole place turned into chaos—fires, people screaming, spells flying everywhere.

Dad had to get everyone out fast.
I don't think any of us really processed what was happening until we were back at the Burrow. Mum was frantic.

Also guess who actually won a bet for once?
Fred and George.

I know. Shocking. They never win. Ever. Mostly because, and I quote, "We always bet on the most ridiculous, least likely outcome, because if it actually happens, we make a fortune."

So, naturally, they went all in on "Krum catches the Snitch, but Ireland still wins."

And guess what? That's exactly what happened.

They're insufferable about it. Walking around like kings. George even suggested retiring from the joke business to become "a full-time visionary gambler."

Anyway, hope you're keeping Sirius in check (or better yet, letting him be a bad influence). We miss you!
Ginny & Hermione
___________________________

I let out a slow breath, my fingers loosening slightly around the letter.

They were fine.

That was the most important thing.

But the weight in my chest didn't fully lift. The attack had been real. It wasn't just some distant history lesson or whispered story anymore—it had happened, right there in front of them.

I stared at the parchment, rereading Ginny's words. Then, my eyes flickered back to one line.

„We always bet on the most ridiculous, least likely outcome, because if it actually happens, we make a fortune."

I read it again.
And again.

The most unlikely outcome.

My sorting.

They had bet that I wouldn't get sorted at all.
But if that was their strategy—to always bet on the least likely thing—then...

Then that meant they never actually thought I wouldn't be sorted.

My breath hitched slightly as the realization settled over me.
They always picked the most ridiculous, near-impossible outcome. Not because they believed it would happen, but because it was the least likely thing imaginable.

They never actually thought I wouldn't belong.
They just thought the odds of it happening were so laughably low that it was worth the risk.

Something in my chest loosened.

I exhaled, shaking my head.

Did it make it better? Not really. But it made it different.

Still. Didn't mean they weren't absolute gits.

-

The last night at Grimmauld Place wasn't quiet. Not at first.
Sirius and I had decided—entirely on a whim—that we couldn't just let the night slip away unnoticed. It was my last night in the house before heading to Hogwarts, and apparently, that called for a celebration.

"Something extravagant," Sirius had declared, dramatically flinging open the pantry door as if he were about to unveil a hidden feast.

Instead, he found a sad loaf of bread, half a jar of peanut butter, and an alarming number of cans labeled mystery mush.

We both stared at it.

"Well," I said, nodding solemnly, "it's certainly something."

Sirius hummed, tapping his chin. "I suppose we could prepare a traditional Hogwarts farewell feast with this fine selection."

I snorted. "Right. Nothing says 'farewell' like a plate of mystery mush surprise."

Sirius shuddered. "Actually, you know what? I think this calls for drastic measures."

Half an hour later, we were sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by takeout containers from at least four different places. Sirius had sweet-talked—or, more accurately, pestered—Remus into bringing us food before he left for the night, and now we had everything from fish and chips to some questionable-looking sushi.

"I think Remus secretly loves enabling us," I mused, stabbing a piece of Tofu-tempura with my chopsticks.

Sirius grinned, pointing at me with a chip. "That, or he knows we'll whine about it until he gives in."

"Both can be true."

Eventually, the energy settled. The plates were pushed aside, the fire crackled warmly, and the room softened into something quieter.

Not heavy. Not awkward. Just... calm.

Sirius sprawled across the couch like he had been personally wronged by the concept of sitting upright, lazily swirling the last of his firewhiskey in his glass. I curled up in the armchair, pulling a blanket over my legs, watching the flames flicker.

The conversation drifted from jokes to Hogwarts, to what I should expect, to old stories about the Marauders.

And then, before I even realized I was saying it—

"So... you and Remus."

Sirius, mid-sip, choked.

I smirked. "Subtle, right?"

He coughed, wiping his mouth before glancing at me with narrowed eyes. "What about me and Remus?"

I lifted a shoulder. "I dunno. I just—" I hesitated, choosing my words. "I notice things."

He huffed. "That's concerning."

I grinned, then softened. "It's just... you two look at each other differently. Not like friends do."

Sirius went still.

Not in an obvious way—he didn't flinch, didn't tense—but it was there. The way his fingers curled slightly around his glass. The way his gaze flickered to the fire, avoiding mine.

I waited.
For a long moment, he said nothing.

"I know."

It wasn't a denial.
He exhaled, rolling the glass between his fingers, staring into the flames.

"I spent years thinking I'd never have a real home again," he murmured. "Not after Azkaban. Not after everything. But Remus..." He swallowed. "He feels like home. He always has."

I stayed quiet, letting him speak at his own pace.
His jaw tightened slightly. "But it doesn't matter."

I frowned. "Why?"

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Because I ruined his life. I left him behind. The whole world thought I was a traitor, and he—" He stopped, shaking his head. "He believed it. And I can't even blame him for that."

My chest tightened.
I had never asked Sirius about those years. About what it must have been like, knowing the people he loved thought he was a murderer.

I swallowed. "You don't think he still—?"

"No." Sirius shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "But it doesn't change what happened. It doesn't change the fact that I wasn't there when he needed me most. And now, what? I tell him, 'Hey, by the way, I'm in love with you, let's forget the past decade and pretend everything's fine'? I can't do that to him."

The rawness in his voice made my throat ache.

I thought of Remus. Of his quiet patience, his kindness, the way he always looked just a little tired, a little worn. And I thought of the way he and Sirius gravitated toward each other, like they didn't even realize they were doing it.

"Sirius," I said carefully, "have you ever considered that maybe he feels the same way?"

He let out a low breath. "Doesn't matter if he does."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because I don't deserve it," he said simply. "Not after everything."

I frowned. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Sirius finally looked at me. "Excuse me?"

I rolled my eyes. "Look, I get it. You feel guilty, you think you ruined his life but - he's still here. He chooses to be here. You think Remus would keep you around if he hated you for it?"

Sirius blinked, caught off guard.

I leaned forward. "I'm not saying you have to confess your undying love over a candlelit dinner or anything, but talk to him. Or at least stop acting like you don't deserve good things just because someone else made you believe that once."

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again.
For the first time since I'd known him, he actually looked speechless.

I smirked. "You can admit I'm right anytime now."

Sirius snorted, shaking his head. "God, you're impossible."

"True," I said easily. "But I'm also right."

He let out a long sigh, running a hand over his face. Then, finally, he gave me a small, tired smile. "You're the only one who knows."

I softened. "I won't tell anyone."

"I know." His gaze was steady now, more sure. "That's why I told you."

Something warm settled in my chest.

For all of Sirius's dramatics, for all the ways he avoided deep conversations unless they were buried in sarcasm and wit—this was trust.

I grinned, leaning back. "Well. If you do tell him, just promise me you won't be weird about it."

Sirius gave me a flat look. "Define weird."

I waved a hand. "You know, the whole poetic, tortured soul act. 'Oh, Remus, my heart weeps for you, the moon pales in comparison to your—'"

Sirius threw a pillow at my face.

I cackled.

The night settled into easy laughter again, and for the first time since I'd arrived at Grimmauld Place, it truly felt like home.

Chapter Text

For the second time in just a few weeks, I stood in a bedroom that wasn't really mine, stuffing everything I owned into two battered Muggle suitcases. It felt different from the first time. Then, I had been leaving behind the life I had always known, stepping into something uncertain. Now, I was stepping into something... permanent.

Hogwarts.

My hands moved automatically, folding clothes, stacking books, shoving stray quills and ink bottles into whatever space I could find. I zipped up the first suitcase, then the second, pausing only when my eyes landed on Steven, perched on the windowsill, preening his feathers.

I swallowed, pushing down the small ache in my chest.

"You know the deal, buddy," I murmured, running a gentle finger over his head. "You're going ahead of me."

Steven let out a quiet hoot, his large eyes blinking up at me.

"You be good, alright?" I whispered. "Try not to get into fights. Or... well. Win them, at least."

Steven nipped my finger lightly, like he understood, then with a small flutter of wings, he launched off the windowsill and disappeared into the sky.

I exhaled, watching him go.

For a moment, I let myself linger. My eyes swept the room one last time—the bed where I had spent too many nights staring at the ceiling, the window where Steven liked to perch, his small gifts scattered across the sill, the creaky floorboard I had stepped on every single night, no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.

It wasn't much.

But it had been something.

I adjusted my grip on my suitcases.

Time to go.

The morning I left Grimmauld Place, the house felt different.
Not in any physical way—Mrs. Black was still screeching behind her curtain, Kreacher still muttered about filth and blood traitors, and the place was still as dim and oppressive as ever. But there was something else. Something in the air.

Downstairs, Sirius was already in the kitchen, drinking coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

"You're up early," I said, dragging my suitcases over the threshold.

He smirked over his mug. "And you're making a dramatic exit. Thought I should bear witness."

I rolled my eyes but smiled.

Breakfast was quieter than usual. Not in an awkward way, but in the way that meant neither of us wanted to say it out loud—this was it.
My last morning here.

Sirius wasn't much for sentimental speeches, but he didn't have to be. It was in the way he nudged my plate toward me without a word. The way he stole a slice of toast off my plate like I wouldn't notice. The way he flicked the corner of my book as I tried to read, smirking when I glared at him.

Every moment stretched just a little longer than usual.

And I let them.

When the time finally came, I stood in front of the fireplace, gripping the handles of my suitcases, feeling the weight of everything I was about to step into.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me. "You sure you're ready for this?"

I huffed. "A bit late to back out now, isn't it?"

"Not too late," he said, half-joking, half-not. "Say the word and we run away. Fake identities. New life. Open a pub somewhere."

I grinned. "Tempting. But I think McGonagall might hunt me down."

Sirius sighed dramatically. "Fine. Go be a responsible student, then. But don't let Hogwarts turn you into a total rule-follower. I'd be terribly disappointed."

I smirked, grabbing a handful of Floo powder. "No promises."

I was about to throw it in, about to step into the fireplace and leave, but then, just as I turned away, his voice stopped me.

"Send me a letter, kid."

I looked back.

Sirius wasn't smirking now. The usual glint of mischief in his eyes was softer, quieter.

"Yeah?" I said, keeping my voice light. "What, you worried I might forget you exist?"

"Obviously." He rolled his eyes, but there was something else beneath the teasing. "Besides, you'll need someone to complain to when you realize Hogwarts is full of absolute gits."

I huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, alright. I'll write."

Sirius nodded, then, after a beat, stepped forward and ruffled my hair.

"Go on, then," he said, voice gruff. "Before you change your mind."

And Sirius," I murmured, tilting my head slightly. "Tell him."

His smirk wavered.

Something flickered in his expression—an emotion I couldn't quite place, but something real, something raw.

I stepped into the fire, tossed the powder into the flames and with a final breath—

"Hogwarts."

The moment it hit, green flames roared to life around me, swallowing the room in a sudden rush of heat. The air twisted, tugging at my clothes, and just as I caught a final glimpse of Sirius—still watching, still standing there—

The world yanked away.

And then finally stopped spinning.

I stumbled forward slightly, the familiar pull of Floo travel still buzzing through my bones, but—I landed. On my feet.

For a moment, I just stood there, gripping the handles of my suitcases a breathless laugh escaped my lips.

George's voice rang through my head. „She might actually land on her feet. Like a very confused cat."

And I had.

Like a very, very confused cat.

The sound of someone clearing their throat made me snap my mouth shut.

I turned—still half-smiling—to find Professor McGonagall standing near her desk, watching me with an expression of pure, restrained patience.

"Miss May," she said, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of her nose, "I trust that something about your arrival was... amusing?"

I swallowed back the last of my laughter, straightening slightly. "Uh—no, Professor, just—" I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head.

McGonagall arched a single, perfectly unimpressed eyebrow but let it slide.

I finally took in the office around me, my grip on my suitcases relaxing slightly. It was nothing like I had imagined.

Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, overflowing with books—ancient tomes, leather-bound volumes, and crisp new editions stacked in an organized chaos. The room smelled of parchment and ink, laced with something subtly floral—like the kind of tea that looked fancy but probably tasted terrible.

Towering glass cases held intricate silver instruments, clicking and whirring softly, their functions entirely unknown to me. A massive desk sat in the center, immaculately arranged, except for a single parchment lying open, a quill resting beside it.

"I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

"...Yeah. As far as spinning through a fireplace can be pleasant."

McGonagall's lips twitched slightly, but she turned toward the desk instead. "Very well. I assume you have all your belongings?"

I glanced at my suitcases. "Unless my dignity got lost somewhere along the way, yes."

McGonagall inhaled sharply through her nose—the kind of breath that suggested she was reevaluating all of her life choices.

"Come, Miss May," she said, already making her way toward the door. "I imagine you'd like to see more of the castle."

I nodded, stealing one last glance at her office before following her out. My suitcases had already been sent ahead, which was a relief—I wasn't sure I had the energy to drag them through an entire castle.

The moment we stepped into the corridor, I felt it.

Hogwarts hummed with life.

It wasn't just the towering stone walls or the endless corridors stretching in every direction. It was the way the torches flickered with more than just fire, the way the staircases shifted lazily, as if deciding where they wanted to lead next. The way the paintings moved—not just shifting slightly, but properly moving, entire figures walking between frames, whispering as I passed.

The air smelled like parchment and candle wax, with something earthy beneath it—like damp stone and ancient wood. I let my fingers skim the banister as we descended the marble staircase, feeling the cool smoothness beneath my touch.

McGonagall led me through the castle with the practiced ease of someone who had walked these halls for a lifetime.

"You will begin your studies properly tomorrow morning," she said as we passed through a long hallway lined with suits of armor. "Your mornings will be spent with Professor Hagrid, assisting him with the care of magical creatures. Your afternoons will be dedicated to Herbology under Professor Sprout's instruction."

I glanced at her. "So... mostly outside, then?"

McGonagall's lips twitched. "It would seem so."

I exhaled, stealing a glance out one of the passing windows. The grounds stretched wide beneath us, a vast sprawl of green that seemed to go on forever. The Forbidden Forest loomed on the horizon, its towering trees casting long, tangled shadows over the earth, the kind of darkness that didn't just come from lack of sunlight. It looked wild, ancient, untamed—like it had existed long before the castle and would remain long after.

Just beyond it, the Black Lake stretched like a sheet of liquid obsidian, its surface mirroring the heavy clouds rolling across the sky. The water rippled slightly, shifting in a way that felt... alive. Somewhere beneath, hidden in its depths, were creatures I had only read about—Merpeople, Grindylows, and the giant squid that, according to rumor, was more of a lazy house pet than a true monster.

I wondered how often the others sat by the shore, if they dipped their feet in during summer or skipped stones across the surface, if they ever saw something move just beneath the waves and felt the thrill of knowing they weren't alone.

"I hope you don't mind the later mornings," McGonagall continued. "Professor Hagrid—" she hesitated slightly, as if choosing her words carefully, "—has a rather... relaxed approach to punctuality."

I blinked. "Wait. So I don't have to wake up at some ungodly hour?"

"Not unless you want to," McGonagall said dryly.

I let out a breath of relief.

As we walked, she pointed out various landmarks—classrooms, staircases I needed to avoid if I didn't want to end up in a completely different part of the castle, the Great Hall doors, even a shortcut through a tapestry that led to the dungeons were potions would take place.

Then, finally, after what felt like hundreds of staircases, we arrived at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

The large portrait of a stern-looking woman in medieval robes watched me closely as I approached.

"The Gryffindor common room," McGonagall said, then turned to the painting. "The password is Balderdash."

The woman gave a curt nod before swinging open, revealing the entrance beyond.

The moment I stepped inside, warmth enveloped me.

The common room was exactly how I imagined it—deep red and gold hues, towering bookshelves, and an enormous stone fireplace crackling with golden flames. Cozy armchairs and plush sofas were scattered around the room. Above, the ceiling arched high, wooden beams stretching overhead, and in the corner.

I exhaled, taking it all in. This was the heart of Gryffindor. It was warm and lived-in, and even though I had spent the past weeks preparing for this moment, it still didn't feel real.

McGonagall's voice drew me back.

"Typically, students share dormitories with others in their year. However, given your... particular circumstances, we felt it best to offer you a different arrangement."

I turned to her, eyebrows raising slightly. "Different how?"

She gestured to a narrow staircase winding up the left side of the room—the entrance to the girls' dormitories.

I followed her up the steps, expecting her to stop at one of the dormitory doors.

Instead, she paused before a smaller wooden door tucked seamlessly into the stone between two staircases. It was easy to miss, blending into the architecture.

"This," she said, stepping aside, "is yours."

I hesitated before pushing it open.

The moment I stepped inside, I felt it.
It wasn't big—not compared to the dorms—but it was private.

The walls were a mix of smooth stone and deep oak paneling, and unlike the common room, there weren't any Gryffindor banners or decorations. The space felt neutral, waiting for someone to claim it. A window stretched across the far side, offering a view of the castle grounds, its simple white curtains swaying slightly in the breeze.

A modest four-poster bed sat against one wall, draped in plain bedding. A wooden desk stood near the window, a single quill and inkpot already placed neatly on top. Empty bookshelves lined the far corner, ready to be filled.

To the right, a wardrobe stood tall, a full-length mirror attached to the inside of one of the doors. And just beyond it—something I hadn't expected.

A narrow door leading to a tiny, private bathroom.

It was simple—just a sink, a small shower, a toilet  and a cabinet—but it was mine.

I turned slowly, taking it all in, already picturing how I would make this place my own. Soft blankets. More pillows. A few pictures of the others—Ginny, Hermione, Ron and Harry, even Sirius. Mona. Maybe a few plants, fairy lights, candles.

McGonagall watched me from the doorway, her gaze softer than usual. "You are not accustomed to sharing a room, and given that you are not in one particular year, it would be unfair to place you in a dormitory where you do not quite fit. This will allow you some privacy and time to adjust while still being part of the house."

I swallowed, running a hand over the wooden desk. "This is... a lot more than I expected."

McGonagall's expression softened. "You have had quite a bit of adjusting already, Miss May. No need to make it any harder than it must be."

I exhaled slowly, feeling a warmth settle in my chest.

I turned to McGonagall, my voice quieter than before. "...Thank you, Professor."

She nodded once, as if that was all the conversation needed.

I stood there for a long moment after she left, listening to the quiet, running my hand over the desk, the bed, the windowsill. This was mine. Not a borrowed space, not a stop along the way—mine.

Hogwarts.

This was home now.

Chapter Text

I stood in the center of my new room, when I opened the window, the air light and crisp, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass, wood, and—somewhere below—the faintest wisp of smoke from the common room fireplace.
The combination was oddly perfect. Warm and alive, fresh but familiar.

I inhaled deeply, letting it settle in my chest.
Time to make this place mine.

I started pulling things out of my suitcase with no real order, stacking them onto the desk as I went. The first thing I reached for was a thick, oversized jumper—deep blue, with uneven stitches where I'd lost track of the pattern. It wasn't perfect, but I had made it.

The next one was green and light purple, soft and slouchy, followed by a colorful one, then red and pink. A whole stack of them—my own makeshift rainbow. They smelled like home, like salt air and late-night knitting sessions, the faintest hint of chocolate chip cookies clinging to the wool.

At the bottom of the suitcase, tangled in the corner, was a pair of socks. One mint green, one bright red. I snorted.
Mona and I had made them together, deciding—somewhere between too much chocolate and too little patience—that knitting pairs of socks was boring. So we had swapped. She had one of mine, and I had one of hers.

I smoothed them out before tucking them into the drawer, fingers lingering over the soft wool for just a second longer than necessary.

Next, I grabbed my hairbands—a whole collection of them, in every color I could get my hands on. They had their own little space in the bathroom now, lined up neatly by the mirror. A tiny claim over the unfamiliar space.

A familiar weight settled in my palm next—my favorite candle. I ran a finger over the label, worn from being tossed in and out of bags, before placing it on the bedside table. The scent—warm vanilla and cedar—was already filling the room, making it feel mine.

Then, the photos.

I propped them up along the nightstand, adjusting them until they looked just right. Ginny, mid-laugh, one arm slung around Hermione's shoulders. Ron and Harry, grinning like they were up to something. Sirius, caught in a rare moment of ease, eyes bright. Mona and me by the beach, when we were kids.

And then—one more.

I sifted through the small stack of photos in my hand, flipping past familiar faces, familiar moments. Ginny had taken a lot of them—snapshots of late nights, shared meals, ridiculous expressions caught mid-laugh. Little pieces of time, frozen on glossy paper.

Then, my fingers hesitated.

One I hadn't seen before.

It wasn't framed, just a loose photograph tucked between the others. I smoothed my thumb over the corner, my eyes catching on something that made my breath hitch.

In the center of the frame—I was laughing. Not just smiling, but full, unguarded laughter, the kind that crinkled my eyes and made my nose scrunch just slightly. My head was tilted back just a little, hair spilling over my shoulder, caught mid-motion. And on either side of me—

Fred and George.

But they weren't looking at the camera.

Fred was smiling at me. A real smile. Not teasing, not smug—just easy, warm, almost proud.
Like he had been caught in a moment of quiet amusement, watching me instead of the lens.

George's expression was harder to place. He wasn't just looking at me, he was studying me. The sharp intensity in his eyes made my stomach twist, like he was seeing something I couldn't even see myself. There was no grin, no mischief—just something unreadable.
Something real.

And it had to have been taken before everything.

Before the grasshoppers
Before the bet.
Before I had become a joke to them.

A slow breath. A tightening in my chest, barely there, but enough to make me shift, rolling my shoulders like I could shake it off.

Slowly, I exhaled, running my thumb over the corner again—then, after a long moment, instead of placing it with the others, I slid it into my nightstand drawer.

Out of sight.

-

The day was still young and I had the castle to myself. No crowds, no noise, just endless corridors and staircases that led who-knew-where, waiting to be explored.

So, with nothing but curiosity (and a general disregard for my complete lack of orientation skills), I set off.

Hogwarts was... confusing.

I had always been bad at directions. Not in the fun, slightly quirky way where you take a wrong turn now and then, but in the deeply unfortunate way where I could walk into a building, turn around twice, and completely forget where the exit was.

And Hogwarts, with its shifting staircases, secret passageways, and doors that occasionally pretended to be walls, was absolutely not helping.

Still, I couldn't be too annoyed.

Everywhere I looked, there was something to take in—high, arched ceilings, enchanted torches flickering in sconces, massive paintings that whispered behind my back, some watching me curiously, others clearly too bored to care.
One staircase led me past a corridor filled with floating candles, their soft glow bouncing off the old stone walls. Another took me to a massive tapestry of wizards dueling, the figures moving in real time, flicking their wands dramatically before pausing to glance at me in mild disinterest.

Eventually, after what felt like a full tour of the castle, I found my way to an enormous set of doors.

The Great Hall.

I hesitated for just a second before pushing them open.
The space beyond was breathtaking.

The ceiling stretched impossibly high, enchanted to mirror the sky outside—gray and moody, heavy clouds rolling lazily across a vast expanse. Tall, stained-glass windows lined the walls, casting soft patches of colored light onto the long, empty tables that stretched out across the hall.

I stepped forward, my footsteps barely making a sound against the smooth stone floor.

The Gryffindor table was empty, same as the others, and for a second, I wasn't sure if I was even supposed to be here but before I could overthink it, I slid onto one of the long benches.

I sat there for a moment, resting my elbows on the table, taking it all in. The high ceilings, the massive golden goblets, the lingering scent of something warm and spiced in the air.

And then—

A sudden pop.

I jumped.

Standing beside me was a tiny figure, barely reaching the height of the table, dressed in what looked like an old tea towel with the Hogwarts crest stitched into it.

I blinked.

The house-elf blinked back.

"Miss is hungry?" the elf asked, her voice high-pitched but polite, her wide eyes blinking up at me.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. "...Uh."

I hadn't been expecting this.

"Er—yeah," I said finally. "I mean. I can make something myself if you show me where the kitchen is?"

The elf gasped. Full-on, hand-to-his-chest, scandalized.

"Miss cannot be cooking for herself!" she squeaked. "That is—no! That is not how Hogwarts is working! The elves is cooking, miss. Always cooking!"

I blinked again.

"Right," I said slowly. "I just—I didn't mean to offend you or anything, I just didn't realize there were house-elves working here."

The elf looked at me like I had just told her the sky was green. "Miss is too kind!"

I didn't think I'd said anything particularly kind, but the elf practically vibrated with enthusiasm before snapping his fingers.

A second later, a plate appeared in front of me, filled with steaming food—roasted vegetables, perfectly golden potatoes, fresh bread with a little dish of herb butter, and a bowl of something that smelled suspiciously like the best soup I had ever encountered.

I stared.

"Wow," I said, genuinely taken aback. "That's... really nice of you."

The elf beamed, her ears wiggling slightly.

"Miss is liking her food?"

"Yes!," I confirmed, picking up my fork.

The elf gave a proud nod. "Then Poppy is happy!"

"Poppy?"

"That is being my name, miss."

I smiled. "Well, thank you, Poppy. This looks incredible."

Poppy beamed, bowing so low her nose almost touched the floor.

"If Miss is ever needing anything, she can be calling for Poppy!"

And with another sharp pop, she disappeared.

I stared at the spot where she had stood for a second, then shook my head with a quiet laugh.

Hogwarts was... something else.

I turned back to my plate, letting the warmth of the food settle over me.

Tomorrow, lessons would begin.

But for now, I had a castle to explore, a quiet hall to enjoy, and—

I took another bite, sighing in satisfaction.

—really, really good potatoes.

-

After finishing what was possibly one of the best meals of my life, I left the Great Hall with no real plan—just the quiet thrill of knowing the castle, the grounds, all of it was mine to explore.

The air outside was crisp, cool in that just-before-autumn way, the sky still thick with gray clouds. The moment I stepped onto the grass, the wind met me, threading through my hair, tugging at my sleeves like an old friend.

I inhaled deeply. The scent of damp earth, fresh-cut grass, and distant woodsmoke filled my lungs, settling somewhere deep in my chest.

Then, my eyes caught the lake.

The Black Lake stretched wide before me, its surface smooth and dark, like a giant pane of obsidian glass. Every so often, the water rippled, as if something just beneath had shifted.

I wandered closer, my boots sinking slightly into the soft ground.

It was so still. Unnaturally so.

I had seen lakes before—had grown up near the ocean, spent years feeling the rhythm of tides, the pull of wind and current. But this was different.

This water held secrets.

I tilted my head, staring out at the endless black expanse.

Could I kite it?

The thought had started as a joke, something ridiculous, but the longer I stood there, the more I wondered.

Could I?

There was wind. There was open water. Technically, there was nothing stopping me. Except for, you know, the possibility of being dragged under by something with too many teeth.

I chewed my lip.

Back home, the ocean had always felt vast, but it had never scared me. Even when I wiped out, even when the currents pulled harder than I expected, I had never doubted that I belonged there.

But this wasn't the ocean.

This was something older. Something watching.

I exhaled, shaking my head.

Maybe I'd revisit the idea later.

Turning away from the lake, my eyes caught on something in the distance.

A small, crooked hut stood near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. A massive pumpkin patch stretched alongside it, and just past the fence, I could make out a towering figure moving around—easily twice my height, broad, wild hair, an unmistakable presence.

Hagrid.

I didn't hesitate.

I adjusted my sleeves, took a deep breath, and started toward the hut.

The closer I got, the more details I noticed. A massive crossbow leaning against the steps. A pair of boots the size of my entire torso sitting just outside the door. The deep, rhythmic humming of someone completely at ease in their own space.

I reached the gate and raised a hand.

Knock, knock, knock.

The humming stopped.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then—heavy footsteps. The kind you felt in the ground before you heard them.

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Rubeus Hagrid.

Half-giant, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, and quite possibly the largest person I had ever seen in my life.

His dark eyes blinked down at me, thick beard twitching slightly in surprise.

"Well, now," he said, voice as deep and warm as the earth itself. "Yeh must be Lena May."

I tilted my head up to meet his gaze. "That'd be me."

He grinned, stepping back. "C'mon in, then. Ain't everyday I get visitors before term's even started."

I stepped inside.

The hut was exactly what I had expected—cozy, cluttered, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, tea, and something distinctly... animal. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, a massive wooden table dominated the center of the room, and by the fireplace, a huge, shaggy boarhound lifted his head, sniffing the air.

"That's Fang," Hagrid said, nodding toward the dog. "Don' worry, he looks mean, but he's a great lump. All slobber, no bite."

Fang made a noise somewhere between a yawn and a sigh before resting his head back on his paws, unimpressed.

I smiled. "Big fan of naps, huh?"

"Big fan of naps an' biscuits," Hagrid chuckled. "Speakin' of—tea?"

"Uh—sure."

Hagrid busied himself with a kettle, and I took the moment to glance around. There were books stacked precariously on nearly every surface, some with titles like Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and The Proper Way to Tame a Manticore. A few mismatched mugs sat beside a plate of what looked like rock-hard scones.

"So," Hagrid said, handing me a steaming cup, "what brings yeh down here? Didn' expect to see yeh till tomorrow."

I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. "Figured I should introduce myself—since we're going to be spending the mornings together and all. Also wanted to check when you actually wanted me here. McGonagall said mornings, but... didn't specify when exactly."

Hagrid let out a booming laugh. "Ah, she wouldn't. Knows I like t'start a bit later than the rest. No need ter be draggin' yerself outta bed at dawn."

"Good," I said, exhaling dramatically. "Because that would've been tragic."

Hagrid chuckled, shaking his head. "Nine-thirty, then. Gives me time ter get the creatures settled first."

"Nine-thirty," I repeated. "Got it."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping our tea.

„So... I was wondering something about the lake."

Hagrid looked up. "Aye?"

I ran a thumb along the rim of my mug. "Would it—hypothetically—be possible to kitesurf it?"

Hagrid frowned. "Kite-what-now?"

"Kitesurfing," I said, shifting slightly. "It's—well, imagine a board, kind of like a skateboard but for water, and a giant kite that pulls you along with the wind."

Hagrid blinked at me. "And yeh do that fer fun?"

I grinned. "I do."

Hagrid scratched his beard, thinking. "Well... s'pose it could be done. Long as yeh don' mind a Grindylow givin' yer toes a nibble. Or a Kelpie decidin' yeh look like a tasty snack."

I hummed. "Right. Noted. Possible, but with a side of death."

Hagrid chuckled. "Aye. Let's just stick ter creatures on land fer now, yeah?"

"Yeah," I admitted, grinning. "Probably for the best."

Fang let out a low, snuffling sigh, rolling onto his back like a massive, overgrown puppy.

A low rumble rolled in the distance, and Hagrid glanced toward the window. His brow furrowed slightly.

"Storm's comin' in," he noted. "Yeh best get back to the castle before it starts."

I followed his gaze. The sky had darkened, the thick clouds churning, shifting. The wind had picked up slightly, curling around the hut in slow, winding gusts.

"Right," I said, standing. "I should go, then."
I nodded, stepping toward the door. "Well, thanks for the tea, Hagrid. I'll see you in the morning."

"Lookin' forward to it," he said, waving me off.
"An' Lena—don't be lettin' that lake get any ideas."

I grinned over my shoulder. "No promises."

As soon as I stepped outside, the first drops of rain splattered against my cheeks—cool and heavy, like the storm had been waiting for me to leave before properly beginning. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees, sending a shiver down my spine.

I pulled my sleeves down over my hands, quickening my pace.

By the time I reached the castle doors, the rain was coming down in earnest. My boots squeaked against the stone floor as I stepped into the entrance hall, breathless, damp, and entirely windblown.

The warmth hit me instantly—thick and golden, carrying the scent of candle wax and old wood, the ever-present hum of Hogwarts settling deep into my bones. I exhaled, running a hand through my hair, trying to shake the dampness out before making my way up the countless staircases toward Gryffindor Tower.

By the time I reached my room, I was exhausted. My legs ached, my shoulders were sore, and I was fairly certain my hair had turned into a tangled mess from the wind. But as I pushed open the door, something unexpected caught my eye.

A small plate sat neatly on my desk, piled high with golden, perfectly round cookies. A note was propped up beside them, the handwriting nearly illegible—looping, wobbly letters that barely fit on the scrap of parchment.

"From Poppy."

I blinked, a slow smile tugging at my lips.

Poppy.

The house-elf from the kitchens. The one who had been so startled when I said I could cook for myself.

I set my things down and picked up one of the cookies, breaking it in half. Warm. Buttery. A hint of cinnamon.

My chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the cookie. I made a mental note to thank her.

With a quiet hum of satisfaction, I set the plate back down and grabbed a fresh set of clothes before heading into my bathroom. The shower was blissfully hot, washing away the damp chill from my skin. I took my time, letting the steam curl around me, the tension in my muscles slowly unraveling.

By the time I stepped out, dressed in my softest jumper and the pair of Mona's and mine mixed socks, I felt like I could collapse into bed and sleep for a week.

Instead, I hesitated.

My eyes drifted toward my desk, toward the fresh parchment and ink waiting there.

For a moment, I considered it. Writing home. Letting my parents know where I was.

But then—what would I even say?

Hi, still a disappointment. Now a magical disappointment. Hope you're well.

Yeah. No.

With a quiet sigh, I turned away and crawled into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

The wind howled against the window, the castle settling into its nighttime hush. My mind should have been drifting toward sleep, toward the long day ahead of me.
The rain pattered against the window, steady and rhythmic, lulling me toward sleep.

And just before I drifted off, my mind wandered—back to a photo tucked away in my nightstand.

Back to Fred.
Back to George.

And the way they had looked at me.

I exhaled, rolling onto my side, curling deeper into the blankets.

Eventually, sleep found me.

But my thoughts never quite left them.

Chapter Text

I had always thought of myself as someone who liked animals. Rabbits? Loved them. Badgers? Adorable. Even the occasional garden hedgehog back home made me smile. But magical creatures? That was a different story.

Hagrid was brilliant, truly. He treated every beast like it was a giant, slobbering puppy, no matter how many fangs it had or how likely it was to melt someone's face off. And I admired that. Really, I did. But after three straight mornings of being covered in slime, nearly losing a finger, and inhaling enough questionable odors to last a lifetime, I came to an important realization:

Care of Magical Creatures was not for me.

On Thursday morning, I woke up groggy, my muscles aching from wrangling a particularly aggressive Bowtruckle the day before. The idea of trekking all the way down to Hagrid's hut on foot felt unbearable, so I made an executive decision: I was going to fly to class.

The problem? I didn't have a broom.

I figured there had to be some stored at Hogwarts. So after breakfast, I wandered outside, scanning the Quidditch pitch for clues. It didn't take long to spot a shed near the stands, its door slightly ajar. I slipped inside, inhaling the scent of polished wood and old leather.

Rows of school brooms lined one side—stiff, outdated models that looked like they had been used since the Middle Ages. But against the far wall, a separate rack held sleeker, well-kept brooms, marked with the Gryffindor crest.

I stepped closer, my eyes drifting over the names carved into the handles.

Johnson
Spinnet
Bell
F. Weasley
G. Weasley
Potter
Wood

Fred and George.

I hesitated. There were plenty of other brooms. But for some reason, my fingers closed around one of the Weasley twins' instead.

I didn't know why I chose theirs. Maybe because it was the closest. Maybe because, despite everything, a part of me still trusted them. Or maybe I just wanted to borrow a bit of that reckless confidence..

Whatever the reason, I grabbed the broom and left before I could second-guess it.

Flying to Hagrid's class was the best decision I had made all week. The air was crisp, the castle stretched beneath me in soft greens and golds, and for the first time in weeks, I felt free, like I used to while kiting. My landings still needed work, though—as I quickly realized when I nearly crashed into Hagrid's hut.

"Steady there, Lena!" Hagrid called as I wobbled to a stop, kicking up a small cloud of dust. "Bit more practice an' you'll be flyin' like a proper Quidditch player!"

"I think I'll settle for not breaking my neck," I muttered, dismounting and brushing off my robes.

Hagrid didn't seem to mind my very obvious discomfort around his creatures. If anything, he found it amusing.

"Ah, yeh'll get used to it," he said cheerfully as I stood frozen in place while a Skrewt—an actual living nightmare—tried to incinerate a log a few feet away. "They're just misunderstood."

I nodded, because telling him that the Skrewt and I completely understood each other—specifically that we both wanted to be left alone—probably wasn't the right answer.

By the end of the week, I had been singed, slimed, nearly trampled, and had developed an unfortunate ability to recognize the smell of wet everything. When Hagrid beamed at me on the last day and said he hoped I'd stick with the subject, I forced a smile and mumbled something noncommittal.

I already knew that, if I had a choice, I would not be taking this class.

-

Hogwarts without students was strange. At first, I enjoyed the quiet—the way the castle felt like it belonged just to me. But by the third day, the stillness had started pressing in.

The Great Hall felt cavernous, its long tables almost mocking in their emptiness. Meals were quiet affairs, just me, a few scattered professors, and the occasional ghost drifting through. The staircases, seemingly bored without the usual foot traffic, shifted unpredictably beneath me, sending me on detours through unfamiliar corridors.

The portraits were far too interested in my every move. I caught them watching me, whispering to each other, their frames bustling with gossip-starved figures. One afternoon, I heard a cluster of them placing bets on whether I'd trip over a rug. (I did. They cheered.)

And then there was Peeves.

With no other students to torment, he turned all his energy onto me. He dumped ink over my notes, knocked over a suit of armor just to make me jump, and followed me through the halls, constantly humming.

I told him to shove off, but he just grinned, floating upside-down and pelting me with spare bits of parchment.

"Don't worry, little lonely Lena," he cackled, "the castle won't be empty forever."

I rolled my eyes, brushing paper scraps from my hair.

Something about Peeves' chaos reminded me of Fred and George—of their pranks, their laughter, their effortless ability to fill a space with energy. The memory sat uneasily in my chest. I had thought I was done thinking about them, but apparently, my brain had other plans.

With no one around, I explored. The library was quiet in a way that felt sacred, its towering bookshelves mine to wander without interruption. The castle revealed its oddities—hidden staircases that only appeared at odd hours, enchanted windows that changed the weather outside depending on my mood.

I found a tiny stone balcony tucked away on the seventh floor, barely big enough to sit on, overlooking the Black Lake. It became my place, my secret spot.

I wasn't entirely alone, though.

Nearly Headless Nick took it upon himself to keep me company, popping up during meals and floating beside me through the corridors like a well-mannered, slightly transparent chaperone. He was delighted to have someone to talk to without the usual distractions of students causing chaos.

"I must say, it's refreshing to have a student who actually listens," he remarked one evening as we strolled (well, I strolled—he hovered) through the Great Hall.

"Happy to be of service," I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "Though I get the feeling you're just waiting for an opportunity to tell me about your death again."

He looked almost sheepish. "Well, I do think it's a remarkable tale..."

I groaned playfully. "Fine. But after dinner."

He beamed, as much as a ghost could.

But the best part of Hogwarts, the part that actually felt like home, was my dormitory.

On stormy nights, I stretched out on my bed with a book, rain drumming against the windows, the fire casting golden light across the walls.

It wasn't the home I had left behind. But it was mine.

-

Herbology was incredible.

From the moment I stepped into the greenhouse, something just clicked. The air smelled of damp earth and fresh leaves, the soft hum of magical plants filled the space, and everything just felt right. It reminded me of home—not my parents' house, but the nursery I used to work at. The comfort of soil beneath my fingernails, the quiet satisfaction of tending to something and watching it grow.

Professor Sprout took one look at how I handled the plants and immediately started treating me like an apprentice rather than a student. We spent half our lessons gossiping about the Hogwarts faculty, exchanging gardening tips, and—much to my delight—trash-talking particularly annoying wizarding scholars.

"You'd think these old men never set foot outside a library," she huffed one afternoon as we pruned a patch of Flutterbloom. "Writing about plants they've never even seen in real life! Honestly, if I hear one more lecture about 'proper Mandrake handling' from someone who's never pulled one out of the ground, I'll hex their kneecaps."

I adored her.

By the time Friday rolled around, she insisted I call her Pomona outside of class and gifted me a collection of magical plants to brighten up my room. There was a small Moonvine, which glowed faintly in the dark; a Fluttering Fern, its leaves quivering ever so slightly as if caught in a breeze; a Singing Snapdragon, which hummed softly when touched; and a Wandering Ivy, which Pomona warned might try to escape if I didn't keep an eye on it.

"They'll keep you company," she told me proudly, handing me the enchanted bundle. "Plants make the best listeners, you know. They don't interrupt, they don't judge—they just grow."

-

The afternoon sun cast long golden streaks across the Black Lake as I settled onto the grass, my crochet bag at my side. The weekend was mine—no lessons, no schedule, just two days of peace before the rest of the students would arrive on Sunday evening.

Earlier, Hagrid and Pomona had mentioned that I'd be placed in fifth-year classes, which hadn't come as a surprise. It was nice to have it confirmed, but I didn't dwell on it. Right now, I was more focused on the soft black yarn in my hands.

I had already decided what I was making before I even sat down.

A dog.

A small one, with pointed ears and a tiny tail, something simple but recognizable. A miniature black dog for Sirius.

I wasn't sure why the idea had stuck in my head, but it felt right. A little companion for his desk, something to remind him that even when the house was empty, he wasn't entirely alone.

I looped the yarn over my hook, letting my hands fall into the familiar rhythm. The soft lapping of the lake filled the air, the occasional rustling of leaves making it feel like the world was settling into quiet alongside me.

Poppy had packed me a lunchbox to take with me—a still-warm cheese and onion pasty, golden and flaky, a slice of pecan tart with a small container of cream tucked beside it, and a small bunch of grapes.

I had just finished shaping one of the ears when a familiar whoosh cut through the air.

Steven.

I glanced up as he swooped toward me, a letter clutched in his beak. He landed lightly next to me, making an impatient noise as he dropped it into my lap.

"Demanding today, aren't you?" I laughed, already reaching into the lunchbox.

I plucked a grape from the stem and held it out. Steven snatched it from my fingers with a sharp little peck, then fluffed up proudly, chewing in that smug way only an owl could manage.

I shook my head, unfolding the letter, immediately recognizing Ginny's handwriting.
________________________________

Lena!

You are seriously missing out on Mum's cooking. We've been eating like we'll never see food again, which, knowing Hogwarts, isn't necessary, but still. Ron's been inhaling treacle tart like someone's about to take it away from him. (Which, honestly, Mum might if he doesn't start chewing properly.)

The house is its usual chaos. Dad nearly set the shed on fire trying to fix a Muggle "blender," and
Fred and George keep vanishing into their room for "top-secret" business, which, knowing them, probably means they're inventing something mildly illegal. They won't say what, but every now and then we hear small explosions. Mum's threatening to lock the door if they don't stop stinking up the house.

Speaking of Fred and George — they're acting weird. Fred's been brooding (and trying to pretend he isn't), and George hasn't said anything about what happened. But trust me, they're thinking about it.

Mum's been baking nonstop, so we're bringing a ridiculous amount of biscuits. You've got greetings from everyone—Mum, Dad, Harry, and Ron (who mostly just wants to know if you've seen any giant spiders yet).

Can't wait to see you soon!

Ginny & Hermione
_____________________________

I let out a slow breath, folding the letter neatly.

Fred's been brooding.
George hasn't said anything.

Oh, good. So they were thinking about it. Fantastic. I was sure that must be absolutely miserable for them.

I rolled my eyes and shoved the letter into my pocket.

Not that I wanted them suffering or anything, but was it so hard to just—I don't know—apologize instead of skulking around like a pair of dramatic Victorian widows?

Steven let out a judgmental little hoot beside me, nudging at my fingers.

"Don't start," I muttered, plucking a grape from the lunchbox and holding it out for him. He took it with a sharp peck, swallowing it in one go before puffing up like he'd just won a duel.

I smirked, nudging him lightly with my knuckle. "Yeah, yeah. We can't all be as emotionally well-adjusted as you."

Steven gave me a deeply unimpressed look, which, considering he was an owl, was both impressive and slightly offensive.

I sighed, pulling my half-finished black dog into my lap and looping the yarn over my hook.

If Fred and George wanted to act weird about everything, that was their problem. I had better things to do.

Like crocheting an emotionally stable dog for a man who could turn into one.

Chapter Text

I woke slowly, blinking against the soft golden light filtering through my dormitory window.

For a moment, I just lay there, curled beneath the warm blankets, taking it all in—the familiar scent of old wood and my favorite candle, the soft rustling of the plants Pomona had given me, their leaves swaying ever so slightly as if greeting the morning.

I had only been here for a week, but somehow, this room already felt like mine.

A home.

Steven was still asleep, his round body fluffed up in his perch near the window, one foot tucked under his feathers. I grinned—he was so sweet when he wasn't looking at me judgmentally.

Instead, I stretched, rolling my shoulders before swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Today was mine to do whatever I wanted.

And I had something special in mind.

But first—breakfast.

As expected, the Great Hall was empty when I arrived, just like every other morning.

On the Gryffindor table, a single breakfast had already been set out for me—fluffy scrambled eggs, buttery toast, fresh strawberries, and a small dish of honey for my tea.

I smiled. Poppy.

I had barely taken my first sip of tea when a familiar translucent figure drifted toward me.

"Good morning, Sir Nicholas," I greeted, setting my cup down.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed, adjusting his ruffled collar as he hovered beside me. "Ah, my dear Lena! A fine morning indeed. And I must say, you do look rather at home here now."

I speared a strawberry with my fork. "I'd say it's growing on me."

"Good, good!" He nodded approvingly. "I do find that Hogwarts has a way of embracing those who embrace it in return."

I hummed in agreement, taking a bite of toast.

Nick never ate, of course, but that didn't stop him from lingering over breakfast as if he could still remember the taste of food.

He sighed dramatically. "Oh, how I miss the simple pleasure of a warm meal! I do believe toast with honey was a particular favorite of mine... in life, of course."

I smirked, pushing my plate toward him just a little. "Go on, take a bite."

He gave me a deeply unamused look.

"You mock me."

"Just a little."

Nick scoffed, but there was a fond glimmer in his ghostly eyes as he straightened up. "Ah, well, I shall forgive you. But only because I do so enjoy your company."

I took another sip of tea, settling into the morning.

A quiet Hogwarts, good food, and a free day ahead.

But before I could enjoy it properly, there was something that finally needed to be done.

-

The breeze was cool against my skin as I settled onto the small stone balcony, my back resting against the outer wall of the castle. The Black Lake stretched far below, its surface shimmering under the soft morning light, and the trees bordering the water swayed lazily in the wind.

I pulled my knees up, resting my parchment against them, and twirled my quill between my fingers.

I had been putting this off for days.

Every time I thought about writing to Mona, my stomach twisted into knots. Not because I didn't want to, but because I had no idea what to say.

I couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't explain why I had disappeared, why I couldn't come home, why my entire life had shifted into something unrecognizable overnight.

And worst of all, a part of me worried that... maybe she wouldn't want to hear from me at all.

I had left without warning.
No explanation. No goodbye.

What if she had moved on?
What if she was angry?

I exhaled slowly, gripping the quill tighter.
I wasn't going to put it off any longer.

I had to at least try.
______________________________

Mona,

I don't even know how to start this. "Hey, sorry I disappeared without a word, but I swear I didn't die"? That feels a bit dramatic. But honestly, I don't have a good excuse. I should've written sooner. I just... didn't know how.

I still don't, really. There's so much I can't explain, which is frustrating because you're the one person I actually want to tell everything to.

I'll say this much: I'm safe. I'm at a... school, sort of. Let's call it an intensive program for unique skills and leave it at that. It's far from home, but the people here are nice, the food is ridiculously good, and I have my own room. (I decorated it properly, by the way— candles, plants and everything, You'd approve.)

I miss kiting, though. There's a lake here, and I keep looking at it thinking, I could probably make that work. But since I forgot to bring my gear, I'd just end up face-planting into the water. Which, to be fair, wouldn't be the first time.

Speaking of which—do you remember when we were eight and decided that skateboards worked just as well as surfboards? And then you pushed me off the dock to see if it works? Still not over that, by the way.

Anyway—I don't know if you even want to hear from me after all this. But if you do, you can give Steven a letter. (Yes, the owl. Don't question it.) Just tell him to take it to me, and he'll find his way back.

I miss you.
More than I can really put into words.

Write back if you want to.

Lena
_______________________________

After sealing Mona's letter, I pulled out a second envelope—one for Sirius—and carefully tucked the tiny crocheted dog inside.

It wasn't a long letter, but it covered the important things: a few ridiculous stories about Peeves, an overview of my week, a very clear declaration that Care of Magical Creatures was a disaster, and, somewhere near the end, the quiet admission that I missed him.

Steven ruffled his feathers as I tied both letters to his leg, watching me with sharp, expectant eyes.

"Big job today," I murmured, running a gentle finger over his wing. "One letter to Mona, the other to Sirius. Alright?"

He gave a soft, knowing hoot, tilting his head like he could sense the weight behind the words.

I smiled. "Good boy."

Steven clicked his beak and took off, his wings cutting smoothly through the air as he disappeared into the morning sun.

I watched until he was just a speck against the sky, the weight in my chest both lighter and heavier at the same time.

It was out of my hands now.

Which meant it was time to focus on something else entirely.

I turned down the corridor, making my way down the stairs. After a week of exploring, I was finally getting better at finding my way around—which, in a castle that seemed determined to rearrange itself at random, was no small achievement.

And today, I knew exactly what I was looking for.

The library was as quiet as ever when I stepped inside, the scent of old parchment and ink settling around me like a comforting weight.

I wandered through the towering shelves, scanning the endless categories—some useful, some completely absurd.

There was "Ancient Runes: A Guide to Insulting Your Enemies in Dead Languages", which I absolutely made a mental note to check out later.

Then "A History of Hats in Magical Society", featuring an entire chapter dedicated to the ethics of sentient headwear.

And, for reasons I didn't even want to question, "So You've Been Cursed Into a Teapot: A Practical Guide to Coping."

I paused, tilting my head. That raises... so many questions.

Eventually, after passing through the Herbology, Charms, and a deeply unsettling shelf labeled "Experimental Potions & Unfortunate Side Effects", I finally found what I was looking for.

The House & Garden section was tucked away near the back of the library, wedged between "Wand Polishing for Perfectionists" and "A Thousand and One Uses for Leftover Potion Ingredients" (which sounded both resourceful and deeply concerning).

I trailed my fingers along the spines, skimming the titles.

"Goblins Hate Clutter: A Minimalist's Guide to a Magical Home." Okay... weirdly specific, but sure.

"When Your Teapot Fights Back: Troubleshooting Enchanted Kitchenware." That one went straight onto my mental list of books I had to read later.

Finally, after skipping over "So You Want a Sentient Sofa?" (I absolutely did not), my eyes landed on something promising.

I grinned, pulling them from the shelf.

Muggle Aesthetic, Magical Convenience: The Art of Cozy Living
(Because fairy lights and floating candles can coexist, despite what traditionalists say.)

Loops, Lace, and a Little Bit of Magic:
A Witch's Guide to Cozy Knits
(Warning: Overuse of self-knitting needles may lead to a sentient sock army.)

With both books tucked securely under my arm, I made my way back through the castle, already feeling the excitement bubbling under my skin.

This wasn't studying. This wasn't charms practice or potion theory or trying not to get eaten in Magical Creatures. This was just for me.

A fun, creative afternoon, in my cozy little room, where floating candles and fairy lights will absolutely coexist.

Back in my room, I tossed the books onto my bed and flipped through them quickly, running my fingers along the pages, searching for the perfect enchantment.
I needed something simple—strong enough to make the CD player work, but not so complicated that I'd risk turning it into a sentient jukebox that refused to stop playing.

After skimming past a spell for making your furniture hum lullabies (absolutely not), and a questionable section on self-dusting bookshelves, I finally found something promising:

"Sustained Motion and Harmonized Sound: A Beginner's Guide to Enchanting Muggle Devices."

Arthur would love this.

I propped the book open beside me, grabbed my CD player, and carefully followed the instructions—muttering the spell under my breath, feeling the magic settle around the device as I flicked my wand.

The CD spun to life.

I blinked. Then grinned.

It worked.

The first few chords crackled through the air—Oasis, Radiohead, a few other Indie bands I'd listened to a thousand times before. No skips. No strange magical interference. Just music.

Still grinning, I turned up the volume, thrilled I had actually pulled it off.

And with that—it was time to get creative.
With music humming in the background, I rolled up my sleeves, ready to make this space truly mine.

First—the walls.
I ran my wand over them, watching as soft, airy blue spread across the bottom half, blending seamlessly into the original creamy stone above. Bright but calming.

Next, the fairy lights.

I twisted them along the ceiling beams, then wrapped the remaining strands around my bed's headboard, weaving the soft golden bulbs between the wood. With a quick flick of my wand, they flickered to life, settling into a gentle, warm glow. Now, as soon as the sun set, they'd light up on their own, filling the room with a soft, cozy light.

The plants were easy. Terracotta pots, scattered everywhere. Some on my desk, some on the windowsill, one hanging from a floating shelf in the corner. Pomona's gifts now had a final home of their own.

I rummaged through the cupboard, pulling out an old, worn-out rug, its pattern barely visible under years of dust. With a careful enchantment, the fabric shifted, thickened, softened, transforming into a big fluffy off-white rug that sank under my feet like clouds.

Then, the bed.

With a flick of my wand, the frame stretched, the mattress expanded, the blankets spilling wider and softer. Extra space. Extra cozy.

I ran my wand over the sheets, watching them morph into soft, light pink fabric, warmer, cozier.

Meanwhile, my knitting needles worked on their own, spinning colorful, fluffy pillows out of thick, soft yarn. I plucked one up, pressing it against my chest. Perfect.

The quilt was last.

I had brought it from home—an old granny square quilt I had crocheted over the years. Magic couldn't make crochet, not the real kind, but I could still change the colors, soften the fibers, make it blend into this new space.

I draped the now yellow quilt over my bed, stepping back to take it all in.

Soft light. Warm blankets. A bigger bed. Colorful pillows. The gentle rustling of leaves, the hum of my favorite songs.

It was perfect.

I sighed, flopping onto my newly cozy bed, staring at the empty wall opposite me. The only thing that was missing was a TV. Something to curl up in bed with, something to watch movies on, to disappear into a story the way I always had before.
Maybe one day.

-

The afternoon sun stretched lazily across the castle grounds, bathing everything in a golden glow.

I stood by the broom shed, my fingers drifting over the carved names on the polished handles. My eyes landed on one of the twins' again.

G. Weasley

I hesitated.

Then shrugged.

With a gentle push, I kicked off the ground, the broom lifting smoothly beneath me.

As I gained height, a sense of lightness settled in my chest—not just from the flight, but from the quiet, the openness, the view stretching endlessly before me.

A weight lifting off my chest as I cut through the air, twisting effortlessly past the castle towers.

Flying wasn't the same as kitesurfing—less fight, more flow—but the freedom? That was identical.

I drifted over the Black Lake, watching the ripples fan out beneath me, shifting between deep blue and copper where the sun hit the surface. Beyond it, the Forbidden Forest spread like a dark green sea, treetops swaying gently in the breeze.

The greenhouses came next, their glass panes glittering as I passed over them. I spotted Professor Sprout among the plants, her hat bobbing as she worked.

I followed the castle's outer walls, taking in the winding stone paths, the old archways, the towering windows reflecting the afternoon light.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, I wasn't thinking about anything at all.

Just this. Just flying.

I exhaled, angling the broom toward the courtyard, my muscles loose, my heart buzzing from the high of it all.

And then—

Six familiar figures appeared out of thin air.

I barely had time to process them before one of them—George—froze mid-step, his face twisting in immediate, visceral betrayal.

For one charged, silent second, we just stared at each other.

Then—

"OI!" George practically shrieked, flailing his arms like I'd just committed a personal attack on his family legacy. "THAT'S MY BLOODY BROOM!"

His voice boomed across the courtyard, startling a flock of pigeons into the air.

Fred, for his part, looked positively delighted.

"Well, well," he drawled, grinning up at me. "Look who's making herself at home."

I hovered midair, debating my options.

1. Deny everything. (Unconvincing,     considering I was literally sitting on the      evidence.)

2. Turn and fly away. (Tempting, but dramatic.)

3. Land and face the consequences. (Ugh.)

I exhaled.

You know what? I was having a great afternoon. The sun was shining. The air was crisp. I felt free, peaceful, at one with the world.

And I wasn't about to kill my vibe over a broom ownership dispute.

So instead, I gave George one last look, shrugged, and then—

Turned. Around. And. Flew. Away.

Just like that. No explanation. No guilt. Just pure, unbothered retreat.

The courtyard went dead silent.

Then—

"SHE DID NOT JUST—"

"OH, SHE ABSOLUTELY DID."

Fred howled with laughter. Hermione gasped audibly. Ron choked on air.

I, meanwhile, was giggling, the wind whipping past me as I soared back toward the castle.

Bold move? Yes.

Worth it? Absolutely.

And I regret nothing.

...

Well.

Except for the part where I eventually had to come back inside.

Chapter Text

I took my time walking back to the castle.

Not because I was scared. Obviously.

I had just executed a flawless, unbothered aerial retreat, after all.
A masterful avoidance of confrontation.
A bold power move.

And if I was feeling a tiny bit nervous about facing George, well—that was just a biological reaction to potential danger. Not actual fear.

It was fine.

I was fine.

Completely. Totally. F—

I stepped into the Great Hall.

And immediately locked eyes with George Weasley.

My stomach dropped.

He was already sitting at the Gryffindor table, arms crossed, looking unbelievably composed—which was infinitely worse than if he had been actively fuming.

Across from him, Fred was sitting back, biting his knuckles, barely holding in laughter.

The others—Ginny, Hermione, Harry, and Ron—were watching with far too much amusement.

George didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared.

I should have kept flying.

Maybe lived in the woods. Started a new life.

Too late now.

I straightened my spine, squared my shoulders, and did the only thing I could do.

I pretended I wasn't bothered at all.

With the air of someone who had done absolutely nothing wrong, I casually strolled over, took a seat across from them, and poured myself a very normal, very nonchalant glass of pumpkin juice.

Did I feel George's stare burning a hole into the side of my face?

Yes.

Did I acknowledge it?

Absolutely not.

The silence stretched.

I could feel Fred vibrating with barely contained amusement, but George was still eerily quiet.

I ignored him.

Picked up my fork. Speared a strawberry. Took a very composed bite.

Then—

A shadow loomed.

I looked up slowly, already bracing myself.

And there was George.

Still completely calm.
Still radiating the energy of someone personally victimized by my existence.

"Nice flight?" he asked, voice light. Too light.

I chewed. Swallowed. "Yeah. Gorgeous weather."

He nodded. Thoughtful. Mildly betrayed.

"Mm. And you couldn't have picked literally any other broom?"

I shrugged. "No."

Fred snorted.

George exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "Right. And I assume you're expecting me to just let this go?"

I picked up my pumpkin juice. "Most definitely."

He nodded again. Then, with unwavering eye contact, reached across the table and plucked my juice straight out of my hand.

Then took a slow, petty sip.

I gasped. "That was mine!"

He set it down. "Not anymore."

I huffed, leaning back in my chair. "Don't you worry, next time I'll use Fred's again."

Fred froze mid-laugh.

George's eyes sharpened immediately.

"Again?" he repeated, voice flat.

Fred blinked, glancing between us. "Wait—again?"

I speared another strawberry, completely unbothered. "Yeah."

George squinted at me. "You've been using both our brooms?"

I smirked, then picked up the same glass of pumpkin juice he had stolen from me and took a slow, deliberate sip. „All week, actually".

Fred let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with a slow grin. "Well, well. Didn't realize you were so attached to us, Mayhem. Should we be flattered or file a restraining order?"

George narrowed his eyes. "She's practically been dating our brooms behind our backs."

I rolled my eyes.

Fred leaned in, grinning now. "At least tell me—mine flies better, doesn't it?"

I didn't even hesitate.

"Want to bet?"

Ginny nearly choked on her pumpkin juice.

Both twins stilled.

Then, deciding I'd had more than enough of them for one day, I stood up, stretching.

"Anyway. Ginny, Hermione—wanna see my room?"

Ginny grinned. "Definitely."

Hermione nodded. "Of course."

But before we could take two steps—

"We'd gladly take a look," Fred cut in, voice low, smooth—heavy with suggestion.

George leaned forward, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah. Might as well see where our brooms have been spending all their time."

I sighed deeply.

This was exactly why I needed a lock.

-

I led the way, determined to act completely unbothered as we walked through the corridors.

Fred and George trailed behind, murmuring to each other in that infuriating twin-speak I couldn't understand but somehow knew was about me.

Ginny was still grinning, throwing me a look that said you've brought this on yourself.

"So... why did you all come back early?" I asked while entering the Gryffindor common room.

Ginny shrugged like it was obvious. "We didn't want you to be alone all weekend."

Hermione nodded. "It felt wrong, you being here by yourself when we could just come a little sooner."

Warmth bloomed in my chest.

But.

Fred and George weren't exactly the sentimental type. If they had come back early, it was probably just for convenience.

Right?

Or maybe—

I shook my head. No.

After stepping into the Gryffindor common room and making our way up the girls' staircase, we finally reached my door.
Just as I reached for the handle—

"So," Fred drawled from behind me, "all this space just for you?"

George whistled low, leaning casually against the doorframe. "No roommates? No supervision?" He shook his head. "What a scandal."

Fred smirked. "Bet it gets lonely, though."

I exhaled deeply. "Not lonely enough to invite either of you in."

George sighed. "Shame, really. A girl like you, all on her own..."

I shot him a flat look. "Would you like me to spell out the part where I said 'not invited'?"

Fred just grinned. "Oh, we got that part loud and clear."

And yet—they still followed me in.

Ginny took one step in and let out a low whistle. "Alright, this is incredible."

Hermione's eyes widened as she trailed a hand along the floating shelf, where my books were neatly stacked between enchanted bookends. "You really did all of this yourself?"

I shrugged, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. "I had time."

"It's beautiful." Hermione smiled, taking in every detail—the soft, fluffy rug, glowing fairy lights, the cozy oversized bed, the enchanted knitting needles still half-working on a project in the corner.

Ron looked around once, shrugged, and went straight for my snack stash.
Harry, as usual, kept his thoughts to himself.

Fred whistled low, stepping further inside, hands in his pockets. "Well, well. A proper little love nest."

I exhaled slowly.

Ignoring them.

He clicked his tongue. "Ah. The silent treatment."

George nodded. "Tragic, really. First she steals our brooms, now she denies us her company."

I pulled out my chair, sat down, and focused entirely on the candle I was about to light.

Fred leaned against my bedpost, stretching like he had all the time in the world. "You know, Mayhem, we're starting to feel a little neglected."

"Yeah," George agreed, plopping into my desk chair like it belonged to him. "What's a bloke gotta do to get some attention around here?"

I sighed.

Fred grinned. "Alright, we get it. You're still mad at us. But you're going to have to talk to us eventually."

"Not necessarily," I said flatly, still not looking up.

George smirked. "Oh, see, now that sounds like a challenge."

The evening settled into something unexpectedly comfortable. Ginny and Hermione admired my decorations, pointing out little details like the enchanted fairy lights and my perfectly fluffed pillows. Harry and Ron sat on the floor, playing Exploding Snap and raiding my snack stash like it was a public service.

Fred and George, as expected, settled in like they lived there.

I pretended they weren't there.

They pretended they had every right to be here.

Ginny and Hermione weren't even pretending to be helpful.
At one point, Ginny shot me a knowing look.

You brought this on yourself.

Fred settled fully onto my bed, arms folded behind his head like he owned the place.

George kicked back in my desk chair, legs stretched out.

They were too comfortable.

And that was entirely the problem.

Fred stretched, tapping his fingers lightly against the wooden post of my bed. "Y'know," he started, his voice a little too casual, "we could've just gone straight to our dorms, but..."
He trailed off, as if second-guessing whether he should finish the thought.

George cleared his throat. "Yeah. But... We didn't."

I didn't respond.
Didn't even look up.
Just turned the page of my book like they weren't even there.

George leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. "Reckon we should be offended?"

Fred gave a short, humorless chuckle. "Wouldn't blame her if she was, actually."

That caught my attention.

Briefly.

A flicker of something in my chest at the rare—albeit quiet—acknowledgment.

I didn't let it show.

Didn't answer.

Didn't move.

Just flipped another page.

Fred sighed again, sinking further into my bed. "...Think we should leave her alone?"

George hesitated. "...Dunno."

And for some reason—that made me pause.

Because they actually sounded unsure.

Not cocky. Not teasing.

Just... waiting.

I didn't look up.

Didn't answer.

But I didn't tell them to go, either.

And apparently, that was enough.

Because they stayed.

-

Eventually everyone filtered out for the night. Ginny and Hermione left first, giving me a look that was somewhere between amusement and encouragement—one I very pointedly ignored. Ron trailed after them, yawning loudly, and Harry gave me a small nod before following.

Fred and George were the last to go, naturally.

Fred stretched, looking far too content with himself. "Well, Mayhem, it's been a pleasure."

George smirked. "We should do this again sometime."

I stared. "You weren't even invited."

Fred grinned. "Exactly. Imagine what we'd get up to if we were."

I shoved them both toward the door, rolling my eyes.

"Sweet dreams, Mayhem."

I shut the door in their faces.

Finally. Silence.

With a long sigh, I grabbed my pajamas and headed to the bathroom, the warmth of the evening still lingering in my chest. The hot water was heavenly, washing away the day, the teasing, the laughter—everything but the quiet hum of contentment that remained.

By the time I stepped back into my room, hair damp, skin warm, I felt lighter.

I took a moment to look around, taking in the soft glow of the fairy lights, the gentle rustling of my plants, the warmth of my cozy bed.

This was mine.

My space. My room.

I crawled under the blankets, sighing into my pillow, already half-asleep when I turned over and—

Oh.

My brows furrowed.

Something was different.

The scent clung to my sheets, my pillows—warm, woodsy, familiar.

I inhaled without thinking and my stomach did a weird little flip.

Fred.

It was everywhere. The fabric of my blankets, my pillow—like he had settled into the very air of my room and refused to leave.

The realization sent an unwelcome warmth curling through my chest.

I should hate this.

But I didn't.

-

I woke late.

The kind of late that made everything feel softer—the sheets warm, the air still, the whole castle moving at half-speed.

Stretching, I reached for my wand, giving it a lazy flick toward my enchanted CD player. The familiar opening chords of Champagne Supernova hummed to life, filling the air with a slow, dreamy warmth.

And then—

Fred's scent.

It was still everywhere—woven into my sheets, tangled in my pillow, lingering in the very air around me. That same woodsy, warm scent from the night before, like a stubborn reminder that he had been here. That he had stretched out on my bed like he owned it, laughed against my pillow, left some part of himself behind.

I exhaled sharply.

Nope.

Not thinking about that.

I shoved the thought aside, rolling out of bed with a purpose. Music. Shower. Breakfast.

I would not let the lingering scent of
Fred Weasley ruin my morning.

-

By the time I made it down to the Great Hall, the others were already there, the easy hum of conversation filling the space.
Ginny, Hermione, Ron, and Harry already gathered at the Gryffindor table, the warm smell of toast and fresh coffee drifting through the air.

The twins sat across from them, engaged in what looked like a very serious discussion about porridge until I approached, at which point they both went suspiciously silent.

Ginny patted the bench beside her, smiling "Sleep well?"

I hummed noncommittally, sliding into the seat next to her.

From across the table, George watched me with an expression that was just a little too neutral.

I should have known something was coming.

I reached for a slice of toast and without warning, George reached out, plucking it straight from my hand.

I froze.
He took a slow, deliberate bite, his expression unreadable.

"Are you serious?"

He chewed. Swallowed. Then, with complete and utter deadpan, said: "Did you need that?"

Oh.

Without breaking eye contact, I reached for his pancakes.

Took one.

George's chewing slowed.

I raised an eyebrow, biting into it like I was the picture of dignity and grace.

Fred choked on his tea.

George squinted at me. Then, with zero hesitation, he reached for my pumpkin juice.

At first, it was just messing around.

Then, at some point, we stopped.

Somewhere between the third stolen slice of toast and the mutual, silent battle over the last strawberry, something shifted.

Ginny shook her head. "You two are exhausting."

George, without missing a beat, took another bite of my toast. "She started it," he muttered.

I scoffed. "I stole your broom only a few times."

George tilted his head. "Exactly. Didn't ask then. Why would I start asking now?"

Fred let out a low chuckle, shaking his head, but I caught something else behind his amusement—something smaller, something sharper.

I ignored it.

Ron, who had barely looked up from his fried eggs, muttered, "I don't know why you're even pretending it's a fight. Just give up. You lot are already sharing everything anyway."

I scoffed. "We are not—"

But then I paused.

Because at some point, he had taken my fork.

And at some other point, I had taken his tea.

And at somewhere in the middle of all that, I had stopped caring.

I blinked.

George chewed his toast. Didn't look at me. Didn't gloat.

Just slid his now-empty plate to the side.

And without thinking, I pushed mine forward so we could share it.

No hesitation. No questions.

Just a silent, mutual decision that we weren't even going to bother pretending anymore.

I reached for a strawberry.

George handed me the bowl before I even had to ask.

It was seamless.

Like we had been doing this forever.
Like we had just stopped respecting each other's personal space entirely.

I was halfway through my toast before I noticed it.

There wasn't a single piece of meat on our plate.
Not one.

I frowned slightly, glancing at George.

He was mid-bite of fruit, totally unconcerned, like he hadn't just purposefully, deliberately avoided everything but vegetarian food.

And it hit me—

He had done that on purpose.

For me.

Not once had he made a comment about it. Not once had he drawn attention to it.

He just... did it.

I shifted slightly, spearing a piece of melon, letting the thought settle.

George—who still hadn't looked up—grabbed the teapot, refilled our mug, took a slow sip—

And then passed it to me.

I took it without hesitation.

Fred had been quiet for the last few minutes, watching everything unfold.

Then, finally—

He leaned back, voice easy, "You two are getting weird."

George didn't react.

I sipped the tea. Didn't look at Fred.

Just set the mug between us.

George picked it up again without asking.

And maybe the strangest part was—

I didn't mind.

-

After breakfast, Hermione and I found a secluded corner of the library, surrounded by stacks of books she had painstakingly gathered just for this.

"Alright," she said, flipping open A Concise History of Ilvermorny, her voice taking on that familiar, determined-to-make-you-learn tone. "We should go over your cover story again, just to make sure everything checks out."

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "I already know the basics."

"Yes, but do you know the details?" She raised a pointed eyebrow. "Because I do. And if someone asks you about Ilvermorny, you'll need to be able to talk about it like you actually went there."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fine. Go on, then. Impress me."

Hermione beamed.

And then—proceeded to unload the most absurd amount of knowledge I had ever heard on a school she hadn't even attended.

House histories. Famous alumni. The founder's entire family tree.

Apparently, she had read every book on Ilvermorny she could get her hands on, just to make sure I wouldn't get caught in a lie.

I blinked at her. "You do realize I don't actually have to take an exam on this, right?"

She shot me a mildly scandalized look. "You'd rather be unprepared?"

I exhaled. "...Fair point."

And so, we spent the morning going over everything—the House I was supposedly sorted into, the classes I "took," the professors I "had."

By the time we left the library, my head was full of far too many details about a school I would never set foot in.

At least if anyone questioned me, I wouldn't be caught off guard.

And if all else failed—I could just send them to Hermione.

-

By the time lunch rolled around, the Great Hall was buzzing with energy. The noise had tripled since breakfast, the return of students filling the space with laughter, chatter, and the occasional clatter of silverware against plates.

I had barely sat down when I felt multiple pairs of eyes on me. A few passing students slowed as they walked by. Conversations dipped, then restarted.

Right. I was the new student. The oddity.

I slid into my usual seat, reaching for a goblet of pumpkin juice, when I felt another pair of eyes on me.

I looked up.

George.

He was already sitting across from me, his plate mostly untouched, his expression unreadable.

Then, with a small, almost lazy movement, he nudged his plate toward the center of the table.

Not a word.

Just the slightest raise of an eyebrow, an unspoken question hanging between us.

I stared at the plate—half-filled with roasted potatoes, some grilled vegetables, and a side of bread. A perfect, completely meat-free selection.

My stomach twisted slightly.

I speared a piece of potato, took a bite.

Fred, who had been watching from the sidelines, let out a slow exhale. "Oh, brilliant. We're back to this."

Ron looked between us, unimpressed. "That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculously efficient," George corrected, casually picking up my goblet and taking a sip before handing it back.

I took it without hesitation, not even thinking twice before drinking from the same spot.

Fred—who had been watching the entire thing—slowly leaned back in his seat.

"Well, well," he mused, tapping his fingers against the table. "And to think, just yesterday, she was still actively ignoring us."

George hummed, passing me the salt. I took it, sprinkling it over our food.

"She still is," he said mildly. "Just selectively."

That earned a laugh from Ginny.

I ignored them, grabbing a piece of bread from our plate.

From somewhere behind me, I felt another pair of eyes lingering. I didn't turn to see who it was, but the weight of their attention sent a prickle down my spine.

Fred noticed.
So did George.

Fred, who had been making jokes seconds ago, suddenly wasn't. His usual lazy smirk had faded, his posture shifting ever so slightly.

George's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes did.

Subtle. Protective.

I exhaled through my nose, rolling my shoulders, forcing the tension out. Then, deliberately, I reached for another bite of food, dragging our plate a little closer to me, signaling that I didn't care.

If people wanted to stare, let them.

I spent the afternoon taking a stroll around the castle grounds with Ginny and Hermione, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the rare quiet before the feast officially begun.

By the time dinner rolled around, the Great Hall was buzzing with energy. More students had arrived throughout the day, their voices filling the vast space with an excited hum.

I slid into my usual seat at the Gryffindor table, still feeling the residual warmth of a lazy Sunday—the kind where time stretched in soft, golden hours and responsibilities felt distant.

Between bites of food, I found myself fielding introductions—new faces turning toward me, some curious, some polite, all wanting to know about the new Gryffindor. I muttered something vague about Ilvermorny, nodding along as they asked about America, about my classes, about things I wasn't really interested in answering.

Dumbledore was already standing at the front, waiting for the last few stragglers to settle, then raising a hand for quiet.

"Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts," he began, his voice booming yet warm, effortlessly commanding the room. "And for some of you, your very first."

I vaguely registered his speech about the Triwizard Tournament, about how this year would be unlike any other. He spoke of tradition, of unity between the schools, of the challenges ahead.

I vaguely registered how Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrived

Because I was too busy staring.

At them.

They weren't even doing anything particularly interesting. Just sitting there, watching Dumbledore like everyone else. George was absently twirling his fork between his fingers, the metal catching the candlelight as he spun it in slow, absentminded rotations. Fred, elbows braced on the table, was leaning forward slightly, his fingers laced together in front of him, brows furrowed in something that almost looked like thoughtfulness.

I had never really looked at them before. Not in a way that saw beyond the pranks and the laughter, beyond the easy mischief and the endless movement. Not in a way that actually noticed them.

They looked different.

I mean, they hadn't changed, obviously. Same mischievous grins, same effortless charm, same loud, infectious energy.

But.

Their skin was sun-kissed from hours outside the Burrow, a deep, golden warmth that made their freckles stand out even more.

And at some point, they'd cut their hair.

It was still messy, still windswept, but a little shorter, a little sharper around the edges.

Huh.

I blinked.

Then frowned.

Then realized exactly what my brain was doing.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I was ovulating.

That was the only explanation.

Some biological traitorous nonsense messing with my brain chemistry.

I snorted, shaking my head at myself.

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one who noticed.

Fred's head snapped toward me, his brows raising slightly.

I startled, feeling the heat rise in my face.

Shit.

Fred's smirk deepened, slow and knowing, like he'd just caught onto something far more interesting than Dumbledore's speech. His eyes flicked to mine, amusement sparking behind the amber, and then—just to make it worse—he winked.

A lazy, deliberate thing. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Like he knew exactly what I had been doing.

I focused very, very hard on my plate.

Dumbledore was definitely still talking.

I just had no idea what he was saying.

Chapter Text

As I laid in bed the next morning, awake for what felt like hours, I realized two things.

One: I was attracted to Fred and George Weasley.

Two: So was every other girl in the castle.

The thought settled heavily in my chest, pressing down like something I hadn't quite made sense of yet. Because last night, somewhere between Dumbledore's speech, the arrival of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students, and the buzz of excitement that had settled over the Great Hall, I had caught myself doing something I never had before.

I had watched them.

Not in the casual way I always had, not in that annoyed, exasperated, how are they always like this way. No, this was different. This had weight to it.

For the first time, I had really looked at them.

And maybe it was the way the warm candlelight had flickered over their faces, sharpening their angles and bringing out the golden glow of their summer tan. Or maybe it was the fact that, at some point, they had both cut their hair shorter, just enough to make it sharper, more deliberate, the messy waves tamed into something that framed their faces better. Or maybe it was the simple fact that, for the first time, I had let myself look—had allowed myself to take them in without the filter of irritation, without brushing it off as just Fred and George being Fred and George.

And that was when I had realized it.

And I wasn't the only one who had noticed.

The moment we had walked into the Great Hall last night, it had been obvious. The way people looked at them. The way girls looked at them.

Angelina Johnson had wasted no time slipping into the seat next to George, her body angled toward him, her arm brushing against his every few minutes as she laughed at something he said. Katie Bell had leaned against Fred's shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, grinning up at him, eyes lingering on him in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in my stomach.

And it wasn't just them.

The Beauxbatons girls had taken notice too, their airy, effortless beauty radiating as they giggled softly, whispering among themselves as their gazes flickered toward the twins. Even some of the Durmstrang students had seemed intrigued, their stares less flirtatious and more assessing, like they were sizing them up in a completely different kind of way.

Fred and George had always been charming, always had that easy confidence, that magnetism that pulled people in.

But watching them last night, I had realized something else.

The way they flirted with me wasn't the same as the way they flirted with everyone else.

With the others, it was playful, effortless, a game they knew how to play well. They threw out compliments like it was second nature, flashed grins that made girls blush, and made every interaction feel light, fun, easy.

But with me, it was different.
It wasn't light or effortless, wasn't just playful banter thrown out for fun. It had weight, an edge, something sharper beneath the surface. It wasn't the kind of harmless flirting they did with Angelina, with Katie, with the Beauxbatons girls who leaned in with giggles and knowing smiles, basking in the attention, fully aware of the game.

No—what they did with me felt like something else entirely.

Like I was something to toy with.

Like I was theirs—not in the way other girls might have wanted to be, not in the way that came with whispered words in dark corridors, or stolen glances across crowded rooms, or the quiet certainty of belonging to someone.

No.

I was theirs to pull apart. To push and prod and test, to pick at until I snapped, just to see what I'd do.

I wasn't admired the way they admired the others. Wasn't flirted with for the sake of making me blush, wasn't given soft smiles meant to charm or captivate. There was no reverence in it, no effort to impress.

Because that wasn't the point.

I was a game.

Something fun.

A joke they still weren't done laughing at.

And maybe that should have been obvious before now. Maybe it should have been clear from the moment they made a bet on my future like it was some grand entertainment, like it wasn't my life they were mocking.

Or maybe it should have already hit me that night when I'd woken up to dozens of grasshoppers crawling through my bed, filling my sheets, my pillows, my hair—because they thought it would be funny.

Because they had laughed.

Because they had never apologized.

And yet, despite all of that, I had still been there, still letting them pull me in, still letting myself fall for the way they spoke to me differently than everyone else, the way their eyes always lingered, the way something in their teasing always felt charged—like there was more to it, like I was something more than just another name on their long list of games.

But now?

Now, I could see it.

I could feel it—in the way they had never once made it right, in the way they still expected me to laugh along, in the way they had never stopped treating me like something to play with.

And I was done.

I was not the girl who got to be admired.

I was the girl who got to be mocked.

And if I didn't pull myself out now, if I didn't put distance between us—

I knew exactly how this story would end.

And I refused to be their favorite joke any longer.

-

I forced myself out of bed before I could second-guess anything.

The castle was still quiet when I made my way down to the Great Hall, the morning hum not quite in full swing yet. That was the goal. No unnecessary interactions. No lingering stares.
No Fred or George.

Just breakfast.

The moment I stepped through the large doors, I exhaled in relief. Hardly anyone was here yet. A few early risers scattered across the long tables, the occasional soft murmur of conversation, the distant clinking of silverware.

Good.

I slid into my usual seat, reaching for the teapot first, letting the warmth of the cup ground me as I poured myself a generous amount. It was early, and exhaustion still clung to my bones. I barely noticed what food I put on my plate—toast, eggs, whatever was closest. It didn't matter.

I would eat, then I would leave.

Simple.

Or at least, that had been the plan. And then—

A familiar voice, light and amused, broke through the peace.

"Well, well. Haven't seen you up this early before."

I tensed.

Because of course.

Of course, he would find me.

I glanced up just as George slid into the seat across from me, looking entirely too awake for this hour, his hair still a little ruffled from sleep.

And before I could react, before I could even process that he was here, he did something so completely normal that I almost didn't register it.

He reached for my tea, picked up my cup, took a slow sip, then set it back down, completely unbothered.

Then, just as easily, he reached for my plate.
Without hesitation, he pulled it toward the middle of the table, as if that was simply how this worked now, speared a piece of toast, took a bite, and only then—only after he had settled in, after he had already decided this was normal—did he glance up at me.

His gaze was warm, steady.

"Sleep well, darling?"

Darling.

It wasn't teasing, not really. Not the way it usually was, not the way it always had been when they threw out pet names like they were just another punchline to some joke only they were in on.

It was something else.
Softer.
More certain.

And the way he looked at me when he said it—intense, expectant, like he was really looking this time, like he was seeing something—made my breath hitch before I could stop it.

I hesitated.

Too long.

His fork stilled, his fingers resting lightly against the rim of the plate, and when he finally lifted his gaze, there was something quieter beneath the usual ease. Something softer.

"...Want me to get my own plate?" he asked, voice lower now, slower, like he was giving me an out.

Like he was giving me a choice.

Yesterday, I wouldn't have cared.

Yesterday, I would have taken my cup back and drank from the same spot his lips had touched without thinking.

But today wasn't yesterday.

And today, the casual ease of it all felt like a trap.
Like a door I had left open without realizing that once I stepped through it, I wouldn't know how to get back out.

I looked down at our plate—our shared plate, because that's what it was now—and at the way George had only refilled it with things I would also eat, without question, without hesitation.

Like he hadn't even thought about it.

A lump rose in my throat.

I pushed my chair back abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor.

"No, it's fine. You can have it," I said quickly. "I've had enough."

I tried to sound casual, like it was nothing, like this was a choice I had made and not some sudden, desperate need to be anywhere but here.

But I wasn't sure if I managed it.

Wasn't sure if he heard it—the slight waver, the way my voice didn't land quite right, the quiet thread of something too heavy tucked between the words.

George's fork stilled.

His brows pulled together, subtle, barely there—but I saw it.

Felt it.

The second of hesitation before he spoke, the almost-question in his eyes.

"Lena—"

But I was already standing.

Already moving.
And I didn't look back.

-

The day passed in a blur, but for once, I didn't mind.

Because, as it turned out, I wasn't particularly interesting.
Not in the way I had been yesterday.

With the arrival of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students, the attention that had briefly been on me—the new, out-of-nowhere Gryffindor—had been completely and utterly redirected. The whispers, the curious glances, the speculative stares—they had all faded, replaced by the far more exciting presence of foreign students, accents, and, most importantly, the looming Triwizard Tournament.

And I couldn't have been happier about it.
I had spent the last few weeks under an exhausting microscope—first at Grimmauld Place, then here. Being a mystery was only fun when you weren't the one being dissected, and the relief of slipping into the background, of not having to field endless questions, was a gift I hadn't realized I desperately needed.

Classes came and went in a comfortable haze, the steady rhythm of lectures and note-taking a welcome contrast to the chaos of the past few weeks. I was starting to recognize more and more students by name, even if I didn't speak to them much.

Most of the professors had already covered this material with me in the weeks before term started, and with the help of Slughorn's memory potions, my lessons were refreshingly easy.

So, instead of joining in on the chatter between classes or making any real effort to socialize, I just... existed.

And for the first time since stepping into this world, that felt enough.

By the time lunch rolled around, I decided to take full advantage of my newfound invisibility. Instead of heading to the Great Hall, I made my way toward the greenhouses, following the familiar path that led straight to the one person who never made me feel like I owed her an explanation.

Professor Sprout's office was warm and filled with the comforting scent of damp earth and fresh herbs, a sharp contrast to the crisp autumn air outside.

"Oh, wonderful timing," Pomona greeted as I stepped inside, brushing a bit of dirt from her hands before ushering me toward a small wooden table. "I was just about to have tea."

A second later, a teapot lifted itself into the air, carefully pouring two steaming cups. A plate of shortbread biscuits floated beside it, settling between us like it already knew it would be needed.

I smiled. "Convenient."

Pomona grinned, sinking into her chair. "The perks of being a professor, my dear."

I took a seat across from her, exhaling as the warmth of the tea curled around my hands. For the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe.

And then—

"Mind if I join?"

I turned to see Neville Longbottom lingering in the doorway, shifting a little uncertainly on his feet. He introduced himself earlier.

Pomona beamed. "Of course, of course! Come in, dear boy."

Neville stepped forward, looking hesitant for a moment before glancing at me. "Alright if I sit?"

I nodded. "Yeah, of course."

He took the chair next to me, a little awkward but kind, and within minutes, the conversation settled into something warm and easy. Pomona chatted about her latest greenhouse project, Neville listened intently, and I found myself smiling.

Neville was easy to be around in a way I hadn't expected.

There was no expectation, no pressure to be clever or quick or interesting. He was soft-spoken but genuine, the kind of person who made silences feel comfortable instead of heavy. And as we sat there, sipping tea and picking at biscuits, I realized something.

This was the first real friendship I had formed entirely on my own.

Not through the Weasleys, not through Harry or Hermione or circumstance—just me, sitting down for tea with someone who felt like he might actually understand the quiet parts of me.

I liked that.

I liked this.

-

By the time dinner rolled around, the Great Hall was packed, the air thick with laughter and conversation, excitement buzzing under the golden glow of the floating candles. The energy was different now—less of that hushed, curious tension from the morning, more of a joyful, chaotic familiarity that had been missing since term started.

I slipped into my usual seat near the middle of the Gryffindor table, closer to Hermione and Ginny than before—far enough that there was no casual plate-sharing to be had—and exhaled, relieved that I wasn't the main source of interest anymore.

Because I had not been prepared for the sheer level of fascination that Viktor Krum alone had caused.

Ron, for example, had not stopped talking about him since the Durmstrang students arrived. His voice practically shook with reverence as he recounted every moment of Krum's entrance, his tone hovering somewhere between deep admiration and religious experience.

"You don't understand," he said, shaking his head at me like I had personally offended him by not looking impressed enough. "It's—it's Krum. You don't just—" he waved a dramatic hand toward the Durmstrang table, where Krum was eating his food like an entirely normal person—"he's right there. Just... sitting. Eating! Like a regular student!"

I hid my smile behind my goblet. "Yes, Ron. That is, in fact, what people do at dinner."

Ron looked personally betrayed.

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, you act like he just descended from the heavens."

"He basically did," Ron muttered.

Harry, wisely, focused on his potatoes.

I let the conversation fade into the background, letting my attention drift across the room. People were still introducing themselves to me every so often—some quick "oh, you're the new one" comments, others more curious, but nothing overwhelming.
I could handle it.

And, most importantly, I could ignore them.

Across the table, Fred and George sat further down, deep in conversation with Lee, Angelina, and Katie.

I shouldn't have looked.

I knew that.

But I did.

And the moment I did, the weight settled back in my chest.

Because they were exactly the same. Laughing, joking, leaning close into the conversation, all easy grins and careless confidence. George had an arm slung casually over the back of the bench, his head tipped slightly toward Angelina as he listened to whatever she was saying. Fred, meanwhile, was twirling his fork between his fingers, nodding along, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

They weren't looking at me.

And, somehow, that was worse.

I tore my gaze away, shoving a piece of bread into my mouth like that would somehow fix the sudden, ugly knot twisting in my stomach.

I had spent all day keeping to myself, ignoring the pull in my chest, reminding myself that they weren't mine to miss. That I had made my choice. That this was better.

Then why did it feel so awful?

I forced myself to focus on the food in front of me, on Hermione's conversation about elective subjects, on anything but the ache creeping up my spine.

I was fine.

After dinner, the Gryffindor common room was alive with noise, the first real night of the term sending waves of students spilling into the space, settling into their usual spots, the air warm with chatter and laughter.

Ginny and Hermione pulled me into an Exploding Snap game, which quickly turned into a minor disaster when Ginny got a little too competitive and nearly set Hermione's sleeve on fire. Harry and Ron had settled into a round of Wizard's Chess, which—based on Ron's smug expression—was not going in Harry's favor.

And I tucked myself into a corner, curled up in one of the armchairs, watching the room move around me like I wasn't really part of it, trying to focus on the little frog I was crocheting.

I pretended I wasn't distracted.

Pretended I wasn't too aware of the twins across the room, laughing about something I couldn't hear, their presence so familiar, so normal, and yet—

Not.

Not anymore.

I swallowed hard, forcing it down.
Until I felt someone drop into the seat across from me.

I glanced up.

Fred.

I swallowed. Forced my voice to sound normal. "Shouldn't you be off somewhere, terrorizing first-years?"

Fred smirked, stretching out, long legs knocking against mine under the table.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mayhem." He placed a deeply dramatic hand over his heart. "I'd never waste my talents on the weak."

I huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn't quite reach my chest.

Fred just tilted his head slightly, studying me. Longer than usual.

I focused on the yarn in my hands, smoothing the fabric over my wrist. Ignored the way his gaze felt too knowing.

"You've been avoiding us."

It wasn't a question.
It was just a fact.
I stiffened.
Fred didn't move.
Didn't push.
Didn't tease the way he normally would.

Just—watched.

Like he already knew the answer.
Like he just wanted to see if I'd say it out loud.

I swallowed, my throat dry. "Don't be ridiculous."

Fred hummed. Not convinced.

I knew that look—the sharpness behind his usual easy amusement, the quiet way he pulled things apart, even when people thought he wasn't paying attention.

I hated that he had noticed.

I exhaled sharply, forcing a smirk, deflecting like I always did. "What, miss me already?"

Fred's lips quirked, but the light in his eyes didn't match.

"If I say yes," he murmured, voice light but steady, "will you actually stay and talk to me?"

The breath left my lungs.

Because I had expected teasing. I had expected his usual playful prodding, his relentless charm that made things lighter, easier, never too deep.

I glanced toward the fireplace, watching the flames flicker.

I could say something.

Or I could leave.

I could brush it off with a joke, roll my eyes.

I could—

I stood abruptly.

Fred's brows raised slightly.

"Goodnight, Fred."

He didn't stop me.

Didn't tease or push or make a joke out of it.

Just watched me go.

Chapter Text

My classes were shockingly easy compared to what I had gone through over the summer. Without the pressure of private lessons pushing me to the brink of exhaustion, everything felt manageable.

The professors seemed pleased with me, and even though I still got the occasional questioning look, no one pressed me too hard on my sudden arrival at Hogwarts. I wasn't the main attraction anymore.

That honor now belonged to the Triwizard Tournament.

Neville and I fell into an easy rhythm.
I hadn't planned on making many friends outside the group I had already met - security reasons - but Neville was kind in a way that made it impossible not to like him.

We walked to class together when we happened to be going the same way. He asked about my favorite plants, listened when I rambled about my herb collection at home, and in return, I learned that he loved Herbology more than any other subject.

By the time we made it to the greenhouses for our first lesson, I already felt like I had known him for months.

Professor Sprout greeted me like an old friend, pulling me into an afternoon of repotting, pruning, and good-natured scolding whenever I wasn't gentle enough with the roots.

Neville was just as invested in the plants as I was.
And as I sat there, dirt under my nails, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the scent of damp earth filling the air, I felt genuinely happy.

Not distracted. Not avoiding something.

Just—content.

Which, of course, meant it wouldn't last.

I should've known something was up when I noticed the crowd.

The moment Neville and I stepped out onto the grounds after class, we were met with a massive group of students gathered near the Goblet of Fire.

Whispers rippled through the crowd, excitement buzzing in the air.

At first, I didn't think much of it. I figured someone from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang had thrown their name in—until I saw the familiar flash of red hair near the front.

Fred and George.

Standing before the Goblet.

And I just knew this was about to be a disaster.

They looked infuriatingly confident.

Like they had already convinced themselves this was going to work.

Lee Jordan was standing between them, practically bouncing on his feet.

"This is going to be spectacular," he announced, far too pleased.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Fred and George exchanged a confident look, then—without hesitation—stepped over the age line.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then—

A violent pulse of blue light erupted from the Goblet of Fire, flaring outward in a ring of raw, untamed energy.

A split second later—

The twins were launched backward, arms flailing, limbs tangled, crashing into the ground in a spectacular heap of robes and sheer bad decisions.

The crowd exploded.

Laughter rippled through the students, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of the castle. Even some of the professors watching from a distance looked mildly entertained.

Fred groaned dramatically, sprawled on his back, staring at the sky like it had personally betrayed him. "Well. That was rude."

George, still lying beside him, coughed out a mouthful of dust. "So—technically—we got over the line."

Lee, who was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, wiped at his eyes. "That was—brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

Fred sat up, rubbing the back of his head, then winced. "Alright. Maybe not completely brilliant."

More laughter erupted around them.

They had made a scene. A very public, very ridiculous scene.

And I had no reason to be standing here, watching them, letting myself feel anything about it.

So I left.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them notice.

Fred, who was pushing himself up onto his elbows, his usual grin slipping just slightly.

George, still catching his breath, his gaze flickering toward me just as I disappeared into the hallway.

-

By the time dinner rolled around, the Great Hall was alive with energy, laughter and conversation filling the space. The Triwizard Tournament had given everyone something new to talk about, and even hours after Fred and George's spectacular failure with the age line, students were still buzzing about it, recounting every dramatic moment with gleeful exaggeration.

I didn't join in.

I kept my head down, slipping into a seat closer to Hermione and Ginny, further away from where I would usually sit.

It wasn't difficult to avoid looking at them—not when Ron was still passionately discussing the finer details of why Krum was a gift to the sport of Quidditch and Hermione was steadily losing patience with him. I focused on their conversation instead, nodding along when necessary, letting the words wash over me like white noise.

My hands were steady as I reached for a goblet, pouring myself some water. If I just focused on my food and kept my head down, the evening would pass like any other.

Then—

A plate slid into my line of vision.

George had got up to sit opposite of me, pushing his plate toward the middle of the table, between us, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn't eating anymore. He wasn't speaking. He was just watching me.

Waiting.

I swallowed.

The unspoken question hung between us, thick and heavy in the space he had created.

I stared at him. Then at the plate, filled with everything I liked.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—they were steady, careful, waiting.

I hesitated.
Then, slowly, I reached for an empty plate, filling it for myself instead.

George watched the movement, his face unreadable, and just as silently as before, he took his plate back.

Conversation continued around us, oblivious.

"They'll pick Krum," Ron said confidently, shoveling mashed potatoes onto his plate. "It's obvious. Best Seeker in the world, and he's here. They'd be mad not to."

"He's not the only Durmstrang student here," Hermione pointed out, exasperated.

"No," Ron said, "but come on—he's Krum."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "I just hope Hogwarts gets someone good. We need an actual champion, not just some show-off who—"

The words faded into background noise.

I barely registered the conversation, my focus locked onto the food in front of me, picking at it rather than actually eating.

George had gone back to his own meal, but I could still feel his attention flickering toward me every now and then.

Not obviously.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But I noticed.
And Fred did too.

I caught it—the quick flick of his gaze, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he watched me across the table.

It was subtle, easy to miss, but I felt it. And ignored it.

Instead, I set my fork down and pushed my plate back, the dull scrape of ceramic against wood far too loud in my own ears.

"I think I'll turn in early," I murmured.

Ginny looked up, brows raised slightly. "Already?"

"Yeah." I forced a small, tired smile. "Long day."

With a quiet goodnight, I rose from my seat and made my way toward the doors, keeping my steps even, unhurried.

I didn't rush.
But as I walked out of the Great Hall and into the quiet halls of the castle, I knew—

They were watching me go.

-

The warmth of the common room faded behind me as I climbed the stairs to my room, the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation growing quieter with each step.

By the time I reached my door, the castle felt still—like the world outside had slowed, leaving only the steady, familiar rhythm of my own breath.

I sighed, pushing the door open, and immediately exhaled in relief.

My room. All alone.
My fairy lights twinkled along the ceiling beams, casting a warm glow against the cream-colored stone. The enchanted fireplace crackled gently, filling the space with the faint scent of cedar and something sweet.

The air was thick with comfort, wrapped in the scent of fresh linens, I changed to get rid of Fred's smell, and the lingering traces of lavender from outside.

I kicked off my shoes, letting my toes sink into the impossibly soft rug beneath my bed

The knitting needles I had left enchanted earlier were still working away on something new—a thick, oversized sweater in soft, autumnal hues. They clicked softly as they moved, weaving the yarn with perfect precision.

My bed was waiting for me, impossibly inviting, layered in plush blankets, the colors warm and cozy.

Slowly, I reached for my wand and flicked it toward the enchanted CD player resting on the shelf.

A familiar song hummed to life—soft, slow, something warm and easy that wrapped around the room like a second heartbeat.

I took a quick shower and changed into my favorite oversized pajama shirt, pulling it over my head, letting the worn fabric swallow me whole. Then, with the kind of exhaustion that sat more in my mind than my body, I curled up on the bed, pulling the blankets over me, burrowing deep into the warmth.

The fire crackled softly.

The music played on, lazy and unhurried.

And for the first time all day, I let myself breathe.

No conversations to keep up with.
No stolen glances across the Great Hall.
No weight pressing against my chest, twisting, tangling, demanding my attention.

Just warmth.
Just the sound of rain beginning to tap softly against the window, adding a new layer of quiet comfort to the space.

I could stay here forever.

Then came a knock—soft, hesitant, barely audible over the crackling fire.

I stilled, my fingers tightening around the edge of my blanket as I waited, listening.

A moment later, another knock followed, this time accompanied by a familiar voice, careful and measured.

"Lena?" Hermione.

Then a second voice, gentler but just as concerned. "It's just us," Ginny added. "Can we come in?"

I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat.

I wasn't sure why.

There was no reason to hesitate, no reason to keep them standing outside my door. And yet, something about the way they asked—the careful softness of it, the unspoken weight beneath their words—made my chest tighten.

They had noticed.

They had seen me leave the Great Hall earlier, had registered something in the way I carried myself, in the way I had withdrawn, and now they were here, quietly pressing against the edges of the silence I had wrapped around myself.

I sighed, closing my eyes for a brief moment before forcing my voice to steady itself.

"Yeah," I murmured, just loud enough for them to hear. "Come in."

The door creaked open, letting in a soft glow of candlelight from the hallway before it shut again, sealing the three of us inside my small, cozy world.

Hermione and Ginny stood just inside the doorway for a moment, taking it all in.
Ginny was the first to move, flopping onto the bed beside me like she belonged there, her sharp gaze scanning my face. "Alright," she said, resting her chin in her hand. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Hermione made a small, unimpressed noise, crossing her arms.

"Lena," she said plainly. "You barely said a word at dinner, you left early, and you've been avoiding Fred and George all day. Something is wrong."

Ginny nodded. "Yeah, and since you're clearly not busy, now's a great time to spill."

I exhaled, staring at the fire.

I should have known they would press, that they wouldn't just let me disappear into my room without asking why.

I shifted, pulling my knees up to my chest, hugging them loosely.

"I'm fine," I tried.

Ginny scoffed. "Try again."

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair.

"I just..." I hesitated, then shook my head. "I don't know."

Hermione softened, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Lena, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But if something's bothering you, we're here."

I took a slow, shaky breath, my fingers tightening in the fabric of my sleeves.

"I just... don't know where I stand with them," I admitted, my voice quieter than before.

Ginny didn't ask who I meant. She didn't have to.

She knew.

She exchanged a glance with Hermione, then tilted her head. "Yeah. They're a lot."

Hermione hummed in agreement. "They can be intense," she added.
Ginny studied me for a moment, then—without a word—reached for my quilt, pulling it up and tucking it over her legs.

I blinked at her.

She shrugged. "If we're going to sit here and be sad, might as well be warm."

That pulled a small, reluctant laugh out of me.

Hermione relaxed, the tension easing from her shoulders as she settled in beside us. "So," she said, softer now, "want to tell us what's actually going on?"

I hesitated, because what was I supposed to say? That I'd only just realized I was attracted to them? That it had hit me like a ton of bricks, completely uninvited? That I'd spent all of last night staring at them across the Great Hall, noticing things I'd never let myself notice before? That it was humiliating to realize that every other girl in the castle already had?

No.

That wasn't the problem.

The problem wasn't that I liked them.

The problem was that they didn't respect me.

I exhaled slowly, shifting so that my chin rested on my knees. "I just... I don't think I matter to them the way I thought I did."

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"

Ginny—who had known them her whole life, who had grown up with them, who understood them better than anyone—was watching me carefully. Quietly. Like she already knew where this was going.

I swallowed hard. "I mean—" I paused, struggling to put it into words, to make it sound like I wasn't just some lovesick idiot who had completely misread the situation. "I watch the way they act with other people. With Angelina. With Katie. With—everyone." I bit the inside of my cheek. "They tease, they flirt, sure, but it's—it's easy. It's light. It's fun. And it's never mean."

Ginny's expression flickered, something unreadable crossing her face.

I went on. "But with me, it's—different. It's not light or easy. It's not even really fun anymore. It's sharper. Heavier. Like—like they enjoy pushing me just to see how far I'll go before I break again."

Neither of them spoke.

I exhaled, my throat tight. "I let them, and I hate myself for that. I thought it was just them being them. I thought that maybe—" I swallowed, shaking my head. "But it doesn't. It's just a game for them."

Hermione let out a quiet breath.

Ginny, meanwhile, had gone very still.

Then, after a moment, she muttered, "Those absolute idiots."

Hermione shot her a look.

"What?" Ginny said, indignant now. "They are. They're bloody idiots."

I let out a humorless laugh. "That much is obvious."

Ginny sat up, crossing her arms. "Lena, I don't think you're just a game to them."

I scoffed. "Sure feels like it."

"Yeah, because they're stupid," she shot back. "And because they've never had to actually deal with—" She huffed, running a hand through her hair. "Look, they tease everyone, but you? You're different. And I don't think they know how to handle that."

Hermione nodded. "I have to agree with Ginny," she said carefully. "I don't think they mean to be cruel."

"Doesn't change the fact that they are," I muttered.

Hermione sighed. "No. It doesn't."

Ginny nudged my knee. "So what now?"

I was quiet for a long time.

Then, finally, I murmured, "I don't know."

Because I didn't.

Chapter Text

I was never someone who hated their own birthday. At least, not in the way some people did—not in the way that made them want to ignore it entirely.

When I was a kid, I loved it. Sleepovers, barbecues by the beach, ice cream until I couldn't eat another bite. As I got older, my celebrations changed, but the feeling remained. I preferred spending the day with Mona—an extra-long walk along the shore, an extra-large pizza, always ending the night with an extra-boring dinner at my parents' (not mine, never mine) favorite restaurant.

I loved getting dressed up, putting on makeup, styling my hair—loved the little rituals that made the day feel special.

I loved my birthday.

But this time, it was different.

Even if I didn't feel much like celebrating, I still reached for my makeup bag, still went through the motions of making myself feel special today. A bit of concealer under my eyes, a dusting of blush to bring some warmth to my cheeks, a swipe of mascara. A hint of my favorite lipstick.

I pulled my hair back, smoothing it neatly before sliding my favorite light pink headband into place, tucking back a few loose strands, keeping everything neat. The soft, familiar pressure of it was oddly comforting, a tiny piece of normalcy.

Then, for the final touch, I reached for my tiny golden moon earrings, fastening them with practiced ease. They had been a gift from Mona years ago—simple, delicate, a reminder of home. Mona.

And despite everything—despite the ache in my chest, despite the fact that this birthday didn't feel quite like mine—I still wanted to wear them.

I still hadn't heard back from her, but I couldn't bring myself to dwell on it— not when the ache in my chest grew bigger with each silent day.

I glanced at my reflection one last time.

Still me. Just... a little different. Just a Witch now.

With a quiet exhale, I turned away and reached for my Hogwarts robes, slipping them over my shoulders. The heavy fabric settled against my skin, grounding me, pulling me back into the present.

The Great Hall was already alive with the usual morning energy by the time I stepped inside. The hum of conversation, the clatter of plates and goblets, the flicker of candlelight overhead—it was the kind of scene that had started to feel normal, familiar, even comfortable.

I wished I felt the same.

I squared my shoulders, pushing the feeling aside, and made my way to the Gryffindor table. Hermione and Ginny spotted me first, their faces lighting up the moment they saw me.

"Happy birthday, Lena!" Ginny grinned, immediately scooting over to make room.

Hermione smiled warmly. "Yes, happy birthday! Did you sleep well?"

Ron, who was mid-bite of toast, made an enthusiastic noise of agreement. "Yeah—happy birthday!" he said around a mouthful of food, earning himself a look of mild disgust from Hermione.

I blinked.

"Wait—how do you all even know it's my birthday?"

Ginny smirked, spearing a piece of sausage with her fork. "Please, Lena. You think we wouldn't find out?"

Ron, still chewing, shrugged. "Mum always makes sure we remember birthdays. Not that I'd forget—I'd be dead if I forgot Ginny's."

Ginny kicked him under the table, and he yelped.

I huffed a small, surprised laugh.

Before I could even think of what to say, Harry suddenly stood up And then, without warning, he pulled me into a tight hug.
A real, solid, grounding hug.

Harry wasn't someone who gave casual hugs—at least, not that I had ever seen. He wasn't like the Weasleys, who tossed their arms around people without a second thought. No, Harry's affection was quieter, more cautious.

"Happy birthday, Lena," he murmured, his voice close.

I swallowed hard, pressing my lips together, the unexpected weight of the moment making my chest feel tight.

"Thanks, Harry," I said, my voice quieter than before.

I reached for the teapot, pouring myself a cup as conversation picked back up around me. It was easy, light, a welcome distraction from the heaviness in my chest.
And then, just as I took my first sip, two more voices joined the mix.

"Happy birthday, Mayhem."

"Yeah, happy birthday."

Fred and George.

It was the first time they had spoken to me directly all morning.

The words were simple, polite—normal. But it was the way they said them that made my stomach twist.

Fred's voice was distant, lacking his usual easy warmth. George's was quieter, careful. And when I finally looked up, I caught the slight hesitation in both their expressions—the brief flicker of something I couldn't quite name before they smoothed it over with practiced ease.

It was different.

Formal.

Like they were saying it because they should, not because they wanted to.

My fingers tightened slightly around my cup, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral.

"Thanks," I said, matching their tone, keeping my voice light.

The moment the word left my lips, the quiet thank you lingering in the space between us, our conversation was cut off—not by me, not by their own doing, but by the sudden shift in the Great Hall, the distinct, growing murmurs of students turning their heads, whispering, craning their necks toward something behind me.

I barely had time to register the change before the unmistakable sound of wings filled the air, not the usual soft, fleeting rustle of a few morning owls swooping in with letters and parcels, but something heavier, more chaotic, more unavoidable.

And then—

A massive, lumbering flock of owls burst into view, fifteen of them, wings flapping furiously as they struggled beneath the weight of something huge, a package so massive that even between them, they barely kept it balanced, their movements jerky and uncoordinated as they dipped lower, lower—

Until—

CRASH

The box slammed onto the table with enough force to rattle every plate, goblet, and spoon within a five-foot radius, sending scrambled eggs flying, pumpkin juice sloshing over the edges of cups, toast sliding from their designated plates to land in unfortunate, butter-side-down positions.

A deep, stunned silence followed.

Even the owls themselves looked vaguely traumatized as they flapped away, escaping the scene of the crime before they could be blamed for any casualties.

The second it landed in front of me, even before I saw the writing on the top, before I noticed the ridiculous amount of tape securing every visible edge, before my brain could even catch up with the reality of the situation—

I knew.

My kiting gear.

Mona.

The realization hit like a punch to the stomach, knocking the breath from my lungs, the sheer size of the box making my pulse hammer because—of course. Of course, she hadn't just sent a small note back, hadn't just given me an answer in a way that was neat or quiet or simple.

No.

She had sent everything.

A piece of home, dropped in front of me with all the grace and subtlety of an anvil.

All around me, students were whispering, exchanging glances, murmuring theories about what could possibly warrant such a dramatic delivery, but their voices barely registered over the deafening sound of my own heartbeat.

Ginny, who had been mid-bite of toast, set it down with exaggerated slowness, blinking at the wreckage. "Holy shit," she muttered, wiping a stray bit of marmalade off her sleeve. "That was... dramatic."

Hermione, already reaching for a napkin to dab at the worst of the spilled juice, shot me a cautious glance. "Lena?"

I couldn't answer.

Mona.

Not gone.
Not ignoring me.

The relief hit so hard and fast that I barely had time to register the sharp sting behind my eyes before the first tear slipped free.

I tried to blink it back.

Tried to hold it together, because Merlin, I was not about to break down in front of everyone over a bloody box.

But the second tear came faster.
And the next one after that.

Until suddenly, my vision blurred, my chest tightened, and I was crying.

Too much relief, too much emotion, too much of everything that had been bottled up inside me since the moment I left home—since I walked away from my parents, since I said goodbye to my entire life without knowing if I would ever get to hold onto any part of it again.

And now, here it was.

Dropped in front of me in the most spectacular, utterly disastrous way possible.

I pressed a trembling hand to my face, trying to stifle the tears before they could get any worse, but it was already too late.

I barely noticed Ginny reaching for my arm, barely heard Hermione murmur something soft and concerned.

The moment the first sob hitched in my throat, I felt it—movement. A shift.

Not the careful rustle of someone passing me a napkin, not the gentle lean of Hermione or Ginny offering quiet words of comfort.

The scrape of benches against stone, the solid thud of boots against the floor, the unmistakable presence of something warm and overwhelming closing in before I could even process it.

And then—

Arms.

Not one, not tentative or hesitant, but two sets, sudden and encompassing and everywhere.

Fred and George.

On either side of me.

Wrapping me up, pulling me in, holding me.

George's arm slung over my shoulder, heavy and solid, tugging me flush against his side like this was just another casual, easy thing he did every day. Like it was normal. Like I wasn't currently crying into his neck.

Fred's hand found my waist.
Warm. Firm. Steady.

It wasn't just a light touch, wasn't just a reassuring pat. His palm rested against the curve of my waist like he meant it, like this was where his hand was supposed to be.

Like he would do it again.

I froze.

Because what.

I was buried between them now, wedged so tightly that if someone had walked past right now, they wouldn't have even seen me.

Just two identical walls of Weasley where I used to be.

And Merlin, the smells.
I couldn't even think past it, couldn't process anything else because all I could breathe in was them. The sheer warmth, the dizzying mix of smoke and spice and wood and warmth, so overwhelming, so utterly surrounding that my thoughts flatlined before they could even form properly.

I was drowning in them, in heat and scent and presence, and for a long, terrifying moment, all I could do was sit there, trapped in the lingering haze of them.

I had been completely engulfed.

Fred's other palm pressed lightly against my head, his voice light, teasing, but gentle as he murmured, "Alright now, birthday girl, let's not flood the place, yeah?"

George hummed in agreement, and oh, I could feel it against my ribs. His chin rested against my head, his grip tightening just slightly. "Drowning the table on your birthday? Bold choice, love. Could've just asked for our attention, you know."

I made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hiccup, completely overwhelmed, too caught off guard by their sudden physical presence to do anything but sit there, stiff and unsure, completely enveloped.

I hesitated, completely unsure what to do with my hands—because, really, where was I supposed to put them when I was entirely enveloped by two very tall, very warm, very solid Weasley's?

My brain short-circuited. My arms were awkwardly pinned at my sides, my only options being to either leave them there like some limp, useless appendages or—Merlin help me—actually touch them.

I went with option two.

Cautiously, I placed a hand on each of their chests, my original plan—if I could even call it that—being to gently push them back, to create some sort of breathing room, to reclaim even the smallest fraction of space for myself.

The second my hands made contact with their chests, I regretted every decision that had led me to this moment.

Because instead of backing off—even just a little—both of them took it as some kind of silent invitation.

And leaned in further.

Oh. Oh no.

The space that was already nonexistent became negative space. I was no longer just hugged—I was completely swallowed up in warmth, pressed between them who, judging by the way their arms tightened around me, had absolutely no intention of letting go anytime soon.

Or at least, that was the only explanation for why my brain completely short-circuited, why I couldn't move, why my hands stayed where they were—still pressed against them, still feeling the steady thump-thump of their heartbeats, still doing absolutely nothing to remove myself from this situation.

Like an idiot.

Like someone who had no idea what they were doing.

Because oh, I felt everything.

The slow, deep rhythm of their breathing beneath my palms. The steady, strong drum of their heartbeats, so close I could feel them syncing, overlapping, one beat melting into the other.

The way George exhaled—low, warm, almost amused.

The way Fred's fingers lingered at my waist a second too long before tightening slightly, his grip just firm enough to make me swallow hard.

I needed an exit.

Now.

Ginny.

My eyes snapped to her across the table, pleading, desperate, trying to convey an entire conversation in one panicked look.

Do something. Say something. Get me out of this.

Ginny blinked.

Then, very deliberately, took a slow sip of her pumpkin juice.

I narrowed my eyes.

She smirked.

The absolute traitor.

Hermione, at least, had the decency to clear her throat. "Er, Fred? George?"

Both of them hummed, entirely unbothered.

"You're... sort of crushing her."

George sighed dramatically but didn't move. "Crushing with affection, you mean."

"Obviously," Fred added, still not remotely letting go. His grip lingered, fingers still resting warm against my waist, his body far too close.

I made a strangled noise. "Ginny."

Ginny finally took mercy on me, setting her goblet down and leaning forward, tapping each twin on the arm like she was addressing particularly stubborn furniture.

"Alright, you two," she said, exasperated but fond. "Let her breathe."

George was the first to loosen his grip, but not entirely. He pulled back just enough to let me move while keeping his hand there, just a little longer than necessary, his fingers dragging slightly against my robes before finally letting go.

Fred, however, took his sweet time.

He released me slowly, sighing like this was a great sacrifice.

The second I was free, I fled.

Didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Just—moved.

I shoved back from the table, grabbed the massive, unwieldy box with more force than necessary, snatched the two smaller packages without a word, and left.

Didn't look at them.

Just walked.
No—escaped.

The weight of the package dug into my hip as I half-carried, half-dragged it toward the doors, my grip tightening around the awkward edges. My legs carried me forward, too fast to be casual, too stiff to be anything but pure survival instinct.

I barely heard the whispers start behind me.

Was that hers?
Why did she just leave?
Did you see the way they—

I didn't care.

Didn't stop.

Didn't slow until the Great Hall disappeared behind me, until the heavy doors shut, until the cool air of the corridor finally hit my skin.

I didn't think about the lingering warmth against my waist.
Didn't think about how I could still feel them, their arms wrapped around me, their hands everywhere.
Didn't think about the solid weight of George's  palm pressing into my back.
Didn't think about the way Fred's fingers had curled into my waist like he meant it.

Didn't think about how, when I'd placed my hands on their chests, they had leaned in instead of pulling away.

Merlin.

I adjusted my grip on the box, trying to focus on the present, not the absolute disaster of the last five minutes.

My arms burned under the weight of it, but I didn't stop. Just kept moving, my legs carrying me forward before my brain could even catch up.

I needed to be alone.

I needed to figure out why my entire body still felt like it was on fire.

Chapter Text

I didn't stop.

Not when I shoved through the Great Hall doors, not when the cool air hit my face, not when the massive, unwieldy package dug into my hip as I half-dragged it across the courtyard.

Too big, too heavy—this was impossible.

I adjusted my grip. Failed. Nearly tripped.

My wand was in my hand before I even thought about it. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The weight vanished. The box floated beside me, bobbing slightly as I picked up my pace. Better. Easier. No stopping now.

I took the fastest route outside.
I needed air. I needed distance.

The sky was a dull gray, the lake still and endless in the distance, the perfect place to breathe.
But I barely glanced at it as I moved. I had one goal.

The broom stalls.

The giant box wasn't fitting in my room.
The stalls would have to do.

The storage area was empty—thank Merlin. I flicked my wand, unlatching the nearest one. Pulled open the door. Dropped the box.

Too big. Needed to unpack it.

I shoved up the lid. Fast. Efficient. No thinking.

Harness. In.
Board. In.
Kite. In.
Wetsuit. In.

The fabric was still neatly folded. Too neatly.

I swallowed. Mona had packed it carefully. Not rushed. Not tossed together. She had—

Nope. Not thinking about that now.

I grabbed the light pink envelope that laid on top.

Slammed the stall door shut. Latched it. Took a step back.

Done.

The breeze rolled in from across the Black Lake, cool and steady, carrying the scent of damp earth and autumn leaves. The air felt fresher out here, cleaner, as if the weight pressing down on my chest in the Great Hall had been left behind with the mess of spilled pumpkin juice and scrambled eggs.

I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders as I settled onto the grass. The blades were still dewy from the morning, soft and cool against my palms as I stretched them out beside me, grounding myself, centering myself.

It felt good to sit down, to be away from the noise. Out here, there was just the steady ripple of water against the shore, the distant rustling of trees, the occasional chirp of a bird cutting through the silence.

This wasn't just about escaping, though. I had Care of Magical Creatures first, and since Hagrid always started later than the other professors, I had time. Time to be alone. Time to open everything by myself. Time to breathe before facing anyone again.

I reached for the letter first.

Mona's handwriting was unmistakable—round, slightly messy, the ink pressed deeply into the parchment like she had been gripping her pen too tightly. I ran my thumb over the folded edge, hesitating for a moment before slipping my finger beneath the seal and tearing it open.

My breath felt slower now, steadier.

The box, the overwhelming crash of emotions, the sudden press of warmth and hands and teasing voices—all of it faded, just for a moment, as I let myself focus on this instead.

A piece of home.

Mona.

I unfolded the letter, smoothing it over my knee, and began to read.

______________________________

You little bitch!

First of all, what the hell. You disappear in the middle of summer, send me the weirdest, most cryptic letter of all time, and now you expect me to just carry on like normal? You owe me so much pizza for this.
So. Much. Pizza.

Second—do you even realize how hard it was to get this stupid kite to you? No, of course you don't, because you weren't the one wrestling it into a package while a literal army of owls judged you.

Steven was the only one who understood me. A fucking owl delivering a letter to me? UNDERSTANDING WHAT I SAY?
I told him all about how you vanished off the face of the earth, and you know what? He just sat there. Listened. Didn't interrupt once. Truly the best conversationalist I've ever met.

But when I asked him if he could carry your kite... well. I think you know how that went.

I expected one owl to come back. Not fourteen.

Fourteen, Lena.

Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to wake up at two in the morning to a whole bloody flock of them, staring at me through the window like a cult? I thought I was about to be sacrificed to the owl gods.

And that's when I realized—if I was going to send you this stupid thing, I'd have to go get it myself.

Which, you know, would have been so much easier if your parents had actually opened the damn door.

They didn't.

Didn't pick up the phone either.

So, naturally, like any completely sane person, I waited until it was dark, snuck into your parents' garden like a criminal, and stole your gear back.

I am now, officially, a thief.

And you? You owe me.

That being said, I miss you, you absolute menace. I don't know where you are or what you're doing, but you better not be dead in a ditch somewhere, because I will drag you back myself just to kill you for putting me through this.

Are you coming home for the holidays? Do I need to steal you back too? Just say the word.

And for the love of god, write back properly this time.

Mona, the bestest friend to ever exist

P.S. If you don't give Steven a break after all of this, I'm taking full custody.
_______________________________

The moment I finished reading, my vision blurred.
A choked laugh bubbled up, breaking through the tightness in my throat, my hands clutching the letter so hard the parchment crinkled. I pressed it to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut as a fresh wave of relief hit me square in the ribs.

God, Mona.

Somehow, across the impossible, across all the things I couldn't tell her, all the things she couldn't possibly understand—she was still here. Still dragging chaos and mischief in her wake, still doing the most ridiculous, impossible things just because she cares about me.

I let out another laugh—wet, unsteady, somewhere between amusement and overwhelming, bone-deep gratitude.

I had lost so much. But not her.

Not Mona.

I wiped at my face with the sleeve of my robe, shaking my head at myself, at her, at the sheer insanity of everything, before forcing myself to take a slow, grounding breath.

There was still more to open.

I reached for the second package, carefully unwrapping the paper to reveal a folded letter sitting on top of two smaller items. Sirius' handwriting was unmistakable—hurried, slightly messy, like he had written it in one go without stopping to think. He thanked me for the crocheted dog I had sent him, called it "the only emotionally stable canine in my life," and, in typical Sirius fashion, made some dramatic remark about how he and Steven were now rivals for my affection.

Remus' words were neater, steadier—just like him. His letter was warm, sincere, quietly reassuring in a way that made my chest ache. He didn't say much outright, but the meaning was clear: You're not alone.

Tucked beneath the letter was a small, silver compass, delicate like a pocket watch. At first glance, it looked ordinary, but when I turned it over in my palm, the needle didn't point north. Instead, it shifted—spinning lazily for a moment before settling in a direction I didn't recognize. A tiny note was attached.

It'll always point toward
wherever—or whoever
you consider home at that moment.

Remus' handwriting.

Sirius had added a second note beneath it, scrawled across the paper in his sharp, hasty script:

Highly suspicious and ridiculously sentimental.
I love it. (Pretend I didn't say that).

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening slightly around the compass before setting it aside, blinking rapidly against the warmth creeping into my chest.

They also sent dark chocolate, along with a note about how it was "scientifically proven" to improve mood—which was obviously just an excuse, because Remus liked dark chocolate best.

I huffed out a soft laugh, running my fingers over the parchment before setting everything aside.

One more.

Molly and Arthur's package was wrapped neatly, tied with a deep orange ribbon that felt unmistakably Molly. Their letter was exactly what I hadn't realized I needed—warm, motherly, filled with care.

Molly asked if I was eating well, if I was sleeping enough, if I needed anything at all. Arthur added a short note about some Muggle contraption he had discovered (something about talking wires?), but the part that made my throat tighten was the simple invitation to spent Christmas at the burrow with them.

No pressure, no expectations. Just a home, if I wanted it.

Inside the package was a deep red and pink scarf, hand-knitted, the stitches perfectly even, the wool impossibly soft. Next to it, a tin of homemade cookies, smelling like cinnamon and vanilla.

The warmth of the gifts, the weight of the letters,—it all swirled inside me, heavy and overwhelming, but there wasn't time to sit with it.

Because I was late.

Very late.

I cursed under my breath, shoving everything back into the boxes before taking off toward the edge of the grounds, my bag bouncing against my hip.

I made it just in time.

Hagrid grinned when he saw me.

"'Bout time, Lena! Thought yeh might've gotten lost!"

Yeah. Lost in a very overwhelming pile of emotions, maybe.

-

The rest of the day blurred by in a mess of well-wishes, friendly pats on the back, and gifts I absolutely did not expect.

Neville found me right after class, beaming as he handed me a potted plant—something leafy and green, with tiny buds at the ends of its vines.

"It's a Mimbulus Mimbletonia!" he said proudly. "Well, a young one. It'll take some time before it, er—starts defending itself. But it's really great once you get used to it!"

I thanked him, only slightly concerned about what "defending itself" meant, but the sheer excitement in his voice made it impossible not to smile.

Hagrid had his own idea of a good birthday present—three tiny eggs, each a different color, warm to the touch.

"Should hatch in a few weeks," he said proudly.

I stared at them. "And... what exactly is inside?"

Hagrid just winked. Winked.

Horrifying.

I was not going to be responsible for whatever chaos was currently incubating inside those eggs.

But before I could protest, he handed me a small notebook titled

"LEna'S fiRSt MaGIcal CReaTures"

in his large, scratchy handwriting and patted me on the back so hard I almost lost my footing.

Fantastic.

I was even stopped by Nearly Headless Nick—who gave a very dramatic bow and an unnecessarily long birthday speech that drew even more attention than I wanted.

By the time lunch rolled around, I had exactly zero interest in sitting in the Great Hall and risking another run-in with the twins.

So I didn't.

Instead, I grabbed Molly's tin of cookies, slipped away up the staircases, and settled onto my little balcony, curling up against the stone railing as the crisp autumn air swept through the space.

It was peaceful here.

Away from the noise, away from the attention, away from them.

I bit into a cookie, watching the clouds shift lazily across the sky, and used the quiet moment to write back to Mona, Sirius and Remus, and Molly and Arthur.

I left my little balcony later than planned, the taste of cinnamon and raisins still lingering on my tongue as I made my way through the castle. The halls were quieter now, the afternoon settling into a slow, easy rhythm as students trickled into their final classes of the day.

I was already done with classes, but as I turned the corner toward the staircase, I nearly walked straight into Harry and Ginny.

The second Ginny saw me, her entire face lit up with the kind of devious excitement that made my stomach drop.

"Oh, perfect," she said, as if I had just conveniently solved a problem for her.

Harry looked equally pleased.

I narrowed my eyes. "What."

"We're celebrating your birthday tonight," Ginny announced, her voice far too casual. "Common room. After dinner. Non-negotiable."

Harry nodded. "Everyone's in."

Complicated.

He raised a brow. "You can't say no."

Ginny tilted her head. "Not unless you want to tell everyone why you're skipping your own birthday cake."

I exhaled slowly, pressing my lips together.

Ginny smirked.

And then, just to be an absolute menace, she added, "Besides, I think you and the twins have done enough dramatic running away from each other for one day, don't you?"

My stomach twisted.

I shot her a flat look. "You're enjoying this too much."

Ginny's grin was nothing short of wicked. "Oh, immensely."

-

I didn't go to my room. I could have. Maybe I should have. It would have been the reasonable thing to do—head upstairs, get ready, pretend like I wasn't dreading every second leading up to whatever awkward interaction was waiting for me.

But that was the problem.

I'd already spent too much of the day thinking about them. Too much time feeling their hands still lingering on my skin like phantom warmth.

I needed them out of my head.

I needed something bigger than this.

Something stronger.

Something that would make everything else quiet.

The answer was obvious.

The moment my toes hit the water, doubt curled around my ribs.

This wasn't the ocean. It wasn't the rolling, predictable waves of home. The Black Lake was still—too still, like it was waiting. Watching.

I hesitated, one hand gripping my harness, the other tightening around the control bar of my kite. The wind was steady, perfect for a ride, but my gut twisted at the thought of what lurked beneath. The lake was ancient, full of things I didn't know, things I couldn't see. Things that could see me.

For a long moment, I just stood there, ankle-deep, the water lapping coolly against my boots.

I could turn back.

But I wouldn't.

I clenched my jaw, adjusted my stance, and took a breath. The only way to get over fear was to do the thing anyway. And I needed this—needed the wind, the glide, the feeling of weightlessness that made everything else disappear, if only for a while.

With a sharp tug, I caught the wind.

The kite yanked me forward, the board slicing clean through the water, the pull of it like muscle memory. A quick adjustment, and I found my rhythm—long, easy glides, using the gusts to propel me forward instead of fighting against them. Smooth. Effortless.

The nerves didn't vanish entirely.

Not when the water below was so impossibly dark, when shadows flickered just beneath the surface, making my stomach curl uncomfortably.

Not when the Durmstrang ship loomed in the distance like something out of a ghost story, its jagged masts stretching toward the sky, the carved figurehead snarling at the water.

Not when I spotted movement on the shore.

A group of students.

I barely had to glance over to recognize them.

Sixth-year Care of Magical Creatures.

Which meant—Fred. George.

And Hagrid, standing head and shoulders above the others, arms crossed, watching with an expression caught somewhere between concern and absolute, dumbfounded amazement.

Brilliant. An audience. Exactly what I needed.

I tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the smooth glide of my board, the way my kite responded to the wind like an extension of myself.

Someone let out a low whistle from the shore. A few voices muttered, too far for me to hear clearly.

Then—

"THA'S A BIT MAD, LENA!" Hagrid boomed across the lake, his voice carrying over the water. "LOOKS BRILLIANT, BUT DON' YEH THINK YEH OUGHTA BE A BIT—"

Safer? Wiser? Less of an absolute idiot?

Probably.

But the sound of Hagrid's impressed tone sparked something steadier in my chest.

I wasn't being reckless.

I was being me.

I cut across the lake again, tilting my weight slightly to catch more speed, letting the wind do the work. Smooth. Easy. Controlled.

A particularly strong gust rolled through, and I used it, lifting my board just slightly off the water, skimming effortlessly before landing with barely a splash.

The students reacted—some murmured in disbelief, others laughed in that half-impressed, half-concerned way.

And then—

"Bloody hell," someone muttered.

I didn't need to look to know it was George.

I did, however, glance over just in time to see Fred standing with his arms still crossed, but his posture no longer relaxed.

He was watching me.

Closely.

Like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

I swallowed hard, adjusting my grip on the bar.

I wasn't reckless.

I wasn't going to crash.

I wasn't—

Something shifted beneath me.

The board wobbled.

Not because of the wind.

Because of something else.

Something underneath.

My pulse spiked.

I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing my movements to stay smooth, controlled, adjusting for the small disruption. It was nothing. Had to be nothing.

The Black Lake was full of currents, of creatures, of—

A shadow flickered just below the surface.

Too big. Too close.

My entire body went rigid.

No.

No, no, no.

I wasn't about to be that idiot—the one who kited straight into the waiting arms of the Giant Squid.

Or worse.

I exhaled, keeping my hands steady, my body relaxed, even as my heart hammered against my ribs.

One more pass.

One more, and I was done.

I adjusted my course, heading back toward the shallower part of the lake, easing into the glide, keeping my movements predictable, steady—

But then, because I couldn't help myself, because I was still me, I angled just slightly toward the shore, cutting a little too close to the group watching.

A turn of the board. A perfectly placed carve.

Water sprayed up from the edge—

Aimed directly at the nearest people.

Fred and George.

The sound they made was deeply satisfying.

A strangled curse. A splutter. A half-shouted, half-laughed "Oi!"

And for the first time all day, a grin tugged at the corner of my lips.

But I didn't stop.

I adjusted, slowed, let the wind pull me back toward shore, my body still buzzing with the thrill of it, with the rush of doing something that was mine.

Even as I stepped out of the water, as I unhooked my harness, as I pulled my kite down to wrap it up—

I still felt eyes on me.

Still felt his eyes on me.

I risked a glance.

Fred.

Still standing there, arms loose at his sides now, water dripping from the hem of his robes.

He looked... Hot

Oh God, Nope. Not today satan.

I hastily grabbed my things, heading toward the castle, shaking out my damp sleeves as I went.

I had a birthday party to survive.

-

By the time I made it back to the common room, freshly changed into something comfortable but presentable, I was relieved to find that the so-called party was exactly what I had hoped for—small, quiet, easy.

No loud music, no unnecessary fuss, no giant crowd of Gryffindors I barely knew. Just Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Neville... and, of course, the twins.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a soft glow across the room, and a beautifully frosted cake sat on the table, a gift from Poppy—somehow she had managed to recreate exactly the kind of cakes I used to get back home, simple vanilla sponge, light, fluffy, decorated with delicate swirls of frosting and tiny edible flowers. The sight alone made my throat tighten just a little, but I swallowed it down, pushing the emotion aside.

Ginny clapped her hands together the moment I stepped in. "Finally. Took you long enough."

I rolled my eyes and made my way over, just as Harry pushed a stack of presents toward me.

The gifts were perfect.

Hermione and Ginny handed me a carefully wrapped box of enchanted yarn—it would never tangle, never run out, and could shift colors at will depending on my mood.

Harry and Ron, predictably, had gone the food route—a towering stack of Honeydukes sweets, a mix of their best chocolates, toffees, and things that looked dangerous but delicious.

I didn't even have to fake my happiness—this was perfect.

And then—there were the twins.

I felt them before I even looked up.

The weight of their stares.

I didn't look at them. Didn't have to.

Instead, I reached for a fork, cutting into my cake—only for it to suddenly vanish from my fingers.

Fred, across from me, chewed slowly. Thoughtfully. Too pleased with himself.

George, meanwhile, picked up my goblet, took a long, deliberate sip, and set it back down like nothing happened.

I just stared.

Hermione sighed. "For Merlin's sake, just behave for five minutes, will you?"

Fred smiled innocently. "We are behaving. See? All smiles."
George smirked. "And a very good mood, too. Sugar always does wonders."

They were watching me.

I could feel it in the way Fred leaned in slightly, in the way George's gaze lingered, sharp and knowing. Like they were waiting for something.

Waiting for me to react.

I didn't.

-

Despite myself, I actually enjoyed the evening.

We played Gobstones first, which was an instant mistake because Ginny absolutely obliterated Ron, leaving him grumbling and covered in foul-smelling liquid while Hermione tried to explain where he went wrong.

Then came a simple card game, one Hermione had picked up from a book somewhere, but Fred and George only seemed interested in figuring out how to cheat.

Fred stretched out lazily across the couch, cards fanned out in his hand, grinning like he had already won before we even started.

"So," he said, flicking a card down onto the table with a casual ease that immediately made me suspicious. "How's the birthday been so far, Mayhem?"

I did not want to answer that question.

"Fine," I said, keeping my focus on my own hand. "Good."

George hummed, watching me far too closely. "Just good?"

I shrugged, eyes locked on my cards.

Fred leaned in, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair. "Even after this morning?"

I flipped a card down onto the table with entirely too much force.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Are you two playing or just being insufferable?"

"Both," I muttered.

George, entirely unfazed, tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his face. "You know," he mused, "for someone who tried to escape her own birthday celebration this morning, you seem to be handling this one rather well."

I didn't answer.

Didn't meet their eyes.

But Fred wasn't done.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his smirk shifting into something quieter, something that carried more weight than I wanted to acknowledge.

"You were good out there," he said, his voice softer now, less playful. "On the lake."

I swallowed hard.

"Insane," George added, but his usual amusement wasn't fully there.

Their eyes were still on me.

I felt trapped

And they kept trying.

Another stolen sip of my drink. Another flick of a card in my direction, knocking mine off the table.
George nudged my knee under the table, just light enough that I might have thought I imagined it.
"Come on, Mayhem," Fred murmured, almost coaxing. "Nothing to say?"
My fingers tightened around my cards. I didn't look up.

And when I still didn't react, when I let every comment, every attempt at a joke, every subtle, lingering touch pass without a single response—

I saw it.

The shift.

The teasing slowed.
The smiles turned softer, smaller.

George's brows knit together when I turned away from him.

Fred's gaze lingered just a second too long when I didn't laugh at one of his jokes.

They noticed.

And for once, they didn't push harder.

They didn't tease louder.

They got nicer.

Gentler.

Quieter.

George reached for my cup and refilled it without asking.

Fred passed me the last slice of cake without a word.

And I—

I couldn't take it.

I felt like a fool.

Like I had let them in just enough to make an idiot of myself.

And now they were pitying me.

I had to get out.

The air felt thick, pressing against my ribs. Too warm, too close—I was suffocating.

I stood abruptly, smoothing my hands over my sweater.

Thanks for this," I said, my voice too even, too polite. "But I think I'm gonna turn in early."

"Already?" Ginny frowned.

Hermione studied me carefully. "Are you feeling alright?"

I forced a small smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

"Alright," she said finally.

And Fred.

Fred, who had been watching me the whole night, who hadn't cracked a joke in the last ten minutes—

He sat up a little straighter, his fingers pressing against his knees like he was about to push himself up.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something.

But he didn't.

Across from him, George stilled.
I saw it—the flicker of something in his expression, the way his hand flexed against the table.
And then their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Some unspoken thought passed between them, something sharp and silent and full of hesitation.

But neither of them moved.

And I left before they could.

I made my way to my room with quick, quiet steps, my heartbeat pressing against my ribs, my throat tight with something I refused to name.

The moment I shut the door behind me, I turned toward the window, shoving it open with both hands, letting the crisp night air wash over me.

I sank to the floor, legs folding beneath me, forehead resting against the cool stone wall.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.

Why couldn't they just let it be?

They had me—again. Pushed me right to the edge, right to the breaking point. Exactly what they wanted.

And the moment they realized it... they pitied me.

I let out a slow breath and opened my eyes again, the distant lights of the castle grounds flickering in the dark.

And then my gaze drifted back into the room.

Something was sitting on my bed.

I hadn't noticed it before, too caught up in my own head.

A package.

Not just any package—a beautifully wrapped box, tied with a deep purple ribbon. The kind of ribbon you keep, smooth between your fingers, fold carefully so it never loses its shape.

I hesitated for a long moment before pushing myself up, crossing the room slowly, warily.

The tag caught my eye first, the handwriting unmistakable.

For when you decide to come back to us
Happy Birthday
Fred and George

My breath hitched.

Slowly, carefully, I reached out, brushing my fingers over the ink.

It was real.

The weight of the paper, the smooth loops of their handwriting—it was all real.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image of them lingered—George's furrowed brows, Fred's parted lips like he had wanted to say something. The thought shattered something in me.

And that was the second time I cried on my birthday.

Chapter Text

The next weeks were challenging in different ways. The memory potion slowly started to fade, and suddenly, classes weren't as effortless as before. The spells that had come to me with ease were now shaky, the incantations less instinctive. I had to actually focus, actually try, and while I was still doing well—especially in Potions and Herbology—it was a stark reminder that I wasn't some prodigy.

Just a girl playing catch-up.

Potions started the day after my birthday, and while the twin's constant glances across the classroom were bad enough, I had another set of eyes on me—Snape's. He had known my real story from the start, like all the professors, and I had the distinct pleasure of being his new favorite verbal punching bag. Any chance he got, he would call on me—sometimes to question my abilities, sometimes just to try and shake me.

But to his, and quite honestly, everyone's surprise, I quickly became one of the best students in his class.

Not that it earned me favoritism. This was still Snape. He treated me with a cold, detached respect, the same way he did with students like Hermione—an acknowledgment of skill, but not an ounce of warmth. But I preferred it that way.
At least he was consistent.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, was different.
I hated it. Even more than Care of Magical Creatures. More than the creatures that wanted me dead.

Because Professor Moody was unhinged.
Lessons were brutal—half the time, they felt like survival training, like we were being prepped for a war rather than a standard curriculum. I was used to tough professors. I had survived weeks of private lessons, which had been intense but measured, structured, thoughtful.
Moody's weren't.

And worst of all?
I felt his eyes linger on me longer than they did on the others.

It wasn't personal interest, I thought — I wasn't special. But it was as if he was watching me closer, waiting to see something.

Outside of my academic struggles, everything else was shifting too.

Harry's unexpected selection as a Triwizard Champion had driven a wedge through our friend group.
Ron refused to speak to him. Hermione tried to remain neutral, but both boys resented her for it. That left Ginny and me to pick up the pieces, keeping Harry company when he wasn't brooding alone, sitting with Ron while he masked his hurt with sharp, careless jokes.

And then—there were the twins.

Or rather, there weren't.

The night of my birthday had been a turning point. I felt it.

The reminder of them sat buried deep in my closet, beneath layers of clothes.

I hadn't opened their package.

I couldn't.

Every morning, every evening, it was looking at me.

And I didn't look at them.

Not mentioning their gift.
Or my constant run-aways.

They waited. At first.

But after a week of me barely saying a word to them, avoiding their glances, ignoring their teasing, I could feel it.

The moment they gave up.

Or at least, I thought they had.

Until one morning.

A chilly, golden autumn Sunday.

I had woken up late, craving comfort, reaching for one of my favorite sweaters—a soft grey one with a dark blue pattern, the kind of delicate design that had taken me hours to knit last winter.

Only it wasn't there.
I frowned, checking my trunk, the chair near my bed, the neatly folded pile of clothes on my shelf. It was freshly washed—I was sure of it.
But it was gone.
I brushed it off, grabbing another and heading to the Great Hall for breakfast.

And then—I saw him.

George Weasley.

Sitting casually at the Gryffindor table. Wearing my sweater.

He looked comfortable in it, like it had always been his. The sleeves that hung loose on me fit his arms just right, the fabric that was oversized on me sat snug against his frame. The perfectly soft, worn-in wool—mine—now his to wear.

For a moment, I thought maybe it had been a mistake. That the house-elves had put it in the wrong trunk, that George had grabbed it without thinking.

But I said nothing.

And then, a few days later, it happened again.

Another sweater. Another theft.

And that night, when I reached into my closet for my pajamas —I found something else.

An auburn sweater.
Not mine.
Worn, soft from years of use, smelling undeniably of him.

He had left it there.
For me to wear.

But I never did.

A quiet, wordless exchange began. Every few days.

He took one.
Left one.

Never said a word.

And neither did I.

Not even when I saw him sitting next to Angelina, wearing my sweater.

This one beige and red—fitting him far too well, draped over his shoulders while he leaned in slightly, teasing her, smirking.

I told myself it didn't matter.

But it did.

I felt something sour coil in my stomach.
Of course, her sweaters were too small for him.
That's why he wore mine.

The thought turned bitter. And that was the night I ended the game.

I stacked the three sweaters he had left, walked up to the boys' dorm, and placed them in front of the door.

And none of my sweaters ever went missing again.

Fred, on the other hand, had a different approach.
At first, he had tried being gentle with me. Tried coaxing me back.

But when that failed—he turned mean.

He wanted a reaction, no matter what he needed to do.
And if I wasn't giving him the one he wanted, he'd take whatever he could get.

Every ignored joke.
Every sidestep when he tried to touch my shoulder.
Every dodged confrontation.

His frustration grew with every single one.

At first I was not the center of his pranks.

He even kept Peeves from pranking me, when one morning, as Peeves poured pumpkin juice on students left and right, Fred's voice rang out across the hall.

"NOT HER."

And Peeves—listened.

-

At first, he didn't take it out on me directly.

Instead, he took it out on those closest to me.
Especially Theo.

It was a cold, foggy afternoon, and I had Potions as my last class of the day.

When Snape asked us to pair up, I turned around to find a Slytherin boy grinning at me.

"Want to be partners?" His voice was melodic, smooth, too confident.

Theo was stunning.
Dark eyes. Curly hair. Wickedly smart.

But more than anything—he reminded me of Sirius.
Reckless. Sharp. Mischief sparking in his expression.

But different to them.

Always respectful.
Always on my level.

That's how our friendship started.
We spent hours in the library, working on Potions but never actually working on Potions.

"So," Theo asked casually one afternoon, flipping through a book he clearly wasn't reading. "Anyone you're into?"

I scoffed, amused. "Not really. You?"

He just shook his head. "There are way too many hot people here. And now that we have Durmstrang and Beauxbaton around? I really don't want to commit."

We spent a lot of time together—Theo became my safe space when the Gryffindor common room felt unbearable. On the worst days, I'd sneak into the Slytherin den just to avoid seeing Fred and George lounging with Katie and Angelina. Casually flirting. Always easy. Always respectful.
A reminder that they had never been that way with me. Never easy. Never respectful.

Theo caught on quickly. He was the first person I could truly vent to. Ginny was still their sister, and Hermione—bless her—was too logical, too solution-driven when all I needed was someone to just listen. Sometimes, you don't want advice.
You just want to be angry. And Theo let me.

Fred and George noticed my friendship with him. And, of course, they couldn't just let me be happy.
He became their favorite target.

Not that Theo minded. He took it in stride, smirking every time they pulled something, brushing it off like it was all beneath him.

"They're jealous," he decided one day, lounging back in his chair with a smug grin. "Who wouldn't be pissed about losing you as a friend?"

I snorted. "Right, because you're such a threat."

He stretched, grinning wider. "Oh, but I am. It's driving them mad, watching us whisper in corners. You should see Fred's face whenever I touch your arm—like he wants to hex me out of existence but doesn't even know why."

One afternoon, we were in the Great Hall when Fred lobbed another insult my way, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Careful, Nott. Stick around too long, and you'll be knitting matching sweaters with her."

Before I could react, Theo casually slung an arm around my shoulders, completely unfazed. "And? We'd look fantastic." He turned his head toward me, voice suddenly thoughtful. "Midnight blue or emerald green? I'm thinking emerald—to bring out your eyes."

My lips twitched, but I bit it back.

Fred didn't laugh.

Theo felt like the male version of Mona—sharp, quick-witted, and effortlessly easy to be around. And Mona, as always, was still herself.

We sent letters constantly, slipping back into the rhythm of inside jokes and chaotic rants as if nothing had changed. When I finally told her the truth—that I wasn't welcome at home anymore—she didn't hesitate. Her family invited me to stay with them for Christmas, and I said yes without a second thought.

I couldn't wait to go back. It wasn't my house, but it was still home. Mona, St. Ives—the crash of the waves, the salt in the air, our favorite pizza place. After months away, it was exactly what I would need.

Molly seemed a little sad when I sent a letter, saying I wouldn't spent Christmas at the burrow, but when she realized I hadn't lost my old life completely, just found a way to keep a piece of it, she was happy for me.

As the air grew colder and the first task of the Triwizard Tournament approached, the days darkened—and so did my mood.

Fred and George had stopped talking to me entirely. But instead of fading into indifference, they shifted to something else.
Something worse.

I was no longer spared from their pranks. And beyond that, they had started to get cruel.

When I passed them in the common room, they never missed an opportunity. Not to test me anymore—just to make sure I felt small.

My parents always said to ignore bullies—that if I didn't react, they'd eventually lose interest. But that wasn't happening.

I wasn't emotionally stable enough to confront them, so I did the only thing I could. I avoided them. Completely.

I started waking up early just to have breakfast alone, slipping out before they even made it downstairs. And on the days when I couldn't handle another sharp remark, when I felt like just existing in the same room as them would be too much—Theo let me crash in his bed instead, taking the sofa himself.

Sirius was furious when he found out how they'd been treating me. Remus, always the more level-headed one, offered to speak to Molly and Arthur, but I told him not to.

And then, one morning, when Ginny and Hermione finally convinced me to eat breakfast together, a deep red envelope landed right in front of Fred and George with a loud snap.

I barely had time to process it before the Howler burst open, filling the Great Hall with Sirius' unmistakable voice—sharp, biting, and absolutely livid.

YOU FUCKING IDIOTS
IF I HEAR ONE MORE WORD ABOUT YOU TREATING MY KID LIKE ABSOLUTE GARBAGE, I WILL PERSONALLY SEE TO IT THAT MOLLY AND ARTHUR FIND OUT EXACTLY HOW YOU'VE BEEN ACTING.
SO GO ON. KEEP IT UP. LET'S SEE HOW MUCH FUN YOU HAVE WHEN YOU'RE OFF THE QUIDDITCH TEAM AND GROUNDED UNTIL YOU'RE THIRTY.
YOU DON'T TOUCH HER. YOU DON'T LOOK AT HER. YOU DON'T BREATHE NEAR HER UNLESS SHE WANTS YOU TO. CONSIDER THIS YOUR ONE AND ONLY WARNING.
SORT YOURSELVES OUT. BEFORE I DO IT FOR YOU.

As the last embers of the Howler fizzled out, the silence in the Great Hall was thick enough to choke on. My pulse hammered in my ears, but I didn't stop. Didn't turn around.

And then—Angelina.
A sharp scoff, dripping with mockery. "What, couldn't handle it on your own? Had to go crying to daddy?"

Laughter. Low, cruel.

Heat burned at the back of my neck, but I kept moving.

Didn't stop. Didn't look back.

„My kid"

-

Ginny and Hermione always wanted to help, always tried to pull me out of it, but there was nothing they could say that would fix any of this.

And then one evening, it finally happened.

We were walking past the sofas near the fire, where Fred, George, Angelina, Katie, and Lee were sprawled out, laughter spilling from their little circle like they had nothing better to do. I didn't look at them. I never looked at them. But then—Fred's voice, loud enough to carry.

"Careful, don't look at her too long—might send her running again."

Laughter. Sharp and easy. Not a joke, not a tease—just something meant to land.

Ginny stopped dead in her tracks.

"Are you—are you serious right now?"

I barely registered what she was saying. Barely registered the way her voice rose, the way she tore into them, calling them cowards, calling them idiots, asking them what the hell their problem was.

Because I was already walking. Already heading upstairs. Already trying to breathe around the thick, awful weight pressing into my ribs.

And just as I reached the top of the staircase, just as I turned the corner—

Fred and George's laughter.

Not guilty. Not uncertain.

Laughing.

Like Ginny's anger was just another joke to them.

So I shut my door. Sank onto my bed.

And that was it.

I had cried a lot during those weeks.
Every single time because of them.

Because they were making sure I knew.

I wasn't enough.
I wasn't worth it.

And I did.

Chapter Text

The castle felt different today.
The energy in the air was sharp and restless, buzzing like static before a storm, building with each passing second. From the moment I opened my eyes, I could feel it pressing in, seeping through the walls, winding its way into my chest.

The first task was today.
And that meant there was no escaping.

Normally, I could maneuver around them, finding quiet moments between the chaos, slipping out of the common room before it became unbearable. I had spent weeks perfecting the art of avoidance, learning when to disappear, when to make myself small, when to pretend I didn't hear them.

But not today.

Today, the whole house would move together.

We'd eat together, walk together, sit together—one massive, roaring force of red and gold, flooding the stands in support of our champion.

There was no way out of it.
No quiet breakfast alone. No sneaking away to the library. No pretending I had something else to do.

I was trapped.
And the thought of it made my stomach twist.

Because even though Ginny's outburst had been two days ago, and even though she had ripped into them with enough force to make me feel something close to vindicated—

It hadn't changed anything.

Not really.

If anything, it had made things worse.

Because after that night, after she had called them out, called them cowards, called them cruel, after she had fought for me in a way I couldn't fight for myself—

They had laughed.

Not outright.

But after.

And since then -

Low, careless snickers behind my back, traded between them when they thought I wasn't looking, when they thought I wouldn't hear.

Or maybe—when they wanted me to.

And that was worse than anything they had done before.

Because this wasn't teasing.

Wasn't about testing me, pushing me, pulling me back in.

It was mockery.

And I had felt it.

A sharp, cold kind of humiliation curling around my ribs, pressing into my throat.

And now I had to sit with them.

For hours.

With no way to escape.

The only relief I had—the only reason I hadn't entirely resigned myself to misery—was Theo.

He had promised to sit with me.

Had practically forced the decision upon me the night before, smirking as he leaned against my table in the library and declared that he would not allow me to be "miserable and mopey" while the entire school celebrated.

And I had agreed, because having him there would make everything easier.

Theo didn't care about the twins.

Didn't care about their silence, their avoidance, their messy, complicated moods.

And I could lean on that.

⸻

Despite the early hour, the common room was already stirring with energy, voices drifting through the walls, laughter spilling up the staircases as students gathered in anticipation.

I reached for one of my thickest sweaters—a burgundy, high-necked knit, warm enough to fight off the biting cold. The material was soft, well-worn, a comfort piece I had relied on for years.

I hesitated for a moment before grabbing my coat but ultimately left it behind.

The stands would be crowded, bodies pressed together for warmth, and bringing it would only be a hassle.

Once I was dressed, I stepped toward the mirror, adjusting the sleeves of my sweater, smoothing my hands over the fabric as I took in my own reflection.

I looked... fine.

No outward sign of the nerves twisting in my stomach, no evidence of the restless energy making my fingers twitch.

Just me.

I took a slow breath, pressing my palms against the wooden frame of the mirror, steadying myself.

"I got this."

I held my own gaze for a moment longer, forcing myself to believe them.

Then, with one final breath, I grabbed my wand, squared my shoulders, and stepped out of my room.

I braced myself as I descended the stairs, my heart hammering as the noise from the common room grew louder with each step.

But when I stepped into the room—

They weren't there.

Fred and George's usual spot by the fireplace was empty.

Their absence should have been insignificant. Stupid, even.
But the relief that flooded me was immediate.

I exhaled slowly, letting my shoulders relax just slightly as I crossed the room, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease. No one stopped me. No one called my name.

For once, I wasn't a target.

As soon as I stepped out of the portrait hole, I spotted Theo waiting for me, dressed head to toe in Gryffindor colors.

He was leaning against the wall just outside the entrance, a ridiculous, over-the-top red and gold scarf wrapped around his neck, a matching hat pulled low over his curls. He even had a Gryffindor badge pinned to his cloak.

I stared.

He smirked. "Like what you see?"

I blinked, at a complete loss for words.

"What—" I started laughing, gesturing vaguely at him. "What is this?"

He spread his arms as if to show off the full effect, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Support."

"For Gryffindor?"

"For Potter."

I narrowed my eyes.

He grinned, nudging me lightly. "What? You think I'd sit with you in the Gryffindor stands and not commit to the bit? I have school spirit, love."

I scoffed. "You have issues."

He looped his arm through mine, already pulling me down the corridor.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go get breakfast before
we freeze to death in the name of entertainment."

As we made our way down to the Great Hall, the castle buzzed with restless energy. Students poured from every direction, filling the corridors with hurried footsteps and excited chatter. The anticipation was infectious, a thrumming undercurrent that made everything feel sharper, more alive.

Theo, ever the drama enthusiast, soaked it all in with a pleased hum. "You know, if we ever needed proof that Hogwarts only cares about entertainment and near-death experiences, today is it."

I snorted. "Yeah, nothing says 'quality education' like making teenagers fight dragons."

"Exactly." He tipped his head toward a group of Ravenclaws arguing over which dragon Harry would face. "It's all a bit medieval, really. What's next? Jousting on broomsticks? A duel to the death in the dungeons?"

"Don't give them ideas," I muttered. "You know someone would suggest it."

He grinned. "If they do, my money's on you."

The Great Hall was already packed when we arrived, every table alive with speculation and last-minute betting. Gold exchanged hands with quick, discreet movements, coins flicking across the wooden surfaces as students placed their wagers. Some were confident, rattling off strategies and odds like seasoned gamblers. Others were just here for the chaos, laughing as they threw down money with reckless abandon.

At the Gryffindor table, the heart of the madness was unmistakable.

Fred and George.

They were at the center of it all, perched on the benches with an air of easy confidence, parchment spread in front of them as they took bets with the precision of professionals.

Theo let out a low whistle. "Should I be worried? This level of organization is terrifying."

I rolled my eyes. "They take their side hustles very seriously."

As we approached, their voices cut through the noise.

"Alright, folks," George called, holding up the parchment. "Last chance to bet on the Boy Wonder's survival—odds are shifting fast!"

Fred smirked, scribbling something down before glancing up. "Or, if you're feeling bold, we've got some fresh wagers—who wants to put galleons on Mayhem saving the day with her plastic broom?"

Laughter rippled through the table. My stomach twisted.

My jaw locked. My hands curled into fists. I wanted to fire something back, something sharp and cruel and cutting. But I couldn't. Because if I did, they wouldn't stop. And I was too tired for that.

Theo didn't even pause. He tilted his head, his expression dripping with faux curiosity.

"Oh, is that what this is? I thought you two were finally taking bets on which one of you is compensating harder." He sighed, shaking his head. "Should've known the answer was both."

A few students nearby snickered.

Fred's smirk faltered. Just for a second. Then it was back, sharp as ever. But I had seen it.
Before he could fire back, Theo kept going, with a perfectly timed scoff, he turned his back on them, guiding me to the farthest end of the table and plopping down like he hadn't just insulted two of the sharpest tongues in Hogwarts.

I sat beside him, stiff and silent.

Theo sighed dramatically, leaning back. "Lovely start to the day. Nothing like unoriginal jokes and misplaced confidence to really set the mood."

I didn't answer.

Because even though Theo had handled it, the damage had already been done.
I picked at the hem of my sleeve, staring at the table, waiting for the sick feeling in my stomach to pass. It didn't.

I barely touched my breakfast. Toast going cold, eggs pushed around my plate, pumpkin juice barely sipped. My stomach twisted at the thought of forcing anything down, but I knew I needed to eat something. The day was going to be long, and the last thing I wanted was to pass out in the stands like some kind of tragic damsel.

Theo noticed, of course.

He reached across the table and stole a piece of toast straight off my plate, taking an exaggerated bite. "Shame, really. You'll be too lightheaded to appreciate the spectacle of a teenage boy getting eaten by a dragon. What a waste."

I sighed, finally breaking off a bite and forcing myself to chew. "Happy now?"

He grinned. "Overjoyed."

The walk to the arena was a sea of red and gold, and black and yellow.
Students pushed forward in waves, eager to get the best spots, their excitement crackling through the air like static before a storm. I kept my head down, sticking close to Theo as we followed the crowd, the murmurs of strategy and whispered nerves filling every inch of space around us.

The twins were behind me.

I knew it without having to look.

I could feel them there, close enough that I could hear George making some joke to Lee, close enough that if I slowed down even slightly, they'd be right next to me.

But they didn't say a word.

Not to me.

Not even a casual remark tossed over my shoulder, no muttered insult, no sneaky jab disguised as humor.

Nothing.

It should've been a relief.

But my body was too tense to relax, waiting for something that never came.

By the time we reached the stands, I was exhausted just from bracing myself.

The crowd pressed in tight, students squeezing onto the benches, voices overlapping in a constant, restless hum. Theo and I managed to find seats in the middle rows, not too close, not too far, nestled into the center of Gryffindor territory. Next to us, Ginny, Hermione, and Ron sat down. They had been skeptical at first when I became friends with Theo but quickly started to appreciate his sharp wit, easy humor, and the way he effortlessly got under the twins' skin.

They sat directly behind us.

I felt Theo's glance. He was waiting for me to react.

The wind whipped through the stands, tugging at scarves and hair, carrying the sharp bite of November through the layers of wool and warmth. The sky above was a dull, washed-out gray, thick with shifting clouds that threatened rain but never delivered. The crowd was restless, shifting on the wooden benches, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the arena below. Every few minutes, a collective gasp would ripple through the stands as another champion faced their dragon, the roar of fire and the scrape of claws against rock sending vibrations through the air.

And I could feel them.
Every minute.
Every second.

Fred and George.

Directly behind me.

Their presence was like an itch beneath my skin, something I couldn't ignore no matter how hard I tried. I had spent weeks learning how to make myself numb to them, how to sit in the same room without flinching at their voices, how to pass them in the corridors without meeting their eyes. But here, with the space so tight, with the sound of their laughter threading through the din of the crowd, it was impossible to pretend I didn't notice. It was impossible to run away.

I forced myself to focus on anything else. The dragons. The sky. The tension in Hermione's shoulders as she gripped the railing in front of us, her eyes darting between the champions and the judges. The way Ron and Ginny whispered back and forth, their words lost in the wind.

Theo, beside me, was relaxed. Too relaxed. His long legs stretched in front of him, his arms folded behind his head, his smirk unwavering as he leaned closer. "Not even paying attention, are you?"

I exhaled through my nose, keeping my gaze ahead. "Of course, I am."

"Oh, really? Who's in the arena right now?"

I blinked. The roar of the crowd peaked again, students jumping to their feet, waving their banners in the air.

Theo grinned. "That's what I thought."

I huffed, tugging my sweater sleeves further over my hands, trying to shake off the tension curling in my chest. My fingers had started to feel cold, the sharp wind creeping through the wool, biting against my skin. I shifted, tucking my hands into my lap.

More time passed. The air only grew colder. It had been bearable at first, but now, with the wind slicing through the stands and my sweater doing little to block it, a deep, aching chill settled into my bones. I pressed my arms tighter around myself, suppressing a shiver.

And then—

A weight.

Heavy. Warm. Draped over my shoulders in a quiet, effortless movement.

I stiffened, my body locking up before my mind could catch up. The fabric was thick, worn-in, carrying the unmistakable scent of something familiar. Something I had spent weeks trying to forget.

Fred.

My breath caught.

No. No, no, no.

It was instant. The reaction, the rejection, the visceral need to rid myself of it.

I yanked it off immediately.

No hesitation. No thought. Just immediate, instinctive disgust, like I had been doused in something rotten, something biting, something poisonous.

How—after everything, after weeks of silence, of cruelty, of mockery—how could he think I would keep this?

How could he think I would sit here, wrapped in his warmth, wearing his jacket, as if any part of me still wanted to feel close to him?

I shoved it backward, my grip tight, my breath sharp. I didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge him. Just held it out until he took it, my hands shaking from something far worse than the cold.

But then—

Skin.

Not just fabric.

For the briefest, most fleeting second, my hand brushed his.

Heat. Him.

My stomach twisted violently, and I ripped my hand back as if burned.

The moment stretched.

Too long.

I could feel him behind me, feel the shift, the hesitation, the crack in the easy confidence he had been wearing for weeks.

But he took it.

Slowly.

His fingers curled around the jacket, but he hesitated.

Just for a second.

And in that second—he leaned in.

Not much.
Not enough to be obvious.

But enough that I felt it—the faint press of his knee against my back, the barely-there brush of his arm as he pulled the jacket from my grip.

My breath hitched, my body locking up.

I went rigid, shoulders squaring, hands curling into fists in my lap.

And just like that—he was gone.

The warmth at my back vanished as he pulled away, retreating without a sound.

No snarky remark.
No sharp-edged joke.
No mocking laughter.

Just... nothing.

The silence was suffocating.

I forced myself to breathe, to turn away, to face forward again, but my pulse was erratic, my hands unsteady in my lap.

I tried to focus.

But I could feel him.

Not just behind me, not just there, but there.

Minutes passed.

I was still cold.
Still shaking, not only from freezing.
I curled into myself, jaw tightening.

It's fine. I told myself. I don't care.

My hands tucked into my sleeves, my shoulders hunched forward, the wind biting against my skin, sharp and relentless.

I didn't care.
I didn't.

And then—

Warmth.

Heat unfurling from the fabric, wrapping around my shoulders, sinking into my skin like invisible hands smoothing over my arms, lulling my body into comfort despite the freezing wind.

A warmth that wasn't mine.

That hadn't been there before.

Magic.

I knew exactly what it was.
What he had done.

I clenched my fists, my nails pressing into my palms, my stomach twisting into knots.

He hadn't said a word. Hadn't asked if I wanted it.

Just did it.

And I hated him for it.

For the way, despite everything, despite the weeks of cruelty, of avoidance, of mockery—

I was still warm.

And Fred had made sure of it.

Chapter Text

The warmth was unbearable now.

As time dragged on, as the final champion faced their dragon, as the tension thickened to the point of suffocation, the warmth only became worse. It wasn't a comforting kind of heat, the kind that settled into your bones and made you feel safe. No, this was different. It clung to me, pressing against my skin like something alive, something unwelcome, something suffocating.

I shifted in my seat, rolling my shoulders as subtly as I could, trying to shake off the feeling that I was being wrapped in something too tight, too heavy. My fingers curled into the hem of my sweater, tugging at it lightly, trying to create some kind of space between the fabric and my skin. It didn't help. Nothing helped.

Because I knew exactly what it was.

I knew exactly who had done it.

Some silent act of magic, some quiet decision he had made without asking, without saying a word, without acknowledging anything that had passed between us in the last few weeks.

And I hated him for it.

Hated that he had the audacity to do something like this after everything, to sneak his way back into my space, my awareness, my very breath—without permission.

The warmth wasn't just warmth anymore. It felt personal, too close, too much.

I was wearing his magic.
His warmth.
His presence.
Him.

And I wanted to tear it off.

As the crowd began to filter out of the stands, a restless hum of conversation filled the cold November air, the excitement from the first task still buzzing in waves around us. Students moved in clusters, voices overlapping in animated chatter, hands gesturing wildly as they recounted every close call, every near miss, every heart-stopping moment of the task.

Theo and I kept pace together, weaving through the throngs of students, his ridiculous Gryffindor hat still pulled low over his curls, his scarf wrapped so high around his neck that only his sharp, amused eyes were visible. A few steps ahead, Ginny and Hermione walked side by side, deep in discussion over Harry's strategy, analyzing the way he had outflown a literal dragon like it was nothing more than a particularly challenging Quidditch match.

I, however, was struggling to breathe.

The warmth hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled in deeper, seeping into my skin like something permanent.

I could still feel it, curling around my ribs, pressing into my chest, wrapping itself around me like an invisible set of arms.

It was unbearable.

I shifted again, rolling my shoulders, tugging at my sleeves in an attempt to shake off the feeling, but it was like trying to escape something that had already tangled itself into me.

Theo, who had been walking lazily beside me, let out a sharp sigh, turning his head just enough to give me a sideways glance.

"Alright," he drawled, "either you've developed some deeply concerning full-body twitch, or something is actively trying to strangle you under that sweater. Should I be concerned?"

Ginny glanced over, catching sight of me shifting again, brows knitting together in concern. "What's wrong?"

I let out a slow breath, shaking my head. "It's nothing, I just—" I hesitated, my voice lowering, reluctant. "Fred enchanted it to keep me warm."

There was a beat of silence.

Ginny blinked. Not shocked, just... taking it in.

Theo, however—

"Oh, of course, he did," he beamed.
"Brilliant. Fantastic. I love this."

I frowned. "Why do you sound pleased?"

Theo pressed a hand over his chest, grinning. "Because I've been saying for weeks that their whole dramatic 'let's torture Lena for sport' routine is masking something painfully stupid, and this? This is beautiful."

I scowled. "This is not beautiful."

"No, no," he waved a hand, absolutely delighted. "See, what we have here is a boy who refuses to apologize, refuses to speak to you like a normal person, and instead has resorted to keeping you warm against your will. It's tragic, really. A true masterpiece."

I huffed. "I hate you."

"You don't."

Ginny, still watching, finally spoke, her voice softer, thoughtful. "Are you actually mad about it?"

I hesitated.

I didn't know.

All I knew was that it felt like too much.

My breath was coming too fast, my skin prickling, the warmth suffocating.

"I just need it off," I muttered.

Theo sighed dramatically. "Such a shame. He put in so much effort. Imagine him, wand in hand, whispering 'stay warm, darling' into the threads like a lovesick fool—"

A laugh burst out of me.

I tried to smother it. Failed.

Ginny's lips twitched.

And Theo lit up like Christmas. "See? That's the spirit! We should thank him. Maybe send a gift basket."

I snorted, shaking my head, but the tension had cracked just slightly, the weight in my chest lifting, if only for a second.

And Fred?

Fred had been watching.

And when I laughed—

He had felt it.

The second I stepped through the portrait hole, I barely stopped moving long enough to acknowledge my surroundings. My feet carried me forward on instinct, my hands already tugging at the sweater before I even made it across the common room.

I couldn't get it off fast enough.

The warmth had burrowed too deep, had settled into my skin in a way that felt permanent, lingering, like an invisible mark I didn't want.

I yanked the sweater over my head in one swift motion, the air in the room hitting my skin immediately, cool and sharp in contrast.
Thank god I had a t-shirt underneath— the last thing I needed was to feel even more exposed than I already did.

For the first time since Fred had draped his magic around me, I felt like I could breathe.

Fred Noticed.

I didn't see him.

I didn't look his way.

Didn't see the way his head lifted the second I pulled the sweater over my head.

Didn't see the way his jaw tightened, how his fingers curled into the fabric of his own sleeve, gripping hard enough to stretch the wool.

Didn't see the way George nudged him under the table, muttering something too low for anyone else to hear.

Didn't see any of it.

But I felt it.

The shift. The weight.

The sudden, palpable absence of the usual noise that surrounded him.

And it stayed with me.

Long after I had convinced myself that it didn't matter.

That he didn't matter.

And yet—even now, after everything, he still got under my skin.

The moment I stepped into my room, I shut the door behind me and exhaled like I had just survived battle. My sweater—Fred's warmth, his magic, his unwanted presence clinging to me like a second skin—was finally gone. Buried deep at the bottom of my trunk, suffocating under layers of clothes I never wore.

And yet—I still felt it.

The heat had settled into my bones, leaving a strange, lingering sensation that made me feel restless. Like I was still wrapped in something I never asked for.

I flopped onto my bed, limbs sprawled, staring at the ceiling.

I had maybe an hour before the Gryffindor common room exploded into chaos, before the celebration for Harry became another unavoidable social nightmare.

An hour to breathe.

To convince myself I could sit in the same room as them and not let it get to me.

And if I couldn't do that?

Then I'd make sure I was at least feeling confident.

Because if I was going to be miserable, at least I could be aesthetically miserable.

Theo was waiting for me outside the Great Hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for no apparent reason.

I narrowed my eyes. "Why do you look like you've already done something illegal?"

His smirk deepened. "Why do you assume I haven't?"

I sighed, already regretting my life choices.

As we made our way inside, the lingering buzz of post-task energy still clung to the air, students riding the high of watching their peers nearly get eaten alive like it was the best entertainment Hogwarts had ever provided. The dinnertime chaos was worse than usual, but Theo, like the natural-born menace he was, navigated through it effortlessly, snagging two plates of food with the kind of efficiency that suggested he had done this before.

He slid into the seat across from me, raising an eyebrow. "So, tell me, love, are you going to the party tonight looking like your usual 'please don't perceive me' self, or are we putting in effort?"

I scoffed. "First of all—rude. Second of all... I don't know." I pushed my food around my plate, sighing. "What's the point?"

Theo gasped, looking genuinely scandalized. "Lena. The point is to walk into that party, look like a goddess, and make people question their life choices. Obviously."

I huffed, shaking my head. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you adore me."

I didn't bother arguing.

The second we made it back to my room, Theo kicked the door shut with his foot and immediately started rummaging through my closet like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.

I barely had time to process before a pair of mismatched socks came flying at my face.

"Theo, I swear to God—"

"This is a disaster, love," he cut me off, his voice dripping with faux distress as he threw more random clothes behind him, not even bothering to check where they landed. "Truly, it's a crime. The lack of options, the sheer disrespect for fashion—"

"I didn't realize I was supposed to be runway-ready at all times," I muttered, crossing my arms.

Theo turned, fixing me with a deadpan stare. "Lena. You have been invited to your own personal revenge arc and you don't even own a single 'look-at-me-and-cry-about-it-later' dress? I'm disappointed."

"Oh my god." I dropped onto the bed, rubbing my temples as he continued his mission.

Music filled the room from my enchanted CD player, a mix of indie rock and 90s alt that I usually played when I needed to clear my head. But tonight, it felt different. So I frowned and switched it.

Seconds later, I Want It That Way blasted through the speakers.

Theo, just stepping inside, froze. "What in Merlin's name is that?"

"Backstreet Boys," I said, grinning.

He looked horrified. "Is that a band or a cry for help?"

I gasped. "It's a masterpiece."

"It's a tragedy."

I rolled my eyes, grabbing my makeup bag. "You just don't understand setting the mood."

"For what? Bad decisions?"

„Exactly"

Theo finally paused, holding up something horribly floral that I hadn't seen in years.

"What," I said flatly.

Theo grinned. Waved it in my face. "This. This has potential."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, come on, love. You've had this buried in the depths of your trunk, completely neglected, and for what?" He squinted at it. "Sunflowers? Honestly, tragic. But the shape? That we can work with."

Before I could protest, he had already pulled out his wand, muttering a quick charm.

The fabric shifted, the bright yellow bleeding into deep, inky black, the loose summer cut tightening at the waist, curving around my shape, the hem rising just slightly.

It was sleek. Bold. One-Shouldered.

And too much.

I swallowed hard. Looked away. "I can't wear that."

Theo sighed, exaggerated and dramatic, before tossing the newly-altered dress at me. "You are going to put it on, and you are going to look in the mirror, and you are going to see exactly what I see. And if I have to gaslight you into believing it, so be it."

I swallowed hard, staring at the dress. "I don't know..."

"I do," Theo interrupted, already waving his wand to alter it slightly, adjusting the fit to absolute perfection. "Now put it on before I forcefully dress you myself."

I shot him a glare. "You wouldn't."

His grin turned feral. "Try me."

He laughed as he slipped into the hallway, leaving me alone with the dress and the awful, twisting feeling in my stomach.

It took me longer than it should have to put it on.

Because the second it was on my body—it was real.

It hugged too close.
Revealed too much.

I stared at my reflection, the light catching against the dark fabric, the curves of my body more visible than I ever let them be.

I pulled at the material. Shifted. Stood at an angle.

It wasn't that I thought I was ugly.

It was just that I had spent so much of my life trying to take up less space that suddenly seeing myself fill it out so unapologetically was...

Uncomfortable.

I exhaled sharply, pulling my chair closer to the vanity.

If I was going to do this, I was going to do it properly.

I reached for my makeup bag, fingers skimming over the well-worn brushes, the scattered bits of eyeliner and mascara, the half-used pots of shimmer and shadow.

I took my time with it, letting the process calm me down. A soft base, a bit of bronzer, a hint of highlighter across my cheekbones. My eyes were next—nothing dramatic, just a subtle enhancement, sharp, defined but not heavy. I blended, adjusted, blended again, until my reflection looked polished, put-together.

And then—I hesitated.

The lipstick.

It sat there, taunting me, the deep crimson standing out against the clutter of neutral tones.

I never wore red lipstick.

Not because I didn't like it.

But because red lipstick made people look.

And I wasn't used to being looked at.

My fingers hovered over the tube, indecisive.

And then—

"Now or never."

I grabbed it before I could talk myself out of it.

The color glided on smooth and bold, an instant shift in how I looked—how I felt.

I pressed my lips together, staring at the effect.

Better.

Not me.
But close enough.

-

The door burst open.

"Alright, let's see—"

Theo stopped dead in his tracks.

His usual teasing smirk faltered—just slightly. His gaze flickered, sweeping over me like he was taking in a completely different person.

"Oh," he said.

I immediately started pulling at the dress. "I knew it, it's too much—"

"No," Theo cut me off.

I blinked.

He stepped closer, gently grabbing my wrists before I could tug at the fabric anymore. His grip was light, but firm.

"Don't do that," he said, soft, serious.

I exhaled shakily, trying to play it off. "I just—I feel ridiculous—"

"Lena," he tilted his head down, meeting my gaze in the mirror, "you look fucking incredible."

I swallowed. "I just don't think—"

"You think too much."

He spun me toward the mirror, his hands landing on my shoulders, smoothing down my back, gliding lower, warm and steady.

I looked at our reflection.

Theo was right behind me, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black trousers and a white button-down, the sleeves casually rolled up, his dark curls purposely messy. His fingers dragging lazily along the curve of my waist, light but present, tracing the shape the dress revealed, silent proof that I was allowed to exist exactly as I was.

"We're gorgeous, darling. An absolute menace of a couple."

I snorted.

"No, but really," he murmured, his voice dipping slightly, his fingers moving again—over my hip, slow, like he was making a point. "If you could see what I see—if you could see how people look at you—"

He paused, gaze flickering over my face.

Then, suddenly—he perked up.

"The twins are going to lose their minds."

I huffed out a laugh. "We haven't even done anything yet."

"Exactly."

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We should have a plan. A fake-dating moment. You, me, devastatingly attractive—"

"Theo."

"Picture it."

I rolled my eyes, but I was already smirking.

„Fine. But one rule—I haven't had my first kiss yet... So nothing real."

Theo blinked, tilting his head. "Wait. Have you... never?"

I shrugged, feeling a little awkward. "Nope."

For once, Theo didn't tease.

He just smiled.
Soft. Understanding.

„No real kissing then," he repeated, squeezing my waist once before letting go. "But everything else is fair game."

And just like that—the deal was sealed.

Chapter Text

The noise from the Gryffindor common room was already spilling into the corridor as Theo and I made our way down the stairs, the muffled hum of laughter and music growing louder with every step. The party was in full swing—students packed inside, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of celebration, the warmth of the fire and the sheer number of bodies creating a golden glow that seeped out from behind the door.

Theo, walking just a step ahead of me, turned slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement as he listened to the sounds of the party waiting for us. "You know," he murmured, tipping his head toward me, "we are about to make a scene."

I scoffed, adjusting the thin strap of my dress, already feeling my nerves creep in. "Oh, we are?"

He grinned, reaching down to straighten the cuff of his sleeve. "Absolutely. You look devastating. I look divine. And the way everyone in that room is going to stare the second we walk in? It's going to be art."

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet, here you are, still letting me corrupt you."

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my lips twitched despite myself.

As we reached the door to the common room, Theo's hand brushed against mine, his fingers grazing the inside of my wrist before he let them drift lower, tangling his fingers with mine in a way that felt effortless, as if he had done it a thousand times before. He didn't grip, didn't pull—just held, light and easy, like he was waiting to see if I'd let it happen.

I did.

But before we stepped through, he slowed, leaning in just enough that his breath fanned against my cheek, his voice dropping into something low, conspiratorial. "Lena," he murmured, "about our little performance tonight—"

I arched a brow. "Changing your mind already?"

"Never." His lips quirked up, but there was something quieter behind it now. "But I do have a question."

I waited.

His fingers, still wrapped around mine, squeezed lightly. "Would it bother you if I kissed you somewhere else?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Not like that," he laughed, giving my hand a playful shake. "I mean—forehead? Cheek? Shoulder? Neck?" His voice softened, teasing but thoughtful. "I know you said no real kissing, and I respect that, obviously. But if we're going to do this properly, a little tactile persuasion might sell it better."

I stared at him, processing.

He had a point.

If we were really going to go all in on making the twins lose their minds, it needed to look effortless. And Theo, ever the performer, knew exactly how to make it look real.

I swallowed, the warmth from his hand creeping up my arm. "I—yeah. That's fine."

His grin stretched wider, flashing white in the dim corridor. "Perfect."

Then, before I could brace myself, he reached for my waist, tugging me just the slightest bit closer. His touch was light, teasing, but it was enough to make my pulse stutter for a half-second—not because it meant anything, but because I wasn't used to it.

And then, with all the casual ease in the world, he turned the handle and pulled me inside.

The moment we stepped through, the air inside the common room shifted.

I felt it before I even saw it—the way the noise dipped just slightly, the way conversations faltered, the way dozens of eyes flickered toward us, a collective pause settling over the room like an inhale before the plunge.

Theo, ever the showman, didn't even hesitate.

He led me inside like we owned the place, his hand sliding to rest just at the dip of my back, warm and steady, his fingers pressing lightly through the fabric of my dress in a way that felt like something. Like possession. Like intimacy.

It wasn't, of course.

But everyone watching didn't know that.

Across the room, a cluster of Gryffindors had gathered around the fire, drinks in hand, voices rising and falling in bursts of laughter. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were near the center, along with the rest of the Quidditch team. Lavender, Seamus, Neville, Dean, the Patil sisters—everyone was here.

And the twins?

They were watching.

Fred was leaned back in one of the worn-out armchairs near the fire, a drink in hand, his elbow resting against the armrest in a way that was almost lazy—but not quite. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way he held himself that was just a bit too still, his usual easy smirk absent.

George, seated on the couch beside Lee, had his arm slung over the back, legs sprawled, lips curled just slightly at the corner in that way that suggested he found something amusing. But his fingers, tapping idly against the rim of his glass, told a different story.

Theo noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

His smirk deepened, his hand drifting up just slightly as he turned his head toward me, his voice dropping into something quieter, something that made it look like he was saying something scandalous.

But what he actually said was—

"They're looking, love."

I huffed a laugh, tilting my head slightly to meet his gaze. "And?"

His smirk widened. "I think it's time to really give them a show."

Then, with all the grace of someone who thrived in moments like this, Theo lifted my hand—still clasped in his—and pressed an achingly slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of my wrist.

A sharp inhale from somewhere in the room. The distinct sound of someone choking on their drink. The tension in the air thickened, a slow-building pressure, like a storm creeping closer.

And Theo—the absolute menace that he was—just smirked, not even bothering to hide how much fun he was having.

"Interesting," he murmured, as if to himself. "Weasley's drinking faster."

I bit back a grin. "Which one?"

Theo barely glanced at them—One, drink in hand, jaw tight. The other, gaze flickering, unreadable.

His smirk deepened. "Both."

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. "This is ridiculous."

"Oh, absolutely."

He squeezed my waist lightly, guiding me forward, pulling me deeper into the party, but his amusement only grew as he leaned in again, this time his lips hovering just over the shell of my ear.

From the other side of the room, someone let out a low whistle—Seamus, probably.

A few murmurs spread through the crowd:

"Well, damn."

"Since when was that a thing?"

"Bloody hell, is that Theodore Nott?"

But the loudest reaction came from across the room, where Lavender and Parvati practically pounced, eyes wide, grins wicked.

Lavender gasped, grabbing Parvati's arm. "OH my GOD."

I barely had time to react before Ginny and Hermione exchanged a Look.

Hermione's brow was furrowed, eyes darting between me and Theo with clear confusion. Ginny, however, was already suspicious, a mischievous grin on her face.

Theo, sensing the moment, only made it worse.
He leaned in, close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath against my temple, and murmured, just loud enough for me to hear—

„Welcome to the main event, darling."

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head, but I couldn't fight the way my lips curled.

This was going to be fun.

-

Fred threw back another drink. Too fast.
Then another.
And another.
Then—he laughed.
Loud. Sharp. Too forced.
It rang out over the music. Too big. Too chaotic.
Like he needed to fill the space with noise.
His voice boomed, a little slurred, a little reckless.
He clapped Seamus on the back. Nearly sent his drink flying.
It wasn't funny.
Whatever he said—it wasn't actually funny.
But people laughed anyway.
Because Fred was laughing.
And that's how it worked.
His grin stretched wider.
But it didn't reach his eyes.

George didn't laugh.
Didn't look at Fred.
Didn't acknowledge any of it.
Because his attention was somewhere else.
Or at least, he wanted it to be.
Angelina was curled against his side.
Close.
Waiting.
Her arm rested on the couch behind him, fingers playing with the ends of his hair.
She was smiling.
Saying something.
He wasn't really listening.
But he turned to her anyway.
Smirked.
Let his fingers graze the inside of her wrist.
Light. Easy. Practiced.

-

The moment Theo pulled me further into the common room, the party swallowed us whole.

The music pulsed through the space, a heavy, thrumming beat that vibrated under my skin, amplifying the energy of the room. The Gryffindor common room had transformed into something hazy and golden—bodies moving, drinks passing between hands, laughter spilling over the edges. The firelight flickered against the old stone walls, throwing shadows across familiar faces, turning everything into something softer, something more reckless.

Theo's fingers never left me.

As we wove through the crowd, his hand slid seamlessly from my lower back to my waist, his touch just enough to be noticeable, just enough to make it feel like something real.

Ginny had barely opened her mouth before Theo leaned in, his lips skimming just beneath my ear as he murmured, "They're still watching."

I exhaled sharply, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down my spine.

"Good," I said, tilting my head just enough to brush against him.

Theo grinned, pleased. His hand spread wider across my waist, guiding me effortlessly through the moving bodies. People noticed. They saw the way we touched, the way we moved, the way Theo had no hesitation pressing into my space, like he belonged there.

And maybe, for tonight, he did.

-

Fred's grip on his glass tightened.
His knee bounced.
His fingers tapped.
Jittery. Restless.
Too much energy.
Nowhere to put it.
He was still laughing. Still joking.
Still being Fred Weasley: Life of the Party.
But something was off.
There was an edge to it now.
Something sharp.
Something dangerous.
And then—he stood.
Too fast. Too abrupt.
His chair skidded back.
Seamus flinched.
Dean paused mid-sentence.
Fred didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe—
He didn't care.
He grabbed another drink.
Drained it in one go.

George leaned in.
Let his fingers brush against Angelina's thigh.
Slow. Deliberate.
A move that worked.
And it did.
She shifted closer.
Smirked.
Her hand rested on his chest now.
She thought she had him.
And maybe—
Maybe she did.
Because George was smiling.
He was teasing.
Saying the right things.
Touching her at the right moments.
But the tension in his jaw.
The stiffness in his shoulders.
The flicker of his gaze—

-

It wasn't supposed to bother me.

Not really.

I was busy. Distracted. Theo's hands were on me, his voice smooth, teasing, his lips skimming just beneath my ear like it was nothing at all.

But then—I looked.

And I saw them.

George. Angelina.

Close. Too close.

Her hand on his chest. His fingers drifting down her arm, tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin like he'd done it a hundred times before.

And she—she was glowing.

Smiling at him like he was saying something just for her.

And maybe he was.

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting with something sharp, something unwelcome.

I shouldn't care.

I shouldn't.

-

At some point, someone had cleared the center of the room for dancing. The music had shifted—something darker, sultrier. The kind of song that curled under the skin, slow and deliberate, all bass and heat.

Theo pulled me in without hesitation.

His hands found my hips, fingers pressing firm against the fabric of my dress as he moved us in time with the beat. The space between us disappeared—our bodies close, moving together, the push and pull of rhythm making everything blur just enough.

My pulse kicked up.

Theo noticed.

I felt him notice.

His lips ghosted along my temple, not quite a kiss but enough to send a spark down my spine. He was playing the role to perfection, but there was something more in the way his fingers flexed against my hip.

I mirrored him, letting my hands slide up, brushing over the fabric of his shirt, resting just against the sharp cut of his jaw as I let my fingertips skim down the side of his neck.

Theo made a sound—a soft hum, amused, approving—before his grip tightened, just slightly.

"You're good at this," he murmured, voice lazy, low.

"So are you."

His hand dragged lower, tracing the curve of my waist, pressing against the small of my back.

I arched into it without thinking.

A mistake.

A mistake because Theo saw—felt—my reaction, and his expression shifted. Something darker. Something sharp and knowing.

"Oh," he breathed, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear like a secret.

-

It happened too fast.
One second, Fred was grinning.
Throwing back another drink.
The next—
He was standing on the goddamn table.

"ALRIGHT THEN!"
His voice boomed over the music.
Arms stretched wide.
Like the entire night had led up to this exact moment.
And then—
Boom.
A firework exploded from his fingertips.
Red and gold sparks shot through the air.
Too close. Too wild.
They burst against the ceiling.
Rained down in crackling trails.
And the crowd-
lost it.
Cheering. Whistling. Hands slamming against tables.
Someone clapped. Someone stomped their feet.
A chant almost started.
And Fred?
He basked in it.
The common room erupted.
Laughter. Shouting.
A mix of awe and reckless delight.
"DO ANOTHER ONE!" someone yelled.
Fred grinned.
And he almost did.
But George—
George had had enough.
He was off the couch in an instant.
Shoving through the crowd.
Jaw tight.
Movements clipped.
He grabbed Fred's arm.
Yanked him down.
Fred stumbled.
Nearly tripped.
Still laughing.
But George's grip only tightened.
And this time—
Fred didn't shake him off.
The room kept cheering.
Like they didn't even notice.
Like this was all just another performance.
And George—
He looked furious.
But whether it was because of Fred,
Or because of something else entirely—
No one could tell.

-

I didn't pull away.

I should have.

But I didn't.

Theo's mouth lingered against my shoulder before trailing higher, slow, teasing. His breath fanned over the curve of my throat before he pressed another kiss—this time just beneath my jaw, just above the pulse hammering under my skin.

He felt it.

I knew he felt it.

Something in his grip tightened.

His fingers slid up my back, tracing the line of my spine before curling into the fabric at my waist. I could feel the warmth of him, the slow, deliberate way he pressed against me as we moved.

And then—

His lips dragged lower.

He kissed my back.

The kind of kiss that wasn't for show.

His mouth—warm, open for just a second too long—pressed against the curve of my spine. And I—God help me—arched into it.

Maybe it was the way Fred was trying too hard to seem unaffected.

Maybe it was the way George couldn't stop watching, no matter how much he pretended.

Or maybe—maybe it was because I actually wanted to.

Because Theo felt good against me.

Because his hands, steady and sure, made the room blur just a little.

Because I liked this.

So I moved closer.

And then—I kissed him.

Not on the mouth.

But just below his jaw, where his pulse thrummed beneath the skin.

Theo stilled.

A sharp inhale.

-

Fred wasn't laughing anymore.
He wasn't drinking either.
Instead, he was just watching.
Still.
Silent.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
But he didn't move.
Didn't joke.
Didn't throw himself back into the chaos.
For the first time all night,
He didn't know what to do.

George had a decision to make.
And he made it.
He turned back to Angelina.
Let himself fall into the role he had been playing all night.
His hand slid against her hip.
His lips brushed against her ear.
His words—
Too quiet to hear.
And Angelina—
She smiled.
Curled into his touch.
Whispered something back.
But George's eyes—
They weren't on her.
They were somewhere else entirely.

-

And then Theo's hand slid up my spine, slow and deliberate, fingers curling just at the base of my neck.

I felt him grin.

And then he turned me.

Spun me.

So my back was against his chest.

So I could feel every shift of his body against mine.

His breath was warm against my ear, delicate, teasing, laced with something slow and dangerous.

And then, soft as silk, he whispered—

"Look at them, baby. Just for me."

A shiver cascaded straight down my spine.

Theo didn't wait.

He dipped his head, his lips grazing just beneath my jaw before moving lower, lower, lower—his mouth finding the curve of my neck.

His first kiss was careful, featherlight, barely even there.

Then another.

Slower. Heavier. More deliberate.

And then—he opened his mouth.

Warm. Wet. Sucking.

His tongue flicked against my skin, tracing the spot he had just claimed.

A slow pull of lips, the light graze of teeth, then the heat of his mouth sealing over my pulse point.

And his hands.

They slid higher, fingertips skimming my ribs, then further up, resting just beneath my bra, fingers spanning the underside of my breasts but never quite touching.

Teasing. Waiting. Taking his time.

I exhaled sharply, my stomach twisting, my pulse pounding—

And then, through the haze of heat curling over my skin, I found them.

Fred and George.

Standing side by side.

Watching.

Their expressions—stark, unreadable, tense.

Fred's lips were parted, his breath rough—uneven, too sharp.

George's fingers curled into fists, his entire body coiled tight like he was forcing himself to stay still.

My lips parted, and a slow, lazy smirk curled through them.

I held their gaze.

And then, without hesitation—

I tilted my head back, giving Theo more space.

I leaned into him.

Deliberately, I reached behind me, tangled my fingers into his hair, and pulled him closer.

Theo didn't hesitate.

The second my fingers tangled into his hair, his breath hitched, sharp and uneven against my skin.
Hot. Shaky. Wanting.

And then—he leaned in.

Fully.

Pressed against me completely, his body molding to mine, like he wanted to sink into me, like he wanted to chase the heat between us.

His mouth skimmed my jaw, just barely, before he dipped lower again, his lips hovering over my pulse.

His breath was ragged now, his hands firmer, fingers pressing into my ribs like he needed something to hold onto.

And then—a hushed, shaky exhale.

"Fuck, Lena," he murmured, voice low, thick, edged with something wicked.
"Didn't think you'd actually let me -."

And just like that—I moaned.

Soft, breathless, completely unguarded.

A sound I couldn't take back.

Theo stilled.

For just a second.

His fingers flexed against my waist, his breath shuddered, and then—I pulled him in.

Hard. Desperate. Needing him back where I wanted him.

My grip in his hair tightened as I dragged him down, pressing him flush against my throat.

And Theo?

He groaned.

A deep, wrecked sound, his hands gripping me tighter as he gave in completely.

His mouth latched onto my neck again, wet, hungry, kissing me like he couldn't stop.

Didn't want to stop.

Didn't even try.

His lips dragged, parting, his tongue flicking against my pulse before sucking—slow, deep, indulgent.

I gasped.

Twisted my fingers tighter into his hair.

He moaned again.

Louder.

His breath wasn't even anymore, his hands weren't teasing.

One curled lower, gripping my hip.

The other—sliding up my ribs, mapping me out, like he needed to know what I felt like beneath his hands.

And his mouth—he didn't stop.

Didn't let up.

Didn't hold back.

Not anymore.

I felt lightheaded.

Dizzy.

A pulse of heat low in my stomach, an ache curling through my spine—

And then—

BANG

Chapter Text

A pulse of heat low in my stomach, an ache curling through my spine—

And then—

BANG
_______________________________

The room flinched.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, bodies tensing, drinks nearly spilling, the spell of the party shattered in an instant.

McGonagall.
And then—her voice.

"Would someone care to explain why Gryffindor Tower currently sounds like a Quidditch stadium at full capacity?"

Silence.

Not a breath. Not a shuffle. Not even Fred—who had spent the last hour being the loudest person in the room—dared to make a sound.

The silence was almost suffocating.

But Theo?

Theo kissed me again.

Just once.

Soft. Slow. At the base of my throat, a lingering press of lips that said, not yet, darling.

Then again.

A featherlight graze along my jaw.

And one more.

Just beneath my ear, a slow drag of his lips, like he was savoring the moment.

My stomach tightened.

My breath hitched—too loud in the silence.

And McGonagall?

Her gaze, sharp as steel, canned the room, sweeping over every guilty face, every frozen student caught red-handed.

"I understand," she began, voice clipped, measured, "that you are all thrilled about Mr. Potter's performance today. I understand that emotions are high. I understand that you wish to celebrate."

A beat.

Her voice dropped to something lethal.

"But I do not, under any circumstances, understand why you believed a full-fledged debauchery in the middle of the night was an appropriate way to do so."

Fred shifted.

McGonagall's gaze snapped to him so fast he physically flinched.

"Not. A. Word, Mr. Weasley."

Fred shut his mouth.

She turned again, sweeping a glare over the disaster of a common room. Empty bottles. Spilled drinks. Furniture slightly out of place.

And then—her gaze finally fell on him.

She stilled.

Theo, for the first time since she entered, moved.

Not a lot. Just a small shift, a lazy tilt of his head—not guilty, not panicked, not even mildly ashamed.

McGonagall's lips thinned.

"Mr. Nott."

Her tone was not a question.

Theo—the absolute menace—just exhaled through his nose.

He smiled.

"Professor."

The nerve. The absolute nerve.

McGonagall's eyes flashed.

She inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, clearly weighing the options of how exactly to handle this.

But in the end, she just—exhaled.

And pointed at the door.

"Out."

But Theo didn't move.

Didn't even blink.

A beat.

Then—he smirked.

A slow, infuriating curl of lips, his hands still firm at my waist.

"Well," he murmured, "since you asked so nicely."

But instead of leaving immediately—he turned to me.

And leaned in one last time.

His breath ghosted over my skin.

His fingers dragged along my side, barely touching, but enough to leave something behind.

And then—his voice, low, teasing, meant only for me.

"Such a shame, love."

A pause. A slow smirk. His fingers pressed just slightly into my waist, like a reminder.

"I was just getting started."

My stomach tightened.

He dipped lower.

Lips barely brushing the shell of my ear, voice a hushed, sultry whisper.

"You taste even better than I imagined."

"MR. NOTT!"

McGonagall's voice sliced through the room, sharp and furious.

Theo's hands lifted in surrender.
Slow. Lazy. Unbothered.

And then—one last thing.

His lips curled, voice dropping just for me.

"You know where to find me, baby."

A pause. A smirk.

And he was gone.

McGonagall swept her gaze over the common room, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

The overturned bottles. The sticky floor. The scattered furniture.

She exhaled sharply through her nose.

"I sincerely hope you all enjoyed yourselves," she said, voice clipped, deadly. "Because tomorrow, every last one of you will be scrubbing this common room until it is spotless."

A collective groan rippled through the room.

McGonagall's eyes flashed.

"Would you rather I summon Filch?"

Silence.

She gave a curt nod. "That's what I thought."

Then, her sharp gaze flickered to the outsiders.

"Anyone not in Gryffindor—out. Now."

There was shuffling, muttered complaints, but no one dared argue. The room slowly began to clear, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs slipping toward the door like guilty thieves.

McGonagall turned back to the remaining students.

"The rest of you will go to bed. Immediately."

Her tone left no room for argument.

And then, softer—but no less lethal—"I do not want to hear a single sound from this common room for the rest of the night. If I do, you will find out exactly how little patience I have left."

She gave one final glare before turning on her heel and sweeping out the door, leaving behind nothing but a tense, suffocating silence.

There was some grumbling, a few quiet laughs, the rustling of students heading toward the dormitory stairs.

But I wasn't moving.

Neither were Fred.
Or George.
Or half the people still staring at me.

Fine. Let them stare.

The heat of Theo's hands still lingered on my skin. My pulse was still just a little too quick. My lips still tingled from every press, every teasing whisper against my ear.

I felt good.

Relaxed. Satisfied. Thrumming with something electric.

So when Fred's gaze landed on me again—sharp, unreadable, too intense— I didn't look away.
I didn't cower.
I didn't let him win.

Instead—I raised my glass.
Met his gaze, slow, deliberate—and smirked.

His jaw clenched.
George exhaled through his nose, too sharp.

I bit back a grin.

They were both pissed.

Perfect.

Ginny dropped into the chair beside me, eyes wide, mouth already open. Oh, here we go.

"Okay." She breathed. "WHAT—"

Hermione dropped into the seat on my other side, still looking scandalized.

"—IN MERLIN'S NAME—"

Ginny waved aggressively at my neck. "—WAS THAT?"

I hummed. Took a slow sip of my drink. Stretched out my legs just to be dramatic.

"Be specific, Gin." I exhaled through my nose, feigning boredom. "It's been a very eventful night."

Hermione actually spluttered. "You—he—you let him—"

Ginny smacked my arm. "You just got absolutely devoured in front of half of Gryffindor Tower!"

I arched a brow. "I did."

"And you're just—fine?"

I shrugged. "More than fine, actually."

Hermione stared at me like I was a lost cause. Ginny just looked torn between judgment, fascination, and undeniable amusement.

I caught Fred's stare again. Held it. Smirked just a little wider.

Ginny followed my gaze. When she saw who I was looking at, her eyes lit up.

"Oh. Oh."

Hermione sighed. "Ginny, don't encourage—"

But Ginny just grinned. Leaned in conspiratorially.

"You wanted them to see that, didn't you?"

I grinned back. "Oh, Gin. Desperately."

Ginny's laugh was obscene.

Hermione groaned into her hands. "I cannot be here for this."

But before she could scold me further—

Seamus.

"Oi!" He wobbled slightly, flopping into the armchair across from me. Too loud, already grinning.

"What?" Ginny called.

A slow, wicked grin stretched across his face.

"Truth or dare."

A ripple of interest spread through the group.

Oh.

Now this... this could be fun.

Ginny immediately leaned forward, grinning. "Oh, I'm in."

Dean stretched out on the rug like he was getting comfortable. "Absolutely."

Neville hesitated. "I don't know..."

Parvati rolled her eyes. "Come on, Nev. It's just a game."

Seamus spun the bottle lightly in his hand. "Alright, here's how we're doing this," he explained, glancing around the group. "We sit in a circle, spin the bottle—whoever it lands on chooses truth or dare. After they answer or do the dare, they spin the bottle to pick the next person."

A few nods, murmurs of approval.

"And," he added, smirking, "if you don't want to answer the truth or do the dare, you take a shot of firewhiskey."

Fred immediately perked up. "So what I'm hearing is, I get to legally peer pressure all of you."

"Fred," Hermione warned.

He grinned, far too pleased with himself. "Sorry, sorry. Illegally peer pressure all of you."

George snorted beside him.

Dean ignored them, looking around. "So? We playing or what?"

Silence.

Then—

People moved.

Ginny dragged Hermione down with her, whispering something that made her groan. Seamus took a drink and flopped onto the floor. Ron hesitated, but when Harry sat, he followed. Lavender and Parvati exchanged a knowing look before sliding into the circle.

Fred and George?

Didn't hesitate.

Because, of course—of course—when I sat down, I ended up between Ginny and Neville...

Directly across from them.

Fred stretched out just a little more than necessary, arms behind his head like he was settling in for a show.

George leaned forward, gaze easy, unreadable, focused.

And Angelina sat next to him. Close.

His hand resting on her thigh.

Light. Casual. Like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

Like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.

I wasn't looking.

I wasn't.

Except, apparently—I was.

Because the longer I stared, the heavier something pressed against my ribs, thick and sharp, curling tight in my stomach.

So I looked away.

Right as Seamus grabbed the bottle.

I wished Theo was still here.

"Alright," he said, shaking it in his hand, grin wide, oblivious. "Shall we?"

A few nods. Someone whistled.

The bottle spun.
And then—it stopped.

The neck pointed right at—

Hermione.

A chorus of reactions.

"Oooooooh," Seamus drawled. "This is about to be so good."

Lavender gasped, delighted. "Truth! Pick truth!"

Parvati nodded eagerly. "Yes! Truth!"

Hermione, predictably, sighed.

She glanced at Seamus. "Fine. Truth."

Seamus smirked. "Alright, Granger."

A pause.

Then—his grin widened.

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

The group howled.

I smirked.

Hermione groaned.

And just like that—the game had begun.

Next Seamus got dared to chug a butterbeer in one shot and immediately regretted every life choice.
Neville took a shot mixed by Fred and George—he gagged halfway through but survived.
And Lavender admitted she found Ron attractive. He nearly choked.

Then the bottle landed on Angelina.

Lavender grinned, leaning forward. "Alright, truth or dare?"

"Truth," Angelina answered easily, swirling her drink in her hand.

Lavender's smirk widened. "Who would you snog right now, if you could choose anyone in this room?"

Angelina didn't even blink. "George."

No hesitation. No dramatics. Just fact.

The reaction was instant—whistles, laughter, a few exaggerated gasps.

George?
Not surprised.

His hand was still resting on her thigh, fingers idly tracing patterns against the fabric of her skirt, completely at ease. He didn't even react beyond the slow, knowing tilt of his lips.

Like he already knew.
Like he expected it.

And maybe—maybe that's what made my stomach twist.

Angelina spun the bottle, and it whirled across the wooden floor, slowing, tipping, until it landed—

Right on Fred.

A ripple of amusement spread through the group.

"Oooooh," Seamus drawled. "Here we go."

Fred just grinned, stretching his arms over his head like this was all very casual. "Alright, hit me."

"Truth or dare?" Angelina asked, smirking.

Fred didn't even hesitate. "Truth."

That caught people off guard.

"Really?" Ginny arched a brow. "You? Truth?"

"Scared of a dare, Weasley?" Dean goaded.

Fred just grinned wider. "Oh, come on. Can't a man be introspective for once?"

Angelina laughed, shaking her head. "Alright, alright. Here's your question—"

She leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp, amused.

"Do you like someone right now?"

Silence.

Not full silence—but a dip in the noise.

A flicker of tension curling at the edges.

Fred's grin didn't falter, but his fingers tapped lightly against his knee, the only sign of hesitation.

Then, instead of answering—

He reached for the firewhiskey.

The room erupted.

Shouts. Laughter. A mix of groans and cheers as he tipped the shot back in one go, barely reacting to the burn.

Angelina and Katie shared a look.

A knowing one.

One that said Oh, we know exactly who he fancies. Katie.

I wanted to vomit.

The bottle spun again, slowed. Wobbled.

And landed on Harry.

Fred's grin stretched wide. "Alright, Potter—truth or dare?"

Harry hesitated. Then, surprising everyone—"Dare."

A cheer erupted. Fred leaned in. "Give someone here a lap dance."

Laughter. Shouting. Seamus nearly fell over.

Harry groaned. "You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Harry sighed, scanning the group. And his eyes landed on Ginny.

She wiggled her fingers. "Go on, Harry. Impress me."

The room lost it.

Ron made a strangled sound. "NO—"

But Harry was already moving. He unbuttoned his shirt—just a bit.

Fred whistled. Lee collapsed. Hermione covered her face.

Ginny smirked. "Off-rhythm, Potter."

Harry tried. He wiggled his hips.

Ron buried his face in his hands. "I need a priest."

Ginny pushed Harry off her lap, cackling. "That was tragic."

Harry just grinned, breathless. "Yeah, well. Not my area of expertise."

Fred clapped. "Brilliant. My finest work."

The bottle spun again.

Slower, slower—

And stopped.

On me.

Interest spiked.

Seamus grinned. Ginny leaned in.

And Fred and George?

Watching.

Fred, arms behind his head, unreadable.

George, forearm on his knees, gaze steady.

Harry leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Alright, Lena. Truth or dare?"

I exhaled slowly. "Truth."

He smirked, far too pleased. "Who was the last person you thought about before falling asleep last night?"

The question shouldn't have mattered.

It was light. Easy. Something I could spin into a joke, something I could brush off.

But the answer—

The answer sat like a stone in my throat.

The silence stretched, too many eyes waiting.

Ginny, expectant.
Hermione, suspicious.
Seamus, grinning, eager for gossip.

And across from me—

„Fred and George,
because they make my life a living hell."

Silence.

The weight of it sank into the room.

I could feel it pressing into my ribs, curling around my throat, suffocating in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol burning in my veins.

No one laughed.
No one joked.

Because they all knew.

Ginny's gaze flickered between the twins and me, sharp and knowing. Hermione's lips parted like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Seamus, for once in his life, said nothing.

And the twins—

Fred's smirk faltered.

George stilled.

The silence stretched, thick and charged.

I forced a smile. "God, that was depressing."

A weak chuckle from somewhere, but it didn't break the tension.

So I reached forward, grabbed the bottle, and spun it.

It whirled across the wooden floor, the glass catching the firelight, everyone watching as it finally slowed—

And landed on Katie.

She arched a brow. Smirked. "Dare."

I grinned. "Do your best seductive pick-up line... on Neville."

Laughter erupted.

Neville turned scarlet. Katie hesitated—glanced at him—then grabbed the firewhiskey and tossed back a shot instead.

The group lost it. Ginny wheezed. Seamus pounded the floor. Even Hermione fought a smile.

"That bad?" I teased.

Katie wiped her mouth. "Not worth it."

She spun the bottle, smirking as it slowed—then stopped.

On George.

His brows flicked up. "Dare."

Katie and Angelina exchanged a look. A knowing look.

George's hand was still resting on Angelina's thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles. If he noticed their silent exchange, he didn't show it.

Katie's smirk widened.

"Alright, Weasley. Kiss the girl you find most attractive in the room."

A ripple of excitement spread through the circle. Ginny perked up. Seamus let out a low whistle.

Of course it was going to be Angelina.

I knew it before Katie even finished speaking. Before the dare had fully settled into the air, before the teasing whistles and the expectant grins.

Before George even moved.

His hand was still on her thigh.
The same casual, comfortable touch he'd been giving her all night.

Angelina was stunning. Strong. Charismatic. She had a laugh that filled a room, a confidence that turned heads without effort. She was George's friend, his Quidditch partner, someone who fit into his life so seamlessly that of course this—them—made sense.

I let my gaze flicker across the circle.

Parvati, elegant and effortlessly beautiful. Lavender, already smirking, watching like she knew what was coming. Ginny, confident, self-assured, glowing with amusement.

Every girl in this room was attractive.

Every single one.

And me—

My throat tightened.

The thought was bitter. Sour. Settling like lead in my stomach.

I wasn't—

I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't be here.

I should get up.

Leave before I had to watch it. Before I had to hear it. The laughter, the teasing, the whistles when George kissed Angelina.

But I stayed.

Fingers curling into my knee, nails pressing sharp into my skin.

Waiting.

Bracing for it to hurt.

The room shifted.

It was subtle at first. A tiny shift in the air, a ripple in the tension that hadn't been there a second ago.

George hadn't moved yet.

Hadn't spoken.

I swallowed, pulse hammering in my throat. My fingers curled tighter into the fabric of my dress.

I knew what was coming.

He was going to kiss Angelina.

That was the answer. That was the right answer.

And yet—

Something was wrong.

The beat of silence stretched a little too long. The teasing smirks wavered into something more expectant. The anticipation thickened like treacle, cloying and heavy.

And George—

George hesitated.

Not long. Not obvious.

Just a flicker of something in his jaw. A small, barely-there shift of his fingers against Angelina's thigh before—

He pulled away.

Angelina's hand twitched, fingers curling slightly like she might reach for him.

She didn't.

He didn't give her the chance.

Instead—he stood.

The movement was slow. Unrushed. Controlled.

The room sensed it before it saw it.

Something in the air tilted.

The energy warped, stretched—

And then George moved.

Not toward Angelina.

Not toward Lavender, or Parvati, or any of the other girls watching him with interest.

He walked toward me.

A slow, deliberate movement. A steady, unrelenting approach.

Each step landed heavier than it should have.

Each second dragged a little too long.

My stomach dropped.

A collective inhale. A murmur that spread like wildfire.

Then—

"Oh, hell no."

Angelina's voice cut through the rising hum of whispers, sharp, immediate, full of something that wasn't quite anger but wasn't not anger either.

Katie sucked in a breath, eyes wide, mouth already open, her shock a mirror image of the others around the circle.

The tension snapped—whispers and low laughter, a chorus of "Ooooohs" rolling through the group, hands clapping over mouths, eyes flickering between me and George like we were a spectacle—something they shouldn't be watching but couldn't look away from.

I wasn't breathing.

Couldn't.

George's steps didn't slow.

Didn't falter.

His smirk curled up at the edges, something knowing, something teasing, something challenging—

Like he was daring me to react.

Like he was waiting for me to stop him.

I couldn't move.

Couldn't speak.

The heat in my stomach spread, curling up my spine, pressing into my ribs, wrapping around my throat.

This wasn't happening.

It couldn't be happening.

And yet—

George didn't just stop in front of me.

He kneeled.

Right there, on the floor, between my legs, settling into the space like he belonged there.

The room erupted.

Laughter, whispers that weren't whispers at all. Someone nudged someone else, Seamus whistled, Parvati covered her mouth like she physically couldn't contain her excitement.

But it wasn't about him.

It was about me.

The heat that had been curling low in my stomach flipped—twisting into something sharp, sour.

This wasn't real.

He wasn't serious.

He was mocking me.

I could feel it—the shift in the room, the amusement rippling through them, the way their eyes flickered between us like I was part of some joke I didn't understand.

I'd seen it before.

I knew what this was.

He was humiliating me.

Like I was the punchline.

Because why the hell wouldn't he choose Angelina?

Why wouldn't he choose the girl he'd been touching all night, the girl who'd expected him to kiss her, the girl who was still sitting there, hand clenched into a fist against her thigh, lips pressed into a thin, furious line?

Why would he ever choose me over her?

He wouldn't.

Which meant this—this—was something else.

This was a game.

A taunt.

A lesson.

The way he smirked, the slow, careless way he kneeled, like it meant nothing, like it was funny—

My stomach twisted.

I needed to leave.

I needed to move, to say something, to stop this

George smirked. Slow. Easy. Infuriating.

"Come here then."

Something snapped.

A violent, shattering crack inside me, something sharp splintering along my spine, a wire pulled so tight it was seconds from snapping.

Fight or flight.

I chose fight.

I leaned in, not because I wanted to—because I needed to. Because I needed to see the exact moment his confidence cracked, needed to feel that sharp inhale, needed to remind him that I was not some plaything he could kneel in front of like a fucking prince, smirking like he had the upper hand.

Because he didn't.

Not anymore.

The room held still.

Tense. Buzzing. The crowd teetering between anticipation and chaos, waiting for the moment, the kiss, the impact.

I reached past him.

George's brows flicked up, just barely. His smirk didn't falter, but the amusement in his eyes sharpened, curiosity sparking beneath it.

My fingers wrapped around the bottle behind him.

Tight. Firm. Certain.

My voice came out smooth, deadly.

"Oh, I'd rather eat slugs than have your filthy tongue in my mouth, Weasley."

The explosion was instant.

The common room erupted.

Screaming. Shrieking. Someone actually fell over. Ginny's cackle echoed off the stone walls. Seamus was on the floor, gasping.

George?

He stilled.

For just a second.

For just one, sharp moment—he didn't move.

Then—

His smirk twitched. Not faltering, not fully breaking—but shifting. His jaw locked, just barely. His fingers curled against his knees. A muscle ticked in his cheek, and his breath—slow, measured—was no longer effortless.

I ignored it.

I popped the bottle open with a sharp flick, the crack of the seal breaking through the noise.

I took a sip.

Long. Slow. Unbothered.

Letting the fire burn down my throat, settle in my ribs, spread through my limbs like liquid confidence.

The bottle cracked against the floor as I stood, my pulse roaring in my ears.

And then—

A hand.

Warm. Firm. Closing around my wrist.

Not yanking.
Not pulling.
Just holding.

George.

My breath snagged.

"Lena—"

His voice was quiet. Low. A little breathless.

I ripped free.

Didn't look at him.
Didn't stop.
Didn't hesitate.

And the room—parted.

No one spoke. No one moved. Just eyes—everywhere.

And at the edge of the circle—

Fred.

Watching.

Dark, blazing, unreadable in a way that made my skin prickle.

I didn't hold his gaze.

I couldn't.

My vision was already blurring, the edges of the room smudging together, faces turning into meaningless shapes, voices into distant static. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the laughter, the chaos, the aftermath.

I just kept walking.

Up the stairs.

Through the hall.

Into my room.

I didn't stop moving—not even as I turned the shower on, the water blasting against the tiles, the sound filling every corner of the space. My fingers trembled as I pulled my dress over my head, yanked it down my legs, stripped everything away.

The second the water hit my skin—

I broke.

The sob tore out of me before I could stop it, violent and choking, something thick and shattered and raw.

This was—

This was the worst.

Because this—this—was public.

This was everyone watching.

Everyone laughing.
Everyone laughing at me.

Everyone witnessing me be nothing.

I felt so fucking small.

Like a joke. A punchline. Like some stupid, desperate girl who thought—even for a second—that George Weasley was actually going to kiss her.

The water hit my skin, scalding, washing the sweat, the grime, the night off of me—but it didn't take the shame with it.

It stayed.

Settled in my chest.

Curled, heavy and thick, behind my ribs.

I pressed my forehead against the cold tile, hands braced against the wall, gasping, shaking, letting the sobs wreck me.

Because the truth—the truth I couldn't ignore—

Was that I'd wanted him to.

Just for a second.

Just for one, stupid, pathetic second.

And that—

That was the most humiliating thing of all.

I curled into myself, blankets pulled tight,
body still trembling—not from the cold, but from the weight of it all.

The laughter still rang in my ears. The sting of it, the humiliation, the way I had let them see me break.

I pressed my fist against my mouth, swallowing another sob.

It didn't matter.

It was over.

And yet—

I still felt George's smirk in my ribs.
Fred's gaze in my eyes.

And Theo's lips all over me.

Chapter Text

I was never one for parties.

The loud chatter, the clinking glasses, the way people laugh a little too loudly, dance a little too freely. The feeling of being watched, and the pressure to fit into a space that was always just a bit too tight. And alcohol—it never felt like something I could handle. The bitter taste sliding down my throat, the buzz that comes with it, the way it loosens everyone up in ways I never liked. It felt like a loss of control I didn't want.
But last night? I'd had too much of all of it.

It reminded me of a summer evening a few months ago, when Mona dragged me to a beach party. The firelight flickered across people dancing too freely, their laughter mixing with the sound of waves. Mona was in her element—laughing, carefree, her body moving with the music. I stood at the edge of it, drink in hand, feeling the heat of the night and the weight of being out of place. The alcohol burned my throat, but it didn't numb the discomfort. It only made it sharper. I was watching life happen without being able to join in. I couldn't understand how people could lose themselves like this, how they could laugh and dance and be so... free. I was too aware of everything—of the way people glancing at me, of the way I held my drink too tightly, of the awkwardness in my smile when someone finally spoke to me.
It was the feeling of not belonging, of watching others live the life I couldn't find the courage to live myself.

Last night was different. The way the alcohol burned as it slid down, almost like it had carved something inside of me. The laughter, the teasing, the heat of Theo's touch, his hands, his lips all over me, the way George had looked at me, with his eyes heavy and unreadable, making me question everything I thought I understood about myself. And Fred's gaze... I couldn't stop thinking about it, like it was seared into my skin.
Everything felt blurry, hazy in a way that wasn't comforting, but suffocating.

And now, here I was, hunched over the toilet, trying to convince myself I wasn't about to die from the sheer force of the headache hammering at my skull.

All I could focus on was the cold tile under my knees and the way the smell of last night's disaster—alcohol, regret and something that probably used to be a chips—hung thick in the air.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and cursed quietly under my breath. I wasn't even sure I could remember how many shots I'd had at this point. Or how many times Theo's lips had been on me. Or how Fred's body heat enchanted sweater almost burned me. Or how GeorUghhhhhh.

Well, this is just perfect, I thought, leaning over the toilet. Nothing like a little literal rejection to match the emotional kind.

It was past 11 when I woke up, my head thumping in a way that made me question whether I'd signed some silent agreement to pay for last night's sins with the kind of headache that could only be described as devastating. I groaned, rolling onto my back, hoping the ceiling would give me some answers. It didn't. It just spun. And now, after every bit of fluid left my body, I could finally breath again.

I groggily shuffled back to my room. My body still felt like it was made of lead, but my brain was slowly coming back to life—and I really needed it to function.

I opened the window with a dramatic flair, as if I could air out  last night. A light breeze stirred the curtains, and I stood there for a moment, letting it cool my burning face.

Then there was my bed. My sheets. Ugh. They were ruined, covered in the evidence of last night's emotional meltdown—tears, probably more than I realized, definitely soaked into the fabric. I couldn't exactly lie down in them without being reminded of every stupid, humiliating second.

"Accio fresh sheets," I said with more dramatic flair than necessary, because, at this point, I was feeling it. The sheets floated lazily from my wardrobe, and I made quick work of swapping them out.

Next up - A candle. The kind that smelled like an overachieving lavender farm. If I couldn't get the stench of last night out of my room, I'd at least pretend I was in a spa. I set the candle on my bedside table, lit it, and watched the tiny flicker of flame grow, bringing a warmth to the space that I could almost convince myself was genuine relaxation.

With everything set, I took a moment to take it all in—the freshly cleaned room, the lavender-scented air, the flickering candlelight. It was peaceful, almost... too peaceful, but I wasn't ready to crawl back into bed just yet.

I needed a shower. A long one.

So, I grabbed my favorite hair- and face masks, and made my way into the bathroom. The hot water hit me like a godsend, the steam making everything feel warm and cozy—just what I needed to reset. I left the mask on for as long as I could stand it, letting the warmth and the scent of strawberry and vanilla relax my overworked mind.

When I stepped out, I was finally starting to feel like myself again. A quick towel-off, my softest old pajamas, and I was ready for my second round of self-care. No more party. No more chaos. Just me, my bed, and a whole day to overthink and regret. Great.

I lay back in my newly made bed, sinking into the softness of the sheets, letting the exhaustion of the last 24 hours slip away.

Maybe I'd even take a nap. If I could manage to forget everything that happened.

I pulled the blankets up to my chin, cocooning myself in warmth, the candle flickering softly on my bedside table.

I wasn't leaving.

Not today.

Not until I absolutely had to crawl out of my little bubble and face reality again.

It took a while, but eventually, hunger won.

Annoying, really—I had been perfectly content in my self-imposed exile, reading a pretty bad novel Mona sent me, pretending last night didn't happen. But my stomach had other plans, grumbling loud enough to ruin the illusion.

"Poppy?" I called softly.

A pop, and there she was, eyes bright with concern. "Miss Lena is needing something?"

"Just... some food? Something small?"

Minutes later, she returned with a tray loaded with warm bread, thick stew, fresh fruit, and—of course—a dangerous stack of cookies.

"Eat, eat!" she insisted and I obeyed, utterly thankful for her.

The stew was rich, the bread soft, the cookies perfect, I was wrapped in warmth, savoring every bite, the candlelight flickering softly beside me. Soft indie music playing.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I froze mid-bite.

The cookies suddenly tasted like regret.

I swallowed my bite, already glaring at the door.

"Go away."

A pause. Then—

"Lena, it's me - George"

I froze. My stomach dropped straight through the mattress.

„Oh, hell no." the words left my mouth before I could think.

I bolted upright, flung my wand toward the door, and hissed, "Colloportus!"

The lock clicked.

Then, because I wasn't taking any chances—"Muffliato."

Silence.

Blessed. Beautiful. Absolute.

I exhaled, sinking back into my pillows, casually taking another bite of my cookie.

If I couldn't hear him, he wasn't there.

If he wasn't there, last night never happened.

If last night never happened, I wasn't currently dying of secondhand embarrassment from myself.

Flawless. Solid. No notes.

-

The only thing missing for my perfect self-pity day was my TV.

A distraction. Something to pull me out of my own head. Something to drown out the absolute catastrophe that was last night.

And then—I had an idea.

A stupid, reckless, absolutely brilliant idea.

I grabbed a fresh piece of parchment and started scribbling.

Letter one: Mona.

• I need a favor.
• I need my TV.
•    You need to break into my parents house.
• I may or may not have publicly embarrassed myself in front of half the school last night, and I refuse to process it sober.
• Theo kissed my neck and maybe I moaned (sent help)
• If you truly love me, you will find a way to make this happen. (TV)

Letter two: Sirius and Remus.

•    I made some choices last night.
•    Most of them were bad.
•    Actually, all of them were bad.
•    You know that thing where you just exist normally, and then suddenly someone kneels in front of you like they're about to propose, but instead they ruin your entire life?
•    No? Just me?
•    Anyway, don't tell Molly and Arthur. Yet.
• I need time to rebuild my sense of self-worth before I have to face any parental disappointment. So no comments please.
•    PS: If you tell Remus before you write back, tell him to please pretend he is not deeply, deeply concerned.

I leaned back, rereading them both.

Perfect.

Only one problem.

Sending them would require leaving my room.

And I was absolutely not doing that today.

So, I pushed the letters aside and sank deeper into my pillows, content in my self-pity cocoon.

And then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I startled, eyes snapping to the window.

Steven.

Perched on the sill, feathers ruffled from the wind, a letter clutched tightly in his beak.

I squinted. What the hell?

Another sharp tap, like he was already losing patience.

The envelope was sealed with a green wax stamp, which I hastily broke open.
______________________________

Lena,

I knocked. You ignored me.

I have to admit, I'm a little offended. After last night, I figured you'd be eager to see me again. What happened, love?
Afraid you might moan my name again?

I thought what we had was special.

And before you argue—you moaned, Lena. There were witnesses.

I was going to be the perfect gentleman today, really. I even considered bringing you a hangover potion. Thought maybe we'd lounge dramatically in your room while you nursed your regrets and I basked in the knowledge that, of all the bad decisions you made last night, I was undeniably the best one.

But now? Now I think I'll let you suffer.

Builds character.

And don't worry, I suffered too. Walking away last night? Torture. But at least your Gryffindor boys got a great show.

If you decide to crawl out of your cave, you know where to find me. But be warned—you barely survived me the first time.

Try not to miss me too much.

- Theo

P.S. Tell the weasels I don't share.
______________________________

I wheezed.
Actually, physically wheezed—the kind of wheeze that barely made it past my throat, because oh my god.

Theo Nott.

Theo fucking Nott.

The letter trembled in my hands, and for a second, I just stared at it, stunned. My brain? Gone. My soul? Left my body. My entire existence? Reduced to nothing but the sheer, bone-deep humiliation of knowing, with absolute certainty, that I—Lena May, a seemingly normal person with basic human dignity—had MOANED in public from his touch.

And Theo? Heard it.

Not only heard it but wrote about it.

I whined, kicking my legs out against the mattress, trying to physically escape my own body as I buried my face in the nearest pillow.

Because the thing is, the absolute worst thing about Theo Nott isn't that he's smug. Or infuriating. Or that he writes letters like a menace who knows exactly what he's doing.

It's that he's right.

Because I remembered.

I remembered the heat of his breath against my throat, the slow drag of his mouth, the way he pressed his body into mine, how effortlessly he pulled those reactions from me, how easy it had been to fall apart against him.

I groaned, physically rolling over onto my stomach like I could somehow bury the shame into my mattress.

"Tell the weasels I don't share."

Oh.

Oh, he wants to play like that?

Theo Nott, making bold little claims.
Like he was setting rules.

Fine.

If he wanted a game, I'd give him one.

Sliding upright, I grabbed a fresh piece of parchment, tapping my quill against my chin, considering.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I dipped my quill into the ink, grinning as I started to write.

_____________________________

Theo,

First of all, I want you to know that this letter is being written under great emotional distress.

Second of all, if you're going to continue blackmailing me over alleged moaning (which, for the record, I am choosing to believe is fake news), I will be forced to take drastic action.

By drastic action, I mean inviting you over.

Because clearly, you have so much to say about last night, and honestly? I'm curious to see if you're half as bold in person as you are in writing.

But be warned—I barely survived you the first time.

You barely survived me.

Do with that information what you will.

- Lena

P.S. Bring snacks. Poppy loves me, but I don't think she'd approve of feeding an unhinged Slytherin.
______________________________

The second Steven took off into the sky, letter clutched in his tiny, treacherous beak, I knew.

I had made a mistake.

A colossal, irreversible, deeply regrettable mistake.

"Oh, no, no, no—Steven! Steven, wait!"

I lunged toward the window like I could somehow catch the bird mid-flight, arms reaching, heart pounding, desperation creeping into my voice.

"Come back! I take it back! That letter is NOT meant to be sent—you hear me? THIS IS A RECALL!"

Steven did not, in fact, hear me.

Or he did and just did not care.

Because that little bastard flapped harder, doubled his speed, and disappeared into the horizon like his singular mission in life was to deliver my downfall.

I collapsed against the windowsill, horrified.

I had invited Theo Nott into my space.

Willingly.

I sank onto my bed, hands gripping my skull, the full weight of my decisions crashing down on me.

I groaned, rolling onto my stomach, my face smothered into my pillow as I muttered a long, drawn-out, very appropriate,

"Fuuuuuuuuuuck."

This was not how I envisioned my self-pity day.

I was supposed to hibernate in my cozy little den of suffering. I was supposed to ignore the world, not actively summon my biggest source of chaos into my room.

I kicked my feet against the mattress like a frustrated toddler.

"Why am I like this," I whispered to myself. "Why am I this way."

No answer. Just the quiet, damning silence of my own bad decisions.

Which was the next problem.

Because the silencing spell.

I sat up so fast my head spun, fumbling for my wand, pointing it at the door like it had personally wronged me.

"Finite Incantatem."

I did not handle waiting well.

And unfortunately, that was exactly what I was forced to do.

Steven was fast, but even he wasn't instantaneous. He had to find Theo, deliver the letter, and then Theo had to decide if he was going to respond.

Which left me stuck in my room. Dreading. Overthinking. Spiraling.

I tried to distract myself.

I ate another cookie—didn't taste as good now.
I fluffed my pillows—unnecessary, I had already fluffed them five times.
I stared at the ceiling—that was just an open invitation for intrusive thoughts.

It was all too quiet—which meant my own brain was the loudest thing in the room.

"Why did I write that letter."
"Why did I literally invite him over."
"Oh my God, what if he doesn't even come?"
"Wait, why does that bother me??"

I groaned, flipping over and shoving my face into my pillow.

I needed to get a grip.

But then another thought hit me—one so deeply concerning, I immediately sat up.

What if he actually does come.

Oh, fuck.

I glanced down at myself.

Oversized, hole-in-the-sleeve pajama shirt.
Fluffy socks that did not match.
Hair: a situation.

No.

Absolutely not.

I was not going to sit here and pretend I didn't immediately launch out of bed like I had been set on fire.

Because—let's be clear—I wasn't getting dressed up for Theo.

I was simply... preparing for the unexpected.

In a casual, effortless, nonchalant way.

Which was why I very casually, effortlessly, nonchalantly yanked off my old, stretched-out pajama shirt and threw on something slightly more presentable.

A nicer shirt. Soft. Comfy. Not too obvious. Like I had just grabbed the first thing I saw and not, you know, deliberately chosen one that fit just right and made my arms look nice.

And shorts. Pajama shorts. Cozy. Cute. Absolutely normal.

Not because I cared.

Just because... well, what if I had to flee the castle in shame?

Couldn't do that in hole-ridden pants.

And then the hair.

I grabbed a brush, raking it through the mess of waves, rolling my eyes at myself because why was I trying??

But also not stopping.

And then...

The Waiting.

Again.

Worse now.

Because now I was dressed like an idiot who absolutely cared, and there was nothing else left to do.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Then too many.

Enough that I started to wonder if maybe—just maybe—Theo had actually decided against showing up.

And that realization sat weirdly uncomfortable in my chest.

I didn't like it.

Not that I wanted him here.

I just...

God, what if he didn't come?

What if he read my letter, smirked, tossed it aside, and let me sit here all day, waiting for something that wasn't going to happen?

That would be worse than him actually showing up.

At least if he was here, I could deal with it.

I huffed, throwing myself back onto the pillows, trying not to care.

"Fine. Whatever. He doesn't come, he doesn't come."
"Not my problem."
"Didn't want to see him anyway."

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I froze.

Every thought evaporated from my brain.

My heart leapt into my throat.

"Come on love, let me in—unless you're too busy imagining the sound of me moaning your name?"

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Before I could even answer, the door swung open, and Theo stepped inside like he belonged here, like this was something he did all the time.

He had a small bag of snacks in one hand and an annoyingly smug look on his face. His Slytherin-green jumper hung loose on his frame, the thick knit sleeves bunched up at his elbows, exposing his forearms. Black sweatpants, slightly fitted at the ankles, completed the look—casual, effortless, like he hadn't even tried.

I hated that it worked for him.

He leaned against the doorframe, deliberately slow, tilting his head with a smirk that was both lazy and sharp.

"Missed me already, baby?"

I froze.

Not because of the words—Theo said dumb things like that all the time—but because something about the way he said it, so casual and self-assured, made my stomach flipp before I could stop it.

I blinked. Opened my mouth. Forgot how to speak.

Theo's smirk deepened like he could see exactly what was happening in real-time.

"No witty comeback? You must really be down bad."

I shook my head too quickly, trying to snap myself out of whatever was happening. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he strolled in like I had invited him, "I bring you gifts."

And as if this was completely normal, he flopped onto my bed, stretching out far too comfortably, resting his head on his arm like he had all the time in the world.

"Alright, tell me. What happened after my untimely and tragic removal?"

I hesitated.

But Theo just waited.

No pushing, no teasing. Just waiting.

So I sighed, grabbed a handful of whatever snack he had brought, and told him everything.

"After you left, we started playing Truth or Dare—don't give me that look, it wasn't my idea."

Theo raised an eyebrow, already looking amused. "I love that you think I'd judge you for playing a dumb party game. You forget who you're talking to, baby."

"I regret every second of this conversation."

"No, you don't. Continue."

I rolled my eyes but did. "Anyway. It was fine at first—just dumb stuff, nothing too bad. Harry had to give Ginny a lap dance, which I think permanently traumatized Ron. Fred took a shot instead of answering if he liked someone."

Theo snorted. "Oh, that's good. That's so good. Continue."

I huffed. "And then it was my turn. And, of course, Harry asks, 'Who was the last person you thought about before falling asleep?'"

Theo's smirk spread. "Let me guess—you said me."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, so you lied?"

I threw a pillow at his face. He caught it easily, still grinning.

"I said Fred and George. Because they make my life a living hell."

Theo's amusement sharpened. "And how did they react?"

I exhaled heavily. "Didn't even get to see. Because right after that, the bottle landed on George, and Katie dared him to kiss the girl he found most attractive in the room."

Theo's entire expression shifted. His smirk was still there, but it was quieter now, more calculated. "And?"

I stared at the ceiling. "He walked toward me."

Silence.

Theo didn't say anything, didn't even breathe.

I clenched my jaw. "I thought he was messing with me. Like it was a joke."

Theo's voice was slower, softer. "But was it?"

I swallowed. "Yes"... „I don't know."

More silence. Then Theo exhaled, deep and thoughtful. "And what did you do?"

I groaned. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

"I already do."

"I told him I'd rather eat slugs than have his filthy tongue in my mouth."

Theo laughed. A genuine, head-thrown-back, full-body laugh.

"Oh, that's fantastic. That's so good. That's a level of commitment I respect."

I sighed dramatically. "I feel so bad. Not for saying it but because everybody laughed at me."

Theo's laughter faded, and when I turned my head to look at him, his smirk was back, but lighter.

When I finished, he leaned his head back against the pillow, voice lower than before. "I would've stayed, you know."

I blinked. "Theo, you were literally kicked out."

He shrugged, exhaling slowly. "Doesn't mean I wanted to leave."

I didn't know what to do with that, so I just looked away, picking at the blanket between my fingers.

Theo let out a dramatic sigh, then smirked, tilting his head toward me. "Alright, enough sulking. What's it gonna take? How do I make your evening better?"

His grin sharpened. "Want me to make you forget about it? Maybe get you to moan my name again?"

I choked. „THEO!"

Theo laughed, smug. "Knew you'd remember."

I pretended to think.

Then, half-joking, half-not, I said, "If I could choose, I'd love to watch a movie. Cuddle under the blankets with you and you have to tell me I'm pretty."

Theo stared.

Then blinked once, slowly. "...A what?"

I groaned. "Oh my god."

"No, seriously." He sat up, looking deeply invested now. "What's a 'moovy'?"

And that was how I ended up giving a full, dramatic explanation about movies—what they were, how they worked, how Muggles had entire cinemas dedicated to them.

Theo looked personally offended that this had somehow never been introduced to him.

"And you're telling me," he said slowly, "that Muggles just... have these? All the time? Like, they just get to watch moving pictures and stories whenever they want?"

"Yes, Theo. That is exactly what I'm saying."

He stared into the distance, visibly rethinking his entire existence. "I have been robbed."

I snorted. "Welcome to the Muggle world."

Theo shook his head, like he was personally offended by the lack of cinematic experiences in his life.

Then he shifted closer, resting an arm behind his head. "Alright, fine. I can't give you a movie."

He tilted his head toward me. "But I can give you the other two."

I froze.

Theo waited, watching me far too closely.

I hesitated for maybe half a second before scoffing, trying to sound bored. "Well, we are still  on top of the blankets."

Theo grinned. "I can fix that."

Before I could question what he meant, he sat up smoothly, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it back.

"Come on then." His voice was too casual, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

I stared at him, my heart hammering so loudly it felt audible.

Theo tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You're thinking about it too much, love. Just get under the blanket."

I hated that he was so smooth about this while I was overheating like a broken radiator.

Still, I swallowed the hesitation, moved stiffly to sit up, and slid under the covers.

Theo did the same, the mattress shifting beneath his weight, the blanket warm and heavy around us as he pulled it over his shoulders.

„Come here"

His arm slid around my shoulders, firm and steady, his other hand resting lightly on my waist, fingertips barely brushing the fabric of my shirt.

Warm. Solid. Close.

I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

The way his chest rose and fell, steady and controlled. The weight of his arm, grounding and careful. The heat radiating between us, his sweater soft against my bare arm.

Theo shifted slightly, his breath brushing my hair.

"Comfortable?" he murmured.

I swallowed. "Shut up."

Theo laughed softly, and I felt it everywhere.

Then, after a long moment, he murmured, "Lena?"
His voice was warm, teasing, a little softer than before.

"You're pretty."

I died. Immediately.

The silence settled between us, warm and comfortable, the weight of the blanket pressing down like a barrier between the rest of the world and —whatever this was.

The dim light of my enchanted fairy lights cast a soft glow across the room, their warm golden hue flickering along the stone walls.

Theo let out a soft huff of amusement, tilting his head slightly to look up at them.

"Romantic," he mused, voice half-draped in laziness, half in mockery. "Was this intentional, or do I just have that effect on you?"

I rolled my eyes, too tired to argue. "They turn on automatically when the sun sets."

Theo hummed, unimpressed. "Convenient excuse."

Before I could even think of a response, thunder rumbled in the distance.

A deep, rolling sound, low and stretching, like the sky itself was shifting its weight.

I blinked. I hadn't even noticed the storm creeping in, but now that I was listening, I could hear it—the slow patter of rain against the tall, arched window, the wind picking up in low whistles as it wound through the cracks in the ancient stone.
Another rumble. Closer now.
The storm built itself up as the minutes passed, rain hitting the glass harder now, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the room for just a second before disappearing again.

And still, Theo didn't talk.

Didn't fill the space with teasing or cocky remarks.

He just... existed beside me.

His arm was still firm around my shoulders, his body steady and warm, radiating heat like a furnace. The scent of mint and a whiff of expensive cologne clung faintly to his jumper, mixing with something inherently him—something sharp, clean, familiar.

I should have been relaxing. I wanted to relax.

But instead, my body was locked tight, my shoulders stiff, every nerve under my skin too aware of every single place we were touching.

And then— Theo's fingertips started moving.

Soft, absentminded strokes along my waist, barely-there movements, light as a whisper. A slow drag of fingers tracing up and down the fabric of my shirt, no rush, no urgency, just touch.

My breathing stuttered.

Not enough for him to notice—I hoped—but still.

Oh. Oh, no.

I tried to tell myself it was nothing. That he was just fidgeting or that this was some bored, unconscious movement.

Except it wasn't.

Because his touch stayed deliberate.

Not rushing. Not hesitant. Just there.

Like it was the most normal thing in the world to trace his fingers slowly up and down my waist while we lay in the dark, half tangled together under the same blanket, the storm creeping closer outside.

I forced my body to stay still.

Tried not to focus on it.

Failed miserably.

I needed a distraction. Something—anything—other than this.

Maybe I should say something.

Maybe I should just start reciting Hogwarts: A History out loud.

Or maybe I should fake my own death and roll onto the floor.

I could not be normal about this.

Because Theo was still stroking me.

Oh my god.

I felt like my brain was short-circuiting in real-time.

Every slow drag of his fingertips was sending tiny little shocks through my skin, not enough to set off alarms, but just enough to make me hyper-aware of every single movement.

It was infuriating.

I exhaled slowly. Tried to force my muscles to unclench.

This was fine.

I could just... exist here.

In a totally platonic, not-at-all-overly-intimate cuddle situation.

That was normal.

Right?

Right.

And then Theo's fingers moved higher.

Up from my waist, grazing the bottom of my ribs.

Slow. Light. Too easy.

I sucked in a breath.

Theo paused.

Just for a second.

Then—"You okay?"

His voice was low, quiet, that same unbothered, lazy drawl, but with something softer underneath it.

I hated that he noticed.

I cleared my throat. "Yes."

Theo didn't say anything.

Didn't tease me, didn't smirk.

Just let his fingers drift back down, trailing lightly along my waist again.

I swallowed.

I was going to die.

The silence stretched between us, warm and slow, the kind that could make you forget about time.

The storm outside grew louder, the wind pushing against the castle walls, the rain now a steady rhythm against the windows.

I didn't know how long we lay there, existing in the same space, in the same heat, with his fingers still moving in that steady, absentminded rhythm.

And then, after what felt like forever, Theo exhaled slowly and murmured,
"Do you want me to stay the night?"

Not teasing.

Not cocky.

Just low. Calm. Easy.

Like it was a simple question.

Like it wasn't currently sending my entire nervous system into a crisis.

Chapter Text

♫...You treat your mouth
as if it's Heaven's gate...♫
_______________________________
For a second, I didn't process the question.

I was still stuck on the way Theo had said it—so calm, so casual, like it wasn't a big deal at all. Like he didn't realize the sheer chaos he put me in.

And before I could even think, before my brain could slap a hand over my own mouth and stop me—

"Yes."

Oh.

Oh, no.

Did I just—?

I did.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I stared at his chest, horrified at myself.

I could have said no. I could have been normal. I could have laughed it off, called him a dramatic little prince, shoved him out of my bed like a rational person.

But no.

No, I had to say yes, immediately, without hesitation, like a lunatic.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

Theo didn't react.

He didn't smirk. Didn't gloat. Didn't tease me about how quickly I had agreed.

He just hummed, completely unbothered. "Alright."

"Do you have a spare toothbrush?"

I blinked.

A toothbrush.

A spare toothbrush.

Because, of course, he was actually planning on staying the night, like a normal person making a normal, reasonable request in a completely ordinary situation.

I, on the other hand, was internally spiraling because this meant we had now entered a new level of domesticity I was absolutely unprepared for.

I let out a breath. "Yeah, I have one."

Theo stretched, exhaling through his nose as he sat up, the blanket shifting down his chest, exposing more of his jumper. "Good. Let's get ready for bed, then."

‚Let's get ready for bed then.'

Oh. Oh, we're just saying things like that now.

I stared at him, trying to process how we had gotten here.

Was this... a normal thing people did? Did people just casually get ready for bed together like this wasn't some kind of devastatingly intimate act?

Apparently, yes.

And apparently, I had agreed to it.

Theo, meanwhile, looked completely unbothered, standing and stretching his arms above his head before casually glancing over his shoulder.

"Coming?"

I should have said something sarcastic.

Instead, I just... got up and followed him.

The bathroom attached to my room was small but cozy, the soft glow of candle-lit sconces flickering against the stone walls, making everything look warmer, softer and my spare toothbrush sat untouched in my cabinet.

Theo leaned against the sink, arms crossed, watching me as I rummaged through the small wooden cabinet to grab him said toothbrush and a towel.

This is fine.

This is completely fine and not weird at all.

I handed him both, pointedly avoiding eye contact. "Here."

Theo took it, fingers brushing mine for a second too long, his grip slow and deliberate before he turned toward the sink, grabbing the toothpaste without question, as if this was something he did all the time.

And honestly?

That was the worst part.

Because I felt like I was losing my mind, and he was just here, brushing his teeth like we were a married couple settling in for the night.

I forced myself to focus on my own reflection, reaching for my toothbrush as I stood next to him.

This is fine.

Absolutely no need to look at Theo.

Nope.

No need at all.

Except my traitorous gaze flickered sideways anyway.

And there he was.

Standing next to me, mouth full of toothpaste, hair slightly messy, eyes half-lidded.

And somehow—somehow—even in this completely ridiculous, utterly unsexy scenario, he still looked obnoxiously attractive.

Unfair.

I looked away too quickly, shoving my toothbrush into my mouth before I could get any more stupid ideas.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft scratching of bristles against enamel and the distant rumble of thunder outside.

Normal.

Completely normal.

And then—

Oh.

Because suddenly, Theo's hand was on my back.
Light. Easy. Barely there.

Just the faintest brush of fingertips along my spine, a slow, absentminded motion, soft and careful.

I froze mid-brush.

My entire body locked up so violently I was surprised I didn't accidentally choke on toothpaste and die right there on the bathroom floor.

I did not move.

Did not breathe.

Because what the fuck.

What. The. Fuck.

Theo's hand stayed there, slow, steady, fingertips tracing the curve of my back with a kind of quiet ease, like this was something he barely even noticed he was doing.

Like it was a habit.

Like it was nothing at all.

And yet.

And yet.

I was actively losing my goddamn mind.

Theo didn't say anything.

Didn't look at me.

Didn't acknowledge the way his hand kept moving, slow and soothing, like he was trying to ground me.

Like he knew something I didn't.

Like he could tell I was spiraling and had decided—completely on his own—to do something about it.

And maybe that was the part that killed me most.

Not the touch itself.

But the fact that it wasn't flirty.

Wasn't cocky.

Wasn't anything but careful.

Like he just wanted me to know—I'm here. I've got you.

And I did not know what to do with that.

I spit into the sink too fast, nearly smacking my head on the mirror as I rinsed my mouth.

The storm outside rumbled again, louder this time, rattling the window. The glow of the sconces flickered slightly, the warm light shifting with the wind pressing against the castle walls.

Theo finished brushing his teeth and wiped his mouth with the towel before stretching slightly, rolling his shoulders like he was getting comfortable.

"Is it alright if I take my sweater off to sleep?"

My stomach tightened. "Why are you asking me?"

Theo shrugged, his voice calm, careful. "Because it's your bed. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

...Oh.

Okay, well. Now I was going to cry.

Because how was I supposed to handle this? How was I supposed to handle Theo Nott, certified menace, suddenly being the most careful person in the world?

This was so much worse than when he was cocky.

So much worse.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling hot all over again for no reason. "Yeah, Theo. It's fine."

He hummed, nodding slightly, and reached for the hem of his sweater.

I looked away so fast I was surprised I didn't give myself whiplash.

This is great.

The storm outside had settled into a soft, steady rhythm, the rain whispering against the window as Theo and I left the bathroom. The air outside was cooler now, making the fabric of my shirt feel thinner, my body too aware of itself.

I walked a little too quickly, stepping ahead of him, even though it wasn't like I could outrun the fact that we were about to get back in bed together.

I could hear Theo's footsteps behind me, slow, easy, like he had all the time in the world.

Like this was nothing.

I swallowed hard.

I didn't know how to do this.

Not the walking part. I had that under control.

But the part where I had to get back in bed with Theo fucking Nott?

That was another story entirely.

The second I reached my bed, I laid down.

Too quick, like I was trying to get it over with, like if I just threw myself onto the mattress, everything would magically fall into place.

It did not.

Because the moment my head hit the pillow, I realized my mistake.

I did not know what to do with my body.

At all.

My arms felt wrong. Where were they supposed to go?

My legs were stiff. Was I taking up too much space?

Theo, on the other hand, was completely unbothered.

He pulled back the blanket without thinking, slid under it like it was the most natural thing in the world, then turned onto his side, facing me.

And I laid there.

Like an absolute idiot.

My fingers twisted into the sheets, my entire body stiff, uncooperative, my brain working overtime to figure out what the hell to do with myself.

How was I supposed to exist normally when Theo was already watching me, waiting, the dim glow of my fairy lights casting flickering gold across his face—his bare chest catching the soft light, all sharp lines and toned muscle, the shadows emphasizing every ridge and dip of his skin?

The kind of careless attractiveness that made my brain glitch.

I swallowed.

I was so aware of the fact that he was looking at me.

Not smirking.

Not teasing.

Just... looking.

Like he was figuring something out.

Like I was something to be studied.

I exhaled, forcing my gaze to the ceiling, pretending I wasn't hyper-aware of every little movement he made.

How did people do this?

How did people just lie in bed with someone and act completely normal about it?

Because my body felt wrong.

I shifted.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

Nope. Didn't feel right.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to glance at Theo—

And immediately regretted it.

Because he was still watching me.

Not in the way that said "I'm about to make fun of you"—which, honestly, I could have handled.

But in the way that said "I know exactly what's happening in your head right now."

I hated how easily he could read me.

I hated that he knew, without me having to say it, that I was currently overthinking every single second of this.

And then -

"Lena."

His voice was soft.

Not teasing.

Not smug.

Just soft.

I swallowed. "What?"

Theo watched me for another beat.

Then, in that same quiet, careful tone, he said, "Do you want to fall asleep in my arms?"

My entire body froze, my brain short-circuiting on the spot, every single part of me suddenly too aware of the fact that he had just asked that question out loud.

I was going to die.

That was it.

Do you want to fall asleep in my arms?

Like it was nothing.

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Because what the fuck was I supposed to say to that?

It was too much.

Too soft.

Too real.

But somehow, somehow, I still heard myself say—

"Yes."

Oh, fuck.

Had I just—

I had.

The second the word left my mouth, Theo didn't hesitate.

He moved, slow and deliberate, opening his arm in invitation, the space beside him suddenly feeling so much bigger, so much warmer, so much more impossible.

I stared at him, my brain screaming at full volume.

Theo just raised an eyebrow. "Come here, love."

Oh. Oh, no.
This was happening.

This was actually happening.

And then—before I could talk myself out of it, before I could spiral any further—I shifted.

I turned onto my side, towards him, my movements stiff, unsure, like my body wasn't fully on board with the decision I had just made.

And suddenly, his arm was around me.

Firm. Solid. Effortless.

Like I was meant to be there.

Theo didn't move.

Didn't shift.

Didn't tighten his grip, didn't pull me closer.

He just let me settle.

Let me breathe.

And for some reason, that made it so much worse.

Because he was waiting.

Waiting for me to get comfortable.

Waiting for me to decide what this was going to be.

He was giving me a choice.

And I had no idea what to do with that.

So, I stayed still.

Theo just exhaled softly, his hand skimming lightly against my arm, his voice barely above a whisper when he said, "See? Not so bad."

Something in my chest twisted, something unfamiliar, something too close to trust—and for once, I didn't want to shove it down.

I didn't want to pretend.

So, before I could overthink it, I muttered, "I don't know what I'm doing."

Theo stilled.

Not dramatically—just for a second.

His fingers paused against my skin, and I almost regretted saying it, almost wished I had kept my mouth shut and let him believe I was as comfortable as he was.

But then, he moved again.

Slow. Deliberate.

His hand tracing the same lazy patterns against my arm, as if to remind me that nothing had changed.

"I know," he murmured.

I frowned. "What do you mean, you know?"

Theo hummed, voice still quiet, still warm. "You think I haven't noticed?"

Oh.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling very, very seen.

"I just—" I exhaled sharply, frustrated at myself, at how stupid I sounded. "I've never done this before."

Theo hummed again, a thoughtful, easy sound.

"You never cuddled with someone?"

"No."

He didn't react.

He just held me a little closer.

"Okay."

That was it.

And then—Theo moved.

Slow. Careful. Deliberate.

Like he could sense that I was still holding tension in places I hadn't even realized.

He shifted me slightly, adjusting the way I rested against him, making sure I was fully tucked into his chest.

His fingers traced the length of my spine, gentle pressure, like he was silently telling me to stop holding myself so stiff.

"Here."

His voice was low, calm, but it carried a quiet certainty—one that told me I didn't need to overthink this. That I could trust him to know what to do when I didn't.

He took my wrist gently, lifting my arm away from where I had awkwardly half-folded it against myself, and laid my hand flat against his bare chest.

Warm. Solid. Steady.

His heart beat slow and even beneath my palm, the rhythm so completely opposite to my own chaotic pulse that it almost felt unfair.

Theo's hand moved again, this time slipping beneath the blanket, his fingers grazing my bare thigh.

I sucked in a breath.

Not because it was too much—but because it was so careful.

Like he was asking a silent question.

Like he was waiting.

And when I didn't stop him, when I let my body stay soft beneath his touch, he lifted my leg—slowly, easily—and settled it over his own.

My knee rested on top of his legs, the shift making everything feel so much more... entangled.

More intimate.

My brain? Gone.

Theo's fingers skated lazily along my thigh for a moment, as if soothing away the tension I hadn't realized I was still holding.

Then, in that same quiet, calm voice, he murmured,

„I'm right here. I'll only go as far as you want me to."

I stopped breathing.

Because somehow those words meant more than anything else he could have said.

This was him telling me that he knew.

That he knew this was new for me.
That he knew I needed to feel safe before I could even begin to feel anything else.

And, god help me, I did.

I felt safe.

Theo's hand returned to my waist, settling there like it belonged.

He let out a slow, satisfied sigh, his breath warm against my hair.

"Better?" he murmured.

And—for once—I didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

And just like that—

I finally relaxed.

The room felt smaller, quieter.

The world outside felt far away.

A gentle hum filled the air—guitar strings, low and steady, a voice smooth and aching.

Theo tilted his head slightly, listening, his expression unreadable.

"Alright," he mused after a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against my waist. "Not bad."

I huffed. "Oh, thanks. I was waiting for your approval."

He smirked. "I can tell."

Then he stretched, his arm brushing against mine as he moved, his body heat bleeding into my skin.

"Tell me something dumb about you."

I blinked. "What?"

He shrugged. "Something ridiculous. Something that would make me judge you if I were the judgmental type."

I snorted. "You are the judgmental type."

He smirked. "I reserve it for special occasions."

I thought for a second, then grinned. "Alright. When I was eight, Mona and I tried to make our own kites out of scrap fabric and wire."

Theo lifted an eyebrow.

"...It ended with the entire street losing electricity."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, Theo laughed.

"Holy shit," he exhaled. "That's impressive. I was expecting 'I once tripped in front of a boy I liked,' but no, you were out here committing minor felonies."

I grinned. "What about you?"

Theo grinned back, rolling onto his side slightly, shifting closer, his arm sliding more fully around my waist.

"I set my nanny's robes on fire when I was six because she tried to cut my hair."

I gasped, horrified. "Theo!"

He looked entirely unrepentant.

"She tried to give me a bowl cut, Lena."

I covered my mouth with my hand. "Oh, that is unforgivable."

He smirked. "Exactly."

His thumb brushed against the fabric of my shirt, skimming absentmindedly over my waist. I wasn't sure if he even realized he was doing it.

But I did.

I felt it.

A slow, featherlight touch, absent of tension but full of something else—a quiet, lazy kind of ease.

My stomach fluttered.

I swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth pooling in my chest.

"Alright, next question." Theo's voice was low, amused.

"Best thing you've ever eaten?"

I exhaled, grateful for the distraction. "That's easy. My mum's strawberry shortcake."

Theo hummed. "Sounds unreasonably good."

"It was." I sighed. "Haven't had it in years, though."

Theo smirked. "See, now I have to try it."

I snorted. "Not happening. Your standards are too high. You'd be one of those critics who ruins a restaurant's entire reputation with a single review."

Theo grinned. "Damn right."

His fingers were still tracing slow circles against my waist, and I wasn't sure when I had started to lean into it.

But I had.

It was gradual, unspoken.

A slow settling into warmth.

My hand moved before I could think.

My palm rest lightly against his chest, my fingertips flexing slightly, pressing into his skin.

Theo noticed.

His breathing shifted—just slightly, just enough.

Then, his smirk. "Oh?"

I felt my face heat. "Shut up."

He hummed, pleased.

His fingers skated higher, up my ribcage, teasing the hem of my shirt, but never slipping under.

I exhaled slowly, letting my hand move without hesitation now.

I traced the sharp cut of his collarbone.

Skimmed the curve of his ribs.

Felt the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath my touch.

Theo sighed softly, his head tilting back just slightly, like he wanted to give me more space.

Like he wanted me to keep going.

And I did.

My hand slid up, hesitating only for a fraction of a second before I let my fingers trail along the edge of his jaw.

Theo's breathing slowed.

I watched him.

The soft flicker of my fairy lights caught in his eyes, turning them into something darker, deeper, unreadable.

Then, I let my fingers cup his face.

Theo exhaled—slow, steady, controlled.

But he closed his eyes.

And something about that made my stomach tighten, burn.

Like he was letting me have this moment.

Like he was letting himself have it too.

His jaw was warm beneath my palm, his skin smooth, the faintest hint of stubble scraping under my fingertips.

I barely had time to process it before he moved.

His hand lifted, grazing the back of mine, fingers curling gently around my wrist.

And then, without a word—

He brought my hand to his mouth.

And kissed it.

Slow.

Soft.

Deliberate.

And I felt it everywhere.

A quiet, simmering heat, blooming in my chest, sinking into my ribs.

I didn't move.

I didn't breathe.

Theo's lips lingered, his fingers still wrapped loosely around my wrist, his breath warm against my skin.

And then, finally, he pulled away.

Just enough to look at me again.

And then - he smiled.

Small. Lazy. A little too knowing.

"Nervous, love?"

His hand tightened against my waist.

I rolled my eyes. "You are the worst."

"And yet, here you are, touching me like you don't want to stop."

I felt my face heat instantly. A slow, creeping warmth that spread from my cheeks down my neck.

The music played on, the storm hummed against the windows, the room felt too warm, too safe, too easy.

The kind of warmth that made you forget about everything else.

The kind of warmth that made you want to sink into it completely.

Theo hummed against my skin, his thumb still skimming slow, lazy circles along my waist. His other hand holding mine steady on his chest.

Then, after a moment, his voice low and quiet, he asked, "You tired?"

I blinked.

Tired?

I wasn't even sure what I was anymore.

Every nerve in my body felt hyperaware, my skin still tingling from where his lips had just pressed into my hand.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay even.

"No."

Theo smirked, like he knew exactly what was happening in my head.

But, mercifully, he didn't push.

"We should try to sleep anyway," I muttered, if only to convince myself.

Theo hummed in agreement, but he didn't move away.

He didn't loosen his hold.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was—his warmth surrounding me, his breath steady against my temple.

I forced myself to shift, just enough to reach for my wand.

With a lazy flick, the fairy lights dimmed into darkness, the soft golden glow fading into nothing.

The music, still playing low in the background, cut off mid-note.

Silence.

Only the sound of the storm outside, the rain whispering against the glass, the distant roll of thunder stretching through the castle walls.

I settled back against him, my body sinking into the warmth he was offering, and for once I didn't overthink it.

Didn't question whether I should move.

Didn't worry about how this looked.

I just let myself exist here.

In this space.

With him.

Theo let out a slow breath, his hand drifting lower, his fingertips brushing just beneath the hem of my shirt, just barely grazing my skin.

His lips ghosted against my hair, his voice softer now, lower.

„You can touch me as much as you want, Lena—I won't stop you."

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Heat crawled up my spine, flooding my chest, my throat, my face.

Theo just smiled, pulling me closer.

"Good night, love."

I did not answer.

Because I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

The room had settled into a kind of deep, impossible quiet.

The music was gone.

The candle-lit sconces had long since been extinguished.

Only the storm remained, its rhythm fading into something soft and distant, the occasional rumble stretching through the castle walls like a gentle pulse beneath the night.

But I wasn't asleep.

I couldn't.

My body was too aware, too warm, too—something.

Because I wasn't used to this.

To being wrapped up in someone like this.

To feeling every breath that wasn't my own.

To the slow rise and fall of someone else's chest pressed so close to mine.

Theo had made it feel easy. Effortless. Like he belonged here, like I belonged here.

And the longer I lay there, tangled up in his warmth, the harder it was to slow my thoughts.

Because it wasn't just the way he held me.

It was the way his skin felt against mine, warm and bare, the way his arm stayed firmly wrapped around me, his fingers resting against my side like he had no intention of letting go.

The way his breath skimmed the top of my head, steady, even, the way his body heat sank into me like something inescapable.

I swallowed hard, my pulse an uneven thrum against my ribs.

I wasn't sure how long I laid there like that, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my body to understand that this was fine, that I could relax.

It didn't work.

I exhaled softly, shifting just enough to try and clear my head.

Nothing.

Still too hot. Too aware.

So I moved again.

This time, more deliberately.

I turned, careful not to disturb the way his arm was draped over me, shifting slowly until my back was pressed against his side instead.

The space between us was small now, minimal, but it felt like just enough—like I could finally breathe.

Theo didn't move.

His breathing stayed even.

Like he was already asleep.

I exhaled, my body still adjusting, still too hot beneath the blanket, too caught up in the weight of the moment.

But eventually, slowly, the tension started to fade.

The storm outside was quieter now, just a hush of rain against the glass.

The bed was warm. He was warm.

And I could have sworn I was finally on the edge of drifting off when—

Theo moved.

Not all at once.

Slowly.

Like he had been aware of my every shift, every restless breath, every failed attempt to fall asleep.

He was turning.

I didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Because suddenly, he was right behind me.

All of him.

His bare chest—warm, firm, solid—pressed against my back.

His breath—slow and steady—ghosting across the side of my neck.

I felt every part of him.

His arm, still draped around my waist.

The way his legs had shifted, his thigh just barely brushing against the back of mine.

The space between us?

Gone.

And then—

His hand moved.

Soft. Slow. Barely there.

Fingertips skimming my waist first, just a ghost of pressure, before sliding forward.

Gliding.

Tracing.

Until his palm was resting low on my stomach.

A single, deliberate touch.

Warm. Grounding.

My breath hitched.

Because suddenly, I knew.

He wasn't asleep.

He had never been.

This?

This was careful. Intentional.

And the way his fingers moved now—tracing small, slow circles against the fabric of my shirt, caressing instead of just resting?

It told me everything.

Told me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

Told me that he had felt every shift, every restless breath, every failed attempt at sleep.

And now?

Now, he was making sure I knew he had been waiting.

My stomach tightened beneath his touch, heat crawling up my spine, sinking into my ribs, my chest, my throat.

I didn't move.

I couldn't.

Because the only thing more terrifying than what this meant—

Was how much I liked it.

The seconds stretched.

Minutes.

Maybe longer.

I wasn't sure anymore.

Time felt different now, pulled thin, stretched between the way his palm moved against my stomach—soft, unhurried, endlessly patient.

Every stroke was lazy, effortless, like he was barely thinking about it, but I knew better.

Knew this was deliberate.

Because he wasn't asleep.

Had never been.

And neither was I.

How could I be?

Not when every inch of my body was hyper-aware of him.

Of the slow, gentle way his fingertips brushed against the fabric of my shirt, tracing small, idle circles that sent heat spiraling low in my stomach.

Of the way his breath, warm and steady, skimmed the back of my neck, so close it made me want to—

Do something.

I swallowed.

Felt his hand shift slightly—not moving away, not pressing further. Just there.

A reminder.

A promise.

Something.

The weight of his arm around my waist, the quiet sound of his breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest against my back—it was all too much and somehow not enough.

I clenched my jaw, trying to focus on anything else.

The storm outside.

The rhythmic tap of rain against the window.

The occasional flicker of lightning, distant but bright, casting quick flashes of silver against the stone walls.

But it didn't matter.

Because nothing drowned out the feeling of him.

His warmth.

His touch.

The way his fingers never stilled, never stopped their slow, agonizing exploration of my stomach, my ribs, the faintest edge of my hip.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Was I supposed to do something?

Say something?

Because the moment had stretched so long, so quiet, so thick with something unnamed, that it felt like I was balancing on the edge of something I didn't understand.

But then—

Theo moved.

So slowly I barely registered it at first.

His hand—still firm, still easy against my stomach—shifted just slightly.

His fingers curled, just barely.

Then relaxed.

Like a silent, unspoken test.

And I didn't stop him.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't breathe.

So he did it again.

A fraction more.

The pressure of his palm pressing lightly against my stomach, his fingers stretching—then tightening, smoothing down, then back up, each movement a whisper of heat against my skin.

And then—

His touch lifted.

Just barely.

Just enough for me to feel the absence of it.

I blinked.

What—?

The next thing I felt was his fingers, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was waiting for me to stop him.

Like he knew I wouldn't.

I sucked in a breath as the fabric lifted just enough for him to slide his hand underneath, before pressing his palm flat against my bare skin.

I stilled.

Heat bloomed where he touched me, something deep and slow and devastating.

Theo didn't move.

Didn't push further.

Didn't make a sound.

He just let his hand settle, warm and steady against my stomach, skin to skin now, a quiet claim that made my pulse jump beneath his touch.

And then—

He started moving again.

The same slow, easy motions as before, his fingers tracing idle patterns across my skin now, so much warmer, so much softer, so much worse.

I exhaled sharply, my body reacting before my mind could catch up.

Because this?

This was different.

This wasn't nothing.

And I knew—I knew—that Theo knew it too.

Because suddenly, he shifted closer.

Not much.

But enough that I felt it.

The solid heat of his bare chest pressing against me, his breath heavier now, slower, dragging warm and steady across my skin.

I exhaled shakily.

And that's when his fingers moved again—but not to trace my stomach this time.

This time—

They skimmed up.

Higher.

Up my ribs.

Deliberate.

Pausing for just a second.

Then back down again.

And then—

His other hand moved too.

Slowly, lifting, until I felt the lightest brush of his fingers against my hair.

And then, with agonizing patience—

He pushed it aside.

I shivered.

Because suddenly—

My neck was exposed.

To him.
To his breath.
To whatever this was about to become.

His nose brushed against my neck.

A whisper of contact.

Light. Careful. Deliberate.

A slow drag from just below my jaw, down—down—down toward the slope of my shoulder.

Then, just as softly, he lifted again.

Back up.

The same aching pace, tracing the path in reverse, his breath skating over my skin, warm and slow, dragging heat in its wake.

I shuddered.

My chest rose a little too quickly, my body suddenly too aware of itself.

Theo didn't stop.

Didn't change pace.

Didn't speak.

He just did it again.

And again.

And again.

Each pass so slow, so careful, so maddeningly precise that it didn't even feel real.

Like he was memorizing me.

Like he wanted me to feel every second of it.

And, god, I did.

I felt it everywhere.

My fingers curled into the sheets.

I swallowed hard, but it didn't help.

Because suddenly my own breath was shifting.

Suddenly, I was breathing faster.

My stomach tightened under his hand, my entire body locking up, unsure if I should lean into him.

But Theo?

Theo was calm.

Too calm.

Because even though his breath was steady, even though his movements were unhurried, something else was changing.

And I could feel it.

Because his hand—the one on my stomach, the one still pressed flush against my bare skin—

Was tightening.

Not much.

But more than before.

His palm pressed deeper, his fingers flexing against my skin, tracing firmer, more intentional patterns.

Still slow.

Still patient.

But not as light as before.

I exhaled shakily.

And then—

Theo sighed softly.

The sound was low, warm, not quite controlled.

And his breath—

It wasn't as steady anymore.

It wavered, just barely, just enough for me to notice.

Like this was affecting him too.

Like he was holding himself back.

The quiet, unspoken tension filling the space between us.

His hand gripping my waist a little tighter,

His nose dragging along my neck a little faster,

His breathing growing heavier.

And then—

His lips touched my skin.

Soft.
Featherlight.

Just a whisper of contact against my jaw.
So light I almost wasn't sure if it was real—

Until he did it again.

Another kiss.

The same spot.

Slow. Testing. Like he was waiting.

Like he was giving me a chance to stop him.

But I didn't.

I just breathed in too sharply, my fingers flexing against the sheets, my body caught in that moment.

And Theo felt it.

I knew he did.

Because he paused—not long, just a second, just enough to let the moment hang, heavy, unspoken.

Then—

His lips brushed lower.

This time—my shoulder.

A barely-there press of warmth, lingering just long enough to steal the breath from my throat.

Then he lifted again.

Waited.

Moved lower.

Another kiss.

This time against the curve of my neck.

And this one?

This one lingered.

Just a slow, deliberate press of lips against the place where my pulse was already thrumming too fast beneath my skin.

And suddenly—my breathing wasn't even.

Suddenly, I was breathing too quickly, too sharp, my entire body locked up in a way I couldn't control.

Theo felt that, too.

I knew it, because his grip on my stomach tightened, the warmth of his palm spreading like fire over my skin.

And then—

He did it again.

A slow kiss.

Then another.

Teasing. Lazy. Testing.

Each one a fraction lower, a fraction deeper, a fraction longer, seeing how far I would let him go.

And I leaned in.

Not much.

Not obviously.

Just enough.

Just enough for my body to shift—for my back to press closer against his chest, for my neck to tilt just slightly, like I was offering it to him.

Theo noticed immediately.

I felt his breath hitch against my skin.

Felt the faintest, almost imperceptible tremor in his hand as it flexed against my stomach.

And then, his lips parted.

And suddenly—

He wasn't just kissing me.

He was sucking.

Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.

I gasped.

My entire body arched, shuddering, the sensation knocking the breath straight from my chest as his mouth dragged hot and open against my throat, sealing over my skin with a pull so deep, so sharp, I swore I felt it everywhere.

My hand - without thinking, without hesitation—flew up.

Found his hair.

Grabbed.

Hard.

I yanked him closer, my fingers tangling into the soft strands, my nails scraping lightly against his scalp as I tilted my head back, giving him more space, more room—

And Theo moaned.

Loud.

Wrecked.

His breath a constant sound now, his lips trailing lower, then higher, then lower again, his teeth scraping gently, teasing, just barely—

I moaned.

I couldn't stop it.

Didn't want to.

Because the way he was kissing me now—sucking, breathing, pressing into me like he wanted to devour me whole—

His hand slid higher.

Not fast.

Not rushed.

Just slow, patient, inevitable.

Fingertips gliding over my ribs, tracing the underside of my chest—

Then—

His palm cupped my breast.

Firm.

Warm.

Claiming.

I moaned louder, my entire body tightening, burning, my back pressing flush against his chest, my hips shifting instinctively as I pulled him closer, deeper, rougher.

Theo let go completely.

His moans melted into mine, his hand tightening, exploring, teasing—his fingers finding my nipple, rolling, pinching—his mouth never stopping, never hesitating, never pulling away.

It was endless.

The way he breathed me in.

The way I let him.

The way I drowned in him.

And then—

I closed my eyes.

And suddenly -

I was not with Theo anymore.

I felt George's hand exploring my body, caressing my breasts.

I felt Fred's lips sucking on my neck, kissing everything they could reach.

But before I could react, before I could move, before I could even breathe—

Theo spoke. His voice low, warm, hushed with something heavier, deeper, rawer.

"Turn around, baby. I'm done waiting— give me your mouth."

My eyes snapped open.

And I felt it.

Like a lightning strike to the chest.

Like a sudden, brutal, undeniable realization that knocked the breath from my lungs.

It wasn't Theo.

It was never him.

Chapter Text

"Missed me last night, baby?"

Theo's voice was smooth, lazy, the kind of drawl that belonged to someone who knew he was wanted. His arm draped over my shoulders with practiced ease, his fingers curling lightly against my arm, like this was a habit now. Like we did this all the time.

I didn't hesitate. My arm slid around his waist, fingers splaying across his ribs, pressing against the soft fabric of his jumper. He was warm beneath it, solid, real.

I tilted my head up at him, lips curving into something teasing. "Deeply. I can't believe you actually let me sleep alone this time. Thought we were past that."

Theo smirked, tilting his head slightly, like he was considering it. "Thought you might need a break from me." He leaned in, voice dropping just for me. "Doesn't mean I'm done with you, though. You know that, don't you?"

A shiver worked its way down my spine, but I ignored it, scoffing lightly. "I know, Theo. It was our first time two nights ago. Would be a shame if you just left me hanging now."

His smirk deepened, something dark and pleased flickering across his features. "First time rejecting me, you mean?" He exhaled a soft chuckle, his breath warm against my cheek. "I was hoping for a different ending than you falling asleep in my arms crying."

The words hit their mark. My fingers twitched slightly against his waist, but I kept my face perfectly composed.

"Well," I said, forcing a lazy shrug, "that's not entirely true."

It was.

Theo studied me for a second too long, his smirk still in place, but his eyes—his eyes—felt like they were seeing straight through me.

But he let me have the lie.

Instead of calling me on it, he lifted his hand from my arm, trailing the back of his knuckles along my jaw, slow and deliberate. The touch sent something hot and tight curling low in my stomach.

Then, before I could react, before I could so much as breathe, his lips brushed against my cheek—light, lingering, just close enough to the corner of my mouth to make me ache.

His voice was low, hushed, just for me.

"Don't worry, love," he murmured, the heat of his words searing into my skin. "It's not like you don't want me to kiss you."

The tip of his nose ghosted against my temple, like he was drinking in the moment. Then, just before he pulled away—

"Just... not yet."

And then he stepped back.

Not turning, not breaking eye contact, just watching me as he put distance between us—like he was waiting to see if I'd reach for him.

My breath stayed locked in my throat.

Then, finally, his lips curved—a slow, devastating smirk—and he winked.

And then he turned.

Leaving me standing in the middle of the Great Hall, every inch of me betraying nothing—except for the dozens of Gryffindor eyes locked onto me.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, rolling my shoulders back, tilting my head slightly as I slowly let my gaze sweep over the room. A cluster of fourth-years sat frozen, whispering furiously, eyes wide like they'd just witnessed something legendary.

I smirked.

"What? You want a photo next time?"

One of them choked on their pumpkin juice. Another's face turned beet red. No one answered.

Then, without a single glance back, I slid onto the bench beside Ginny and Hermione, settling in like nothing happened.

Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice. "That was dramatic."

"That was impressive," Hermione muttered, though her expression suggested she wasn't sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

"Good morning to you too." I laughed.

And then—

I felt them.

That distinct, familiar heat of a gaze locked onto me, like a weight pressing against my skin.

I didn't need to look to know.

But I did anyway.

Lifting my head just slightly, I caught them staring.

Fred and George.

Both of them.

Silent. Watching.

Fred's eyes were steady, dark with something calculated. Something I couldn't quite place.

George, though? He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Like something didn't quite add up. Like he was trying to work out an equation that wasn't balancing.

Neither of them looked away.

Neither did I.

But instead of reaching for my own cup, I took Fred's.

Lifted it to my lips, took a slow sip of his tea, never breaking eye contact.

Then, just as effortlessly, I reached for George's plate—plucking a piece of toast right from under his fingers.

A bite. A chew. A swallow.

Now I was in control.

And they knew it.

Fred's expression didn't change, but I saw the shift. The slight twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers curled around the table, like he was deciding whether to comment or let it slide.

George inhaled sharply. Not loud, not obvious, but I caught it. The subtle flare of his nostrils, the way his gaze flickered—first to the stolen toast, then to my face.

I chewed slowly, letting the moment stretch, letting them sit in it.

And then—

Fred exhaled through his nose, low and slow. And that was when I saw it.

The smirk.

Not a big one. Not his usual cocky grin. Smaller. Sharper. Darker.

Like he was enjoying this.

Like he wasn't going to let me win that easily.

George, on the other hand? His gaze burned. Not playful, not teasing—just heavy, like he was reading me too closely.

I lifted my chin slightly, silent challenge.

And Fred's smirk was still there—small, sharp, pleased. Like he'd been waiting for this. Waiting for me to push back, to challenge him, to finally—finally—give him something to chase.

The toast was good. But the silence? Even better.

That was when George snapped.

"What the hell are you doing, Lena?"

The words cut through the hum of morning chatter, sharp enough to pull focus. Conversations slowed. Heads turned. Someone's fork clattered against their plate.

I didn't flinch.

Didn't rush.

A slow smirk curved my lips. Easy. Unbothered. In control.

"Having breakfast, George. You?"

And then I picked up Fred's cup again.

"That's not what I meant."

His voice was rough—low, barely controlled. Like he was done pretending. Done letting me brush past whatever this was.

I lifted his cup, unbothered. Took another slow sip.

That was when Fred laughed.

Not his usual laugh—not the kind that made people lean in, made the room feel lighter.

This one was short. Humorless. Sharp.

He leaned back.

"Oh, I think she knows exactly what you meant, Georgie."

His voice was smooth, but his smirk didn't reach his eyes. It was too sharp. Too deliberate.

Too pissed.

His gaze flicked to me—not just teasing anymore. Not just watching.

Waiting. Testing.

Something darker.

His fingers drummed once against the table before he lifted his cup, tilting it slightly toward me.

"But hey, why spell it out?" His voice was light, but his eyes weren't. "She's clearly doing just fine without us."

Huh.

Then, he drank.

A slow sip, controlled, deliberate.

Like he needed it to keep from saying something else.
Like he was keeping something locked behind his teeth.

I smiled.

Took my time.

And then I said—

„Oh, you mean me spending time with someone who doesn't make me question my worth?"

Silence.

Tense. Loud. Buzzing.

Fred's grip on his cup went white-knuckled.

The silence stretched.

Tense. Loud. Buzzing.

I could feel it—the way the entire table was waiting for someone to move.

Then, slowly—Fred and George's gazes lifted.

Heavy. Dark. Burning.

The weight of it settled over me, but I didn't shift. Didn't react.
Didn't have to.

Because before I could even consider what came next—

A hand slid against my back.

Warm. Casual. Effortless.

Theo.

I barely had time to register his touch before he tilted his head, his signature smirk firmly in place.

"Didn't know breakfast came with a live performance," he mused, voice smooth and dripping with amusement. "Did I miss the part where you two declared your undying love for my girl, or should I give you a moment?"

His fingers pressed slightly against my spine, just enough to remind them—remind everyone—exactly where I had spent my time.

Fred let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

George? Didn't. Move.

Just kept looking at me, his fingers still curled against the table, his jaw tight enough to crack.

Theo hummed, tapping his chin. "I mean, it's cute, really." He shot them both a grin. "The way you two have been sulking all morning? I almost feel bad for you."

His grin widened. "Almost."

George exhaled sharply, shaking his head, finally speaking.

„I'd be careful, Nott." His voice was steady, but there was something tight beneath it. "You act like you're winning, but you don't even know the game you're playing."

Theo's grin didn't waver, but his eyes darkened. "Oh, Georgie. But that's the thing—" He leaned in slightly, his fingers trailing slow, lazy circles against my back. "I don't have to play when I've already won."

Fred huffed, shaking his head, exasperated but pissed.

"Merlin, you talk a lot, Nott." He lifted his cup, taking a slow sip. "Must be exhausting, carrying around all that smugness."

But before the moment could detonate—

I finally cut in.

I exhaled, slow and easy.

Then, without looking back at them, I glanced at Theo.

"Walk me to class?"

Theo hummed, pleased, triumphant. "Thought you'd never ask, baby."

And just before we turned away, Theo tossed one last glance back at the twins.

"Try not to miss her too much, yeah?"

-

The wind was biting today.

Not enough to stop me, not yet, but enough that I knew—this would be the last time.

Winter was creeping in fast, the cold settling deeper into the castle walls, the grass stiff with frost in the early mornings. And the lake? It was already pushing it.

I could feel it in the way the water stung my skin as I waded in, sharp and unforgiving. This was it.

My last session on the Black Lake before the cold locked it down for good.

I tightened my harness, secured the straps of my wetsuit, fingers quick and sure. This had become routine now. Whenever I had the chance, I was out here, carving my way across the shallower parts of the lake, pushing myself faster, higher, stronger.

And I wasn't the only one who noticed.

People watched. They always did.

Hagrid's class had seen me before, their wide-eyed stares and muffled gasps floating over the water as I caught air, twisting mid-flight before landing in a clean, effortless glide.

I didn't mind.

Not anymore.
______________________________
He was watching. He often did. Hiding behind the bushes. Hoping she'd fall. Hoping the problem would resolve itself. Hoping the lake would take her. His fingers curled into fists, breath quivering, feverish. The Dark Lord would be pleased if she drowned. If nature took care of her before he had to. His lips curled slightly as he watched her carve through the water, leaning back, pushing harder. A little further. Just a little more. Beyond the shallow parts, the lake changed. Darker. Hungrier. And things waited down there. Things with teeth.
He exhaled slowly. Watching. Waiting.
_______________________________

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering golden light over my desk as I flipped through my Charms notes, quill tapping absently against the parchment. The scent of earthy tea and fresh herbs still lingered from my late afternoon with Pomona and Neville, a warmth I hadn't realized I'd needed.

The open window let in a sharp breath of winter air, crisp and biting against my skin, a stark contrast to the cozy heat inside.

Then—

A thump.

Another.

A muffled curse from outside.

Chaos.

A flurry of wings, feathers, frantic hooting—

My head snapped up just as Steven and an entire squadron of exhausted owls crash-landed onto my floor, a massive package tangled between them.

I blinked.

Steven, positively fuming, ruffled his feathers like he was debating murder, while one particularly scrawny barn owl collapsed dramatically against my bed.

I sighed, rubbing my temples.

The package was huge. Heavy. Wrapped in a mess of brown paper and excessive spellotape.

A light pink letter was aggressively taped to the top.

I recognized the handwriting immediately.

Oh, no.

I tore it open
______________________________

Lena, you absolute disaster—

Before we get into the monumental crime I have just committed on your behalf, let's address the more pressing issue at hand:

DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT MOAN DURING THEO'S NECK KISSES?

Because, listen, I was prepared for you to be an unhinged little menace in this new mysterious life of yours. But I was NOT prepared for the absolute madness of opening my mailbox to find a letter from my best friend, containing zero, ZERO details except that she apparently made unwise choices at a party.
And now I rewarded that behavior with one giant-ass criminal act in the form of THE TELEVISION I HAVE JUST STOLEN FOR YOU.
Yeah, that's right. I did it. I broke into your parents' house. Again.
And for what? For you to not spill the tea?

Unacceptable.

I demand a full, painfully detailed recounting of what, exactly, went down. Was it a hot moan or a pathetic moan? Were you melting into his touch or did he surprise attack your throat like some kind of feral vampire? Were there hand placements? Did he whisper things?

I need to know.

Also, not to make things worse, but if you moaned for him, what in the ever-loving hell would happen if the Weasleys ever got their hands on you? Would you spontaneously combust?
Food for thought.

Anyway, your precious TV is now safely in your possession, thanks to my exceptional criminal skills and complete lack of regard for authority.

Steven, however, is deeply disappointed in both of us.

I expect an immediate response.
- Mona, the love of your life

P.S. Your dad still leaves his key under the flowerpot. He deserves to be robbed.
______________________________

I snorted, actually snorted, nearly knocking over my ink bottle as I doubled over in laughter.
God, I missed Mona.

Without wasting another second, I grabbed a fresh piece of parchment, dipped my quill, and immediately started writing back—fast, messy, absolutely unhinged.

______________________________

Mona,
You absolute legend. I owe you pizza for the rest of your goddamn life.

DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT JUST STEAL A TELEVISION FOR ME?
(I mean, yes, I begged for it, but STILL.)

Because listen, I knew you were unhinged.
I knew, at some point, you would commit a felony in my honor. But I mean, how? When?
Are my parents still breathing?
Do you need help?

But let's be real.
You did not write me this letter out of the goodness of your thieving little heart.
You want details.
And fine.
You asked for them, so buckle up, bitch.

ACT ONE: THE PUBLIC HUMILIATION OF LENA MAY

Did I moan? Yes, Mona.
In public.
Loudly.

Because Theo—that smug, evil, unfairly attractive menace—kissed and sucked my neck in just the right way and I fully, completely, shamelessly lost my entire grip on reality.
In front of Fred.
In front of George.
In front of half the common room.

ACT TWO: THEO NOTT, THE DEVIL IN HUMAN FORM

Because after my very public disgrace, I hid.
And Theo, that absolute menace, decided to invite himself in. Or I invited him. (maybe)
He stretched out on my bed like he owned it.
He brought snacks.

AND THEN—
WHEN I HALF-JOKED, "I JUST WANT TO CUDDLE AND BE TOLD I'M PRETTY,"
HE ACTUALLY DID IT.
PULLED ME UNDER THE BLANKETS.
WRAPPED AN ARM AROUND MY WAIST.
BRUSHED HIS FINGERS UP AND DOWN MY SPINE.
AND SAID, 'LENA? YOU'RE PRETTY.'
And then
HE ASKED IF I WANT HIM TO STAY THE NIGHT.
And like the absolute idiot that I am,
I said yes.
Kill. Me.

ACT THREE: TOTAL FALLOUT

Because Theo didn't just sleep beside me.
Oh no.
He held me.
He whispered against my throat, kissed me there.
He slid his hands under my shirt. UNDER, MONA.
AND THEN—
THE MOTHERFUCKER—
CUPPED MY BREAST, PINCHED MY NIPPLE, AND SUCKED A MARK INTO MY NECK.
AND THEN HE—
AND I QUOTE—
SAID, IN THE MOST UNHOLY VOICE I HAVE EVER HEARD IN MY LIFE,

"TURN AROUND, BABY. I'M DONE WAITING—GIVE ME YOUR MOUTH."

MONA!
I DID TURN AROUND!
But did I kiss him?
Did I give in, go feral, let him have what he wanted?
No.

I STARTED CRYING. ON HIS CHEST. LIKE A TRAGIC, PITIFUL, PATHETIC LITTLE GREMLIN. BECAUSE APPARENTLY, MY BRAIN DECIDED THAT THE PERFECT MOMENT TO THINK ABOUT FRED AND GEORGE WAS, WHEN THEO MOANED IN MY EAR. HALF NAKED. HOT.

And Theo didn't even get annoyed.
No.
He just held me.
Brushed his fingers through my hair.
Didn't ask, didn't push.
Just sighed, tucked me closer, and whispered, "I've got you."

I'VE GOT YOU, MONA!

And that made me cry harder.
Till I fell asleep on him.

That was 2 nights ago and today? I feel like a goddess. Wanted by Theo fucking Nott, who said he'll wait for me.
HE'LL WAIT FOR ME!

And I was done playing.
So what did I do?
Game time with the carrots.
I walked in, sat down, and—
Took a sip from Fred's cup.
Stole toast from George's plate.
And when George snapped,
"What the hell are you doing, Lena?"
I just smiled.
"Having breakfast, George. You?"

Fred?
Pissed.
George?
Furious.

THEN THEO SLID HIS HAND AGAINST MY BACK. CALLED ME "MY GIRL."
TEASED THEM RELENTLESSLY.

And Fred and George? They were LIVID.
I have started a war.
And I don't know how to win it.

Because I still want them.
Because when Fred looked at me, I wanted to grab him by the collar and make him talk with his hands instead of his mouth.
Because when George clenched his jaw, I wanted to sink my teeth into it.

Send help.
Or don't.
You're enjoying this too much.

Forever spiraling,
Lena
P.S. George wanted (pretended to want?) to kiss me while playing truth or dare and I said in front of everyone that I'd rather eat slugs than having his filthy tongue in my mouth.
_______________________________

I ripped through the packaging, grinning as my old TV and a stack of DVDs tumbled out. Perfect.

Too bulky, though. I flicked my wand, muttering the charm. The screen shimmered, shrinking into a sleek, thin panel. Another flick, and it floated up, mounting itself perfectly on the wall. And it worked.

I grinned. Oh, this was going to be good.

I leaned back against my pillows, staring at my newly mounted TV, still grinning from how perfectly the enchantment had worked. But as the initial excitement faded, something else settled in—something quieter.

I hadn't really talked to Ginny and Hermione since the party. Since... everything.

Before I could second-guess it, I grabbed some parchment.

You two busy? Feel like a girls' night?

Ginny's reply came almost instantly.

Thought you'd never ask. Be there in ten.

Hermione followed a moment later.

I'll bring tea. Ginny will probably bring something unhealthy. See you soon.

I smirked, shaking my head.

Ten minutes later, a knock sounded at my door.

"Get in here," I called.

The door swung open, and Ginny strolled in first, arms loaded with a ridiculous amount of snacks. Hermione followed, carrying a tea set like she was a refined guest at a respectable gathering.

I grinned. "Finally. Thought you two were avoiding me."

Ginny dropped onto my bed, kicking off her shoes. "Oh, you were the one constantly busy hiding from Fred and George or hiding in Theos arms."

Hermione huffed, setting the tea down. "Ignore her. I want to hear everything."

Ginny smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Now spill."

I exhaled, leaning back against my pillows as Ginny and Hermione settled in. The room felt warm, cozy—the kind of safe space I needed.

"Alright," I said, stretching my legs out. "Here's the whole mess."

Ginny raised a brow. "Finally."

Hermione just sipped her tea, watching me closely.

I hesitated for only a second before I started from the beginning.

"I... sort of fake-dated Theo," I admitted, cringing slightly. "At first."

Ginny choked on her pumpkin pasty. "You what?"

Hermione's brows furrowed. "Wait, wait—at first?"

I let out a short laugh. "Yeah. He was just helping me out, making me feel in control again after everything that happened with—" I gestured vaguely, but they both knew exactly who I meant. "—them. And it worked. I felt... powerful."

Ginny looked far too amused. "And now?"

I exhaled, my fingers playing with a loose thread on my blanket. "And now... I don't know. Somewhere between the teasing and the games, it got real."

Hermione frowned. "Real for who?"

I swallowed. "For him.  ...and for me, too I think."

Hermione's expression softened.

Ginny, however, was already bracing herself. "Alright, what exactly happened?"

I laughed humorlessly, running a hand through my hair. "You mean besides me being completely humiliated during Truth or Dare?"

Ginny's jaw tightened, her usual fire flaring up. "That was bullshit. George was going to kiss you. I don't know why you—"

"I thought he was messing with me," I admitted, cutting her off. "I thought it was a joke."

Hermione inhaled sharply. "Oh, Lena..."

"I panicked," I said, shaking my head. "And then I spent the whole night trying to pretend I didn't care. Until..."

I hesitated.

Ginny leaned forward. "Until?"

I forced myself to say it.

"I spent the night with Theo."

Hermione's teacup clinked a little too hard onto its saucer. Ginny's eyes went wide.

"You WHAT?"

"Not like that!" I waved my hands, then groaned, dropping my head back. "Okay, maybe almost like that. But then..."

I swallowed. "He was kissing my neck, then I turned around. But instead of kissing him, I—" I let out a weak, breathless laugh. "I started crying onto his chest."

Ginny's expression shifted from shocked to something softer. "Oh, Lena."

Hermione was watching me carefully. "And Theo? What did he do?"

I sighed. "He held me. Told me it was okay. And it was... nice." I exhaled, rubbing my temples. "Except it wasn't him I wanted in that moment."

The words hung between us.

Ginny didn't move. Hermione's lips parted slightly, waiting.

"When I closed my eyes while he touched and kissed me... I suddenly thought about them."

Silence.

Then—Hermione let out a sharp breath. "Fred and George."

I nodded, staring at my lap. "Their hands. Their lips. Not Theo's."

Ginny choked on her drink.

"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, LENA!"

She whacked me with a pillow.

"MY BROTHERS?! BOTH OF THEM?! THEIR HANDS?! THEIR LIPS?!"

I wheezed, shielding myself. "I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS, GINNY!"

"OH, BUT YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT IT?!" Another whack. "DURING ANOTHER MAN'S TOUCH?!"

Hermione was crying from laughter.

Ginny threw her hands up. "You're telling me that while you were in bed with THEODORE NOTT, your brain went—" she clapped, mimicking realization— "You know who I'd rather have on top of me? FRED AND GEORGE FUCKING WEASLEY?!"

I groaned. "Ginny, I swear—"

"I CAN NEVER LOOK THEM IN THE EYES AGAIN."

Hermione wiped away tears. "Ginny, please—"

"NO! This is TRAUMA." She clutched her heart, collapsing onto the bed. "Generations of Weasleys are weeping in their graves."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, relax. I didn't do anything."

"YET," she hissed.

I glared. "I hate you."

"You love me," she said sweetly, then immediately gagged. "Merlin, their hands—" She shuddered.

Hermione, still grinning, finally asked, "Lena... what do you need right now?"

I exhaled, sinking into the blankets, Ginny still muttering about holy water beside me.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

I didn't know.

Chapter Text

Winter had fully settled into Hogwarts.

The castle had shifted with the season—everything felt slower, softer, wrapped in a kind of quiet that only came with the creeping approach of Christmas. The corridors smelled like warm parchment and candle wax, laced with the occasional hint of cinnamon and clove from the kitchens. The Great Hall flickered with the golden glow of enchanted garlands, and the air outside was sharp, crisp, the Black Lake already beginning to freeze over at the edges.

It was colder now, biting in the mornings and lingering in your bones long after you came inside. Scarves were mandatory, thick wool socks a necessity, and the common rooms—once places to simply pass through—became sanctuaries, their crackling fires a welcome escape from the chill. Even the professors had settled into a slower rhythm, assigning less homework, letting students linger before sending them off with a distracted wave.

Everything had slowed.

Everything except for me.

Because for the past two weeks, I had been running.

Not metaphorically. Physically.

And the reason?

George Weasley.

Since that morning in the Great Hall, he had been trying—relentlessly—to talk to me.

And at first, I had handled it maturely.

By walking away.

The first time, I simply turned around and left mid-sentence. The second time, I pretended I hadn't heard him and took a very deliberate sip of my tea. The third time? I ran.

Full speed. No warning. Just straight up bolted.

George had stood there, stunned, watching me sprint down the corridor like I was fleeing for my life.

That was the moment things shifted.

Because after that, it became a game.

Every time he tried to corner me, I ran.

And at first, he was confused. Irritated, even. But after the fourth or fifth attempt, he started to enjoy it.

"Lena."

I turned.

Saw him.

Gone.

I took off, laughing as I ran, weaving through students, boots skidding across the stone floors.

Somewhere behind me, George let out a bark of laughter.

"Oh, come on, Mayhem, at least make it a challenge!"

A thud. Then another.

Then—footsteps.

Fast. Gaining.

Oh, shit.

George had never chased me before.

Not really. He'd let me go, shaking his head, laughing under his breath, rolling his eyes like I was a nuisance he could deal with later.

But this time?

This time, he ran.

I risked a glance over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

George was right there.

Tall, fast, smirking.

Oh, hell no.

I pushed harder, sprinting toward the Grand Staircase, nearly crashing into a suit of armor as I took a sharp turn.

"Lena, just stop!"

"Absolutely not!"

He laughed. Loud. Unrestrained.

And then—Fred stepped in front of me.

"Oh, fuck—"

I tried to stop.

Failed.

Fred didn't move.

And I crashed straight into him.

It was less of a collision and more of a tactical ambush, because instead of stumbling back, Fred simply caught me.

Effortless. Like he'd been waiting for it.

One hand gripped my waist, the other wrapped around my wrist, steadying me, pinning me just enough that I couldn't immediately escape.

My breath came out fast, my pulse a thunderstorm in my ribs.

Fred tilted his head, smirking down at me.

"You're quick," he mused. "But not quick enough."

"Move," I huffed, trying to squirm past him.

He didn't.

He grinned.

"Nah."

And that was when George caught up.

Panting. Laughing. Pissed.

"Nice teamwork, mate," George clapped Fred on the back, but his eyes were locked on me.

I swallowed.

Still caught.

Fred's grip was firm, but not unkind. But the weight of both their gazes?

Suffocating.

"So," Fred drawled. "What exactly are we doing here?"

"Yeah, Lena." George's voice was lower, a little more breathless, his smirk still sharp from the chase. "Running from something?"

I forced a smug smile, breath still ragged.

"Just keeping you on your toes, boys."

Fred's grip tightened for half a second.

George exhaled, slow and sharp.

I exhaled sharply, still caught, still trapped between them. My pulse raced, but my mind? It was faster.

And then—

A lazy drawl from down the corridor.

"Well, well," Theo mused, his voice slow, amused, completely unbothered. "Hate to interrupt whatever bizarre twin interrogation this is, but you're holding up my girl."

Fred and George stiffened—just slightly.

It was enough.

I didn't think—just moved—shifting my weight and yanking one arm free as Theo casually strolled closer, his smirk already waiting for me.

I twisted. Spun. And just as Fred tried to tighten his grip, Theo's hand wrapped around my wrist—firm, steady, a perfect, practiced maneuver.

A tug. A spin.

And suddenly, I was free, stepping right into Theo's space as he twirled me out of their grasp like this was a bloody ballroom dance.

He caught me, effortlessly.

One arm snaking around my waist, the other lifting my hand to his lips—a kiss against my knuckles, light, teasing, smug.

"Perfect timing," I breathed, smirking up at him.

Theo grinned. "Aren't I always?"

And before the twins could fully react, before they could recover, Theo spun me again, this time leading me straight down the corridor—away.

Smooth. Effortless. Untouchable.

"Pleasure, boys," Theo called over his shoulder, his arm still locked around me as we vanished around the corner.

The last two weeks with Theo had been... too easy. Easier than they should have been.

I had expected things to shift after that night—the way he had held me, the way his fingers had skimmed across my skin, slow and steady. The way he had whispered ‚I've got you' into my hair like it was a promise. I had thought things would be heavier, messier, more complicated.

But Theo had let me breathe.

He still found me every morning, slinging an arm over my shoulders like it was second nature, like there was never a question of whether or not I belonged there. He still teased me relentlessly, his voice always just low enough to make me shiver. Still leaned into my space, still trailed his fingers up and down my spine absentmindedly when we sat in potions class.

Like nothing had changed.

Like I didn't say no to him that night.

And maybe that was why I let myself fall into the rhythm of it so easily—because Theo didn't push. He didn't need to. He had nothing to prove.

And I liked that.

I liked how simple it was. How effortless.

But -

I wanted him.

There was no question about that.

I wanted his hands on me. His mouth on my skin. I wanted the weight of him, the warmth, the way he knew exactly where to touch, how to pull a reaction out of me like it was second nature. I wanted him to moan my name again, struggling to hold himself back. I wanted the way he looked at me—like I was something sharp and bright and his, if only I'd let myself be.

But I never invited him over again.

Not because I didn't trust him.

But because I didn't trust myself.

Because it was too easy to let him pull me under, to sink into him, to take everything he was offering.

And the problem was—I didn't know the difference between wanting him
and wanting them.

Theo made me feel grounded, steady. Safe, even. I wanted to be wanted by him. I wanted to feel him claim me, to wrap myself in the comfort of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. I wanted his hands, his mouth, his whispered words against my throat, because I knew exactly what I'd get with him.

But Fred and George?

That wasn't steady. That wasn't safe.

That was fire.

That was a slow, unbearable burn, a pull so sharp it left me gasping.
That was hands that had never touched me but had ruined me anyway.
That was heat curling in my stomach at the sound of my own name in their mouths.
That was not knowing what would happen next, but wanting it anyway.

And I didn't know what that meant.

I didn't know which of those things was real.

I didn't know who I really wanted.

-

Fred was frustrating.

Because unlike George, who had made it his personal mission to get me alone, to talk to me, to chase me down whenever he could—

Fred had done nothing.

Not directly, anyway.

Oh, he was still there. Still watching. Still smirking whenever I dodged George like it was a sport. Still close enough to remind me that he was paying attention, but never close enough.

Because Fred didn't chase.

He waited.

And that drove me absolutely insane.

I expected him to push—to get in my space, to throw out some sharp-edged teasing, to do something to shake me up. But instead, he just... watched.

Like he was enjoying the show.
Like he knew I was the one who would slip first.

And that?

That was worse.

Because I felt him.

Every time I laughed at something Theo whispered in my ear, every time I caught George's eye across the common room, I felt Fred.

Like static in the air. Like heat against my skin.

Like he was waiting for me to realize something I wasn't ready to admit.

And maybe I did.

Maybe I knew exactly what he was waiting for.

But that didn't mean I was going to give it to him.

-

The Great Hall was a madhouse this cold winter afternoon.

Students from fourth year and up had been herded inside, the usual long tables pushed aside to make room for whatever fresh hell we were about to endure. The chatter was deafening, the energy shifting between excitement and pure, unfiltered dread.

The girls were clustered on one side of the hall, the boys on the other, a clear and entirely unintentional divide that made it look like we were about to stage a battle rather than attend an assembly.

I was wedged between Lavender and Hermione, who both looked equally suspicious about whatever was about to happen. Across the way, the boys were no better—Theo had his hands in his pockets, looking like he was already amused by something.

"Quiet down, all of you!"

McGonagall's voice rippled through the hall like a spell, the volume dropping instantly as she stepped onto the raised platform at the front. Her expression was severe, her robes crisp, her gaze exasperated before she even started speaking.

"If you haven't already figured it out," she said, adjusting her glasses, "this gathering is in preparation for the Yule Ball."

A collective groan filled the room.

"The what?" Lavender muttered beside me, frowning.

Hermione, however, perked up. "It's a formal event held during the Triwizard Tournament," she explained quickly. "A ball. A dance."

A dance.

I tensed.

Oh, absolutely not.

McGonagall continued as if she hadn't just sentenced half the room to immediate suffering.

"As students of Hogwarts, you are all expected to conduct yourselves with grace and decorum at this event," she said, scanning the hall with the kind of look that suggested she doubted very much that we had either of those qualities. "And as such, you will be required to learn how to properly dance."

The groaning got worse.

"Dancing?" Ron wheezed somewhere, visibly distressed.

"Properly dancing," McGonagall corrected.

Theo, still standing across the hall, turned his head slightly, his smirk slow and deliberate as his eyes met mine.

I exhaled sharply, already seeing where this was going.

Oh, he was enjoying this.

Before I could mentally prepare myself, McGonagall clapped her hands sharply.

"Now, everyone will need a partner."

Instant chaos.

Students panicked, darting across the room to claim friends, others stood frozen in place like they'd rather face the Basilisk than ask someone to dance.

I hesitated—only for a second—before turning toward Ginny and Hermione, fully prepared to pretend I didn't hear that instruction.

But just as I took a step back—

Strong arms wrapped around my waist.

Firm. Solid. Unyielding.

And then—

"GOT ONE!"

Fred.

My entire body locked up as the words echoed across the Great Hall, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

I barely had time to process it before I was physically lifted off the ground, my feet leaving the floor as Fred spun me half a step away from Ginny and Hermione, securing his ridiculous hold around my waist like he'd just claimed me for a prize.

Laughter.

Someone whooped. Someone else cheered.

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose so hard I thought she might hex him on the spot.

"You are not supposed to manhandle your partners, Weasley."

"Duly noted," Fred said cheerfully.

My face was on fire.

I felt every single pair of eyes in the Great Hall locked on us. Hermione looked horrified. Ginny looked amused. George looked like he was about to combust.

And Theo looked like he'd just witnessed a challenge.

Fred's grip loosened, just slightly. His cocky grin softened, just enough for me to notice.

His voice was low, close to my ear. "So, what do you say, May? Want to make me look good?"

I stiffened. Because—what the hell was I supposed to say to that?

No?

Not when everyone was watching, not when I already felt the weight of the moment closing in on me, pressing down on my lungs.

I forced my lips into a smirk, my voice light, easy, as if my pulse wasn't thunderous beneath my skin. „Okay".

Across the hall, Theo was watching us, head tilted, expression unreadable—until, slowly, that familiar smirk pulled at his lips. And then—

He turned.

Right toward George.

For a second, I thought he was just going to make a comment. Maybe a joke. Maybe one of his signature sarcastic jabs.

But no.

He extended his hand.

"Come on, Weasley," he said smoothly. "Since your brother robbed us both of our first choice, I think it's only fair we make the most of it."

The room fell into silence for half a second.

Then George burst out laughing. "Oh, you absolute menace." He clapped Theo on the back, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, let's give them a show."

And they did.

Within seconds, Theo and George launched into what could only be described as the most exaggerated, ridiculous, theatrical waltz anyone had ever seen.

George took the lead, guiding Theo across the floor with dramatic, sweeping steps. Theo played along, throwing in an absurd twirl here, dipping George like they were in the final act of a tragic romance.

Laughter erupted across the hall. Even McGonagall—who had undoubtedly been ready to scold them—pressed her fingers against her temples, as if debating whether she actually had the energy to deal with this.

Theo, ever the performer, threw a wink in my direction as George spun him out and then caught him again with flair.

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.

Fred chuckled low in my ear. "Well. At least they're entertaining."

I turned back to him, sighing. "Just don't dip me, Weasley."

He grinned, eyes full of mischief. "No promises."

Then McGonagall clapped her hands, calling for order. "Alright, enough of this nonsense. Everyone, stand in front of your partner. Feet apart, shoulders squared—yes, that includes you, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Nott."

George, still grinning, mockingly adjusted Theo's imaginary collar before stepping back. Theo smirked, running a hand through his hair like he'd just finished a particularly exhausting performance.

"This is a traditional ballroom dance," she continued, "so I expect proper form. Gentlemen, your left hand should take your partner's right. Your right hand should rest on your partner's waist. Ladies, your left hand should rest lightly on your partner's shoulder."

Fred's hand found mine first.

Firm. Sure. No hesitation.

I swallowed, ignoring the way his fingers curled around mine—warm, steady, like they belonged there.

Then his other hand settled on my waist.

Heat.

Real, solid, unmistakable warmth.

The same warmth that had enchanted my sweater weeks ago. The warmth I had tried so hard to scrub from my skin, from my memory.

The warmth I had wanted to drown.

I froze.

It spread through me instantly, unwelcome, unwarranted, unraveling something I had carefully stitched back together. The fire at my back, burning through my sweater, my skin, my ribs—curling around my spine like it wanted to stay.

I needed it gone.

Fred adjusted his grip, fingers flexing slightly against my waist, the callouses on his palm catching on the fabric of my sweater, and suddenly, it wasn't just warmth.

It was him.

His touch.

His hands.

I felt the sharp snap of something ugly, something bitter, coil deep in my stomach.

The memories surged, thick and fast—Fred's smirk when he made the bet, the way he and had laughed at me after the grasshoppers, the way they had humiliated me, mocked me, torn me apart for their own amusement.

And now he was holding me.

Now his hand was on my waist.

Now he was looking at me like none of it had ever happened.

I needed it gone.

My gaze snapped up—desperate, searching—

And I found him.

Theo.

Watching.

Still.

Unmoving.

His smirk was gone.

Just a quiet, steady gaze, locked on me.

I had let myself forget.
For two weeks, I had let myself ignore the way they had made me feel. Had let myself get distracted. But now? With his hand on my waist? With his skin pressed against mine?

I couldn't ignore it.

I wouldn't ignore it.

I needed his touch gone. Now.

My breathing hitched. My pulse slammed into my ribs, my fingers twitching like they wanted to pry him off.

I couldn't let this happen.

Not with him.

Not with Fred Weasley.

I jerked back.

Too fast. Too sudden. My heel caught slightly on the smooth stone floor, but I didn't care. I twisted out of his hold, putting an entire step of space between us.

Fred blinked, startled. "Lena—?"

I swallowed, shoving down the tightness in my throat.

"I can't. I can't.... I'm sorry"

The words escaped before I could stop them, fragile and raw, barely more than a breath.

Fred's grip slackened instantly, like I'd shocked him.

But before he could react—before anyone could—

Theo was there.

Not across the room. Not watching from a distance.

Right beside me.

His presence was a shadow, a force, sudden and undeniable—his voice low, smooth, dangerous.

"Weasley," he drawled. "Switch."

A heartbeat.

Then—

Theo's arm was around me.

Holding me.

I didn't breathe until I was pressed against him instead.

His grip was firm, his hands sure, his warmth different.

Not fire. Not the kind that seared through me, unraveling everything I tried to hold together.

This warmth was grounding.

Safe.

I exhaled, unsteady.

Theo's fingers curled against my waist, his voice smooth, easy, only loud enough for me to hear—

"Better?"

I swallowed.

Nodded.

Then, his grip tightened, settling me against him with zero hesitation.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the heavy silence stretching between us.

Then—

Fred exhaled a sharp, short laugh. Forced. Flat. Almost like he found the whole thing amusing.

"Well. That's one way to reject a bloke."

It wasn't a joke. Not really.

But it sounded like one.

A few people around us snickered, shifting awkwardly like they weren't sure if they should be laughing or pretending not to hear.

Then—

A firm clap against his shoulder.

"Right then, shall we?"

George.

His voice was light, but not careless. He shot Theo an unreadable look before flicking his gaze back to Fred, eyebrows raised, like he was waiting for something.

I barely registered it.

Barely registered them.

All I saw was Theo looking at me. The silent question ‚Do you need me to get you out of here?'

I exhaled softly, shifting my hand—placing it where I had just touched Fred. A silent exchange. A thank you.

Theo's fingers flexed slightly against my waist in response. A quiet acknowledgment. His gaze flickered over my face, searching.

"You good?" he murmured, his voice low, soft.

I nodded, swallowing back the tightness still coiled in my chest. "Yeah," I said quietly. "I'm good."

His grip steadied, his touch grounding. "You sure?"

The way he asked it, careful, unrushed—like he would've walked me out of here without a second thought—sent warmth curling deep in my ribs.

I nodded again. This time, firmer. "Yeah. I promise."

Something in his expression shifted, something unreadable flickering through his eyes before he exhaled, nodding back.

"Alright then" he said, voice tipping lighter as he finally moved us into the first step. „Just follow my lead, love. Though I wouldn't mind if you held on a little tighter.

The change was smooth, effortless. One second, he was steadying me, keeping me close. The next, he was guiding me across the floor, turning the moment into something else entirely.

I followed without thinking, letting him lead, his grip firm and sure.

"You're doing alright," he hummed after a moment, his lips curling slightly.

I exhaled a soft laugh, tension easing bit by bit with every step.

His smirk deepened, watching me closely. "That's better."

I met his eyes, the world narrowing down to just us, just this—his hands steady on me, his warmth anchoring me in place.

And then, before I could second-guess it, before I could think too much—
I let it slip.

"I just like the way it feels when you hold me."

Theo's grip tightened ever so slightly, his expression flickering—something cocky, something knowing, something almost surprised.

Then, his lips curved.

"Oh, love," he murmured, dipping his head just a little closer, just enough to make my pulse stutter. "You really are going to be the death of me."

Then Theo spun me effortlessly, his grip steady, guiding, until—

He pulled me back in. Closer.

Both of his arms wrapped fully around my waist now, securing me against him, warm and sure, like he wasn't planning on letting go anytime soon.

My breath hitched, my fingers hesitating for only a fraction of a second before they moved—slow, deliberate—sliding up the column of his throat, brushing against his jaw, and finally curling around the back of his neck.

A heartbeat.

Then another.

The dance slowed, the world around us fading into a blur of motion and sound, distant and unimportant.

It was just us now. Just his hands around me , just my fingers against his skin, just the space betw..

"MS. MAY, MR. NOTT!"

McGonagall's voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and exasperated.

I stiffened. Theo didn't.

"If you two are quite finished with your intimate reinterpretation of a traditional waltz, I'd suggest you remember that this is a formal dance lesson, not a public display of affection!"

A few students snickered. Theo barely suppressed a smirk, his grip not budging in the slightest.

"Of course, Professor," he drawled smoothly. "Just making sure my partner feels properly supported."

McGonagall's nostrils flared. "You may support your partner without treating the Great Hall like your personal ballroom, Mr. Nott. Kindly return to appropriate form before I separate you myself."

Before Theo could gloat any further, a sudden BANG echoed through the Great Hall.

The heavy doors shattered open, slamming against the stone walls with enough force to send a sharp gust of cold air rushing in. Conversations stuttered. Heads whipped toward the entrance.

I didn't need to turn around.

I already knew who had just left.

Theo, completely unfazed by the dramatic exit, barely spared the doors a glance before tilting his head down toward me, his smirk slow and deliberate.

"So, now that we've proven we're the best-looking couple in this room," he mused, his fingers tightening slightly, "how about making it official?"

I blinked up at him. "Official?"

His grin deepened. "You. Me. The Yule Ball." He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my cheek. "Say yes, baby."

But I was to distracted to really listen.

Even though Fred was gone.

His didn't take his warmth with him.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with energy, the warm glow of the fire fighting off the chill seeping through the castle walls. Outside, the sky was a heavy, wintery gray, threatening snow. The wind howled past the windows, rattling them just enough to remind everyone how much worse it was out there.

Inside, though, it was cozy.

Students were scattered across the room—some hunched over essays, others lazily chatting or playing games. The sound of laughing, quills scratching against parchment, and the occasional explosion from a game of Exploding Snap filled the space. The smell of buttered toast and hot cocoa lingered from lunch, mixing with the faint, smoky scent of the fireplace.

I was curled up in my usual spot, a thick blanket draped over my shoulders, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Ginny sat sprawled out on the floor, flipping through Witch Weekly, while Hermione was perched on the arm of the couch, her neatly written shopping list balanced on her knee.

"Alright," Hermione said, quill poised like a weapon. "What color are you thinking, Ginny?"

Ginny rolled onto her stomach, kicking her feet idly behind her. "Red, obviously. But a deep red—not bright. Something sleek, but a little dramatic."

Hermione nodded approvingly, scribbling something down. "That'll look great with your hair. Now, I was thinking something navy, maybe with silver details—"

"Perfect," Ginny cut in, pointing at her. "Very 'Head Girl' but in a hot way."

Hermione turned a bit pink but pretended not to hear that. Instead, she looked at me expectantly. "And you, Lena?"

I blinked. "Haven't decided yet."

Ginny sat up so fast she nearly knocked over her magazine. "WHAT?!"

"I'll figure it out tomorrow," I said, unbothered, sipping my tea.

"Tomorrow is dress shopping day!" Ginny flung her arms in the air. "You're supposed to have a vision, a color, an idea—something!"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Something comfortable?"

Ginny looked personally offended. "Lena, I love you, but you are absolutely hopeless."

"I just don't want to spend all night in a corset or something," I said. "I want to be able to breathe. And dance. And eat cake without regretting it."

"Okay, okay," Hermione said, switching into problem-solving mode. "Let's narrow it down. What kind of vibe do you want?"
"Classic? Romantic? Mysterious? Bold?" she listed off.

"No clue."

Ginny groaned, dropping onto her back dramatically. "Alright, picture this—you walk into the Great Hall, music playing, everyone turning to look at you. What do you want them to see?"

"Me, but better dressed?"

Ginny sat up just to throw a pillow at me.

"We'll figure it out," Hermione said, ignoring us as she added something to her list. "We'll start at Gladrags —it's the safest option for well-made gowns. If we don't find anything, we can check that boutique near Honeydukes."

"What about shoes?" Ginny asked, flipping through the magazine like she wasn't fully invested, but I knew better.

"I have a plan for that," Hermione said.

"Jewelry?"

"Made a list."

"Hair?"

"I have ideas."

"Hermione, I love you."

"I know."

We all laughed, the warmth of the fire wrapping around us, making the castle feel just a little less cold.

And then, as if it were a casual afterthought—but definitely not an afterthought—Ginny smirked and said,

„You're really committing to this, huh? I can't decide if it's inspiring or deeply concerning."

I sighed, shifting under my blanket. "We've been over this, Gin."

"Oh, I know," she said, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I just like repeating it out loud because it still sounds completely insane. You had a date, Lena. A perfectly good, ridiculously attractive date that half the girls in this school would commit actual crimes for. And you turned him down. On purpose."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. I won't be the only one showing up alone."

Ginny let out a disbelieving scoff, crossing her arms.

"Right. You and, what, three fourth-years who got rejected and are pretending they didn't care? Yeah, super normal."

Ginny's teasing lingered, but my mind was already elsewhere.

Theo had asked me so smoothly, so easily, like it was a given—like of course I'd say yes. And in that moment, I almost had.

Because Theo was safe. He was steady hands and teasing smirks, sharp wit and quiet patience. He was easy in a way that I never had to question, never had to second-guess.

And yet, the second his words had settled between us—"You. Me. The Yule Ball. Say yes, baby."—I had felt my stomach twist.

I had danced with him a little longer that afternoon, letting his presence settle me, letting myself forget—for just a moment—why my pulse had been racing in the first place.

Not because of Theo.

Because of Fred.

And that was the problem.

"Don't have to decide now," he had murmured, voice low, teasing. "But you will."

I had gone to bed that night torn in half, rolling the question over in my mind until I could barely think straight.

"Just say yes," a voice in my head had urged. "Theo is good. Theo is easy. Theo is waiting."

But another voice—one I hated, one I had been trying to ignore for weeks—sank its claws into me.

"But you don't want easy, do you?"

I had woken up tired, frustrated.

But I had made my decision.

I had found him after lunch, sitting in one of the castle's empty corridors, flipping lazily through a book like he had all the time in the world. But he wasn't reading. He was waiting.

For me.

His gaze flicked up the second I approached, already smirking like he knew exactly why I was there.

I had swallowed hard, wrapping my arms around myself.

"Hey."

"Hey, baby," he had said, smooth as ever. Then, without even looking up from his book: "So, are we making an entrance together, or did you just come here to pretend you weren't thinking about me all night?"

I had exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half something else.

"Theo—"

"You're turning me down, aren't you?"

I hesitated for half a second before nodding.

Theo exhaled sharply, like he was deeply, personally disappointed in me.

"Figured."

I frowned. "Figured?"

"You're predictable, baby," he said, exhaling a quiet laugh, but it didn't have the usual teasing weight to it. "Always overthinking, always fighting yourself. I'd be more surprised if you actually let yourself have something good for once."

That hit harder than I wanted it to.

"It's not like that, Theo."

"Isn't it?" he mused, gaze flicking over me in that sharp, unreadable way of his. Not angry. Not hurt. Just... waiting.

I let out a slow breath.

"I just don't know what I want right now," I admitted. "And it wouldn't be fair to you—"

"Lena, come on. You think I don't know exactly what I'm getting into with you?"

I swallowed.

"You think I haven't noticed the way you look at them?"

My stomach twisted.

Theo sighed, running a hand through his hair, his confidence slipping just for a second, just long enough for me to catch it before he put the mask back on.

"Look, baby, I knew the odds were slim," he admitted, shrugging. "But I figured there was at least a chance you'd stop overthinking for once and make the objectively correct decision."

I frowned. "Which is...?"

Theo grinned, bright, self-satisfied. "Me. Obviously."

I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, you love having me around."

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Theo—"

"Relax," he said, waving a hand. Like this was nothing at all. Like I hadn't just rejected the most effortlessly charming person I knew. "I knew you'd say no. Doesn't change anything."

Then, before I could react, he moved—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed my waist, just barely there, but intentional—and then warm lips ghosted against my cheek. Almost my mouth. Almost a choice I couldn't take back.

I froze. Not because I wanted to move away. But because, I didn't.

His breath was warm against my skin, steady, certain, like he wasn't second-guessing this for a second.

„You can run, but we both know you'll end up right where you're supposed to," he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. "With me."

His fingers skimmed lightly against my hip before he pulled back, tilting his head, watching me like he already knew how this would play out.

„Take all the time you need, baby." His gaze dipped to my lips, just for a second, before he grinned. "I'm not going anywhere."

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep, curling somewhere I didn't want to acknowledge.

Theo sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders back like he wasn't leaving something thick in the air between us.

"See you at the ball, love," he added, flashing me one last grin before turning away—casual, unaffected, like he hadn't just shifted something between us.

And then he was gone.

But I still felt the warmth of his breath, the ghost of his touch, and the impossible weight of the words he had said.

Hermione's voice cut through my thoughts like a blade.

"Alright, enough lounging. We need to go—Snape's group study session starts in ten minutes."

I blinked, snapping out of my head so fast it almost gave me whiplash.

"Ugh," Ginny groaned from the floor, dramatically flopping onto her back. "You had to remind me."

I sighed, stretching out my legs and tugging my blanket tighter around my shoulders for one last moment of warmth. Of all the things to suffer through on a Saturday, Snape's mandatory study group was easily in my top three worst.

"Why does he have to make us do this on the weekend?" I muttered, dragging myself upright.

"Because he enjoys our suffering," Ginny mumbled.

"Because he wants us to succeed," Hermione corrected primly, already stacking her parchment and quill like she was actually looking forward to this.

Ginny and I exchanged a look.

I huffed a quiet laugh, but the knot in my chest from thinking about Theo hadn't fully disappeared.

Still, I pushed it down and followed them out of the common room—toward an afternoon of suffering.

The classroom was bright with afternoon light, the large windows letting in a pale, wintry glow that stretched across the stone floors. The long wooden tables were already covered in books, parchment, and ink bottles, the usual setup for Snape's mandated study sessions. The air smelled faintly of old paper and dust, a reminder that this room was only used for things no one actually wanted to do.

I sat between Ginny and Hermione, my quill tapping idly against the edge of my parchment as I stared down at my notes. It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made it impossible to ignore your own thoughts, which was the last thing I needed right now.

A chair scraped against the floor a few seats down, and I glanced up just in time to see Fred and George sit across the table from us, a few spots away.

I flicked my gaze back down, pretending not to care.

And then—I felt it.

Their stares.

Slow. Steady. Unmistakable.

The room was silent except for the soft scratch of quills and the occasional rustle of parchment, but I could feel the weight of their eyes like a physical thing.

A chill rolled down my spine. Goosebumps prickled along my arms.

I kept my focus on my notes, flipping a page like I wasn't affected.

Like I wasn't hyper-aware of them.

Fred and I hadn't spoken since he stormed out of the dance lesson. More than once, I'd almost convinced myself to apologize—almost. But every time I got close, I reminded myself of all the things he'd done to me.
Things he had never once apologized for.

And yet, I felt him.
Every minute.
When he was around. Even when he wasn't.

His eyes were always on me—heavy, unrelenting. His jaw constantly tight, his gaze far from amused.
There was no teasing in the way he looked at me now.
No smugness. No game.
Just something unreadable.

I was nearly finished with my essay, finally seeing the light at the end of this miserable study session, when a low whisper broke the quiet.

"Found a victim to take to the ball yet?"

I didn't look up, but I recognized Fred's voice instantly.

Ron muttered something back, his tone already defensive. "No. But neither do you, have you?"

There was a beat of silence. Then—smug amusement, laced with something sharper.

"All girls love me, see."

I heard the smirk in his voice before I even turned my head.

Then—a light thud against my forehead.

I blinked. Slowly.

A crumpled paper ball rolled onto my parchment.

The quill in my hand stilled.

I exhaled, inhaling sharply through my nose, already bracing myself.

I didn't need to look up to know exactly who had thrown it.

But I did anyway.

Fred was still seated across the table, a few seats down, lazily slouched in his chair like he had all the time in the world.

And then—his hands moved.

Slow, exaggerated, deliberate.

A small flick of his wrist, fingers twirling through the air like he was leading an invisible partner into a dance.

Another smooth wave of his hand, drawing attention, making a spectacle of it.

"Mayhem."

His voice wasn't quiet. It wasn't whispered. It was loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.

Ginny's head snapped up immediately. Hermione stiffened beside me, her quill pausing mid-word.

A few of the other Gryffindors had turned to watch, curious expressions flickering across their faces.

Fred's smirk deepened, not breaking eye contact.

And then, with all the confidence in the world, he tilted his head slightly and said—

"Do you want to go to the ball with me?"

Laughter bubbled up somewhere down the table. Someone let out a soft snort. Ron looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

And me?

I felt my stomach twist.

Fred was still watching me, smirking like this was all just some casual, meaningless joke. His fingers lingered in the air, like he was about to lead an invisible dance—one last slow, exaggerated motion, meant to amuse everyone at the table.

So I did the same.

I lifted my arms exactly the way he did.

Just enough. Just to see.

And there it was—that flicker in his eyes.
For a single second—he actually looked surprised. Almost pleased.

And then, just as deliberately, I let my arm drop.

The movement unraveled into something lazy, effortless, detached. My wrist went slack, my fingers fluttering in front of my face in a mock swoon.

And without hesitation—I flipped him off.

The room shifted.

Fred's smirk froze—just for a fraction of a second.

And then—a quiet chuckle.

George.

It wasn't loud, just a low, amused sound as he reached out and clapped Fred once on the shoulder, shaking his head like he found the whole thing absolutely hilarious.

Ginny let out a small snort, biting her lip to keep it contained. Hermione's quill scratched across her parchment a little too aggressively, like she was pretending not to react.

And Fred-
wasn't laughing.

His jaw had gone tight, his fingers curled slightly against the tabletop like he had to physically stop himself from reacting.

The smirk on his face was still there, but it was wrong now—stiff, forced, nothing like the easy amusement he'd had a moment ago.

And I?

I closed my notes.

Stacked my parchment.

Got up, walked straight to the front of the room, and placed my finished work onto Snape's desk.

Snape barely acknowledged me, flicking my essay aside with a glance.

I turned, walked straight for the door, and left without another word.

I barely reached the hallway before the heat crawled up my throat, tight and burning.

My vision blurred for a split second, my breath coming too sharp, too fast.

I swallowed hard, forcing it back down.

I wouldn't cry.

Not here. Not because of him. Again.

But the truth settled low and cold in my stomach, curling at the edges like a bruise waiting to bloom.

He had done it again.

Mocked me. Humiliated me. In front of everyone.

And I had played right into it.

I shoved open the door, stepping into the empty corridor, the cool air biting against my skin.

One step.

Two.

Three.

And then—a sharp inhale.

Tears stung at my eyes, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag as I clenched my jaw.

I hated this.

I hated that it still got to me.
I hated that I had let him get a reaction out of me at all.
I hated—

I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers against my temple.

But most of all, I hated that for a second—just one stupid second—I thought he might've actually meant it.

Chapter Text

I've never been the prettiest girl in a room.
Not the thinnest. Or the smartest.
My parents always made sure I was aware of that.
That I could be more, but at the same time, I should be less.
I always tried to fit in.
In school. In friend groups.
In the too-tight jeans my mother bought me.
I pulled. I tugged. I forced.
Until I fit.
Until I could sit in a room and take up just enough space.
Until I could stand next to them and look like I belonged.
Until the seams dug in, and I told myself it didn't hurt.
And it did hurt. All of it.
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