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Chapter Text

He should have been here by now…

The courtyard was bustling as students made their way toward the Great Hall. Small groups gathered in tight circles, their voices bright with relief, hands clapping shoulders, laughter ringing out—clinging to each other like they had survived something impossible, something none of them would ever be able to forget. The weight of everything that had happened in the past year hadn’t been shrugged off yet, but at this moment, they were pushing against it. For a few breaths, they were fighting to break through the lingering shadows of the year before, as if laughter and camaraderie could somehow lift them out of the dark. Like everyone was just relieved to see each other safe in this space again.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in soft pinks and golds. The colors caught in the windows of the castle, casting long shadows on the stone paths. The air held the crispness of autumn, but there was a softness to it, like the last warm breath of a season reluctant to leave. It felt a bit like an ending—like coming back, facing the memories, was a way of closing the book on everything that had happened before.

As if it could ever be that easy.

Lydia Hargrove knew it wasn't. The past year had carved deep grooves into every corner of the castle, shrouded every student’s heart one way or another. None of them were the same. Some wounds were still raw, still bleeding, hidden beneath the mask of ‘normalcy’ they were all desperately trying to wear. No one had truly escaped the horrors—just because the walls of Hogwarts were standing, the bridges rebuilt, the cracks and scorch marks smoothed over, it didn't mean the ghosts of last year were gone. It wasn’t as simple as moving on, not when the past had its claws still wrapped tightly around them, ready to drag them back down the moment they let their guard down. It was courageous for them all to walk back through these doors, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t terrifying.

Lydia caught herself in that moment, her pulse quickening as the shadows of the past flickered in her mind, the battle, the injured, those who gave their lives. It was easy to paste on a smile, easy to pretend the worst was behind them—but she had learned long ago that the hardest part wasn’t surviving, it was living with the aftermath. The worst part of the battle hadn't been the battle itself, it had been the ongoing healing after the fighting stopped, when she had already been bone tired and half numb. And all the training Madam Pomfrey had provided during the previous two year, all the experience in the hospital wing hadn't been enough to fully prepare her for that. Then there was the memories, the grief, the questions about what had really been lost—it all hung over them. No matter how much they tried to run from it, no matter how many times they laughed or clapped each other on the back, there was no escaping the fact that some things would never be the same. 

But Lydia was stubbornly focusing on now, on the immediate future. On her career plans, because that was something she could control. That was something that couldn't be taken from her, even if she had to work extra hard for it. So. Seventh year. Final year. NEWTs. And then, hopefully, St Mungo’s. Hopefully. It was the only thing that she wanted unquestionably, something to hold on to in a world that had seemed to crumble just a little too much. Please let it happen , she thought. But the uncertainty was always there, lurking, like a shadow waiting for the light to shift.

Because the truth was, her relationship with Draco Malfoy might still be considered a public eyesore by the time applications were due in November. The Hufflepuff Girl Who Saved The Death Eater; Star-crossed Lovers: How the Beast Corrupted the Healer —every headline for the last month had said something along those lines. And not kindly. She hoped it wouldn’t affect the merit of her application, but she wasn’t stupid enough to believe there wasn't a possibility it could. It only took one person on a hiring panel—just one person with a relative hurt, or killed, or scarred by the Death Eaters—and it could all come crashing down. No matter how hard she'd worked.

But she couldn’t let herself think about that right now. She had to push it aside, focus on what she could change. St Mungo’s was just the first step. If they shut her out? Fine. There were other magical hospitals in other countries. Worst case—there were Muggle universities. They wouldn’t know about her past, just her ability to heal. And maybe she could try the magical world again after a few years. She'd been interested in both avenues anyway, and spent a little time over the summer completing work for A Levels (Muggle qualifications that would gain her access to muggle universities) through a Distance Learning muggle college. And she reasoned that while Draco was busy undertaking his community service she could continue to study for those qualifications as a back up around her shifts in the hospital wing.

It’ll be fine.

Lydia scanned the crowd for Draco, for that tell-tale shock of almost silver hair, and instead locked eyes with Neville Longbottom across the courtyard. Her stomach lurched.

For a second, stupidly, something in her expected the quietly steady, gentle young man she'd known last year to appear from beneath that sharp expression. Because for a year, he had been someone she could always count on, he'd been steady, leading them all through the vestiges of war being played out within Hogwarts walls. Neville was the one who had held her up when she thought she’d fall apart, he'd seemed unshakeable at times. But that young man wasn’t here. This Neville—the one staring cruciatus curses at her now, the one who had walked out of Sprout’s office without looking back—was a stranger.

It wasn’t just anger in his face. It was something colder, something bitter. He went still, his entire posture rigid, hands shoved deep into his pockets as if restraining himself from doing more. He held her gaze like a challenge, like he was daring her to cross the flagstones and say something, to explain, to defend herself—when she shouldn’t have to. As if this courtyard hadn't seen enough stand-offs.

She hadn't seen him since Sprout’s office. Since he’d made it clear where he stood in no uncertain terms… stupid girl, fooled by a death eater's sob story… you're being crazy… I won't stand by while you defend that spineless piece of sh–… I hope he’s bloody worth it . But as much as she wanted to meet his anger with her own, something twisted in her chest at the sight of him. She used to know every nuance of his expressions, every shift in his voice. Now, she couldn’t tell if the set of his jaw meant hatred or just another layer of self righteous disappointment. 

Across the courtyard, Neville mumbled something out the corner of his mouth, never breaking that piercing eye contact with her. Several heads turned. Lydia caught Ginny’s fiery hair, Seamus’s sharp profile, and others besides. Luna, Hannah and Hermoine at least had the decency to continue in their own conversation on the edge of the group. But someone muttered something Lydia didn’t catch, and laughter followed. The cruel kind. Her stomach twisted and Lydia dropped her gaze, adjusting the strap of her satchel, which suddenly felt heavier than it should. 

God, why did Neville have to be such a prick? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Good things had come from her helping Draco—he’d kept the hospital wing stocked last year when they were desperate and students were alive because of it. And Dumbledore had set her to helping Draco in the first place. Where else would she have got the coins? That should be more than enough for Dumbledore’s Stinking Army. Self-righteous freaking Gryffindors.

She was already having to put up with the opinions of the general public, with reporters having followed her and Draco to Diagon Alley the other day, to King’s Cross this morning. Admittedly, they'd also been there for Hermione Granger. And Hermoine had pulled some of the attention off of them by giving a speech on the train steps about forgiveness and learning from the mistakes of the past. And for a few minutes, Lydia had almost believed Hermione’s words had merit. Almost. But then Seamus had pointedly told her not to join them on the train, had suggested Neville was still too pissed. And just like that, she’d been reminded exactly where she stood.

So now she had to deal with this too? People who used to be her friends, people she’d fought beside in the battle, people she’d healed and patched up, not just turning their backs, but turning on her. As if it wasn’t already enough trying to pretend she didn’t hear the whispers, trying to ignore the way strangers looked at her like she was the villain in all this.

She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering in her throat. It wasn’t just the glares or the muttered remarks—it was the way they had closed ranks, the way Neville had looked right at her when she’d needed a friend and still chosen to turn away. The way Ginny, who used to link arms with her between classes, and gossip about boys, hadn’t so much as returned her letters over the summer. Like she wasn’t worth the effort. Like she wasn’t one of them anymore.

Maybe she wasn’t. 

Lydia exhaled sharply, forcing her chin up. It shouldn’t matter. She’d made her choices, and she would stand by them. And on some level, she did understand, she knew why the howlers still came most mornings, and why people who didn’t know her glared and gossiped. It didn’t stop the sting from settling in her chest, didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in, whispering that maybe she had lost more than she’d bargained for. Maybe some friendships weren’t built to survive choices like these. Maybe there was always a price. It didn’t stop it from feeling unfair. Because she knew Ginny was still dating Harry Potter, and she could see Hermoine Granger had been happily accepted back into the fold. And they’d both spoken for Draco too. 

So it all came down to Neville and his pining, broken heart—one she hadn't even known about until after she'd nearly died, until he'd pressed her up against a wall and kissed her in the middle of a freaking battle. And now, because she hadn’t magically fallen for him in the aftermath of war, he’d turned his back on her completely and taken their friends with him? It wasn't fair.

Other students glanced her way, traipsed passed, she could feel their eyes burning into her skin, the whispers followed, curling around her like smoke. She ignored them. Or tried to.

In… out.

In… out.

Her heart was racing, her thoughts spiraling. Shit. Just breathe. Her fingers twitched at the strap of her satchel, gripping tight before forcing herself to loosen her hold. The air felt too thick, heat creeping over her cheeks, her ribs too tight around her lungs.

Draco had done plenty of awful things. And she'd defended him in front of the Wizengamot. And people thought that meant she condoned all his past actions, when she didn't. But she also knew that some of his actions had been as much about self interest and fear as they had any kind of blood purist ideals. They’d been about not truly grasping the consequences—it was one thing to say you would kill someone, even to boast about it, and something else entirely to be standing there in that moment and actually do it. Not to mention experience the consequences. And Lydia had seen Draco's guilt and his fear last year, she knew him better than they did. But the howlers were still coming and the reporters had followed them onto the platform at Kings Cross and she'd been effectively shut out of the DA— it was all a total shitty circus. 

In… out… I'm safe. Just breathe. 

Her fingers flexed and closed.

Where is Draco? 

He should be here by now. 

She’d glimpsed him down the platform at Hogsmeade, his white-blond hair unmistakable, but then she never saw him get on one of the Thestral carriages. 

He’d probably just decided to walk behind, right? Or, he was stopped, chatting to someone along the way, probably. 

Shit. In… 

Was he okay? What if something bad had happened on the train? What if he was hurt? What if the aurors had come and taken him again?  

Out…

She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. Something in her chest was fluttering. The last time she’d felt like this had been in Diagon Alley. She’d gotten separated from Draco in the crowds as they’d come out of Flourish and Blotts, and there’d been so many people crowding around. Commenting, glaring. And the August sun—the warmth and light she normally loved so much—was boring down into her eyes, heating her skin. 

She curled her fingers into the fabric of her sleeve, feeling the scratch of the wool against her palm. Ground yourself. Stay here. Just breathe.

In….Out…

Separating for the train journey had seemed like such a good idea at the time. They both had separate bridges to try and mend. They should be able to spend a few hours apart. They didn't want it to be just the two of them hiding out together again. They shouldn't have to. 

She hadn't done anything wrong.

 She'd done what Dumbledore had asked of her. 

Why wasn't that good enough?   

Where was he? 

He should be here by now.  

She wanted—needed— to know he was okay, to see it. The idea of letting him out of her sight was mildly terrifying after everything they’d been through. It had only been a week since he'd been released from the holding cells. And she hadn't realised how anxious she’d become, until they'd lost each other briefly in Diagon Alley. 

And then Draco had to drag her into a quiet cut through between Diagon and Knockturn to get away from the bustle, talk her through the panic attack, to calm her. 

In. Out. Ignore the sneers. Eyes on me. We're safe. It's all over. Just breathe. In. Out. That's good. We're safe.

Like it had been her who suffered the worst trauma and needed taking care of. God, she'd been such a mess and it had come out of nowhere. She’d truly hated it. And now Lydia could feel the same tingling in her fingers as her heart raced in her chest, as her legs started to feel like jelly. As she wondered where the hell he was and tried to block out the comments and glares.

Lydia inhaled sharply, the tightness in her ribs making it feel more like a gasp than a breath. Someone murmured something behind her—another whisper curling at her heels, another accusation she couldn’t quite hear but felt all the same. And then came the laughter again. That cruel, knowing sort of laughter that made her stomach twist. Made her eyes prickle.

Before she could fully register it, another voice—clear, irritated—cut through the noise like a lash.

"Seriously?! That’s how it is now? Grow up, the lot of you! We all fought and lost something! I expected better from you, Neville Longbottom!”

The laughter faltered, uneasy murmurs rippling through the group across the courtyard as clipped shoes approached her.

Lydia blinked, her breath still shallow, her pulse still hammering. A hand reached for hers. Warm, steady, fingers curling gently around her own. She looked up to find Hannah Abbot beside her, chin held high, expression set. And just like that, the world tilted back into focus.

“Ignore them. It's gonna be tough for a couple weeks and then it will all die down.” Hannah promised. “Someone will do something stupid or something dramatic will happen in the quidditch and you and Draco will fade into the background... ”

“I know, I know.” Lydia said, a little breathless. Hannah looked her over, concern in the crease of her brow.

“They’ll come around. It'll all quiet down.” Hannah recited, squeezing Lydia's hand.

This was their mantra—had been all summer. Lydia sometimes wondered why Hannah stayed. She could’ve spent the summer with her own family or vanished into the safety of the rest of the DA. But instead, she’d holed up in Falmouth with Lydia — helping her prepare for the Wizengamot hearing. Their days were filled with careful study, poring over legal documents from the lawyer and magical statutes, practicing speeches, and reviewing Lydia's testimony until the words were more muscle memory than anything else. But it wasn’t all about the grim reality of facing the wizarding world’s judgment. Hannah ensured they made time for distractions— the odd cliff walk or day on the beach, catching up on the latest music: Spice Girls, Steps, Boyzone , rewatching Friends on VHS, and endlessly critiquing magical inaccuracies in Buffy the Vampire Slayer as they sat huddled on the couch with bowls of popcorn. Lydia had tried to find comfort in the familiar rhythm of it all—the mundane moments that offered some peace amidst the chaos. She'd been endlessly thankful for Hannah's help. But her mind had strayed frequently to Draco in a ministry holding cell, awaiting trial, and Hannah would quietly offer her a small reassuring smile, or squeeze her hand and let her offload it all. The same worries. The same memories. With no real idea why Hannah put up with it.

Maybe it was because they came from the same kind of world — all grit and dockside pubs and extended families who didn’t quite understand what Hogwarts meant , only that it had taken their daughters somewhere they couldn’t follow. Hannah had grown up over her dad's London pub—her Step-Dad technically, given her wizard father was little more than a name on a birth certificate. Lydia’s people—on the Muggle side, the ones she'd grown up with— worked the Cornish coast, hauling fish, fixing boats and nets, coastguards and lifeguards. Neither of them had come from old wizarding stock. Just stubborn, salt-of-the-earth homes where emotions ran deep and words came out sideways. Maybe that was why Hannah just showed up, loyal and sharp-eyed and braver than people gave her credit for.

Still, Lydia couldn’t quite figure out why Hannah had become her champion through all this mess. Until one night over the summer when they were sitting on Lydia’s bed, flicking through a well-worn CD wallet of eclectic albums and Hannah had looked over at her, serious and real. 

“You know, I trust your judgement. If you say Draco’s worth fighting for, I believe you.”

Lydia had swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. 

“I saw you two, you know? A bunch of times,” Hannah had continued, soft but certain. “Last Autumn. He was walking down the corridor with you, and you were obviously in pain. And at first I thought… I mean, you’d been in detention, so I thought the worst. But then he—” Hannah hesitated, her gaze flickering to Lydia before she kept going. “I realised he was carrying your bag, and walking beside you. And he looked worried, like he actually cared and was ready to catch you if you suddenly fainted or something. I mean, it was Draco Malfoy, but it wasn’t.”

Lydia had known exactly when Hannah meant. After the Shrieking Shack. After she’d helped Draco, and he’d lashed out at her for helping. Not with violence, but with fear masquerading as fury—cold words, sharp movements, too much silence. After he’d sneaked her back to the castle, seen she wasn’t well, he’d just insisted on taking her bag. Hadn’t even asked, just slipped it off her shoulder and slung it onto his. And then he’d walked her back to the Hufflepuff common room like it was the most normal thing in the world. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. She’d been too sore, too tired, too consumed with trying to make sense of his anger followed so quickly by that strange, stilted gratitude. They hadn’t even been close then really. He’d only used his summoning coin four or five times to call her to heal him by that point. They weren’t anything yet. The idea hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“And it wasn’t just that.” Hannah added. “When they made us clean up after the food fight, and the Slytherins were being prats about overseeing us, sloshing buckets, pushing us over and saying crass things— God, Zabini kept making comments about my arse, the lecherous bastard.” Hannah had shivered at the memory. “But Draco stood near you like he was protecting you. Looked absolutely thunderous. And the others didn’t even come close.”

Lydia remembered the heat of his gaze that night, sharp and constant. She’d thought it was anger at her—that he’d been disgusted to find out she was a half-blood, pissed she hadn't told him before. She'd practically felt it rolling off of him. Or she thought she had. But maybe it hadn’t been that at all. 

Her jaw clenched as she considered Hannah’s perspective. Hannah had seen something in those moments that Lydia hadn’t. Had recognised something forming, flickering into being, even before Lydia was ready to name it. Hannah had put the pieces together before Lydia even knew there were pieces.

“And i suspected, when everyone started talking about your boy , but I didn't say anything because… well he was still Draco Malfoy, you know? And maybe I was wrong. But then in the battle,” Hannah went on, quietly. “You know, it was his shield that saved you from that Avada?”

Lydia had sat bolt upright. “What? No?”

“Yeah,” Hannah insisted, nodding. “from the third floor staircase. I was on the staircase above him, I saw everything.” Her eyes were wide. “I don’t know how his shield beat the death eaters spells from that distance, how it had any strength left to hold but it did. I mean, it was… insanely impressive.”

“He never said…” Lydia said distantly, scouring her memory in case she’d missed it. But she hadn’t. Draco had stood there and watched her argue with Neville about the shield and he hadn’t owned up, hadn’t thrown it in Neville’s face when he could have. Something warm had bloomed in her chest, at that. Something pleasing to think he’d saved her. Something that ached to think he hadn't bragged about it.

“But Lydia—” Hananh’s voice caught, face twisted slightly as she suddenly grabbed Lydia’s hand in both of hers, squeezing tight. “The way he screamed your name when he thought you’d been hit…” She swallowed, hard. “I saw it. How he cares about you. And fuck, he looked beyond murderous when he chased off after you! I do not ever want to be on the opposing side of that Draco Malfoy. I don’t even want to be in his path.” Hannah tried for a small smile. “So I trust you, your judgement. And I'm here as long as you need someone in your corner. And when—not if , mind you— when he gets out…” A small, tentative smile had tugged at her lips. “I won’t even complain if he joins us to watch Friends occasionally. ” 

Lydia let out a shaky breath that could’ve been a laugh or a sob. The idea of Draco sitting awkwardly through Friends reruns with her and Hannah, making cutting little comments about Ross or Phoebe to hide his confusion, had been so absurd it nearly broke her. But more than that—it had meant something. Hannah hadn’t just accepted and supported Lydia—she was accepting Draco too. Inviting him into their strange little corner of peace. She was willing to give him a chance. And that had felt huge.

That conversation felt like a lifetime ago now, it had barely been weeks. Last year. The battle. Some days it all felt like it happened years ago. Other days—like today—it still felt like it was happening now. Here she was, back at Hogwarts. In the courtyard where the fighting had ended. Fighting panic, fighting the weariness that had leached into her bones the moment she’d crossed the stone bridge. As if her body remembered everything she’d tried to forget. Maybe that's why she was so anxious about where Draco was.

He should be here by now.

“You’ve done a good thing, Lydie,” Hannah was saying softly, nudging her playfully, drawing Lydia’s attention back, grounding her a little. “If people don’t want to see it, that’s on them. And it’s going to take Draco time to earn people’s trust. But that doesn’t reflect on you. Not really. And I’ll be here, every day, reminding you how brave and kind and generally amazing you are.”

“I’m not sure my ego needs stroking that much,” Lydia murmured, gathering a smile onto her lips as she let herself believe Hannah's words could be true. She linked their arms. “Thank you. Have I told you today how grateful I am for your friendship?” She squeezed Hannah's arm for emphasis.

“Not in the last hour or so.” Hannah joked, leaning into the touch. “You also haven’t apologised today for keeping me out of your big dramatic secret last year.”

Lydia laughed as she playfully pushed Hannah away, but the warmth behind it all caught her throat. Hannah had been there the moment Neville walked out of Sprout’s office after Draco’s arrest—officious, pragmatic, wonderfully grounding. Lydia honestly wished they’d been closer friends sooner.

Tugging her from her thoughts, a hand slipped around Lydia’s waist, pulling her gently back against a tall, lean frame. 

He’s here. 

Chapter Text

He’s here.

Something in her relaxed as a chin dipped toward her ear and Lydia smiled, instinctively leaned back before an unfamiliar scent enveloped her, like the soft smoke after birthday candles were blown out — sweet curling ribbons of hopeful wishes . Something stuttered in her mind like a warning bell.

“There you are ,” purred a voice near her ear, soft as silk on her nerves.

Lydia yelped and jerked away. It wasn’t Draco! She spun around to face—

The last of the sun caught dark honey-coloured eyes set in a tanned face, openly admiring her without a hint of shame. A boy—no, a young man—in Slytherin robes straightened to his full height with a languid grace that somehow managed to be both deliberate and effortless. Around them, the courtyard shimmered in soft gold and copper, the low sun casting long shadows across the flagstones and tinting the pale stone walls with warmth. 

Lydia had a momentary flashback of Zabini cornering her in a corridor last year, and her heart skipped unevenly. She should have been furious. She was furious. How dare this boy touch her like that—she’d thought it was Draco, she’d thought—

And yet those glassy puppy-dog eyes and long, dark eyelashes… He held out a hand and his smile was so roguishly disarming, floppy fringe falling across his brow in a way that was so rakishly adorable, that Lydia instinctively found herself reaching to shake it before she'd even fully registered the audacity of it all. 

“Theodore Nott,” he said, smiling like the words were a gift he was bestowing. 

She knew that name. She remembered reading it in the court transcripts while preparing Draco’s testimony—Theodore Nott, accused of helping to incite panic in Diagon Alley. Property damage, threats of violence. Torture under duress. Nothing that stuck. Torture accusations all fell through because most of the 7th years from all houses had been coerced by The Carrows into doling out punishments to younger students at some point. Theo had been one of the first students released from Ministry holding over the summer. A mandatory eighth year at Hogwarts—no Azkaban, not even community service.

“So you're the one who saved my mate, then.” His gaze flicked over her with lazy curiosity—too lazy, she thought. There was calculation behind it, soft-footed but deliberate, like he was trying to take inventory without letting her notice. Except she did notice, and tilted her head a fraction in consideration, trying to get a read of him. A beat later, Theo swept a hand through his sun-kissed brown hair and maybe it was something about the way his fingers flexed and his hair caught the light… 

He said, “I suppose you should call me Theo then, if we're to be friends. ”

“I…” Lydia’s thoughts jammed. She frowned. “What?” Because honestly—he looked like someone who’d stepped out of a Muggle fashion spread. All lithe and long and floppy sun-streaked brown hair. Has he always looked like that? Is it a Slytherin thing? Her thoughts tangled as she glanced at Hannah—who stood looking wholly unimpressed with her arms folded across her chest, and that exasperated way her hip stuck out. Not uncomfortable, not even surprised. Like this sort of thing was what Theodore Nott did and she was just waiting for it to end. 

How could she be so unfazed? Was it just Hannah’s usual calm, or was there something else Lydia was missing? Maybe they’d had classes together. Maybe Hannah was used to him. Maybe Lydia was being ridiculous. Because actually—he was a bit too lanky, all elbows and knees. And while the smile was enticing, and those eyelashes were devastating, his charm was all too polished. Performed. 

Blinking, gathering herself out of whatever gutter her head was trying to spin off into, Lydia tried to recall Theo from previous years. Her memory of the Slytherins in the year above were mostly overshadowed by Draco in his Quidditch kit. But there were a few barely-there recollections of a floppy-haired boy lingering at the edges of Draco’s group. She’d barely noticed him then. But this boy—this version—seemed different. Thrumming with electric energy. Confident in a way that bordered on the theatrical. And that made him intriguing.

“Friends.” Theo clarified patiently with a smirk, his gaze never quite leaving her, as though savoring the effect he was having. “As I understand it, you are romantically involved with the Pauper Prince, are you not?”

Another blink. Pauper Prince? …He means Draco. She didn’t allow herself to smile at the clever nickname, as her heart kicked up.

“You were with Draco? Where is he?” she asked, a little breathless.

“Oh, he’s walking up. Needed a bit of time to decompress after that stifling trip with our housemates.” Theo leaned closer and nudged her as if they were sharing an in-joke. “Our boy fancied a dramatic, lonely walk up the hill before enduring dinner.”

Lydia bristled.

“Why? What happened?” She asked, hating how much worry slipped into her tone. It was only belatedly that she felt the ire at how Theo referred to Draco as ‘our boy’. She narrowed her eyes at him thinking, No—my boy.

Amusement dancing in his eyes, Theo tilted his head a moment as if puzzling what had caused her irritation, before waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing of import,” he said breezily. He turned slightly, posture easy, as if to retreat—but not before glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. A test. A tease. Maybe both. “Except I have kindly adopted him as my best friend, despite some of the gang getting their knickers in a twist about him switching sides at the 11th hour. But I took the initiative on the train—he looked like he needed it, frankly— and tucked him under my wing, as it were. I figured someone had to.” 

Lydia did her best to keep up with all his words, his voice rising and falling in a sort of posh hypnotic wave. 

“How kind of you.” Hannah murmured, rolling her eyes, arms still crossed.

Barely sparing Hannah a glance, Theo slipped an arm around Lydia's shoulders, bent in with a stage whisper. “We’ll work on bringing the others back around, don’t you worry. Meanwhile, I assume, as his girlfriend, that you'll be interloping into our guy time. So I figured the least I can do is be friendly to you…”

“Enough, Nott.” A steady cool voice cut through the air and Lydia’s chest flooded with relief.

She barely had time to register Draco moving from the crowd before he nudged Theo aside with a smoothness that seemed to rival his Slytherin counterpart’s charm. He slipped between them effortlessly, his presence filling the space. Lydia's breath hitched when their eyes met, and she just caught the edge of irritation that flickered out as his gaze softened on her. Possessive idiot, she thought, fondly. The heated, familiar flicker in his pale grey eyes tugged at her chest in a way she hadn’t expected, enough to melt most of the tightness in her chest. She knew she'd been worried about him but hadn’t realized until that moment how much she had been holding her breath, how much she'd been waiting for him. It was like she finally had all her focus back.

Draco didn’t hesitate. Without a word, he pulled her into his side, his arm settling around her shoulders. A boyish smile tugged at his lips, and for a fleeting moment, Lydia felt the world around them blur—just the two of them, side by side again. 

“You’ll have to excuse Theo,” Draco murmured, as his eyes devoured her in the most distracting way, as if he were memorising her, or cataloguing every part of her he wanted to kiss. She smiled despite herself. “Seems he’s turned into an overexcited puppy since his dad was sent to Azkaban.”

Suddenly, Theo slid his arm over Draco’s shoulder, the limb so long his hand brushed Lydia’s hair. “Amazing what a lack of an overbearing, abusive parent crushing your soul into dust will do for a young man,” Theo chirped with a grin.

Ears pricking up, Lydia narrowed her eyes at him, trying to sort between the light-hearted tone and the weight of the words. She held Theo's gaze a moment longer than necessary, scanning his expression for clarification. Theo blinked slowly as if resisting the urge to look away, as Draco offered him a commiserating sort of smile, and then gently shrugged him off. 

 “But I swear, he's harmless.”  Draco insisted with only the slightest wince.

Lydia hesitated, still feeling mildly uncertain about how serious Theo was being. Abusive father? But he said it with a smile, was it some kind of aristocratic, son of a death eater joke? Daddy cut me off occasionally but now I've got free reign of all the money so it's fine? Because the Notts were rich, right? Sacred 28 or whatever their parents' weird club had been.

And yet there was something about Theo… She knew she should be creeped out by the way he had slipped his arm around her, but… there was no malice in his expression. Just a playful enthusiasm, a generally excited energy about him, as if there was something thrumming beneath his skin. And neither Hannah or Draco seemed freaked out by his handsy behaviour, like it was totally normal for him. ‘Overexcited puppy’ seemed quite an apt description, if she were honest. 

Draco turned to Theo pointedly. “Later, Nott.” he said dismissively and gently pushed on Theo’s chest to ease him away. Theo grinned, a little sheepishly, and backed off a few paces—but not before his gaze flicked over Lydia one last time. Not leering, not dismissive. Just… assessing with a smile was that all gentle challenge. Like he was cataloguing something unexpected and hadn’t quite finished yet.

Lydia held his gaze, chin tilting slightly, and watched the way his eyes crinkled just so—like he knew she’d caught him looking and didn’t mind at all. Because he didn’t expect her to find anything meaningful. More fool him.

Then he turned, sidling up to Hannah with an easy sway in his step, standing a fraction too close and rocking forward on his toes as he gestured animatedly, asking about her summer. But even as he spoke, Lydia had the distinct impression that Theo hadn’t entirely stopped watching her.

Draco moved round in front of Lydia, reorienting her attention as he brushed his fingers through her hair. Lydia felt the courtyard disappear around them. 

“Hi.” Draco greeted quietly, grey eyes swirling and flashing hungrily. Lydia's mouth curved into a smile of its own accord at his closeness and she felt herself relax, hadn't realised her shoulders had still been so tense. A week of him being there from the moment she went down for breakfast and she hadn't realised how much her hand had missed the feeling of his after a few hours apart on the train. It had felt such a relief bringing him home, where she could see he was safe. Where she could make sure he was eating. He'd slept most of the first day, and she'd fretted while trying not to. Reading her book at the top of stairs so she'd know as soon as he stirred. In case he had nightmares or woke up disorientated, she told herself. It was for his benefit. Of course, she was starting to realise it was for hers too. It had been more of a relief than she'd expected it would be having him in the house. She hadn't realised how worried she'd been about him, how long she'd been worrying about him. Even after he sent the coin back. Especially then. And extra especially every day since the Aurors took him from Hogwarts. Just…

How worried she had always been for him. Since that night on the hospital floor. HIs thumb brushed over her temple, a grounding, warm pressure.

“There’s my boy. Hi,” she whispered back, seeming almost equally in awe of him, equally relieved that he was here. Safe. No real threats. 

He lent closer, an arm snaking around her waist. And God, the way he was looking at her! All smouldering devotion. It made her insides warm and gooey. She knew what that look was, even if she was too scared to name it. Even though it made her want to kiss him stupid. It was the same way he’d looked at her before he’d kissed her the first time, the same way he’d looked at her so many times this last week. It made her feel twelve feet tall, invincible. That Draco Malfoy looked at her like that? 

Draco shifted closer, his nose brushing hers, that beautiful smirk so close to her lips as he said in a low teasing murmur, “I was thinking, do you still have my summoning coin?” 

Lydia quirked an eyebrow. 

“Your summoning coin, is it?” she teased, but her voice caught at the edges. Her stomach somersaulted with something too warm to name. She hadn’t realised just how much those paired coins had come to mean. That he’d carried it—for nearly a year—through so much. It shouldn’t have mattered so much. It was just meant to be how he called for help when injured, how she port-keyed to his side to heal him. But when he’d sent his coin back after the raid she’d been so devastated, because suddenly there was no link. That coin had been their tether, their secret. As long as he kept it, she’d believed she could reach him. Help him. That it meant he still had a glimmer of choice—of hope—when everything else around him was suffocating.

 And she’d needed that, too. Clung to it like proof he wanted to be helped. Wanted to be better. Saved. That he trusted her to do it. That she’d been right about him. And now he wanted his coin back. She couldn’t hold back her smile, mirroring the teasing edge in Draco’s smirk.

“What do you want it for?” she asked, quieter now.

“I just want it back.” His shrug was exaggerated, casual—playful. And Merlin, wasn’t that the most beautiful look on him? That flicker of boyish charm, the smirk full of heat, his grey eyes more smoke than ice—it made that thing she didn’t want to name feel a little less terrifying. His hands slipped around her back and pulled her closer against him. His smirk was full of heat.

Lydia’s lip twitched as she tried to hold back a chuckle—understanding that he was suggesting they use them to sneak around and find some privacy. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Oh?” she asked coyly. “Expecting to need regular medical attention again this year?”

Draco leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he hummed, “Mmm, of a sort.”

Something behind him caught Lydia’s eye—Theo, one hand lazily tucked in his pocket as he nodded along to whatever Hannah was saying. He glanced over with an almost affectionate smile, like he was silently cheering them on. Like he was personally invested. Something coiled in her stomach.

Then Draco kissed the shell of her ear, and Lydia’s toes curled in her shoes and her eyelids fluttered shut. His voice dropped to a delicious whisper.

 “Did you hear? Eighth-years get private rooms.”  As he paused for effect, Lydia realised fully what he was suggesting a moment before he said it. Not just sneaking around anymore but— “You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

Lydia pulled back enough to look at him, to check if he was teasing. The way the smoke in his eyes danced as the torch lights flickered to life around the courtyard, that wolfish grin—his fingers tightened just a fraction on her waist, possessive and insistent. No, he was not joking.

A jolt of panic shot through her, her instinct to abide by the rules kicking in. “That’s a gross misuse of—”

Draco cut her off with an amused huff. “Shut up and kiss me,” he said softly, his tone almost keening with need. “I missed you like you wouldn't believe.”

Hesitating for the smallest fraction of a moment, swallowing back the flicker of something uncertain with an internal sigh, Lydia tilted her head and pressed her lips to Draco’s. Merlin help her, but she’d missed this — missed him , even at his most insufferably smug. Her heart raced as the world around them seemed to fall away entirely—the murmurs were distant, the clatter of shoes on stone becoming no more than a dull hum. There was only him. Only this. Draco pressed back a little firmer, his mouth claiming hers, indulgent and slow, grounding her. Her hands slid up his chest, his neck, fingers tangled behind his neck, drawing him closer. He was here, and he was hers. She could taste the mint of his toothpaste, smell the lingering scent of the laundry powder from home, and the coconut and black pepper notes of the muggle body wash she'd bought him from the supermarket. Who knew she’d like that so much. She breathed deep, her lips parting, and Draco deepened the kiss, lapping her breath into his mouth with his tongue, coaxing her body flush against his. But it wasn’t enough, Lydia wanted to be closer still, feeling slightly frantic as warmth spread through her, as the rhythm of their movements shifted. Hands lifting, his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging enough to prickle down her spine and Lydia’s heart stuttered. Her fingers tightened on the back of his neck, nails grazing, desperate to keep him close. 

But then, the sharp sound of a wolf whistle shattered the haze. She pulled back, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she dipped her head against his chest, hiding the flush that spread across her face. Her hands slid down to his waist as she blinked herself back into reality, drawing a steadying breath.

Draco’s arms shifted instinctively around her back—tight, protective. She felt the sudden tension coil through him like a live wire. A group of students passed, stifling laughter behind their hands, and the mockery in their whispers prickled at her spine. She didn’t need to look up to know the fury blooming behind Draco’s eyes.

He was going to react. She felt it in the way his body stiffened, the way his jaw tensed against her hair. His weight shifted, a subtle step like he might move toward them.

Shit. No. Not like this.

Before he could take that breath to speak—or worse—Lydia lifted her hand quickly to his cheek. She guided his face back to hers, although his eyes took an extra beat to follow, to soften again. Her thumb brushed gently over his skin. Focus on me, she willed him silently. Not them. You don’t have to prove anything. Not tonight.

“How was the journey?” Lydia asked—too quickly, too brightly. She felt Draco’s hold around her back loosen slightly and she eased back a fraction. Her smile was a little forced, but she kept it in place, hoping to tether him with it, to anchor them both as she dropped her hands to his waist. 

“Fine.” Draco sighed, shifting his shoulders as if trying to loosen them, tilting his chin to either side to stretch out his neck.

Out of the corner of her eye, over Draco's shoulder, Lydia caught Theo as his gaze snapped back from the crowd. His expression was unreadable for a beat, then settled on her and Draco as if taking quiet stock. His hand unclenched at his side. Something decisive flickered behind his eyes—until it didn’t. In the soft torchlight, his brown eyes warmed as he glanced their way. His brow lifted, a quick, almost imperceptible question— are you okay? —in the quiet of his expression. Something in her chest loosened. Lydia gave a subtle nod, little more than a blink and focused back on Draco as he continued.

“It was fine. No bridges unburned yet, but I kept my mouth shut and my head down. No boxer’s fractures or black eyes for you to fix today. You should be proud.” He pulled a fragile smile onto his lips, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. He still seemed on edge. Lydia took a deep breath, and he mirrored it unconsciously, relaxing a little more under her touch. He managed a flippant shrug of his shoulder. “And turns out Theo’s absolutely delighted with the outcome of his father’s trial. So apparently, we’re best mates now. At least I don’t have to endure the snake pit entirely alone.”

Suddenly, Theo was there—draped over Draco’s back, chin hooked over his shoulder, a wide, Cheshire-cat grin on his face. One arm slung across Draco’s chest from the other side in something almost like a hug, pulling him back a fraction.

“Don’t worry, Hargrove. I’ve got your boy.” He winked.

My boy now, huh? 

Lydia had the distinct impression of being deferred to. She gave the faintest nod, barely a dip of her chin in acknowledgment as Draco straightened with a muttered sigh, rolling his eyes and shrugging Theo off with a fond upward curl of his mouth. It wasn’t lost on Lydia that Theo had clearly caught half their conversation. As if he were always listening—always looking for a way in. But she was genuinely reassured to know Draco had someone to watch his back when she couldn’t be there.

“And yourself? How was your journey up?” Draco asked. Lydia hesitated and glanced over to Hannah as if she might rescue her from the question. But as Hannah closed the short distance, she only winced slightly too. 

Crap. Please don't make a big deal about it…

“Most of the DA aren’t talking to me,” Lydia admitted to the flagstones, shifting her weight, moving into Draco’s side as Hannah and Theo closed their little circle. “Hannah’s been great, and Justin, too.” Which isn't entirely surprising, given he wasn't here last year. “My friends in Hufflepuff were… well, civil at least...” Ignoring Ernie. But you did nearly kill him during the raid, so…

“Hufflepuffs U-NITE!” Theo exclaimed, as if chanting from the stands at a Quidditch match, punching the air with such theatrical enthusiasm that more than a few heads turned their way. Lydia tried to ignore it. Draco stiffened. Hannah flinched in surprise. Theo just kept grinning like he hadn’t noticed—or like he very much had.

Lydia rolled her eyes, but a reluctant tug pulled at the corner of her mouth.

She was starting to get a read on him—this sharp, odd mixture of performance and precision. The grin was for show, but the timing wasn’t. There was intent behind his theatrics, even if he masked it with mischief. Lydia wasn’t sure she trusted it yet. But she could admit, cautiously, that she didn’t hate it. 

“Gotta love you loyal badgers, all cosy in your little set! All for one and one for all, am I right?” Theo enthused, still partially leaning over Draco's shoulder as if he couldn't get close enough to the conversation. As if he needed the physical contact—the reassurance. He reached over, hand lifted toward Lydia, waiting for a high-five.

She eyed it warily for half a beat, uncertain whether he was mocking or sincere—or if he even knew the difference himself. But something in his face—too bright, too eager, too much—gave her pause. As she hesitated, she caught a flicker of vulnerability there. He swallowed, then doubled down with a single, encouraging nod at her. She wondered how much that cost him.

With a faint huff of amusement, she met his palm with hers in a quiet high-five. Theo beamed like he’d won something.

“Not according to Neville,” she grumbled on a sigh.

“Screw Longbottom. He’s an entitled arse,” Draco muttered, squeezing her side and pulling her a little closer. Lydia felt a quiet flicker of relief. She’d half-expected tension to rise again, that low-simmering anger of his to catch light at the mere mention of Neville. But this—this dry mutter, the possessive little tug at her waist—felt entirely fine. Safe, even. She lent into him a little more.

“Want me to fight him for you?” Theo offered casually, a dangerous glint in his eye despite the easy grin, his wand hanging loose between long fingers, swinging over Draco's shoulder where Theo lent over it.

And something about it struck Lydia as disingenuous. Not the offer—certainly not the offer. She genuinely believed that if she gave the slightest affirmation, Neville would be in the hospital wing within the hour from some suspicious prank or another. Even though he’d only known her ten minutes, Theo already seemed ready to throw himself into the fire for her. It was like he’d adopted her on sight. And with that came immediate, unquestioning loyalty.

No—what felt off was the smiling. The joking. The relentless charm. It was all a little too polished, a little too rehearsed. Lydia glanced at Draco—the other Death Eater’s son— for reference and decided that maybe the thing about Theo's abusive father hadn’t been a joke at all. 

She couldn't help wondering what kind of traumatic hell Theo had survived, that his carefully constructed chaotic enthusiasm far outmatched Draco’s old mask of disdain.

Hannah stepped forward, waving Theo off with a dismissive flick of her hand, like she was shooing away a particularly annoying pixie. “Back off, Nott,” she said, rolling her eyes, her tone walking the line between exasperation and something almost fond. Lydia blinked, surprised but not entirely shocked—Hannah didn’t seem remotely intimidated. If anything, she looked like someone well-practised in handling Theo’s chaos, used to his way of stirring things up. “No one’s fighting anyone, so save us the theatrics.”

Theo responded with a low, exaggerated bow, stepping back with a grin that widened into something deliberately unrepentant. Lydia half-expected him to produce a rose from his sleeve and offer it to Hannah.

Then Hannah turned to Lydia, her expression softening in an instant. She reached out and took Lydia’s hand, squeezing gently. “Neville’s just stubborn, a little proud… and a little heartbroken,” she said, her voice low and even, like she was smoothing over every jagged edge in the air between them. “I told you, he’ll come around.”

Lydia nodded, though her chest still ached. She didn’t miss the way Draco tensed slightly beside her—how still he went at the mention of Neville’s name—but his face remained a mask. Neutral. Controlled. And for that, she was quietly grateful, even if she doubted he was truly as unbothered as he looked. She knew Draco was significantly disappointed that Neville hadn't stuck by her side, that she was so hurt by it and she knew Draco blamed himself for all of it.

Meanwhile, Theo slid his arm around Hannah’s shoulders with practiced ease, grinning like a fox. “Abbott, I’ve been thinking about you over the summer. Wanna pair up with me for Ancient Runes again this year?”

Hannah shoved him off without hesitation, wrinkling her nose like he’d suggested something utterly revolting. “And do all the work again? Hardly.”

Theo clutched his chest as if struck by an actual spell, staggering a half-step back. “You wound me,” he gasped, dramatically, though the grin never left his face.

“I wish I had,” Hannah replied flatly.

“I did my part last year,” Theo insisted, attempting to recover some dignity, straightening his robes with a perfectly executed pout.

“You mean flirting with the Ravenclaws to steal their answers?” Hannah shot back, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

Lydia stifled a laugh, a quiet chuckle slipping out despite herself. She couldn’t help it—there was something oddly comforting in the way they bickered, like it was scripted, like they both knew their lines. Familiar. Safe.

“Hey, I took one for the team! Turpin is entirely unaffected by my charms, and I had to work so hard to get in her good graces.” Theo was practically whining.

That earned a genuine smile from Lydia—and she felt it linger longer than expected. A flash of lightness. Ease.

Draco’s arm curled more firmly around her shoulders, and she leaned into him without thinking. It was only then she noticed the way his breathing had softened, the way his posture had eased.  She wondered if he felt the same flicker she did—that surreal, almost fragile sense of normalcy. 

“That’s because she likes girls, you arrogant idiot,” Hannah retorted with a light push to Theo's arm, tone cutting but laced with something warmer underneath. “And she knew exactly what you were doing.”

Theo acted like he didn't hear her. “And Boot—he did not appreciate my advances. At all ,” Theo sighed, heavy with theatrical despair.

“I feel like that had more to do with you flirting with Turpin the day before,” Hannah muttered with a glance at Lydia, as if to say can you believe this idiot?

Lydia returned it easily. Yes, yes she could. She glanced between Theo and Hannah, watching the exchange unfold with a faint tilt to her head. It occurred to her—not with certainty, but with the tug of something close—that Theo was orchestrating it all. The outlandish flirting, the shameless theatrics, even the gleeful self-deprecation—it was a performance, yes, but not just for his own amusement. There was timing in it, intention. A quick flick of his gaze toward her and Draco seemed to confirm this—like Theo was making sure he was hitting his marks, that it was all landing right. That it helped.

And it had. Her laughter came easier than she expected—real, unguarded. She hadn’t meant to smile, but there it was. And Theo saw it.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that—of him—but it settled something low in her chest. He absolutely understood more than he let on. Maybe, in his own chaotic way, he was trying to help.

“Well, I feel like getting punched in the name of seeking truth definitely counts for something. Be my partner.” He flashed a grin again at Hannah—hopeful now, almost boyish. For all his bluster, Lydia caught it—that flicker. A glimmer of real vulnerability again, quickly masked.

“You’re entirely shameless!” Hannah huffed, rolling her eyes.

“Absolutely guilty,” Theo agreed, as if it were the proudest confession he’d ever made.

Lydia laughed again, lighter this time. Draco’s lips pressed into her hair, his smile half-hidden. There were ghosts everywhere here. But for now, for this tiny stretch of minutes, she felt them fade into the background. The weight on her ribs lifted—just enough to let her breathe again.

She took a moment to consider Theo more fully. The overfriendliness, the joking, the disregard for personal space, the instant loyalty. That winning smile wielded like both sword and shield. And the way he kept orchestrating the flow of conversation, breaking up the heavier moments with just enough ridiculousness to give them all space to breathe.

"You're a special one, aren't you, Theo?" Lydia said quietly, more observation than question. She was looking at him directly now, letting herself be seen too—all her emotions radiating in her expression.

Theo's smirk faltered and when his eyes met hers again, he stilled. For just a breath, his face shifted—hardened. A wall, raised instinctively. Lydia caught it all: the tension in his jaw, the slight flex of his fingers at his side, the dilation of his pupils like some cornered creature. He glanced around,  beyond their little circle, as if checking for an exit, a change in subject, something safe.

Still, she smiled at him—gently. Not in mockery or challenge, but like someone finally greeting another properly.

There you are, Theodore Nott.

Quick as a flash, the mask came back on. Theo's grin brightened, too bright. "The most special," he beamed, voice light again as he swept back, indicating towards the doors the other students were now filing through. "Right, shall we escort you lovely ladies to the dining hall? I'm starving!"

He turned from her a little too quickly, offering the crook of his elbow to Hannah with mock gallantry. She brushed him off with a practiced roll of her eyes, but they fell into step together anyway, chatting easily as they headed for the main doors.

Lydia’s heart sank a little. Not from disappointment—but from understanding. Because she knew that retreat for what it was. And it only confirmed what she'd already started to suspect: Theo was playing more than one role in this little drama, and not just for their benefit.

“You know, I’ve seen Theo around before,” Lydia said, slipping her arm through Draco’s as they joined the stream of students ascending the worn stone steps toward the castle, “but I never imagined he had so much… flair.”

She caught the slight twitch of Draco’s mouth at her choice of word. “And who knew he was such a flirt?”

“Theo’s been throwing that charm around for years,” Draco said, but the usual spark of teasing didn’t quite land as they passed through the massive oak doors and into the entrance hall. “You were obviously too busy admiring me from afar to notice.”

Lydia gave a faint smile but didn’t rise to the bait. The cool breath of the castle met them, laced with the scent of damp stone and old wax. She could hear the hum of conversation rising around them, students pressing in on all sides, but it felt oddly muted. Distant. Like sound echoing through memory.

Her eyes swept the high ceiling, the towering arches that framed the room—and for a moment, she was back in it. The battle. The screams. The jagged scorch marks on the floor, half-hidden now but still there if you looked close enough. She glanced ahead to the spot at the top of the stairs where she’d frozen after the Avadas had nearly claimed her. It made her wonder if she’d always feel that fear as she passed that spot.

In… out…

She forced herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

They’d repaired the damage. You could hardly see the cracks. But the ghosts hadn’t gone. They slipped through the corners, clung to the places where walls had once caved in or spells had burned too hot. And no matter how polished the glass in the windows, it didn’t quite feel untouched. Not to her. Not to him either, she suspected.

In… Out…

She stiffened, her fingers unconsciously tightening on Draco’s arm, trying to anchor herself to now .

He noticed. Of course he did. Without hesitation, Draco pulled her in closer, his arm wrapping snug around her shoulders. It was instinctive and a little fierce, and it grounded her just enough. She turned into him slightly, let herself feel the press of his side against hers, the familiar line of his shoulder. A kiss brushed against her temple—warm, steady—and when he spoke, it was soft, a gentle distraction just for her.

“I know that look,” he murmured. “He’s not another project for you to fix.”

So grateful for the change of subject, and also a little pleased that he was paying close enough attention to have guessed at her earlier train of thought, Lydia managed to pull out a pout as she glanced at him. “But you brought me a wounded puppy…” she whined, loosely gesturing ahead to Theo. 

Draco shook his head with an affectionate smile. “I did not bring you anything. Theo inserted himself into that exchange of his own accord. I specifically told him not to harass you with his exuberant chaos, until I could introduce him properly.”

Playfully, Lydia pretended to think it over for a moment before giving a resolute nod. “So you're saying, he came looking for me, which suggests he definitely wants my help?” She grinned.

Draco chuckled and pulled her closer against his side in an affectionate squeeze.

“You and your saviour complex,” he muttered, rolling his eyes with a fond grin as he matched her teasing tone. “Must you pick up strays?”

Lydia shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “Oh, absolutely. All of them.”

But as his words settled, something in her stilled. He meant Theo—of course he did—but the echo of it lingered, quiet and telling. A part of him saw himself that way too, didn’t he? Just another stray she'd pulled from another wreckage. She made a mental note to come back to that—gently. Later.

For now, she just leaned into him You’re not a stray , she thought fiercely. You’re mine . 

The flow of students slowed as they climbed the stairs, and Lydia internally braced herself to pass that spot up ahead.

 The pace slowed as they climbed the main staircase. Around her, laughter and voices echoed off the stone walls, blending with the rhythmic sound of feet against worn steps. The castle was alive with noise again, with warmth. But her thoughts were elsewhere.

“You know he doesn’t need saving, right?” Draco said beside her, his tone light, almost casual—but she heard the tension underneath, his attempt to distract her. His eyes flicked toward Theo, who was already near the top of the staircase, his laughter carrying back to them like sunlight.

Lydia followed Draco’s gaze. “He’s safe. Voldemort’s dead. His dad’s in prison. We’re free of the Dark Lord’s murderous yoke, etcetera, etcetera,” Draco continued. “And Theo never truly bought into the whole blood purity rubbish anyway, so… he’s fine.”

Lydia’s lips curved slightly, but the gleam in her eyes had softened into something quieter, more serious. “You know it’s not that simple,” she said gently.

Draco sighed, but didn’t argue.

Ahead, Theo had paused just outside the Great Hall, locked in conversation with Hannah, who looked moments from physically shoving him away. He was probably still trying to convince her to partner up for Ancient Runes. Given she hadn’t outright refused him already, Lydia suspected Hannah would agree in the end, that she was just making him work for it out of sheer stubbornness. The candle glow pooled around Theo where he stood, golden and warm. But it wasn’t just the light—it was how he held it. How it clung to him, as if the glow came from beneath his skin, stubborn and flickering, as though it refused to leave, even in the places where pain might still live. Even in the quiet parts he didn’t let others see. Some people wore their wounds like armour. Theo wore his with a grin.

They reached the landing, the scent of roasted food and warm air wafting out from the Great Hall. Students milled around them, chattering and laughing as if the world had always been this light.

“Maybe so,” Draco said finally, his voice low. “But Theo doesn’t need anyone to fix him. Look at him. His dad’s gone, he can finally breathe. He’s never been happier.”

Lydia smirked and deliberately kept her eyes forward.

“Oh, I am looking at him. Trust me. That hair, those eyes, those eyelashes .” Lydia bit her bottom lip for effect before sliding her gaze to Draco, mischief catching like torchlight in her eyes. “I thought I'd lucked out but… maybe I picked the wrong snake…” Mock judgement weighed her gaze as she let it flicker over him deliberately, head tilting just a little.

Draco cut a sharp figure in his robes—the only full set of school robes he possessed, new rather than second-hand like she’d suggested but Lydia wasn’t complaining right now. All dark lines and clean tailoring, Draco somehow made the uniform look more effortless than formal. His tie was loosened just slightly at the neck — enough to make him look less like a Head Boy and more like someone who had been one once and didn’t care to be again. The white shirt underneath was rolled up to his forearms, his sleeves cuffed neatly, revealing lean wrists and the faintest shift of muscle in the back of those safe seeker hands when he moved. His shoulders were broader than she remembered. He was holding himself taller, she realised with a smirk.

Lydia barely made it up the last stair when Draco stopped dead in front of her, forcing a small bottleneck behind them.

“Take that back,” he said, half-indignant, half-grinning.

She didn’t get the chance to tease him further before he pounced, catching her around the waist. His fingers pressed into her sides—tentative at first, almost as if he wasn’t sure if this was allowed, but then bolder, more relentless. Tickling her.

Lydia shrieked, twisting against him with a laugh she didn’t have time to stifle, all breathless resistance and helpless flailing as he steered her sideways, away from the surge of students still climbing the stairs. Her back hit the cool stone wall, but he didn’t stop, chasing her laughter like it was the only sound in the world that mattered. And maybe it was. Just for that moment.

“Draco!” she gasped between giggles, batting at his hands, breath hitching with the kind of joy that felt too rare these days.

“Take it back,” he said again, this time laughing too, not stopping until she gave in.

“Okay, okay !” Lydia wheezed, barely able to stand straight.

They both pulled apart, flushed and breathless, her heart pounding from more than just the tickling. For one, strange, suspended second, it felt like they were just two ordinary teenagers, caught in a moment of silliness. She could almost believe it.

Until she noticed the stares.

A group of younger students stood just beyond the archway, openly watching them. Their expressions were a mess of raised eyebrows and sideways glances, whispers passing behind cupped hands. One girl wrinkled her nose. The weight of it dropped like a stone in Lydia’s chest. Just like that, the magic of the moment slipped away, replaced by heat rushing up her neck that had nothing to do with laughter.

She turned slightly, jaw tightening, refusing to let her frustration show too clearly. Gods, is it going to be like this every time?

A familiar hand touched the small of her back—reassuring, grounding. She didn’t shrug it off.

“This is getting so old already,” she muttered under her breath, letting him see for a moment how hard she was finding this before swiping her palm across her face in a poor attempt at composure. Her fingers trembled, which only annoyed her more. She blinked rapidly, the pressure behind her eyes something she didn’t feel like justifying.

Without warning, Draco caught her hand and spun her under his arm like they were ballroom dancing in the middle of a corridor. Lydia let out a surprised laugh, a bright, involuntary sound that burst past the ache from moments before. It was ridiculous—and utterly charming.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he drew her in with theatrical flair, pressed a kiss to her knuckles like a proper gentleman, and then pulled her flush against him. His hand tilted her chin up gently, insistently, until she met his eyes. And there it was: that smirk.

“We should give them something worth talking about,” he murmured, all velvet and mischief.

Lydia arched an eyebrow, sceptical but not immune. “Is that right?”

His grin widened, positively wicked. “Let’s see... what is it girls always go mad for? When a boy tucks back her hair?” His fingers grazed her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so deliberate it almost made her laugh—except it was also tender, and that messed with her far more than it should have. 

“Kisses to the top of the head?” he suggested, and followed through before she could even respond—his lips brushing her crown with a softness that left her heart skittering in her chest. She wasn’t sure whether to mock him or melt.

“Longing looks,” he continued, that familiar teasing edge fading into something quieter as he cradled the side of her head. And just like that, everything shifted. The air between them thickened. His eyes searched hers, all that cocky charm giving way to something else. Deeper. Darker. And there it was again—that look. The one that made her feel like a fire was lighting beneath her skin. She held his gaze, steady, even as her throat tightened. He was so close now, the scent of him—clean, familiar, something faintly sweet and spicy—flooded her senses. His hand tightened around her waist, and she felt it in her knees as his nose brushed hers. His breath caught, just slightly, and that soft, involuntary sound he made—half sigh, half something more primal—sent heat curling low in her belly.

She let out a quiet laugh, threading her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I think maybe you just charmed yourself there,” she whispered, her thumb stroking lightly.

Then he kissed her.

It was slow, unhurried, sweet in that devastating, dangerous way. Not meant to stir scandal, just to mark something—claim it. It told the world that he was hers, and anyone watching could blink and back off. The castle melted away. There were no whispers, no stares, no cracked stones or ghosts of the past. Just Draco. Just now. She leaned into him, the edge of her shoe skimming the ground as she stumbled ever so slightly, like her whole body wanted to rise to meet him. Her foot kicked up behind her to keep balance.

When he pulled away—far too soon for Lydia's liking—he looked almost dazed.

“And kisses that make your foot pop,” he murmured with a grin.

Lydia laughed then—properly laughed—and it echoed in the hall around them like sunlight catching on water. And for a moment, just a moment, she let herself believe they were untouchable.

“Is this what it’s going to be then?” Lydia asked softly, fingertips drifting through Draco’s hair. She didn’t mean for her touch to be so gentle—it just was. He shivered under it, that indulgent, wicked smile curling his lips in a way that made her stomach do a slow, helpless somersault. “Just you, all besotted, all over me, all the time?”

“Yes,” he said, and there was no hesitation. Just conviction, steady and sweet, like a vow. His gaze didn’t waver. No deflection, no sarcasm. He said it like a promise. Like a boy who didn’t yet know he was allowed to want things, but wanted her anyway.

Lydia’s throat tightened slightly. Gods, he really meant it. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the stillness between them—like he was afraid she'd laugh or pull away. But instead, she leaned in, breath brushing against his ear.

“Pulling me into alcoves and sneaking kisses as you pass me in the dining hall, hands brushing in the corridor, longing looks across rooms?” Her words came out low and teasing, but she felt her own pulse race at the image she’d painted.

He practically melted into it. Eyes fluttered closed, his head tilting ever so slightly, leaning into her touch like a cat stretching, as her fingers traced slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck.

“Absolutely,” he murmured. “And lots of public displays of affection. All of them. If that’s what you want—if you’ll have me.”

The last words landed like a tremor between them.

Lydia pulled back slightly—not because she wanted to, but because the weight of what he’d said deserved a moment. A breath. She studied him carefully, that little quirk of uncertainty he was trying to hide under all the charm. He was bracing for rejection, she could tell. Already stepping back in his mind in case she laughed it off.

She filed that away for later. A soft place he hadn’t shown her before.

Instead, she pursed her lips and gave him a thoughtful little pout, tapping her finger against her chin. “I don’t know… This all sounds suspiciously too good to be true. We’ll have to see if you live up to the hype.”

Her words were playful, but her eyes? She knew they always gave her away. Assessing. Sharp. Testing the waters for something deeper. And just like that, Draco looked like he was scrambling—just a little. Not panicked, but unsure in a way that was deeply endearing.

“You think I’m gonna be that bad in bed?”

She barked a laugh, pressing a hand against his chest to steady him—and maybe herself. He was ridiculous. 

“I meant at being the perfect, besotted boyfriend—but now you mention it…”

He groaned— actually groaned—and caught her hand again, tugging her in close with a wolfish grin that tried to hide how pink his ears had gone.

“You wound me. I’ll have you know I’ve been getting tips from all sorts of depraved criminals on how to please a lady.”

She arched a brow, mildly concerned he was serious. Who knew what conversations he’d overheard or been part of in the Ministry holding cells. But surely the Death Eaters weren’t swapping tips about sex while awaiting trial? Were they? 

“Okay, okay,” he relented, fingers skimming down to hers as his gaze darted away. “I read some books. But it's fine. It'll be fine. It can't be that hard. People have been doing it for millennia.”

Lydia’s smirk unfurled slowly, wickedly. “I think you'll find it is supposed to be hard. Part of it anyway.”

Draco’s mouth fell open. He looked genuinely stunned—speechless in the best, most satisfying way. And Merlin, the blush. She couldn’t help but laugh again, delighted.

“What?” she said with a shrug, smile turning coy. “I can read too. I've read a lot, actually. I can recommend some great romance books.”

That earned a splutter.

“And it’s not like we haven’t done a few things anyway,” she added, her voice a little quieter, warmth blooming in her cheeks despite herself. “And that was fun, right? We both had a good time. You know, ignoring the fact you were keeping me in the dark about the raid…”

She was rambling. She always rambled when she was nervous. But she couldn’t stop.

And by the look in his eyes—soft, amused, hungry—he knew it too. And somehow, that helped. Because if she was scared, so was he. If she didn’t know how to talk about this, neither did he. And still, they were here. Still choosing each other, even if they had no idea what came next.

Because now… now it wasn’t just desperation behind locked doors. Now it mattered.

Now it was real.

“Salazar, I missed you.” His voice was hoarse—rougher than she’d expected. The kind of raw that had her breath catching. And when Draco rested his forehead against hers, hands on either side of her face as if shielding her from the rest of the world, Lydia stilled. They just breathed for a moment. In. Out. The kind of closeness that didn’t need filling. Then, softly—too softly—he murmured, “Now give me my summoning coin.”

Lydia huffed a quiet laugh, but she didn’t move. Her fingers continued their lazy trail along the nape of his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. “I should probably give them back to McGonagall,” she said, mostly just to be difficult.

His answering groan was almost imperceptible.

“Or…how about we keep them.” Draco leaned in again, and the kiss he stole was slow and full of intention. The kind that said he didn’t need her clever mouth right now—he needed this. Her. The feel of her. He kissed her like she was something precious he’d been without for too long, and she felt it everywhere—spine to skin to shivering fingertips. Her eyelids fluttered closed, lips parting against his in quiet surrender.

“I didn’t know you were so sentimental,” she whispered against his mouth, the words light, even as her chest ached a little. Merlin, she had missed him too.

When he pulled back, she almost leaned forward to follow—almost—but then his smile turned darker, and Lydia’s heart gave an involuntary lurch. There was something in his eyes, something that had nothing to do with teasing and everything to do with the heat and weight between them. Her own smile faltered, just for a second, as she tried to read him, as the tip of his tongue ran over his bottom lip.

“You’re sleeping in my bed tonight,” he said, resolute.

Her breath caught. “Draco…”

She meant to protest properly. She really did. But her voice didn’t quite make it above a murmur, and he was already pressing on, his tone shifting in that sharp, insistent way that always made her fall still. Not because he frightened her—but because when he spoke like that, she could hear how much it mattered.

“Don’t argue,” he said, voice low and thin-edged and far too serious for how late the hour had grown. “It has been exactly 86 days and 19 hours since I had you all to myself.”

Her throat tightened.

“I’ve spent a month at the Manor,” he continued, words falling out faster now, “terrified every day that Voldemort or my aunt or literally anyone might decide to torture or kill me just for fun, and I’d never see you again.”

Lydia didn’t interrupt. She couldn’t. Her hand had gone still on his shoulder.

“I spent nearly two months rotting in a Ministry holding cell, not knowing if someone would decide to beat the shit out of me or if I’d even live past my trial date. Then I got a week with you in Falmouth—a week of preparing to come back here and juggling Muggle family members and your overprotective dad, who would hex me into oblivion if I so much as looked at you the wrong way, let alone touched you.”

His grip on her hand tightened, not hard, but firm—steadying. His voice dropped into something gentler, and it was that gentleness that made her chest ache.

“So please,” he said, and there was a look in his eyes she wasn’t used to—something tender and frayed, something fragile in its hope. “I cannot tell you how much I’ve fantasised about curling up next to you and sleeping peacefully with you by my side. So don’t argue.”

For a heartbeat, she couldn’t speak. He looked almost embarrassed by the confession, and she had the wild urge to wrap both arms around him and never let go again. But her mouth, traitorous thing that it was, quirked upward despite her best efforts.

“Sleeping, huh?” she asked lightly. “Is that all?”

His expression twitched—she watched the pout try to escape before he clamped down on it and straightened. His confidence reasserted itself with a faint smirk, and he arched a single, elegant eyebrow, adjusted his robes.

“I’m open to negotiations.”

Lydia laughed softly, tilting her head back with an exaggerated sigh, eyes fixed on the enchanted ceiling overhead as though appealing to the universe for patience. Merlin, he was persistent. And absurd. And kind of adorable, actually.

Still smiling to herself, she reached into her cloak pocket and pulled out the coin. She turned it over once in her hand, thumb brushing the worn surface, and then held it out to him. “Fine,” she relented, pressing it into his palm. “Your room. Ten p.m. Ready for sleep.”

She said it like a joke—like a warning—but the look in her eyes was gentler than the words. She didn’t miss the way Draco’s expression shifted as his fingers closed around the coin, the smallest hitch in his breath. It was just a lump of metal, to anyone else. But she could see what it meant to him. The quiet kind of gratitude, reverence even, in the way he looked at it. A tether to something good. To them. She felt a strange lump catch in her throat, watching him hold it like that.

He blinked, then looked up, mischief quickly reasserting itself. “Make it nine-thirty,” he said, grinning as they turned towards the Great Hall. “I need to get my beauty sleep if I’m to compete with Nott—apparently.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, and then, just before they had to part ways, she leaned in and kissed him—quick but sure, her hand curling briefly at the collar of his robes. 

They separated reluctantly, hands lingering together until the very last second, fingers slipping free with the kind of ache that always surprised her for how much it could hurt, even after something so small. And as she made her way over to the Hufflepuff table, weaving around other students and benches, she didn’t look back—but she felt him still watching. The weight of his gaze like a heat across her shoulders.

When Lydia slid into the seat beside Hannah, a small smile played on her lips, and her hand was still warm where his had held hers. She let it sit between her palms for a second longer, before finally picking up a napkin and pretending to be preoccupied with unfolding it. The sound of chatter rose around her, but for a moment, it all felt strangely distant. Like she was moving through warm water, limbs heavy with a kind of contentment she hadn’t let herself feel in months. Her hand drifted to her pocket—to her companion coin, the twin to Draco’s summoning coin—and brushed her thumb over the familiar faces, imagining the connection between them like a physical thing.

She glanced over to the Slytherin table, immediately found Draco’s grey eyes on hers. He smiled faintly, knowing. Secretive. And Lydia matched it. 

Drawing her attention away, Hannah leaned in, nudging her shoulder, voice soft and conspiratorial. “You two are actually very cute. Who knew Draco Malfoy was such a sweetheart under all those snide remarks.”

But before the warmth could settle fully in Lydia’s chest, Ernest Macmillan spoke—sharp and unwelcome. “If you're planning to wax poetic about that murderer, I'll sit somewhere else.”

The words hit like a splash of cold water. Lydia’s gaze dropped to the grain of the wooden table, tracing the whorls with her eyes, willing the blood to stay in her cheeks. She squeezed the coin in her pocket tighter.

Hannah looked up sharply. “Feel free to move then, Ernie. No one’s making you stay.”

There was a short, brittle silence. The kind that didn’t need shouting to feel like a blow. Lydia hated that Hannah was fighting her battles for her. 

She knew what Draco had done. Knew more than Ernie did, probably. She wasn’t naïve. But he was trying —had been trying, for longer than anyone would believe. And besides… he wasn’t the only one who had made terrible choices under impossible circumstances. No, she wouldn't allow this. 

Lydia snapped her eyes up to Ernie’s. No words. Just a look.

A look that said I remember the blood pooling beneath you . A look that said I remember holding your ribs together with my bare fucking hands . A look that said I brought you back, and you still think I need your permission to care about someone ? Show some fucking respect. 

Ernie flinched—barely, but enough. He looked away first. 

Chapter Text

The warm hush of late afternoon settled over the Graduating Class Common Room, soft gold light spilling through the tall windows and pooling across the scattered armchairs, sofas, and mismatched tables. Books rustled, quills scratched parchment, and somewhere in the background, a Wireless crackled faintly beneath the buzz of quiet conversation. It was one of those rare, peaceful hours where no one was in a rush.

Draco and Theo were stationed at opposite ends of a worn leather sofa, legs stretched out, a pile of textbooks and note pages between them. Lydia sat cross-legged on the rug, her back resting lightly between Draco’s legs, her notes and books spread out on the coffee table before her as she wrestled with the Potions assignment. Across from her, Hannah Abbott was hunched over an Arithmancy chart, a quill tucked behind one ear as she muttered numbers under her breath. With a soft sigh, Hannah leaned back against the windowsill, bringing one knee up to her chest to prop her elbow on and lift her parchment higher, as if a new angle might somehow make the answers jump out at her.

Draco’s gaze drifted past her, out the window, to the clouds being pushed across the sky by the wind. It was a perfect day for flying. And here he was, stuck figuring out some nonsense for his Muggle Studies assignment.

It wasn’t the subject he resented, not exactly. He’d gone in determined to engage—even take it seriously. He had decent motivation, after all: his girlfriend spent holidays with her Muggle family, talked casually about things like theme parks and Girl Power and the UK Top 40. She didn’t flinch when she said words like “television” and kept promising they were going to watch a show called “Friends” that was “absolutely hilarious” —Draco was keeping an open mind. But the lessons at Hogwarts? They were outdated at best. And simply offensive at worst.

After just a week in Falmouth with Lydia—meeting some of her Muggle relatives, wandering the cliff paths greeting everyone they passed with a cheerful hello or y’alright , eating ice cream that melted too fast on a beach packed with people of all ages—he knew for certain: Muggles weren’t as strange as he’d been previously led to believe. And what he was being taught now was little more than poor guesswork.

Muggles weren’t helpless without magic. They’d just invented other ways of doing things. Practical, clever little contraptions they called technology . There was the kettle, which he had found strangely satisfying to operate with the way it roared and bubbled, shooting out a ferocious jet of steam to announce the water was hot. (Lydia's Nana had a kettle that whistled when the water was boiled! Whistled!) There was the telly, which he couldn’t stop watching once he started—even if half the shows were nonsense. There were holes in walls where they summoned paper money, and all number of boxes in their kitchens that performed myriad operations, from heating food to washing clothes or dishes. Lydia and her dad also had some sort of sharp-teethed creature living in the small sink that ate their leftovers with terrifyingly loud gusto.

But of all the discoveries he’d made, it was the CD player and headphones that stuck with him. Lydia had shown him one afternoon, the reflective metal disc that spun in the little box like a record, the connected wire that split in two. Lying on the carpet of her bedroom, limbs tangled and a little sun-drowsy from the beach, she’d pressed one of the little earpieces into his hand and told him to just listen . And so he had—after she’d shown him how to put it in his ear. The music had been low and crackly through the headphones—some wistful Muggle band with lyrics he only half caught—but Lydia had smiled at him like it was important. Like sharing this sound was something sacred.

He remembered the strange intimacy of it. How the wire stretched between them like a thread. How quiet the world felt with only the song in his ear and her breath near his shoulder. That—more than any textbook theory—was what made Muggles make sense. They found ways to share things. To bridge gaps. To stay connected. Telephones and mobile phones had absolutely blown Draco's mind. He'd spent an afternoon on the beach conquering a game on Lydia's mobile phone called Snake while she read.

Draco glanced back at his essay and frowned at the clumsy paragraph he’d written about electricity boxes and moving picture screens . Rubbish. And the textbooks weren’t helping.

Although—it wasn’t all magic-less marvels and clever little gadgets. Some things were maddeningly impractical.

Like sewing.

He’d had the pinpricks to prove it. 

Lydia had taken him to visit her Nan one afternoon, and almost as soon as he’d finished his cup of tea—which he hadn’t asked for or particularly thought he wanted, but had found oddly comforting—Nana Silvie had handed him a large grey winter coat.

“You’ve got steady hands,” she’d said. “And you look like a tidy sort. Be a dear and just attach these new buttons, would you? You’ll do a far better job than I can these days.”

Draco Malfoy had doubted that. Very much.

Not only had house-elves always been the ones to mend his clothes, but the very idea of doing it the Muggle way— by hand —felt borderline absurd. He’d stared at the coat. Then the large black buttons. Then the sewing kit Nana Silvie had set down in front of him like it was totally normal. Totally normal to ask a guest to perform household chores as a favour. Like it was totally normal for a wizard to sew buttons—by hand.

(Though, on later reflection, Draco suspected a little hesitantly that he was being treated more like family than simply a guest, given how every one of Lydia's family who stepped through the door while he was there were also asked to perform little favours. Oh, be a love and drop that card over to Bobbie at the cafe on your way out? Said to Max after he'd dropped them off. Oh, while you're here, could you get some of those apples off the tree and bring them in for the pie? Said to an uncle who was just passing by for a cuppa. Just chop that meat and veg for the stew, Chick. Said to Lydia almost as soon as they walked in. Make yourself useful and fetch some milk from the corner shop next time, dear. Said to the errant cousin who showed up unexpectedly just as dinner was being served. Nana Silvie ran a tight ship. And Draco still did not have the energy to think about being treated like family all too much.)

A little sweat had actually broken out along his brow.

He’d looked to Lydia for help, hoping she might step in or offer a quiet rescue. But, indicating the meat and vegetables she’d been set to chop for dinner, she’d only given him that infuriatingly kind smile—half encouraging, half apologetic—and said, “You’ll be alright. Nan’ll walk you through it.”

And Silvie had. With great enthusiasm and surprising patience.

Sipping another cup of tea, she had talked him through threading the needle, anchoring the thread, and sewing on the first button as if it were ancient spellwork. Draco nodded stiffly and tried not to bleed on the wool.

She’d also said something about Arthur writings —which Draco eventually gathered was not another Muggle but some sort of Muggle affliction that affected her fingers and joints and made her incapable of undertaking a task such as sewing herself. Though he couldn’t help but notice she seemed perfectly adept at managing other fiddly tasks around the kitchen. As he stabbed his own fingers and Lydia peeled potatoes at the counter, Silvie sat across from him and wrote out a beautifully neat shopping list—cursive and all…

But Draco didn’t grumble out loud. He just concentrated on replacing the buttons, by hand, the muggle way.

It was ridiculous. Painful. Pointless. Utterly inefficient. And yet…

There’d been a strange sort of rhythm to it once he knew what he was doing. The methodical push and pull of the needle. The way the thread looped and cinched into place. It demanded his full attention—left no room for spiralling thoughts or sharp memories. Just focus. Just the task. Which was good, because he couldn’t quite bring himself to take part in the conversation about exams and future careers—not when, four days ago, he hadn’t known if the Wizengamot would send him to Azkaban. Or worse. 

He was fairly sure a mandatory eighth year back at Hogwarts wasn’t worse—but time would tell. Draco had shot Lydia a small, self-deprecating smirk at the thought. At the absurdity of this moment in his life. Salazar, if his parents could have seen him... Well, actually, they could rightly go fuck themselves and choke on the rot of their legacy for all he cared. 

The needle had slipped and pricked the pad of his thumb deep enough to draw blood and a curse word choked from Draco’s throat. Without thinking, Draco had brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked the bead of blood from his skin, wincing slightly at the sting. He’d taken a sharp inhalation through his nose, shook out his hand and without acknowledging the enquiring looks of the women in the room, set back to sewing with gritted teeth. Just keep sewing. Just focus on the task. Do not fall apart and terrify Lydia’s Nana with a screaming temper tantrum. 

When he’d finally knotted off the last thread and held the coat out for inspection, his fingertips sore and his pride oddly intact, Nana Silvie had slipped a caramel sweet into his palm with a wink.

“Are you happy with it?” She’d asked.

Draco had blinked at her, caught off guard. He’d been waiting for her verdict—some sign that he’d done it right, or at least well enough.  It hadn’t occurred to him that he should be the one to decide. He ran his fingers over the thick grey wool, over the buttons he’d sewn on himself— by hand— as he searched inwardly for an answer. His cheeks were warm—maybe from the heat of the stove where Lydia was cooking, or maybe from the quiet, unsettling realisation that he didn’t quite know how to gauge his own satisfaction without someone else’s input. There was a small, nagging discomfort in that.

Eventually, he gave a half-hearted shrug. The stitches weren’t neat. A charm could’ve done it in seconds, far cleaner. But it was still here—held together by his own clumsy effort. And maybe that counted for something, even if he wasn’t sure what.

When he tried to pass the coat back, Silvie only shook her head and pushed it gently toward his chest. 

“Oh no, love,” she said. “You earned it. And no doubt, you’ll need it up in Scotland this winter.”

Draco had stilled. Silvie wasn’t wrong. He would need a proper coat come winter at Hogwarts. And this one—soft-lined, thick wool, clearly well-made—wasn’t so far off the sort of thing he’d always worn, other than the colour. But no matter how kindly it was offered, something in him twisted at the idea of accepting it. A handful of buttons didn’t feel like fair payment. It felt like charity wrapped in gentleness. And somehow, that was worse than cruelty.

“Come on then, try it on,” Nana Silvie had urged, holding it up with both hands, expectant. And either oblivious to, or outright ignoring, Draco’s hesitance.

Well-bred manners taking over, Draco had slipped his arms through the sleeves. The coat was warm from where she’d held it, the weight familiar and unfamiliar all at once as she settled it over his shoulders. He couldn’t meet Lydia’s eyes. Couldn’t bear to see what she might not even be thinking.

“Well,” Silvie said, pursing her lips as he turned and she looked him over, “you need a few good meals, but I reckon you’ll fill it out before the snow comes.” She smiled. “And I’ll be pleased to know it’s in the hands of someone who’ll care for it. Better than gathering dust in the cupboard, at any rate.”

Draco swallowed. He didn’t know how to explain that he wasn’t sure he deserved something that had been cared for, or that being asked to care for it in return made his throat tight. He couldn’t find the words, so he nodded instead, stiffly, his hands pushing into the coat’s pockets as if that might ground him.

But in the end, he had accepted it. When he and Lydia left that cosy kitchen after a simple, pleasant dinner, with Lydia’s grandparents and the stray cousin, Draco hadn’t needed to be reminded to take the coat with him. He tucked it over his arm and carried it the few streets back to Lydia’s house, a vague determination blooming in him to look after it, as Silvie had trusted he could.

Back at Hogwarts now, he hadn’t needed it yet—autumn hadn’t quite taken hold—but every time he saw it hung neatly in his wardrobe, he found himself increasingly eager to slip into it. He wasn’t sure why. And he still hadn’t used magic to tidy the stitching.

Beside his leg, Lydia suddenly shifted. Her book snapped shut with a definitive thwack that jolted Draco from his spiralling thoughts. He blinked, grounding himself again in the common room, noting the various seventh- and eighth-year students spread across the space. Some had stuck to old habits in their own house common rooms, but their little group had taken to spending time here—together. Good to see my star pupil and friends flying the flag for unity! Slughorn had praised them the other day when he’d dropped off a text to help with Draco’s assignment. They'd all cringed at the Professor's exuberant declaration, hardly keen to draw unnecessary attention.

“Okay, I’m done. I can’t look at this anymore,” Lydia declared, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her voice had that tired, frayed edge she usually reserved for Potions theory. She began sweeping her notes into her satchel with the resigned air of someone conceding temporary defeat.

Draco glanced at the parchment she’d been working on—the Potions assignment, same as his, though he only had a grammatical check to sweep through before handing it in. Lydia barely seemed to have more than an outline. “I’ve nearly finished my potions essay. I can help—?” he started to offer, already leaning slightly towards her, the words ready.

“No,” she said quickly, frustrated. And then she glanced at him, apology wide in her eyes, voice softening. “Thank you. I just need a break from it.” She sounded tired.

She was studying harder than most. Not just N.E.W.T.s and shifts in the hospital wing—but the extra coursework for those bloody Muggle qualifications. The ones she hadn’t told many people about. The backup plan. Just in case St. Mungo’s turned her away for reasons that had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with him .

Draco looked down at his own assignment, jaw tightening slightly. It wasn’t just guilt that settled in his chest—it was helplessness, thick and knotted, the kind that made him want to fix something he couldn’t even name.

But Lydia was already moving, slipping easily back into her usual warmth as she reached across the table to give Hannah’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to freshen up before dinner. I’ll see you there?”

Hannah gave a distracted nod, her quill dancing across the page. “Mmhmm.”

Lydia shot Draco with a conspiratorial smile. Hannah could’ve missed a stampede when she was in the zone. Last week, she’d ignored a particularly foul-smelling prank pulled by a seventh year, the scent of rotting fish lingering in the air while everyone else scrambled to escape. But Hannah had stayed, her attention still fixed on her work.

Standing with a soft huff, Lydia slung her satchel over her shoulder with that practiced motion Draco had watched dozens of times. Something in his stomach clenched, and his heart rate kicked up a fraction. He hated that motion—it meant she was leaving. Lydia turned to him, then bent down, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. Light, habitual, but grounding. He breathed the scent of her in deep, seeking those subtle undertones of the sea.

“Oh—by the way,” she murmured, “I watered those saplings for the Herbology project this morning. So no need to do it tonight.”

Draco looked up at her, raising one brow in faint suspicion. “You misted them, right? Otherwise, they’ll turn to mulch.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth curled. “Yes, obviously. I sat through the same class you did, remember?”

Draco’s lips quirked into a mischievous smile, his gaze shifting to something more private, more teasing. His hands reached for her hips and Lydia braced herself on the back of the sofa either side of his shoulders to keep from toppling over as he pulled her closer. “Just making sure you weren’t as distracted as I was… All I remember is your hand stroking my thigh under the table… ” He smirked.

From the other end of the sofa, Theo cleared his throat pointedly. Draco’s smirk only deepened as he glanced at him, amused by the suggestion that Theo was bothered by overhearing such things. He turned his attention back to Lydia, his eyes softening as she looked at him, though a flicker of something playful still lingered.

She brushed several strands of hair back from his temple, her fingers lingering longer than necessary, as if her departure required something slower, more deliberate. His fingers curled against her hips, eliciting a warning in the tip of her chin, although her smile didn’t drop. Even with her kindness, her softness, Draco still felt a weight in his chest, like an unpaid debt. He didn’t know how to thank her for things she never asked him to repay. But he tried, in the ways he could. Like worshipping her body in bed. That was an easy way to thank her. Easy and fun. 

“I’ll call tonight,” he said, voice low, the familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

The joke was worn-in now— Clamo , the incantation they used to trigger the summoning coins that let her Portkey into his room. I call out. Keeping the coins had proved beneficial, and Lydia had slept in his room more nights than not since they’d returned. Not that curfew was stopping many of the eighth years from exploiting the privacy of their single rooms, if they were so inclined. Adulthood had its perks, he supposed.

But unusually, Lydia hesitated at his suggestion, and it didn’t escape him. A pause too long, an almost-answer caught behind her teeth. For a moment, Draco thought she might decline, and something cold flickered in his chest. She’d never turned him down before.

“Sure,” she said at last, but there was something in her tone that shifted. The lightness that had been there a moment ago was gone. “But just tonight this week. I’ve got assignments to finish. And night shifts. And I need an actual night’s sleep.” Her gaze caressed over his face, indulgent, a little sympathetic—as if she could see the disappointment he was trying to hide. “We both do. A few nights apart won’t hurt.”

Draco’s brow furrowed slightly. He could sense the change in her, but he didn’t press it. Instead, he offered, half-teasing, half-serious, “You can always study in my room, you know. And I promise I’ll let you sleep any time you want.”

Pushing back to straighten, Lydia snorted, shaking her head fondly but with a hint of disbelief. “We both know that’s not happening.”

Draco grinned, leaning back in his seat, unbothered. “I can't help it if you find me devastatingly distracting.”

Lydia let out a scandalized gasp, her fingers swatting at his knee before planting another swift kiss on his mouth. She pulled back, her smile soft but full of affection. “You're lucky you're so beautiful.”

Draco’s grin widened, chin lifted, chest puffing out as a warm sort of self-satisfaction ran through him. “I know.”

She sighed, a mix of fondness and exasperation. “So, tonight. And then I need to study and sleep for a few nights.”

Draco nodded, the weight of the agreement hanging between them. “Deal.” He lent up and kissed her quickly before she moved out from between his legs. But a quiet ripple of unease threaded through his thoughts. It didn’t feel like a deal he’d won, not really. A few nights apart? It wasn’t what he wanted, it made him anxious. But it was what she needed, and it wasn’t like he wouldn’t see her at all. Classes, passing in the corridors, common room in the evenings. It was fine. 

With a casual air, Lydia slipped around the furniture, pausing behind Theo and leaning over the back of the sofa to hug him from behind.

“See you later, Lyds,” Theo said absently, tilting his head to kiss Lydia’s cheek, barely looking up from his book.

Twisting to lean over the back of the sofa, Draco watched Lydia as she walked away—the soft swing of her satchel, the way the light caught in her hair. She didn’t look back, and the Common Room seemed quieter once she’d gone, though nothing had changed. Still, something in his chest tightened, that same twisting sensation that had haunted him since last year.

Back then, when he’d summoned her bloodied or panicked—or both—she would always come. Always help. But she’d be the first to leave, slipping quietly through the door with a parting glance, never saying too much. Just ‘Stay safe.’ 

As if by silent agreement, they didn’t say that anymore—it seemed arbitrary since the war was over. But he still remembered. And he still found he hated watching her leave. Hated when the space between them was too big. Whether it was leaving a class they had together for one they didn’t, or leaving his room in the morning, or sometimes even when she let go of his hand to sit at the Hufflepuff table for meals—part of him hated it. The door would shut behind her, and he’d be left in the silence she’d left behind where he'd pondered and agonised over the beliefs he'd been fed, and tried to wrestle the new ones he was forming. That silence and space had become disorienting. It made the walls feel closer somehow. Like if he didn't make the right choices everything would crumble. It would hurt. He’d never told her how much it unsettled him—how the sound of a door latch could make something clench low in his gut. How he’d be there, just listening to her footsteps fade. And no matter how many times she came back… part of him still feared the day she wouldn’t.

Turning back around, Draco slid his gaze to his open textbook, trying not to think about every door that had ever shut behind her.

At the other end of the sofa, Theo dropped his book in his lap and pointedly turned a raised eyebrow on Draco. “ You misted them, otherwise they’ll turn to mulch? ” He mimicked before his face twisted into a look of disgust. “You’ve already got her doing your Herbology homework like it’s a fucking house chore?”

Draco frowned, not entirely sure how to respond to Theo's unasked-for scathing judgment. He shrugged, his tone nonchalant. “I mean, technically, it’s our Herbology homework. We have a pairs assignment.”

Theo leaned forward, his voice taking on a more serious edge. “Mate, you’ve got to stop this ‘living in each other’s pockets’ thing. She’s going to get bored. Hell, I’m bored watching you two.”

Draco bristled at that, feeling defensive. “Firstly, we’re just in a comfortable routine. That’s not a bad thing, especially after last year.”

“We’ve been back at school barely three weeks, and you’re in a ‘comfortable routine’?” Theo scoffed, wiping a hand over his face. “Salazar, did they teach you nothing about courting a lady?”

Draco continued to bristle, like a bird ruffling its feathers to shake out the dirt. “Secondly, I’m keeping her perfectly well entertained any night she’s in my bed, thank you very much.”

Leaning over, Theo suddenly slapped the back of Draco’s hand in mock disapproval, shaking his head. “Don’t be crass.”

Lips cracking into a small smile, Draco protested with an exaggerated gasp, his voice rising slightly. “Says you!”

Theo shot him a knowing, unapologetic grin before rolling his eyes dramatically and leaning back in his chair. “Look, I’m just saying—you can’t rest on your laurels. You’ve got to do something meaningful. Take her on a proper date.”

It was Draco’s turn to scoff, irritation tightening in his shoulders. “Oh, of course. I’ll just whisk her off to dinner in Paris, with all the money I have, shall I?” He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “Oh wait. I have none.”

“We’re hiring at the Broomsticks,” Hannah called from across the coffee table. Draco and Theo snapped their gazes to her. There was a beat of silence in which, Hannah didn’t even look up from her parchment.

“You’re suggesting he works in a pub?” Theo raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, you seem reasonably intelligent, Malfoy. I assume you could figure out the very complicated art of pouring pints in exchange for money,” Hannah retorted without looking up.

“A Malfoy— as a barman? What crazy new world is this?” Theo exclaimed. Hannah and Draco both ignored him.

Draco considered it for a moment. “The information’s appreciated, Abbot. But… no one’s going to hire me, are they?”

“You’ve just got to spin it right,” Hannah waved a dismissive hand. “It’s all about the angle. You’re infamous—people will come just to gawk at a Malfoy working for a living. From far and wide. They’ll order everything they can think of, just to watch you run yourself ragged. But hey, it’s good for business and money in your pocket.”

Draco frowned. “It’s more likely to drive business away…”

“Won’t know ‘til we try,” Hannah shrugged.

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Does it pay well?”

Hannah laughed, a light, almost dismissive sound. “No. But it’s better than no job and more fun than working in a shop. Worst-case, Rosa can stick you in the kitchen. Junior won’t care who’s chopping onions and carrots for him.”

“Chopping vegetables?” Theo gasped, his aristocratic sensibilities clearly appalled. He clapped Draco on the back as if offering commiseration.

Hannah ignored him.

“I’ll owl Rosa in the morning. Do you want me to drop your name, or just say I’ve got a friend who needs a job?” She asked Draco, matter-of-factly, as though it wouldn’t be a problem. Draco tried not to dwell on how casually she referred to him as a friend.

“Probably best to mention it,” Draco replied, a bit stiffly. “I don’t want to waste anyone’s time traipsing over there only for her to turn me down…”

Theo shot him a disbelieving look. “You’re serious? You’re going to work in a pub?”

Draco shrugged, as if trying to share off his resignation. “You’re right. I should be taking Lydia on dates. I need money for that. And the only way I’m going to get any money for the next three years is by getting a job. If anyone’s willing to take me on. Besides…” He sighed, leaning back slightly. “I’ll need money when I graduate. Or I’ll starve. I can’t rely on other people’s charity.”

In truth, Draco suspected he could very much rely on other people’s charity. Lydia wouldn’t let him starve, and despite his reservations about Draco dating his daughter, Max Hargrove wouldn’t either. And if not, there were ways of moving through the old aristocratic circles, charming a room here for a time, a meal there. Draco also suspected that, if he played it right, by the end of the year, Theo would come good on that implied promise of best friends forever and let him live off of his fortune until Draco could access his own. But Draco wasn’t willing to do it.

Theo didn’t flinch, his eyes hardening slightly as he leaned forward again. He was clearly weighing his own options, but wasn’t willing to push Draco further, not yet. "I’m not saying Paris, mate. But you’ve got to do something. She deserves more than the same four walls and some half-arsed flirtation."

“It’s not half-arsed!” Draco protested, his voice rising defensively. “I go out of my way to pass her in the corridors between classes.”

“Oh yes, I know.” Theo rolled his eyes. “You drag me along like it’s some voyeuristic show for my benefit. Fingers brushing as you pass, sneaky little kisses or flirtatious remarks, occasionally ducking into alcoves.” He shrugged. “It’s like you’re still trying to hold on to what it was like when it was a secret.”

Draco clenched his jaw. "Nobody, in fact, asks you to tag long. And I'm just doing what she asked. She reads regency romance novels; it's all fleeting touches and longing looks."

“Yes, and you’re a very good boy, Draco,” Theo said, the words dripping with sarcasm. Draco bristled at the ‘good boy’ remark, but didn’t interrupt. “But have you two ever even had a proper date?”

Draco hesitated. “We watched the sunrise at the beach?” he said, and realized only then that he was practically asking for Theo’s approval.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “And whose idea was that?”

“Hers…” Draco admitted, avoiding eye contact.

Theo sighed, shaking his head. "Mate, this isn’t enough. You’ve got to put in the effort. If you’re really serious about her, it’s not just about touching hands in the hallways and sleepovers."

Draco’s patience thinned. This was fucking rich, coming from a boy who was pathologically working his way through any and every one in their year he could charm into sleeping with him. Never dating. Never an actual relationship. Just sex, and the occasional trade for homework. “Well, what would you do? We’re kind of limited here on school grounds anyway.” Draco pouted.

Theo didn’t even stop to think. “I’d take her to the bookshop in Hogsmeade, let her pick out as many books and as much stationery as she could carry, and then we’d go to the tea shop for cake. We’d curl up on one of those lumpy sofas, I’d tuck her into my side, and she could read to her heart’s content. Out loud to me if she wanted, or I’d read to her. Maybe we’d take turns.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. Lydia would love that. She’d love every bit of it. But he couldn’t afford to buy books—or a single cup of tea. Something else niggled at him too—how easily Theo had answered: in vivid detail... so perfectly… about his girlfriend… But then again, Theo was good at reading people. He could probably craft the perfect date for Hannah, too. Maybe most of the girls in eighth year.. Hell, probably the boys, too, if he tried.

“Right, but what would you do if you didn't have any money?” Draco challenged Theo. 

Theo seemed confused by this question.  “But I do.”

“And I don't. It's not helpful if you suggest things I can't do.” Draco didn't mean to sound so petulant. But Lydia's hesitation earlier, watching her walk away, and now Theo’s judgement had hit harder than he realised. 

“The room of requirement is an option if you can find it. I've been on a few dates there and the options are fairly limitless.” Hannah suggested. Draco gave a small nod of thanks.

“Prefects bathroom?” Theo offered after a pause.

“How is the prefects bathroom different from my bedroom?” Draco asked.

“It has the potential to be more relaxing and intimate.” Theo answered matter of factly, as if it were obvious.

“As discussed previously, we relax intimately— plenty— in my room, thank you very much.” Draco snapped back, somehow almost offended.

“Last time I checked you didn't have endless bubbly water in your bedroom. Loads of fun to be had with that.” Theo winked.

“When was the last time you checked my bedroom, Theodore?” Draco countered, a little petulantly. Although he kept a slight warning edge to his tone, in case Theo had figured out a way past his wards and had designs on pulling some prank or other. It was not beyond Theo’s interests. 

“Admittedly I'm basing my assumptions on the fact that I do not have endless bubbly water in my bedroom. Nor have I seen it any of the other eighth year rooms I've slept in—fucked in, at least. Which I concede does not include yours…” Theo admitted. 

“Thank Salazar!” Draco rolled his eyes. 

“There's still time.” Theo teased with a smirk, something almost hopeful in the way his eyes widened and his eyebrows raised. Draco was relatively certain he was joking.

“The astronomy tower is also an option.” Hannah chirped up. “Take a picnic up there from lunch or dinner. Most people go up there at night but sunrise is also an option. And you could borrow a broom from your team's equipment store to fly up there, avoiding the risk of being caught in the corridors after curfew.”

“Oh. Flying’s a good idea.” Draco sat up straighter, wheels suddenly turning enthusiastically. He could definitely work with flying. Not just to the astronomy tower, but as an activity in itself. He had access to the equipment and the pitch as a Team Captain. Lydia wasn’t especially into Quidditch—as far as he knew. Which was odd, really, considering she was a Hargrove on her dad's side. As in, the Quidditch family. They were practically royalty when it came to broomsticks and bludgers. But she’d always seemed more interested in healing spellbooks than league tables. Still, flying was different. Flying was about freedom, not just sport.

Hannah didn’t shoot the idea down when he looked to her. She just shrugged and kept scribbling away on her parchment, which Draco took as permission to run with it.

Maybe he could plan a flight over the grounds, take her out past the lake and the treeline, show her how to pull off a Sloth Grip Roll without dislocating something. Something playful. Low stakes. He could create a bit of a teacher-student vibe. That could be fun, right? 

And after that, maybe he could use Theo’s idea about reading to her. From her favourite book. Or—her current book… He wasn’t sure what her favourite was. He frowned at that. He really should know.

Draco rubbed his thumb along the arm of the sofa, a crease forming between his brows. Now Theo had put it in his head, he wanted to do this right. Wanted to be right, for her.

He should’ve paid more attention when she left novels lying around his room. He exhaled slowly. Alright. Well, that could be something to ask on the date, something to talk about. A flying and reading date. It sounded absurd when he said it in his head, and yet—

Draco sat back, a bit of tension leaving his shoulders. Yes. It was a good idea. Almost certainly.

He glanced toward Hannah again, half-tempted to run the full idea past her. But she was already back in deep focus, the tip of her tongue poking out between her teeth as she scrawled a note in the margin.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Theo said, sliding down further onto the sofa with a self-satisfied grin as he reopened his book.

Draco pressed his lips together, and a brief silence settled between them all. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm, flickering shadows across the stone walls. Somewhere near the window, the wind moaned faintly against the glass, as if testing the strength of the castle’s ancient bones. A charmed quill scratched steadily in the corner where someone had left it working unattended, and the faint scent of peppermint tea lingered from a forgotten mug on the table. The soft hush of the common room made the quiet feel deliberate, like it was waiting for someone to fill it. Draco nudged Theo’s foot with his own.

“What would you do,” Draco asked with a mischievous smirk, the type he knew Theo couldn’t resist, “if it was Hannah you were taking on a date?”

Across the coffee table, Hannah raised an eyebrow—pointed, warning, every line of her face tightening with cold precision. Her gaze snapped to them, sharp enough to cut, and the casual scratch of her quill halted mid-stroke. She didn’t need to say a word. The look alone crackled with threat. Theo, naturally, grinned like he’d just spotted a dragon and was excitedly waving a stick to poke it with. 

“Hannah loves baking,” he began, voice casual. “So I’d bribe the elves and we’d sneak into the kitchens after hours to bake something.”

Draco glanced at Hannah. She was listening, expression unreadable but not entirely unimpressed.

“From scratch,” Theo added, turning toward her, tone softening as he switched on that practiced charm and lent closer with dreamy eyes. “The Muggle way. It’d get a little messy—flour in our hair, chocolate on our noses, batter on our fingers after a few teasing touches, our own mini food fight. When we're done I’d let you lick the chocolate off the spoon, watching you closely. Then I’d take your hand—or maybe you’d offer it…”

As he said it, their eyes met. Theo extended his hand with casual confidence—and to Draco’s astonishment, Hannah reached across the table and placed hers in his. Her smile curved with a flicker of challenge, as if she were still waiting to be impressed. Theo traced his thumb lightly over her knuckles. “Then I’d slowly, deliberately, lick the batter from your fingers and chocolate from your lips.” His voice had dipped, low and deliberate. He lent forward and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “And we’d see where that led… while our masterpiece baked in the oven.”

He straightened, gauging her response.

Hannah rolled her eyes, but the smirk stayed. A flush crept up her throat and coloured her cheeks as she leaned back against the windowsill, reclaiming her hand like it was nothing at all, letting the moment settle. Draco tried not to gape. Apparently, getting dirty while baking was the key to Hannah Abbott’s heart.

And then Hannah’s blue eyes flashed to his, sharp as ice, narrowing into a look that could cut through stone. She lent towards him over the table and Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There was no mistaking it—she was on the hunt, every line of her face pulling tight with cold calculation. 

"Do Draco," Hannah instructed Theo without so much as a glance in his direction. Her eyes remained locked on Draco, the slight flick of her mouth the only sign of her growing amusement. It wasn’t a request—it was a command. Her smirk widened, twisting into something just a little too knowing, a little too sharp. If Draco was honest with himself, it felt a little mean. 

Theo, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed as he rubbed his hands together with glee. He shifted on the sofa, twisting his body so he faced Draco fully. His knee bent up, brushing against Draco’s thigh with a casual familiarity that only added to the tension hanging in the air. 

“You, Draco Malfoy…” Theo smiled the most brilliant winning smile as Draco’s attention was drawn to those unnecessarily warm brown eyes. Chest puffing out, Theo inhaled like he'd been born for this question. “You are perhaps the easiest of all. Once I get past the bit where you pretend you're not just a walking ball of yearning.”

A muscle in Draco’s jaw flickered. Involuntarily. He was going to hate this, wasn’t he? Hate how perfect it was going to be. Shit. He should’ve known better than to throw Hannah under the Knight Bus—especially after she’d just offered to help him get a job.

Theo’s knee shifted against his, dragging Draco’s attention back. He glanced down at it, then looked up—pointed and deliberate—as if to say back off . But Theo only grinned and began describing the date he’d plan for Draco.

“I’d take you to a Muggle jazz club—one of the proper underground ones,” he said, slowly, deliberately, his tone weaving some sort of charm that had nothing to do with magic. “Low lighting, smoky air, and a pianist who makes everything sound like a confession. You wouldn’t admit you liked it at first, but you’d be watching the hands on the piano like you were trying to learn the story by heart.”

Draco clenched his jaw, uncertain why the image of the pianist’s hands made his stomach twist. Uncertain why the melodic words hit so hard in his chest. It was all annoyingly evocative.

“Then we’d go walking,” Theo went on, casual and unbothered. “Somewhere unassuming. Through Muggle London, maybe. I’d take your hand and tuck it into my coat pocket with mine and not say a word about it. You’d get quiet. Thoughtful. Because you like feeling anonymous in the world sometimes. Normal. Like you can stop watching your back.”

Draco blinked. And damn it, Theo wasn’t wrong. He was always watching his back—unless the door was locked, unless the wards were up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly safe in a public space, the last time his shoulders weren’t wound tight. The thought of not having to think about it… Shit . It was perfect. Fucking Theo.

“We’d end up on a bridge,” Theo said, “with the city humming around us, lights on the water, wind in your hair. That’s where you’d finally say whatever you’ve been carrying around all night.” Theo’s expression turned mischievous, honey coloured eyes dancing and alight. “Probably something painfully honest, like, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever actually had fun before.’”

Hannah let out a sharp breath—somewhere between a laugh and a snort, hastily muffled by her hand. Draco didn’t look at her. Looking would mean acknowledging it, would mean confirming he was the serious, tortured soul in their group who didn’t know how to relax. Instead, he rolled his eyes, feigning boredom, pretending Theo wasn’t reading him with excruciating precision.

Theo smirked, his voice lowering. Slower now, velvety with intent. Draco felt Hannah lean in to hear—and realised, a moment too late, that he’d done the same. Theo looked like ruin dressed in silk, all lazy bedroom eyes and theatrical elegance, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed. It was disorientating how well it worked.

“In return for your heartfelt confession,” Theo murmured, “I’d kiss you. Slow. Like I’m trying to teach you how to breathe again.”

Dramatically, Theo paused. And to his later embarrassment, Draco very much held his breath.

Bloody hell. Theo was ridiculous. And impossible. And, Merlin help him, just a little bit mesmerising.

“And then,” Theo added, with a wink that was entirely unfair, “you’d be putty in my hands, my boy.”

My boy? Don’t let Lydia hear you say that, Draco thought, suppressing the shiver those words sent crawling up his spine.

Theo reached over and ruffled his hair, cracking a grin and snapping the tension like a firework. Draco blinked, his heart still thudding faster than he liked. He could at least take comfort in the fact that Theo’s perfect-date-for-Lydia hadn’t been an isolated stroke of genius.

After several moments lost in thought about what he might arrange for Lydia— and definitely not about Theo's jazz club— Draco glanced over and saw Theo was still smirking. Of course he was. Draco could admit to himself that the whole holding hands in his coat pocket move had ruined him, just a little. It was a good move. He loved that move. And Theo must’ve seen him use it before, probably when he had that brief thing with Pansy in fifth year. But now, Draco would never be able to do that to Lydia without thinking about Theodore fucking Nott. 

Well, Draco wasn’t having it. He could play this game too. He rolled his shoulders, pushed a hand through his hair and then laid his arm along the back of the sofa, meeting Theo’s smirk with one of his own.

“You talk a lot for someone whose perfect date is falling asleep in front of a fire.” he said, head tipping to the side as if in challenge.

Theo blinked. The smirk faltered. “Excuse me?”

“Your ideal date,” Draco said smoothly, “is a quiet night in. A picnic on the rug in front of the fireplace. Unfussy food—meats, cheeses, fresh bread, fruit. Stuff you could feed each other if the mood struck. There’d be music playing. Something smooth and sultry—those Muggle musicians with acoustic guitars you like. Maybe a bit of wine. You’d talk. About stupid things and real things. No pressure. All easy.”

Theo was quiet, watching him now with something unreadable in his expression.

“Maybe you’d put on one of those old Muggle films,” Draco added. “Black and white. Low dialogue. One of those ones where people stare at each other for a long time and it somehow means everything .”

“And then what?” Theo asked, his voice quieter than before.

Draco shrugged. “And then nothing. No expectations. No performance. Just... feeling safe enough to fall asleep tangled together. And you don’t wake up trying to be charming. You just wake up. No second guessing.”

“It wouldn’t be just a rug,” Hannah cut in gently, elbows on the table, and her chin resting in her hand as if she’d been listening intently too. “It should be a proper nest. Blankets and cushions everywhere because you wouldn’t admit it, but you want a soft place to land. Somewhere warm, and safe. Safe enough to drop that performance.”

Draco turned to her in surprise, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on Theo.

“And you forgot the coffee,” she added with a smile, like she was letting them in on a shared secret. “There has to be coffee when they wake up.”

She smiled at Theo then—soft and sure, no teasing. “You live for your morning coffee, T.”

Theo frowned at her, caught off guard. Her tone had changed—there was an affection in it Draco had only heard her use with Lydia. A kind of quiet, steady care. If she'd been closer, Draco thought she might’ve reached out and nudged Theo’s arm or bumped their shoulders. Something simple. Familiar. Reassuring.

And she was right, of course. Theo drank his morning coffee like it was a sacred ritual. He’d even bring it into first period if he was running late, cradling the steaming mug like it was a lifeline.

Theo didn’t reply at first. Just shifted his shoulders, adjusted his position on the sofa, and cleared his throat.

“I knew you both loved me really,” he said, recovering his smirk. As if he’d never doubted it. But Draco saw the pause. The blink. The faint crease between his brows before the charm slid back into place.

It surprised Draco a little—how quietly Theo had taken it. How he’d listened. Not dodged or deflected. Not even tried to ruin the moment with a joke. Just sat with it.

A few minutes passed in companionable silence, broken only by the soft scratch of Hannah’s quill and the turning of a page. Then Theo spoke, without looking up from the book in his lap.

“You cannot refer to me solely by my initial.”

Draco smirked. There it is.

“Stop calling me Lady Barwench and I’ll think about it,” Hannah replied sweetly, eyes still on her parchment.

Twin smiles curved across their mouths, matching and effortless. Like they’d all been trading barbs and warmth in equal measure for years.

Chapter Text

The classroom was intolerable. Too bright. Too loud. Too sharp.

At the back of the room, as far removed from his classmates as was feasible without appearing overtly aloof, Theo occupied the end of the long desk. One ankle rested lazily atop the opposite knee, his wand turning idly between his fingers, shoulders loose in a manner that was, of course, entirely affected. A performance, like all the best ones—convincing, practiced, seemingly effortless. Something Theo had perfected over the years as a means of self-protection, honed through his father's cane and a legacy of aristocratic expectation. 

The tinted lenses, balanced on the bridge of his nose, dulled the worst of the light assaulting his occular functions, though they did little to temper the magic saturating the air. Every spell cast around him wasn’t merely light—it was colour, taste, scent, sensation. Lumos Solem flared golden, but Theo felt it: molten honey slipping between his ribs, the sting of lemon on his tongue, the ghost-whistle of wind curling down his spine, through his hips down to his toes. Static clung to his fingertips, an invisible charge threading through his nerves. Further down the row, a student stumbled over the pronunciation, and the light shuddered—sputtering red. Coppery. Sharp. As if the tang of blood coated his tongue where teeth had caught the inside of a cheek.

Theo exhaled evenly through his nose. Swallowed. Did not react. He let his wand roll between his fingers and thumb, the familiar weight of it grounding him. He recalled the first time he’d practiced magic with his wand: the raw, overwhelming flood of sensation that had seized him. That had been when the exhilarating dream of exploring magic had transfigured into an unpredictable barrage of overwhelming stimuli. Light, sound, movement—each element crashing into him with force, building in waves or quietly thrumming in the background, with no obvious rhyme or reason.

Furthermore, it had quickly become apparent, after a few subtle remarks exchanged with his classmates, that he was the only one experiencing the world this way. And so, the trick had always been to feign indifference—to remain composed, even if every nerve screamed in protest. To appear unaffected, as if the world were no more visceral to him than to anyone else. Because who wanted to be the weird child who could taste magic?

"Lumos Solem," Patil intoned.

Her magic flared violet at the edges—lavender sugar, cloying, so thick it curled high into his nostrils, lodging at the back of his throat. He tasted it between his molars. His jaw flexed. He adjusted his posture marginally, feigning ease, even as his thighs shook with the effort of maintaining said feigned indifference.

"Mr Nott," Flitwick prompted.

Theo did not sigh. He stood smoothly, unhurried, exhaling as he spun his wand once more between his fingers and settled it into his palm with a stylish flick. Nonchalance— as much a shield as any defensive spell—draped over him like well-tailored silk.

His wand stirred, a pulse deep within the wood—restless, knowing. Blackthorn bound to Thestral tail hair, dark, sleek, temperamental in the wrong hands: a wand made for those who understood things unseen, who slipped between spaces and truths with practiced ease. Not unyielding, but quick, sharp. Responsive.

"Lumos Solem." A measured, deliberate flick.

Light burst forth, pure gold, fizzing at the edges. The warmth of it pooled low in his chest, vibrating through his limbs. Behind the dark lenses, he felt his pupils blow wide—like twin stars exploding within his skull—but outwardly, nothing changed. His stance remained effortless, his grip precise, his control absolute. He held the spell in place, steady as anything. He felt the urge to roar burst in his chest and contained it.

It had been like this so long, it may as well have always been like this. Though it hadn't always been… intense , like this. Upon returning to Hogwarts for yet another year, it seemed he had matured to a point where his experience of the world was not only heightened, but fragmented—senses colliding, each one out of place, pulling him in different directions. Evidently he could now hear and taste light, feel sound and smell. And sometimes, everything burned too sharp against his senses, leaving aftershocks like bruises. This—an advanced sunlight charm— was not painful, exactly. Just bright. Just full. To bursting. Like it might split his skull open and erupt from him in a great blinding storm of light if he let it. 

"Excellent!" Flitwick beamed. “Now, Mr Nott, can you brighten and then dim the light?”

Of course, Professor. By all means, let's prolong my suffering while I parade my superior proficiency for the class.

Theo exhaled slowly through his nose, filtering out the noise as his shoulders hitched and then relaxed. Brighten. The spell obeyed rather eagerly. The light thickened, swelling beneath his control, pressing against his skin like a held breath. The world around him faded away in contrast, outlines blurring, colour draining in the brightness. For a moment, there was only the glow, cocooning him in its warmth, saturating the space inside his ribs, rippling over his skin. His skull roared with it, painfully loud, drowning out the classroom’s ceaseless hum. Somehow it was almost peaceful.

Dim. Reeling it back was a touch more difficult than expected. Magic thrummed beneath his skin, reluctant, trying to twist from his hold. He tightened his grip on his wand, ignored the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, forced it down. After a few moments, the light softened, edges fizzing before retreating into a subdued glow. The world around him reasserted itself—colour slotting back into place with a crack that made his eye muscle twitch, sound breaking against his senses like waves on a shore.

"Beautiful control, Mr Nott," Flitwick remarked, clearly pleased.

Well, obviously.

Theo flicked his wand to end the spell, rolling his shoulders as the magic dissipated. The absence of it left a ghostly echo in his limbs—the way a room still held warmth long after the fire had gone out.  He blinked once, twice, adjusting to the shift from behind the dark lenses. Another student was called forward.

Theo smirked lazily, sinking back into his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the desk in a practiced sprawl. A slow breath, subtle and measured. That hadn’t been so bad. Mostly manageable. He could still feel the magic rippling over his chest and back, down his arms and legs.

Fuck, he couldn't wait to get out of this class today. He had a new blend to try, and he was aching to get somewhere emptier and just have a few minutes of peace and quiet. Especially after this particular relentless assault on his senses. Theo's fingers curled loosely into fists, then unfurled again. It was fine. I am fine.

Probably.

Lacing his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair, Theo closed his eyes behind his glasses, squeezing them shut, willing himself to breathe through the remaining students’ demonstrations. The seventh years were all eagerly waiting to try the new spell—the one he’d been shown last year. Though, naturally, his memory of that lesson was somewhat overshadowed by the screaming of the student dragged out midway through by the Carrows’ snatchers. One of the girls, if he recalled correctly, from the high-pitched shriek that momentarily echoed like a ghost in his ears. A Hufflepuff, maybe. He couldn’t quite recall—he tried not to think about it too much. His mind had stubbornly tagged it as irrelevant, and yet…

With a sudden jolt of concern that sent his heart racing, his gaze flicked to Lydia, sitting across the room beside an empty chair—the Naiad had saved him a seat, evidently. He'd seen the flicker of disappointment cross her face when he’d slipped through the door at the very last moment and taken the nearest seat to the exit instead, but Theo refused to dwell on it, even though some part of him regretted not sitting beside her. And no. On reflection, it hadn’t been Lydia who’d been dragged from class last year. She hadn’t even been there. She was only in her sixth year then. …Lady Barwench? No, not Hannah either—just some faceless girl. His mind reordered this information, grasped onto it like an anchor, and pointedly did not scan the room to clarify the memory further.  

This friendship business was taxing enough on his heart as it was. As if he needed more reasons to feel. 

But after everything—after those somewhat terrifying two days alone in the manor, and the removal of his father’s unbearably bejeweled, oily fingers from Theo's physical and metaphorical throat—actual friendship seemed as good a venture as any. His father would turn in his grave—if he’d do Theo the honour of actually dying in some slow, gruesome, terror-induced way—to know his son was friends with muggle-borns. But he could get summarily and brutally fucked. And perhaps a long terrified life in Azkaban was more torturous and would include said brutal fuckery as well. One could only hope.  

That said, while this whole being-friends arrangement did not extend to all and sundry, Theo had discovered certain benefits to the mixed seventh- and eighth-year classes. McGonagall insisted it was all in the spirit of school unity. The eighth years, having already endured most of these lessons during the absolutely dire tragedy of schooling that had been last year, were expected to support their younger counterparts with their knowledge and experience so that everyone might successfully pass their NEWTs in the summer. Meanwhile, the seventh years—laughably, considered less entrenched in old rivalries by virtue of their age—were meant to set the example for their elder classmates with regards to mingling and inter house cooperation. To that end, the school had even repurposed a large abandoned classroom into a so-called Graduating Class Common Room. The group Theo had attached himself to had taken a particular liking to a cluster of sofas around a small coffee table, beneath one of the large windows. There were no official claims to the space, and others occasionally drifted in, lounging nearby—but a series of unspoken understandings had already settled among the graduating class about who typically sat where. That and the fact no-one was going to challenge Draco. Or Hannah for that matter.

Theo, however, cared less for unity and more for the expanded pool of students from whom he could now acquire homework answers. And the seventh years—most of them, at least—as yet, remained blissfully unaware of his usual tricks, thus making such endeavours much easier. The green on his uniform, of course, made many of them wary at first, but plenty of biscuits, illicit alcohol, and the liberal use of his charming smile, long lashes, and devastatingly well-timed hair sweeps went a long way in softening prejudices.  

All in the spirit of interhouse relations, of course.    

And then—

"Lumos solem."

Lydia’s voice, clear and steady. He hadn’t even noticed her stand, despite having been vaguely staring in her direction. Theo braced for her magic to hit, attention sharpening. 

But the world dimmed, exhaled.

Interesting.

He knew she’d cast the spell correctly—Professor Flitwick’s approving nod confirmed as much—but to him, the charm Lydia produced didn’t flare, didn’t sear across his senses like the others. Instead, the brightness softened, shading the room in muted greys. Like looking out to sea from a stony beach on a cloudy day. It siphoned something out of the air, smoothed down the sharp edges, chilled the space around him like mist rolling in off the water, cooling his skin, quieting the noise and tastes and smells. It was rather like drinking a glass of cold water between courses at some egregiously snooty dinner, washing away whatever had come before, clearing the palate as it were. Clearing his senses. The afterimages that had clawed at his vision settled, shadows stretching long and soft instead of splintering into painful halos.

The tightness behind his eyes loosened. The prickling heat along his arms eased. His shoulders—genuinely—relaxed.

For the first time all lesson, all day even, Theo exhaled without it catching.

Oh, thank fuck. He could have collapsed in on himself just from sheer relief. 

He did not.

Instead his fingers flexed against his thigh. He blinked once, twice— slow motion. Lydia wasn’t looking at him. Wand still raised, attention fixed on the charm. The glow skimmed over her face, settling around those ridiculous black glasses. It caught in the loose strands of her hair, softened the sharp lines of her focus. He was glad, really, that he'd made friends with Lydia Hargrove— his Naiad. She struck him as the type who was just... steady . Someone who exuded a quiet sort of calm that settled over you without needing permission. He didn’t know many people like that. Most had too many sharp edges that stung, or gaping voids that dragged you in like gravity—demanding something from you. Your energy. Your attention. Your compliance. 

Draco, for instance, had a mixture of sharpness and empty spaces in need of filling. He had always sought approval—surreptitiously, and unbeknownst to him. It wasn’t obvious, not to the casual observer, but Theo had learned to read the subtle shifts in his behaviour. The way Draco’s gaze flickered, like a quiet plea, when he thought no one was looking. He craved validation more than he’d care to admit, and that— that was what made him so volatile. It was almost painful to watch at times. He wore his pride like a shield, but beneath it, there was something far softer, something that didn’t quite fit with the persona he’d constructed for himself. Theo had once thought that maybe, if Draco could just admit it to himself—could face that part of him—he’d be different. More comfortable, perhaps. But then again, who was Theo to talk about comfort? His own brand of self-deception was just as tightly wound. And this year Draco seemed a little more settled, his softer side showing more and more by small degrees as the weeks passed—no need to speculate why that might be. Theo’s eyes traced over Lydia’s outline, something like a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Hannah, by contrast, had some of the steadiness Lydia possessed— though Theo supposed many of the Hufflepuffs seemed, on the whole, less… spiky. Well, at first, anyway. Hannah could be all prickles when she was angry—her irritation a fleeting, yet satisfying thing, like scratching an itch right before it turns painful. Theo particularly enjoyed watching her stare down Longbottom and the other members of their little post-war group if they so much as looked at Lydia the wrong way during their little meetings in the common room. While her prickles were temporary, Hannah's steadiness was blunt, direct, almost unyielding in its simplicity. Not so much a calming force, but a steady, if unrelenting, certainty. Although she did sometimes surprise him with moments of tenderness. The ones she showered on Lydia.

But Lydia... Lydia simply was . Her presence didn’t ask anything of him that he wasn't willing to give. And apparently, neither did her magic. 

And it wasn’t to say Lydia never asked anything difficult of him. But the Naiad assessed everyone with the same meticulous attention to detail as he did, so she was anticipating him as much as he anticipated her. It was logical, therefore, that they cancelled each other out. Just being in her presence wasn't taxing like it might be with others. Though where he sought to weave the safest, most beneficial path through the tangled webs of social interaction, Lydia searched for fractures. For breaks to mend. And Theo knew she would spot his, if he wasn’t careful. She would search the depths of his soul if he let her look too long—and then she’d want to fix him. To save him.

Isn’t that what you want?

A stray thought, but not an untrue one, Theo admitted to himself with great reluctance. Not that Theo had any real notion of what he wanted saving from . Perhaps it was just his own loneliness. Perhaps he just wanted what Draco had.  Perhaps he just wanted to stand close enough to it to remember what it felt like to have the option of not being alone, to taste the benefits of it.

Theo had lasted precisely two nights at Nott Manor after his release from the Ministry holding cells. Two nights with the feral house-elves who skittered from him like he was was a disgrace to avoid while surreptitiously leaving overloaded trays of food at his bedroom door. Two nights of silence so thick it pressed persistently against his skin, of darkness that hummed and creaked with old magic and worse besides. Two nights alone while never feeling entirely alone. Two nights and not even two full days holed up in his childhood rooms, warded to the absolute limits of his ability, before he decided he’d rather find more comfortable—and far less ominous—accommodation. 

Prior to his arrest, Nott Sr. had apparently set an audacious number of wards and traps across the manor and its grounds, layering them atop the existing protections like a paranoid artist adding brushstrokes to an already chaotic canvas. Theo remained undecided on whether his father had done it to keep people out—or to keep something else in. And the Aurors and Cursebreakers who had raided the manor while he and his father were otherwise detained seemed to have found few answers on that front—only trouble. Some manner of devastation had evidently erupted in a drawing room, though whether they had uncovered something dangerous or merely set it off was unclear. Either way, they had left in a hurry, their work barely started. Theo wouldn’t be surprised if the place had gained an additional ghost after that. At least.

The manor had always been a dangerous place, dreary and dark, its walls steeped in things that did not bear thinking about. The portraits were no kind of company. Most were empty, their frames vacant, as if the figures inside had been erased or consumed. A few still contained faces, but none were comforting. Some were terrified, their wide eyes pleading for release, while others were twisted into maniacal grins, muttering incessantly but never loud enough to hear—just a rhythmic hiss that sent shivers down your spine.  And then there were the ones who watched him, their eyes calculating and knowing, as if they were keeping secrets—like they knew something Theo didn't. 

There had been entire sections of Nott Manor which Theo had known better than to enter, where the decor theme was apparently “ruin” —vines and rot creeping up the walls and along the ceilings, spots of black magic that grew like mould, doors that seemed to breathe with something waiting behind them. Honestly, the ministry holding cells had been far cheerier, if only owing to the fact that he wasn't alone there. Subjected to blood purist rants and regular threats of harm—yes. But that also happened with regular occurrence at the manor and involved frequent actual harm.

Since his mother’s death, Theo had rarely ventured beyond his own rooms or the dining hall unless summoned or directed by his father, because despite the fact his blood should protect him, it simply was not safe. Or worth the effort. Except perhaps on the days when none of it had mattered—when the painful, terrifying weight of things had pressed too heavily against his chest, when he'd not been able to secure entertainment at an acquaintance's dwelling to distract from the memories of watching his mother's breathing slow and then stop at the bottom of the main staircase. In those moments he’d wondered, just briefly, whether it would be easier if he stepped into the wrong room and never stepped out again.

He hadn’t, obviously. And now, with distance from those dark summer and Christmas days, from the memories, it felt like something that had happened to someone else. A stranger wearing his skin.

He was different now, wasn’t he?

He was here, back at Hogwarts. Alive. Independent. Free from his father. Lord of the Manor for all intents and purposes. Learning, expanding his mind. And forming friendships. Like a real boy.

He was—fine. Probably. If you ignored the way his senses sometimes tangled into a mess. And it wasn’t as though he could ever really expect to be like everyone else. Not after the childhood he’d had. Being threatened with the same staircase you’d just watched your mother die at the bottom of—because how dare you shed a single tear—tended to change a person, didn’t it?

Still—two nights alone in that house, surrounded by shadows that curled and whispered at his back, in a place steeped in darkness and anger and hatred —Theo wasn’t sure he would ever return to it. He could live out of hotels, if he wanted. The fortune was his, after all. Or he could purchase something small, something cosy , something that did not feel like a yawning, gaping, haunted void.

Theo inhaled sharply, as though he'd forgotten to breathe entirely. Lydia’s wand was still raised, the golden glow unwavering. He knew precisely what the others saw: her ball of solar light brightening and dimming with care around them.

He just wasn’t seeing it.

He wasn’t experiencing it like the rest of them. And on reflection, this was worse than the constant assault on his senses. The light, the colour, the sound—how they bled together, softened, and cooled. It muted the world just enough that Theo had room to breathe, to think easily. Like a flicker of salvation on the horizon. But it wouldn’t last. That was the trouble. It wouldn't last and it wasn't enough. 

Lydia ended the spell—

And predictably everything crashed back into focus.

A crackle of light. The burn of gold. The sharp edges of sound scraping against his skin once more. The taste of ink drying on parchment clouded in his mouth. The scent of someone's overindulgence of cheap cologne tingling behind his eyes.

His gaze flickered. Pins and needles in his feet. Nausea in his stomach.

He blinked, and forced himself to focus, gaze still trained on Lydia.

She was watching him back now. Though her eyes were concealed behind those ridiculous oversized sunglasses, he could feel her eyes tracing over him—assessing and measuring as always.   The subtle tilt of her head. The faint crease in her brow. The rise of her brow in question. How long has she been watching?

His jaw tightened, and he swiped a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the discomfort—trying to hide it, to distract. Although he'd noticed she was already growing immune to that trick. He flicked her a smirk as he turned away, fixing his attention on the next pupil, desperate to distract himself. But even as he did, he was acutely aware that Lydia’s gaze was still lingering on him, that she’d likely already seen through the facade. 

Fuck, he really needed to get out of this class.

***

Inhaling deeply from the parchment roll, Theo let the warm air and myriad of scents fill his nose and throat and lungs, before breathing out again. He waited a few seconds, took another inhalation, willing the herbs to soften the restless buzzing under his skin, to quiet the constant thrum in his bones and blood. 

Theo let his head fall forward, eyes closed, elbows resting on the wooden railing of the bridge. Rebuilt after the war, some of its timbers still bore echoes of destruction—the wood darkened and scarred, carrying the lingering scent of fire and smoke. The newer planks stood in contrast, some smooth, others rough, as if the bridge had been stitched back together in yet another show of unity.

It creaked faintly beneath him, like a quiet, living thing, no matter how much it had been broken. Maybe that was why he liked standing here. It felt honest in a way so little else did, in a way he wasn’t. The bridge wore its scars openly, while Theo concealed his behind carefully measured smiles. It was simpler that way. Safer. Letting people in was dangerous. For him. For them, perhaps. His mother had died protecting him, after all. And that left scars—along with everything else. So, as much as he had entertained the notion that perhaps he needed saving, it didn’t seem fair to drag anyone else into that.

Yet, he had allowed himself to grow attached. It had been so easy, so quick. Why?

Maybe it was because, in some twisted sense, it had felt safer to be with them than alone. But that didn’t sit well, did it? He wasn’t supposed to rely on anyone. That lesson had been beaten into him—repeated, worn, as if it were the only truth that mattered. And yet... the thought of cutting them loose felt worse than anything else now. The wind tugged at his hair, cold against his skin, the chill biting at his thoughts. But it was grounding, somehow. Anchoring him to the present. Screw the bridge metaphor.

Salazar, he was exhausted. Everything was so exhausting sometimes. And that fucking class. Even the memory made him cringe, like nails on a chalkboard. He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting the cold air fill his lungs, wishing it could fill deeper, like fresh air clearing out his whole body. He exhaled, and pushed his head up again, taking another hit of the parchment roll, then brushed his fringe off his face. This wasn’t just sleepless nights; it was the weariness of always being on edge, of keeping up the act, terrified someone might see through the mask. A kind of weariness that gnawed at his bones, leaving his thoughts jittery and unfocused. Restless and exhausted. What a contradiction. And fuck—he felt everything.

Footsteps approached.

Soft. Measured. Closing in on him along the wooden slats. 

Theo knew who it was without looking, before she even spoke. 

Another deep inhalation from the parchment roll and finally, the restless buzzing under his skin began to dull. The air softened. The roughness of the wood against his palm wasn’t unbearable. The wind was just wind. Must be kicking in, he thought absently as the footsteps drew nearer, taking another hit. He might finally have got the mix right.

A lazy, self-satisfied grin tugged at his lips as he turned his head. "Naiad," he drawled as Lydia neared. She rolled her eyes at the moniker but didn’t complain, though it was the nicest of the monikers he’d adopted for his three new friends — a water nymph known for being nurse to the young and protector of the weak. “Hello, Love,” he greeted easily.

He had known she would follow him after class, that she couldn't help herself.  Though part of him wished she had stayed away a little longer. But once she noticed something was wrong she was always going to follow him. And Theo hadn’t considered hiding any better from her.

Though it occurred to him belatedly that Lydia probably wasn't the best person to make aware of his self medicating. But—too late now. It wasn’t like he wanted to hide it. Or maybe he did, but part of him hoped she’d call him out on it. After all, Lydia would be unlikely to let him get away with something like this, would she? And he really wanted to feel something more than this bone-deep exhaustion, this constant thrumming. A frown flickered over his brow as he glanced at the parchment roll between his fingers, then back to Lydia. Am I looking for a fight?

Lydia eyed him with something between curiosity and concern as she reached his side and he held out an arm to her. She was always concerned about him. He imagined it to be exhausting to care like that about others all the time—to be so open with it, with no guard, no shield. And yet, there she was, giving it all away. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He supposed in a way it was a type of courage. But more than that, it was terrifying. He couldn’t understand how someone could give so much without the fear of being left raw and exposed. The way Lydia cared—it felt like a door opening into something too raw, too real—like letting the cold air in after a lifetime of keeping the windows shut. Vulnerability—the very thing he’d been taught to fear, to avoid. And yet, there she was, inviting it like it was nothing. And apparently, it was contagious. Poor Draco—pun absolutely intended—hadn't just lost his money, he'd lost a little of the cold, distant armor too. Lydia's influence was getting to the Pauper Prince, alright. Heart on his sleeve now, at least when it came to her. Perhaps even with himself and Hannah too.

Maybe that was why Theo kept her close. Not because he cared the way she did—Salazar knew he didn’t—but because, with her, it was easier to pretend. Easier to believe, just for a moment, that he could be cared for—if he ever dropped his guard. To let the warmth of her presence, or Draco’s, or Hannah’s, smooth over the sharp edges and quiet the noise. He might not care, not the way she did, not about other people, but he’d grown attached all the same. To her. To the Pauper Prince and Lady Bar-wench. Somehow, over the past month or so, they’d become his, more deeply than he had ever expected. Late-night games of Exploding Snap on the Common Room floor with stolen sips of firewhisky or wine passed between them, the way they always seemed to fall into step with himt like they belonged there, laughter spilling through the empty corridors after curfew, the quiet ease of being found when the world felt too heavy.

"You didn’t look so great in Charms." Lydia pouted as she stepped closer, tucking in beneath his arm without hesitation. Her warmth settled against his side—solid, steady. A comforting anchor, as always.

Theo hummed low in his throat, adjusting his arm to rest more comfortably around her shoulders, his posture unconsciously softening around her.

"Didn’t realise you were watching me," he replied, glancing at the view stretched out before him—the foliage beneath the bridge rustling in the wind, autumn colours taking hold amongst the trees, the distant castle towers reaching up like silent sentinels. If only everything else could feel as still.

Lydia huffed, but there was the barest twitch of fondness at the corner of her mouth. "Liar. You always know exactly whose attention you're holding."

Theo let out a low chuckle. Fair point. He nodded his concession.

"I’m all good," he murmured, voice thick with amusement as he lifted the parchment roll between two fingers, flashing it like an answer. "And even better now you’re here."

Lydia watched him, as he brought the roll to his lips, inhaling slowly, letting the smoke settle thick in his mouth and throat before exhaling through his nose. Lydia's gaze tracked the dissipating whirl of smoke. Then focused on the roll, hanging loose between his lips.

Slowly, that small twitch of a smile on her face grew into something mischievous.

Theo barely had time to register it before she reached up—deft fingers plucking the parchment roll straight from his lips.

Her touch was brief. Barely there. But he felt it all the same, the ghost of her fingertips brushing his mouth, light as a breath. Sharp as a jolt of lightning.

He blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard on several counts.

Firstly, given her interest in healing, he’d expected a lecture, not curiosity and yet he now found himself anticipating her bringing the roll to her own lips as she eyed it curiously. Something in his chest tightened—he shouldn’t let her get involved with this.

Secondly, touching his mouth—even so lightly—felt obliquely intimate. Lydia had quickly accepted his proclivity for physical contact. She returned his hugs, his kisses to the cheek. She had taken to linking their arms as they walked down corridors, to tucking her feet beneath his leg as they read on the sofa of an evening (if Draco was otherwise occupied). All innocent, friendly, easy. But this? This was different. His lips pressed together, as if to erase the feeling.

Thirdly, and perhaps most pressing—Theo found himself momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden rush of normality as the herbs finally seemed to take full effect. The weight in his skull dissipated, the dull hum beneath his skin silenced. The air wasn’t thick, the sounds weren’t pressing in, the light wasn’t painfully bright. His body wasn’t betraying him. More than anything, he really just wanted to collapse with relief.

Oh, yes. Thank Salazar.

He barely had a moment to revel in the relief before Lydia’s expression fully registered.

That smug smile.

Her I got the better of you smile.

The smile she used right before she said just the thing that made Draco cave and agree to whatever she’d been arguing for.

That was her dangerous smile…

Theo inhaled, parting his lips to speak—

Too late.

With an impish glint in her eyes, the devilish little Naiad met his gaze… and unceremoniously flicked the roll over the railing.

Theo’s stomach twisted, but it wasn’t just the sudden irritation that caused the shift—it was the tight, familiar knot of something far more unsettling. Something deeper. His chest flared hot with anger, but that anger didn’t quite cover the raw panic gnawing at the edges of his mind. His relief, the one thing that had been dulling the edges of his brain, was now gone. He'd finally reached a point of equilibrium, and the reason for that was now disappearing over the side of the bridge, tumbling away like a piece of discarded rubbish. The thought that it was wasted forever—the work he’d put into getting it just right—settled like a lead weight in his gut.

No!

No, that blend had been perfect. What had she done?

He felt that familiar tightness in his chest, his throat going dry with frustration. He couldn’t breathe around the pressure building in his chest.

"Oi—” He pushed off the railing too quickly, the world tilting, just slightly, just enough to make him grit his teeth. His eyes darkened as he loomed into her space. "What the fuck was that?"

Lydia didn’t even blink. "It’s not good for you," she shrugged, like she was commenting on the bloody weather. 

Theo’s breath caught. Her words hitting him harder than expected, his chest constricting, and for a second, it felt like his skin was too tight. Too tight around the anger, around the fear.

“Not good for me?” he repeated, voice coming out sharp, tinged with an edge of disbelief and something rawer. “You think you know what’s good for me?”

"I'm not an idiot," Lydia shot back. "Neither are you."

Theo let out a short, humorless laugh, but it came out jagged, wrong. He ran a hand through his hair, fighting to ignore the tingling in his scalp, the rush of dizziness still lingering, crawling under his skin. The irritation was starting to crystallize into something deeper. “Debatable.”

He could feel his chest rising and falling faster now, too fast. His nostrils flared, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The anger was there, yes, but beneath it, there was something else—something he didn’t want to face. Her presence, her concern, even the way she stood there, so sure of herself, made something in him coil and tighten.  He could avada her, he could crucio her, he could—

No. He couldn’t. He wasn't fooling anyone. 

Shit!

“You don’t get to tell me what I need, Hargrove.” The words came out through clenched teeth, thick with frustration, sharp with something deeper that Theo didn’t want to name. His hands shook, just slightly, the tremors barely visible but enough to make him aware of how much control he was losing. “You have no idea what you just did!”

His mind raced, his frustration coiling so tight in his chest. Stupid— stupid —bitch. It had taken him weeks to figure out that perfect mix—just the right balance to dull the edge of everything without turning him into a bloody zombie. Now he was going to have to start all over again. His fists clenched, his teeth gritted.

Lydia stepped closer, her voice cool and steady, but there was something in her eyes—something insistent… and dangerous. “Then talk to me. What’s going on with you? You looked about ready to vomit or pass out just now in class. And that's not the first time I've noticed. And now this?”

Theo shook his head, his thoughts spinning as his words slurred, thickening around the edges. “I’m not your pet project,” he muttered, but the slur in his voice made him pause. He didn't remember when the space had grown between them, which if then had stepped back. He could feel the dizziness washing over him, the edges of the world blurring, and with it, that old, familiar helplessness that he hated. The same feeling he’d been trying to avoid acknowledging. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth. “I’m not Draco,” he gritted out.

Lydia stilled and held his gaze. 

Theo didn’t stop. "Go and fix your boyfriend’s problems," he spat, the word boyfriend coming out bitter, mocking, full of venom. “And leave me the fuck alone!”

The wind picked up then, gusting around them, rattling the wooden beams of the bridge, and for a moment, everything seemed unsteady.

Posture stiffening, Lydia’s voice was colder than the wind when she spoke again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I'm just worried about you.”

Theo laughed—a low, breathy sound, but it didn’t carry the usual humor. It felt hollow, empty. He gestured vaguely, but his movements weren’t as controlled as he’d have liked. Too loose, betraying his lack of balance. His words came out slower now, deliberate, like he was trying to carve into her. “Of course you are. Because you like fixing things,” he said, his gaze cold as he looked her up and down. “It makes you feel useful. It makes you feel like you’re saving the world—doesn’t it?”

The words were weighted, each one landing like a blow, lips turned up in a sneer. “You need someone broken to fix. You need to play the martyr. Because it means you are in control, like you are the one holding everything together.”

He could see her flinch. Good. She should feel that. He wasn’t done.

“You think you’re some kind of savior, Hargrove? You’re not. You’re just another fucking fixer, clinging to people with problems you can’t solve and inventing them in people who don't want your help! I’m not—your—project.”

Lydia's jaw tightened, eyes flashing with something darker than anger. Hurt. It wobbled in her chin, shone wetly in her eyes, and landed in his chest like a cold, wet stone. For a second, he couldn’t breathe, although he tried to ignore how it felt. He'd made people cry before and it had never been an issue. But now…

Theo faltered. The weight of what he’d just said settled over him like a shroud, suffocating him for half a breath. He shifted his weight against the railing, but his body miscalculated, tipping just slightly to the side. The bridge seemed to lurch beneath him, and he gripped the wood harder, his fingers digging into the rough surface as if it would steady him.

Lydia stepped forward instinctively, her hands reaching out, her expression softening, like she was about to steady him. Regardless of the fact he'd just thrown out her character and eviscerated it on the knotted wooden planks beneath them. She still couldn't bloody help herself.

He shot her a sharp glare, his eyes flashing with warning. “Don’t.”

She hesitated, her hands lowering slowly, but her gaze flickered over him, assessing, scrutinizing. He felt the weight of it, the silent judgment of his physical state. Her concern was suffocating. Especially after everything he'd just said to her. 

He exhaled, pushing through the dizziness. “Fuck…” he muttered, betraying his attempts to hold it together. Maybe this batch had been too strong.

Lydia’s eyes narrowed, her concern sharpening into something more focused. “Theo—”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He felt the rush of vertigo again but ignored it as he straightened and walked around her, his steps unsteady but determined. “Don’t waste your breath. I know how this goes.” His words were heavy, thick with frustration as he started to walk away, dragging his feet as if the effort to leave her behind was too much. “You’ll lecture me, tell me I should be doing better, tell me it’s for my own good, that it's tough love and you care—” The last word came out with a bitter edge as he shot a sharp look over his shoulder.

“I do care!” She protested.

Theo scoffed, spinning on his heel with a flourish. “And then what?” he sneered, the question coming out in a low growl. “When I ignore your advice and fuck up anyway, what then? Spare me the speech.”

He stalked off, his robes swirling around him like a storm, the creak of the wood beneath him the only sound in the air. He didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. 

Chapter Text

Draco leaned against the stone wall just outside the Hufflepuff common room, hands tucked into the deep pockets of his grey coat. From a distance, he looked casually composed—cool and unconcerned, as if he’d simply wandered here by accident. But the coat and scarf concealed the Quidditch jersey underneath. It was all part of the plan.

It was ridiculous, really—how much thought he’d put into this. He’d spent an hour rummaging through the team’s equipment store looking for a pair of goggles that wouldn’t make him look like a prat—spoiler: they all made you look like a prat—and another forty minutes picking out kit for Lydia, just in case she showed up wearing something aesthetically pleasing rather than practical. In an attempt to be mysterious, he hadn’t given her many hints about what to wear or what they were doing—just that they’d be outside.

He’d even roped Hannah into nicking Lydia’s current reading book yesterday, and had to feign total innocence when Lydia came by his room this morning to look for it. But it was their first official date, and he desperately wanted to get it right—even if it was a bit redundant, given they’d been together for months. Sort of. Still, Draco had grown up with lessons on this sort of thing: the choreography of courtship, how to impress without looking desperate, the importance of grand (but tasteful) gestures. He knew the steps, he could get this right.

Yet there was a dissonance between what he’d been taught and what he actually wanted. A part of him—quiet but insistent—was already skipping steps. Leaping over them, quite frankly. Imagining Lydia in a white dress, standing radiant in a sunlit garden. A modest wedding, no doubt. Or maybe an elopement—Lydia wasn’t one for fuss. A house by the sea. Nothing extravagant. Or maybe something incredibly extravagant once his family’s funds were released to him. A baby, with sun-kissed hair and sharp green eyes, curled against his chest, while Lydia laughed in the background, a toddler with white-blond hair clinging to her leg.

It wasn’t a plan. Not exactly. More like a daydream that had taken root without his permission. If Lydia ever knew what was running through his head, she’d hex him where he stood. It was a dangerous sort of fantasy.

She wasn’t the type to talk about marriage. She hated being put in a box, hated assumptions. She had her own path to forge—qualifications, St Mungo’s, maybe muggle medical certification, the weight of her past and the visions she dreamed of. She needed space. Not a boy with a fantasy about futures they hadn’t even talked about trying to tie her down to traditional ideas of marriage and children.

So Draco stayed still. Stayed quiet.

One date. One step. That was enough for now.

He adjusted his shoulders, subtly straightening as footsteps echoed down the corridor. But it wasn’t Lydia. Not yet. A younger Slytherin rounded the corner—maybe fourth or fifth year—robes neat, wand holstered smartly at his side. He spotted Draco immediately, faltering mid-step before continuing with careful, measured strides. His gaze flicked up and held Draco’s for a moment too long. Not a sneer exactly, but there was a tightness to his mouth—uncertainty, maybe, teetering between wariness and awe. The sort of look someone gave a creature they weren’t sure was tamed.

Draco lifted his chin just slightly, acknowledging the boy with a steady, unreadable look. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t nod. Just waited.

The boy looked away first.

Draco let out a breath through his nose. He wasn’t sure what kind of victory that was meant to be.

Amongst the Slytherins, things had cooled into something like neutrality. No open hostility towards him anymore, no hateful whispers or snarky comments just loud enough to carry. Not since he’d offered himself up to their grievances like an animal to the slaughter.

Zabini had been mouthing off again, surrounded by a crowd of eager listeners in the common room. Going on about Draco’s softened edges, how ashamed his parents must be, how far he’d fallen. How he was groveling for a new legacy with that quidditch sign-up sheet, like some pathetic heir with no name left worth carrying. 

And Draco had snapped.

He could’ve let it go. Could’ve walked out and left Blaise to run his mouth. But the sign-up sheet he’d posted two days before was still empty and taking Zabini down a peg was a calculated, if opportunistic, risk—but it might just remind them all who he used to be. And what he was still capable of.

Draco had been on his feet in a flash, slamming both hands into Blaise’s chest and shoving him backwards, sending him off the arm of the sofa he'd been perched against and nearly stumbling onto his arse.

“Go on, then,” Draco had shouted, voice hoarse and frayed, raw with all the things he had been holding back. The entire room had turned to look as he squared up to Blaise, teeth bared. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

The fire cracked behind him, casting gold across the sharp angles of his face. Fury blazed in his eyes. Blaise had held his ground but hadn’t stepped forward. Hadn’t said anything. Just glared, sneered. All words and nothing to back it up. His hand had flicked as if to reach for his wand before he thought better of it. That was Blaise. Smart, mouthy but no fucking guts to act, no real conviction except the safety of what he already knows.

So Draco had turned to the rest of them. His arms out, palms open. Offering himself up.

“All of you. I’ll take it. You want to call me a coward? Say it to my face. You want to blame me for what I did—what I didn’t do—then come at me. Take your fucking shot.”

He stepped back, into the glow from the hearth, the centre of the room, the fire licking at his silhouette like it meant to swallow him whole. The heat blazed through the thin cotton of his shirt, sweat pricking along his spine. But no one moved.

Silence.

His chest heaved. He let out a breathless, bitter laugh, the sound tearing from him as he shook his head.

“This is your chance,” he coaxed. "I'm right here. I'll stand here and take it all. I'm a traitor, aren't I? People died because of my choices. People were hurt. Voldemort failed and the power of blood purity has crumpled. I turned on the Deatheaters. So many of your parents are rotting in Azkaban, and I get to waltz around these halls, fly my broom, fall in love—like I got off free. That's what you all think, isn't it?"

He spread his arms again, firelight dancing along the sleeves of his shirt, flickering gold against his skin.

"If that's what you want to say—if you want me to carry your hate, your anger, your heartbreak for you—here I fucking am. But if any of you try this again, on any other day, I will not be nearly so restrained. And you’ll be the one laid out on the floor. Bleeding. Cursed. Dead, if you’re lucky.”

Another silence followed—this one taut, heavy, pressing in around him.

Then: soft footfalls behind him. A ripple of gasps, murmurs.

Draco braced.

But it was Theo who stepped forward. Not behind him—beside him. Posture lazy, expression unreadable, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade. Unmistakably allied.

Draco turned his head slightly as Theo leaned in.

“So we’re risking our probation here then?” Theo murmured, low enough for only Draco to hear. “One wrong move and it’s Azkaban. Just saying.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Fuck Azkaban,” he muttered, with far more confidence than he felt. The corner of Theo’s mouth twitched into a brief, amused smirk. Draco glanced away, locking eyes with Zabini’s sneer. His gaze hardened, steel cold, silently daring him to do something—anything—to follow through with whatever grievances he held.

He could see the war waging in Blaise’s eyes—the calculation. It was easy to criticise someone in their absence, to cut them down when the moment felt safe. But Blaise, for all his polished charm and rhetorical precision, knew better than to underestimate Draco. Not just in a duel or a fight—but in the way he could turn a room with his words, shift the air with nothing more than conviction. And Blaise certainly didn’t trust anyone to back him up—not like Theo was doing now. Even after the war, that just wasn’t how it worked in Slytherin. (At least, that was what Draco was counting on) And Blaise didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just glared, seething that he was being undermined.

Draco turned back to the room, eyes sweeping over them all, refusing to look away from any of them. He met each gaze head-on. His eyes caught on Goyle, then the empty space where Crabbe should have been... His chest tightened. For a brief moment, his gaze softened just a fraction at Goyle—just a flicker of shared grief and understanding—and then moved on.

But still, no one moved. A few murmurs, some awkward shifting, but the tension in the room remained thick.

The fire crackled behind him, the wood snapping, filling the silence with its harsh whispers. Then, finally, Draco dropped his arms and shook his head. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, his voice quiet but heavy with contempt. “You’ll all sneer behind your hands and talk like you’re still clever, still dangerous. But you’re nothing. Cowards, every last one of you. Hiding behind your family names like none of this touched you. Trying to tear everyone else down because it's easier than adapting.”

He swept his gaze across the room once more, his chest tight with the adrenaline crackling in the air. His hands were shaking, but he held it in, standing taller with each second.

“Time’s up,” he sneered, voice low but sharp. Slowly, deliberately, he took a step back, boots scraping harshly against the floor in the quiet room. “I’m done playing nice. The next person who talks about me, or my girlfriend, ends up in the hospital wing. And you’d better hope she’s more forgiving than I am.” He took a breath, eyes scanning the room one last time. “Fuck the lot of you.”

Without waiting for a response, he had turned on his heel, grabbing his coat from the sofa. He swirled it around him like a storm, slipping his arms in without breaking stride. The door slammed shut behind him with a deafening crash, leaving nothing but the silence that followed—a heavy, uncomfortable stillness.

Not peace. Not victory. Just the knowledge that he was done pretending he didn’t care what they said.

Now, a fortnight later, standing outside the Hufflepuff common room felt like a world away from that moment in the Slytherin common room. He hadn’t returned, except to collect the sign-up sheet, and probably wouldn't until after the team's first Quidditch Game. Let them feel his absence. Let the silence grow long enough that it echoed. Then he’d step back in and reclaim the room—not with noise, but gravity.

Draco shifted his weight against the stone wall, drawing a breath that didn’t quite steady him. He wasn’t proud of the outburst. But he didn’t regret it, either. He had drawn a line—and no one had crossed it since.

And the sign-up sheet for the Quidditch team had started to fill. Just a sprinkling of names, but it was something. No old teammates. No old friends. A few fourth- and fifth-years, a third-year with messy handwriting and something to prove. One sixth-year, tall and wiry, anxious, who turned out to be a decent Beater once he stopped flinching every time Draco gave instructions. None of them had played an actual game before, but they showed up. They were uncertain but eager. So it was a start.

He was thinking about his plans for tomorrow's practice when he heard it—her laugh—light, unmistakable.

Lydia.

The sound cracked through his thoughts. All the fantasies, the past, the posturing, the quiet ache of being an outcast, the struggle to reclaim his position—everything faded in the warmth of her voice. He straightened, heart leaping as the daydreams vanished like smoke.

Here she was.

Lydia stepped into the corridor, the flickering torchlight catching in the weave of her braid and the glint of green in her eyes. Her jacket—brown leather and a little too big for her—hung open over a familiar dark green hoodie, the hood visible over the jacket’s collar. Draco blinked. His hoodie, in actual fact. He recognised the faded print on the chest. Admittedly not his favourite piece of clothing, given it's casual nature but still his. She'd made him buy it from one of those Muggle charity shops—now he understood why. Salazar, help him, when had she stolen that? And why did it do things to his thoughts?

She wore it casually, like it belonged to her now. Like he belonged to her—which he’d happily admit he did. Things clenched in his chest and abdomen. Lower. His mind stuttered. She looked damned good in Slytherin colours.

She had paired the hoodie with worn jeans tucked into scuffed boots. The sort of outfit that shouldn’t have made his heart skip, and yet somehow did. The collar and hood together obscured her neck, which he momentarily considered a personal tragedy, because he loved the line of her neck, the warmth of her skin there, the feel of her pulse beneath. Still, it hardly mattered when she moved like that—unhurried, a gentle sway in her step, like she didn’t notice or didn’t care that she turned his head stupid.

And her face—Merlin. There was a faint trace of makeup across her skin. Just enough to deepen the shadows of her lashes and bring warmth to her cheeks. She never usually bothered. But she had today. For him.

She smiled then—broad and easy, a touch too smug to be innocent, and the way the kiss of red lipstick highlighted the shape of her mouth… it took more effort than it should not to just lead her up to his room and forget the date he had planned.

“Alright?” she asked, tone light, but her eyes lingered on him, flicking briefly to the grey wool coat buttoned over his flying kit. Her gaze caught on the house scarf at his neck—green and silver, neat and traditional—and he had the sudden, ridiculous urge to charm it yellow. It only seemed fair. She was already wearing a piece of him.

Draco cleared his throat and, as if he’d planned it all along, conjured a yellow primrose—soft, cheerful, open—and held it out to her with a teasing sort of half-bow.

“For you,” he said, shifting slightly on his feet. Idiotically.

Her smile didn’t change, but her eyes softened. She took the flower with a small, murmured “thank you,” brought it to her nose and breathed in its sweet fragrance.

And then—so casually he almost missed it—she reached up and tucked it into her braid, just behind her ear.

Draco grinned like an idiot.

She was adorable. Unbearably so. And he was absolutely, unequivocally doomed. Because now he wasn’t thinking about the date. He was back to thinking about her in white with a bouquet of roses, tulips, gypsophila and maybe a sunflower. About how she’d look holding his child. About wedding bands and sea views and charming all her clothes green just to savour removing them even more.

If she asked him right then—if she so much as hinted—he’d offer her the moon. Or his last name. Or both. Merlin, he’d bite the moon in half if she asked.

“The coat looks really good on you. Nan’ll be pleased to hear you're wearing it.” She smiled nonchalantly, a hand smoothing the thick wool against his chest, the pressure of her touch soothing and thrilling all at once. Then she lifted up on her toes, pressing a kiss to his mouth.

“And you have no idea how pleased I am to see you in green, stolen though it may be.” He smirked, tugging lightly at the hem of the hoodie, keeping her close. More softly, he added, “It really makes your eyes glow.”

She let out a surprised laugh, dropping back to her heels. “Aren't you the charmer today?” 

Draco pulled her into his side, an arm around her back, and slipped his hand into her back pocket. Muggle jeans had their benefits.

“Well, this is a date,” he teased.

Asking about her day, the classes they hadn't shared, her plans for Saturday when he was otherwise occupied, he led her out towards the Quidditch pitch, steps confident, the breeze tugging playfully at his coat. The surprise lingered just behind his grin, and when the outline of the stands came into view, he gestured ahead with something between a flourish and a shrug. Then, with a dramatic sweep, he unwound his scarf and opened the coat to reveal his green and silver Quidditch jersey, the captain’s ‘C’ glittering proudly under his collar.

Beneath it, he wore something Max Hargrove had called a polo shirt—collar popped against the breeze. He was confident he looked rather dashing. He’d even charmed it all to be a little more form-fitting. For wind resistance, of course. That it hugged the lean muscle he was working hard to get back? Pure coincidence.

Nearly four weeks of running, heavy lifting, regular meals, and a little less constant fear—Draco’s endurance had returned. He no longer looked skeletal. The dark circles had faded. His face was fresh again. His hair remained perfect, as always. So yes, he was confident he looked dashing. And she was going to notice.

“So, Lydia Hargrove,” he declared in a deep, theatrical voice, sweeping an arm toward the pitch as if unveiling some grand prize, “by agreeing to this date, you are now the extremely fortunate recipient of a one-on-one flying lesson with none other than Draco Malfoy , esteemed Captain of the Slytherin House Quidditch Team. You may commence swooning and excited squealing... now.”

Lydia let out a laugh, light and unguarded—a sound that made his heart misfire.

“I thought we’d go flying,” he added, tone dropping into something more casual, his bravado softening. “Nothing too high. Just a sweep over the lake. I’ve got a kit set aside for you—pads, gloves, goggles. And the best broom I could borrow.”

He glanced at her, chest puffed out with more confidence than he felt. Salazar, say something. He held his breath, just a beat too long, scanning her face for approval. His confidence flickered.

Lydia tilted her head. The corners of her lips curved slightly, but her eyes remained unreadable—calm, measured, like she was weighing something.

“Sure,” she said at last. “Okay.”

Not quite enthusiastic, but he'd take it. As they crossed toward the equipment store, Draco fell into step beside her and launched into his carefully practised lecture, voice brisk but not unkind.

“Right, so—first thing to remember, get your dominant hand properly around the handle. Not too tight or you’ll lose precision. Grip like you’re holding a quill, not strangling it.”

Lydia nodded, polite, her eyes scanning the sky and surrounding view of the lake. The sky was just beginning to take on the orange and pink tinge of sunset as the sun lowered toward the horizon.

“And keep your weight centred—just a little forward. Most people lean back too far like it helps with balance, but it just drags your acceleration.”

“Mm,” she replied. “Good tip.”

Encouraged, he carried on, gesturing towards the goalposts nearest the lake. “Watch the crosswinds near the goalposts. They come off the trees and mess with your turning arc. If you feel one hit, don’t fight it. Ease into the turn, let the broom carry you.”

She made a quiet noise of acknowledgment that could’ve been a hum. Or a snort. Hard to tell.

“And keep your knees close to the broom,” he added, gesturing vaguely. “Not squeezing—just... aligned. And if we try any dives, don’t yank up too fast. Let the broom level out before you pull—”

He cut himself off, suddenly aware of how many words he'd said, one after another, in quick succession. When he looked over, Lydia was biting her bottom lip around a smile, as if trying not to laugh—or say something he wouldn’t want to hear, or to hide anxiety perhaps.

The silence stretched. Draco’s shoulders dropped a fraction, and he hurried into what he assumed was reassurance, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I mean, if you’re nervous, that’s fine. I’ll stay right beside you the whole time. We don’t have to do anything fancy. Just let the wind do the work.”

He offered a smile. Encouraging, he hoped. Maybe even charming.

Lydia gave a small nod, her mouth pressing into a thin line. Still quiet. Still unreadable. Something in Draco’s chest twisted, unsettled.

They reached the equipment store, and he turned to hang up his coat, summoning two Nimbus 2003s—his own, gifted to him by Lydia’s dad, and the other one he’d borrowed from Johnson, the youngest and most eager to impress member of the team. The boy was determined to outshine his older sister’s legacy, which had definitely worked in Draco's benefit.

Draco held out the spare broom to Lydia, trying not to notice her inscrutable expression. But the silence stretched a second too long. The edge of doubt that had been creeping in finally won. Just as Lydia reached for the broom, Draco let his arm sag.

“You hate it,” he said, voice falling flat with disappointment. “You don’t have to pretend. It was a stupid idea.”

“No,” Lydia said quickly, stepping toward him. Her hand landed on his upper arm, warm and grounding. He didn’t miss the gentle squeeze of his bicep.

 “I don’t hate it,” she said, eyes steady. “You’re sharing something you love with me. That matters.” She hesitated, then added, “But the thing is…”

Draco froze. Here it comes. She hates flying. She’s afraid of heights. She’s going to be polite about it, but she’s going to say no.

“You forgot something,” she said lightly.

She reached into the bulging pocket of her coat, pulling out a small book. Internally, Draco rolled his eyes, because this girl couldn’t go anywhere without a book apparently, even a date. But he didnt take it personally, even if it didn’t reassure him right then. With deliberate care, Lydia removed the flower from her braid and tucked it gently between the pages. Practical. Intentional.

“I did?” he asked, tension coiling in his chest like a fist.

She traded the book for the broom, gave it a once-over—her expression still calm, not nearly as excited or intrigued as he’d hoped. But then her mouth twitched. A smile, sudden and sure. More than competent, Lydia commanded the broom “Up!” then swung a leg over in one fluid, practiced motion.

“You did,” she asserted with a nod, before she kicked off from the ground.

Draco blinked.

She rose like she belonged in the air—cutting across the pitch with breathtaking ease, climbing sharply, then dipping low, fast and fearless. The kind of flyer who didn’t need coaching. Who didn’t need permission. Who didn’t need him . 

Against the backdrop of golden-tinged clouds, she carved her path like a bird on the wing—graceful, confident, free. She didn’t look like someone trying something new. She looked like someone coming home.

And just as Draco began to register what he was seeing, she veered back. Executed a hairpin turn that made his heart leap to his throat. She dove, streaking toward himm a flash of green and gold, and pulled up at the last possible second. He stumbled back as her boots skimmed the grass—hovering just out of reach, radiant and smug and entirely untouchable.

“Where the hell did you learn to fly like that?” He spluttered, eyes wide, heart hammering with something dangerously close to awe. Because that was far more advanced than any student learnt in first and second year flying lessons. 

She smirked, eyes dancing. “Draco… what’s my name?”

He stared up at her, confused. “Lydia,” he said slowly, thinking maybe the wind had knocked something loose in her brain.

“Lydia what ?” she prompted, raising a single brow.

And then it hit him.

She’s a fucking Hargove!

Lydia beamed, her cheeks pink from the wind, her eyes bright as she watched the realisation dawn on his face. She explained, “First thing my dad did—when Mum finally let him come back—was teach me to fly.”

Draco stared up at her, his breath catching. Max Hargrove. Quidditch World Cup star. Of course he’d taught his daughter to fly! Merlin, he was such an idiot. He’d been so caught up in the idea of taking the lead, of showing her something new, something that was his.

He should have known.

He groaned, half-laughing, and rubbed a hand across his chest like he could smooth out the sting of embarrassment. “I can’t believe you let me go on about basic flight maneuvers when you can fly like that.”

Lydia shrugged, her eyes alight with amusement. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You were very passionate. Your team’s lucky to have such a knowledgeable and diligent captain.”

She smirked, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh at himself.

“And you’ve never mentioned you could fly.” 

“Hasn’t really come up before,” she said, tilting her head slightly. Then, softer, “But for the record… I love flying.” Her eyes went wide and moony as she said it. The same way she looked at the horizon on the beach. The same way she looked at him sometimes.

I love you, he thought. It hit him like a Bludger to the chest—sudden, painful, exquisite. Though he didn’t say it. The words still made her skittish, made her pull away or change the subject. But he thought them deliberately, deeply, as he watched her hover there with wind in her hair and mischief in her eyes, her skin flushed golden in the dying light.

“But you don’t like Quidditch?” He asked, glancing sideways at her. He already knew the answer—he’d seen the way she tried not to glaze over when he talked about game results and league statistics.

She gave another shrug, easy, unbothered. “I don’t mind it. I just prefer flying without rules. Flying is something you feel, isn’t it? Put it on a pitch and it just… it’s too constrained. The beauty of feeling it is lost in the competition.”

Draco inhaled slowly, letting her words sink in. He loved the challenge, the strategy, the intensity of Quidditch—but he understood what she meant. A bad match, a fumbled play, and the magic of flight could vanish. For him, the competition was part of the joy. For Lydia—gentle, steady like a calm sea—it might only feel like noise.

“You’re too perfect, you know that?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Lydia flushed, the colour rising in her cheeks, but she didn’t dwell on it. Instead, she tilted her head toward the lake, that glint returning to her eyes.

“Race you?” she said, mischief dancing just beneath the surface. “If you think you can keep up, Captain .”

His brain stuttered over the address—caught on the warmth of it, on the idea of her deference even if she was teasing.

“Sure—” He was about to suggest she change into the kit he’d brought, or at least take gloves and goggles, but she leaned in suddenly. So close her smirk ghosted across his mouth and stole the words right out of it. Her smile was warm as summer against his mouth, and she smelled like lavender and lemon and sea salt. Draco was just about to wrap his arms around her and draw her closer when she whispered against his lips.

“Ready, set, go.”

And then she was gone.

A rush of wind. A blur of motion. Her laughter trailing behind like wildfire and sky.

Draco blinked, stunned—just a beat behind the moment.

Then he laughed—low, breathless, awed.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, hastily vanishing the book into the equipment store and summoning the goggles. He tucked them into his pocket, mounted his broom, and kicked off the ground.

The wind tore through his hair as he shot forward, chasing the streak of motion ahead. Lydia was fast—faster than he'd expected, even with her pedigree and his newly readjusted expectations—but he narrowed the distance steadily, the rhythm of flight sinking into his muscles like second nature. She wasn’t bolting in a straight line, either; she was teasing him, banking and diving with maddening precision.

In fact, she wasn’t just fast—she was seamless. Every movement fluid, confident. Her posture in the seat, the grace with which she turned, the instinctive ease of her flying. She strung together tight spirals and low dives like it was nothing, dancing across the pitch like she belonged in a Quidditch poster. And Merlin, if that poster existed, Draco would hang it over his bed without hesitation. Something warm unfurled low in his stomach.

“You planning on slowing down at any point?” he called, raising his voice to reach her over the wind as they swept past the far goalposts.

Lydia glanced over her shoulder, a wicked grin tugging at her lips. The warmth in Draco’s body turned molten.

“Only if you ask nicely.”

He arched a brow, nearly drawing level with her. “Not sure I feel like begging.”

“Shame,” she shouted, laughter in her voice. “I like it when you do.”

Draco couldn’t stop the grin that broke across his face, a wild rush tightening in his chest. He loved this—her banter, her boldness. The way she made the world feel wide open and completely theirs.

He urged his broom faster, drawing alongside her, reaching out—fingers just grazing hers—

But she darted away at the last second, cutting a sharp arc through the air and leaving him grasping at nothing but wind.

“Tease!” he called after her.

“Like you’re complaining!” she flung back, gleeful, diving into a wide helix and dropping towards the lake.

He followed, grinning despite himself. Merlin, she was glorious up here—untamed, alive, utterly out of reach. And he wouldn’t have her any other way.

He could let her fly circles around him forever and never tire of it. As long as he was with her, he could take his time. He could wait for the day she said those three big words back, for when she was ready to think about life beyond career plans. Just as long as they could keep doing this. 

Draco admired her gentleness and that easy smile that warmed everything in his chest. He loved her diligence, her dedication to the things that mattered to her. The teasing, too—even though he hadn’t known what to do with it at first. And Salazar, her defiance drove him halfway mad.

But this version of her—this radiant, laughing, unbound girl streaking across the sky—she was sunlight. And all he could do was watch.

And chase.

They swept in a wide arc low across the lake, the water churning beneath them. Draco eased up beside her, mist clinging to his sleeves as the spray from her path caught him full in the face.

“Oi!” he shouted in mock offence. “Could’ve at least let me put some goggles on before you drenched me!”

Lydia shot him a sideways glance, feigning innocence as she slowed to match his pace. “You were looking very hot—cheeks all rosy, hair all windswept, those heated little glances you keep throwing my way. I thought you might need cooling down.”

“Hot, huh?” Draco preened, dragging a soaked sleeve across his face to wipe the spray away.

She smirked, licked her finger, and pressed it to his shoulder. “Tssss,” she hissed. “Smoking.” Sunlight caught the curve of her cheek as she grinned, and Draco laughed—loud and unexpected, as if it had snuck up on him.

“You know, I could probably lose you again if I tried.” She glanced sideways at him, all challenge and dare.

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, pouting just a little. “I’m letting you stay ahead. It’s gentlemanly.”

“It’s delusional,” Lydia replied sweetly—and then leaned forward, stretching herself out along her broom in a way that made Draco’s thoughts scatter. He drifted closer, gaze caught on the lines of her form, and that was when she struck: one quick sweep of her hand across the surface of the lake, flinging a splash of cold water over him before she surged ahead with a cheeky twist of her broom, leaving him wobbling in her wake.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that!” he called, laughing as he shook out his hair and wiped his face with another splutter. He shot forward, chasing after her with renewed determination, heart pounding—not from the speed, but from something warmer, something that settled in his chest and bloomed every time he looked at her.

Flying had always been his escape, his freedom. But somehow, it was better like this—with her beside him. Laughing. Challenging him.

She whooped as she pulled further ahead, executing another dazzling string of maneuvers. He watched, grudgingly impressed. She didn’t have his polish—yet—but she flew with something better: instinct. Joy. It had never occurred to him he might meet a girl who could fly like this, who would want to. The girls he used to imagine himself with were all far too refined for this kind of chase.

And Merlin, it was exciting.

Without warning, Lydia pulled into a sharp climb, shooting almost perfectly vertical, her silhouette outlined against the bright sky. Draco followed without hesitation. The lake, the castle, even the noise of the world fell away beneath them. The wind roared in his ears, slipped down his collar, raised goosebumps along his arms. Clouds swirled closer. They spiraled upwards, tighter and tighter, like dancing.

He leaned in, pushed harder, faster. The chill vanished in the heat of pursuit. Inch by inch, he closed the distance.

Then—he saw it. The flick of her feet, the subtle twitch of her hand. A tell. He knew what was coming.

She dropped.

He levelled out just in time, caught in her wake, his shoulder jolting from the force of his turn—but he held steady. And then—he reached.

Before she could shoot back down passed him, Draco caught her wrist and tugged her gently toward him, his grin spreading wide with triumph.

“Gotcha!” he shouted, voice stolen by the wind.

Lydia twisted midair, laughter bubbling out of her—bright, wild, breathless.
“Show-off!” she called, wiping the soft cuff of her jacket over her face. The wind had brought tears to her eyes, leaving dark streaks down her cheeks. Her makeup was an absolute mess. And yet, somehow, she still managed to look adorable—like a very windswept, very smiley raccoon.

Draco smirked, dragging his own sleeve across his face.

 “Oh, I’ve yet to even start showing off.” He fished in his pocket and held out the goggles to her. Lydia eyed them suspiciously but took a pair—and then promptly groaned.

 “Oh, shit. My mascara!”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s fine. Here.” He flicked his wand with a quick Scourgify , and the streaks vanished from her face. “There you are,” he murmured, taking her in with quiet admiration.

Lydia pouted. “Do you realise how long I spent doing that?”

“I suspect you sat very patiently while Hannah carefully painted your face for… what, fifteen minutes?”

“Yes, well , there was at least five minutes where I tried to do it myself,” she said with a huff.

“I appreciate the effort. Truly. You looked lovely. I’m sorry my choice of activity rather ruined it.” He gave her a sheepish smile.

She rolled her eyes and held up the goggles. “And now you give me these monstrosities .”

“Can’t have those unfairly beautiful green eyes drying out,” he said, deadpan. 

Lydia sighed but tugged the goggles over her head. “How do I look?”

Draco pulled on his own pair, smirking. “Beautiful, as always.” He tilted his chin imperiously. “Your little moves are cute, don’t get me wrong—but if I were to truly show off, it would put you to shame so hard you might die. Either of embarrassment… or sheer awe.”

“Is that right?” she said, grinning. “You do know I’ve seen you fly, don’t you? I watched you get beat by Harry Potter.”

“In my rookie year?” Draco sniffed. “Please. That hardly counts. And I suspect you’ve seen all my games. I am quite superior, am I not?”

He tilted his chin again to better showcase his jawline.

Lydia tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Hmm. I’m not sure,” she mused. Then that grin spread across her face—mischievous and smug as ever. “I wasn’t watching anyone else to compare you to.”

Before she could say another word, Draco reached up, his hand cupping her cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw as he pulled her in. He kissed her—quick, sure, exhilarated. Just the press of mouths, warm and breathless, but lit through with the thrill of flight and fire. When he pulled back, a little dizzy from it all, his hand lingered at her cheek, steadying her as much as himself.

She looked up at him, breath mingling with his, fogging the inside of her goggles as she grinned, cheeks flushed and glowing in the golden light. A rush of wind-tangled hair caught at the corner of her mouth, and for a moment, she was all he could focus on. So close, so real—it was dizzying. She was so warm. And all he wanted was to fall into her forever.

“You’re amazing,” he said, breathless. And he meant it—meant it like an admission, like saying he adored her, was in awe of her, loved her... But then he caught the slight falter in her smile—and backtracked, fumbling for safer ground. “Quick, sharp—and you’re not even in proper gear. You’d be nearly as good as me if you were.” He shot her a teasing look, and he knew she rolled her eyes, even though he could barely see through the fogged goggles. Hovering close to bump her shoulder with his, Draco continued, voice laced with amusement. “Why aren’t you on the team? The Puffs need a decent Seeker. Stewart is…” He made a face that said everything about Flynn Stewart’s less-than-stellar skills.

Lydia’s smile was modest, knowing. It made him ache to taste it again. He leaned closer, their knees brushing gently.

“Like I said,” she murmured, catching her breath, “I’m not a fan of all the rules.”

Draco gave her a slow, amused once-over. “All you have to do is fly around and catch a little golden ball that zips around the pitch. It’s easy. Scared I’d beat you to it?”

She shot him a withering look, trying not to grin. But he saw it—a flicker of something fierce, wicked, and defiant in her posture.

“Probably for the best,” he added airily, raising his voice to carry over the wind. “Wouldn’t want you in any danger on the field, would I? My delicate little wolf.”

Her brow furrowed, but she couldn’t suppress the laugh that followed as she smacked a hand to his chest. “You are insufferable,” she muttered, still laughing. “I don’t want to play, and I don’t even know when I'd fit in time for training,” she continued. “Besides, can you imagine the drama when our houses play each other near the end of the year? The press would have a field day.”

“Sounds like you're thinking about it,” he grinned.

She shook her head firmly, but her protest trailed off unconvincingly. “No...”

“Shame. I’m pretty dashing on a broom, you know. You could see me up close.”

“Oh, I see you, don’t worry,” Lydia said dryly. “Windswept hair, safe Seeker hands, that damn smirk…” She leaned back with a mischievous sparkle, her gaze drifting down his form, making his pulse quicken. Draco felt every second of it, like warm honey over his skin, despite the chill of the wind. She inhaled deeply, her lips parting for a moment as if she might say it—those three little words. Not that he needed to hear them. He felt it in the way she was looking at him.

“If I’m ever to meet you on a Quidditch pitch, Captain ,” she dragged her top teeth over her bottom lip, a challenging glint in her voice, “you’ll have to make me fall for you some other way.”

Salazar, she knew exactly what she was doing, calling him Captain like that, making something buzz in his stomach. 

She waggled her eyebrows and leaned back slightly, as though she might take off again.

Draco was too quick this time. He reached out, catching her broom. His fingers wrapped around both broom handles, locking them together and their legs tangled, knees brushing.

He tilted his head, confident, a sly grin curling on his lips. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

And then he kissed her again.

This time, it was harder, hotter—his hand twisting in her robes, pulling her flush against him as their mouths met. She stiffened in surprise, then melted into it, her hands sliding over his shoulders and into his hair. She kissed him like she trusted him. Like she knew he had her.

Like he hadn't promised to get her back for splashing him minutes ago…

Oh, Lydia… Draco's mouth curved into a sly smile against her lips.

Once she’d relaxed, once she was lost in the kiss, and everything felt warm and hazy and hungry, Draco began tipping them, slowly at first, over by degrees, steadily into a headlong dive.

Lydia gasped into his mouth when she realised, pushing at his chest, reaching for control of her broom as they began to plummet.

“Draco—”

He swallowed the word, deepening the kiss, adrenaline fizzing through his veins like lightning. Thighs tight around his own broom, a hand on both of theirs.

“Trust me,” he murmured against her lips, a promise and a dare, his hand sliding around her body, holding her closer.

She whimpered—or maybe it was a laugh—but he felt her inhale against his chest, and then she kissed him back, just as furiously—teeth and tongue and reckless joy. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her body pressed against his. Trusting him to catch her, to keep their brooms steady. Trusting his safe Seeker hands on the brooms.

And together, they plummeted. Down and down and down.

“We’re going to—”

“Not yet.” Draco gasped, sensing their height more from some internal measurement than any glance he’d managed toward the ground.

Down.

Down.

Down.

He couldn't taste enough of her. Couldn't get enough of her stealing his breath away. Of the wind whipping past them, his stomach lodged in his throat as the adrenaline coursed through him. Draco had always suspected love would be black and white—caught in the obligations of betrothals and family alliances—but it was golden, like daylight. He could feel it on his skin. It was choice and freedom and the joy of flying, but tangible, warm against his mouth, pressing against his body. It was patience and trust. Oh, he felt higher than ecstasy.

“Draco—!”

Smirking, Draco let go of Lydia and her broom at last, pushing to guide her broom to level out before his hands snapped to his, pulling up hard. The broom handle was cool and solid in his grip, and the lake burst beneath him in a spray of silver as his toes skimmed the water. He glanced back to make sure Lydia had pulled up in time too as he drew a long, graceful arc over the water, savoring the joy that swam through him. She was safe, taking her own arc back to him. The wind whipped at his hair and clothes, roaring in his ears, as he let go with his hands, throwing them out wide and leaned back to let out a jubilant whoop to the sky—several, in fact—as exhilaration poured out of him, loud, breathless, alive.

He couldn’t stop grinning. His chest ached with it.

The sky above them was streaked in pink and gold, the clouds painted like brushstrokes. Below, the lake shimmered, throwing the colors back at them. It was all glowing—she was glowing.

And there was nothing else. Just him. And the sky and the lake. And the girl he loved.

Just this rush of air and color and the way his lips still tingled from the kiss.

Straightening, he looked over at her, heart thudding, breath ragged. Her eyes flashed at him with a mix of fondness and fury. Even with the scowl forming on her brow and those ridiculous goggles, she looked so unfairly beautiful it made his stomach twist.  

“I can’t believe you—” she began hotly as she drew near, but he wasn’t listening. Not really. He was too busy feeling.  This is what it’s supposed to feel like, he thought. Not just surviving. Not just enduring. Living. Love. He almost couldn’t contain it.

“Draco Malfoy,” Lydia said sharply, as if she were fighting not to smile. “You absolute maniac. You could’ve killed us!”  

He floated toward her, dazed and drunk on her and the sky and everything he hadn’t let himself hope for in months. His grin turned lopsided, even as she hit out for him and smacked his arm. He just took it, gladly. 

“Never,” he said, voice still wind-rough, breathing hard. “I had it all under control. It was perfect.”  

She huffed, pushing the goggles back on her head, hovering so close their thighs brushed.

“ You are an idiot,” she muttered, eyes flicking to his mouth.   

Pushing his own goggles back, he leaned in, eyes dancing, thinking to steal another kiss. “You love it,” he dared, and he saw the defiant tilt of her chin that made her cheeks shine in the fading light. 

“I will get you back,” she warned, voice dropping low, eyes glancing to his lips again. Her fingers were already curling in his robes.  

He caught her chin gently, brushing his thumb along her cheek once more, drinking her in like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real. That this was really his life. 

If he could have apparated them straight to his room right then, he would have.

“I love you,” he said softly.  

Lydia’s breath caught, and for a moment she stilled in his grip. Draco waited. She tipped her head to look up at him, her smile turning a shade of dangerous. And then, before the warning could register, she was kissing him again—so hot, open mouthed, teeth grazing his lip. She made no bones about trying to steal his breath.  Her hands twisted in his jumper, pulled him closer. And then—

She shoved.  

Hard. 

He yelped as his balance slipped, and then he was falling again—not far, just a few feet, a flailing tumble off his broom and into the lake with a tremendous splash.  

Water swallowed him whole.  

When he surfaced, gasping and blinking water out of his eyes, she was hovering above him like a smug little queen, her broom drifting in slow circles as she smirked down at him.  

“I warned you,” she called sweetly.  

Draco slicked his wet hair back with one hand, sputtering as water streamed down his face and into his collar. The lake was freezing, but he barely noticed. He was too stunned. And then—too delighted.

Above him, Lydia hovered just out of reach, one leg swinging casually beneath her broom, looking like sin and sunshine in the honey-gold dusk.

He made a lunge for her ankle.

She darted back with a laugh, twisting effortlessly out of his reach.

“Uh uh uh. Not going to catch me like that, Captain,” she teased in a sing-song tone, her eyes sparkling with her smile.

Draco growled low in his throat, eyes darkening and his mouth twisted into a smile. He reached for his broom from where it was floating in the water and managed to make it hover. He was about to haul himself out of the water when Lydia suddenly straightened on her broom. 

“Oh. Oh—wait. Wait, wait…”

Pausing, hands on the broom, Draco frowned, trying to stop his teeth chattering as he glanced over his shoulder at her. Lydia drew her wand and with a flourish, transfigured his team jersey into an old fashioned, billowing, white shirt. 

She slowed to a hover a short way behind him. “You may proceed,” she grinned, leaning forward over her broom, one hand propping up her chin, the other lazily swinging her wand. 

Draco arched an eyebrow at her in question and only minor irritation—that was his team jersey! Lydia slowly dragged her teeth over her bottom lip, watching him expectantly. “Go ahead.”

With a wry sigh, Draco reached for his broom and began to haul himself out of the water. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried — he could feel Lydia's gaze tracking the movement of his muscles like sunlight across his skin. The shirt she’d conjured clung to him in sodden folds, translucent and sculpted tight to his chest and shoulders and back. Water streamed from the hem, dripped from his sleeves, curled beneath his collar. His dark trousers shone wetly, plastered to his thighs and sticking with every shift as he swung a leg over the broom.

Draco took his time. “Enjoying the view?” 

“Very much so, Mr Darcy,” she said, biting back a smile.

“Who?”

“Don't worry.” She took a moment to appreciate her handiwork, and then twirled her wand and blasted him with warming and drying spells. 

“I could have just taken the shirt off,” Draco offered, all faux-innocence and raised brows as he turned the broom to come alongside her again.

She snorted. “You would.” 

“Only if you ask nicely.”

“Try catching me first, and maybe I’ll consider it,” she called, already turning tail, her braid streaming behind her like a comet’s trail. Then she was gone again, speeding off toward the far end.

Draco grinned. It wasn’t smug or smug-adjacent. It was joyous. Wolfish. Hungry .  

“You’ve really done it now, Hargrove!” he shouted, already after her like a bullet.

The wind roared in his ears again as he shot across the lake, chasing the flicker of her silhouette against the sunset. He was closing the distance fast, teeth bared in a grin he couldn't suppress, heart hammering with the absolute rightness of the moment.  

She was fast. But he was determined. And completely, hopelessly in love.  He spun a  corkscrew through the air with a whoop. 

“Nowhere to run now!” he called, closing in. “Time to pay for all your crimes!”

She glanced back, still laughing. “Crimes? I’m innocent!”  

“Liar,” he growled, pushing faster. “I saw you smirk!”

“You love my smirk!”

“I do. And I'm absolutely desperate to taste it again. So I have every intention of chasing you down to catch it.”

Draco surged forward again, close enough now to see the curve of her grin as she glanced back.

He’d planned more for tonight. Once they'd finished chasing each other, there was a blanket tucked near his coat, waiting to be laid out beside a little basket of snacks he’d charmed to keep the bread, cheese and cake fresh. Her current book—Hannah had stolen it for him this morning—was currently tucked safely in one of the large pockets of his grey coat, the new book she’d brought with her resting alongside—and a long evening stretched out beside her, trading chapters and secrets. Quiet things. Soft things. That’s what he had planned.

But in this moment—airborne, chasing the girl who had somehow lit up every shadowy part of him—he didn’t need any of that. Just this. With her.

Chapter Text

The moment Draco’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the room shifted. Theo felt it first as a change in pressure—like a storm had passed through and left the air metallic, brittle. That constant background hum—the low buzz of spellwork and emotion—crooned back to life, scratching faintly at the edges of his hearing.

He let himself straighten slowly. The tight coil of tension in his shoulders unspooled with calculated grace. As he tugged his sleeves straight, Theo took a moment to reflect on the aesthetically pleasing nature of Draco’s exit—all sharp lines and dramatic flair. The swirl of the coat had been a particularly theatrical touch. Quite enjoyable, indeed. He brushed a hand down the front of his own robes, smoothing out the skin-tight armour of nonchalance that so flattered him, pointedly not acknowledging anyone else, although he could feel their glances. 

The room began to exhale, the heat of Draco’s stand-off dissipating into the low murmur of resumed conversations, a few of the younger years drifting back to their card games. Quills resumed their note taking.

He let out a slow breath, but it wasn't a relief. Not really. Inside, his pulse was still thunder, his wand-hand aching from how tightly he’d gripped it, magic still thrumming in his veins, quicksilver and sharp, like a heat rash beneath his skin. It prickled, itchy with restraint, as if it hated being leashed. 

Fuck, he really would have faced Azkaban for Draco a moment ago. Not to protect him—but with him. That was a terrifying realisation.

What had that feeling been? That rush of something warm and deep when he’d stepped up beside Draco, met that stormy gaze—when Draco had murmured “Fuck Azkaban” and it had hit like a match to dry tinder. What was that?

Still standing there, adrenaline spiking like needles under his skin, Theo realised he’d meant it. The words had struck like gold heat in his chest, bright and pulsing, and he had meant every sentiment that echoed by taking a place at Draco’s side before the entire Slytherin common room. Draco’s voice still echoed behind his ribs, copper-edged and jagged.

It had all been reckless. Stupid. And yet—it rang with the strange clarity of music that wouldn’t leave your head.

Fuck Azkaban. Fuck all of it. Together.

Together?

It hadn’t just been the words.

It was the way Draco had met his eyes—steady, unflinching. A challenge. A warning. Maybe a question.

  Will you?

And Theo—he hadn’t flinched either. Just the smallest tilt of his head, a breath that curled at the corner of his mouth. Then he’d stepped in beside him. No grand declarations. No plan. Just that tiny, anchoring movement.

This is your fight. But I’m here.

Absurd, how little it had taken. One phrase, thrown like a spark. And suddenly, Theo’s whole body had answered.

He couldn’t say when it had started—this gravitational pull toward Draco’s chaos, this instinct to orbit whatever heat he threw off—but in that breathless second, it had all clarified.

It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t survival.

It was… friendship? Brotherhood? Some equally sentimental notion of loyalty?

It had been there, singing in the heat behind his ribs, in the white-noise roar of his pulse. Like the words had struck some tuning fork inside him. He’d tasted it. Bright and metallic. Felt it prickle across his skin like static trying to escape. Everything had narrowed to that one blazing point of colour and sound and intent: stand beside him.

Not behind. Not for. Beside. With.

Draco had looked at him, and Theo had stayed…

And wasn’t that absolutely, curl-in-the-corner, make-yourself-as-small-as-possible frightening?

Blaise’s voice, light and just loud enough to carry, snapped Theo from his musings.

“Dramatic little bitch, isn’t he?”

The silencing spell came fast and sharp—like a snapped violin string in the pit of his stomach. The recoil zipped up his arm, fizzing along his nerves like static as Blaise jerked and clutched at his throat. It landed like a slap—sudden, surgical. Theo had made it sting, just a little.

Blaise’s silence rang like struck metal. The bubble of laughter that had started to swell around him burst into nothing.

Heads turned.

Theo wasn’t even sure he’d meant to do it. His magic had answered something faster than thought. Now the spell lingered on his skin, leaving behind a faint singe, like the tingle after biting into mint leaf and citrus peel. Something fresh, sharp at the edges—something startlingly new.

He just stood there, in the echo of Draco’s absence, holding the shape of the stand they’d taken together. But as the silence settled—dense and humming—Theo realised that Draco had drawn a line in the sand, and without thinking, he’d claimed it too. Upheld it, in front of everyone. And oh-so-publicly cemented his allegiance.

What the hell am I doing?

This wasn’t his style. He’d spent years cultivating neutrality, existing on the periphery of every faction—Slytherin enough to be safe, distant enough to stay untouched. He didn’t stand with people. He observed them. Calculated his odds. Always kept a back door open. Always used other people to his advantage.

But now—here he was, flinging spells and taking sides in defence of Draco bloody Malfoy and two Hufflepuff girls who should have stayed background noise to him. Who, against all logic, had become anchors in his fractured world. Lydia, fierce and infuriating, burned with something that refused to look away. And Hannah— steady, maternal Hannah—had proven herself stronger than any of them. Somehow, they’d all pulled him into their orbit. Into something warmer, riskier. Human.

Theo let the silence bloom across the Slytherin common room, holding Blaise’s eye with nothing but threat laced into his usually charming expression as he smoothed out his shirt sleeves once again. 

Then Pansy’s voice cut through. Bitter, biting.

“So that’s it then? Throwing your towel in with Malfoy and his little Hufflepuff whores?” 

She dragged her eyes over him, disdain plain on her face, nose lifted in an effort to look down at him. “Thought you were smarter than that, Nott.”

Theo took a measured breath as he looked to her, unhurried, letting the silence stretch until it grew uncomfortable. Letting her words hang in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Historically, Theo might have backed down, covering his retreat with a clever remark, a joke. Instead he tilted his head slightly, predatory. He smiled. Slow. Without warmth. It twisted his face into something sharp and dangerous as he took a step towards her. When he finally spoke, his voice was velvet dragged over a blade.

“Want to try that again, Pans?” he asked as he inspected his nails and then shined them on the shoulder of his shirt. His eyes flicked back to her, and he saw the barely-there flinch. He waited until she opened her mouth to reply and then pointedly interrupted.

“And,” Theo held up a finger to silence her, his words clipped and cold, as if the mere idea of her insult had somehow chipped away at something inside him. “Bear in mind, I’m being exceptionally patient—considering you just insulted the people I’ve decided to give a damn about.” 

Pansy scoffed, almost barked out a laugh. “You? Friends?” That disgusted drag of eyes over his frame again, that disgusted sneer as she crossed her arms. “You don’t have friends, Nott. You have tools. Pawns you move around the board and bodies you fuck. Though I suppose you’d happily associate with anything you think you can wet your wick in.” Pansy stepped closer. The scent of her perfume hit like a blunt instrument—sweet rot with a sherbert edge, forcing its way up his nose and clinging to the roof of his mouth. It muddied his focus, mixed wrong with the magic still fizzing under his skin, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from gagging. “Tell me, are the Puffs’ cunts as soft as their characters.”

The curse hit her square in the chest. A sensation like slime cooled its way down his throat and into his stomach, soothing the fizzing of the previous spell. Theo didn’t even register saying the incantation. His fingers had moved. The magic had answered. He hadn't even lifted his wand.

The room had frozen once more, everyone silent, watching. Pansy doubled over, her eyes blown wide. And then she was clutching her stomach with one hand as the other went to her mouth. The scent hit him before the noise—limes, crushed too fine, like citrus scorched in a cauldron. Sharp and volatile. It curled in his throat, strange and bright, and for a moment he was suspended in it—dizzy not with disgust, but with the sheer clarity of it. Pansy retched, the sound echoing off the damp stone walls—then came the slugs, splattering on the floor with wet finality. 

Theo grinned with easy satisfaction.

Several people jumped back from her, avoiding the slime splashing on their shoes and legs. Someone else wretched in the background. Someone swore under their breath. Another Slytherin staggered backward, nearly knocking over a chessboard. The room was silent except for the hideous squelch of slime and Pansy's gagging sobs. But no one went to her. Not this time.

They were looking at him differently now, he could feel it—not like he’d just broken the rules, but like he’d rewritten them.

Theo didn’t even blink as he loosened his posture and swept a hand through his hair as he gave the room a sweeping glance like he was checking his audience.

“Choke it up, Pans. I hope it tastes as vile as everything else that comes out of your mouth.”

Twirling his wand between his fingers, Theo strolled towards the door, carefully making eye contact with everyone he passed. Then, with a smile as affable as ever, he swept a theatrical bow before slipping out the door.

“Don’t be strangers now,” he called behind him.

Chapter Text

Lydia sat alone at a table in the library, her notes scattered before her. The faint rustling of pages and muffled whispers from other students were the only sounds in the room. But despite the calm atmosphere, her mind was elsewhere—lost in thought, floating between memories and regrets. The anniversary of her mum's death always pulled her into a spiral, no matter how hard she tried to push it down.

She’d mentioned the anniversary to Draco briefly last night, after her father’s letter had arrived early. Her dad always sent her a letter on the anniversary; it had felt like their little secret. It wasn’t that Lydia had never told anyone about her mum dying, just that she’d never explicitly said, It’s the anniversary today. And so many years later, it felt a bit silly that it still hurt so much, that she spent the whole day longing for just one more hug—knowing that if someone looked at her with that sorrowful expression and then hugged her, she might just burst into tears. And who wanted that? But Draco had seen the letter over her shoulder, asked gentle questions, and telling him about it last night had felt natural. Right, even. He’d held her and told her it was normal to still feel sad. He’d said the right things.

Of course, he’d been reluctant to leave her this morning. But he had his usual Saturday routine: community service in Hogsmeade and then a shift at the Three Broomsticks—he wouldn’t be back till late.

"I’ll say I’m sick," he’d murmured against the side of her head after scooping her into his lap.

"You’re not sick. You’d need a sick note from the hospital wing," Lydia had sighed back.

"You could write me a sick note, couldn’t you?" He’d suggested, a smirk brushing over her ear.

She’d just looked up at him, weary and exasperated. No. She wasn’t going to jeopardise her future career for this. She’d managed every other year without him; she’d be fine by herself today.

And then she’d found herself placating him, which felt backwards on reflection. “It means a lot that you want to be with me today. But it’s not worth the risk of being caught lying. Your probation. My career.” She’d reached up, cupped his cheek, and kissed him. “Thank you. I’ll be okay.”

So he’d sent her flowers by owl during breakfast—white lilies and roses, gladdioli, and a single bright sunflower for a splash of colour and cheer. By Helga, that had been embarrassing . She dreaded to think how much he’d spent on them, or perhaps he’d conjured them. And then another owl had delivered a very touching letter at lunchtime. Checking in. Promising they could share the wine he had hidden in his room and she could drink and tell him more about her mum tonight if she liked—or he could make her forget her grief, if she preferred. He’d suggested some very explicit ways he could distract her, in fact. It had made her smile, and she was sure he hadn’t meant anything selfish by it. It was all very thoughtful and sweet, but it didn’t lessen the ache in her chest. If anything, it only made her feel worse—like he was trying to fix something unfixable. Like she should be able to take comfort in his gestures and stop feeling sad, but she couldn’t. And that just left her feeling guilty. Tired. But it wasn’t his fault that grief couldn’t be fixed with gestures like that.

She glanced back at the nearly blank page in her notebook, the title underlined neatly at the top, the date in the corner… and tried to remember what the hell the word even meant. It didn’t feel like it meant anything today. Maybe she should try her Ancient Runes assignment instead. She sighed and turned to look out the nearby window, bracing her chin on her hand, elbow on the table—blue sky, white fluffy clouds, autumnal light already seeming to fade to gold.

Lydia hardly noticed when footsteps approached and someone slipped into the chair across from her at the table. It wasn’t until a familiar scent—warm sweet wax and faintly burnt wick—reached her that she blinked back to the present. Birthday candles. Her mind took a sluggish second to place it before realising: Theo. 

Her stomach dropped a little. Urgh! Today? He really wanted to try and make up for being an arsehole today? 

She turned back. The fact that he was actually looking at her—after a week of avoiding eye contact entirely—sparked a flicker of surprise as if she'd forgotten how warm those honey-coloured eyes could feel when they actually met hers. He’d been avoiding her since she’d caught him smoking those herbs and they'd argued. Well, he'd shouted at her and stormed off. And he'd been an absolute twat since—sitting at the end of tables, leaving conversations and rooms when she arrived. Lydia hadn’t told anyone what had happened, but she sensed Hannah was likely on the verge of properly tearing him a new one just for being so childish. Was that why he was here? Had Hannah sent him to sort things out?

Theo observed her in silence for a few moments before arching an eyebrow.

“Your notes aren’t going to write themselves, you know,” he remarked, his voice smooth but with an edge of amusement. Irreverent, as always. His eyes flicked to the page before her, still mostly blank. “You’ve been staring at it for ages.”

Lydia’s gaze dropped to the empty parchment in front of her, then lifted to find him still watching her with that impish grin pulling at his lips—puzzling over her, like he wasn’t quite sure why he was here either but was going to pretend he knew more than she did. She wasn’t in the mood for games, but clearly he had little else to entertain him on a Saturday. Typical. And yet, despite herself, she engaged him anyway, challenging him, despite knowing how well that had gone last time.

"Are you really just going to sit here and act like everything’s fine after what you said last week? Like you haven’t been avoiding me ever since?" Her voice came out sharper than she’d intended, a hushed hiss as her eyes narrowed at him like dagger points.

Theo’s gaze drifted, his finger picking idly at a scratch on the table. "Avoiding you? I’ve just been busy." He shrugged, all feigned nonchalance. She didn’t buy it.

"Busy…" Lydia let the word hang between them, unimpressed.

Theo’s particular brand of company—did she need that today?

He always demanded focus, engagement. Turned everything into a game. He really was  like a puppy, always wanting to play. Most days, she met him step for step, enjoyed the chase, even thrived in it. She’d weave through his words, digging for the real Theo underneath all that charm and arrogance. But today wasn’t one of those days.

Her patience was already frayed. Not his fault—not really. It was the date. The weight of it. The relentless ache of a memory she could never outrun: the too-bright hospice room, the lengthening gaps between shallow breaths, the soft voices of adults too distracted by their own grief to notice hers.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, the ache pressing deeper in her chest.

"Fine. Sure. Well, I’ve got stuff to do, so—"

She bent forward, feigning focus on her work. Across from her, Theo straightened. His lips parted, probably ready to throw something flippant her way—to slip into habit—but something in her expression gave him pause.

That’s new.

“That’s it?” he asked, frowning. “You’re not going to give me a hard time today?” He sounded almost… disappointed. 

Like he wanted her to be mad at him. Like her silence unsettled him. Had he expected her to chase him all week? Or had it just sunk in that avoiding her meant avoiding Draco and Hannah too, so now he was feeling lonely?

Was there even a difference?

Lydia shook her head, rubbing her temples. “Just… can we not today, okay?”

She was supposed to push back. Say something sharp or challenging. That was the rhythm they knew—teasing words, narrowed eyes, his infuriating smirk when he thought he’d won, and the flicker of retreat when he realised she saw too much.

But he was hesitating now. And he wasn’t retreating…

There was a crease between his brows. An uncertainty in his posture. He was watching her like she’d rewritten the rules without telling him. Maybe he was trying to find his way back onto her good side without admitting what a prick he'd been last week—and coming up blank. She caught it—that flicker across his face. Like he was reading her now, weighing her tone, puzzling through her stillness. They were alike in that way. Reading between the lines. Looking for the story underneath.

And then, with a scrape of chair legs, he was suddenly around the table beside her, as if some internal instinct had told him he needed to close the distance. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him she might not want his company. He dragged a chair from the next table and settled into it with that effortless confidence of his, folding himself into her space like he was always meant to be part of it. The shift in proximity was immediate. Inescapable. And strangely… not unwelcome. Theo had a way of anchoring people. Drawing them into his orbit with nothing more than a glance, a grin, a question no one else would dare ask. Lydia felt it—the weight of his attention, something quieter beneath it, almost gentle. And for a second, she didn’t want to retreat either.

“Why today?” he asked, voice low. “What’s so special about today?”

There was something urgent in his tone. But softer, too. Like he meant it.

Is that what I sound like? she thought, because suddenly it felt like looking in a mirror—the way he watched her, parsed her, called her out.

She sighed and let her pen fall from her fingers. If he was anything like her—and he was—he wouldn’t let it go. He’d found a crack in the surface, found the right question to ask and he’d keep digging. Keep asking. And… maybe the blunt truth would scare him off. It usually did.

She’d meant to sound matter-of-fact—detached—as if she were just naming a date on the calendar. But when she spoke, the words came out tired. A little too sad. Like the weight of them had already settled in her bones, and she hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

“It’s my mum’s anniversary. She died when I was nearly eleven. So, I just…” She swallowed the lump rising in her throat, her voice dipping toward something almost pleading. “I can’t play your games today, Theo.”

A long silence followed.

She didn’t look at him, but she felt his focus shift—heavier now. More deliberate. Theo was usually quick with a quip, a teasing remark to glide past anything that might hurt. But this time, he said nothing. In fact, he’d stilled entirely—shoulders drawn, hands motionless on the table, breath shallow. Like the words had pulled him out of his usual rhythm.

Then, after a beat, he cleared his throat.

“November seventh, huh?”

His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. Like he was drawing breath before diving into deep water. Measuring the depth first. Bracing for the cold.

She nodded, still staring at the desk, worrying the skin beside her thumbnail. “November seventh.”

A fragile stillness settled between them. Lydia didn’t feel the need to break it. She let it stretch and ache quietly in her ribs. Most years, it hadn’t ached like this. The first one at Hogwarts had been the worst—no longer numb, and far from home. Last year, she’d just buried herself in hospital wing shifts, barely noticing the date, a little preoccupied by everything with the war, the Carrows. At least until she’d fallen into bed that night.

But this year… This year it hurt differently.

Not just because of the big things—her mum hadn’t been there when she stood tall before the Wizengamot, wouldn’t see her graduate next summer, couldn’t give her advice on interview techniques for St Mungo’s next week. It was the small things that gutted her. The ones that crept in.

Would her mum have reached for her hand without thinking, just to hold it for a moment longer before putting her on the train at King’s Cross for her final year at Hogwarts? Would she have sent some overly elaborate eighteenth birthday gift in a few weeks—flowers too large for a single owl to carry, or a limited edition book Lydia already knew by heart? Or something quieter, simpler: a delicate necklace, chosen with care and meant to last?

Would she have supported Lydia’s plan to train as a Healer at St Mungo’s—or been quietly disappointed she hadn’t wanted to take over the kayak hire business on the coast? Would she have pretended not to mind, said all the right things, while missing the thought of them working side by side in the sea air? Lydia liked to think her mum would’ve understood—that she'd have been proud—but grief had a way of making certainty feel slippery.

Would she have taken one look at Draco and understood? Would she have seen past the sharpness, the wary glances, the faded mark on his arm? Or would she have worried? Warned Lydia away? Would she have hoped for someone different—or looked at Draco, truly looked, and seen what Lydia saw? The boy who was trying so damn hard. 

So many questions she’d never get answers to. So many moments her mother would never witness.

Beside her, Theo exhaled—slow and deliberate. Barely more than a breath, like anything louder might crack something open. His fingers twisted together in his lap.

“July eighteenth,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “I was eight.”

Lydia blinked and turned toward him. He was staring down at his hands, fingers tightly wrung, head bowed—like the admission had cost him almost everything, like it pressed a weight down onto his shoulders. One hand rose briefly to the centre of his shirt, fingers curling around his tie—as if to loosen it, or maybe to reach for something hidden beneath. 

“Oh,” she whispered. “I had no idea.”

Theo looked up with a small, thin smile and a half-shrug. “Didn’t know about your mum either.”

He nudged her shoulder—not his usual sharp-edged teasing, but something gentler. And he left it there, leaning just enough to stay connected, like that simple touch was a tether. They shared a glance, reticent but understanding.

Hello, Theodore Nott.

“I’m sorry,” he added, swallowing hard—awkward, but sincere. Lydia knew those words cost him. And she wasn’t sure if he meant last week, or her mum. Maybe both.

But just like that, the tension between them eased. What had been sharp and unsaid unraveled into something quieter. Steadier. They didn’t need to explain it. Both of them had lost something irreplaceable. Both carried the slow-fading weight of memories, and the ache of love with nowhere left to go.

Lydia exhaled, her shoulders easing for the first time that day.  It wasn’t just shared grief—it was the understanding of everything grief took with it. The small comforts that once felt ordinary: a mother’s hand smoothing down your hair, a voice calling them home for dinner, the quiet assurance that they were loved. That they were safe. The way a mum remembered where you’d left things when you swore they were gone. The soft hum of a lullaby at the end of the day. A knowing glance from across a room that said, without words, “I’ve got you.” The warmth of her jumper when you leaned in for a hug. The way she said your name like it mattered. And they had both lost that too soon.

“Me too,” she whispered, her voice thin as the ache settled. But it didn’t feel as heavy anymore. Not here. Not like this.

July eighteenth , Lydia thought, the date catching in her mind. Theo had been released from Ministry holding on July fifteenth. He must’ve been home for the anniversary this year.
Three days later, free to grieve as he needed. And something about that—about him being home and safe on that date—brought her a small, unexpected comfort.

Theo let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping idly against his knee, as if hesitating on the edge of saying something more. But he didn’t. The silence between them spoke volumes, heavier than words, steady in a way that neither of them had expected.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t with the usual restless energy that defined him. Languidly, deliberately, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. It was a quiet kind of comfort. Lydia let her head drop against his shoulder, closing her eyes for just a moment.

They stayed like that for a time, his arm a steady weight around her. The library was quieter now, the occasional rustle of turning pages or the distant scrape of a chair against the floor the only sounds beyond their own breathing. Her muscles still ached with the kind of tired that came with days like this—like everything in her body had been clenched too long. But it lessened a little. Her throat was tight, as if she’d been holding back tears all day without realising. Even her fingers felt cold, despite Theo’s warmth beside her. But she didn’t pull away. She let herself sink into the quiet, into the slow rise and fall of his breath, into the silence that didn’t demand anything from her at all. She wasn’t sure who was holding up whom anymore, only that neither of them had moved to let go.

Instinctively, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Theo squeezed her shoulders tighter, then in a quiet, almost thoughtless gesture, he turned and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before resting his chin there, tucking her into him more closely.

The warmth of it settled deep, and for a moment, she let herself have it—this small gesture of solace and comfort. Inhaling deeply, Lydia filled her lungs with that birthday candle scent of his, sweet smoke curling into the air, full of memories and quiet promises. Wishes and hope.

“You remind me of her,” Theo murmured, voice quieter now. “My mum, I mean.”

Lydia stilled. She wasn’t sure he meant to say it—out loud, so openly. His voice was different, dreamy, his words almost slipping out of their own accord.

She stayed silent, afraid to break the moment. Afraid he might stop.

“She was protective,” he continued, distant, like he was lost somewhere between past and present. “Always telling me to stay out of trouble—‘Don’t climb that tree; get down from that wall; don’t chase that bloody Niffler.’” He mimicked his mother’s exasperated tone, a fond half-smile tugging at his lips—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Lydia thought she heard a quiet sound in his chest, something close to laughter but too buried to fully surface.

“But she was there whenever I fell. When I scraped my knees or bruised myself. She didn’t question it. Didn’t scold me. She just... made it better.”

A slow ache bloomed in Lydia’s chest. She understood then. Theo didn’t need someone to stop him from breaking—he needed someone who would stay. Someone who would help him piece himself back together. Maybe that was a lesson she was still trying to learn—that you couldn’t help someone until they wanted to help themselves. 

And then, she felt him tense. His breath hitched—just a fraction too late, like his mind was only now catching up to his body. She felt it in the way his grip stiffened, in the way his muscles coiled as realisation crashed over him.

Too intimate.
Too real.
Too raw.

Theo pulled back, untangling himself, the shift abrupt. He eased his chair away, legs scraping against the tiles. Clearing his throat. Creating space. Distance.

Lydia turned in her chair, watching the way he stared out the window now, jaw tight, as if he wished he could pull the words back down his throat.

“I don’t know why I said all that,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “Just… forget it.”

She reached out, laying a hand gently over his. “It was a privilege, Theo,” she said simply. “Thank you. And—it helped. Knowing you understand.”

He let out a breath—something between a scoff and a relieved laugh, shaking his head. He still didn’t quite look at her, his gaze flicking back to the window.

“Yeah, well… don’t get used to it.” The tone was light, but the words weren’t. Something cracked beneath them, faint and unsteady.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. But the air between them had shifted.

She hadn’t forgotten the bridge. The sharp words. The way he’d shut her out. But here, now, with the weight of grief laid bare between them, pressing him for an apology felt… hollow.
There would be time for that later. Maybe. If she ever worked out how to ask for the things she deserved. 

Theo leaned back in his chair, slipping his hand from hers. He stretched out long and easy, all lazy charisma again—as if the last few minutes had never happened. As if he’d pulled the mask back on.

He tipped his head toward her blank page of notes, smirking. “So,” he drawled, easy and careless, “how long are you planning to stare at that page? Only, I might know where there’s some wine stashed away, and I happen to know for certain that Hannah would love to be rescued from babysitting the first-years.”

Lydia huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Unbelievable.”

Theo grinned. “I try.”

The moment held for a beat longer—something fragile, but understood—before she finally rolled her eyes and muttered, “You’re lucky you have those puppy dog eyes.”

That impish grin widened, mischief dancing in his dark honey gaze. 

“My mum’s eyes.” He said it smoothly, fluttering his eyelashes, as if it didn’t cost him anything.

Lydia let out a small, startled sound—not quite a gasp. She shook her head at his audacity—because apparently, he was already making jokes about his dead mum with her now. And yet… wasn’t that just so typically Theo? Turning grief into something flippant, refusing to let it settle too deeply in the air between them. She wasn’t sure if it was for his sake or hers.

She glanced down at her empty notes, then exhaled, shaking off the weight that had crept in.

“Sure. Wine sounds great.”

Theo smirked, but there was something softer in his eyes now. Something unspoken.  “Knew you’d come around.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, but as they walked out, she bumped her shoulder into his—just hard enough to send him stumbling lightly into the doorframe.

“Don’t push your luck, Nott,” she said, flashing her sweetest, most dangerous smile.

Glancing sideways at her as she laughed, Theo rolled out his shoulder with an exaggerated wince.

 “I’ll let that slide today,” he warned, wagging a finger in mock threat. “But I will get you back…” Then he slung his arm around her shoulders again, dragging her into his side.
The gesture was teasing now, familiar. Lighter.

And like that, they disappeared down the corridor in search of wine, and Hannah, and maybe—just for a little while—solace.

**** 

Draco's body ached—the deep, dragging kind of tired that made his limbs feel like lead. He’d been on his feet since some ungodly hour, the relentless pace of work grinding into his muscles. Rebuilding and decorating in Hogsmeade, then a shift at the Broomsticks—extra busy because Hannah had been on perfect duties here at the school… this was his typical Saturday now. And once the community service portion of his sentence was up, in some ridiculous stroke of genius, he already planned to switch in Quidditch practices, because he was dedicated like that. And the team needed it. He doubted they’d win the cup this year, the team were too inexperienced, but he’d build the foundation for next year.

His feet throbbed with every step, protesting each additional moment spent standing. He rolled his neck and shoulders, shaking out the tension as he trundled down the eighth-year corridor toward his room. He didn’t mind the work, really—there was something satisfying about it—but he was desperately looking forward to a shower and summoning Lydia so they could curl up under the covers before he promptly fell asleep.

Had it not been the anniversary of her mother’s death, he probably wouldn’t have bothered her. There was no way he'd be any worthwhile kind of company tonight. And if he hadn’t wanted to summon her, he’d have simply fallen into bed post-shower, still damp, towel around his waist, and been all but dead to the world before his head hit the pillow. But he wanted to be there for her today. He wanted to know she was okay. And he absolutely wasn’t going to let her be alone tonight.

However, the moment he stepped inside his room, he pulled up short. His brain, sluggish with exhaustion, struggled for a second to make sense of what he was seeing.

One person in his bed? Potentially expected.

 Three people in his bed? …Not so much.

The flickering candlelight picked out tousled heads of blonde and brown hair, a tangle of limbs, the unmistakable scent of wine in the air. And then his brain caught up, recognising Hannah, Theo—Lydia…

His heart stuttered at the sight of her after such a long day: cozy and peaceful. Safe.

Draco’s eyes swept the room. Empty wine bottles and glasses littered his desk, bedside table, and the floor. There was a single candle flickering on the windowsill that hadn’t been there when he left this morning. Back resting against the headboard, Theo had his arms around both Hannah and Lydia, his chin resting on Lydia’s head, both girls tucked against his chest, all three of them fast asleep. A book lay abandoned on Theo's leg, as if Lydia had been reading from it. A silver pendant was pulled out from beneath the collar of Theo’s t-shirt, well-worn and engraved, as if he’d been showing it off. A mostly empty wine glass teetered precariously from Hannah’s fingers—her arm thrown wildly to the side as if, in her sleep, she’d attempted an escape from Theo’s clutches—and a small puddle had formed on the floor beneath.

For a moment, the sight of them—tangled together in his bed, so comfortable, so at ease—twisted something unspoken in his chest. His mind tripped over the oddness of it, the sudden, overwhelming sense of being an outsider in his own space. He’d set the wards to allow Lydia access whenever she liked, in case she left something behind and needed it while he was out. But she must have pulled Theo and Hannah through with her. He might have to look into that—adjust the spells, maybe.

Then, inhaling deeply, a long sigh escaped him—a quiet chuckle, a slight shake of his head—as he eased the door closed. With a thoughtless flick of his wand, he set the locks and wards he always used at night.

Well, at least the wine wasn’t spilt on the sheets.

With a roll of his eyes and a faint smile curling his mouth, Draco moved across the room, carefully pried the glass from Hannah’s fingers, and placed it on the bedside table beside another. As he did, her fingers twitched, reaching absently for the missing weight, a soft noise escaping her—half sigh, half murmur. For a brief moment, her hand brushed his wrist, fingers catching loosely before sliding off and settling back against the bed, and he hesitated, stilling as she nestled deeper into sleep.

Deftly, he reached over her and retrieved the book from Theo’s leg—a collection of poems about grief. His heart clenched . He tucked it onto the desk, then crouched to Scourgify the spilled wine from the floor.

As he walked around to the other side of the bed, stripping off his shirt and Scourgifying himself so he didn’t reek of stale alcohol, smoke, and sweat, he considered that his passive reaction to this scene was either a sign of great maturity or madness. It was definitely out of character.

He should be horrified they'd all broken past his expert wards. He should be mad that they’d made a mess of his usually pristine room. He should be jealous that his girlfriend was tangled up with not one but two other people—in his bed, no less. And he should feel significantly put out—to have missed whatever revelry had led to all three of them being fast asleep by half past nine at night.

But none of that even crossed his mind.

Instead, something warm unfurled in his chest, pushing away any trace of irritation. A quiet sort of relief, almost. He’d worried, distantly, throughout the day, about how Lydia was coping. Whether she’d spent the afternoon alone, whether she’d let herself get lost in her grief and memories.

But she hadn’t been alone.

Theo and Hannah had been here, keeping her steady in the way that only real friends could. And as much as he wanted to be the one she leaned on, he found himself grateful—truly, deeply grateful—that she had others too. That they had others.

He crossed towards the window, intending to extinguish the candle, but paused when he saw the piece of paper tucked beneath the holder. Three different styles of handwriting. A list of names, each carefully written, each a quiet tribute. He didn’t recognise all the names shaped by the ink, but he understood. A vigil. A candle for the lost.

For a long moment, Draco stood still, feeling the weight of the names as if they physically held his gaze. He found some of them surprising; Severus Snape written in Lydia's confident, careful script. Hannah's list was longest. Theo had only written one name. But there was an ink blot beneath, as if he'd considered adding more. Slowly, Draco flicked his wand, summoning a quill from the desk. He added a name himself, his hand steady, though the act felt heavy. And then another name surface... several more. The three names he was personally responsible for. Something in his chest quivered slightly as he wrote those. When he finished, he stood there, watching the flame flicker in the darkness for several long breaths. Then, with a slow exhale, he turned back to the bed.

He left the candle burning.

He hesitated for a moment, then, with a thoughtfulness he knew went above and beyond, drew his wand and transfigured Theo's and Lydia's jeans into cotton pyjama trousers—he reasoned Hannah's dress acted well enough as a nightshirt, whereas the denim would not be comfortable for sleep. Then, with a steady movement of his wand, he carefully pulled the duvet out from under them all—momentarily catching on Theo's heel at the end of his never-ending legs. The duvet lifted and drifted over them, settling gently as if placed by hand.

Almost instinctively, they all stirred, shifting just enough to burrow down onto the pillows, settling closer together. Theo made a soft, sleepy noise, his grip tightening slightly around both girls. Hannah tucked her wild arm over the duvet, hand settling on Theo’s t-shirt, and Lydia let out a quiet sigh, her fingers twitching.

Draco watched. Something quiet and heavy settled in his chest as he transfigured his black jeans into soft lounge pants and kicked off his boots and socks

As if by some unconscious design—as if they’d been waiting for him—there was just enough space for him to slip in behind Lydia. The sheets were warm from where their bodies had been curled together. He pressed in close, fit himself against Lydia’s back, tucked his arm around her waist, and anchored himself there. She made another small, contented sound, shifting instinctively into him, and something in his chest tightened—not with jealousy or possessiveness, just something softer. He was hers, and she was his, and she had people who loved her when he couldn’t be here. They had people.

With a quiet sigh of resignation, his forehead—slightly reluctantly—found the solid weight of Theo’s arm where it wrapped around Lydia's shoulders and for the first time that day, Draco felt his body begin to relax, aching muscles releasing into the pillow and mattress, cocooned beneath the covers. Breathing deep, catching a mix of Lydia’s lavender hair wash, the spice of Theo’s cologne, wine and warm bodies—something sweet, coconut, maybe Hannah’s lotion—Draco closed his eyes and let sleep steal over him. He hadn't realised just how bone tired he was. Not just his body, but something deeper that lingered. And for the first time in ages, he could finally let go, knowing—at least for now—that everything that mattered was right here. Safe and warm. 

Chapter Text

The pub was busy enough to keep his hands occupied — not so loud he could lose himself in it. Draco wiped down the bar for the third time that hour, watching Rosa charm a bottle into pouring itself at one of the side tables, listening to the low, familiar grumble of Junior swearing in the kitchen.

It was almost comfortable.

He caught Hannah’s eye across the floor. She rolled hers — some customers were taking forever to decide — and he smirked faintly, turning back to stack another clean glass.

Draco had decided he didn’t love the quieter shifts. They gave him too much time to think about the fact that he was here. Serving drinks from behind the bar. Serving plates of food from the kitchen. Even starting to chat with the regulars now. Part of him still rankled over it—over the idea of having to get a job at all—and yet, like sewing the buttons on his coat, it was satisfying. That rankled too.

He’d had to jump through absurd hoops just to get this job — Ministry red tape about where he was supposed to be, what spells he was allowed to cast and what ones he actually needed as a barman. He’d had to set up a new Gringotts account by owl post because technically, he didn’t have his own. The Ministry wouldn’t release the family vaults for something as lowly as wages. Rosa had needed to send written confirmation of his employment contract and hours. McGonagall had submitted a letter of permission for him to leave the school grounds — as if he wasn’t already doing that every damn Saturday for his community service.

The Ministry had restricted how many hours he was allowed to work: no more than fourteen a week. Arbitrary, really — it amounted to about two and a half shifts. Rosa was still trying to confirm whether that meant fourteen hours per week ad infinitum , or if it was an average, meaning he might be able to squeeze in a third shift every other week.

And that was all before he’d even put on the bloody apron. No one could say he hadn’t earned this job.

His first shift had come with a fanfare of its own. Hannah had insisted he show up two hours early — unpaid — to walk him through everything: the layout of the tables, how to use the register, how to pour a pint, how to clean the glasses. She’d made him memorise the menu. The specials. He hadn’t realised until later that she hadn’t been paid either.

He’d been furious at first — not just because it was unfair, but because it meant she'd done it out of kindness. For him . It made his skin itch, being indebted to someone like that. Vulnerable like that. But eventually, he’d mumbled a thank you as they walked back to the castle that night, unsure whether it was gratitude or guilt sitting heavier in his chest

The customers were another matter. That first shift, a fair few people walked out when he approached them to take their order. Mostly they had just sneered, threw a comment at him, and turned on their heels. Two had raised their voices and threatened pain and death explicitly enough that Rosa had stepped in. She didn’t tolerate that kind of treatment of her staff — or so she said. There’d been a few similar experiences since, but it was improving as people learned what to expect.

The next shift, they were busier — unusually so for a Wednesday night — and, like Hannah had warned, people ran him ragged on purpose. It started with petty things: customers snapping their fingers for service, deliberately forgetting what they’d ordered, changing their minds halfway through him punching it into the till. One table sent him back and forth to the kitchen three separate times because they couldn’t decide if they wanted gravy or not. Junior — sweating in the kitchen and clearly in no mood — barked at him to get it right the first time or get out of his kitchen. By the time Draco returned with the final request, the cook hurled a ladle across the room and muttered something about fancy boys playing pub.

At one point, a middle-aged wizard in a mustard waistcoat had him hovering by the bar for what felt like hours, humming and hawing over the drinks menu like he was choosing his final meal. Draco stood stiffly, jaw clenched, caught in customer-service purgatory of answering ridiculously unnecessary questions as the man scratched his chin and muttered things like, “I’m torn between the bitter and the blackcurrant mead... no, wait, does the firewhisky come in singles or doubles?” Behind him, the room was a cacophony of clattering chairs and raised voices — someone yelling for more potatoes, someone else waving an empty glass like a distress flare. He felt the eyes on his back: impatient, judgmental. To them, he was just standing there, like a useless showpiece, doing nothing.

There were complaints too. One patron sniffed suspiciously at their plate and muttered just loud enough to be heard, “Tastes like someone tampered with it. I don’t fancy food carried by that one.” Another asked snidely, “Did you Avada this animal yourself, or is that just the wait time?” Laughter followed, mean-spirited and barbed, but no one told them off. Draco had to swallow it all — pretend not to hear it, pretend it didn’t sting, hold that polite smile like it wasn’t cracking his face..

But he kept his cool. Mostly. A couple of times in the last month, he’d had to step into the staff cloakroom and scream behind a Muffliato after a particularly difficult customer. One of the regulars loved giving him a hard time but it had started to become an almost fond challenge now. Though the first Saturday the Hogwarts students had come down had nearly had him punching a wall.

But, just like Hannah had predicted, he drew crowds. People came to gawk at the Malfoy Prince brought to his knees, came to see if you really could tame a Death Eater.

It had even made the papers. Theo had cut the article out and given it to Draco in a frame. Bastard.

“Y’alright?” Hannah asked casually, carrying over a tray of clean glasses to stack on the shelves beneath the bar.

 “Yeah,” Draco said, slinging the cloth over his shoulder and bending to help. “You know, I think this is actually the first night it’s been quie—”

Hannah’s hand slammed over his mouth, the word trailing off from his lips, the tray of glasses shaking and clinking where she moved so hastily. Her eyes were wide and furious. Draco froze — shocked by her hand on his face, shocked by the suddenness. It was the kind of casual gesture that came with trust, with friendship. It caught him off guard more than he cared to admit. He kept being surprised that they’d gotten that far, that they were more or less friends now. Sort of. He supposed.

“Don’t,” she hissed with something of a smile curling her mouth. “You don’t ever say that word when you’re working. Because the moment you say it, everything turns to shit.”

She slowly, almost warily, lowered her hand. Draco smirked. “That wasn’t in the training lecture,” he said.

Hannah shot him a look. Draco rolled his eyes and went back to shelving the glasses in companionable silence.

He’d decided he liked Hannah. There was a bite beneath that sweet exterior that often surprised him — it reminded him a little of Pansy Parkinson. But only a tiny bit. Most of the time, she was exactly what you’d expect from a Hufflepuff prefect: kind, caring, maternal, even. But like Rosa, she didn’t tolerate nonsense, and she didn’t suffer fools. Watching her and Theo banter had quickly become one of his favourite pastimes.

As he returned the tray to the kitchen, Hannah went to check on the customers at the tables.

Draco greeted Junior and received a grunt in reply as standard. Junior was focused on the Quidditch match playing over the radio. Draco had learned quickly that it was best to leave him to it. Even asking about the score could lead to a string of swearing and, potentially, a saucepan lid flying in your direction.

The bell above the entrance chimed, and Draco stepped back out to the bar, smoothing down his apron and pulling on his customer service smile.

A figure hovered at the entrance — hood up, cloak damp from the mist outside. She pushed back her hood to reveal a fairly plain-looking witch: brown ringlets, brown eyes, skin pale with shadows under her eyes. Her expression was hard-set and grim.

Draco added a bit of charm to his smile, thinking maybe she'd had a rough day and would appreciate a friendly face. (Because he could absolutely be charming if he chose — he'd grown up attending galas and balls, and the social grace he'd learned there was surprisingly useful behind a bar, even with the customers who didn't immediately trust him—which was almost all of them.)

The witch locked eyes on him and walked straight to the bar.

“What can I get you?” he asked pleasantly.

The wand came up so fast he barely registered it — aimed directly at his face.

The room condensed to the tip of the witches wand. 

All the sounds — clinking glasses, quiet conversation — dropped into piercing silence. The lights were suddenly too bright, too hot.

Draco raised his hands instinctively, then froze. For a split second, his fingers twitched for his own wand — then the Ministry’s restrictions ran through his mind like a list written in fire.

Nothing offensive.

Nothing defensive.

Not even a bloody shield charm.

He tried to think. Maybe something to distract her. Maybe— His thoughts stuttered uselessly over the lack of options, grasping for spells he wasn’t allowed to use.

He didn’t know what to do.

 He took a slow breath. Sweat prickled on his brow. He tried to glance toward Hannah — had she seen? Had anyone? But he couldn’t risk turning his head.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. I can’t… I can’t do anything. She’s going to kill me…

His body ran cold with dread in a way he didn't think he'd ever felt before. It hit so hard his vision blurred for a moment, ears ringing with the pounding of his blood.

I can't do anything…

“You don’t even know the name, do you?” The witch hissed. Her voice was steady, practised — like she’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Hopefully it would be a long enough speech that someone would notice and do something…

“Jamie Crowe. My love — the sweetest man I’ve ever known. The father of my child.” She brushed a hand over her stomach reflexively, any bump hidden by her cloak. “He died because of you. Because of yours.”

Jamie Crowe.

The name meant nothing. But the guilt — immediate and marrow-deep — cut like a blade.

He swallowed. Opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

I’m sorry.

He wanted to say it. But the words caught in his throat.

 It wouldn’t be enough anyway.  Not for her.  Not with that look in her eyes.

He swore his left forearm burned — as if the faded mark resented his shame, his self-loathing, his desire to offer apologies. His fingers twitched and her eyes followed the movement. Tracked the mark visible on his arm where his shirt sleeve was rolled up. Her lip curled.

Draco saw his window — half a second, maybe — her attention drifting, just enough to strike.

But then her gaze snapped back to his.

He felt it like a blade in his gut.

He didn’t dare move.

Didn’t breathe

The last time he’d had a wand in his face, it had been Bellatrix — Voldemort watching silently behind her, eyes unreadable. She’d screamed at him, threatened him, demanded he prove his loyalty. He’d met her eyes, cool and defiant — or so he liked to believe. He’d stood his ground because there had been no other choice. Because to flinch then would’ve meant worse. Because he'd figured out how to survive those moments. 

But this was different. This wasn’t a madwoman bent on power. This was someone who had lost. And Draco felt the weight of her grief pressed on him, as a darker, quieter thought slid through his mind: she wasn’t wrong to want this. She'd been hurt beyond his understanding and she deserved something.

Slowly, he lowered his hands to the bar.

Lifted his chin.

His back straightened.

Fine. If I’m going to die, I’m not going to be a fucking coward about it. I stared down Bellatrix Lestrange. I defied the Dark Lord. Fuck everything. He thought of Lydia, imagined her being proud of him for not just lashing out. And then his heart broke to think of her heartbreaking. He remembered her screaming for him when he was arrested. I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you.

The pub was dead silent behind her. Had everyone noticed now? Would Rosa be furious about having to scrub blood off her walls and floor? He hoped Hannah wouldn’t have to clean it up.

Movement — just at the edge of his vision.

Hannah. Her golden hair catching the light.

Calm. Careful. Closing the distance slowly.

Draco held the witch’s gaze. Willing her not to notice.

“You stand there,” she spat, “smiling, charming customers, serving pints like it’s nothing—”

He thought there’d be more. It hadn’t felt like the witch was finished talking. It felt like there should have been a conjunction, a ‘,but’ or ‘and’, more about her suffering or her anger.

He wasn’t ready.

Her wand twitched. 

The spell crackled at the tip — bright and sharp.

Hannah moved first, shoving the attacker just as the spell shot forward. Draco ducked without thinking, his hands instinctively covering his head. He might have let out a shout. 

Warm air whooshed over him before the world shattered. Bottles exploded above him in a crash of glass, wine, and firewhisky. Shards rained down, slicing at his skin, spraying across the bar. Alcohol soaked into his shirt, making the cuts sting. He heard Hannah swear, a scuffle and stumbling. Customers screamed—some diving to the floor, others bolting for the door.

Someone—Rosa—shouted a Stunning Spell from across the room, and there was a dull thud. A wand spun across the floor.

For a second, all that remained was the sound of broken glass and alcohol still pattering from the shelves. Then Junior burst from the kitchen, wielding a frying pan and a butcher’s knife. Rosa snapped at him to lock the doors and call the Aurors.

Draco straightened slowly, heart hammering against his ribs, and sent a small shower of broken glass tumbling from his clothes. He felt a few pieces slip down the back of his collar and, without thinking, tugged his shirt loose at the back to shake them out. A cascade of cold prickles against his spine as they fell.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  

His breath came fast, sharp, like he couldn’t fill his lungs. The weight of the moment pressed in on him, his body twitching from the adrenaline. His eyes stung. He tried to steady himself, trying to slow each breath, taking in the scene—the destruction behind the bar, the witch frozen on the floor at Hannah’s feet. Hannah, breathing a little too fast, eyes wide. Customers slowly getting to their feet too, Rosa still standing across the room with her wand out.

The bar was a wreck. Shattered glass glittered in the flickering light of the lamps and fire. Tiny shards spread as far as the second row of tables. In the stunned silence, Draco wondered rather numbly, if it was easier to clean up alcohol or brain matter.

His hands and arms were bleeding. Mostly shallow cuts, already seeping red over his knuckles and the back of his hands, blood dripping down his fingers.  A deeper gash in his right forearm stung and he realised there was a shard of glass lodged in it. It made his stomach twist, made nausea rise in his throat to see it sticking out like that. 

Get it out. Get it out get it out get it out . 

He knew he shouldn’t, something Lydia had said once, but he couldn’t bear it. He grabbed the shard, biting back a hiss as he yanked it, pain shooting through him. He dropped it to the floor. He grabbed the cloth still balanced on his shoulder and pressed it to the wound, clenching his jaw against the searing ache that felt bone deep.

He shivered, goosebumps rising across his skin. He was suddenly cold, exhaustion seeping in like a deep, aching bruise. He tensed against the instinct to shiver, to wince, to shake. It was all too familiar—everything pressing in, his chest heavy, thoughts swirling.

It helped to lean on the bar, to feel something solid. But what he really wanted was to sink to the floor and curl in on himself.

He’d felt like this before. After cursing Katie Bell. After failing to kill Dumbledore. When he thought Lydia had died during the battle. Again, after his release from the Ministry holding cell—collapsed in the guest room at Lydia’s house. The mattress had been too soft. In the end, he’d slept on the floor, curled in the farthest corner from the door.

Sometimes, even now, if Lydia didn’t sleep in his room, he still slept on the floor. She didn’t know.

“You alright?” Hannah’s voice pulled his gaze up.

He nodded—too fast, too automatic.

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely, flicking his eyes toward the stunned witch on the floor. He thought he saw tears tracking down her cheek. His gaze didn’t linger. 

“Yeh.” Hannah shrugged, breath still unsteady. Carefully Draco extricated himself from the sea of broken glass behind the bar. As he came round, Hannah glanced at his arm. “She’ll be pissed you did that. It'll bleed more now.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. Breathing took most of his focus. Stay calm. You’re safe. The door’s locked. The Aurors are coming.

That last thought wasn’t comforting. Not after the last time the Aurors arrived.

Shit .

Then Rosa was there, fussing over him, already assessing the damage.

“I can deal with most of this, fix this shirt, but this gash needs a healer,” she said, raising her voice. “Junior, call Pomfrey—”

“No! It’s fine. I can handle it.” He jerked back too quickly, out of her reach. Pomfrey would tell Lydia. Worse—she might bring Lydia. She didn’t need to see him like this. She didn’t need to worry. Not again. Not like last year.

“Draco…” Hannah began.

“I can do it,” he snapped, reaching for his wand. Hannah only sighed and stepped closer, putting a steady hand over his.

He didn’t know why he let her do that. His fingers stayed tight around the wand.

“No—you can’t,” she reminded him, quiet but firm. Healing spells weren’t on the list of spells he was cleared to use behind the bar.

Fuck. FUCK.

He blinked hard to clear the sting behind his eyes. Bit his lip to keep it from trembling. Swallowed the roar of helplessness rising in his throat. Took a deep breath.

Rosa took a step back. Her face wary. He tried not to notice.

Hannah must have seen something in his expression. Her voice softened—gentle, the way she usually spoke to Lydia.

“It’s fine. I can manage a few Episkies, okay?” She gave him a small smile, her hand warm against the back of his.

Draco hated it. Hated that she was managing him like he was a potion about to curdle. Hated that she was right. That he did need managing.

Pull yourself together.

“You’re safe. The door’s locked.” She moved slowly, standing between him and the door, him and the witch on the floor. She kept her wand low and non-threatening as she drew it from her apron. Gently, she steadied him with a hand on his shoulder and eased him onto a bar stool.

He looked away, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. But he didn’t fight her. 

He let her cast the healing spells.

He trusted Hannah. That’s why he let her.

And he couldn’t let Lydia be the one to patch him up again. Not this time.

It had to be Hannah. Even if her spells weren’t as cool or soothing. Even if she didn’t weave pain relief into her magic like Lydia did. Even if it wasn't as clean a result as Lydia would have achieved.

His heart was still pounding, blood rushing in his ears.

The witch on the floor lay still, stunned.

But in Draco’s mind, one name pulsed over and over:

Jamie Crowe. Jamie Crowe. Jamie Crowe.

It didn't mean anything! He didn't know that name. It shouldn't matter!

He wiped his mouth with the back of his wand hand and found more blood. He could taste it. And his hand was trembling slightly. He closed his fist.

Shit .

Someone just tried to kill me…

It wasn’t like the other times. Before, he’d always seen it coming—Potter, Bellatrix, Voldemort. The battle. The holding cells.

This had come from nowhere.

No warning. No tension. Just laughter. A quiet evening. Familiar faces.

He’d let himself believe it was safe. That the worst had already happened. That maybe he was earning a little peace.

So he’d let his guard down.

Draco began silently reciting every ward and locking charm he placed on his bedroom door at night. It helped sometimes. Steadied his thoughts. Slowed his heart.

He could trust Hannah.

Lydia would trust Hannah.

Hannah had helped Lydia with her testimony. Had helped keep him out of Azkaban. Had got him this job.

I can trust Hannah , he repeated, again and again, as her wand moved carefully over his skin. 

His arm throbbed — a dull, hot ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat — and the skin beneath the towel was sticky with blood. The cold was catching up with him again, it pressed into his bones. His fingers were trembling. He clenched them tighter around the edge of the bar, trying not to let it show.

The floo flashed and an Auror stepped out in a gust of green flame, brushing soot off his sleeves with the weary disdain of a man who already thought he was wasting his time. He was older — maybe late thirties — hard-faced, with the kind of eyes that measured everyone in the room and found them wanting. His gaze landed on Draco immediately. For a second, something flickered there — recognition, contempt, something colder than professionalism — before he turned to Rosa who had crossed the room to him.

And then the floo fired again and a familiar face stepped out beneath a shock of voluminous orange hair. Even slicked back with so much gel it tipped towards dark orange, that hair was unmistakable. And Salazar, Ron Weasley looked like he was trying far too hard to carry that stick the DMLE had evidently shoved up his arse. All straight backed, chin lifted, hands closed behind his back in a show of casual observation that held far too much judgement. 

He wore the same contemptuous look as his partner.

"Call said there was an assault," the older auror said crisply, pulling a battered notebook from his robes. Weasley was still glaring at Malfoy, stiff and trying to put on officious airs that did not suit his stupid freckled face  "Victim?" His partner asked.

Rosa nodded toward Draco by the bar, where he was still pressing a bloodied towel to his arm. That would need proper healing, he knew. He could see if Pomfrey was in the hospital wing tonight, or one of the healers assistants. 

The Auror’s eyes narrowed slightly. Ron did not do a good job of hiding his disbelief.

"Victim," Weasley repeated, as if tasting the word and not liking the flavour. “He works here?”

Rosa shot Ron an arched eyebrow, and Ron pressed his lips together grimly. The older auror looked Draco over, clearly recognising him, clearly already having made his mind up about disliking him. Draco swallowed and tried to find some mask of composure.

“Cadet,” the Auror snapped, still not looking away from Draco — as though expecting him to bolt. Or attack. He gestured vaguely toward the patrons Rosa had locked down with complimentary drinks. “Witness statements. Now. Before they’re too inebriated.”

“Yes, sir.”

Weasley turned at once, retrieving a notepad and pen from the deep pockets of his robes.

The older auror looked Draco up and down again, and then crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, the stunned attacker still crumpled on the floor between them. Hannah moved instinctively to Draco’s side, steady and seemingly placid, as ever.

Draco didn’t bother standing. He didn’t trust his legs to feel steady enough — and besides, there was something satisfying about staying seated, about forcing the Auror to look down on him and know he didn’t care.

"Name?" the Auror asked sharply, quill already scratching. A fucking joke. The Auror has obviously recognised him the moment he stepped out of the floo.

"Draco Malfoy." Draco answered, his tone clipped. The Auror's lip twitched. Not a smile.More like a muscle reflex he couldn't quite control.

“And you work here?” The Auror asked thickly, disbelief evident in his tone. 

“Yes. If you'd like to see the paperwork I can provide you with copies.”

“I'd consider that a necessity for someone like you.”

“I'll send them by owl in the morning.” Draco nodded. 

“No, you'll produce them now or I'll be hauling you in. You're supposed to be on probation at Hogwarts. I'm not aware of any permissions for the only death eater not in Azkaban to be larking around in a pub.” The Auror snapped out. 

Shit.

“I don't have them here… they're back at the school.” Draco frowned.

Something like glee flashed in the Auror’s eyes. 

“I have copies.” Rosa volunteered and with a quick flick of her wand, summoned a small stream of papers that flowed put from the kitchen, and probably came from her small office beyond. The Auror sucked his teeth, and glanced over the papers before dismissing then into a pocket of his robes.

Across the room, Ron kept glancing at him, somehow increasing levels of disbelief on his face. Clearly the regulars were telling him about the fact Draco had been working here for over a month and doing a fair job of it. He hoped they wouldn't mention that one idiot he'd accidentally—mostly— elbowed when he'd come up a bit close to him while clearing tables. And the plates and glasses he'd thrown up in the air in surprise—mostly—which had broken partly on the guy's head… 

"And what precisely did you do to provoke the attack?” The question was casual. Practised. Designed to sound like a procedure — but the weight behind it was heavy enough to crack ribs.

Draco felt Hannah stiffen beside him. A few steps behind the Auror, Rosa made a noise low in her throat.

He exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring and kept his voice even.

"Nothing. I asked what they wanted to drink."

The Auror made a small, sceptical sound, as if that were highly unlikely.

"And then?”

Draco took an irritated deep breath. "They pulled a wand on me. Said something about a man called Jamie Crowe and then her wand flared and Hannah pushed them as they cast a bombarda spell. I ducked. The bottles exploded.” Draco explained matter of factly, gesturing to the mess. 

The Auror’s eyes flicked to the shattered remains of the bottle shelves.

“Have you met your alleged attacker before?”

“No.”

"And you expect me to believe you didn’t antagonise them?”

Internally, Draco rolled his eyes, and sighed. Because he suddenly understood that this Auror was not going to be helping him in any way. It was like being back in the holding cells where the guards hadn't given a crap about any time he'd had the shit beaten out of him, or his food stolen. 

Rosa snapped a hand down on the bar as she stepped closer to the Auror, hard enough to make the Auror flinch.

"You listen here," she said fiercely. "I've been running this pub since before you could spell 'Auror'. I don't have brawls. I don't have fights. Malfoy's a pain in the arse, and he's got a bad legacy to go with that name, sure. But he jumped through every hoop the ministry put in his way to get this job and he’s been nothing but professional since he started. I expect my employees to be respected by our customers and this boy was attacked. "

Draco shifted his weight, then slowly rose from the bar stool, spine straightening one vertebra at a time. His limbs felt heavy, like chains instead of bones. But he stood tall. He would stand tall. Whatever came next, he'd meet it on his feet. Hannah stood beside him. Rosa was sticking up for him. He could stand.

"Appreciate the character reference," the Auror said coolly. He turned back to Draco.

"Fine.” He sighed, and raised an eyebrow at Hannah. “You pushed her?” 

“She had her wand at my friend's throat.” Hannah asserted. “I was just stopping her from killing him.”

“Hmmm,” the Auror responded, but Draco translated it to mean that's a shame.

He finally glanced at the witch on the floor, and then back to Draco. “And who stunned her?”

“I did.” Rosa said, Arms crossed, a face like thunder. “Like I said, I don't accept no fights, no brawls and absolutely no disrespect or harm to my staff in my pub.”

The Auror looked them all over, suspicion evident on his face. 

“Cadet!” the Auror barked.

Weasley’s head popped up from where he was bent over his notebook. He jogged over.

“Sir?”

“These folks say the woman came in and attacked Draco Malfoy here, unprovoked — that he didn’t even raise his wand.”

Draco bristled. Bit his tongue. Beside him, Hannah laid a steadying hand on his left forearm, soothing the burning in the dark mark.

The Auror kept speaking, but his eyes stayed locked on Draco, hawk-like. Daring him to interrupt. To flinch.

“What are the patrons saying?”

Ron’s jaw clenched. He seemed to have to force the words out.

“The same, sir. That the witch came out of nowhere. All of them corroborated the story.”

“Surprised you know what corroborate means, Weasel,” Draco muttered before he could stop himself.

The Auror’s and Wesley’s eyes snapped to him, then to each other.

Shit .

“Are you disrespecting an Auror, son?”

Son.

Draco’s ears burned. That word seared something raw in him.

He wasn’t anyone’s son.

It had made his skin crawl even when Max Hargrove had said it kindly at King’s Cross in September. And now this bastard—

No. Fuck you. Fuck him. Fuck every man who ever—

Draco drew a slow, steadying breath.

“No.” His back straightened, gaze locked with the Auror’s.

He didn’t add sir.

Instead, he tilted his head just slightly, glanced sidelong at Weasley, his mouth already moving before caution could stop it.

“Weasley and I are old school friends. Just a bit of friendly banter. Right, Ronald?” He smiled, all teeth and trouble. Knew it was risky. Knew he was being a total idiot.

Ron flinched at the use of his first name but recovered quickly. 

“Ha! You’ve gone mad if you ever thought we were friends, Malfoy. Did you knock your head when you cowered behind the bar?”

Draco’s jaw tightened it was a miracle he didn't crack a tooth. His eyes narrowed. But it was Ron’s turn to look him over, and something shifted — something that made Draco’s gut twist.

Ron wasn’t just Potter’s sidekick anymore. Not just some Gryffindor annoyance.

He was an Auror now.

One of them .

Someone who could press a wand to Draco’s back and call it justice.

Who could drag him in on a whisper, twist his silence into guilt, lock him up for “resisting questioning.”

And the world wouldn’t blink. They’d cheer.

An Auror didn’t need truth.

A bad night and a worse Auror — that’s all it would take.

They could slap him with charges like hexes: obstructing an investigation, resisting arrest, threatening an officer.

Didn’t even need it to stick.

The holding cell would be punishment enough with the right cellmates—he could be dead by morning and it would be branded a not-so-unfortunate accident.

Draco stayed very still. Held his tongue. Maybe he hadn’t earned forgiveness. Maybe he never would. But he was damned if he’d let them write the ending for him.

Beside him, Hannah’s fingers pressed tighter on his arm — a warning.

His hand flexed. Not quite a fist. Not quite a response. Just something to stop him reaching back, holding on too.

As long as he kept witnesses and kept his cool, he was probably safe.

Probably.

The Auror stepped closer, toe to toe now. Cheap, vinegar-y cologne swirled around them. Draco noticed, fleetingly, that he had half an inch of height on the man. Petty, but satisfying.

The Auror looked him over with a sneer that ignored the difference. His voice dropped low. Threatening. Draco felt it rumble through him like thunder.

“I remember dragging you out of Hogwarts back in June, boy.”

The words cracked like lightning in Draco’s chest. His breath hitched. 

“And oh, I would love to take you back to London. Put you in Azkaban where you belong. Just give me a reason, Malfoy…”

Draco did not move. Didn’t blink. Every muscle locked.

He held the man’s stare — not defiant. Not submissive. Just still.

Unsatisfied by Draco’s lack of reaction, the Auror’s gaze flicked to Hannah, to where she still held Draco’s arm. His mouth twitched — not quite a smile. Something crueler. 

“You had a blonde clutching your arm then too,” he sneered.

Lydia. 

Draco's fist was already closing. So many muscles tightening, ready to fight. 

“I remember her screaming for you as we dragged you away. It was quite the show, right, Cadet?”

Draco's breathing was becoming harder to control. His nostrils flaring. His jaw tightened, hard enough to ache. He could still hear her—screaming for him, calling his name through grabbing hands and panic and the sting of a slap across his face.

Ron offered his mentor an awkward grimace, as if he actually didn’t like the way the conversation had turned but wasn’t going to speak up about it. “I wasn’t there,” he mumbled, gaze drifting to the chaos behind the bar. 

“Shame. Hard to forget,” the Auror said, and the look on his face made Draco’s stomach twist and burn — not just a sneer. A leer. Full of insinuation. It made him feel ill. Dirty. Powerless. “Pretty thing, she was. Soft in all the right places when I had my hands on her…”

Hannah was the one who lunged forward. Draco caught her, yanking her back hard — well back — placing himself squarely between them. He didn’t even think—just moved, arm out, shielding her, pushing her back against the bar. It meant turning his back on the bastard, but keeping Hannah from doing something reckless, from making everything worse was more pressing. 

“That’s my best friend you're talking about!” Hannah shouted over the arm he was holding her back with, her finger stabbing the air, jumping as if she might try to climb over him. 

“Hannah, shut up. Shut up!” Draco hissed desperately, pulling her closer against his side, against his chest. Ignoring the way pain bloomed in his arm as he pressed it around her. He tried to make her still. Rosa had moved too, stepping close like she was ready to intervene, to catch Hannah if she got past Draco. 

“But he…”

Draco turned his head to her, jaw tight, voice low against her ear, her hair ghosting over his lips, filling his nose with the scent of coconut. “Please,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut momentarily. Trying to make her see . The danger. The balance they were all teetering on. The noose this bastard was stringing up for him. They couldn’t react. He couldn’t react. 

Hannah winced but stopped straining against his grip, pushed herself back a half step. She took a long moment to cool her anger, glaring at him but not angry at him. Her nostrils flared, shoulders rising and falling with her breath before she turned her glower to the Auror. 

“Good choice, young lady.” The Auror said behind him, and Hannah flinched as if she would lunge again, fire in her eyes but her feet stayed where they were. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, her anger snapping to Ron. Weasley flinched out of his confused expression, as if he didn’t fully understand the dynamics— Draco hauling Hannah back

Slowly, still keeping an eye on Hannah, watching for any sudden movement, Draco turned back, keeping Rosa partially between them and the Auror. He didn't trust the Auror, didn't trust the Weasel. If they were going to haul him off he was going to see it coming. But there wasn’t enough reaction — not from Draco, not from Hannah — and the Auror seemed to grow bored.

 “Well, I suppose we'll take this alleged culprit and be out of your way…” The man was saying as he cast a glance over the witch on the floor, and silently summoned the stray wand from near her feet. He turned back to them. “Just as soon as we have everyone’s witness statements and the three of you surrender your wands.”

“What?!” Rosa and Hannah demanded at once. Draco felt something in his body deflate. Of course. 

“So as to ascertain exactly who cast what. The wands must be surrendered. You can collect them from the DMLE the day after tomorrow at the earliest.” The auror explained, with narrowed eyes and a smug tilt of his chin.

“But they're students. They can't just leave Hogwarts to collect wands from London.” Rosa protested. 

“I assume they are both of legal age or they wouldn't be working in your pub, therefore they are free to travel where they wish.” The Auror said offhand. 

“He's not, is he? Because of his probation.” Rosa pointed out, clearly frustrated on his behalf. Draco tried not to wince. 

“It's protocol.” Ron answered matter of factly, a little weakly.

“In situations like this.” The auror added.

Draco felt the auror’s eyes flick to him, insinuating he was the situation, that he suspected the entire fucking pub was covering for him. But Draco was watching Weasley. Salazar, he wanted to say something. To tear him off that smug perch. It wouldn’t take much — something about Granger, maybe. What the hell did Granger see in this pencil-pusher with his smug mouth and slicked-back hair…

Suddenly, the Floo flared green and Professor McGonagall stepped out, briskly brushing ash from her sleeves. She entered the room with the studied calm of someone pretending not to notice the tension crackling in the air. Then she paused as if surprised, eyes sweeping the scene.

“Ah,” she said, lips pressing into a thinner line. “It seems I am not to enjoy my Wednesday evening tipple in peace after all.”

Draco felt something ease in his chest — not relief exactly, but a loosening of the knot that had taken up residence there. McGonagall had never liked him much. She’d always favoured her Gryffindor golden boys — or so he’d assumed. And one was standing right here, having assumed that casual show of judgement again, hands behind his back, oily fucking hair. But she’d agreed to his working here without much fuss, and they’d exchanged polite words on more than a few of her midweek visits.

And surely, surely she wouldn’t let them take his and Hannah’s wands. Not when it would mean missing classes. Would she?

As it turned out, no — she would not.

McGonagall wielded a kind of quiet authority that came from having seen generations of witches and wizards pass through Hogwarts’ halls — including, it seemed, this bastard of an Auror. With barely a raised voice, she arranged for the wands to be secured in her office overnight to be tested first thing in the morning, circumnavigating the so-called protocols without breaking the rules. It meant the Weasel would have to stand guard outside her office all night, but only one missed class each for Draco and Hannah. 

She barely acknowledged the witch on the floor and didn’t suggest she knew her, but her silence on the subject weighed strangely on Draco. 

Everyone gave written statements — stiff parchment, scratchy quills, questions that were more pointed than polite. Draco kept his answers short. He knew better than to elaborate. Hannah’s handwriting was sharp with anger. Rosa’s, slightly messy but forceful, like she’d scrawled it the same way she told off a rowdy patron. Junior’s was brief and barely legible. But then, he hadn’t seen anything of note, and they weren’t interested in more character references.

When it was finally done, they were permitted to leave. Hannah had hesitated, looking over the mess, offering to help tidy up. But Rosa insisted, ushered them after McGonagall. Draco was glad McGonagall let them floo back to her office, he hadn't fancied walking back in the dark. 

***

Lydia paced. Back and forth, back and forth — a pendulum wound too tight. Her boots made soft thuds against the rug, her fingers twisting at the ends of her sleeves. Theo watched from the sofa, stretched out with his head tipped lazily against one armrest, letting her movement fill the space like static. 

It had been a cosy sort of evening in the common room; a little studying — yes, he'd actually done some of his own work— and then reading together. Hannah had dared him to read a Muggle fiction book, and Lydia was reading it with him. They’d sat on the sofa, cosy and easy. Like it always was, when it was just the two of them. Safe.

Northern Lights — he hadn’t expected much, but it was sharp and strange in ways he liked. The concept of daemons had unsettled him at first. Too exposed. Too personal. A creature that knew you completely and stayed with you, always. That everyone else could see. It was unnerving. And oddly comforting. He hadn’t said any of that out loud, of course. Lydia would see too much in it.

He’d wondered, vaguely, if a daemon was like a Patronus. A magical echo of the self, pulled from something deep. Lydia had her wolf, of course. She’d been off hand when she'd told him, but he'd seen that proud little tilt of her chin and the way her eyes flared with something predatory, as if daring him to doubt it. He didn't. Of course, Lydia’s patronus was a wolf— loyal, relentless, sharp-eyed. The kind that stayed with the wounded, then tore the throat out of anything that tried to finish them off. Hannah’s would probably be something deceptively soft and cute, he supposed. Fluffy. But with teeth. Sharp ones. Maybe a bear. Or a Red Panda.

As for him — well, he couldn’t say he’d ever tried. Not properly. Neither had Draco, not that either of them admitted it. You had to have happy memories for a patronus, and well… But if Draco did manage one, it would probably be a dragon. Just to be disgustingly on the nose, given his name. Or maybe a peacock, because he was a dramatic, angsty little bitch sometimes. 

Theo had no idea what his Patronus would be. Wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. Still, he caught himself wondering as they’d been reading. And maybe — not now, obviously, but sometime in the future — maybe he’d ask Lydia to teach him how to cast a patronus. Just for fun. 

Regardless, the day had been one of those rare periods where his senses had settled. Something still thrumming low in the background — like the feeling you’d forgotten something important — but more than manageable. Ignorable, even.

He’d been at breakfast, having just been ejected from the bed of a particularly curious Ravenclaw. A true shame — especially when you were in bed with someone interesting . And Ravenclaws were nothing if not fascinating: so eager to acquire knowledge in all its forms, including the more... practical applications. Theo didn’t mind being a test subject. Quite enjoyed it, in fact. And while he might have nothing to compare it to, he was fairly certain that having your senses turned all the way up made the experience all the more exquisite. (The literal, only benefit for his overwhelming experience of life.)

And afterwards, things tended to go quiet for a bit. That lull was a blessing.

So there he was at breakfast, Draco barely pausing long enough to grab toast between Quidditch practice and his post-shower dash to class, when Lydia had leaned over from the adjacent Hufflepuff table — to Pansy’s visible horror — and asked if he fancied a flight over the grounds that evening, or a walk, while Draco and Hannah were working. He’d bargained her down to reading in the common room, obviously. ( Because Theo inevitably got airsick thanks to the stomach-dropping, wind-buffeting, goggles-sucking-your-eyes-out, white-knuckle-bone-grinding-grip sensations of broom flight. And he liked Lydia, but not enough to brave the late November cold simply to walk nowhere. )

As Pansy and Lydia’s sniping carried on — something sharp and barbed about loitering where you didn’t belong — Theo had taken a sip of his usual milky coffee, one sugar, and realised it wasn’t as bitter and sweet as normal. And, Merlin’s balls, far too creamy. It tasted like milk, hot water and disappointment had scalded his mouth — bland and thin. Heartbreaking, honestly. Yes—the chatter wasn’t echoing around the great hall so loudly, the scrape of cutlery wasn’t carving into his bones and making his eyes see rainbows, the salty smell of bacon wasn’t drying his throat out. But that mug of coffee was often the only thing standing between him and absolute ruin. Its consistency was sacred. Without it, the day would tilt sideways in that quiet, insidious way other people didn’t seem to notice.

With a curt warning to Pansy — just her name, and a look — he’d reached across the table and made another mug. Stronger coffee, barely a splash of milk, three sugars. It wasn’t perfect, but it was just about passable. The whole debacle had almost made him miss the chaos of his usual sensory overload. Almost.

Thankfully, the rest of the day had drifted by fairly pleasantly.

And then the clock passed midnight…

Lydia had stood, paced and then sat again several times since. 

Hannah and Draco should’ve been back from their shift over an hour ago, and as yet, had not materialised.

“You really don’t like it when he’s late, do you?” he asked eventually — his tone mild, almost idle, as if he didn't feel a stone of worry grinding in his gut too. As if nonchalance were a blanket he was lounging beneath which would keep out the chill of concern whispering against the hairs on his neck.

She didn’t stop. Just shoved a hand through her hair — the darker strands catching in the firelight, ends glowing gold like they had after the summer. He found it a little fascinating the way Lydia’s hair had darkened with the winter. As if without the warmth and light of summer, something in her dulled and hardened a little. 

“Bad things happen when he isn’t where I expect him to be,” she muttered. Then, more bitterly animated:  “You know, like snatchers raiding the DA and him running off to Voldemort.”

Theo shifted, unfolding himself from the cushions. She’d sat too close earlier — pressed briefly against his leg, squashing it slightly where he sprawled on the sofa — and then pulled away again. He wasn’t sure if it had been on purpose. Probably not, she was quite distracted. Still, he adjusted as she approached again, crossing his legs beneath him just in time for her to flop down.

“It’d give you a complex too,” she said, her voice quieter now, heavy with resignation.

He didn’t answer straight away. Just let the fire do the talking — warm and crackling in the quiet. Her jaw was tight and her foot tapped against the rug — too fast, too sharp. Her hand was clenched in her lap. He didn't know why, but Theo felt a sensation like knots in his stomach to see her so worked up. The sort of feeling that suggested comforting action was required. 

Without thinking, he slid an arm across her shoulders and pulled her into his side. Lydia didn’t resist.

He said her name — just her name — a quiet sigh into her hair. He wanted it to be enough. 

“The war’s over,” he added softly. “They’re probably just caught up tidying after a busy shift.”

She straightened, pulling away — her absence leaving him colder than it should have.

“It’s a Wednesday,” she snapped. “You don’t get busy shifts on Wednesdays.”

Theo let out a patient breath through his nose. Probably fair. What did he know about that sort of thing? He'd never worked nor owned a business. 

Theo did not clench his jaw. He was trying not to be worried. He’d started with jokes — late closing tabs, Rosmerta waxing poetic about licensing laws, some last-minute group demanding a three-course dinner — all the usual pub delay nonsense. But the facts sat in him like a stone. They should have been back by now.

And the thing was… he’d seen the howlers. The ones Draco kept, like a masochist’s collection. Tidy stacks of threat and venom, unsigned and untraceable, tucked away in a drawer. Silent and spent but poisonous all the same. They didn’t know who sent them, but the world was full of ghosts that wanted retribution. Or wanted to threaten it, at least.

But Lydia didn’t need that in her head right now. She was already running hot, chasing worst case scenarios through her mind. She probably knew about the howlers anyway. Chewing the inside of his lip, Theo couldn't help feeling like he just wanted to take the edge off for her— remind her that, on balance, most things were still technically fine. And it was probably nothing. Or just something small.

So he shifted, feet to the floor, nudged her shoulder gently with his own. She didn’t pull away. She leaned in again.

Good .

He reached for the book they’d abandoned earlier, holding it up like an offering.
“Maybe they ran into a panserbjørn and got delayed,” he said, trying on his most charming grin — the one that usually earned him a roll of the eyes or a reluctant smile.

Lydia gave him a flat look. Unimpressed. 

But he caught the flicker of fondness as the firelight reflected in her green eyes, and his grin softened naturally. Knowing. He opened the book to where they’d left off, slipped out the frayed red ribbon they'd been using as a bookmark. 

“Come on,” he coaxed, tapping the page,bumping his arm against her shoulder again, sidling a fraction closer. “We were just getting to the bit where the bears were about to fight. It’ll distract you for exactly… oh, eleven seconds.”

He pushed the book into her lap, and slowly, her fingers curled around it.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. Theo leaned back, their legs brushing again as he kept one hand resting lightly against her back for a long moment — grounding and incidental. Just there. Just in case she needed it. Maybe he needed it, too. 

As Lydia took a breath and began to read, Theo absently weaved and braided the silk ribbon between his fingers, savouring the way it slid over his skin like melted wax — warm, anchoring, leaving everything softer. A cooler tingle bristled over his skin in its wake, delicate as midnight mist, like water touched by starlight. It eased something deep in his chest, and left a faintly metallic and sweet taste on his tongue.

The common room door banged open a moment later.

The book was already back on the coffee table before Hannah’s voice rang out — high and bright and just a little too forced.

“Turns out Aurors are bastards.”

Lydia bolted. Theo let her go.

And then wondered — not for the first time — what had ever made him think he had a claim to her at all. Let her go? Let? Wondered, too, where that possessive thread kept building from. For Draco. For Hannah too. But after all, they were his . His friends. His people. He’d decided that. So they were. 

He didn’t follow — just heard the thump by the door, the soft impact of someone being pulled into a hug too fast. Then Draco’s voice, rough-edged and worn:

“Hey—hey. I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

Theo braced himself as he twisted to look over the back of the sofa. Whatever had kept them, it wasn’t good. One look at Draco told him that much. His shirt was peppered with tiny tears and dark flecks, his right arm had a hasty bandage on it. His posture was rigid and Theo saw the way his eyes flared over the common room, searched the shadows and catalogued the hiding spaces. He also noted the slightly mussed nature of Draco's hair…

This wasn't good at all.

“You’re late. What happened? You’re hurt!” Lydia’s voice cracked as she reached for Draco’s bandaged arm. Draco didn't flinch exactly, but seemed surprised, before irritation flickered. Hannah mumbled an apology to Draco, something about how with everything, they'd forgotten. 

“Sit. Now. Let me fix this—” Lydia insisted. And she all but dragged him toward the sofa and pushed him gently down despite Draco’s vague protests. As Theo shifted to make space, a wall of scent hit him — the sharp tang of alcohol, clinging and sour. He felt it wrap around him and seep into his clothes, turn his skin sticky. His stomach gave a small lurch. He didn’t bother hiding the discomfort.

“Mate, did you bathe in wine and Firewhisky?” he muttered, leaning away with no subtlety whatsoever, one hand half-covering his nose.

Draco shot him a dark glare — the firelight catching in his eyes and turning them hollow, bottomless. Theo resisted the urge to flinch. That would only make it worse. Better to meet the look evenly. Steady. As if nothing had changed. As if Draco was still just Draco — not a walking nerve ending. Not a boy with someone else’s shadow stitched behind his ribs.

As Lydia turned her attention to the bandage on Draco’s arm, sitting on the coffee table and deftly pulling back the wrapping, Theo slid his wand low beside the sofa and flicked a quiet Scourgify in Draco’s direction. A scratchy jolt passed through his own bones — like dragging rough wool across raw skin — but the cloying stench lifted, replaced by a soft, clean sharpness.

Draco twitched, then shot him another violent look. Something about the expression stopped Theo cold. There was a flicker — something not quite Draco, not quite safe. The scowl warped between irritation and something startled. Panic, maybe. Theo was glad he’d had the foresight to keep his wand low and out of sight. No sense inviting trouble when Draco looked like he might bite.

With an exhausted groan, Hannah climbed onto the opposite arm of the sofa. She tucked her feet behind a cushion as if to anchor herself, and hugged another to her chest. Even at the opposite end of the sofa, Theo could feel the prickly energy rolling off her — not just anger, though that was part of it. No, it was something more frantic. The way she picked at her fingers. The way her eyes seemed wider than usual, pupils blown dark.

What the hell had happened?

“It’s fine,” Draco grumbled, making a weak and futile attempt to bat Lydia away. “Everything’s fine.”

Lie. Theo could practically taste it — soft, frayed edges brushing against the back of his tongue. Like the small tears that littered Draco’s shirt. Like wool threads in his teeth.

“Fine? You could’ve been killed!” Hannah burst out.

“What?” Lydia’s head snapped up, panic flashing in her face. Her voice pitched high.

“Hannah!” Draco hissed, eyes flashing. He turned back, cupping Lydia’s face with his good hand and drawing her focus to him.

 “I’m fine,” he said again, low and firm.

But Hannah wasn’t stopping now. Her hands were flailing as she talked. “If I hadn’t shoved her over—and if you hadn’t ducked—she would’ve blown your head off! It would’ve been your brains and skull all over the bar instead of those bottles!”

“Cool,” Theo muttered, wand still at his side. He dared a quiet transfiguration to mend Draco’s shirt, glancing across the room to mask the wince as a hundred invisible needles pricked his skin. He felt the slice of Draco’s murderous scowl when he glanced back. But at least his tongue wasn’t being assaulted by the itch of frayed threads everytime he glanced at Draco's shirt anymore.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t cool, that lecherous old auror! And I can’t believe Ron was following around after him like a bloody kneazle.” Hannah went on. “They insisted on taking our wands too. They’re locked in McGonagall’s office!”

Theo saw the way Draco was holding himself so stiffly. Draco had that slightly grey-edged look—too pale, too still— that he'd worn most of the last two years. Meanwhile Hannah swung between exhaustion and anxious energy, her agitation spiking with each new detail.

Theo felt warmth creep into his cheeks. He knew there were still fractures. Slytherins were tolerated, not trusted. Certain names—like his and especially Draco’s—lingered like smoke in the corners of conversations. And despite the Ministry’s speeches and Hogwarts’ awkward house-bonding initiatives, some stains didn’t scrub clean easily.

He wasn’t naïve.

But he had started to believe that the worst was over. That the chaos had passed.

Lydia’s interview at St Mungo’s had gone well, just last week. No loaded questions about her ties to Draco, no pointed silences. She’d come back quietly relieved, her optimism guarded but genuine. As if for the first time in months, it had felt like Draco's name wasn’t the only thing people saw when they looked at her — and Theo had let himself believe that maybe things were shifting. 

Beside that, his father was in Azkaban. He wasn’t going back to the lonely horror of Nott Manor for Christmas for the first time in his life. He had stepped away from everything that came before. 

He’d made friends. Let himself care. And his senses hadn’t been quite such a chaotic storm for the last couple of weeks, things had felt… settled. 

But now Hannah was trembling as she recounted the night, the injustice she'd seen and experienced, and Draco was pale and bloodied and silent. The gash on his arm was sharp, with clean lines but messy with dried blood and still oozing. 

“You pulled something out of this,” Lydia observed, not quite an accusation. Draco didn't respond in anyway Theo could ascertain, but apparently that was enough confirmation for Lydia. “Glass, I'm guessing?” Lydia asked. Another silent response. Lydia sighed. “Well… at least it would have been mostly sterile from the alcohol.”

 Theo’s own hands were curled into fists before he realised it—fingers tight, nails digging half-moons into his palms. His chest felt hollowed out, his throat dry. A prickle crawled up his spine, cold and sharp. Maybe he’d been a fool.

Maybe he felt a sting of something in his legs, urging him to walk away. Maybe, for a breath, he regretted it—sitting here with them, this friendship endeavour. Not deeply. Not truthfully. Just that flash of instinct that still whispered when fear surged in—his father’s voice flashing up from some corner of memory, all disdain and certainty, sharp as glass: “Caring makes you weak. It makes you stupid. You want to survive, you keep your heart out of it. Look what it got your mother.”

But Theo dismissed it. Because even in that fear, something protective had already caught alight behind his ribs—hot, quiet, dangerous. His fists hadn’t clenched to guard himself. But to defend.

Lydia’s wand hand steadied as she leaned in, whispering the incantation under her breath. The light that bloomed from the tip wasn’t the harsh white of standard healing charms—it was softer, cooler. A pale, silvery blue to Theo's eye. The kind of blue you’d find on the inside of a shell, or just before dawn. It hummed, low and even, the way glass might if it were struck by a fingertip and allowed to sing.

Theo felt it like cool water lapping at the inside of his ribs. The buzzing in the air dulled. The static pressure in his skull eased. Something low-level and jagged inside him simply… unwound. Her magic didn’t shove. It didn’t clamp down. It never scraped or scorched like most charms—even the good ones. This one swept across the room with a quiet sort of certainty. Balanced. Measured. Kind.

Theo’s fingers stopped twitching against the cushion. He took a breath and tasted something faintly like salt and eucalyptus. Clean. Clarifying, but in a way that cleared space instead of crowding it. He watched Draco exhale, the tension in his shoulders finally releasing. Theo let his own breath out, slow and even, like something inside him had been realigned without anyone noticing. Across from him, Hannah slumped a little, her frantic edges dulling. Draco’s eyes slipped shut briefly.

Then it was quieter. Not silent. But quieter in the way that mattered in that moment. 

Theo wondered if anyone else noticed— how Lydia’s magic did more than close wounds. How it seemed to settle the air itself. He wondered if all healing charms did that. He’d never noticed it from anyone else but it wasn't like he spent much time in the hospital wing. 

“Better?” Lydia asked, voice softer than before. As if she didn’t quite believe it—didn’t trust her own skill, or Draco’s insistence that he was fine.

Draco lifted his arm, twisted it, flexed his fingers. He nodded. 

“Perfect. Thank you.” Draco glanced toward the dormitory corridor. “It’s late. I need to sleep.” He stood, a little too quickly, smoothing his trousers. “Well. Goodnight,” he said, stiff and awkward, a hand reaching up to scrub over the back of his neck. But there was something tight in his voice. Theo felt it like a pulled rubber band—it caught him off guard. Draco didn’t dismiss Lydia. Not ever. Not like that.

And then Hannah Abbot jumped down from the arm of the sofa, thoughtlessly abandoning the cushion she'd been hugging, and wrapped Draco Malfoy into her arms. Her arms around his chest, her face crushed into his arm where she’d pinned it to his body.

Theo saw it in the line of Draco’s back: the way it locked. Like he didn’t know what to do with kindness in physical form right now. Like it might snap his ribs if he let it in. Draco's eyes skirted the room for an exit.

It simply wouldn’t do.

“Alright, scoot over,” Theo said breezily, already moving before he fully registered it, before Draco could bolt. Standing, he slid an arm around both of them. “This is clearly a group hug situation.”

Lydia blinked—startled—but then smiled, all soft edges as Theo reached over to haul her up from the coffee table and fold her in too. Her head found Draco’s chest, and her arms wrapped around Theo and Hannah’s waists.  

Theo had initiated plenty of hugs in his time—usually half-mocking, or part of some joke, or a dramatic gesture. But this was different. The pull of Lydia’s arm around his waist, Hannah's hand caught between his chest and Draco's side. He could feel Draco's pulse, beating a little too fast beneath his arm. It was all real. Tangible.  Suddenly they were just four friends standing at the edge of the firelight’s warmth, trying to hold each other together, while the night and the wind pressed at the windows.

Theo let himself lean in, just for a moment. Let the warmth and fierce gentleness of it seep past his outer defences. It was… surprisingly bearable. Almost nice. Almost safe. Comforting, like the taste of pastries and coffee first thing in the morning.  

Draco hardly moved. Didn’t speak. But he dropped his chin to Lydia's head and exhaled, long and slow. His shoulders loosened, just slightly, like he was trying to relax. Trying to trust. And he didn’t pull away.  

Not quite leaning in.  

But not running, either.  

“I’m glad you’re alright, mate,” Theo murmured, reaching up to tousle Draco’s hair with careful fingers. The moment tasted like frost-flecked air, sharp and clean, the kind that settles in your lungs and reminds you you're still breathing.

Theo didn’t imagine the way Draco’s breath hitched.

Chapter Text

She had followed him from the common room without a word.

Theo had looked at her as she said goodnight as if to ask, Are you sure? , but she couldn’t have stopped if she tried. Not with the way Draco had looked when he came into the common room. Frantic under the surface. Hollowed out around the eyes. Like someone who’d run too far from something awful and was now terrified it might still catch up. Not with the way she felt about what had happened either.

Draco stopped at his door, hand on the handle, and started to warn her, “Lydia, if you stay tonight…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, just stared at the handle like it might burn him. But she’d recognised the look in his eyes as she’d healed his arm in the common room. The intensity, the barely contained fear and desperation. Like there was something he needed that he couldn't bear to voice. She’d seen that look before.

As if she could leave him to be alone after everything tonight.

She didn’t hesitate, just reached for his hand and squeezed. “I'm staying.” 

His jaw clenched. Eyes shuttered. Like for a moment he wished she wouldn't follow him. But he opened the door.

And she stepped inside.

The moment the latch clicked shut behind them, it was like something inside him snapped, a switch flipped—familiar. He was on her in a breath—hands on her hips, mouth at her lips, her throat, pushing her back into the door. Desperate, but not thoughtless. Each kiss deliberate, drawn-out, like he was trying to memorise her with his lips. He smelled like cotton and soap from Theo's Scourgify, but it wasn't entirely him. 

A faint flicker of light broke through the darkness as a couple of candles came to life with a proximity charm —one on the bedside table, another on the desk— their flames dancing in the air with soft, quiet sparks. The flicker cast enough light to catch the way his fingers trembled as they raced over her skin.

She could see the panic flicker behind his hunger now, in the way his breath caught between each kiss, in the way his hands gripped her— like he might lose her if he let go. But his lips never stopped moving against hers, against her skin, each touch a desperate attempt to draw her closer, deeper.

It was too much, and not enough.

She clung to him with just as much hunger, her fingers under his shirt, up his spine. Kneading. Tangling in his hair. Because she needed it too. Needed to feel that he was really here, whole, alive. He could have died and she hadn’t been there to stop it. She hadn’t even known he was hurt until he walked in the door.

And that terrified her. 

He barely broke stride to tear his shirt over his head. Her sweater followed. Their mouths crashed together again, and the world narrowed to skin, heat, friction.

She barely noticed the way her back grazed on the rough wood of the door, or how his hands slid down her sides like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of her, grounding himself in her body, her warmth, her presence.

It reminded her—achefully—of those stolen moments in the empty classroom. When he’d taught her to duel with relentless, cold precision, only to fall apart in her arms between sparring rounds like he couldn’t bear the distance, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t. Because he had known the danger of the lies he was weaving to protect her. Back when he kissed her like she was a lifeline, as if clinging to her could keep everything else at bay. She hadn't realised she'd missed it until now.

“I need—” he breathed against her shoulder, fingers teasing at her bra strap, and the sound of it cut through her. Raw. Broken.

“I know,” she answered, without hesitation. “I need you too.”

The words slipped out breathlessly, almost without thought—a helpless confession, and endless permission.

A low rumble sounded from his throat, as his mouth found hers again and he caged her tighter against the door. She arched into him, hands grasping at his neck, his shoulders—anything to pull him closer. To anchor him. To feel him solid and alive beneath her fingers.

Then suddenly, he froze. She felt the change instantly, like the room lost heat as he drew in a sharp gasp. His body went still, and his hands dropped away as if they’d forgotten what they were holding. He stumbled back a step. Two.

“My wand,” he said hoarsely, his voice thudding flat in the thick air between them. “They… they took it.”

For a moment, he just stood there, shirtless and open, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, mouth kiss-swollen and hair slightly mussed. And he was beautiful. Not delicate — not anymore. There was a hard-earned strength to him now, built gradually and quietly. The skeletal sharpness he'd carried when he first returned to Hogwarts had softened into something stronger: muscle lining his limbs, definition in his arms and chest. He’d filled out in the months since — eating regularly, training for Quidditch, lifting crates behind the bar, throwing himself into community work with the kind of effort that left its mark. Slender always but no longer breakable. 

His skin told stories. Pale, and crossed with scars — not just the thin, silvery remnants of Sectumsempra etched across his torso like ancient runes, but others too. A longer one along his ribs, faded but jagged — a curse or a knife, she couldn’t tell. Faint burn marks, the kind that lingered from Dark Magic or cruel hands. And higher up, near his collarbone, a thin white line she recognised as rope-burn. There were more on his back, his legs. Each one made her ache. She had traced them all before, with her fingers and her lips, as if she could undo the damage, tell another story.

He didn’t try to hide any of it from her. That was what undid her. He just stood there, stripped to the truth of himself — raw, rattled, open-hearted in a way few people ever allowed themselves to be. His panic hadn’t made him smaller. If anything, it made him more real — more breathtaking in the vulnerability of it. He was beautiful, not in spite of the scars, but because of them. Because he had survived. Because he was thriving, physically at least.

But his eyes were on the door. Glaring at it. Like it might betray him. Like at any second it would burst open and something unthinkable would come through. 

“Draco…” she said quietly, understanding gradually dawning. Her mind already racing through ways to manage this, to solve this problem. 

She stepped forward, instinct guiding her to close the space between them, to move away from the door he glared at, but he flinched back. Not violently. Not even consciously. Just a ripple of fear—delayed and involuntary. Just a flicker of making his body smaller, of not wanting to be touched in case it broke the last of his defences. As if for a moment he didn't recognise her. Then his eyes flicked to hers and something in them softened, just a fraction. 

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to hold everything in as he eyed the door. 

“I can’t…” His voice cracked. His hands ploughed through his hair, rough and frantic, until his fists caught and tugged.  “I can’t cast the wards. I need—my wand. I—”

He cut off sharply, clenching his jaw like he could stop the panic through sheer force. His face had gone too pale, his breath too fast, the edge of control fraying at every seam as his weight shifted from foot to foot. His nostrils were flaring with each exhale. His grey eyes were almost black in the soft candlelight where his pupils had blown wide. 

And Lydia didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She simply reached into her pocket and held out her wand. Because for as long as she'd known him, from the first time she'd answered the summoning coin, Draco had always set specific locks and wards on the doors of any room that could afford him privacy, security. Safety . So much so that it was all muscle memory. A flick of his wrist as a door shut, and the runes and sigils would flash, gone in the blink of an eye. The door secure.

It was so ingrained he was halfway to doing it wandless. Only that wouldn’t be enough tonight. Not nearly reassuring enough. And all she wanted to do was reassure him, to make him feel safe, to make them both feel safe.

So she held out her wand, handle to him.

“Use mine.”

The look in his eyes when he met hers was a strange, quiet kind of disbelief. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and slowly dropped his hands from his hair as if moving too quickly would somehow shatter him. But she didn’t let her hand drop.

The silence stretched for a moment. She could feel her heart racing, though not out of fear. It was the tension between them, the closeness, the desperation.

“Lydia…” he whispered, like he was searching for the right words and failing. His fingers flexed at his sides; he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You don’t just give your wand to someone,” he said in a breathless rasp, voice low and filled with something so painfully raw.

She could feel the heat of his gaze pressing against her skin, the unspoken questions, the shock. She understood. She understood the weight of what she was doing. It was an offering, a promise of trust deeper than oceans. A thing rarer than soul bonds and more meaningful than blood ties. Wands chose their wielders. So to offer your wand to someone… It was like saying: I trust you with my life, with the part of me that shapes the world. To give it willingly was to offer your magic, your protection — your very self. Because it left you vulnerable, and open.

Without your wand, you were defenceless in every way that mattered. You gave up your ability to shield, to strike, to escape. But it wasn’t just about spells. A wand was more than a tool — it was a conduit for will, for instinct, for power. To hand it over was to lay bare the part of yourself that fought to survive, that resisted pain, that demanded control. And in its absence, all that remained was trust. Raw, terrifying trust.

And for someone like Draco — raised with generations of ancestral dogma carved into his bones — the gesture cut even deeper. To surrender your wand was to lower yourself to the level of a Muggle. That was the belief, passed down like gospel: no wand, no magic, no worth. Lydia knew his views had shifted, that he no longer saw Muggles as lesser in the way he once had. But that kind of conditioning didn’t vanish overnight. And this? This wasn’t just trust. It was deference. She could have dropped to her knees before him, could have pressed her forehead to the floor, and it still wouldn’t have meant as much as this — the wand in her outstretched hand.

And maybe Lydia hadn’t meant it to be anything more than a throwaway offer — just for this moment, just for right now . But even so, the meaning behind it rang clear as a bell. She was putting him first. Before her safety. Before her magic. Before herself.

But it didn’t matter. He needed to feel safe. She needed him to be safe. 

“I trust you,” she said simply, her voice steady despite the gathering storm in her chest.

Draco didn't answer straight away.

A long beat passed between them—silent but heavy. Like the very air had thickened, holding its breath with them. Draco’s room, usually immaculate, bore the faintest traces of a day that had got ahead of him. The bed behind Lydia was still neatly made—hospital corners sharp, coverlet smooth—but a towel hung crookedly over the back of a chair, and his boots sat just shy of their usual place by the wardrobe. A discarded jumper lay on the bottom of the bed, and there was a spread of books open on the desk beside a forgotten half-cup of tea and a half written page of notes. The air smelled faintly of scourgify and Draco's body wash, with the warm undertone of broom polish and firewood. Everything else was in its place. It was the most relaxed she'd ever seen him leave his room. Just this afternoon. Just a few hours ago. A space that had once braced for survival, now cautiously relearning ease. It seemed to mock them, it seemed sad, because he knew tomorrow it would all be immaculate and ordered again. It would be precise.

Draco looked at her wand as though it were a weapon. He gave a slight shake of his head—almost imperceptible—like he didn’t believe it, didn’t want to deal with what it meant for her to be holding her wand out like that. It was as if he wanted to shake the moment loose and come back to it when his brain wasn’t full of panic and fight-or-flight.

He wouldn’t take it, she realised. The act—the sentiment behind it— was too heavy, too vast a thing after everything else tonight. Too big a thing to ask of her when he felt too beholden to her already. So she stepped closer, still holding it out, arm trembling just slightly now with the weight of it all. She twirled the wand over so she held the grip, pointed the tip down.

“Fine. Show me, then. I’ll cast them for you.”

Her voice cracked at the edges, laced with the same desperation clinging to the air between them. Because this request was hardly better that the previous one. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She knew exactly what she was asking—had never dared before. Because learning someone’s personal locking sequence was like being given the skeleton key to their spellwork, their personal protections. If she knew his wards, she could break them. Undo them all. Slip past all his defences. For Draco, especially right now, the idea of exposing himself could be equally terrible.

She’d always trusted his spells. Never needed to know. Never asked. Never wanted to cross that line.

But she knew he wouldn’t trust her wards tonight, knew there was no way they were as comprehensive as his. And if he wouldn’t take her wand what other choice did they have except a sleepless, fraught night watching the door.

So she asked. Because he needed to feel safe, and she needed to make sure he didn’t unravel completely.

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His jaw ticked once. He stared at her wand for a moment longer, and then up at hers. There was fear there, but something else beneath it. Something wounded. Like he wanted to give in to the moment but wasn’t sure he was allowed. She could see how much he wanted to trust her, to believe this was as deep as it should be. That it said something about love and forever and the ideals he had about the future—their future.

Her breath caught. She thought he might refuse this too, that it was too big an ask. Might turn his back, shove the fear down with a sneer or silence like he would have back when they were still on different sides.

But instead, with a sharp exhale, he met her eyes and corrected her. “With me. Cast them with me.”

Taking a breath, Draco closed the space between them, slowly raising his hands to her shoulders and turned her to face the door. He slid one hand down her wand arm, curling his fingers over hers with that same aching, deliberate slowness. His touch was gentler now. Not ravenous but measured, intimate. His other hand skimmed down her side and came to rest on her hip, holding her as he pressed the cool expanse of his chest against her bare back. She felt its rise and fall slow to match hers. She could feel his heart pounding against her shoulder, or maybe that was her heart. 

“You’ll need to feel for the latch behind the frame,” he said finally, voice low and rough near her ear. “You don’t cast at the door. You cast into it, into the frame.”

Lydia nodded once, breath held, her body almost too aware of every point of contact between them to counter and tease that she already knew all of that. Probably for the best. Instinctively she leaned into him slightly, and it felt like he curled his body around her a little in response.

He guided her wrist, pressing her hand forward, and together they aimed her wand at the doorframe. She felt the surge of his magic pull at hers, not overtaking but weaving, like a thread passed through a needle. The moment it met her own, something in her stilled—like breath held in a sacred space. Her fingers tightened around the wand as the warmth spread through her wrist, up her arm, anchoring somewhere behind her ribs. It wasn’t the spell. It was the magic. Raw and real and his —reaching for her in trust, in desperation, in something too deep to name.

Her body responded instinctively: a soft intake of breath, a shiver down her spine, a low hum in her bones. But it was her heart that bent toward it—toward him. Not with hunger, but with reverence. Like witnessing something sacred. Like touching a miracle with her own two hands and knowing she had to treat it gently, or not at all.

He murmured the incantations—quiet, fluid Latin at first, then something else. French. Low, slipping from his lips like silk, with precise, subtle, lyrical attitude. The vowels curled around her skin in a way that made her shiver. Made her want more.

His breath ghosted against the side of her throat as he leaned closer to guide her hand. The words were spellwork, yes—but they felt like secrets. Like things he wasn’t meant to say aloud. 

Her wand responded without protest, the wards forming—subtle flickers of light tracing over the woodgrain of the door, the frame, the surrounding floor, before vanishing like they’d never been there at all. She barely registered the way the wand responded to him. How his magic hummed through it like it knew him. Her focus was entirely on the way his hands lingered just a moment longer than needed. And when the final ward pulsed and dissolved into the wood, and stone they stood still. 

His forehead dipped to her shoulder, and she felt the warm exhale of his breath against her skin. The relief of the wards settling into place seemed to soften him all at once—like the tension had poured out of him in a single breath, leaving only the weight of exhaustion and trust. It made her heart ache, the way he leaned into her, like he might stay there forever if she let him. His hand still cradled hers around the wand, and neither of them let go as their arms slowly lowered.

“You use French,” she whispered at last, a little dazed. The spell had left her breathless, but the language felt like the safest thing to reach for.

She glanced down at their still-joined hands.

Had he ever cast like that before? One wand, two people—magic pulled together so cleanly it felt like a shared pulse. Was it supposed to feel like that? Like they'd been bound together?

His expression was guarded when she turned to meet it, her face flushed as she cupped his jaw, searching for his faraway gaze. 

“They’re stronger if you make them personal,” he said, voice low and unreadable—equal parts detached and desperate. His gaze flicked away, like he’d already said too much, like showing her the wards, uncovering those vulnerabilities had cost him oh-so-much.

Lydia wanted to ask more. Wanted to press him on the intimacy of their magic, the meaning behind the words he'd spoken. Wanted to say more about how beautiful the French had sounded from his mouth. Wanted to tease that he should whisper more French in bed … 

But a beat passed—and then, like a stretched rubber band finally snapping—

They collided.

Mouths and tongues, teeth and nails, skin on skin.

 Their bodies met with a kind of hunger that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with needing to feel alive . She pulled at his shoulders, his neck, clinging to him like she was starving for touch. He buried his hands in her hair, kissed her like she might slip through his fingers again, desperate to believe she was real, scared to lose her.

Because she felt it too. Because he could’ve died. And she wouldn’t have been there. Because she’d thought with Voldemort gone the real threat was gone, but she’d realised as Hannah recounted what had happened tonight, that anyone could take him away from her. 

So they tangled and tore and gripped at each other like they might be torn apart again at any moment. Their clothes scattered like leaves in a storm. His button popped; she kicked a shoe across the room. She still had one sock on when he lifted her onto the bed, still had the taste of his kiss on her tongue as he buried himself in her again and again. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was the kind of joining that felt like grief had sunk into their bones and left behind only heat and sound and muscle.

Her fingers raked down his back. His teeth grazed her shoulder.

There would be marks tomorrow. There already were.

Her neck throbbed where his mouth had latched on like he needed to bruise her to believe she was real. Her hips ached from how hard he’d gripped her, the blunt pressure of his fingers branding her skin. There were scratch marks on her ribs where he’d turned her just so, muscles burning as she clung to him like she could hold him together.

But his skin told the same story.

Red crescents bloomed across his back where her nails had bitten deep, and dragged. His lips were swollen, his mouth raw from her teeth. She’d tugged his hair too hard— he liked it —and now her fingertips tingled with the memory of how he'd moaned when she did.

They’d marked each other in equal measure. And she didn’t regret a single one.

***

Lydia woke to warmth. Not the biting, frantic heat of the night before, but something quieter. Gentle. Like the world had finally stopped spinning—if only for a moment.

Draco was still asleep, his face turned toward her, brow smooth for once. No lines of worry. No tension at the corners of his mouth. His arm was draped across her waist, fingers splayed like he was still afraid she might vanish if he let go.

She didn’t move.

Instead, she watched the early light spill across the curve of his jaw, the fine edge of his collarbone. His lashes—unfairly long—cast soft shadows on his cheeks. She let her eyes trace every familiar detail as if seeing it for the first time. Maybe, in a way, she was.

Because something had shifted.

And now, in the quiet, it wasn’t just fear she felt. Or even relief. It was tenderness, so sharp it ached. The kind of aching that made her want to curl into him and press her mouth to every scar he hated.

I love you.

The words surfaced like a gasp in her mind. And it startled her.

Her hand, which had been halfway to cupping his jaw, stilled mid-air. The thought echoed so loudly she was sure it might wake him. She blinked down at him, the ache behind her eyes threatening to spill into something messier.

She loved him. God help her, she loved him.

And that terrified her more than anything.

Because she wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s sanctuary. She wasn’t built to carry this—this fragile, desperate hope he looked at her with. If she said it out loud, it might shatter. Or worse, he might hold it like a promise, like a vow, like something sacred. And she didn’t know if she could live up to that.

She rolled away gently, breath uneven, pushing herself up to sit against the pillows. The room felt too still. Too full. She dragged a hand through her hair, trying to ground herself in something ordinary—anything that didn’t feel like falling.

In… out…

After a moment, she reached back down, letting her hand rest lightly over his, brushing her thumb across the back of his knuckles. A peace-offering. A tether. Because that’s what he was to her, in ways she couldn’t always explain. His nearness didn’t just soothe her—it steadied her, like anchoring a ship against the pull of an uncertain tide. The world could tilt and spiral, but when her fingers found his, the spinning slowed. He was her still point. Not perfect. Not always safe. But real. Solid. Hers. 

God, she loved him. But it terrified her. Because if she lost him… if he left… how would she ever feel steady again? Merlin—if he'd died last night…

She squeezed his fingers. She didn't mean to.

Draco stirred—just a flicker, a crease between his brows—and then his breath evened again. A moment later, he huffed beside her, the sound more protest than sigh, as if he were unhappy to wake and not find her closer. Sleepily, he reached for her, slid closer, slipped his arm back over her waist, braced his head against her side.

“Come back to sleep,” Draco murmured.

Lydia tilted her head, stretching her neck and shoulders with a soft creak of bone and breath.

“Yeah, I will. I just…”

Her body felt too alert now, too restless. 

Tea. She could murder a cup of tea. Nana Silvie’s blend—strong and sweet, the kind that settled things. That’s what she wanted. Something warm. Predictable. Something ordinary. But her thoughts slipped sideways, landing back on last night.

Draco could have died. He should have, maybe. If it hadn’t been for Hannah—

She looked down at him, at the arm folded loosely across her stomach. She traced the length of it with her fingers—slow, distracted. The skin was smooth. Unblemished. No bruises. No burns. No sign of the jagged gash she’d healed just hours ago.

Like it had never happened.
Except it had.

The memory lived beneath her skin. A phantom ache. It pulsed in her chest, made her heart skitter like she was back in every moment she’d lost him.

 When he hadn’t shown for duelling.
When he’d stunned her and left her hidden during the raid. 

When he’d returned his summoning coin. When the Aurors tore him from her arms. When she’d paced the floor last night, worrying about why he wasn’t back yet, thinking over and over He should have been here by now.

She was awake now. Too awake. And she needed to move. Anything to stop feeling like her body might betray her, might blurt something she wasn’t ready to admit aloud. Not yet.

She reached for the edge of the covers—but he stirred. Shifted. Let his head loll heavily onto her belly, his arm cinching tight around her waist.

“No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Stay here. You don’t need tea.”

It was almost petulant, like a child refusing to give up a favourite toy. His eyes stayed closed, lashes casting soft shadows across his cheeks. He looked content now—spoiled, even. Lydia blinked down at him, her lips twitching with fond amusement. “How did you know I was thinking about tea?”

She threaded her fingers into his hair without thinking. It was soft and fine, still warm from sleep. He made a pleased little sound, something like a hum, and pressed a slow kiss to her stomach where her—his—shirt had ridden up.

“Just an educated guess,” he murmured, mouth brushing her skin again. It tickled. Sent a ripple beneath her ribs.

His next words were quieter. More fragile. “Don’t leave me alone in this bed.”

Another kiss. Another. Each one slower than the last, like he was making a path down her body in no particular hurry, giving her reasons to stay.

The ache returned, folding in on itself. And she felt the weight of the terrible trust in his voice. As if she was something safe. Something constant . Her throat tightened. She didn’t say I love you. She couldn’t. Not when he sounded like he believed she was unbreakable.

“You taste too good,” he added, barely more than a breath now, and Lydia gave a quiet, breathy laugh in return.

Draco stilled. “Mmm, and I love that sound,” he whispered, then his lips were back on her skin, tracing the dip of her waist, the soft rise of her stomach. Reverent. Like he was trying to learn her by mouth and memory alone.

His hand drifted lower—over the curve of her hip, then her thigh—his fingers slipping just beneath the edge of her—his—shorts. Warm. Teasing, as he moved over her legs, lethargic and slow from sleep. 

“Draco…” she breathed. She wasn’t sure if it was a warning or encouragement.

His smile curved against her skin, lips brushing the tender place where her hip met thigh.

“Hmmm?” he murmured, nuzzling her again. His hands were firm but patient. A little teasing. Confident in that unshakeable way that came from knowing she probably wouldn’t stop him.

“We should really sleep…” Lydia said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Or go to breakfast… classes…”

“Probably…” Draco agreed.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he pressed another kiss—lower this time. Closer to the waistband of her shorts. His chin skimmed over increasingly sensitive skin, coaxing a stuttered breath from her chest. Her back tensed, her shoulders pressing into the headboard behind her.

She caught the curve in the corner of his mouth, the rounding of his cheek, that smug little self-satisfied smirk of his. Helga’s Cup, he knew exactly what he was doing to her. He knew all the places to kiss, all the ways to touch her, and Merlin help her, she loved how it felt—how deliberate he was. How safe.

She relaxed back into the pillows, letting herself soften. Trusting him as she pulled the material at her hip down an inch, two. And she could feel how much that trust meant to him—how much weight he gave it. Like she was the last good thing he hadn’t broken. 

“I want to apologise for last night,” he said, his mouth warm against her skin, a shared joke in his tone.

“For what?” she murmured, barely above a sigh—barely able to focus as his mouth traced a path down her hip bone, the sensation tickling until it was almost unbearable. She tensed, biting her lip to keep herself from pulling away as a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

Then he hesitated, breath catching. Blinking, he knelt up, shifting his weight to his heels, eyes on her hip.

“For being too rough… Too intense…” the words tumbled out slowly, like they'd been what he meant to say, but he wasn't entirely thinking about them anymore. His voice dipped low—so low she felt it more than heard it, as if he were suddenly far away. The lines of his face tightened with something sad, something uncertain. His gaze flicked over her body—her other hip, the love bite on her neck, the bite mark on her thigh, the scratches on her ribs just visible beneath the hem of the t-shirt. He nudged it up delicately, like he knew what he'd find, like he'd remembered, but was scared to see it. He swallowed.

His fingers brushed back to her hip, featherlight, as if even that small contact might hurt her. Carefully, he pressed his hand to the bruises, his fingertips aligning exactly with the faint, fingertip-shaped shadows he’d left behind last night.

“I marked you,” he said softly, almost a gasp, something like disbelief and horror drawing between his brows.

Lydia watched him. The way he stared at his hand, at the outline of harm he hadn’t meant to leave. This wasn’t like the love bites they’d exchanged before, the playful nips and lingering kisses hidden beneath collars. Those had been chosen—offered, wanted. But this… this had been something else. Something desperate. Not deliberate.

And Draco knew it. He didn’t look proud. He looked shaken. Like he couldn’t fathom how he’d let himself touch her like that—how fear and panic had bled into his hands without him even noticing. He held his hand there like a man shouldering something heavy. Like someone learning what guilt feels like when it’s written across someone else’s body.

And she didn’t stop him.

She thought about all the people he must’ve hurt. All the ways he’d let his anger and fear do the speaking for him. But maybe no one had ever let him see the bruises up close before. Not like this. Not with tenderness still hanging in the air between them.

Maybe this was the first time he’d realised the marks he left were more than a consequence—it was a memory someone else had to carry. Maybe after last night, he saw it all differently.

And so she let him feel it.

With a deep inhale, he leaned forward and kissed them—each fingerprint shaped bruise, one at a time—soft as anything. Quiet. As if the moment deserved silence more than words.

It was that reverence that made her chest ache. Made something restless coil at the base of her spine. He saw her like she was something precious. Almost untouchable that he'd marred. And it felt so heavy in her chest..

“I’m not complaining,” she said on an exhale, voice lighter than she felt. She wanted to close the distance between them. “I marked you too.”

Draco didn't move back, he just moved to her other hip, kissed the bruises there. Her hand drifted to the side of his neck, tracing the bruise she’d left there with her mouth and teeth, then down to the faint red lines scoring his shoulders and back. His muscles twitched beneath her fingers, his mouth stilled, his shoulders tipping forward like they craved the lingering sting. His eyes fluttered closed, and he bowed his head like it was instinct. Like surrender and desire all rolled together.

She kept tracing the marks, the faint red lines she’d left in the heat of wanting him, and he leaned into it—into her. Quietly. Willingly.

And she couldn’t look away.

Draco Malfoy, on his hands and knees right before her, head bowed, stripped of all that usual sharpness. Unmasked. Unmade. Letting her touch the parts of him no one else got close to, the ones that hurt. Leaning into pain not to flinch from it, but to feel it. To remember it was real.

And something about it—about him—undid her completely.

God, he was so— so —beautiful like this.

“I just—everything felt like it could disappear,” he confessed, swallowing hard.  “And I didn’t know how to hold on without clinging so tightly.” 

Then he lifted his head.

His storm-grey eyes met hers like a clap of thunder.

“I can be gentle.” His voice wobbled a fraction, like he didn’t quite believe it—but wanted to. Needed to.

Lydia felt something buckle behind her ribs. A tight, familiar ache. She didn’t say I love you . But it flickered in her mouth, heavy and unspoken.

“I know. It’s okay,” she hushed, stroking the hair back from his face, reading every swirl of fog and fire in his eyes. “I was scared too.”

It wasn’t an accusation—just the truth. Something quiet that still hummed in her chest, even now.

She leaned forward then, kissed his mouth—insistent, reassuring.

Shakily, Draco inhaled, kissed her back. Then he eased her gently back against the pillows. 

“I want to make it up to you,” he said resolutely, dipping his head to her collar, kissing her like each touch might absolve something in him. He tugged at her t-shirt, helped her lift it over her head. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. His mouth lowered to her neck, soothing over the mark he'd left there. With a content sigh, Lydia craned her neck to let him press closer. 

“I could’ve died last night,” he whispered, almost like he was admitting a secret, painting it over her skin, his mouth trailing slow, gentle kisses downwards again. “But now I’m here. With you. Breathing you in like you’re the only real thing left.”

He kissed below her collar, down the centre of her chest —the shape of a prayer pressed into her skin with his cheek, his nose, his mouth and jaw, nuzzling like a cat seeking affection. Obliging, Lydia’s fingers brushed through his hair again, then trailed down his neck, shoulders, arms. 

“I don’t want to waste any of it,” he said, voice thick.

His mouth closed over her nipple, and a low keening hum sounded in the back of Lydia’s throat at the jolt that ran down her spine. Her body stretched, leaned up to him—like it was trying to give him more of her.

“I want to learn every inch of you like a prayer… To take my time…”

He moved to the other breast, fingers chasing where his mouth had just been. Lydia’s head spun, her feet sliding over the backs of his calves as her body stretched beneath him. She pulled her thighs together as his tongue circled and his fingers teased—bracketing his hips, drawing his body closer.

Draco slid back from her grip, his mouth continuing a trail down her body—kissing, licking, sucking gently, but not biting or nipping. Not this time.

“I want to treat you like the wonder you are for letting me be here—for trusting me,” he murmured, fingers reaching for the waistband of her shorts. His mouth carefully traced behind as he eased the cotton down her legs, leaving a cool, tingling trail in his wake.

His hands stroked gently over her ankles and feet as he removed her shorts—and then, idly, his mouth and hands retraced their steps.

Her breaths came in little pants, little moans of anticipation, as he shifted over her, his mouth leading—

“I want to kiss the ground of your sanctuary.” —Up her calf.
“Because your body is the sweetest, safest thing I’ve ever known.” —Her thigh to her hip.
“I want you to feel like a goddess in the ruins.” — and then lower. Lydia held her breath.
“And I’m the lucky, unworthy soul—” —Lower.
“—who gets to kneel at your altar.”

He pressed one brief kiss to the very centre of her being, and it was good and warm—relief and pleasure darting up and out through her body— but it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Will you let me?” he asked breathlessly—the words tickling against her most sensitive places, heavy with adoration and the promise of more.

His words stole her thoughts. His voice, his hands, his mouth— all of it. She felt like she was floating. Like his reverence had made her weightless, like she existed only in this moment and the next and the next.

When she didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe, he pulled back, just enough to look at her.

“Lydia,” he murmured, low and close, mouth still ghosting over her skin. She hadn’t realised she’d thrown her head back and dragged her attention back to his face, ready and waiting on his knees between her thighs. Pupils wide and dark, imploring. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No…?” she whimpered, her voice barely a breath.

“Good,” he grinned like a devil and it shivered through her, low and pleased. “Come here.”

In one smooth motion, Draco tugged her down the bed with sure hands on her hips. Lydia let out a surprised laugh—sharp and breathless—but he stole it away with a slow, grounding kiss, his tongue sweeping elegantly through her lips. He eased her back until her head rested on the pillows, and then holding her gaze settled himself between her thighs like it was where he belonged. He closed his eyes then, and Lydia’s fell up to the ceiling as his mouth met her with a lazy, sort of hunger. Kissing her with aching care, licking and sucking as if he had no intention of rushing a single second.

Warmth flooded her limbs. She gasped, fingers sliding into the sheets for purchase, and then into his hair as his tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision. Every stroke felt like a promise, like devotion, like worship. Her body was singing beneath his mouth, her skin tingling, breath catching in her throat in staggered little gasps.

It was overwhelming—the softness of his touch, like he’d been starved of grace and found it in her with every movement. She could feel him trace the curve of her hips and thighs with careful fingers, like she was something holy, like the shape of her mattered. She wanted to tell him he didn’t have to be so gentle— she thought that she preferred the desperate rush of the night before because she hadn't had space to think about what it meant. But this gentle worship felt heavy with meaning. And those words clogged her throat over and over. But she had to keep that last vestige of space. She couldn't tempt fate like that.

Then she reached down—reflex, instinct—and clutched at his forearm, the one braced under her thigh. Her fingers closed around it—around that arm, folded over that mark. She knew what lay beneath her palm. The faded remnants. The part of him he tried not to look at. But she held on anyway. Held on because he was here. Because this was him, because he trusted her to carry his vulnerability. Because she wanted to trust him back.

His fingers wrapped around her arm, too, grounding her, pulling her closer—his mouth never faltering. And when his tongue slipped inside her, slow and deep, Lydia cried out, her hips twitching. Her fingers tightened. Her thighs trembled. Heat rose in a dizzy wave—too much, too good, too real .

The world outside receded, gone to mist. There was only the soft hum of his breath, the wet heat of his mouth, the press of his hands anchoring her while everything else fell away.

He paused only to kiss a trail down her thigh, just far enough to make her whimper at the absence, every nerve in her body crying for his return. She felt like she might fly apart from wanting.

“Please,” she whispered, breathless. “Don’t stop. I need you.”

He kissed her inner thigh, then paused, resting his forehead there for a moment, like he needed to steady himself, like her words had undone him. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, the words tickling over her skin. She could hear his smile, the desire thick and gravelly.

When he pressed his mouth to her again, firmer this time, she couldn’t stop the breathless shape of his name spilling from her lips. “Draco…” 

In response, he groaned softly and she felt it vibrate through her, low and molten as his whole body seemed to roll through a shiver.

Her hips rose without permission, her body chasing every inch of him, helpless to anything but want. Her legs shifted—until he caught them, gently lifted them over his shoulders, and lay flatter against the bed. Closer. Steadier. More of him.

And Draco just kept taking his time. Devouring her like it was a feast—like she was the only thing in the world that had ever mattered. No rush. No wild, clawing urgency like the night before. Just reverence. Each kiss a vow.

“Oh god,” she gasped, helpless, toes curling. “Your mouth…”

He smiled against her. She could feel it—the smugness, yes, but also the affection, the heat, the pride. That same wicked glint sparked in his eyes as he glanced up.

“All yours,” he whispered. “Every kiss, every breath. I could do this forever.”

Then he bent back to her like she was salvation.

His fingers drifted between her legs, and Lydia tensed at the first brush—sharp and electric. Her breath hitched. Hips shifted instinctively, chasing the tease of his touch, aching for more even as he held just shy of it. She rolled against him, breathy and wanting. A whimper escaped her lips again and gods, he smiled . She could feel it. A little huff of laughter against her skin—amused, adoring.

“Just listen to you fall apart for me,” he coaxed.

And she was—falling. Every inch of her was burning, strung tight with sensation. She could feel how much he wanted her, in the subtle tremble of his shoulders, the quiet hitch in his breath, the faint stutter in his touch when she moaned or whispered his name like a wish.

“So good… so gentle,” she breathed, her fingers curling in his hair, tugging at the nape of his neck, pleading without words for more.

But still—he stayed slow. Careful. Tender . Not greedy. Not like the night before, when need had drowned out thought. This was something else entirely.

This was devotion .

And it was undoing her. And undoing her. And undoing her.

“Draco, I—” Lydia broke off, breath shuddering into a low moan.

I love you.

The words choked in her throat, heavy and unspoken. Her heart clenched. She wasn’t ready. Or maybe she was just too afraid.

Then his fingers finally slid inside her, slow and sure, and her back arched off the bed with a quiet, fractured cry. He curled them just so, dragging them in a rhythm that stole her breath entirely. His head lifted just enough to watch her unravel.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re so perfect like this, Lydia.”

Her body clenched around the intrusion, holding tight—and then his tongue— oh god , his tongue was on her again. Moving. Tasting her like she was something rare and sacred.

Lydia’s hands tangled deeper into his hair, fingers curling, tugging him closer. She wanted more— needed to fall apart completely—but he stayed steady. Deliberate. Never breaking rhythm. He was drawing it out, making it last. Giving her something she hadn’t known she craved:

Time.

A dreamy, heavy warmth pooled in her chest. This wasn’t just want. This wasn’t just pleasure. It was awe. Safety. An ache that went bone-deep. Last night had been frantic—edge and fire, teeth and nails. But this…

This was him saying you save me , over and over again, without words.

And Lydia didn’t know if she could live up to that—not really. But Merlin, she wanted to. She wanted to believe they could make it true like this. Gently. Softly. Just the two of them, behind a locked door.

She could feel it in every movement—in the way his hands anchored her, the way his mouth moved with reverence, the way he trembled against her like he was the one overwhelmed. Like he was putting everything into trying to prove he could be soft. Slow. Safe . 

Lydia blinked hard, her eyes stinging with the intensity of it. Every brush of his tongue, every curl of his fingers, every whispered breath—it was love , offered in silence. 

Her stomach clenched. She didn’t want to cry, but it bloomed just beneath her ribs—a terrible tenderness.

Don’t say you love him. Don’t say it.

Because if she said it, it would be real. And if it was real, she could lose it. And then she would let it ruin her.

She could feel the tremor in her limbs, the way her body quivered as he moved over her. Her hips lifted, instinctive, aching for more—but he only eased her back down, one long hand splayed over her hip in a gentle press, grounding her.

“Easy now, beautiful. Not yet. I’m not nearly done.”

His breath skimmed over her skin, warm and tender. The words caressed her just as surely as his hands did—full of promise. Every touch, every kiss was slow. Deliberate. Like he had all the time in the world. And she let him. Let herself melt into it—the softness, the silence between moans, the quiet hum of being wanted .

There was nothing else. No war. No classes. No St Mungo’s. No witches with wands and dark eyes and threats on their tongues. No shadows pressing at the edges of everything.

Just this : his mouth, his hands, his patience drawing out her pleasure. His veneration .

The slow-burning need in her core didn’t overwhelm the moment, it lived inside it. It belonged there. It grew with every pass of his fingers, every deliberate kiss that sent warmth spiralling up her spine. His lips trailed over her like she was something precious. And with every flick of his tongue, her body responded—gasping, arching, pleading.

And still, he didn’t rush.

He just stayed .

Her name tumbled out of his mouth, low and wrecked, and it stirred something in her chest—something tender and unbearably raw. When his fingers slid deeper, curled just right, her back arched again, another moan slipping free. But it wasn’t sharp and sudden when she tipped over that edge. It wasn’t a crash but a rolling tide, slow and unrelenting. Shallow and soft and over and over and over again. Her body rode the waves one after another until she was whimpering, palms braced against the headboard, heels pressed into his back, searching for something—anything—to anchor herself as he kept kissing her, kept moving inside her, careful and relentless and maddening.

Even when she thought she must be spent, even when she had a moment to catch her breath, Draco shifted—his tongue, his fingers, she wasn’t sure—just enough to send her reeling back towards that edge. Her breath caught, her voice cracked.
“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. Just like that.”

And he didn’t. He didn’t hurry, didn’t falter. Just kept that same coaxing, reverent rhythm—fingers gliding, mouth warm and wet and perfect—until she was trembling from head to toe, her breaths slow and shattered, every inch of her coming undone.

And then she broke again—or maybe she’d never truly stopped. But this was deeper, stronger. Her mind dissolved into nothing but sensation, into the release, into the quiet unravelling of everything she thought she could hold back. Her toes curled, her body pulled tight like a bowstring—and still, he stayed with her, steady as gravity, until the tension dissolved and he gently eased her back to earth, boneless.

Only then did he pull away, trailing soft kisses along the inside of her thigh, her hip, her belly. He moved up her body and settled beside her, tugging the covers over them both. His chest rising and falling quick and unsteady against her side as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and exhaled a low satisfied sort of hum. 

Lydia turned to him, eyes heavy-lidded, heart aching with something that wasn’t just physical. He looked wrecked beside her—breathtaking and breathless and so vividly alive—and all she could feel was the warmth of him. Of being here. Of still being here. Still breathing.

I love you , she thought, and it bloomed so fiercely in her chest she thought it might spill out. But she caught the words in her throat. She swallowed them back. She wouldn’t tempt fate by saying them aloud.

Instead, she shifted closer and pressed her mouth to his, tasted herself on his tongue, kissed him like it meant everything.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

HARGROVE HOUSE RULES FOR CHRISTMAS HOUSEGUESTS

1. NO MAGIC NEAR THE FUSEBOX
2. THE THERMOSTAT IS NOT A TOY. DO NOT TOUCH.
3. LYDIA’S BEDROOM DOOR = OPEN IF THERE ARE BOYS IN THE ROOM
4. RESPECT THE BOILER. THERE IS ONLY SO MUCH HOT WATER.
5. CHRISTMAS DAY SWIM IS NON-NEGOTIABLE
6. CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES. NO ELVES WORK HERE

The shop was small and bright — almost unnaturally so. All white walls and pale wood floors, with glass cases arranged like museum exhibits. The kind of place where everything had been chosen, not just stocked. Minimalist. Elegant. Curated with intention.

It felt more like a gallery than a shop: silent, still, just the occasional hush of the shopkeeper moving behind the counter. Even her shoes didn’t squeak. The woman had smiled when he entered — not forced, not overly eager. Just warm. The lighting was precise, deliberately neutral, leaving not a shadow or fingerprint in sight. It was the kind of shop that made you aware of your hands — whether they were clean enough, careful enough.

But the silence and cleanliness wasn’t emptiness; it was a canvas. The jewellery didn’t need decor. It stood alone. It didn’t clatter or sparkle. It shimmered. It whispered.

Local designers, the sign had said. Sustainable materials. Nothing gaudy — just quiet, thoughtful craftsmanship.

Everything gleamed: the glass, the silver and gold, the fine chains suspended like thread in the display cases, the understated jewels. Even the air felt curated, tinged with something clean and mineral — like sea-spray and lemon oil.

Merlin. Even the smell of the place reminded him of Lydia — sharp, clean, unassuming. The kind of brightness that didn’t try to outshine, just illuminated. It had to be the right gift.

He’d spotted the necklace in the window yesterday. They’d been walking back from the cliffs, heads down against the wind, when he caught a flash of white and green in a shop window. He’d stopped short. The necklace had pulled his gaze like a hook.

A compass rose, fine and understated, cast in white gold. At the centre: a green stone, just dark enough to match her eyes. The ring around it was flecked with tiny diamonds, like salt-spray frozen mid-air.

“It’s meant to represent direction,” the shopkeeper said gently, coming up behind him.

Draco’s heart clattered against his ribs, his fingers tightening around the wand in his sleeve.

She’s just a Muggle. She’s just a Muggle. She’s just a Muggle.

“Or finding your way back,” she added, her voice soft, as if she were appreciating the beauty of the piece for the first time herself.

Draco fought the shiver that ran down his spine and tried to calm his heart rate as he nodded good-naturedly and focused back on the necklace.

It was perfect.

But it turned out the price was nearly double what he had when he reached for the notes in his pocket. The shopkeeper checked the amount and kindly offered alternatives, as if she were used to grown up boys searching for gifts that meant something. Smaller pieces, similar styles. But they were wrong. Pretty, but impersonal. Not this.

So Draco thanked her and headed for the door, a sinking feeling tightening in his stomach.

He hated that feeling — not just the lack, but the fact that he’d misjudged the conversion. He thought he’d exchanged enough of the money he’d saved from his wages when they were in London. It was most of it, anyway.

He thought his hard work should be worth more.

Not his time. Not just the actual bar work. Not even the effort it took to accept his current lot in life. But how hard he had to work at not losing his temper. At being mature, pleasant, amenable. At keeping his head down when people were shitty to him. At being vigilant. At staying soft enough for Lydia, even when everything in him snarled with bitterness.

He worked so bloody hard — and surely that should be worth more than the sterling notes in his pocket.

He was sure if this were a wizarding shop, he could’ve just about afforded it. Apparently you didn’t get many pounds to your galleons. And for a moment, he wondered if the goblins had short-changed him.

Salazar’s balls , he hated it. Hated the way it made him feel: young. Small. Poor. Helpless.

Pausing at the door, Draco made a show of pulling his hat onto his head and sliding his fingers into gloves. Giving him time. His eyes scanned the street outside, ears straining for footsteps, before he opened the door and stepped out.

The cold hit like a slap.

But he didn’t move straight away. He kept scanning, shoulders hunched, wand still tucked tight to his forearm.

He stood with his back to the shop window, watching. Looking out, not just for Lydia and Theo, who were shopping nearby, but for anyone else. Strangers. A boy with a hood pulled too low. A woman speaking too softly into her mobile. A man who glanced at him once — then again.

Draco’s stomach twisted. His scarf itched at his neck — too warm and not warm enough. He yanked his hat lower to cover his distinctive white-blonde hair and shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets.

He hadn’t received anything since arriving at Lydia’s house. Not a single letter. No howlers. No more attacks since the night at the  pub. And he'd been back at work two days later, couldn't afford not to be. Rosa had tried to keep him out the back, peeling potatoes, cleaning glasses, but it didn't last. Friday night after a dramatic event that made headlines? Of course everyone showed up to gawk and gossip. So he'd ignored the way his heart hammered and his hands shook and gotten on with serving drinks. And nothing else had happened since. 

But that didn’t mean it was over. He’d given up on that idea in November. It just meant they didn’t know where he was. Yet.

Lydia and Theo had been relaxed about the outing into town. They’d convinced him it was safer in Falmouth than in London — fewer people, fewer magical folk, further removed from the war. But as he waited, Draco felt increasingly uneasy.

A sharp bark of laughter rang out across the street. He flinched before he could stop himself.

Stupid.

He breathed through it. Tried to occlude—despite his lack of stamina at holding it for any length of time. Tried to focus on the normality around him: the bustle of shoppers with plastic bags and woollen gloves, the smell of cinnamon and snow, the wreaths strung across lampposts. A man knelt by the church steps with a dog in a tattered jumper. A child dropped a mitten and burst into tears.

Life was continuing.

And he felt like a ghost inside it.

Still, Falmouth had proven a surprisingly safe little haven. Thanks, in no small part, to Max Hargrove.

After the incident in November, Max had insisted they spend Christmas down here. He’d met them at King’s Cross — brisk and business-like — and ushered them straight to Gringotts without even letting Lydia stop at Sugarplum’s.

“In and out,” he’d said, firm. “Hoods up. Keep your heads down.”

He’d even arranged for the currency exchange to happen in a private meeting room through a VIP side entrance at the bank. Draco was fairly certain he’d been through that door once before, with his mother, back when his father was in Azkaban. It had the kind of sterile hush only real money and the right kind of name bought.

Still, Draco had no illusions. The security, the precision — that was all for Lydia.
Not him or Theo. Because Lydia was in danger just by association. So if Max Hargrove had considered Draco at all, it had been with tight-lipped tolerance and a hefty dose of paternal suspicion. Begrudging pity, at best.

But things shifted after they’d Flooed into the modest three-bedroom house near the coast. The moment they stepped inside, a quiet sense of ease settled over Draco—unexpected, but welcome. He’d only stayed here for a week back in August, but the place already tugged at something familiar: the sea air caught in the curtains, the faint scent of wood polish and washing powder, the quiet hum of a house that felt lived-in. A house where someone could shout from the lounge door and be heard upstairs, where thick socks were left to dry on radiators, and the mugs never quite matched.

They’d dumped their bags in the back bedroom—now fitted with bunk beds instead of a single—and Draco had claimed the top bunk without thinking, perhaps drawn by the illusion of privacy. Theo hadn’t argued; he’d just flopped onto the lower bed with theatrical groaning and spread out like he owned the place. He seemed as at home here as anywhere, sprawling now onto the living room sofa while Draco trailed after him, drawn by the scent of tea and the sound of a kettle clattering in the kitchen.

Draco knew from his last stay here that Lydia and Max existed in a kind of semi magical existence. Spells for some things, muggle technology for others. They had to keep up appearances for Lydia’s muggle family who might pop by at any moment. With the kettle rumbling away in the kitchen like it was trying to prove itself, Draco and Theo had sat a little awkwardly in the living room with Max. He had just been halfway through muttering something to Draco and Theo about the boiler pressure — “ It’s the damn dial again, I swear it’s dropping every time it gets cold. You ever bleed a radiator, Theo?” He asked with the tone of a man who had seen things. “ Even with magic it's a ba—.” He stopped mid-sentence.

He was looking past them, eyes wide. Draco inhaled sharply and he whipped round, expecting some dark clad figure wielding a wand or a knife, or one of those Muggle weapons that shot exploding bullets. 

But it was only Lydia, stood just inside the lounge doorway, hands on her hips, grinning widely. Her chin lifted proudly. 

“What do you think, dad?” She held her arms out.

She was wearing a Hufflepuff Quidditch jersey — stitched with her name across the back in bold, golden letters. She spun around to show it off. 

For a moment, Max stared. Then his brow furrowed in wary suspicion. “Why,” he asked slowly, “is our name on a Hufflepuff team jersey?”

“Well,” Lydia said, dragging it out, her smirk practically audible as she stepped forward, pulling at the hem as if to showcase the jersey better, “the thing is… Draco and I went flying on a date…”

Max’s head swivelled to Draco, eyes narrowing. “Right…”

“And you know how he's the Slytherin team captain?”

“Yes…”

“Well when he saw how good I am,” Lydia continued breezily, “he kind of dared me to try out for the team.”

“You tried out for the team?” Max spluttered, eyes lighting up like the christmas lights on the tree— hope creeping in.

“Well… no,” Lydia said.

Max's face fell.

“I didn’t need to in the end.” She shrugged, her grin smug as anything. “I'm a Hargrove after all and Draco put in a good word with Samhail.”

It took a second for that to sink in — then Max half-leapt to his feet, like his body wanted to cheer before he caught himself and reined it in. “You’re on the team?”

“Reserve Seeker,” Lydia confirmed, her grin softening as her dad crossed the room to her. “But still.”

Max folded her into a fierce hug. “That's amazing, sweetheart! I'm so proud of you!”

“Oh come on, Dad. I probably won't even play.” Lydia shrugged as if it were no big deal, but her eyes sparkled excitedly. “And it's not like I have any career intentions.”

“Nonsense. They'll be mad not to let you play.” Max gushed.

“They really would be. The Hufflepuff Seeker is dire .” Draco put in, dryly. “You should’ve seen him fumbling with the Snitch in the game against Gryffindor— like someone trying to find the start of a toilet roll and just tearing off useless scraps. It was right there in front of him!”

“Even I had second hand embarrassment.” Theo added. “And I have no shame.”

Max pulled back slightly and glanced at Draco, something unspoken in his eyes — still guarded, but not unkind. “I’ve always told her she’s good. How did you convince her?”

Draco gave a little shrug, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I didn’t. I just suggested she was scared she wouldn’t beat me to the Snitch, so it was probably for the best.”

Max snorted — not quite a laugh, but something warmer than anything he’d given Draco before. “Reckon that might actually have worked.”

And Draco had felt it. A shift. Something like gratitude, maybe, from Max. As if Lydia’s dad was warming to him a little. And Max didn’t seem to mind that Draco went round setting wards on the doors and downstairs windows each night. He found himself chatting to Max about quidditch statistics and upcoming fixtures, exchanging tips and tricks. 

On second thought, maybe Max was a little more sympathetic about Draco’s nerves than he’d realised. He never said a word about Draco always choosing the seat with the clearest view of the door, even if it was the arm chair. Didn’t blink when Draco left his wand beside his dinner plate, or went tense every time the boiler made that odd knock-and-hiss sound. Max had even spent an entire afternoon “bleeding radiators” to try and make it stop.

But even with everything in place— the warmth, the safety, the unspoken understanding— the watchfulness never left him entirely. And he was so tired of it. 

Suddenly, a shadow passed across the shop window behind him and Draco turned, spine stiffening — only to see a couple exiting with a baby wrapped in a tartan blanket. No threat. Just noise and light and strangers. But the tension didn’t ease. Draco tried to occlude again, but it was like trying to keep water in your cupped hands; a moment's relief and then it would slip. 

Next door, Theo emerged from the second-hand book shop carrying a brown-wrapped parcel and grinning like he’d won something. He surreptitiously slipped a small parchment roll from a pocket to his lips and lit it with his wand, still hidden in his sleeve.

“Found a Rossetti,” he announced as he sidled up beside Draco, exhaling a puff of herbal-smelling smoke, grinning like a Cheshire cat that had caught a mouse, all loose limbs and proud of himself. “It’s been annotated, too. By a previous owner or something. Looks like something an exiled poet would cry into. She is going to swoon .”

He declared it with all the confidence and ease in the world.

Draco gave a flat little nod. Of course Theo had found the perfect gift — easy, thoughtless even. Like everything between him and Lydia.

They’d come out of the coffeeshop earlier linked at the arms, laughing over something Draco hadn’t heard. She’d kissed Theo’s cheek in thanks, and he hadn’t even blinked. Just patted her hand and told her to bugger off while they hunted for her presents.

It wasn’t that Draco didn’t trust it — Theo had always been tactile, and Lydia knew exactly where her lines were. It wasn’t even that he minded when Theo slung an arm around her or leaned against her on the sofa. They’d done it all term. It was innocent.

But still.

There were times Draco caught them in some casual sprawl — her toes tucked under Theo’s leg, or his shoulder pressed against hers — and felt something clench in his chest.

Not jealousy. Not really.

Envy, maybe. Of the ease between them.

Draco was affectionate with her. He loved touching her — her hand tucked inside his coat pocket, or walking with his arm around her back, fingers slipped into the back pocket of her jeans. Sitting close with his hand resting on her thigh, or gently caressing the back of her neck. He kissed her goodbye in quick, soft touches that often turned into longer, slower ones when he pulled her back in — unable to help himself. Even just passing in the corridor, their fingers would brush or tangle briefly, a quiet promise in motion.

He loved reading with his head in her lap, or hers in his. Studying in the common room with one of them on the floor, leaning back against the other’s leg as they worked at the coffee table. It wasn’t about performance — it was about proximity. Permission. The comfort of being allowed to touch and be touched without flinching.

Draco never took it for granted, the ease of it. That he was allowed to be close.

But Theo didn’t even think about it. He gave affection like he breathed — sprawling across friends, ruffling hair, slinging arms around shoulders. It was a game, half the time — a distraction, a power play, something to keep people at ease while keeping them at a distance. Playful with him and Hannah, with a quiet protective streak a mile wide beneath. Thoughtless with everyone else.

But it was different with Lydia.

Draco saw it — the way Theo softened around her. The way he actually listened when she spoke. The way she tucked herself beneath his arm like she belonged there, and Theo let her, like she did. They were friends, real ones. That was rare for Theo. And it was good. Sweet, even. Draco didn’t resent it. Couldn’t — not with what he knew.

The Slytherin common room had long stopped pretending not to notice the way Nott Senior had always manhandled his son. Everyone had seen it — the sharp claps round the back of Theo’s head, the bruising grip on the back of his neck out of nowhere, the way he’d haul him out of rooms like a dog on a leash, even at the most prestigious galas. The humour Theo wore like armour afterwards. And the rumours about his mum… even if no one said anything directly, everyone knew. Sometimes Draco wondered if they should have done more. But they'd all been children, and the social rules and expectations in their parents circles were iron clad.

So no, Draco didn’t begrudge Theo the affection. The way they’d bonded over their mother’s deaths and more besides. Not when it was real. Not when it was Lydia. Draco knew more than anyone what it was to have her drag you out of the dark.

He just… wanted to know she was his. Because as much as he felt like he was hers — heart and mind and everything in between — she hadn’t said she was his, hadn't said those three little words. Not out loud. Not yet. And sometimes, that space — that silence — echoed louder than anything.

But here he was, being patient. Chasing for all he was worth, trusting that one day those words would be his. She would be his. 

“She’ll be pissed if she smells that on you later, you know,” Draco said, eyeing the parchment roll as Theo took another drag. The herbal scent curled through the cold December air — sharp, earthy, unmistakable. Draco lent away instinctively.

Theo shrugged, exhaling smoke that hung between them. “It’s Christmas. Relax a little.”

Of course he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t listen to Lydia either — just tried to avoid her finding out. Max had, though. He’d quietly added it to the list of house rules that was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a badger in a Father Christmas hat.

Draco didn’t know what the consequences were for breaking house rules — Max had never said. But he wasn’t about to find out. Not with Lydia’s dad. Even Theo, for all his bravado, seemed happy to toe the line — mostly.

Theo was quiet for a beat, then asked, “Did you get it?” His eyes flicked towards the jewellery shop window, and spotted the necklace still in its place.

Draco’s mouth twisted. “I misjudged the conversion rate. Didn’t have enough. I’ll have to think of something else.”

Without hesitation, Theo reached into his coat and peeled a few folded notes from a roll, holding them out like he was offering nothing more than Bertie Botts Beans. “Here. Pay me back when you get the money. Or never. I’ll forget anyway.”

Draco didn’t move. Just stared at the notes. It wasn’t the money that stung. It was how easy Theo made everything seem. How nothing ever seemed to cost him — not in the way things cost Draco. Not in the way feelings cost.

He looked at the parchment roll still smouldering between Theo’s fingers. He understood it, more than he liked to admit — the way Theo dulled the edges. The way he escaped in spirals of smoke and sleepy grins. Draco had other methods. None of them good. Obsessive warding. Long nights without sleep. (Even when Lydia was with him. Sometimes that was worse.) Letting the old guilt gnaw at him when things got too quiet. Draco didn’t smoke, but he understood the urge to take the edge off — especially when it wasn’t just nerves Theo was dulling, but damage. And maybe Draco might’ve been tempted, too, if it weren’t for Lydia. She’d be disappointed. And he couldn’t bear the thought of that.

“She’ll love it,” Theo said, softer now. “And I can see you love it for her. Just take the money and buy the necklace.”

He pressed the notes into Draco’s hand, firm and insistent.

Seeing him hesitate, Theo rolled his eyes and clapped him on the back. “Come on, Pauper Prince, don’t be a proud bastard. It’s not the money — it’s the thought. And you’ve had your heart set on that necklace since you spotted it yesterday.”

Draco clenched his jaw. Exhaled, hard. His fingers curled reflexively around the crumpled notes as Theo pulled away.

The compass rose still sat in the window, unmoving. A quiet, steady thing.

It wasn’t just about giving Lydia something beautiful. It was about saying what he couldn’t — not out loud, not yet.

You show me where I’m meant to be.

You’re how I know I haven’t lost myself completely.

You always find me. Let me find you.

Let me love you.

He didn’t know if she’d see that. If she’d understand what it meant. But maybe she’d feel it.

And Salazar — he could swallow his pride a little deeper for her, couldn’t he? Maybe not for anyone else. But for Lydia?

He’d give her the world if he could.

“Well, if it isn't Draco Malfoy!” A jovial voice called across the street.

Draco’s breath caught — spine locking, shoulders tensing. His head snapped up.

Shit. He’d let himself get distracted. He slammed the occlusion walls down so hard his teeth stung. His eyes scanned instinctively for danger — for someone charging toward him, wand raised, jaw set. A glint of steel beneath winter coats. Another name shouted in fury.

But no.

It wasn’t a threat at all.

It was Silvie Tidewell — Lydia’s Nan — striding toward them with purpose, her arm raised in a cheery wave, her scarf fluttering in the wind like a victory banner.

Without thinking, Draco turned and snatched the parchment roll from Theo’s lips, dropped it to the pavement and crushed it under his heel.

“Oi! What are you—?”

When Draco turned back, Silvie was already across the road, her sensible boots clicking briskly on the wet pavement. There was something unshakeable in her walk, like she’d never once hesitated in her life. He once again doubted her claims that she wouldn’t have been able to sow those buttons on the coat she’d given him. 

 “Come here, duck,” she said, arms already outstretched.

Draco barely had time to brace before she pulled him into a hug — solid, warm, and longer than he expected. She smelled faintly of peppermint and washing powder, and there was a quiet hum of greeting in her chest, like the hug was as much for her as for him.

He let himself breathe, soften into it, for just a moment. 

When she finally pulled back, she looked him over the way healers sometimes did —the way Lydia did— not for injury, but for something deeper. And she must’ve found something there, because her eyes softened further.

“Doesn’t that coat suit you right down to the ground! And all the buttons still attached, I see. Quality handiwork, that.” Her eyes twinkled, and Draco flushed, warmth flickering up his neck. He couldn’t help it — her delight was infectious and he was unnecessarily proud of how the buttons were holding up given he'd stitched them— by hand. 

“It’s lovely to see you, Miss Tidewell,” he said, and meant it. Something unfurled in his chest — not tension, but something gentler. These bloody Tidewell women, making him soft.

“How are you?” He asked

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, waving a mittened hand. “Just had lunch with the ladies from yoga, and then I thought I’d pop into the supermarket. Final bits for Christmas dinner. And a few last-minute treats for you young ’uns.”

She turned to Theo, her crafty joy not missing a beat. “And you must be Theodore.”

She opened her arms again — like it was the most natural thing in the world — and Theo blinked, thrown for half a beat, but leaned in. Of course he did .

Over her shoulder, he shot Draco a look that said, Is this normal? Draco gave a barely-there nod.

“This is Lydia’s Nan, Silvie Tidewell,” he said, by way of formal introduction.

Silvie laughed as she pulled back. “Oh yes, sorry — where are my manners? I don’t normally just go around hugging young men on the street, you know.”

Theo, recovering fast, flashed a grin like it was a reflex. “Wouldn’t complain if you did.”

“Fragrant, aren’t you?” she remarked, peering at him with a raised brow.

Theo’s smile faltered.

Draco’s pulse jumped. Panic clawed at his chest — not now, not in front of Silvie — but then she simply patted Theo’s arm and stepped upwind, nose wrinkling in amusement.

“I lived through the sixties, you know,” she said lightly. “Everyone thought they were being subtle back then, too.”

Theo blinked. Then laughed — just a puff of air, but real.

“Duly noted,” he said, reaching a hand to the back of his neck.

Silvie just offered a smile that was a little sad. “I won’t go telling no one, but don’t go bringing that stuff to my house, you understand? Lydia and her dad’ll have a field day, and I’m already housing Bryan and his lot — I won’t have space to put you up if Max chucks you out.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour, Mrs Tidewell — promise.” Theo solemnly crossed a finger over his heart.

Silvie rolled her eyes with good humour, her mouth twitching. She looked Theo over again — that same assessing, matter-of-fact gaze that cut through bravado like glass.

“Be careful though, eh, duck? That stuff can send you down darker paths if you’re not careful.”

Theo opened his mouth — probably to deliver a quip — but Silvie had already turned to Draco.

“So, you boys on the hunt for last-minute gifts too, I take it? How’s that going?”

Theo beamed and held up a neatly wrapped brown-paper package from the bookshop. “Great.”

Draco, at the same time, muttered, “Okay,” and immediately hated how unconvincing he sounded.

Silvie raised an eyebrow at him. She waited — patient, kind, just enough space for him to explain himself.

“I… didn’t exactly come prepared,” Draco admitted, and winced as his cheeks warmed. He glanced away.

Theo rolled his eyes. “He wants to get Lydia that necklace,” Theo nodded to the piece of jewelry waiting in the window. “But he’s a bit short and won’t let me lend him the money,” he said brightly.

Draco shot him a sharp look. “Subtle, Theo.”

But Silvie’s expression shifted as she followed Theo’s glance to the shop window — to the simple, elegant necklace nestled on dark velvet.

“Well, you’ve got good instincts, love,” she said over her shoulder. “Lydia isn’t one for big gestures — not with jewellery — but that’s understated enough. I think she’d really appreciate it.”

Her gaze returned to Draco, softening.

“And the money is nothing to be embarrassed about. We’ve all leaned on someone, sometime. The trick’s just remembering to pass it forward when you’re able.”

Draco blinked. The words were gentle, but sure — and they settled in his chest with more weight than he expected.

“And besides,” she added, breezily, “if the worst thing you do this season is let someone help you, I’d say you’re in pretty good shape.”

Draco had to work not to roll his eyes — or bite his tongue. All he’d done since leaving the Ministry holding cells was let people help him. Pride had become more of a memory than a habit.

Theo smiled, and playfully nudged Silvie with his elbow. “You always this wise?”

“Oh, I’ve just had more years to collect my mistakes,” Silvie replied with a wink. “And a good memory for what mattered, in the end.”

She turned back to Draco, more serious now.

“It’s not about the price tag, you know. Not really. It’s about choosing something with care. That necklace — it means something to you. And it says you see her. That’s more than enough.”

“Told you, mate,” Theo said. “Just take the money and get the necklace.”

“And that’s very kind of you, Theo,” Silvie said, “but don’t go giving away too much of that big heart of yours.”

Draco snorted. “Theo? A big heart?”

But Silvie just looked Theo up and down again, eyes twinkling. “Oh yes. Both of you. Very sweet boys. An old lady can tell.”

Theo blinked, clearly not used to that kind of affection. He didn’t seem to know where to look. Draco was used to feeling exposed. Theo just looked… disarmed.

Silvie reached out and patted Draco’s arm. “It’s not about the cost,” she repeated gently. “The right gift… it says what you can’t. And I’d say you’ve already got that part sorted.”

Warmth bloomed in Draco’s chest — sudden, unsettling.

Silvie took a step back again, repositioning her shopping bags. “Right, well, I shall see you boys the day after tomorrow. Enjoy your Christmas Day swim — I’ll make sure the food’s nice and hot to warm you up after!”

Draco and Theo turned to each other in unison. “Swim?”

“Town tradition,” Silvie called over her shoulder, already walking away up the street. “Ask Lydia!”

Theo looked mildly horrified. “She means in a pool, right? Like… a nice hot one? With bubbles? And champagne?”

Draco swallowed. “I doubt it. Max mentioned the swim on the House Rules list. I didn't want to ask.”

“They mean the sea, don’t they?” Theo visibly deflated, his fingers twitching—a rare crack in his usual composure. Nervous, Draco realised. Almost pained. 

“Quite possibly…” Draco answered carefully, watching Theo’s reaction.

“Bloody house rules,” Theo muttered darkly, shoving his hands in his pockets, his usual nonchalance cloaking him.

“You can swim, right?” Draco asked, with a flicker of genuine concern.

“If I say no, do you think Lydia will believe me?” Theo asked, brows raised slightly in hope.

“No. And I think she’d drag us out regardless.”

Theo tried to cover a wince by feigning interest in a young couple walking hand in hand. Draco wasn’t sure which of the couple Theo was pretending to track with that faux glint in his eye — neither, if Draco was right and it was an act. But also quite possibly both. Eventually, Theo sighed, dragging his gaze up from his feet to Draco’s face. “Muggles are crazy.”

Draco nodded grimly eyeing the street. The necklace caught his eye again. “Better get this bloody gift and we can go interrogate my girlfriend.”

Theo chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”

Addendums to 

HARGROVE HOUSE RULES FOR CHRISTMAS HOUSEGUESTS

1. NO MAGIC NEAR THE FUSEBOX because Dad still hasn’t figured out how to rewire it.  
2. THE THERMOSTAT IS NOT A TOY. DO NOT TOUCH. But it’s so cold first thing in the morning. Its not if you wake up by a normal time, Theo!
3. LYDIA’S ROOM = DOOR OPEN IF EITHER BOY IS IN THERE  You’re so embarrassing, dad! ALL BEDROOM DOORS OPEN IF THERE ARE CO-ED OCCUPANTS! Bold of you to assume Draco and I aren’t up to mischief behind closed doors You wish, Nott.
4. RESPECT THE BOILER. THERE IS ONLY SO MUCH HOT WATER - If the heating clanks at you, apologise and back away slowly. 
5. CHRISTMAS DAY SWIM IS NON-NEGOTIABLE I have concerns… 
6. CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES. NO ELVES WORK HERE I’m more of a manager but you’re all doing a great job keeping the place tidy, boys. 
7. DO NOT JUST TAKE FOOD FROM THE KITCHEN WITHOUT ASKING It was Draco! Don’t blame Draco, we know it was you Theo! Ganging up on me now, you liars! It was definitely Lydia! It actually was Lydia…
8. No quidditch talk at the dinner table! I'm looking at you, Dad and Draco!
9. NO SMOKING INSIDE, MAGICAL OR OTHERWISE Okay, that was my fault…
10. MUG ARMISTICE - PLEASE RETURN ALL CUPS AND GLASSES TO THE KITCHEN BEFORE 10AM AND NO CONSEQUENCES WILL FOLLOW Or what? OR YOU'LL BE WASHING UP BY HAND. Salazar have mercy! 

Chapter Text

Lydia woke in a hazy sort of way, as if sleep slowly filtered out and the real world filtered in. First, a burble of rhythmic sound that didn’t make much sense. Then a dull ache in her head—the type that made you want to drift back to sleep.

Next came sensation: she was lying on a mattress that was not quite comfortable, beneath sheets that were just slightly too starched and some form of clothing that was equally stiff. The smell was the first thing she truly recognised—the antiseptic tang of lemon they used in the hospital wing. It made her head throb a little, and when she winced, she realised her whole face hurt. Instinctively, she flexed her fingers, and was aware of her little finger brushing up against something that made her skin prickle. Something gentle and cool curled around her fingers—another hand, intertwined with hers.

And then, suddenly, the sounds sharpened, clarified. Voices.

“No. I’m not going without her.” A voice said. Familiar… Her brain felt like it was lagging behind.

“You don’t have a choice,” A second voice responded. “You have to be on that train, son.”

The hand around her fingers tightened in frustration. The first voice tensed.

“With all due respect, Mr Hargrove, do not call me that.”

A pause.

Lydia tried to make sense of what she was hearing, to make it mean something. But her thoughts felt like soup. The thick kind, with lots of lumps getting in the way.

“None of us want to go without her, mate.” A third voice. That one slipped through the fog like a key turning in a lock. Something about it was warm and golden. It reminded her of a photo of herself from her fifth birthday that hung amongst a collage in the hallway at home. A photo of her at the dining table, a huge iced cake in front of her with a host of school friends gathered around, everyone caught mid-song, glowing in the soft light of the candles she was about to blow out…

Theo.

“She’ll probably be safer with you gone,” the second voice muttered gently. The hand squeezed her fingers tighter for a moment. “You all need to say goodbye and get to the station. The Express leaves in an hour. I’ll bring her up as soon as she’s well enough to travel.”

Dad. Lydia realised, finally. Dad has a plan. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It…

Wait—

The Express. The train back to school. They were going to miss the train.

Lydia tried to open her eyes. She couldn’t miss the train! She had to get back to school. She—

Draco!

Draco was the one saying he wouldn’t leave. Why wouldn’t he leave? Who wouldn’t he leave—

Oh. Me.

He won’t leave me.

I’m hurt.

I’m…

Other sounds gradually came into focus—the soft, rhythmic beeping of diagnostic charms. The creak of a chair shifting under someone's weight. The faint squeak of rubber soles on polished tiles.  It smelled like antiseptic and spell-cleansed linen. Like the hospital wing at school.

Because it was a hospital. 

St Mungo’s.

Lydia blinked groggily. Why?

Pain lanced through her side as she tried to move, sharp and immediate. Her breath caught. Voices rose around her, overlapping and urgent—declaring she was awake, calling her name, asking if she was alright. Someone— Hannah —went off to fetch a Healer.

The witchlights stabbed at her eyes as Lydia forced them open, the brightness making her wince.

“I’m fine,” she croaked, though her throat was raw and her mouth painfully dry. A cup of water would be great. 

Was she ill? Or injured? Her side throbbed, deep and insistent. Inconclusive.

She slumped back into the pillows, trying to catch the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been chasing.

“Hey, baby girl. You’re alright. You’re in St Mungo’s.” Her dad’s voice—soft but frayed at the edges. Rough fingers brushed her hair from her forehead.

“I know that,” Lydia mumbled, blinking again until his face came into focus.

A smile tugged faintly at one side of his mouth at her tone, before his brow creased. “Do you remember what happened?”

She frowned, the memory slow to surface. They’d gone to a show—Nana Silvie’s Christmas present. A musical in London before they went back to school. Dad had come too. He’d upgraded them to a private box. Security , he’d said—because of what happened to Draco. But it had felt like they were celebrating after Lydia received confirmation of her place at St Mungo's that morning.

The little fluff ball of a snowy owl had pattered at her window far too early and the letter it carried seemed far too big for it, as if the letter arriving in the wet and windy New Year weather was another test her application had needed to pass. 

She'd torn the seal and screamed so loud everyone came running: her dad thundering up the stairs with tea split down his front, Draco still with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and hair damp from the shower, Theo looking lethal in black silk pyjamas even as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.

“I got in. I'm on the Healer Training Programme!” she'd exclaimed. 

And then there'd been cheers and hugs and that energy had carried them through packing and travel to London. Hannah had been equally ecstatic for her. 

And the show had been good—the first half at least. Fun. Funny. She’d loved the music, the story. She and Hannah had gushed over the main actor and the costumes. At intermission, they went to get ice cream. She’d picked raspberry ripple—she hadn’t had it in ages.

And then as they got back to the box—

Someone shouting.
A wand raised.
“Voldemort’s betrayer must die!”

Draco!

She remembered stepping in front of him. The hit of the curse. Lying on the floor in the chaos, her tub of ice cream, puddling into a swirl of red and white, melting into the carpet.

What a shame, she remembered thinking, almost absently. I hadn’t even had a bite.

Her fingers twitched reflexively—and the hand around hers caught them. Cool. Steady. Squeezing gently, cocooning them.

“Draco?” she managed to whisper this time, her voice still rough.

“I’m here.”

The sound of his voice drew her gaze to the other side. She turned, her neck stiff, her cheek aching. There he was—pale and tired, but safe. Alive. Watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth watching.

“I’m right here,” he reassured her, the corner of his mouth quirking for a flash. There was relief in his eyes—but anger, too. It showed in the tight line of his mouth, the clench of his jaw.

“...Good…” Lydia breathed, forcing a smile through the pain. She wanted to sit up and kiss him, just to be sure he was real—but her ribs flared with pain at the thought, and her dad was leaning in close. It felt... awkward.

“Everyone’s okay?” She asked carefully.

Draco nodded, his voice low. “We’re all fine. You took a slicing hex to the side, Lydia. You—”

That explained the pain then. Deep and dragging across her ribs like something unfinished.

“My face hurts…” she muttered, breaking the train of Draco's thoughts, stopping the anger creeping in. Not here. Not now.

“You hit the theatre chairs face first from the force of the spell. Broke your nose, one of her cheeks.” It was her dad who answered. He tried for a smile when she looked back to him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You look a bit like a raccoon, but the Skele-Gro will fix it by tomorrow. Healer Jensen promised.”

“Great.” Lydia exhaled slowly and braced herself. Every movement cost her, but she pushed herself upright against the pillows anyway.

Theo appeared beside the bed, holding out a plastic cup of water. “Here,” he said gently.

She squinted at it, vision swimming for a moment as she tried to judge the distance, then took the cup, concentrating on not holding it too hard, steadily bringing it to her lips. The water was cool, smooth against her throat. She drank a few sips carefully, it hurt to swallow, to tip the glass. Without looking she handed it back—she wasn’t even sure to whom.

“Where are my clothes?” she asked, eyes scanning the room. 

Of course she was in one of those hideous hospital gowns—thin cotton, scratchy seams. Barely dignified.

“Lydia, you need to rest…” her dad said at once, already bracing for argument, just as the healer entered with Hannah trailing behind.

Healer Jensen was tall and lean, with neatly combed ash-brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses that lent him an academic air. His pale green robes were sharp and tidy, but the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the carefully curated stubble, suggested he belonged in the thick of things. At first glance, he looked exactly like a healer—but not in the pristine, pressed-robes, hospital-ward sense. He looked like someone who patched people up in hallways and held the line when things went to hell. Lydia recognised the sharpness behind the glasses—the kind that had seen everything twice and didn’t waste words.

“I need to get to the station,” Lydia said, cutting across her dad. “We can’t miss the Express. We’ll be safe behind the wards—”

“Miss Hargrove,” Healer Jensen interjected as he moved closer, her dad and Theo making space. He spoke with the calm precision of someone used to being obeyed without fuss, “I’d advise you to lie down so I can examine you—”

Pointedly, Lydia didn’t immediately comply, something in her spine straightening as she held his gaze. He waited out her moment of defiance and after a beat Lydia let herself sit back against the pillows, teeth grinding as muscles stretched and pulled painfully in her side. 

Merlin's beard, it hurt to bloody breathe. 

He ran a barrage of diagnostics—efficient, precise. Lydia recognised every charm, every flick of his wand. She’d performed them herself, dozens of times. She stayed quiet, letting him mutter acronyms and healing jargon that probably terrified other patients.

“All good,” she said, as he finished. “I’ll be fine. I am fine. I can’t miss the train.”

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, far less smoothly than she’d intended, away from her dad and Healer Jensen, towards Draco. She swallowed the small gasp of pain that caught in her throat. Draco was already there to steady her, one hand at her elbow, the other hovering at her waist. She hadn’t even needed to look.

“You need to let your body heal,” Healer Jensen said again, a little more firmly this time — though he remained exactly where he was, arms folded, watching her with the faint air of someone letting nature take its course.

“Lydia, get back in bed. Now.” By comparison her dad’s tone left no room for argument. And yet, Lydia shook her head. 

“I’ll be safer at school. We all will. I just need to get to the platform—”

“The Aurors still want to talk to you,” her dad cut in with a wince.

“The Aurors?”

Max nodded.

Lydia turned sharply to Draco, forgetting to suppress the hiss between her teeth at the sudden movement. He tried to school his expression, but she raised an eyebrow, expecting honesty.

“How bad was it?” she demanded. 

“There were enough witnesses,” he said quietly. “They didn’t even take my wand this time. They wanted to. But your dad called someone, checked the procedures. They had no cause.”

The family lawyer , Lydia thought vaguely. Probably the same one who handled Draco’s trial.

She blinked, then blinked again—finally registering the blood on Draco’s white shirt. Deep, rust-brown stains soaked into the fabric over one side of his chest. Dried blood under his nails.

Her heart lurchrd. He’d said he was fine… he’d said…

It was hers. She realised it slowly, distantly. Reached out with unsteady fingers to touch the largest stain—

Draco caught her hand before she made contact. His fingers closed around hers, grounding her.

“You need to rest,” he murmured, leaning in close, drawing her attention to those stormy grey eyes, swirling with dark shadows and fine fog. “You should stay.”

 The faintest tremor in his voice. She could feel how much it cost him to say it. To suggest she stay while he left.

“I can rest on the train,” she said gently. “It’s nine hours, what else am I going to do here?”

Draco’s jaw tightened, torn between what was best for her and what she was asking—what she wanted , what he wanted too. She looked past him, scanning the room. “Where are my clothes?”

Healer Jensen cleared his throat. “Miss Hargrove, your interview transcript mentioned experience with slicing hexes—”

( How did he know that? )

“—so I assume you’re also familiar with the concept of rest as part of recovery.”

Of course. Draco had spent two days in the hospital wing after…

“And you do realise the Skele-Gro won’t fully reset your nose until tomorrow at the earliest? Or shall I fetch a mirror?”

“I’m going.” Lydia cut him off. “I’ve got assignments due tomorrow. Classes. Exams soon. Give me my notes—I’ll pass them on to Madam Pomfrey. Or send them by owl, whatever suits you.”

She turned to her dad. “We’ll be safer under Hogwarts wards. I can’t miss that train.”

Max sighed, long and resigned as he dragged a hand over his face. He wasn’t convinced, but he also knew there was no stopping her short of physically restraining her.

“And the Aurors?” he asked.

“They can come to Hogwarts if it’s so important,” Lydia snapped.

“You’re the victim, Lyds. You have to decide if you want them to pursue the investigation.”

That stopped her. She frowned at him.

“What do you mean? Of course I want them to pursue it. Someone tried to attack Draco. Again. I’ve been severely injured. You can’t just let people get away with that.”

Theo stepped in wordlessly, appearing at her other side with her clothes bundled in his arms. He held them out, and Lydia snatched them a little more sharply than she meant to. Theo backed off without a word as Healer Jensen rolled his lips inward and inhaled sharply through his nose, clearly holding back a comment. 

Then, with a small, resigned sigh and a tone verging on boredom, he said, “Miss Hargrove, I strongly advise you to slow down. What kind of example will you set for future patients if you won’t take medical advice?”

Medical advice? Lydia stilled for a brief moment. Healers wouldn't normally use a Muggle term like that...

Lydia pinned the thought for later and ignored him. She bent, gingerly and awkward but with Draco steadying her, worked her feet and legs into her jeans, pulling them up beneath the gown. 

A hiss escaped her lips as she straightened, her side erupting with pain, deep and sharp. 

“I’m fine,” she said, through gritted teeth before anyone could protest. “Check the diagnostics. All green. All normal.”

She waved a shaky hand toward the floating charms above the bed—though she knew, with one glance, her heart rate and oxygen levels were slightly elevated. 

And her side—
Shit.

It felt like something was tearing, like a thousand fibres were frayed to breaking. It burned. Lydia leaned back carefully against the mattress and bedframe, trying not to pant, trying not to notice the concern creasing Draco’s brow, making his eyes scan her frantically. Trying to ignore the glances exchanged by everyone else. 

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, softer this time, tone plaintive. “I just need to get on the train. I’ll feel better once we’re behind the wards, can I get some painkillers?” 

Healer Jensen narrowed his eyes. 

“Paracetamol, ibuprofen, morphine?” Lydia asked hopefully. 

Healer Jensen’s lip quirked up, not quite a snarl, or distaste but something that acknowledged how much trouble she was causing him. 

“You know we don't have those here,” he bit out. 

From his position lent against the wall, Theo finished patting down the pockets of his jacket, dug into one and then tossed a strip of ibuprofen onto the bed. Lydia grinned. She could kiss him! 

“You shouldn't mix Muggle medicine with magical…”

“Show me the research.” Lydia challenged, as she popped out two tablets and Draco handed her the water cup. She swallowed them in one go, unnecessarily triumphant. 

Rolling his eyes, the healer huffed, but his mouth almost curled into a smile. “Fine. But I’ll remember this in the summer when I mentor you. I’ll get the paperwork.” He turned, muttering under his breath as he left, “Healers make the worst patients.”

Wait—mentor?

She blinked, startled. Healer Jensen was going to be her mentor?

She didn’t have time to think about that now. She needed to get dressed. Get to the station. Behind the wards. 

“Hannah, can you…?” Lydia nodded at the bra and t-shirt laid out on the bed.

Hannah stepped forward at once, clearing her throat in a pointed little cough. Draco backed away, and—dutifully—the boys and her dad all turned their backs in unison before Hannah reached for the ties on the gown and helped her finish dressing.

Hannah moved with practised care, slipping a clean bra around Lydia’s ribs, up her arms, but her fingers fumbled at the clasp. Lydia felt the tremor in them, saw how Hannah blinked too quickly, jaw tight as she tried again. A sharp spike of panic stabbed at Lydia’s chest, tighter than the bruises beneath the bandages. This isn’t supposed to be hard. It shouldn’t be like this.

Behind them, Max had started speaking again—calm, steady, but grim. “The aurors reckon it was a spur-of-the-moment attack—like that makes it better. Just some rogue family member of a Death Eater crossing paths and taking a chance, rather than anything organised. Especially since we only switched to the box at the last minute and the tickets were bought by your Nan…”

Barely listening, Lydia sucked in a breath despite the sting, willing herself to stay steady—but the clasp still wouldn’t catch, and the too-snug band pressed cruelly across her ribs. Tears pricked at her eyes. Too many emotions welling up at this inconvenience. 

God, just stop. Please.

“It's too tight,” Lydia murmured quickly, breathless— hopefully quiet enough so only Hannah would hear. Her voice trembling despite herself, her body shaking trying to shed the offending item of clothing like it was making her skin crawl. “Just—leave it. It’s fine.”

Their eyes met for a beat—Hannah’s wide and shining, trying not to let it show. Lydia felt the panic flutter again, fragile and quick, like it might break free. But Hannah simply pressed her lips together and nodded once, quietly stepping back and helping ease a t-shirt over Lydia’s head instead—the bra discarded. It probably would have been painful to have it on anyway, Lydia tried to convince herself. It didn't matter. 

“The lawyer said if you pursue it, you risk creating a martyr—and the Ministry's nervous about a resurgence.” Max continued, unaware of the exchange between the girls. “Not to mention, you and Draco would be in the spotlight again. It could put you both at more risk.”

“Not sure we can get more in the spotlight,” Draco muttered, glancing over his shoulder as Lydia pushed her arms carefully through the sleeves of the t-shirt. But there was nothing cheeky or heated in the stolen glance; his gaze caught on the white bandages still wrapped tight across her ribs, and guilt flickered in his expression, sharp and unspoken. He looked away before she could say anything, and Hannah helped her ease the t-shirt down her torso. 

“There’s a whole host of reporters waiting outside the hospital,” Hannah explained quietly.

Fantastic. 

Then came the jumper, thick and warm, and by the time it was on, Hannah had drawn in a quiet breath and pulled herself back together, just enough.  Lydia pushed back the stone in her own throat, the sting in her eyes. For a moment, as Hannah fussed with the hem, Lydia considered it: she could stay here. Rest. Let someone else deal with things for a while. Her body hurt, and the bed was warm.

But the train felt important. Safe. Symbolic. And her friends were getting on it.

She looked at Draco—at the weariness in the set of his shoulders and the way he hovered just close enough to catch her if she swayed—and she knew she couldn’t bear to be separated from him. Not again. Not after everything. All she wanted was to be behind a locked door, curled up next to him, bodies intertwined, their pulses still humming with proof that they were alive.

Her gaze drifted to Theo—he seemed unusually quiet, the lightness in him dimmed. He stood a little apart, lent back against the wall again, arms folded as if holding himself together, his expression shuttered but not unreadable. There was a weight in his eyes, when they flickered to hers—as if he’d felt her watching. Something more than exhaustion in the shadows under his eyes, something that tugged at her; pain, maybe, or the ache of someone trying hard not to need anything. She felt it like the pull in her ribs, sharp and bruising. 

She offered him the smallest smile before another wave of exhaustion rolled over her and she closed her eyes for a moment.

But she was her mother’s daughter. She rode waves for fun.

“Tell the lawyer I am pressing charges,” Lydia said, her voice hoarse but steady as she looked to her dad, resolute. “I’ll send a statement tomorrow—or if the Aurors want to talk, they can go through McGonagall. I’m not letting this go.” She paused, jaw tight. “If there’s a way to keep it quiet, that's better. But let them write their bloody press release if they have to.”

She took a breath, looked to her friends. “We have a train to catch.”

A moment later, Healer Jensen returned, pushing a wheelchair with a clipboard tucked under his arm.

“Right,” he said, resigned. “I’ve arranged for you to Floo directly to the station—avoid the crowd. Can’t promise there won’t be reporters at the other end, though.”

He handed her the clipboard. “You’ll need to sign the release. I spoke with Madam Pomfrey via Floo. She offered to take you straight to the hospital wing at Hogwarts from here. I told her you’d probably decline. She agreed but I should ask anyway.” He raised his eyebrows in question. 

Lydia hesitated. That was the sensible choice. The smart one. Avoid the chaos at the station, the hours on the train travelling, the rock and sway of the train that was going to ask a lot of her healing muscles. But she wasn’t leaving her friends. Wasn’t leaving Draco with only one semi-neutral witness. What if something else happened on the train?

“I’m still taking the train,” she said with a nod.

Healer Jensen rolled his eyes in a very unprofessional way. “Of course you are. Absolutely. Stellar choice.” Then more to himself, grumbled with a spark in his eyes, “I am really looking forward to mentoring you for the next three years.”

Lydia took the pen, signed the form, and was halfway through pocketing it before Healer Jensen cleared his throat meaningfully. She blinked, disoriented for a second, then realised what she was doing—the habit she'd fallen into—and handed it back without comment.

“Definitely a healer,” he said, with the smallest smile—and Lydia felt the words bloom with quiet warmth in her chest. “I don’t want to see you back here until August, Miss Hargrove.”

Lydia gave him a tired but genuine smile. “I’ll do my best.”

He was nothing like Madam Pomfrey — less stern, more wry — and she had the distinct impression he’d be the sort of mentor to let her make a mess just to see how she sorted it. But there was something steady about him, something calm and unhurried. Something adaptable. She could live with that. As first impressions went, she felt better about starting her rotations in August — though she doubted he felt quite as optimistic about mentoring her after this.

With Hannah’s help, she circled the bed and lowered herself carefully into the wheelchair.

Before anyone else could move, Theo stepped forward with quiet resolve, taking hold of the handles like they’d always been his to take. Draco moved a moment later, instinctively reaching for the chair. “I’ll do it—”

Theo gave a quick shake of his head, turning the wheelchair so the handles were out of Draco’s reach. Surprised, Lydia grabbed the sides to keep her balance as her dad and Healer Jensen both jumped as if to catch her.

“Hey! Back off!” Theo protested. “You got to cradle her in your arms while she nearly bled to death and hold her hand all night.” He pouted, petulant. Lydia felt like a toy they were squabbling over. She didn’t miss the way Theo angled his body just slightly, blocking Draco’s path like it was instinct. Or the way Draco’s jaw tensed—not in anger, but in something quieter. Something possessive.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure which of them was more ridiculous. 

Theo paused just long enough for the humour to stretch thin, then relaxed his posture and added, “Besides… I didn’t get to do anything last night. Hannah had the spells covered. Max tackled the bastard clean out of the box. Security were on him before he could even stand up again. And then it was over. And you”—he flicked his fingers toward Lydia with a grin—“you had the gall to try and bleed all over the place. So this,” he tapped the back of the wheelchair, “this is my job.”

And then, as if to make a point, Theo aimed his wand at Draco’s clothes, low and quick.

“ Scourgify. ”

The last of Lydia’s blood vanished in a silent puff and Draco twitched as if he might lunge. But Theo’s wand was away inside his coat before Draco could start.

Lydia rolled her eyes and relaxed back into the chair as Hannah chuckled. Typical Theo — cracking a joke to expertly patch over the cracks. Draco huffed beside her, rolled his eyes too — but there was no bite to it and he ceded the space without further comment as he pulled the hood of his jumper up. "Fine,” he sighed before glancing to the door. “Into the fray then, I suppose."

Gently,Theo rested a hand on her shoulder, and she instinctively reached up to pat it, as if to say I'm here, I'm okay. As if they both needed that reassurance. Lydia felt some pull in her chest settle. 

Resolved, Lydia turned toward the door too and caught her dad’s eyes rolling toward the ceiling, as if silently praying for strength—clearly having had more than enough of supervising squabbling teenage boys all Christmas. At the same moment, Healer Jensen’s eyebrow arched in an unmistakable expression, and the two men exchanged a brief, knowing look—the kind that said, Teenagers!

Healer Jensen exhaled, stepped toward the door as he ticked the clipboard under his arm and said, “This way.”

***

This time, when Lydia stirred awake, Draco was watching.

He’d been watching for a while—stroking her hair absently, letting himself sink into the small quiet of this moment. The weight of her head and shoulder against him, the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the soft rhythmic rattle of the train beneath them—all of it helped quiet the part of him still vibrating with tension.

He felt the shift as she drew a deeper breath, heard the low hum of contentment on her exhale. Her smile formed before her eyes even opened, like her body already knew it was him—by scent, by feel, or by simple, exhausted certainty. He brushed the hair from her temple again, couldn’t help the way his own mouth curved in answer when she rolled back slightly, like a flower seeking sunlight.

Her eyes fluttered. Opened. Closed. Opened again.

And when those green eyes finally locked on his, something inside him eased.

“There you are,” he said, voice low.

“Here I am,” she breathed.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Safe. Together. Real.

A far cry from the chaos of the station—of Max carving a path through the shouting crowd, of Hermione trying to corral the press with some speech about unity at the other end of the station —no doubt hoping a final act of public virtue might make everything feel a little less broken. Theo had steered the wheelchair precisely. Hannah had made herself the buffer, her shoulders stiff. Draco had kept his head down, jaw tight, muscles coiled like he expected a second ambush. Maybe they all had.

None came.

But the flashbulbs had followed them up the train steps, and even now, he swore he could still feel their burn behind his eyes.

He let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. It wasn’t relief exactly. More like disbelief, that she was still here. That she could smile at him like that after last night. That cauldron-damned, easy as anything, Cheshire cat smile melting everything sharp and cold in his chest. 

He'd nearly lost that…

His fingers stilled in her hair.

“You’re not allowed to do that again,” he said, not exactly meaning to. Not harshly. Not quite a joke. His voice caught somewhere in between.

Lydia blinked, slowly propping herself up on one elbow, wincing as she twisted to keep his gaze. “Do what?”

“Throw yourself in front of a curse for me.” His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Not like that. Not again.”

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off, body shifting as if he wanted to move, but somewhat pinned by her closness. “You were bleeding everywhere , Lydia. I thought—I thought you were—” He stopped. Swallowed. Looked away. “I couldn’t do anything.”

There it was. The thing that had been chewing through his insides since it happened. He’d been useless. He’d held her while she bled, like some tragic fucking prop, while everyone else did something that mattered. And he’d frozen—not out of fear, but calculation. Because if he did the wrong thing—or Merlin forbid, even the right one—he could land himself in Azkaban. One spell. That’s all it might take.

There’d been a moment, too, at the hospital—one of the Aurors interviewing them had raised an eyebrow at his presence in London. Asked about his probation conditions. Was he even meant to be in the city already? The Hogwarts Express didn’t leave until morning.

Max had stepped in, cool and certain. Said he was Draco’s “probationary guardian” until the train left. That Draco was under his supervision, that of course he was allowed to be at the hospital, in the city—because Max was there.

Draco hadn’t even known he had a probationary guardian. Let alone that it was Max Hargrove.

But Max had the paperwork. Or had the Hargrove family solicitor send it over in minutes.

And that, apparently, was that.

Draco hadn't had the energy—or the capacity—to argue. Not then. Not with Lydia hurt and bruised and pale and terrifyingly still in the hospital bed. But now, after hours of sitting and stewing in it, he’d resolved to ask for a copy of the paperwork. If he was going to be assigned a bloody guardian , he wanted to understand what that meant.

Lydia stirred in his lap, her fingers ghosting over his jaw before cupping his cheek.

"I'm okay now," she whispered. "I'm safe. We're safe."

Draco felt it build in his chest—the protest. The pressure, the panic, the rage . Slow, heavy, inevitable. A molten ache that burned low and deep, like something buried beneath his core forcing its way upward. It throbbed beneath his skin, hot and suffocating, filling the hollow places with pressure that had nowhere to go.

Safe. The word echoed like a taunt, like something he wasn’t allowed to believe. He wanted to. Salazar, he wanted to. But all he could feel was the heat of everything that almost happened, still pulsing through his veins. 

He needed to move, to run, to claw at the walls of the compartment and fly high until he couldn’t breathe—but he was pinned by the weight of her. Unless he shifted her off his lap, he was trapped. He fought the urge to shove her away. Because she was injured. Because of him.

His fists clenched, arms rigid, and he pressed his back against the seat like he could create some space. 

"You could have died," he snapped. His voice cracked, rough and brittle, like the words themselves might shatter.

Lydia’s brows pulled together. She sat up slowly, wincing, cradling her arm protectively against her ribs. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

“So could you,” she said, evenly. She met his angry panic with an unmoving wall of truth and defiance that unbound something behind his ribs.

Then, almost imperceptibly, her expression softened. She reached for his hand.

It’s not enough. I’m not enough. 

Draco jerked away. Stood. Crossed to the door. The compartment was too small. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere…

He flexed and closed his hands, trying to chase away the tingle crawling beneath his skin — the restless edge of anger, fear, and something like guilt. Nothing would quiet it. Nothing was enough.

"Draco?" Her voice cracked, sharp with pain. He kept his back to her, fingers interlacing behind his head now, twisting into his hair like the pain pulling at his scalp could be enough penance . He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Took a breath. 

"Your dad's right," he said, voice low and taut. "You’d be safer without me."

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t see the way she froze as he dropped his hands, stared at the useless things. He didn't know what to do with them. 

"That's what the reporters said on the platform.” He continued, trying not to look over his shoulder. “That’s what the papers said this morning. That you got hurt— because of me."

"No," she said, fierce now. "Don’t do that. Don’t you dare —"

She shoved herself to her feet and closed the distance. Made him turn. Caught his face in both hands, forcing him to look at her.

"You love me," she said. It was a statement. A lifeline.

He flinched.

Looked past her, to the bags they’d stowed in the overhead nets. Bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. Stared at the sharp lines of his grey coat, folded atop his case like it might offer answers—or armour. Like it might open up and swallow him whole—like it had been waiting, silent and patient, for him to stop pretending he could keep her close without putting her in harm’s way. Tried to push the truth away because then, maybe… he could still protect her by letting her go.

"You love me," she repeated, softer this time. Like maybe he’d just forgotten. He tried to hold back, clenched his jaw and his fist. But it kept rising, the panic, the rage, like a match to kindling, catching too fast, too hot. 

"It's not enough!" he exploded. The words broke out of him like a dam cracking under pressure. His hands flew out, eyes wild, and Lydia jumped back a step.

"You’re not safe with me!" he shouted. “I can’t even lift my wand to defend you— or myself—without those bastard Aurors acting like I’m the one who hexed the place. One spell, and I’m in Azkaban. Before I’ve even finished casting!”

“Draco, stop .” She demanded, breathless as she caught his wrist, trying to still him. “Please. Just stop.”

Some of the fight drained out of him. The suggestion to release her flying away like it had never been there. But he wouldn't meet her eyes. His jaw was tight enough to crack teeth.

She ducked her head, searching for his eyes, voice trembling but firm. “You love me. Right?”

Silence.

Nothing but the erratic pull of his breath.

Then, hoarse: “It’s not enough.” His voice cracked. “I can’t protect you with love. Love won’t stop a hex. Love won’t make the Aurors do their jobs. Love won’t fix what I’ve done—or the mess my family left behind.”

“It is enough,” she said, quiet but certain. “It has to be.”

Draco gave a short, bitter laugh. Dragged both hands down his face.

“You’re deluded,” he said, exhaustion softening the insult to nothing.  

“No,” she said, lips curling in a promise of her smile. “Just stubborn.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” she murmured and stepped back into his space. He smelt the sea and lemon trees. “Not with me. I see it. I know how hard this is. I know how shit it is. I know you feel helpless…”

Draco shook his head, throat tight, eyes looking at anything but her. “I deserve this. After everything I did and believed—this is how I made other people feel, right? I deserve this. But you’ve never…” His voice cracked. “You’re so—Salazar, I don’t know why you’re still here. Why you want to be with me.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Her hands came up to his face, warm and steady, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes like she could wipe the shame from his skin.

“That’s not how this works,” she whispered fiercely, like she was trying to anchor them both. “You don’t earn love by suffering enough. You don’t deserve pain just because you’ve felt powerless and angry and wrong.”

He tried to pull back, but her hands held fast—desperate, stubborn.

“I see you,” she whispered, like she was telling a secret no one had earned but him. “I see all of it. Not just everything before, not just the name and the legacy, not just the struggle now. I see how you never ask for more than I can give. How you hold yourself back so I feel safe. How you wait, even when it’s killing you.” Her voice faltered. “I don’t know why you don’t see what I do.”

Draco could feel the words she wasn’t saying collecting in the air between them, heavy and humming like stormclouds. Say it, he thought. I can feel on my skin like static. It's screaming silently between us. Please. Just say it. It’s right there. In your throat. On the tip of your tongue. I could taste it if I just— if I just—

He kissed her.

Fiercely. Desperately. Like he could claim the words with his mouth, wrench them free with the press of lips and breath. She startled slightly beneath him, lips soft and parted in surprise, a quick inhale brushing cool across his cheek before she sank into him with a low, unsteady exhale.

Her hands caught in his jumper, gripping tight at the fabric near his ribs. She always did that—held on like he might disappear. His fingers splayed over the curve of her back, dragging her against him as if she were something warm and breakable he needed to tuck inside himself.

She made a noise—quiet and breathy, just for him—and the sound shot straight through him, low and hot. He deepened the kiss, chasing it. He wanted more—needed more. The slide of her mouth beneath his, the rasp of her breath, the press of her body. His thumb skimmed beneath the hem of her jumper, brushing bare skin—warm and impossibly soft—at her waist.

The compartment smelled of dust and damp wool and the familiar sharp-citrus scent that clung to her collar. Her lips tasted faintly of tea and dried blood, and when he kissed her again, gentler this time, he realised he could feel the faintest tremor in her limbs—whether from pain or emotion, he wasn’t sure.

Then she whimpered.

It was small. Barely a sound. But he felt it—registered the sudden tension in her back, the tightening of her jaw as she tried not to pull away.

Her ribs. Her nose.

He stilled, his hands immediately loosening, guilt seizing his chest. “Shit,” he breathed, pulling back slightly, lips brushing her good cheekbone as he did. “Sorry—fuck, I forgot—”

But she didn’t recoil. Didn’t even speak. Just reached for him again, resting her forehead to his like she’d been waiting for this all along.

So he held her. Not like he had before—desperate and crushing—but reverently. His hands gentled, palms smoothing down the curve of her spine, fingertips brushing that same bare patch of skin at her waist. Her heart was racing, and so was his.

He let the silence hold them a moment longer, then guided her carefully back to the bench, every movement measured. She curled into him again, her back to his chest, her weight fitting against him like something earned as she stretched out along the bench.

His arm came around her instinctively. One hand rested just below her ribs, warm and careful. He dropped a kiss into her hair without thinking.

Outside, the landscape rolled by in indigo shadows and blurred light. They'd arrive soon.

“Where are Hannah and Theo?” she asked after a while.

“They went to the snack trolley with Lovegood,” Draco said, offhand.

Lydia’s reflection frowned in the window. “Luna?”

Draco mirrored the expression without meaning to. “Yes. And Granger’s out in the corridor.”

He hadn’t thought much about it until now, but the strangeness of it pressed at him.

“Why?” Lydia asked.

“She says she’s reading. And she does have a book in her lap,” Draco allowed, though he sounded unconvinced.

There was a moment of pause, Draco could practically hear Lydia's mind working as the train clacked over the tracks. “She’s keeping guard. Because of last night. And Luna went with Theo to protect him,” Lydia guessed. Draco had come to the same conclusion. Didn't know how to feel about it, except tired. Wondered if Granger's speech at the station had been more a distraction for them than another self-serving grasp at heroism. 

“Isn’t that mad? Hermione Granger, guarding me ?”

“Protecting you,” Lydia corrected.

Draco huffed a dry laugh. “Like I’m worth the risk.”

He shifted his weight, uncomfortable. “They’re more likely protecting you and Hannah, you know. From us. Because of us. ”

Lydia was quiet a moment. Then: “Hermione doesn’t like injustice. She obviously sees something worth sitting outside for the entire journey.”

Draco didn’t respond.

Her voice was quieter when she added, catching her breath, “You’re better than them, you know? The Aurors.”

Frowning at the ridiculous sentiment, Draco watched the countryside blur by outside the window. Lydia settled back, warm against his chest, her breathing finally even. The weight of her, here, whole—barely—kept him grounded.

No. He wasn't better than anybody. He hadn’t been able to do anything. Not at the hospital. Not when the hexes flew. Not even when the press turned their vulture heads and spat poison at her for being with him. And what did he do? Just stood there. Silent. Frozen. Because one wrong move and he'd be dragged away in cuffs.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. What good were clever words or sharp reflexes if he couldn’t stop any of it when it mattered? He’d held her—cradled her like she might slip away if he let go—but he couldn’t do a thing to help. Not while Hannah scrambled to cast healing spells. Not when the blood wouldn’t stop.

And now the silence rotted in his throat like shame.

Granger was sitting outside their door. Not because she liked him—she didn’t—but because something in her, that fierce bone-deep sense of justice, had compelled her to stand guard. Because no one else had. Because the system was broken, and none of the people meant to defend them were doing their bloody jobs. Because they didn't like him either. Because he'd believed the lies he'd been taught.

And then, an idea bloomed from nowhere.

His stomach twisted. It was a stupid thought. Ludicrous, even. Down right unhinged, in fact. But once it had formed…

 It sat in his mind like a trapped wasp—furious, buzzing, impossible to ignore. No matter how hard he tried to think around it, it kept hurling itself against the edges of his skull, demanding to be felt.

No. It was insanity. Too risky. Too impossible. He wasn’t the kind of man who wore Ministry robes and made oaths to truth and justice.

Was he?

But maybe—maybe if he became one of them... one of the ones who could act—then the rules wouldn’t cage him anymore. Maybe then, when someone came for the people he cared about, he wouldn’t have to stand back and watch .

The idea burned behind his ribs now, low and persistent.

He wasn’t even sure he meant to say it out loud. But the words slipped out, quiet and raw.

“What if I became an Auror?”

Lydia sat up, turning to him, her brow creased as though she was trying to decide if he was joking. Then her gaze sharpened, searching his face. Surprise, yes—but also something steadier rising beneath it. Something like recognition. Then came the quiet recalibration, the way she always looked at him when he surprised her: as if she were re-learning who he was in real time, and confirming something she’d always seen, with those ever perceptive green eyes of hers. 

“If I were one of them… I could actually do something. When it mattered,” he explained.

“You’re serious?” she asked, studying him.

“They probably won’t accept me,” Draco muttered, shaking his head and glancing away.

Lydia slid a hand to his cheek, drawing his gaze back. She studied his face for a long moment—eyes steady, almost reverent—then gently brushed his fringe aside.

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try,” she said softly, a smile ghosting across her lips—something a little awed, a little dangerous, a little daring. “You’d be a reckoning.”

Draco let out a surprised huff of laughter. “That sounds ominous.”

“Perhaps for some,” she shrugged and turned back, settling against his chest again with a quiet sigh. Her fingers found his, lacing through them.

“It’s a really brave idea,” she murmured. “My boy… an Auror. Why not?” 

Draco could hear the smile in her voice, and he kissed the top of her head as something settled deep in his core. 

“Why not.” He echoed. 

Chapter Text

Lent against the wall in a perfect show of nonchalance—a knee bent, foot on the stone, hands deep in his pockets, spine slouched just enough to seem uninterested—Theo lingered partway down the corridor from the common room. The flagstones were cool through the sole of his shoe, faintly vibrating with the echoes of footsteps and shifting staircases a corridor away.

Lydia had ducked into the girls’ bathroom on their way up from the dining hall, and Hannah had gone ahead to set up. Dumbledore’s Army were due to start their first meeting of the term in precisely five minutes, which Lydia was adamant about attending—despite… well, everything. Or maybe because of everything. So Theo was equally adamant about remaining nearby.

Two Ravenclaw prefects passed by, muttering under their breath. Theo raised a brow as snippets of their conversation tickled his ears like a buzzing fly. Not their floor. Shouldn't be their problem. And it hadn't been—until recently. Patrols had quietly tripled since the theatre incident. McGonagall had gone full crusader at the welcome-back feast, banging on about inter-house unity and praising “the brave student who intervened to protect another,” like it was all some heroic fairytale to aspire to. Typical Gryffindor.

Fortunately, Pomfrey had Floo’d Lydia straight to the hospital wing from the station, or she’d probably have died of embarrassment on the spot. Draco had done a good job of staring fixedly at his plate and trying not to let his cheeks turn pink. If anything, he’d paled—if that was even physically possible.

Then came the Slytherin House meeting—Slughorn and McGonagall, all concerned frowns and awkward camaraderie, urging students to expand their social circles and move about in groups. Which was a polite way of saying: don’t wander the castle or Hogsmeade alone, and definitely play nice with the other Houses—because the Aurors won’t believe you without credible witnesses.

And during that meeting, once they’d been invited to “share any issues,” it became glaringly obvious that Draco wasn’t the only target of biggotry lately. Theo had binned the rare howler and not thought anything of it. Apparently, Blaise and Crabbe had received a few too. And everyone knew Draco got them sporadically. But the girls had it worse by far. Parkinson, the Greengrasses, Bulstrode, a few others besides, were receiving increasingly disturbing correspondence. Some threatening. Some lewd. Some disturbingly optimistic about pure-blood breeding prospects and the rebirth of the Dark Lord.

The Greengrass sisters had recounted an incident over the holidays—accosted by a pair of drunk wizards in Diagon Alley while shopping for presents. They’d distracted them by dropping their coin purses and legging it. Crabbe had apparently been robbed at wand-point in a similar setup, and earned a black eye for the trouble. Zabini complained he’d been turned down for several future job placements over the break—though Theo chalked that up to him being an arrogant, stuck-up vulture and not having endeared himself to any prospective employer. Why was Zabini looking for a job anyway? Nope. Theo didn’t care.

The new security measures had rolled in shortly after that meeting: the school wards now stretched all the way to Hogsmeade, past the Shrieking Shack; additional prefect and staff patrols were added; mandatory sign-in and -out for Hogsmeade trips became the norm. The no-howler policy was quietly implemented. Owl post was magically screened for hexes, curses, and anything suspect; anything found was then supposedly passed on to the Aurors. Which was pointless, in Theo’s experience.

But, if Theo were honest with himself—a rare indulgence, as self-examination was a perilous and frequently unrewarding exercise—he had fallen into a protective crusade of his own and was keeping close to Lydia at every opportunity since the theatre incident. (Hannah and Draco too, of course.)

Since the blood.

The way it hit the air—metallic and hot—rushing too fast from too many places. The streaks of it, shock-red, darkening the carpet, blooming outwards in jagged halos. The way Lydia had crumpled, knocked sideways by the curse, clattered against the chairs, limbs at the wrong angles, face streaked red where it shouldn’t have been.

The sound of her breathing, too wet. The panicked shuffle of feet. The pulse of hissing magic still vibrating in the air like something unfinished. Hannah’s magic had crackled and sparked too hot, too fast, throwing off uneven bursts of gold-white light that scalded his vision, hit his skin like antiseptic and nettles.

It had smashed through him like déjà vu and lightning. His ears had rung for hours, and he hadn’t realised he was shaking until Max gripped his shoulder and told him to move as they followed Lydia and the healers to the floo. To St Mungo's.

It had looked nothing like his mother.

But it had felt, smelled, tasted exactly the same.

Lydia had lived. Was still here. So Theo was damned if he was going to let something like that happen again—not while he had any say in the matter.

Frankly, he’d hovered shamelessly—like an itch he couldn’t reach, pacing too few steps behind, never quite able to settle, relying a little too heavily on physical touch to reassure himself they were all okay. That Lydia was okay. Not that it had been a conscious decision. It was more like an instinctive pull, like some buried deep part of him rearing its head. Trauma or grief or something secretly terrified that made his heart race when he couldn't see they were all safe. 

Draco had eventually cornered him with what could generously be called a conversation. More of a warning growl, really. Theo had nearly snapped back, but managed to keep himself in check. That cold, possessive flicker in Draco’s eyes had left very little room for argument. Though it had given him pause—the idea that Draco might be right. That he had lost track of where the lines were, confused his role within the group. Been too much.

So, he told himself they were all safer within Hogwarts wards, especially now. No one was going to attack Draco here—probably—which meant Lydia wouldn’t go throwing herself in harm's way again. He quite adored the empathetic Naiad, but her self-sacrificing streak—now he’d seen it in action—terrified the ever-loving fuck out of him. Literally.

(In fact, Theo hadn't shagged anyone in a month now. Partly because of being at the Hargrove House for two weeks over Christmas and a lack of option, but mainly because of Lydia's complete disregard for self-preservation…) 

He’d compromised, as it were. If he were not to hover around Draco and Lydia when they were “together,” then Hannah would have to endure his outrageously entertaining company. He made it his business—deliberately after that conversation—to keep an eye on one or the other or all, at all times. And as both girls were attending the DA meeting this evening, then so was he.

At a discreet distance, of course. A sofa grouping away, at least. He had no intention of involving himself in such aggressively Gryffindor pursuits as planning bake sales or knitting club rebellions—or whatever it was they were plotting these days. But with Draco tied up at Quidditch practice, someone had to be on hand in case of trouble.

A small voice in the back of his mind pointed out the obvious flaw: no one was currently keeping an eye on Draco, despite the fact that he’d been the original target of both attacks. Theo dismissed it, chalking it up to whatever archaic nonsense still passed for gender dynamics in the back of his skull, and merrily carried on with his day. He would keep an eye on the girls. Draco could fend for himself. Besides, wasn’t Hooch supervising all practices now?

And to be clear, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Draco had made a rather roundabout and eating-his-own-hat style suggestion earlier today, that Theo ought to be nearby for the meeting. Even though that had, in fact, happened. And despite Draco having previously bemoaned Theo’s hovering. He hadn’t said as much outright, of course—but the implication had been clear: if anything went wrong, Draco wanted Lydia to have people there to hold her together.

That was the thing about Draco—he didn’t ask for help, didn’t voice his fears. He just arranged things. Quietly. Strategically. Like moving pieces on a board. Making sure someone else would catch Lydia if he couldn’t.

And Theo, to his own mild surprise, didn’t mind being part of that arrangement.

So here he was, leant against the wall outside the girls’ bathroom, waiting like a good friend; watching the corridor for trouble without appearing to. The stone at his back was faintly damp, cold enough to leech through his shirt. The echo of running water came and went behind the door, layered with the occasional scuff of footsteps somewhere distant and hollow. He blinked slowly, letting the corridor’s warm torchlight press through his eyelids like a soft pulse, wondering when he’d finally get to smoke those herbs he’d rolled this morning. 

Although things had eased lately, there was still that low-level ringing in his skull—like a held note, thrumming just below hearing. 

Of course, it hadn’t been like that after the attack—that night had been horrendous. He’d barely kept his composure under the Auror’s inquisition. The lights were so angry, the shape of their questions burning and tight. Not to mention, the hospital was full of magic. It leaked into corridors, drifting like clouds of changing colours, rainbows of taste and sensations. He had waded through all of it, following Hannah's shoes to Lydia's room because he hadn’t been able to lift his head. Cotton candy sticky on the roof of his mouth, hairbrush bristles down his legs, orange flashes, blue bleeding between his joints, rotten fish swirling with each breath. Orange. Orange. Orange. Cold fingers drumming on his ribs, little teeth biting on the back of his calves and thighs. Nipping, nipping.

He’d felt sick with it. Sick with everything pressing in at him. Sick with worry. Sick with the shock. And sitting in that stifling, dim hospital room hadn’t helped. The walls felt too close. His skin too hot and then too cold. Too pressed in, like his head might explode or implode at any moment and he didn’t know which he’d prefer. For hours. 

Eventually it had eased, when they’d started talking about leaving for the train—putting distance between them and the incident. Then the relief that Lydia was coming back with them, when he’d finally touched a hand to her shoulder and made sure she was still there, still real—it was like stepping under a cool shower, everything washing out. 

He’d put it all down to stress and exhaustion, because the moment Draco had set the wards on the door of their compartment, and the train had rolled out of King’s Cross, Theo had promptly fallen asleep. Unsettled and dark, but sleep. 

And since, things had been quieter in his body. Just the usual background noise—the thrumming in his blood and bones. The kaleidoscope flashes when he cast spells, or stood too close to others’ magic. All things he knew how to navigate.

Overall? Better.

Almost good.

Theo wondered how long it would last.

Along the corridor, trouble—also known as Pansy Parkinson—chose that exact moment to fling open the common room door and step out, sharp heels clicking, voice already raised in complaint. Lydia reappeared from the bathroom at the same time, striding past Theo without a glance, her jaw set.

Pansy’s voice had the tightness of shattering glass as she bemoaned the fact that the meeting effectively rendered the common room unusable for the next two hours. 

Technically untrue. The common room remained a public space; no rule mandated evacuation. But Theo understood the sentiment. And judging by the steady trickle of students filing out—he caught a glimpse of Longbottom, Granger, and Lady Barwench wrestling with flip charts and pinboards inside—others seemed to share it.

The current iteration of the DA—for all its rhetoric about rebuilding community, despite all the talks at mealtimes from McGonagall about inter-house unity and new paths to forge—had a rather poor track record when it came to making non-members feel remotely welcome. Particularly if there was green on their uniform. 

Theo attributed that failing largely to Longbottom himself. The man had, this year, completed a remarkable metamorphosis from bumbling tag-along to self-congratulatory wartime Casanova. The swagger was particularly hard to ignore. As was the rapidly expanding list of romantic conquests.

Not that Theo begrudged anyone their romantic exploits—he could outdo Longbottom in both quantity and almost certainly partner satisfaction, thank you very much—but there was something crude about the way the man went about it. There was no art to it. No charm. No sense of timing or tact. 

Theo had recently watched Longbottom point at a seventh-year Hufflepuff across a hallway—point, as though selecting a pastry— announce, “That one,” and then stroll over, take her hand, and disappear with the smug satisfaction of someone who thought that counted as seduction. When really it was just a performance of arrogance for his friends who had cheered after him.

 Another time, in the common room Neville had rolled his eyes mid-conversation—clearly bored— dragged the girl he was talking with onto his lap in an arm chair and snogged her into silence like it was a duel he meant to win by mouth alone. Positively caveman behaviour. All brash confidence and zero finesse, like charm was a waste of time and consent merely assumed. Deeply unbecoming of a supposed hero.

Not to mention the blatant ongoing distrust between the eighth year Gryffindors and Slytherins, which Neville desperately perpetuated like it was a life raft. Honestly, you'd think the Carrows were still running the place. But then without such animosity, how could Neville and his little gang continue to live out their heroic fantasies? 

Regardless, that was why Pansy and her little coterie lingered just outside the common room, dithering over where to go next. 

And unfortunately, it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Pansy: sharp-tongued, vaguely bored, and evidently itching to take out her irritation on the nearest convenient target, having been forcibly dislodged from her preferred Tuesday evening ritual of gossip and lounging. All made worse by the luteal phase and her ability to sniff out other people’s weaknesses.

Lydia: approaching, slower than usual, shoulders tight, eyes downcast, trying to hide her discomfort as her fist tightened around her bag strap. Her period had started yesterday. Not one of her worst, as far as Theo could tell, but she was certainly not in peak form—hence why she’d walked right past him. Too focused on her destination and sitting down somewhere comfy, probably. The problem was, in this state, Lydia wouldn’t walk away from a confrontation, but she wouldn’t have the stamina to weather it either. 

Theo did a quick mental inventory of his pockets: chocolate, biscuits, and those Muggle painkillers Lydia preferred—all accounted for. He usually kept a stash of snacks for any situation where he might need to soothe a menstruating witch into tolerating his presence, or—on more ambitious days—into liking him a little more. It always paid to know when not to start fights, when to offer comfort, and when his advances were most likely to be received positively. Some people learned chess; Theo also learned timing and female biology to help him succeed in social interactions with half the population.

There was a brief, pointed moment. Pansy—who had, with uncharacteristic grace, held the door open for Daphne Greengrass as she exited (because it was better the Slytherins travelled in groups)—caught sight of Lydia approaching. Theo saw the exact second Pansy's lip curled in disdain and malevolent mischief. Then, with theatrical indifference, she stepped aside and let the door swing shut in Lydia's face.

Lydia didn’t even make a move to catch it. Just blinked at the audacity.

“Cheers,” she said dryly through gritted teeth.

Pansy glanced back over her shoulder as if surprised, her shrug saccharine sweet. “Hargrove. Didn’t see you there,” she replied. “Blended in with the mediocrity.”

Theo sighed inwardly. And so it begins. 

He pushed off from the wall and strolled across the corridor with measured ease as the shuffle of students echoed away down the corridor.

“How original,” Lydia sighed, rolling her eyes, the words wispy and weary like a foggy morning. “Perhaps you’ll find an ounce of creativity one day, Parkinson.”

Lydia went to reach for the door handle and Pansy turned slightly, her smile condescending as she partially blocked the way.

“Oh, darling. You could almost be frightening.” Pansy crooned with feigned concern, as if she were giving Lydia motherly advice. “If your entire sense of self weren’t stitched together from other people’s trauma and emotional dependency.”

That one landed. Theo saw it—felt it, low and bruising. Pansy saw it too, from the way her eyes glinted as she stepped closer to Lydia, her voice lowering into something surgical.

Theo stopped a pace behind Lydia. Not intervening. Not yet. But ready.

Pansy’s tone sliced through the air, slid into Theo’s ears like shrapnel. “I mean, the redemption arc is very on-brand for a Hufflepuff. Healing the damaged boy, standing nobly by your monster, sacrificing your life for him… It’s practically a charity wank for your conscience isn’t it?”

Lydia didn’t move, but her jaw set like granite. Her wand hand twitched. Theo felt his own body tense, mirroring—the heat of her fury bleeding into his skin like a rash.

“And tell me,” Pansy continued, gesturing vaguely towards the common room, where the meeting was due to start, “do you lot still cry over Cedric like it’s fifth year? Or is it just more performative trauma porn these days?”

The words hit like a curse. Sharp. Metallic. They sparked violet at the corners of Theo’s vision, made the air in his lungs tighten

Lydia reached for her wand.

Theo caught her wrist. Firmly, but not forcefully. Her pulse skittered against his fingers.

“I think that’s quite enough,” he said, stepping neatly between them, cutting his gaze over Pansy before turning to Lydia. His voice dropped to a murmur, pitched only for her.

“Not here. She’s not worth it.”

“I swear to Merlin, if she—” Lydia’s voice shook with fury.

“I know,” Theo said gently. His own senses hummed with her anger—too loud, too close, hot and coppery in the back of his throat. “But you’d regret the headlines.”

That did it. Lydia hated the media circus more than anything else these days. She exhaled sharply, still bristling, glared at him for a moment—something stabbed in his chest— then turned and stormed through the doors into the common room. 

Parkinson, entirely unfazed, crooned from the safety of her little gaggle of girls where she’d retreated. “Does Draco know how adorable you two are together?” 

Theo turned on his heel to face Pansy, cutting off the giggling with the frost in his gaze.

“Fuck off, Pans. Or shall I reacquaint you with the slug-vomiting hex?” He twirled his wand in his fingers, smile hollow and eyes glinting with menace.

Pansy held his gaze, her smile hardening. She gave him a slow, assessing look. “Ooh, got your big boy pants on these days haven't you? Is that because you've finally found someone to love you better than mummy and daddy did?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t clench his jaw. Didn’t blink. That one should have landed. Should have cracked something open. Instead—it barely brushed him. Just a hollow echo in a room he’d long since refused to open the door to.

Instead, he arched a single brow, smiled his best charming smile. 

“Still better than a personality disorder.”

And with that, he turned and followed Lydia inside.

The Graduating Class Common Room always felt a bit like stepping into a space still deciding what it wanted to be—an old classroom repurposed into something resembling comfort. The ceilings were high enough to give the illusion of space and airiness; architecturally they were pleasing, though it meant the echoes grew far too keen when the place was full.

But the fire crackled tonight, low and steady, and candles floated overhead, their flickering glow pooling like soft thoughts above each grouping of mismatched furniture.

Theo’s senses twitched slightly as the warmth hit him—shifting lights, a haze of mingled perfumes and wet wool. The air was thick with scent and sound, as if the room breathed with too many lungs. But this was familiar territory. Theo looked straight to their corner, their arrangement.

A pair of old sofas, a coffee table usually cluttered with mugs and notes, a slightly wobbly armchair, and the best feature of all: the wide window ledge, deep enough to sit on, with cold glass that looked out over the dark grounds. The view currently hissed and blurred with sleet. Draco had transfigured a cushion for it last term—a very neutral grey—and Lydia had added a cream knitted blanket.

It was home, in the way things sometimes became without asking permission. A texture he knew by weight and temperature, not words. And that was where Theo had intended to spend the evening, warm cheeks pressed against the cold window.

Lydia was hovering near the end of one of the sofas the DA had taken over—much closer to the firelight—most of which were already taken up by others. Hannah had just spotted her and was nudging Luna and Justin to shift along the cushions. Luna, at the far end, cheerfully slid down onto the floor, and the others moved over, clearing a space beside Hannah.

Hannah pulled Lydia into a warm hug as she sat. Sweet and smooth, like warm caramel—Theo ran his tongue over his teeth to savour the taste.

“Welcome back. We missed you,” Hannah was saying, just as Theo approached and rested a hand lightly on Lydia’s shoulder.

This was the first DA meeting Lydia had been to since the start of the year—where despite Hannah's efforts, Lydia had effectively been frozen out of the group. But with Draco’s determination around applying for the Auror Department, Lydia had been inspired to try the group again. Besides, now she had contact details for her mentor at St Mungo's, she had something to offer by way of guest speaker or liaison.

“You alright?” Theo asked gently as he approached, reaching for her shoulder, planning just to check in before retreating to their group of sofas by the window. He surreptitiously slid a bar of chocolate into Lydia’s hand as Hannah looked up at him, concern flickering across her face when she spotted his.

Lydia snatched the chocolate and shook off his touch. “I'm fine.”

Theo didn’t take it personally, even though something twitched in his lower back at her tone. Merlin knew he’d walk through fire for the three idiots he called friends these days; he could handle a little displaced fury. And after a moment's self-reflection, Lydia glanced up at him—an apology in her eyes.

“What’s her problem, anyway?” Lydia muttered, gesturing back to the door. “Why is she always such a bitch?”

Before Theo could reply, Neville’s voice sliced through the ambient chatter like a knife through soft fruit: “Hannah, why is he here?”

Theo turned, all pleasant surprise.

“My apologies, Longbottom” he said smoothly. “I wasn’t aware this was a private gathering. There were notices. After all, it does appear to be taking place in a public common room.”

Theo truly hadn’t intended to get involved—he really had been looking forward to that cool glass window. But after Longbottom had extended such a charming invitation...

Theo dropped onto the arm of the sofa beside Lydia, leaned back, languid and deliberate, sprawling along the top edge with a very clear intent to stay put. One elbow propped him up, his head resting against his hand.

He wasn’t entirely sure what Neville thought it was—some mix of provocation, territorial display over Lydia and Hannah, or general Slytherin pestilence—but watching Longbottom flounder for a valid reason to object was deeply satisfying. Theo noted the twitch of the boy’s jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, and found himself quite at ease.

He also didn’t miss the muttered protests from the opposite sofa as he made himself comfortable.

“Anyway, I'm interested. In your cause,” Theo hedged casually, gesturing towards the noticeboard behind Neville, squinting slightly to decipher the scrawl. “Rebuilding a unified future, and so forth. Stirring stuff. I should rather like to be part of the future.”

He slid his expression into something earnest, relaxed his smile, widened his eyes a fraction. He refrained from batting his eyelashes, thinking that might irritate Neville further rather than endear him.

“Slytherins weren’t exactly queueing to help last year, were they?” Seamus said, not quite under his breath.

“Next we’ll be inviting the Carrows in for tea and a flyer-making session,” Ernie added with a bitter scoff.

Theo didn’t rise to it. His eyes flicked lazily over the room, as if the comments barely registered. He wasn’t here to fight them for sport. Hadn't meant to be there at all. Let them grumble.

“We did say we needed new people. With new ideas,” Luna added from her spot on the floor. “Theo’s very creative.”

Her eyes sparkled in a way that made Theo’s lips twitch. He remembered precisely how she knew that. Still grinning, he met Neville’s glare head-on.

“I might be able to offer a few suggestions,” he said mildly, offering it like an olive branch tossed from one side of a battlefield.

Neville’s hands clenched and unclenched. But, with no reasonable cause to say no, he gave a curt nod.

“Fine. But if you cause any trouble—”

Theo raised both hands in mock innocence.

“I shall be as good as gold.” A beat. “Is there wine at this party?”

“It’s not a party,” Neville muttered.

“No?” Theo looked around, visibly disappointed. “Free biscuits, at least?”

Neville scowled. “No.”

A silence passed, heavy with suppressed irritation, before Neville turned back to the board, ready to begin.

“This is why no one turns up, you know,” Theo said conversationally. Every head in the room whipped towards him—except Lydia, who was all but folded into herself. Hannah scowled and reached around to subtly pinch his arm in warning. Theo controlled the smirk that teased at his mouth as he shook out his hand and continued.

“You’ve got to sell it a bit. Snacks, ambience, something fun. If you want people to come and help and such…”

“I did suggest giving out flowers,” Luna offered serenely. “Or little pouches of herbs to ward off wrackspurts. But biscuits would be nice too.”

“See?” Theo said, gesturing to her with a flourish. “A visionary.”

Luna blushed and Theo wondered if she might be interested in rediscovering his creativity after the meeting tonight. He held her gaze a little longer, promise in his smirk. She met his attention serenely.

Looks like I'm ending this dry spell tonight.

Neville looked to Hannah, clearly hoping for support. She only shrugged, turning back around. “He’s not wrong about the biscuits.”

Neville looked like he might launch the board across the room.

“We don’t have the budget to waste on handing out free biscuits,” Granger interjected primly from across the coffee table. She was seated in an armchair pulled up beside the other sofa, which was taken up with Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan and Ernie McMillan perched on the back like some large, disgruntled bird of prey. He was currently glaring daggers in Theo’s direction, his pale face gradually turning an interesting shade of red.

Theo didn’t bristle. Granger’s voice had the firm, clipped edge of someone who spent her life holding things together with duct tape and sheer will—brisk, functional, a bit like parchment left too close to the fire. He didn’t mind it. In fact, he found it oddly reassuring. He met her objection softly.

“Hannah bakes, you know. Beautifully,” Theo said lightly, with a gentle touch of fingers on Hannah's shoulder, a thoughtless squeeze. “And it’s entirely possible to sneak into the kitchens after hours. Not that I would ever encourage such lawlessness.”

He glanced at Hannah and raised his eyebrows pointedly. She rolled her eyes, corner of her mouth curving. Are

“In fact,” he added, “if you ask nicely, I’m fairly sure McGonagall would let you lot in without much fuss. Provided you promised her a box of shortbread.”

He paused, letting that land.

“They’re her favourite.”

***

Well. I probably should’ve seen this coming, Hannah thought, as she reached for Theo's arm, hoping it might be enough to pull him back—to stop him from standing toe to toe with Neville, wands drawn, tips pressed to each other’s throats. Hannah had every belief that they would both actually cast if someone so much as breathed wrong, and she absolutely had to stop that happening.

Neville had been bristling all meeting, especially since Theo and Hermione had more or less taken over and planned the Hogsmeade Day event practically single-handedly. Hannah had hoped Hermione's acceptance of Theo would be enough to settle the rest of the group about him being there. Or maybe they'd appreciate the fact he was actually being helpful—when paired with Hermione, at least, he’d kept pace with her in a way most people couldn't.

But no. Of course not.

Gryffindors were stubborn.

Or maybe it was just boys that were stubborn—because they'd all leapt to their feet ready to back Neville, hadn’t they? Bloody pricks. Wands pointed like they were seconds from a duel. Admittedly, Hermione had stood and drawn her wand too, but it was low, not pointed at anyone. Just cautious. Ready.

And maybe Hannah should’ve been more angry at Theo for getting pulled into whatever pissing contest this was—for sticking around in the first place and letting it boil over. But she’d watched him tolerate the digs and muttered jabs for the past hour without blinking. The pointed remarks, the snide questions—none of it had seemed to land. Water off a duck’s back.

He'd just carried on problem-solving with Hermione like their minds were on the same track, answering each other's half-formed thoughts, adjusting each other’s plans without any tension. It had actually been impressive, if you could ignore the fact the rest of the room clearly wanted to hex him for it.

She also wasn't remotely surprised by what it actually took to make Theo snap. Because of course it hadn’t been a jab about him—it had been a comment about Lydia.

Should’ve guessed.

Theo and Draco had become irritatingly protective since they’d all come back to Hogwarts. Since the theatre. Not that she blamed them. If she were honest, she and Lydia were just as bad about keeping them close. Their little group had basically become a tight ball of overprotective anxieties feeding off each other. A fortress made out of nerves and coffee and ridiculous shared jokes.

But the cracks had started to show. Last week, Draco had snapped at Theo about how he and Lydia were the couple and Theo needed to back off and quit crowding them. Then Lydia had shouted at both of them that she was her own person and could look after herself just fine.

Hannah had doubts about that. Lydia wasn’t bad at duelling, but she’d never been great at it either. That was why Neville had focused on her healing skills last year and during the battle. The problem was, Lydia always hesitated. She spent too long weighing up what it would take to undo an attack—too long deciding whether the effort of healing after was worth the advantage. Even when it was her own survival on the line.

Lydia was definitely stronger if she was protecting someone else, but even then, she was more likely to throw herself into the line of fire than actually fight back. Too soft-hearted. Too gentle. Too aware that everyone was someone's son or daughter or parent or friend.

Hannah loved her for it. But it also scared her in the middle of battle.

So, Hannah hadn’t been surprised when Lydia finally stepped in—defending Theo after one more ridiculous jab from Neville, throwing herself into the line of fire she’d been so hesitant to cross. Rightfully so. Because Neville was being an absolute dick—and yeah, Theo had been a cauldron-damned menace last year, but somehow, he’d ended up one of her most trusted friends.

Last year, he’d toed the line between defiance and compliance so neatly it made her want to scream. She’d hated him for it. Hated him almost more than the ones who picked a side and stuck to it—because at least they’d owned it. But Theo? He just floated around, acting like nothing was wrong, flirting with her in class—flirting with anyone, really—dipping in and out of social circles like he wasn’t standing on a battlefield. And he really hadn’t held up his end on their shared assignments.

But now here she was, silently begging him not to hex Neville into next week. Not for Neville’s sake—because he’d pissed her right off too—but for Theo’s. Because getting himself chucked into Azkaban over one hot-headed insult wasn’t worth it. Not when he was—underneath all the snark and chaos—a good person. He was thoughtful. Could be stupidly sweet. And after the pub attack, when everything had felt like splinters under her skin, he’d been exactly what she’d needed: calm, warm, a bit funny in that dry way of his. The right kind of steady. 

He’d offered her his room so she wouldn’t have to be alone. And she’d been weirdly comforted to learn that Theodore Nott—Hogwart’s answer to Joey from Friends—actually wore a full set of pyjamas. Button-down top and everything. Like a right toff. There’d been this moment, where he’d stood pillow in hand at the bottom of the bedframe, as he’d transfigured a makeshift bed on the floor, and he'd looked… oddly young and impish. In the end she’d told him not to be daft—he didn’t need to sleep on the floor. She trusted him. 

The shift in her friendships hadn’t been simple—it had taken months to untangle. Her ties to the DA were still there, still knotted into her bones after what they’d all lived through. But this year… this year was messier. The war was over, and with it came the uncomfortable work of rebuilding. And rebuilding didn’t just mean castle walls and timetables—it meant people. Perspectives. Trust. And somewhere in all of that, she’d started to genuinely care about Theo. Draco too. Not because they were perfect, but because they were trying. They showed up. She saw it every day. 

And if she was honest with herself, there were plenty of people in the DA she didn’t actually like anymore. Not really. She’d always be grateful—she’d always admire what they’d done together—but outside of meetings? No thanks. Not after how they’d treated Lydia last term. Not when they were still clinging to their distrust like it was some badge of honour. She’d tried at the start of the year to get them to see a different point of view. Tried to explain that surviving the war didn’t make them the only ones who got to decide what came next. That not every Slytherin was a ticking time bomb.

Luna had listened, of course. Luna always did. And Hermione, for all her rigidity, could at least admit when someone else had a point. But most of the others had shut her down. Still angry. Still suspicious. Still convinced they were the good ones and everyone else needed to grovel for forgiveness.

So Hannah had pulled back. She still came to meetings—not for them, but for what the DA used to mean. And because if she walked away now, she was leaving the future in the hands of boys who thought being on the winning side meant they were automatically right. She still smiled at them in corridors. Still partnered up when asked in class. But she didn’t stay after. Didn’t hang around for their approval. These days, she prioritised Lydia and the boys. Their little claimed corner of the common room. The friendship that made her feel like she could exhale.

And now, when Theo flirted, it felt more like an in-joke. Something warm and harmless and gently ridiculous. He’d mention the kitchen, she’d counter with a dig about the cushion nest or the coffee, and it felt like theirs—something real and strange and soft in all the best ways.

Hannah also wasn’t all that surprised when Neville snapped back at Lydia after she’d defended Theo. He’d basically been sidelined most of the meeting—Hermione had shot down his ideas in favour of Theo’s. And then it was Lydia calling him out. The girl who had dared to break Neville’s stupid heart last year. The one who’d defected completely to the “wrong side.” The one who’d stood up for a Death Eater and kept him out of Azkaban. (Yeah, sure, Hermione had also spoken at Draco’s trial—but apparently that was fine, because she was The Golden Girl, she was dating Ron, and definitely wasn’t falling for the charms of a poisonous snake. Blah blah blah.) Honestly, Hannah often found herself wishing the DA would just grow the hell up.

But what did surprise Hannah—what literally shocked her and made her question everything she’d been willing to hold out on with Neville—was what he actually said to Lydia.

Because deep down, Hannah still believed Neville was a decent bloke. Or at least, she wanted to. She wanted to believe he was still kind, still brave, still that quietly strong leader she’d admired—the boy who’d once made her feel safe just by standing beside him. Even now, some foolish bit of her kept hoping he’d grow up, come around, and maybe—just maybe—notice her the way she couldn’t stop noticing him.

But when Neville spoke, Hannah was half a beat behind Theo in leaping to Lydia’s defence. Because Neville’s words hit her like a slap to the face, setting her blood on fire faster than she’d ever known it could burn.

“At least I’m not whoring myself out to a murderer!” Neville spat, stalking around the coffee table, looming over Lydia like a storm about to break. “Does it feel good? Fucking someone who ruined lives? Or are you still just trying to punish yourself for not saving your mum?”

Hannah wasn’t the only one who gasped. Wands were drawn in a heartbeat. Theo was on Neville, teeth bared like a snarling dog. Neville instinctively stepped back, as Theo lunged to his feet, chasing Neville away from Lydia. Dean and Seamus sprang up to Neville’s sides, wands raised. Justin and Ernie did the same, unintentionally stopping Neville’s retreat even as they created a solid wall of support. Theo practically crashed into Neville as they both raised their wands at each other, high and deadly.

Luna just tilted her head, like all this chaos was some odd puzzle she hadn’t quite figured out yet. The others sat frozen, or ducked behind sofas and chairs, wide-eyed.

“Say it again,” Theo growled, his fingers curling tight in Neville’s cardigan, like he wanted to rip it right off, like he wished it was Neville's neck. His eyes drilled into Neville’s face, fierce enough to carve his skin away. Teeth close enough to bite.

The whole room held its breath. The tension snapped taut, like a wire stretched too far—ready to snap, ready to explode. You could almost hear the silence scream. 

Hannah noticed Neville’s fist clench at his side, was about to shout a warning to Theo…

And then—bang.

The large door to the common room slammed shut so hard it made everyone jump. Even Theo flinched.

They all whipped their heads to the noise.

Lydia.

She’d left.

Hannah saw it clear as day—Theo’s whole body hesitated, caught between the raw urge to keep going at Neville and the need to chase after Lydia. The fire in his expression flickered, dimmed, his shoulders sinking into a different kind of tension. 

His eyes flicked to Hannah’s, desperate for something.

She met his gaze with steel. No way was she letting Neville get away with that comment—not this time. But she didn’t have to raise a wand.

I’ve got this.

Theo blinked once, then shoved Neville backward into his Gryffindor mates—who caught him as he stumbled— and bolted after Lydia. Ernie made a move as if to give chase but he was already too late. 

“That’s right, you coward!” Ernie called after him as the door slammed shut again. Hannah rolled her eyes. 

“Typical snake—can’t trust them not to bite, no matter how charming.” Seamus muttered, as Neville straightened and brushed himself down. The two exchanged a smirk, as if they’d been proven right—again.

Hannah let the room exhale for a moment before reminding them she was still there. 

“That’s my friend you’re talking about,” Hannah said, her voice cool but deadly, fixing Seamus with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Seamus’ eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening but Hannah didn’t give him time to retort. She stepped forward and planted herself in front of Neville like a brick wall.

“Everyone out.” Hannah's voice was firm, commanding. Her eyes never left Neville’s, making it clear: not him.

No one moved.

So she raised her voice, made it louder, sharper but not shrill. It echoed off the high ceiling with the kind of authority she’d learned clearing out unruly pub customers late at night.

“Now.”

The room shifted. The spell was broken.

The room cleared like a ripple—reluctant but obedient. The shuffle of shoes on rug and stone. A cough. Even the portraits had gone still. Some left casting glances over their shoulders, some whispering. Someone muttered, “Bloody hell,” under their breath. A few of the younger students looked genuinely frightened. Seamus opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Hermione tugged his sleeve and he backed down, trailing her out.

The door clicked shut behind the last one. The tension didn’t leave with the crowd—it clung to the corners like smoke.

Only Neville remained.

He stood there, glaring at her. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek. His fists were still balled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now. Still furious, even though Theo was gone—maybe especially because Theo was gone, denying him the fight he’d clearly been angling for all meeting. But he was also glaring at her with something else simmering under the surface. Something behind the tremble in his thinned lips that looked far too much like betrayal.

Well, he could glare all he liked. Hannah was done giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“What the hell are you doing, Neville Longbottom?” she asked.

He scoffed, folding his arms. “What are you doing, Hannah? Playing house in your little foursome? Do you swap partners, or is it just one big free-for-all? And don’t pretend you haven’t been sleeping with them. I saw you sneak out of Nott’s room last term.”

That stung—sharp and low. And it pissed her roght off, mostly for how wrong it was. But she didn’t let it show. Instead, she folded her arms and took a deep breath.

“This isn’t about me,” she said coolly. “You just called Lydia a Death Eater’s whore. In front of everyone. And then you threw her mum’s death in her face to twist the knife.”

Neville flinched. He hadn’t expected her to say it like that—full volume. No hedging. Or maybe he was only just hearing what he’d actually said.

“You—” he started.

“She trusted you with that,” Hannah cut in. “Last year, when everything was so dark. She let you see the one thing that haunts her, and you just weaponised it because— what? She stood up to you?”

“Yeah, well,” Neville snapped, the anger flaring again, “she practically spat in my face. Choosing Malfoy. Clearly I’m not broken enough for her attention.”

Hannah’s breath caught.

Is that what this is? she thought. Trying to look broken so she’ll want to fix you? Sleeping around, picking fights, being cruel—just to be seen? Merlin, help me! These fucking helpless boys…

Eyes petitioning the ceiling, she nearly said it aloud—almost launched into a rant about how unfair it was that girls were painted as damsels when half the boys she knew couldn’t function without a woman to steady them. But instead, she clenched her jaw, breathed in through her nose, and said—calm, precise:

“No. You’re not broken, Neville. You’re just bitter. And lashing out doesn’t make you interesting—it makes you small.”

His jaw flexed. His shoulders sagged, just slightly.

“You don’t know what it’s like—”

“I don’t?” She cut him off. “I was there, Neville. Right by your side. I helped fight. I helped drag students into hiding. I helped carry the bodies. I’m not asking you to be perfect. But I want you to be better than this. You are better than this. Where’s the boy who stood up and hurled mashed potato at the Carrows? Where’s the boy who kept us hopeful and led us after the raid? Even before that—you’ve always been brave. But one rejection, and it’s like you’re taking the coward’s way every time now.”

He opened his mouth again.

She raised a hand. “I’m not done.”

He shut it. Hannah looked him up and down, let the silence settle in between them. And then she sighed.

“You probably don’t even remember whose room you were coming out of that morning last term, do you?”

She paused long enough to see the answer on his face. No. He didn’t remember. Too many rooms. Too many blurred exits.

“Pansy Parkinson,” she said softly. “And it’s none of my business who you sleep with—or what house they’re from, or what their families have done. But don’t you dare turn around and judge Lydia, or me, for the relationships we’ve built to try and make the world feel less terrifying.”

Neville looked like he might try to explain.

She didn’t give him the chance.

“I shouldn’t care enough to tell you this—but I will. The morning you saw me come out of Theo’s room? That was the night after the pub attack. The one where that witch tried to kill Draco. I’m the one who tackled her. I got her wand away. Me.” She paused, voice thickening. “We didn’t sleep together. We just… slept. I didn’t want to be alone. I was scared. That’s it.”

Hannah took a breath. She hadn’t slept at all that night, really. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling in Theo’s room, replaying the attack over and over. Theo had reached over at one point, wrapped his hand around her shaking fingers until they stopped trembling and her breathing slowed.

Neville had the decency to look a little ashamed. “You should have come to me. I’m your friend…”

“Theo is my friend.” Lydia corrected him. “I thought you were too once. But if my new friendships cost me your respect— if you think it’s okay to talk to anyone like you just did— then I should thank you. You’ve saved me from falling for a bitter-hearted fool.”

She let the words hang in the air. Watched them land. Watched the flicker of recognition—or regret—shift behind his eyes. It wasn’t enough.

With a disappointed shake of her head, Hannah turned. Over it. Suddenly exhausted. Her mind already anticipating where she might find Lydia and Theo. She made it halfway to the door before Neville's hoarse voice broke into the quiet.  

“Wait—falling for?”

She stopped. 

Shit. She’d said too much. She momentarily squeezed her eyes shut.

Two strides and he was beside her. His face was open now as he stepped around her, into her path—eyes wide and reading over her face, raw and confused. 

“You said—falling for,” he echoed, like the words alone could rewrite the last ten minutes. And there he was again, for a breath—the boy she’d been hoping was still buried somewhere beneath the bitterness and posturing. His voice gentled. His shoulders eased, no longer squared for argument. His gaze softened into something that felt like an old cardigan: familiar, once-loved, frayed. But she wasn’t going to risk everything for something so threadbare, so convenient. 

Hannah gritted her teeth. “Not now. I’m going to find Lydia, Theo will be with her, and if I were you, I’d steer clear of him for a while.”

She stepped past him and Neville reached for her arm.

She yanked it back and turned on him, eyes blazing.

“Get your shit together. And maybe we can talk about what I said. Maybe.” She dragged her eyes over him—cool judgement in every flicker. “I expect better from you, Neville Longbottom. So much better.”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

She just left.

She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t follow. But she couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever catch up to the version of himself she still believed in. Because she wouldn’t wait around forever.

Chapter Text

Lydia hovered high above the pitch, heart pounding behind her ribs like a trapped Snitch. The sky stretched wide and mercilessly blue, heat shimmering off the stands. The golden hoops glinted in the sun like coins tossed into a fountain. Below, the crowd churned in restless, sun-dappled waves—laughter, cheers, murmured bets and rustling banners. The scent of trampled grass and summer hung in the air. A bewitched toy badger flipped through the air near the Hufflepuff stands, its stitched paws raised in triumph.

She tightened her grip on her broom. Swallowed.

Her first proper match as Seeker. Her first real game.

And of course, the press had shown up.

She’d tried not to dwell on it—the snapping glint of lenses catching light like beaks in a feeding frenzy. But it was hard to ignore, especially when she spotted someone in the staff box with a Prophet badge and a Quick-Quotes Quill already bobbing into action.

A familiar bitterness twisted in her throat.

This was meant to be just a match. One final, ridiculous hurrah. Not a bloody media circus.

McGonagall had offered an apology of sorts—stiff-but-kind, like most of hers, still cloaked in authority. Something about Ministry pressure. Something about scouts. “I expect you both to behave as representatives of this school,” she'd said, eyes sharp. “And to give them something to write about—for the right reasons.”

Lydia wasn’t sure if that was meant to be comfort or threat.

Still, a consolation had been offered. And the trade-off? Her dad’s voice, booming out across the stadium, full of glee and professional polish as he introduced the players.

“And at Seeker for Hufflepuff today—Lydia Hargrove! She’s smart, she’s fast, and she’s probably already regretting that I’ve got the mic—give her a cheer, folks!”

A wave of warm laughter rippled from the Hufflepuff end.

Lydia sighed, half-grinning despite herself. Trust her dad to make that the trade-off. Special guest commentator in exchange for a few flashy headlines. Once he’d heard she was actually playing—her first full match—there’d been no stopping him. McGonagall hadn’t really had a choice.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was even here. The Minister for Magic, seated in the shade of the staff box, sipping something chilled and talking in low tones with Professor Slughorn. For a school Quidditch match? Ridiculous. Why was he here?

Lydia exhaled slowly. Tried to block it all out.

She tilted her chin into the breeze, letting it sweep the heat from her cheeks and lift the sweat-stuck hair at her temples. The air smelled of trampled grass, sweat, and enchanted glitter from the banners overhead. Her broom thrummed beneath her like a held breath. No robes today—just light jerseys and trousers, the fabric clinging where the sun hit hardest. No gloves either; just calloused hands, sun-warmed broom handle, and instinct. Too warm for anything heavier. It felt less like a final and more like a match in the park—robes for goalposts. Gryffindor had already won the Cup. Trampled Ravenclaw earlier in the week. This match was for second place, so the pressure was off, a little, given there was no real glory to be had. Which only made the press attention more absurd.

She’d cast a cooling charm on her jersey in the changing rooms, somewhere between tightening the strap on her shin guard and pretending not to notice the way her teammates had hung on her dad’s every word. Because of course he’d snuck into their changing rooms to give the pep talk of the century. He’d gone full league-mode. “We might not have the Cup, but we’ve got pride—so let’s make it count! ” He'd had the beaters chanting "We've got pride! We've got power!". It had been embarrassing. It had also been weirdly perfect. Lydia had laughed, rolled her eyes, and let his words build up the excited anxiety in her chest. Lydia could admit, maybe she didn’t hate playing quidditch as much as she’d thought she would. The camaraderie, the nerves, the challenge, the thrill of winning. That Ravenclaw match last term—the one she’d stolen in under four minutes after being subbed on—had followed her around like a smug little ghost. She’d even considered joining a weekend league after she graduated. Just for fun. Maybe.

But who’d say another team, or another game, would be the same? It wasn’t like she could zip onto a pitch and win every game in minutes. And anyway, who had time for Quidditch on a Healer’s training schedule? 

Her placement started in August. The first few months were brutal, according to the packet that had arrived by owl a couple of weeks ago. Pre-reading, assigned reading, recommended additional reading. Lectures. Practical labs. Rotations. Her first night shift— first actual shift —was two weeks in, in the triage ward. Apparently, Healer Jensen believed in throwing her straight into the fire, because the two other students joining her at St Mungo’s from Hogwarts weren’t even starting placements for six weeks.

But Lydia couldn’t wait.

This match—under the blue sky of summer, this stupid, glorified media fest—wasn’t about winning. It was about one last bit of fun. Childish, messy, ridiculous, and real. Before everything changed. It was about making a memory. Something to hold onto. Something that wasn’t exams, or the Carrows, or screams echoing down stone corridors. Just one ordinary afternoon, to make up for the ones that had been too real in the darkest ways. Something loud and golden and sun-soaked—just big enough to remind her: life could be good.

Across the pitch, the Slytherin team hovered in formation. And just above them, looping in slow, controlled arcs like a hawk surveying his territory — Draco.

Lydia’s stomach did something traitorous—fluttering excitedly as if he wasn’t her opponent right now.

He was in full captain mode, all clipped movements and cool authority. She watched him lean close to one of his Chasers, gesturing sharply with his hand as he spoke. Then he swung low toward the Beaters, his voice rising just enough to catch the tone; commanding and clear. He wasn’t shouting, but he didn’t need to. He didn’t just look like a captain — he was one. Sharp lines and focused energy, the wind tugging his jersey against him as he moved with that infuriating, effortless grace. He didn’t notice her watching.

Lydia bit her lip, grinning despite herself.

She’d watched him like this before, the school year after Cedric died. She wasn’t sure she’d really noticed Draco before that. He was just another sneering Slytherin. Like every Hufflepuff girl with a pulse and an interest in boys, Lydia had fancied Cedric Diggory because he was handsome and kind and friendly; a proper Prince Charming. But after… well. Draco had said something awful on the train about Cedric — everyone had heard about it. And Lydia had wanted to hate him for it. She told herself she did.

But instead of glaring at him in her fourth year, while he flew as part of another ruthless Slytherin win, she’d found her heart fluttering stupidly in her chest. There was the white-blonde hair that caught the light in the corridors. That straight-backed, aristocratic posture — elegant and stuck-up in equal measure. And that sharp jawline always tilted arrogantly — the kind that made her want to bring him down a peg and, traitorously, wonder how sharp it would feel beneath her fingers as she yanked him down to earth.

She tried not to like him, at first. But her eyes kept tracking him across the pitch, across the Great Hall, trying to understand. To see past the sneer. Hoping there was more beneath. It had become a fantasy, really. The distant, embarrassing kind where you think, Maybe if he just had someone good in his life… if he knew me… He hadn’t even known her name then, and she’d never have dreamed of approaching him. Her fanciful teenage crush had faded, eventually. Grown quiet in its way. In fifth year, she and her small group of friends had skipped non-Hufflepuff matches in favour of quiet time in the common room or long walks around the grounds. She’d thrown herself into her studies, into healing, into her hospital wing shifts.

Until she ended up cradling Draco on the floor of the hospital wing.

And then everything changed.

And now here she was, floating opposite him on her own broom, wearing Hufflepuff yellow, a Seeker in her own right — and dating the Slytherin captain whose name she used to doodle in the margins of her Charms notes. Almost a fantasy come true.

Ridiculous. 

And also — kind of the best thing ever?

He looked over then, catching her eye across the space between teams.

He didn’t smile — not exactly — but something flickered at the edge of his mouth. The kind of look that said he saw her . Not just as the girl he was dating, but as the one he had to outfly today. As a worthy opponent he had no intention of underestimating.

Lydia raised her eyebrows in reply, letting her mouth curve in a mockingly confident little smirk. Her pulse was doing stupid things.

Eyes narrowing with amusement, Draco slowed his broom to a hover over his team as Madam Hooch raised her whistle. They didn’t break eye contact. 

The whistle blew. The quaffle soared into the air. Their teams launched into motion with a blur of colour and movement—but Lydia and Draco stayed locked in place, suspended midair, still staring each other down. An unspoken contest neither was willing to lose. Who would break first?

“And Hufflepuff takes early control!” Max Hargrove’s voice rang out across the stadium. “Daniels with the quaffle—quick pass to Captain Samhail Kerrigan—Hufflepuff pressing toward the Slytherin goal—oh, beautiful dodge—”

A pause, then: “Meanwhile, in the centre of the pitch, the Seekers appear to be… having a staring contest? Merlin’s beard, are you two going to move or just stare sonnets at each other?”

A ripple of laughter from the stands.

“Alright then—Samhail’s got support on the wing—Daniels again—watch the Beaters, Blake’s coming in hot—oh! Missed it by inches! Still in Hufflepuff possession—”

Lydia registered the shift in energy below them even as she kept her eyes on Draco. Her peripheral vision caught the blur of yellow and green streaking past.

“Slytherin Beaters moving to intercept—Blake with the block—no, that’s a near miss—good evasive flying from Kerrigan—Pressure building now—Daniels open again on the right—pass—caught—wait, no—fumbled! Intercepted by Slytherin’s Kendrick—”

A collective groan rose from the Hufflepuff stands.

“But Kendrick’s under fire—Hufflepuff’s Beaters not giving an inch—ah—turnover again! And it’s back to Hufflepuff—beautiful steal by Daniels!”

Lydia grinned. Her team wasn’t making it easy for anyone today. A moment later, the crowd roared as Hufflepuff made the first goal. Lydia’s grin widened, her gaze still locked on Draco. Behind her, Samhail’s voice rang out a moment later

“Quit eye-fucking their captain, Hargrove!” He whipped past on his broom, catching the quaffle one-handed and passing it to Daniels with an ease Lydia recognised from weeks of drills. “Get your eyes on the damn Snitch!”

Lydia didn’t flinch. “Yes, captain,” she called sweetly after him, not even pretending to look away from Draco. 

Draco mirrored it, calm and composed, like he had all the time in the world.

Her smile turned sharp as she inclined her head. You’re getting me in trouble.

He only smirked.

So Lydia pressed two fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss—mocking, daring, affectionate all at once—then kicked her broom into a steep climb, dismissing him with the kind of flair she’d never have imagined when she was fourteen.

He followed, obviously.

From their perches above the game, the first forty minutes were surprisingly entertaining — or at least Lydia thought so. The Hufflepuff Chasers were on fire: fast, coordinated, relentless. They’d scored eight times in the first twelve minutes. Slytherin were playing hard, but every attempt on goal was intercepted or denied.

Draco swooped down to speak with his team several times — all sharp movements and tight posture. From a distance, it looked like clipped reprimands.

When the score hit 100–10, his composure began to fray. He cut through the air like he meant to slice it in half, jaw clenched, flying hard toward his Beaters. He hovered too close, gesturing in that pointed way he had when words alone weren’t enough. Lydia recognised the expression — cold, distant, precise — and assumed the worst.

But whatever he said must’ve worked, at least to a degree. The Beaters tightened their coverage. Hufflepuff’s scoring pace slowed. Still, by the thirty-minute mark, it was 150–30, and Draco had started scanning the pitch with clear intent. Focused. Determined. Slytherin needed the Snitch — and soon — if they had any hope of clawing their way back.

Ten minutes later: another Slytherin misstep. The Keeper fumbled an easy save. Hufflepuff scored again. The stands erupted.

180–40.

Lydia didn’t cheer. Her gaze had already snapped to Draco — bracing for tension, for that familiar flash of temper — and he was already moving. Fast and low toward the goalposts.

She followed almost without realising, watching him slow beside the despondent Keeper.

But the bite she expected wasn’t there.

No fury. No blame.

His voice wasn’t raised — only firm.

It’s done. Shake it off. You’ll get the next one. Keep your head. It's not over yet. 

As the Keeper straightened, drawing a steadying breath, Lydia’s frown deepened. It took her a moment to realise what she was seeing.

He wasn’t tearing his team down. He was building them back up. And they were listening. Trusting him. She hovered, heart thudding oddly. Not from the game. Not really. It was surprise — real and low in her chest — because some part of her hadn’t expected this. Not fully. She’d seen Draco angry. Defensive. Broken. She knew how hot that fire burned beneath the polish. And she’d spent so long managing it — steadying him, nudging him back from cliffs he didn’t always see. So watching him now — choosing to steady someone else — it unsettled her. Not in a bad way. Just… unexpected. Like seeing proof of a hope she hadn’t let herself believe.

She was so busy trying to make sense of what she’d just seen — this new realisation that maybe she'd been underestimating him, still watching for the hot-headed boy she'd healed in secret, settling uneasily in her chest — that she didn’t see the Bludger.

“Lydia — look out!”

Her dad’s voice shouting over the speakers snapped her out of it. She turned just in time to catch a blur of movement — the Bludger hurtling straight for her —

And then Draco’s broom swept in, the tail end smacking it away with a sharp thwack . A flurry of magical camera bulbs flashed in rapid succession, capturing the moment from every angle, like glitter falling in the sunlight.

Draco wheeled around immediately, fury tightening every line of his body as he fixed his own Beater with a livid glare. The poor girl paled under it — genuinely shocked, and momentarily terrified. More cameras clicked, fast and eager.

Lydia blinked, heart pounding.

“And the Bludger narrowly hit away by… Malfoy, from the other team,” Max drawled over the speakers. “Well, folks, that’s conflict of interest for you. All’s fair in love and Quidditch, I suppose.”

“You alright?” Draco called, glancing back over his shoulder as he drifted closer. His eyes moved quickly over her, checking for injury.

Lydia nodded — a bit dumbly — and blinked. “That might well be the front page photo tomorrow,” she said, with a breathless little laugh.

Draco’s jaw clenched. He looked away with a resigned little shrug — as if already imagining the headline. And that was when Lydia saw it.

A flicker of gold. Just below Draco’s elbow, floating lazily in his shadow, flirting with the sunlight. The Snitch. She didn’t react. Kept her eyes on his face when he glanced back at her.

She wasn’t close enough to grab it. And if she moved — if she reached — Draco would notice. He was right there . All he’d have to do was pluck it from the air like lint off his jersey. Already, she could see people in the stands pointing. Lydia made a snap decision.

She gasped — a sharp, startled inhale — turned her head like she’d just spotted something down the field, and tucked low against her broom. She didn’t just fly — she launched . A wild, sudden burst of speed that left a spiral of wind in her wake. She dove hard, steep enough to draw gasps from the crowd, then pulled up sharply and cut across the pitch at breakneck pace, weaving between players like they were standing still. It was a performance. A full-tilt, recklessly convincing chase. And it worked.

“Hang on… has Hargrove finally seen the Snitch?” Max’s voice rang out, sharp with surprise and barely-hidden hope. “Malfoy and Hargrove both seem to be — oh — yes, they’re off!”

Draco had followed, just like she knew he would.

He dipped low, veering past a startled Hufflepuff Chaser, then swerved so hard left he nearly clipped a Beater —

Just as Lydia pulled up short, Draco skidding to a stop in midair beside her.

A pause.

Max again: “...Or maybe not?” A beat. “Still no catch, folks, but Slytherin are running out of time — and luck.”

Draco turned to her, breathless. “What was that? Did you see it?”

“Oh. Yeah. Back there,” Lydia said innocently, gesturing vaguely behind them. “That was a close one…”

Draco frowned, glanced back over his shoulder. “Wait — what?”

“We’re meant to fly away when we see the Snitch, right?” she teased, batting her eyelashes.

He blinked at her, piecing it together.

“Hang on… did you just…” He trailed off, mouth closing around the words he didn’t bother finishing. Because he knew. She had. He shook his head. “You're so lucky I love you."

Lydia stilled. Just for a second. Icy panic squeezed her lungs. She scrambled for a clever comeback, a reasonable response that wasn’t entirely dismissive —

And then the Hufflepuff stands erupted. Another goal.

“190–40,” her dad called out over the speakers. “Things just got serious!”

Draco’s face fell. His shoulders slumped — just slightly — before he turned to track the Quaffle dropping back into play.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Lydia felt a flicker of sympathy. Just for a second.

“I suppose you wouldn’t want to catch it now anyway,” she offered lightly, trying for a joke. But Draco didn’t look at her. Just rolled his eyes, tired and tight-lipped. He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t even annoyed. Just… gutted. And somehow, that made it worse.

Fine . She definitely felt bad for him.

She knew how hard he’d trained this year. How much effort he’d thrown into dragging Slytherin into shape. How many late-night common room rants she’d sat through — line-ups, drills, who to push harder, who needed confidence, which Beater was too twitchy to trust in a close match. He’d cared. Really, genuinely cared.

But so had her team. She’d seen her Chasers sprint laps until their legs shook. Watched bruises bloom from misjudged Bludger drills. She’d been there while they launched Quaffle after Quaffle at their keeper, played the fox in endless rounds of Hunt the Fox — dodging the full team to sharpen her own evasive skills.

And in the end, her team were simply playing better today. The scoreline didn’t lie.

Still…

Draco suddenly straightened beside her, spine snapping taut. His eyes locked on something across the pitch. A split-second flinch ran through him — the kind that comes just before the body bolts forward. His hand twitched. His broom angled like he meant to launch.

Lydia’s heart stuttered. She followed his gaze toward the far end of the pitch, scanning the air above the staff stand. She braced — knees tightening, hand gripping the broom. If Draco moved, she’d be right behind him.

But he didn’t. He stopped himself. Held. Thought better of it. As long as she didn’t spot it, Hufflepuff couldn’t win.

Clenching her jaw, Lydia began to drift in the direction he’d been looking. Draco followed, keeping pace beside her like it was choreographed, but not rushing to chase ahead, not risking her seeing where the snitch actually was.

Below, the game surged. Slytherin on the attack now, chasing an opening toward the Hufflepuff hoops. The Quaffle zipped between green-clad hands in tight, practiced passes. The crowd roared, scrambling to keep up.

“You know,” Draco said casually, like they were out for a Sunday broom ride, “I like how you look in your kit. It's very sexy, in an athletic way. Very intense. ”

Lydia’s focus stuttered, but she didn’t take her eyes off the sky. “Nice try,” she murmured.

“Of course, you’d look even better in my jersey,” he added, voice lower now. “Pressed up against the lockers…”

She spluttered — choked on nothing but air — her mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m not letting you distract me,” she coughed, trying to clear her throat, to summon any shred of focus.

“Of course you’re not,” Draco smirked, still scanning the pitch, still coiled and ready to strike.

“You’re stalling because you’re losing. Badly,” she said, regaining her edge. “I know you can see it.”

Draco’s smile curved, sly and unbothered. “Maybe.”

A cheer erupted from the stands — Hufflepuff had intercepted the Quaffle again. Play turned, streaming away from them.

And then—

There.

A glint of gold, low over the Hufflepuff hoops, darting like a nervous heartbeat.

Her breath caught.

“Shit,” Draco hissed — like he’d felt her notice it.

Then everything broke.

No circling. No wind-testing. No easing into it. Just GO — two bodies and two brooms tearing into the sky like they’d been lit from underneath.

Max’s voice cracked across the pitch, rising in disbelief: “Malfoy and Hargrove are off like dragons out of a pen — Merlin’s beard, look at them go.”

But Lydia barely heard him. The rest of the world thinned to sky, wind, breath — and Draco.

Draco shot ahead first — only just — until he had to bank hard to dodge a Hufflepuff Chaser. Lydia twisted through the gap he left behind, slicing into an updraft so fierce it made her lips sting and her hands burn from gripping her broom so tightly.

A Bludger howled past her shoulder. She ducked, swerved through a knot of green and yellow — then burst free, laughing. Half-wild with the thrill of it.

Yes, her eyes were fixed on the Snitch, but her body was locked on Draco. Chasing him. Matching him. Daring him. She could feel him just behind her — always close — his movements sharp, purposeful, cocky. Every part of him burned with intent.

It was infuriating. And unfair. And utterly magnetic.

He rose beside her like a shadow stretched by moonlight, then cut under her just as she pulled into a blistering arc. Their brooms nearly touched. She could’ve reached out and tugged his sleeve.

She sliced across him next, close enough to feel the air shift between them — to catch that maddening scent: coconut and pepper — and something distinctly him.

It made her dizzy.

It made her fly harder.

He made her better.

They weren’t just chasing the Snitch. They were dancing.

Max again, voice caught between awe and concern: “This is — this is insane flying for a school Quidditch match — I mean — what are they... — do not try this at home!” 

The crowd roared beneath them. Some were screaming their names. Some were gasping in awe. None of it landed.

Draco matched her, move for move. When she faked left, he was already there. When she darted up, he curved beneath her — the gap between their brooms hardly wider than a wand tip. They moved like magnets in a storm.

She stretched flat over her broom, air whistling in her ears. She didn’t need to look —

But she still did.

Just a glance. Just enough to see him there — mouth set, jaw tight, eyes locked on her and seemingly nothing else. The look that always made her feel like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

Her smirk cracked out before she could stop it. His grin was electric. Every time.

Then they moved — together. No signal. No shout. Just heat and instinct and a shared, wordless pull. They dove after the snitch. Hard. Through chaos — Beaters, Bludgers, Chasers flinching out of the way.

Lydia ducked low, her elbow nearly grazing a shoulder pad. Draco skimmed the pitch so fast the grass curled in his wake.

It was reckless. Ridiculous. Perfect.

Then the Snitch shot up. And they followed. Twin streaks spiralling after it, neck and neck. The crowd’s noise rose in waves.

“They’re gaining — neck and neck — I cannot call this — they’re going to kill each other —” Max’s voice cracked, half-panicked now.

Up they rose, coiling in mirrored arcs like autumn leaves caught in reverse fall, gold flickering just ahead.

And for one mad second, Lydia wasn’t sure whether she wanted to catch the Snitch…

or Draco.

The Snitch streaked left—low and fast—and Lydia was already in pursuit, heart hammering so hard it shook her ribs. Wind roared past her ears. Her broom dipped instinctively, fingers tightening. She could taste the air—cold, dry, adrenaline-laced.

But Draco was there too.

He came in sharp from the right, his broom a green-and-silver blur, shoulder a breath from brushing hers. Not quite enough to foul. Just enough to warn .

“Move,” she muttered, low and tight. He didn’t. Instead, he dipped beneath her with infuriating precision and rose again just ahead, cleanly cutting her off from the Snitch’s flight path. Not dirty.  Just… clever.  And deeply annoying.

From somewhere below, Max’s voice rang out, part horror, part admiration: “Oh come on , that’s textbook obstruction! If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was enjoying himself—”

So he was playing that game.  Fine.

She faked a climb, then looped under and darted right—only for Draco to match her exactly, his broom tracking her like a second shadow. Always between her and the blur of gold. Always just in the way.

“Seriously?” she snapped, whipping past his shoulder, hair lashing behind her. “You’re going to stall it out now ?”

“If it buys my Chasers time,” he called back, annoyingly smooth, “absolutely.”

His voice had that maddening lightness to it—like this was all very amusing. Like he was perfectly at ease, despite the fact they were corkscrewing at breakneck speed thirty feet in the air. She could’ve hexed the smirk right off his face.

The score was brutal—Slytherin couldn’t win now, not unless they caught the Snitch and somehow turned back time. This was damage control. Pride. Strategy. And maybe, just maybe, a bit of showing off. Because Draco knew she hated being boxed in. He knew exactly how to needle her.

They spiralled around the Slytherin hoops, wind slicing over her skin, the crowd shrieking like a living storm beneath them. Draco was still there—guarding the Snitch like a wolf with a bone. A very smug wolf.

Lydia cut across him, daring him to follow. He did—and clipped her side. Not hard. Not foul-worthy. Just enough .

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered.

“I’m just admiring your flying,” he said innocently. “You get this intense little crease between your eyebrows when you’re furious. It’s cute.”

“I’m going to shove you into a Bludger.”

Draco grinned. “Promises, promises.”

They dove low, racing just above the pitch where the grass blurred into ribbons of green. Her stomach swooped. That was when she saw it—just past the frantic movement of players: Hufflepuff’s Chasers tearing through Slytherin’s defence again.

Samhail had the Quaffle. Daniels was open. Wide open.

Draco saw it, too.

He faltered.

Just a flicker. Barely more than a breath. The turn of his head. The twitch of his shoulders. He looked down the pitch at his team—at his house unraveling.

For a single heartbeat, she thought he might abandon the chase. Fly to support them. Scream himself hoarse directing traffic, clawing back control with sheer will.

Or worse—she thought he might give up.

But he didn’t.

He glanced at her .

And something shifted.

She couldn’t quite name it—challenge? maturity? maybe even a trace of resignation—but it was all edged in something startlingly close to fondness.

He huffed a breath. Sharp. Quiet. Almost a laugh.

Then he surged forward.

Her heart jolted.

He was going for the draw.

Lydia kicked into gear, every nerve alight. Her broom responded like a livewire. She pressed harder, flatter, reaching—

The Snitch shimmered in the space between them. So close she could feel the flutter of its wings, the breeze of its slipstream against her knuckles.

She reached.

So did he.

Max’s voice cracked over the crowd:  “They’re neck and neck—bloody hell, I think they’ve both got it—!”

Her fingers grazed a wing.

His hand closed.

The whistle shrieked.

Everything stopped as they both pulled up abruptly, staring at each other, as if they were still playing that mind game from the start of the match.

For a moment, the stadium held its breath. No cheers. No jeers. Just stunned, suspended silence, waiting for confirmation of which of them had caught it.

Then the scoreboard flickered.

Hufflepuff – 190
Slytherin – 190

The crowd erupted .

Max again, slightly hoarse, utterly gobsmacked: “It’s a draw—an actual, honest-to-Godric draw ! I don’t believe it—when’s the last time that happened in Hogwarts history?”

Lydia hovered there, stunned, chest heaving. Across from her, Draco still held the Snitch, expression unreadable. He looked like he wanted to say something clever. She stared at him for a few long, breathless seconds—her amazing, beautiful, ridiculous boyfriend, captain of the opposing team—and let out a crooked smile.

“I’m sleeping in your bed tonight, right?” she said, voice a little hoarse, her body humming with adrenaline and something a little more primal. 

A secretive sort of smile tugged at Draco’s mouth. “I imagined so.”

He hesitated. Then held out his hand. A proper shake. Opponents. Equals.

With a quirk in her smile, Lydia took it. His palm was warm, rough from the broom, and lingered. She wasn’t sure she’d ever actually shook his hand so formally before. 

“Beautiful game, Hargrove.” His voice was low, reverent. Eyes flaring—not just from adrenaline, but something else. Something that made her chest go tight. And, perhaps if they hadn’t been in the middle of a pitch surrounded by their schoolmates and teachers, a host of photographers and reporters. Maybe if her dad hadn’t been fumbling in surprise over some statistics about famous historical games that ended in draws, maybe she’d have launched across the space between them and wrapped her arms around him, or kissed him. God, she really wanted to kiss him. Flying with him was… something else. Part of her ached to think that they wouldn’t likely compete like that again, with real stakes. 

“You too, Malfoy,” she smirked. She nodded to the snitch in his other hand. “You actually took the draw—another brave choice. You’re making a habit of those lately.”

“The smart choice,” Draco corrected. He glanced down at his team with something fond in his eyes as they both turned their brooms and followed the other players to the ground to dismount. “They’ll be better next year. More ready.”

It struck her—how uncharacteristically selfless that was. Not that she thought him incapable of it. But to hear him say it aloud, here, when the crowd was still roaring and he could’ve basked in catching the Snitch… it was something else entirely. He was thinking about the team. About next year. About building something stronger than just himself.

Her throat tightened, unexpected and warm as her boots hit the pitch to a rush of noise and movement. She was about to turn and throw her arms around him, but her Hufflepuff teammates converged on her, raucous and overflowing with adrenaline. Daniels threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her away from Draco.

“That was bloody mental , Hargrove!”

“I thought you had him,” someone else shouted. “I swear you had him!”

“She did ,” said Samhail, appearing at her side, eyes bright. He looked her up and down like he couldn’t believe she was still standing. “Flying like that? You made Malfoy work . Would’ve served him right if you’d snatched it out from under his nose.”

Lydia laughed, breathless and pink-faced, still winded from the chase. “Oh come on,” she deflected, shaking her head. “You lot were the ones tearing through their defence. Nineteen goals? And Sam, that second goal in the final stretch—did you see yourself?”

He huffed.

“He was a bloody hero!” Daniels agreed, before swatting her on the arm. “Don’t deflect, you maniac. You were flying like you had a death wish.”

“High praise,” she said, grinning.

“She’s right though,” said another teammate. “We all showed up today.”

“Joint second in the Cup,” someone else breathed, almost disbelieving. “Tied with Slytherin. That’s the best we’ve done in— what? Over a decade?”

“Bet your life Sprout’s already halfway through composing a speech telling us how amazing we all are.”

Lydia laughed again, the knot of pressure in her chest finally beginning to loosen. They were clapping each other on the back, flushed and light-footed with relief, pride, disbelief. There was a buzz to it all—a current that kept catching on her skin.

She felt a glance from across the pitch. Looked.

Draco stood a little way off with his team around him. Their voices were low, unreadable, but she knew from his gestures that he was offering commiserations and encouragement, exuding pride. As he squeezed the shoulder of the youngest member of his team, Draco’s gaze met hers once—brief, unreadable—and then he gave her the faintest nod.

Samhail nudged her shoulder, drawing her attention away. “You owe me biscuits or chocolate by the way,” he grinned. “I aged five years watching some of those dives.”

As they headed for their own changing rooms, their laughter echoed as the team jostled and jeered around each other, the weight of the game already lifting into the lightness of shared victory—well, shared almost victory. But it felt good. It felt earned.

Somewhere behind them, the stands were still buzzing. Sprout would be waiting. There’d be cake and butterbeer back in the common room (courtesy of the elves), and someone—probably Daniels—would start a victory chant that didn’t quite rhyme but made everyone laugh anyway.

And maybe later, when things had quieted and the sugar wore off, Lydia would let herself think again about that moment. About how close she'd come. About the look on Draco’s face, and what it meant that he’d chosen the draw.

But for now—
She let herself be dragged into the warmth of her team.
And let herself feel proud. She even managed to smile for the photographers before the team pulled her into the safety of the locker room. 

Chapter Text

Draco slung his jersey at Lydia before she’d fully appeared in the room. She caught it instinctively—safe Seeker hands. Why hadn’t he ever appreciated that before? 

Leaning imposingly, shoulder against the lockers and ankles crossed, Draco tried to keep his breath from hitching when he saw her. She was wearing her offensively yellow Hufflepuff jersey over a pair of barely there, short, black athletic shorts, feet bare. Water still dripped from her hair. He caught a wisp of her lemon body wash—clearly she’d just got out of the shower.

Shit. Something heated pooled low and fast.

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t thought the timing through. Or, at least had assumed she'd be at her own house celebrations. He’d been stuck in the Slytherin common room, going through the motions of post-game debrief and celebrations with a team who were surprisingly pleased with their second-place finish. Joint second. And considering he’d started with all new players at the beginning of the year, it was a worthy achievement. Even the rest of the Slytherins had been coming around to that understanding. Especially given how vastly superior Hufflepuff’s chasers had been.

But he’d just about reached his limit with the teasing—jabs about how he’d thrown the match because he was trying to get laid, or scared of upsetting Lydia. As if. The truth was, if he hadn't snatched the Snitch when he did, she’d have beaten him, and Hufflepuff would have won. They were the better team today. Scored far more goals. Their Beaters had his Chasers rattled, and kept their own well protected.

They’d been the best team all year.

If Lydia had been their Seeker from the start, Hufflepuff would’ve taken the Cup for the first time in decades. She’d have been even more devastating. Even stronger. Even more of a challenge.

And he loved her for it.

Now here she was, clearly not having come from her own house celebrations like he'd expected, very much post-shower-damp, long-legged, and eyes roving over him in a manner that was not how he'd imagined it. There was too much furrowed brow. She was trying for unconcerned, but he saw it—the way her fist squeezed the coin in her hand and then tucked it into the front of her satchel, her shoulders softening. Or relaxing maybe. Her lips thinned as she let her satchel slide to the floor beside her bare feet. 

Her healer’s satchel, he realised. 

She’d rushed here. He registered the slight tangle of her damp hair, the fact she wasn't even wearing shoes! She had answered the coin like it meant danger. Like it meant he might need healing. Because why would he summon her this early, when they'd agreed to meet tonight? Why else would he summon her when she wasn't expecting it?

“You’re not injured then,” she quipped lightly, not really a question. But her eyes skimmed his chest, over his scars, a second too long, as if she needed the reassurance, and something in his chest gave. 

He shook his head slightly, impassive.

Crap. He’d been thinking it would be a fun surprise, not send her into a panic. He should have known better. 

Still… he had the perfect distraction in mind. He tilted his chin at the jersey she’d caught. “Put it on. You’re making it up to me.”

Lydia tilted her head, a slow grin forming, chasing out the anxiety. His girlfriend was a quick study and never took easily to insinuations she was in the wrong. “That’s a funny way to say congratulations on a superb debut,” she countered.

“You owe me,” Draco said flatly. “My team won’t shut up. Saying I threw the game for you. Stop smiling.” 

He was smiling, despite himself. He hadn’t meant to—he’d meant to be cool, unimpressed. He tried to hold his petulant scowl in place.

“Do you know how hard I worked to get that lot in shape? And you show up at the last minute and screw me over.”

“Oh, there you are.” She crossed her arms, smug chin lifting. “My boy with the wounded pride.”

He looked to the ceiling and shook his head with a rueful breath.

“Are you going to tell me it’s not fair,” Lydia teased. ‘When it’s your own fault for challenging me to join the team?” 

Draco rolled his tongue over the inside of his cheek, crossed his arms. 

“It’s not fair,” he muttered, sliding his gaze away, playing the part just to make her laugh. 

“You’re adorable.” She grinned, teeth flashing.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, well,” Draco bit back a crooked grin. “You can make it up to me. Put the jersey on.”

Lydia pursed her lips in mock consideration. “Or…” She slipped her hands under the hem of her own jersey, tugging it slowly up and over her head, revealing a sleek black sports bra beneath. The bare skin of her ribs and the curve of her waist gleamed in the soft light as she tossed the jersey to him, her intent clear.

Drinking in the sight of her, Draco let the hideous yellow jersey hit his shoulder and fall to the floor. “No,” he said flatly, voice low and clipped. “I’m not putting on bloody Hufflepuff colours.”

Lydia sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair, shifting her weight to stick out a hip. “Oh, that’s a shame. Well, I suppose you can stand there brooding while I leave—wet hair, bare feet—very tragic. Very unfulfilled.”

He crossed the room and caught her wrist as she pivoted away, the warmth of her skin sparking a flicker of restraint inside him. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them hummed, thick and electric.

Softly, he slid up against her, brushed his fingers through her hair. They tangled slightly where she hadn't brushed it yet—“You were phenomenal today. I love every second of flying with you.”

Draco caught the flicker of surprise in Lydia’s swirling green eyes—and something like pride, maybe. Pride was a good look on her, all straight backed and gentle glow. He found the set of his mouth sharpening as he leaned in, close enough to feel the quick hitch of her breath against his lips as his thumb stroked behind her ear and his fingers splayed around the back of her neck, the faintest heat of her skin brushing his cheek.

“Do you have any idea how hot it is?” He asked, dragging teeth over his bottom lip as he drank in her reaction to his slightly gruff tone. “The way we fly together—reckless, beyond perfect. You make me fly so hard. Like chasing you is the only point. The way we weave and dive and twist side by side, like we could burn the whole sky down…”

His voice dropped, thick and frayed as his breath brushed her ear.

“It’s fucking obscene,” he whispered, lips ghosting her skin.

He felt her breath catch again, sharp and sudden, and warmth pooled low and tight between his hips at the thoughts that raced through his mind. The things he'd thought as they'd climbed and dipped and twisted together in pursuit of the snitch… he felt his cheeks flush with heat.

He left the briefest pause, but found Lydia didn't respond, didn't defiantly tease him back. Interesting. Was she just tired from the match perhaps? What had his usually snappy little wolf, speechless?

He pulled back just enough to see the slow, teasing smile curling at the corner of her lips. As if she'd had the same thoughts. Her fingers twitched, sliding around his waist as if she needed to close the distance between them, to tell him without words that the fire burning through him was mirrored in her.

Ah—thats what. 

“And now,” he said, cocking his head, looking her over appraisingly, as if he had any right, weighing his next words. He let them slip out—slow and indulgent as the liquid dreams of every possessive boy ever. “I really want to make you gasp my name, in your team’s locker room, while you’re wearing my jersey.”

A slow, wicked grin set across Lydia's mouth. “A trade it is, then.”

His eyes darkened further, a subtle curl of appreciation tugging in the corner of his mouth at her audacity, her perseverance. He tried to wipe it away with his thumb as he looked her over— weighing up the risk to his pride for the reward of seeing her in green, the sheer stupidity of what they were doing, what he wanted to do… Finally, he rolled his eyes at himself.

“Fine,” he huffed, aiming for petulant.

He stepped away, bent to retrieve her jersey. No fanfare. No theatrics. Just pulled it over his head, arms through sleeves that still held her warmth. It didn’t really fit properly. Tight across his shoulders. A little short, mainly on the sleeves that didn’t reach his wrists. The yellow of Hufflepuff stood bold against his pale skin. He should’ve hated it. But gods, he didn’t.

It was too soft, too new still, only one game and a last minute substitution worth of play. (A sensational minute where she'd stolen across the pitch and snatched the snitch right from beneath the Gryffindor goalkeeper 's broom before the whistle had barely finished echoing around the stands, causing uproar.) And yet the scent of her clung to it—clean, citrus and lavender, defiant. Not just shampoo and soap. Her. That maddening steadiness that got under his skin and soothed him at the same time. 

And for a second—just a second—wearing her name felt like safety. Like he belonged to something gentler than the war that had hollowed him out from the inside, and the weight of his parents’ dogma that had nearly drowned him. It settled strangely on his chest, light, almost weightless—but what it meant pressed down hard. Because it wasn’t just a shirt. Not really. It was her world. Her life. Her future. And he had no right way to hold any of it.

He stared at his reflection in a mirror across the locker room—her jersey clinging to him, chest rising and falling too fast—and for a moment, he admitted to himself that he wanted it. All of it. Her. This. Something that felt warm and human and real. Her laughter pressed to his neck. The safety of her silences. The wild, aching freedom of being seen by her and not turning away.

But wanting was dangerous, for both of them

He told himself it was a joke. A game. A trade. It’s just a quidditch shirt. But he already knew he didn't want to give it back. Already felt the danger in it. Because some reckless part of him—some stupid, selfish, human part—wanted to always remember what it felt like to wear something that didn’t belong to his father, or his house, or the bloody war.

Just… to her.

“Merlin, if fourteen-year-old me could see this, she’d be having a full-on crisis of swooning…” Lydia muttered a little breathlessly, pulling his attention from the mirror. Her eyes raking over him, she said, “You know, yellow really brings out the kindness and patience in your eyes…”

He gave her a deadpan look, exhaling amusement through flared nostrils. She smirked, holding back a laugh.

Pulling lightly at the jersey to try and make it fit a little less oddly, Draco closed the distance between them. His steps seemingly unhurried, in control. His hand slid into her damp hair again, drawing her close, reclaiming the previous moment, the heat already blooming between them.

With a surprised little gasp, she tipped back a step as he overbalanced her— And he followed, drinking in every reaction to his closeness. The way her eyes darkened, pupils dilating. The shift in her breathing. The way her body softened, melting into him, bit by bit.

Draco’s other hand lingered on her hip, but his eyes had shifted—still locked on hers, something heavier creeping behind them. He tried to keep it out, tried to keep on that teasing edge he enjoyed so much.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous the thought of you in green—with my name stitched across your shoulders—is?” he murmured.

“Dangerous enough that you'll wear Hufflepuff colours apparently…” Lydia shot him that easy smile. 

But his own smirk faded almost as soon as it had formed. His thumb brushed against the fabric absentmindedly, his gaze flickering to the jersey she held, then back up—quieter now, more serious. The thought tumbled out.

“Its not just because it's going to look so good, you know. But also…” he hesitated, tried to stop himself from saying it, from ruining this. Too many words tumbled out anyway. “if anyone ever sees what that means to me…” He trailed off, jaw working as if he was trying to swallow the truth before it could escape, because she wasn't ready to hear what it meant to him, and he was terrified someone would hurt her for it. They already had once.

Lydia’s smile faltered.

Draco looked down for a moment, gathering himself. Shit. Not this again. Why couldn't he let this go? He swallowed, trying to stop the words slipping out, but when he looked up, when he met those sea-green eyes that saw through him anyway, the words clawed their way up his throat, tumbled down his tongue, skated out of his lips...

“You’re not safe with me. Even if—when—I become an Auror. Maybe especially then... "

The words hurt because they were true—an ache building in his chest, threatening to pull him under, to dowse the flame between them. He hadn't meant to lay it on this thick. 

Fuck, why did his head do this? Why couldn’t he just be the cool, sexy, quidditch captain and seduce his girlfriend in the cauldron-damned locker room like he'd planned? 

Lydia's hand went to his cheek, catching him before he spiralled. 

"Just for right now. That's all we need to worry about," she said — and the words were a lifeline wrapped in barbed wire. A mercy that still left him bleeding. Like driftwood in a storm: sharp-edged and splintered, but the only thing keeping him afloat.

She wasn’t wrong. Right now it was just them, they were safe—he’d warded and locked the doors, cast muffliatos too. No one knew they were here, no one would know to look for them here, the school's attention had moved on from the quidditch pitch and the adjoining changing rooms. There'd be no judgemental looks, no whispers, no cameras, no reporters, no interruptions— and right now they could be all that mattered. Them and the space between them. Or—the lack of. 

He should focus on just them and forget everything outside those doors. Forget about imagined future dangers or future dreams. Forget everyone else's opinions. Forget what the headlines were going to be tomorrow, what pictures of them would make the papers.

 Because Draco Malfoy Vs his Hufflepuff saviour girlfriend on the quidditch pitch? That was prime storytelling right there. He hoped McGonagall was well compensated for selling their story. He couldn't understand how else they'd have been permitted on school grounds these days. School quidditch games rarely made the inside sports pages. 

Shit. Stop. Right now. Just focus. Lydia. In a Slytherin jersey. Gasping your name. Thats what you want, he chided himself, blinking, covering Lydia's hand with his, pressing it firmer against his cheek and leaning in, as if it were the only way he knew to stay.

The trouble was, he wanted more than just right now, he wanted her always, completely. He wanted her forevers, her future. He wanted her to say those words that would mean everything. Just three words that felt like they had the power to undo and remake him all at once. 

He knew— of course he knew—she cared for him, loved him. It was there in the flash of her eyes and that Cheshire cat grin, the touch of her hand whether it was gentle or strong, the way her body leaned into his like a pull she couldn't resist. It was in their laughter and teasing, their idle conversations. It was right there in the way she'd rushed to answer the summoning coin, thinking he was hurt, thinking she could save him. But none of that felt permanent enough. It was always just for right now. And right now could run out. He wanted more. Needed it maybe. 

He felt a protest flicker on his lips and turned into her palm, pressed his mouth to her skin to silence it. Because it wasn't fair to ask. He understood how scared she was to lose people, how that meant she was scared to risk committing out loud—that was love too, wasn't it? In a twisted, backwards way. Not saying it, was because she felt it and didn't want to lose him. And he certainly didn't want to lose her by putting too much pressure on. His grip on her hip flinched for a moment at the idea of right now running out. Whether by exterior influence or their own shortcomings. Her inability to commit, his insecurity and need. The ever background hum of the headlines. The realities of adult life… so many things could dissolve what they did have. 

He didn’t speak right away.

Just looked at her—like he was memorising her face, committing every detail to memory in case he ever had to let it go.

His fingers flexed once more against her waist, unsure, as though he was still deciding whether to pull her closer or push her away. Whether it was fair to want her like this, when wanting her was the very thing that made her unsafe, put a target on her back. But he was too selfish to do anything about it other than this.

I love you. He let the thought anchor him, like it always did. He loved her, and he clung to that love like it would save him from every storm that would ever come because it had already. In so many ways. 

“Just for right now,” he echoed eventually, though the words cost him something heavy.

His forehead dropped gently to hers again. He took a deep breath, gathered himself out of the dark spiral with sheer will and a blink. 

“And right now, I need you to let me have this.” He pulled back just slightly, pushing a curve onto his mouth like he'd just won something and pressed the green jersey to her chest. “Put the damn jersey on.”

Lydia blinked, lips parting in a soft laugh as the moment shifted, as she realised he was playing to her weakness, her compassion, with this little show of vulnerability. At least, he let her think that was all it was. A game between them, more push and pull. She took the jersey slowly, watching him the whole time, and tugged it over her head in one smooth motion.

It was predictably too big, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, sleeves falling to her fingertips, the collar a little loose at her throat, revealing the edge of a collarbone. She wasn't quite drowning in it, managed not to look entirely lost inside something that belonged to him. She wore it like she had chosen it. Like she didn’t mind the weight, the extra material and somehow, she made it look rather endearing. She pushed up the sleeves, made it fit well enough, though she somehow looked smaller.

His name was on that shirt, resting over her shoulders now. She wore it like it wasn't a burden, just smiled that easy, knowing smile of hers while his chest tightened and something a little feral unspoiled deep in his gut.

“Happy now, Captain?” she asked, tilting her head, all cheek.

Draco’s mouth quirked—half smirk, half something else. 

“Not yet.” he replied, and closed the space between them, guiding her back against the lockers, caging her in with one hand on the wooden doors and another on her hip. And then his mouth was on hers, turning her smile into a gasp. His tongue stole that too. She tasted like adrenaline and the possibility of victory— of all the competitive tension they’d shared during the match and other things that had nothing to do with quidditch. And kissing her was everything and never enough. 

His hand skated beneath her—his—jersey, just the pads of his fingers ghosting over the bare skin of her back until she shivered. And that only made him kiss her harder, a thrill running down his spine at the way she responded, how he knew her body would respond.

There was magic in that.

In the way he knew the exact whimper that would escape her mouth, the exact arch of her back as he brushed his fingers over the front of her bra. There was so much magic in that knowledge. Because he would touch her, she would respond and his own body would fill with urgent heat, as if they were always chasing each other. As if they were still in the air, matching each other move for move, pushing and teasing, chasing the same end. 

Her hands roamed hurriedly too, like she didn’t see the cracks he tried to hide. Like she didn’t notice the faded scars across his chest — the ones left by Potter’s curse, others from Voldemort or Bellatrix’s wands, a few from The Carrows, relics of everything he’d once been. 

Except she had seen them. She didn’t just know his scars — she had catalogued them. Every raised seam and faded line mapped like constellations she could trace in her sleep. She’d asked about them, over time. Just in those quiet, liminal moments when they were tangled together half-dressed in his bed, her fingers skating lazily across his skin, her brow soft with something like awe. She knew every story, right down to the small line behind his left ear, from a broom accident when he was seven. 

“I’m so glad you survived all this,” she’d said once, fingertips brushing the long, pale line that curved over the back of his right calf. Alecto Carrow—the tail end of a diffendo he hadn’t fully shielded against. Her tone was not hushed or fragile but certain. Solid. Like it was a victory she refused to let him forget.

He hadn’t known what to say. Because to him, survived sounded too generous. Too heroic. Survivors fought back. Made choices. He had mostly… endured. Stayed quiet. Done what he was told. A better man would have pushed back sooner, bigger. Wouldn’t have taken the Mark beneath his sleeve in the first place. The best he'd done was acquire a few supplies for the hospital wing, and maybe that had saved him from Azkaban, but it was barely a defiance.

To her, his scars were reminders that he’d made it out. That he was still here. To him, they were proof he’d failed. That he hadn’t fought hard enough, hadn’t been quick enough, strong enough, skilled enough. That someone better might have found another way.

But she never asked him to be someone better. She didn’t treat his scars like something to flinch from, or like battle honours to be glorified. Just… facts. Flesh. History. Evidence that he’d endured, and kept enduring like that was all that mattered.

He didn’t know how to be the boy worth saving. Not when his arm was still inked with the Mark. But he tried to make peace with it. And every time she let him, he worshipped her scars without hesitation — the ones she carried away from the theatre, ones that partially matched his sectum sempura scars. A gentle pass of his fingers, a careful outline traced with nails, a line of kisses, or teeth. Whatever the moment called for. Whatever matched the rhythm they were moving to. He made himself remember. And silently, always, he thanked her.

Her hands skimmed higher, nudging the jersey up his chest, nails catching lightly over his ribs as she dragged them down again.

Draco groaned softly. Fuck, her hands. Always her hands— gentle healer's hands, strong, safe seeker’s hands. He really had never appreciated them enough. He’d dreamed of those hands, longed for them when they were apart and everything else was dark. They'd distracted him too many times during the game today, as they'd both reached for the snitch and missed, as they’d weaved together across the pitch. The lines of her bones, her veins, the way the muscles shifted, the precise flex of her knuckles, the texture of her wind-blown skin as she’d steered her broom. Distracted because his mind had tried to conjure this. 

Her fingers on his body, sliding up his throat and into his hair. His breath caught in a gasp as she tugged, and he felt the self satisfied curve of her smile against his jaw as shivers ran down the back of his neck.

Draco answered, his mouth trailing down her jaw to her neck, to that spot that made her breath hitch. It was unusual, smelling himself so strongly on her. His sweat and the faintest trace of his body spray, tangled with the lemon and lavender of her soap. Different to when they'd spent nights together, different to when she got ready in his room, when she woke in his bed. He wasn't complaining. Quidditch and Lydia—that was all he ever needed. 

He pressed his body closer, his knee sliding between her legs. Her hips ground back against him, seeking friction. And his hand skirted to his wand for a brief moment. With a uttered charm her bra vanished and she inhaled sharply at the cool touch of his magic. 

He smirked. “Sorry, was that cold?” he murmured against her neck, not sorry in the least, fingers already searching out her hardened nipples beneath the jersey

“That was uncalled for,” she breathed to the ceiling, her head thrown back, as she arched into his touch. 

He trailed his mouth back to hers, slid a hand up through the collar of his jersey— on her skin— fingers finding the back of her head. He meant to sound teasing when he said, “I can stop…”

“Liar.” Her lips ghosted over his, sending the most fleeting shivers between his shoulders as they flexed and he tried to pull her mouth to his. She turned her face, kissed his jaw instead. 

She was right. He couldn’t. He could barely wait — not when her lips found the sensitive skin at his neck, not when her hand trailed lower, over the front of his trousers — a deliberate, devastating slide that burned all thought from his mind.

His hips jerked toward her instinctively, breath catching in his throat. The world shrank to the feel of her hand, the rush beneath his skin, the heat spiralling low in his stomach. Thought scattered, replaced by need.

Draco huffed a laugh against her skin — part disbelief, part desperation — and ducked his head to catch her earlobe between his teeth. His hand slid over the back of the green jersey, fingertips brushing the raised stitching of his name, his number. Something about that — the intimacy of it, the quiet defiance — pulled at something deep in his chest.

 Not now. Don’t get lost in it. Not in the thought of white dresses or shining rings or anything that permanent.

Instead, he let himself get lost in her. Untangling his other hand from the back of her head, he slipped his fingers down, tracing the curves of her body, and slipping inside the waistband of her shorts and underwear, skimmed past her hip—lower— and found her slick and ready for him. Her moan was immediate, breathy as he pressed and circled her clit with instinct more than conscious thought— and he swallowed it with a kiss, hungry and unsteady.

Meanwhile, her fingers worked at the ties of his trousers with maddening slowness — teasing, always teasing — and when his hips twitched forward again, he lost his patience entirely. He reached for his wand, muttered the spell, and vanished the last of their clothes — her shorts, their underwear, his restraint — possibly into the void. For all he cared, they could stay there. He kept the jerseys.

Lydia let out a breathless laugh. “You’re in Hufflepuff colours — you should be more patience.”

“Mmm, fuck patience,” he groaned, as her hand wrapped around him — fingers tight, purposeful.

“Or me,” she whispered, breathless, with the ghost of a smirk. “You could fuck me instead.”

A strangled noise caught in his throat. Fuck, he loved her.

His eyes fluttered shut, breath hitching. Gods, she knew exactly how to touch him. That slow drag, the perfect pressure — it unspooled something hot and low in his spine, stripping the thought from his head until only need remained.

But he needed more.

Needed to watch her fall apart in his hands. Needed to make her.

He slid his fingers between her thighs — one, then two — curling deep, curling just right, and her gasp shattered against his skin. Her body writhed with it, and his knees almost buckled at the heat of her, the slick pressure as she clenched around his fingers. He braced a hand against the locker beside her head. His wand clattered against the wooden door, still in hand— a flicker of concern he'd snapped it, quickly forgotten, lost to the heat between them. 

There was only her now. Her rhythm, her pulse. The way she chased his touch like it was salvation. The way her hand still stroked him — slow, confident — her other tangled in his hair to keep him close. He nearly swore — jaw tight, teeth gritted — undone by the want in her, the way it mirrored his own. Her head tipped back, mouth parted around some desperate sound he wanted to draw from her again and again.

He leaned in, brushed his lips along her throat, almost smiling against her skin. Her grip on him tightened, stilled — not from release, but from restraint. She was chasing it slowly now, lost in the rhythm, trusting him to keep pace. Her breath stuttered. He felt the build-up in her, the coiled tension beneath her skin — felt it reflected in his own body, tight and trembling.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

She whimpered again — soft, breathy, wrecked — and he felt it everywhere.

Gods, he needed her.

When he finally pulled back, the little subconscious moan of disappointment that escaped her throat sent all kinds of satisfaction tingling through his body. Her eyelids fluttered open, her gaze meeting his, her lips parted and swollen. Her chest rose and fell beneath his jersey, the green making her tanned skin stand out, making her green eyes shine. 

“You really are exquisite in green,” he murmured, and Lydia preened, leaning back against the lockers, twirling a lock of drying hair around her fingers as she dipped her chin, all wide, soft bedroom eyes. She pressed her legs together, a foot sliding up her calf. Draco's fingers flexed at his sides. 

“Turn around,” he murmured. 

Her mouth quirked, teeth catching her bottom lip. “You're such a cliche,” she teased, before pushing off the lockers and turning. Slowly, she reached up—knowing exactly what he wanted— and slid her hair around over her shoulder, exposing her neck and his name stitched across the shoulders of the jersey. “Are you going to mark your territory too?”

Draco huffed a smirk as he slid a hand up her back, over the familiar green of his jersey—that was on her back. He traced his thumb over his name. On her. 

He wasn’t prepared for what it did to him. For that sharp spike of heat—pride and possession and something baser. The way her hips moved. The way the number curved just above the dip of her waist. Mine, a voice in the back of his mind growled. For once he didn’t even question it.

But then something else slid in underneath—quieter, steadier.

She was wearing his name. Like she already belonged to him. Like one day, she might wear it for real. Draco fought to keep his breathing steady.

It wasn’t just a thought—it was an image. Uninvited. Unwanted. But familiar. So familiar he could feel the smooth silk of a white dress, see the cool glint of gold around her finger. Her name, twisted into his, maybe, in looping script—Hargrove-Malfoy? Just Malfoy? 

Merlin. His throat went dry. His heart hammered against his ribs, like it might burst from his chest with want and hope.

And then she stilled.

Just slightly — a breath caught mid-movement, like a ripple across still water.

Like she felt it, too. Like she’d suddenly grasped the weight of wearing his name. Like she’d seen the image behind his eyes or felt his focus slip ahead of them—too far, too fast…

Seen the image…? Draco blinked.

Wait. Did I just…? 

Cold realisation cut through his chest.

Shit. No. No no no no….

His mind had been so overwhelmed, reaching so indulgently. For the future. For her. Had it reached too far?

He hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t meant to show her.

The image. The thought. The depths of everything he wanted.

His training was old. Dormant. Left to rot with the rest of that life—until recently. He’d only picked it back up in preparation for his Auror interview in case it gave him an edge. Practised hesitantly with Hannah during a quiet shift at work—with her consent, of course. Just light projections. Harmless nudges. Reading surface thoughts.

But Legilimency could be like instinct sometimes. It had been like slipping on a well-worn glove with Hannah. Too easy.

And his wand—shit, his wand was still in his hand. He definitely hadn’t cast by word, but…

Something too light coiled in his stomach. Crap!

“Lydia…” Her name cracked on his lips, somewhere between panic and guilt. He opened his mouth, started to— what? Apologise for violating her mind? Check if she was freaking out? Explain he hadn’t meant it? Any of it. Explain that she’d just turned his head so entirely….

She leaned back against him, gently, grounding. Arching her back, her head tipped against his shoulder, her mouth brushing his jaw. 

“Just for right now,” she reminded them. Soft. Deliberate. Not a promise. A reminder. A boundary.

He wasn’t sure which of them she was reminding. Had he shown her? Or had she just known—because she always seemed to? He should say something. Should check. Confess. 

But what if she hadn’t felt it? What if this—her gentleness, her ease—was proof she hadn’t seen a thing? Just him panicking that he’d ruined everything because for one breathless second, it had all felt dangerously perfect.

Bollocks. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure.

And he wasn’t brave enough to risk ruining this by asking.

So instead, he kissed her—hard. Scrabbling back from the thoughts in his head. His hands dragged her against him, holding tight, as if to anchor himself to this moment. Because if he kissed her hard enough, maybe he could drown it all—the image, the fear, the wanting. And maybe he could even convince himself that right now was all he wanted. All he needed. Needing right now to drown out what if.

To his deepest, most selfish relief, she kissed him right back. Met him without hesitation, her mouth catching his like she’d been waiting for it. Her fingers threaded into the hair at the back of his neck, anchoring him.

Fuck. Please don’t let go.

But she didn’t.

She pressed in closer, mouth parting, tongue seeking his, her body answering like it had never doubted. Her back arched, the sweep of her hips pressing back against his as she twisted and her mouth sought his. And slowly—so slowly—it began to ease something in him. That coil of panic. The fear he’d ruined it.

He slid a hand around her hip, down between her legs, fingers finding that spot that made her body sing and felt her knees falter in response. Her weight melted back into him. He kissed her neck—soft, lingering—and when a quiet moan escaped her throat, he smiled. Quiet. Proud. Just a little possessive. Then he slid his fingers back inside her, drawing a gasp from her that sent shivers down his spine.

"You okay with this—here? Like this?” he murmured, refocusing. Pushing the last of the guilt down.

 “Mmhmm,” she purred, lazy and warm. “Not gonna say no at this point, am I?” 

Her breath was hot against his skin as she ground back into him. The pressure was good—skin on skin where their jerseys had ridden up—but not enough. He needed to be inside her now. Needed it to chase out the cold still lingering in his stomach.

Her inner muscles clenched around his fingers as her hips rolled, pulling at something in him that didn’t have a name. The only word he had for it was want, but it was more than that. Deeper, rawer. He blinked it away, focused.

“Right, you’re going to need to lean against the lockers, hands about here,” he said, tapping a spot in front of her with his wand. Then he twirled it in his fingers, murmuring lubrication and contraceptive charms. He felt the shimmer of magic settle over them, and Lydia shivered. He wanted this to be good. For her. Not clumsy, not rushed.

She was already bending forward, pressing her arse back into him as the lockers groaned beneath her shifting weight. Draco slid his hands up her thighs, fingers dragging over bare skin to her hips, knuckles brushing the hem of his shirt up her back.

“Feet wider,” he murmured.

With something that sounded like a stifled chuckle, she wiggled against him deliberately as she adjusted. His breath caught. A jolt shot straight down through his spine and into his thighs.

Fuuuuck. His thoughts scattered.

“Like this, Coach?” she threw over her shoulder, a crooked grin in her voice.

Taking a deep breath to steady his thoughts, he rolled his eyes, already regretting trying to be helpful—but she didn’t sound annoyed. Just amused. Fond, even. Like she liked that he took things seriously, prepared, thought things through. Even this.

It was ridiculous, probably—offering instructions like he was some kind of expert—but they’d never done it like this before. Not standing. Not half-dressed in a place they could be caught. (Even if he’d warded and locked what he could, it was still a cauldron-damned tent.) And he just… didn’t want to fuck it up.

He stepped in close, helpless against the fond smile tugging at his mouth. He was still trying to calculate the height difference, still pretending to think clearly as he bent his knees slightly and reached down to guide himself.

“You might need to—” he started.

Instincts sharp as ever, Lydia rose slightly onto her toes, her weight shifting forward against the lockers. Draco was sure he felt her eyes roll. 

And then she—Gods.

 “Yeah… like that,” he gasped, as he slipped inside her, and she pushed back, slowly. Slowly. A beat. Draco adjusted his hand placement on her hips, trying not to lose his mind at the feel of her—warm, slick, wrapped around him, wearing his name.

“Did you get all that from a book, Captain?” she murmured, voice thick with teasing—and something darker beneath.

Draco huffed a laugh, his head tipping forward, forehead resting briefly between her shoulder blades. This woman. Even now—pinned to a locker—she was giving him levity, grounding him in something real. And he loved her for that. Loved that she always pulled him out of his own head.

“Maybe…” he muttered, voice rasping against her back—his jersey.

He drew back slowly, dragging himself against the grip of her body, and pressed back in just a little faster this time. She shuddered, hands braced against the wooden locker door, a soft whimper breaking from her throat.

The soft, hollow thud of wood marked the rhythm he began to find—steady, patient, reverent.

 Each movement an anchor: I’m here. You’re here. We’re safe. I love you.

But the lockers creaked. Not loud, but enough to break the illusion of silence.

Lydia adjusted her weight with a faint huff, like she was trying not to laugh. Trying to spare them both the embarrassment of shagging to the beat of creaky joinery.

He kissed the back of her neck in apology—or thanks—and they settled again, finding their rhythm anew.

Draco knocked the jersey higher up her spine and pressed a hand there, his thumb skimming over skin he knew so well.

This was what he'd wanted. What he'd fantasised about. It was good. He felt so good. Shivers ran up his spine, and his fingers twisted into the base of the jersey, digging into her hips. 

Except for—his thighs were burning slightly already. He shifted his feet, softened his knees more, trying to find a better angle, a more comfortable position. Lydia moved to do the same.

Suddenly, Lydia overbalanced; her hand slipped on the locker and she fell away from him with the wrong kind of gasp. Draco caught her around the waist, his body curving to keep her upright. The dull creak of the wooden locker doors echoed sharply around them. Everything stalled.

They both took several deep breaths before she bowed her head with a laugh.

 “Safe seeker hands, as always,” she joked, her hands sliding over his arms where they’d stopped her fall, holding him close—secure. “That was graceful,” Lydia chuckled self-deprecatingly as they straightened. 

Bracing a hand on the lockers, Draco found himself laughing breathlessly against her neck. She shivered in his arms.

“Have you always been this short?” Draco teased. Lydia elbowed him in the ribs—half-gentle—and Draco stumbled back a step, smirking.

“I’m average height, thank you very much,” she pouted as she turned around, a hand on her hip, the hem of his jersey falling back to her thighs.

Draco smiled as Lydia scanned the room and indicated the bench. “We could transfigure it into a step or something?”

Draco shook his head, took a step back, and sat on the bench behind him. “No. Change of plan. Come here.”

He patted his thighs, and Lydia crossed the space, all faux coyness and slinking hips as she took her sweet time about it. Draco thoroughly enjoyed the view: her lean, tanned legs, his green jersey, those defiant green eyes daring him to rush and reach for her. He almost did.

She knelt over him on the bench, straddling his legs, and bent to kiss him, her hands bracketing his head, fingers threading through his hair. Their mouths clashed—tongues and teeth.

Draco found himself slipping the jersey up Lydia’s body, his fingers skimming lightly over her ribs. He wanted more of her. Needed it. Needed her olive skin under his mouth, her sweat on his tongue. He needed the hollow beneath her collarbone, the flex of muscles in her arms as her nails bit into his shoulders. It suddenly seemed far more urgent than anything else—the need to reclaim the heat they’d lost. He slid the jersey off, tossing it aside thoughtlessly.

“So,” Lydia asked breathlessly, “standing up wasn’t everything you wanted then?”

Draco huffed a breath that was half amusement, half arousal. He lent forward to kiss the curve of her shoulder. “We can… workshop it later.”

She snorted, nails tickling the back of his neck and skull. Thoughtlessly, he stretched into the touch. “With diagrams?”

“If necessary.” 

He felt her smile against his neck, her body softening into his again. Still teasing. Still completely unbothered. And somehow, that made him love her even more.

“We just need more practice,” Draco added, his eyes fluttering shut at the way her tongue laved, her mouth sucked, and—Salazar!—her teeth grazed and nipped. “And maybe a step.”

She chuckled against his neck, and Draco’s toes curled at the sound. It wasn’t enough. Her body was hot and warm, pressed close to his chest, her thighs brushing his sides, hips swaying just shy of contact. He could feel her warmth through the jersey he wore—her jersey—but he wanted skin.

Lifting his arms, Draco reached for the back of the jersey but Lydia’s hands suddenly caught his wrists

 “Leave it on,” she whispered.

Draco arched an eyebrow and lowered his arms, her fingers skating over the skin at his wrists as she let go. “Now who’s being possessive?” he rasped, breath quickening.

“You don’t want to be mine?” Her eyes glinted in the dimming light, setting the challenge, and Draco’s heart flipped, but he kept his expression cool, nonchalant.

“I’m not going to say no at this point.” He smirked and leaned back on his hands, arching his hips up just a fraction, reaching for her heat and wetness.

But Lydia hovered, keeping those lean thighs straight, teasing—her easy grin stretched across her lips as she lifted her hands into her own hair, in an indulgent stretch that took her body further away from his.

“Hmmm, that is an unfairly beautiful sight,” he murmured, the words thick in his throat. 

With a clenched jaw and an exhale through his nose, Draco relaxed, relenting to her lead. His hands skimmed her thighs, the curve of her arse and hips, exploring shapes he already knew by heart, tracing up her body as he leaned forward, his mouth claiming whatever skin he could find—a rib, the soft curve of her breast. A nipple—Lydia cried out, a hand shooting to his shoulder to steady herself and Draco preened.

When Lydia lowered herself just enough for his tip to rub that sensitive spot at the very centre of her, his whole body contracted at the brief, barely-there contact. Lydia must have felt it too, because her sharp, beautiful intake of breath sounded in his ear as her arms stiffened around his shoulders.

She did it again. Draco stilled, hands dropping back to the bench, holding on tight to stop himself from pulling her down on him. When she did it a third time, he frowned as he felt her body tense, then shiver, breath shaky.

“You're such a tease,” he hummed, fondly, nails digging into the wooden bench.

“You're complaining?” She asked, panting. 

Draco shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

She kept going, until every single one of his nerves was on fire, until she trembled half-weightless on top of him, pressing against his chest with the effort of holding back. Until all he could think was how much he wanted to be buried inside her. Without warning, she sank all the way down to his lap, and their groans filled the small space so surely he wasn't sure the muffliatos would be enough.

Finding a rhythm, she ground against him, pulling his focus back to the place their bodies joined, and Draco kissed her, kept kissing her—tongues clashing, mouths claiming. His hands roamed her skin, twisting in her hair, holding her close, clutching. He wanted her. All of her. Always. But he’d take every moment she gave him and tell himself it was enough.

Right now, he was beyond satisfied. His body wound tighter, skin hot, sweat trickling down his back beneath the jersey. He tasted salt on her skin too, and it reminded him of the sea—that day they woke early for the sunrise, splashing in the waves fully clothed. Just two teenagers, nothing else touching them.

Like now. Just them. Their gasps and moans and heated breaths weaving a chorus of pleasure that filled the locker room.

“Touch me,” she asked, breathless.

Draco blinked, took a fraction of a moment to understand, then slid his hand between them, his thumb circling her clit, fingers splayed over her hip. He knew by the way she pressed her forehead to his, by the brief keening mewl escaping her throat, that she was close.

“Slow…” she breathed, body tensed, holding back, even slowing the movement of her hips. Her breath trembled, even as he followed her wishes, basking in the way every slow circle caught in her breath, elicited a hum or moan. 

“You can let go,” he whispered back. She shook her head without lifting it, her eyes closed. 

“Not yet.” She breathed, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “This is good.” Her warm, shuddering breath brushed his skin, and Draco let his chest fill slow and steady with air, trying to hold this moment, to wait her out. 

Blinking, he flicked his focus beyond them, trying to distract himself just enough — to the locker room, the summer warmth beyond the canvas, the sharp scent of sweat and broom polish. This might be the last time he ever stepped into one of these changing rooms, he realised, with the slightest pang and a flash of defiant smugness for ending the chapter on such a note as this. Maybe neither of their teams had won the Cup this year, but this—this was a victory lap all the same. Something reckless. Golden. This was what it was meant to feel like, wasn't it? Nearly nineteen, alive, and utterly, blissfully irresponsible. A reminder that they were still young. Still allowed to want. Still here. 

Happy early Birthday to me. 

The shirt on his back shifted as Lydia’s nails dug into his shoulder, and his name escaped her lips like the most stunning musical note he'd ever heard, pulling him back into their shared space. She kissed him — fleeting, desperate, nearly undone. “Together,” she managed, her head nuzzling his, as if she couldn’t hold her weight, needing his strength to prop her body up. She was shaking in his arms, her body so ready to fall apart. He wrapped an arm around her, held her together.

Draco smiled and pressed a quick kiss to her shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for you, Little Wolf. Let go. Come with me,” he enticed her.

She nodded, wordless. He circled his thumb a little quicker, pressed a little harder. He met the rhythm of her hips deliberately. Lydia tumbled over the precipice with a cry moments later — the tightening of her inner walls, the stuttering grind of her hips, the desperate cling of her hands and thighs — sent Draco hurtling after her, diving into a state of grace he’d never seen coming, knowing he’d never be the same. This was the golden age of something good and right and real. And all he could do was cling to the hope it would last longer than just right now.

Chapter Text

When he returned to the Slytherin party — damp-haired, muscles slightly sore, and far too self-satisfied — Draco hadn’t expected to find Professor Slughorn waiting for him in the common room, shifting from foot to foot like an overfed owl looking for a perch.

“Ah! There you are, m’lad,” Slughorn said, clapping his hands and guiding him away from the chatter and Butterbeer. “Just a quick word, if you please. Won’t take a moment!”

Before Draco could ask what it was about, Slughorn had already herded him through the dungeons and up the winding stair to his office.

The room was warm and overly fragrant — thick with pipe smoke, peppermint mead, and the sugary tang of crystallised pineapple. A fire crackled in the grate, casting amber light across the velvet drapes and mismatched armchairs. But what caught Draco’s attention at once was the tall, dark figure seated behind Slughorn’s desk: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, composed and sharp-eyed, every inch of him exuding quiet authority in his impeccably tailored robes. Draco had seen him in the staff stands during the game today and assumed he was just there for the spectacle that was his and Lydia's love life, like everyone else. So why was he…

Slughorn beamed. “Yes, well — I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said cheerfully, retreating with indecent haste and shutting the door without offering the slightest context.

Shacklebolt rose as Draco stepped in and extended a hand across the desk.

 “Mr Malfoy,” he said, voice smooth and steady. “Thank you for joining me.”

Draco shook his hand with what he hoped passed for composure, trying not to think about where his own fingers had been in the past hour. He was painfully aware of the lingering scent of lavender in his hair, the damp cling of his collar, and the very real risk that his skin still glowed faintly with post-orgasmic satisfaction.

They had, thankfully, opted for a second round in the showers. Otherwise, he might still be reeking of sex — of her — with every step.

Even so, he found himself now sitting across from the Minister for Magic wearing a slightly too small Quidditch jersey that still smelled faintly of Lydia’s skin. His lips were swollen from the intensity of her kisses; his thighs ached from the grip of hers; his knees a little bruised from how long she kept him on the wet tiles with her fingers in his hair and his mouth between her thighs. His nerves were frayed, and his body still reverberated with memory. The sound she’d made when he’d—well. He shifted in the chair, tried not to notice the taste of her on his tongue as he swallowed. Fuck.

Not that he was ashamed. No, he was fucking proud.

Still — flushed and buzzing, marked all over by his girlfriend's mouth and wearing said girlfriend’s jersey like a badge of sin — Draco could feel the tips of his ears burning.

Shacklebolt glanced at the jersey, which was very clearly not his own. One eyebrow lifted — not judgemental, exactly, but decidedly curious… or worse, knowing— and then the Minister said nothing at all, which somehow made it more awkward.

On some level, Draco knew he ought to be more on alert. The Minister for Magic didn’t request private meetings with ex–Death Eaters just for the pleasure of their company. No, more likely, Shacklebolt was here to tell him the Ministry had reconsidered his sentence — that, actually, on second thought, he would be going to Azkaban after all. There were probably a pair of grim-faced Aurors loitering outside Slughorn’s office right now, waiting to clap him in irons the moment Shacklebolt gave the nod.

Chop chop, Mr Malfoy, let’s get on with it.

And yet… Draco couldn’t summon the dread he knew he was supposed to feel. Couldn’t even work up the usual background hum of anxiety that had become as familiar to him as his own shadow.

Because his body was still humming. Still warm and loose and flushed from Lydia’s hands and mouth and thighs — still tingling with phantom touches and breathless gasps. The echo of her voice still rang somewhere behind his ears, low and wrecked and reverent—a sigh of please when she meant more. And ultimately, his head was still down in the locker room. So, instead of panic, all Draco could muster was a vaguely bemused detachment — the sort of surreal calm that settled in when things had already gone so absurdly off-script there was nothing to do but ride the wave.

If they were going to throw him in a cell, then fine. So be it, he decided. At least he’d gone out on a high note. It was his first arrest all over again, except this time he'd actually fucked the girl—twice—and she wouldn't be here to scream and protest. That was for the best.

Shacklebolt settled back in his chair, folding his own hands neatly in front of him.

“I have to say,” he began, voice calm, almost conversational, “I’m very glad I chose to visit the school today. It’s… reassured me. About a rather risky decision I'm thinking of making .”

Draco blinked. “Sir?”

“I understand you applied to the Auror Department.”

Oh.

Draco sat up a little straighter, all the blood draining from the lower half of his body in one dizzying rush.

Wait. Wait!

This wasn’t about Azkaban?

He fought the urge to glance toward the door, half-expecting two Aurors to burst in with manacles anyway, just to keep things interesting. Instead, he adjusted the collar of his jersey, fingers fumbling to discreetly cover the crescent-shaped bruise Lydia had left just over his pulse point. He could feel another one lower down, too, blooming sweet and sore beneath the fabric. Wonderful. He was probably glowing like a bloody Mood Ring.

Shacklebolt, mercifully, didn’t comment. Just sat there — imposing, deliberate — like he hadn’t just been joined by a teenager still radiating post-orgasmic smugness.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.” His voice cracked. Fucking brilliant.

But that was the slap across the face he needed. Enough. No more floundering.

He forced a slow breath into his lungs, spine straightening as his brain finally caught up to the weight of the moment and dragged itself out of the locker room. This wasn’t some surreal detour between post-match drinks — this was the Minister for Magic sitting across from him, armed with files and judgement, and Draco bloody Malfoy was either going to crumble or rise.

His gaze lifted — steady now. Controlled.

“I imagine I’m not exactly the department’s idea of a poster child.” Draco said, more evenly this time. “But I didn’t apply to pretend I’m someone I’m not. I applied because I’ve changed. Because I want to help change things.”

Shacklebolt’s expression didn’t shift much. But something in his posture stilled — just slightly.

Draco kept going. “The tests weren't fair. I still passed. I’ve finished my sentence. I’ve done the work.” His tone wasn’t defensive — it was measured, clipped. Malfoy steel, but reforged. “I don’t expect anyone to forget. I just don’t intend to be reduced to who I was.”

There. Let the man chew on that.

Shacklebolt, a tall, imposing figure even while seated, waved a hand over the papers spread out before him, his eyes catching Draco’s. “Yes, this is all rather impressive, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco frowned slightly and glanced at the pile. His application. His test results — the ones he’d aced, even after attempts to undermine his efforts. His interview transcript. His heart thudded. Why was the Minister for Magic reviewing his application personally?

“And a reference from a Muggle, I understand?” Shacklebolt queried, plucking a familiar piece of lined paper with neat cursive firmly pressed into it. Draco’s breath caught. That damn reference. He’d half expected it to be the nail in the coffin. The Auror recruiters had laughed outright when they saw it — assumed it was a joke.

“Yes, sir,” he said carefully. “My girlfriend’s grandmother. We told her I was applying for the Muggle police, to avoid breaking the Statute. She volunteered the reference.”

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to the page. “It’s… an interesting choice.”

A chuckle escaped Draco’s chest before he could stop it. “I'm sorry, sir, you misunderstand. I had zero choice in the matter. Silvia Tidewell is a force to be reckoned with and I was not prepared to question her wisdom.”

Shacklebolt’s eyebrows rose in surprise for a moment—just a flicker—and then something like amusement crossed his face.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Mr Hargrove echoed her sentiments when I spoke to him this afternoon. He speaks highly of you… all things considered.”

Draco blinked. Shacklebolt had spoken to Max?

“He does?” he blurted, before he could stop himself. There was a flicker of amusement at the corner of Shacklebolt's mouth. 

“You spent Christmas with them?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Her family invited me. It was… well, it was nice.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “They have this tradition — swimming in the sea on Christmas morning, no matter how cold it is. It was absolutely freezing. A shock to the system, but I made it through. Not something I’d do every day, but… it was memorable.”

And now he was babbling. Pull yourself together, Malfoy.

“They were welcoming, her family. It was one of the better holidays I’ve had. I’m looking forward to seeing them again.”

He trailed off, unsure how much to say, and grateful when Shacklebolt didn’t press. Instead, the Minister leaned back in his chair, hands steepled.

“McGonagall tells me you had quite the challenge with your Quidditch team this year. All new, inexperienced players."

“Yes, sir. People didn’t exactly queue up to play under me at first… for obvious reasons.”

“Madam Hooch suggested you’d done a wonderful job of not just being a captain but a mentor. And I saw how your team followed your lead today. Even when things weren’t going in your favour.”

Draco nodded, struggling to know what to do with the implied praise. “I’m proud of them. They worked hard, put trust in each other — in me. Hufflepuff were brilliant today, but we kept our heads up. Kendrick and Bell will make sure they’re a real threat next year.”

Shacklebolt hummed, thoughtful, then tapped Nana Silvie’s reference once more. “All of this,” he said slowly, “is quite surprising. Not just the application. The courage to submit it. To show up for your interview. To take the risk of trying.”

He paused. Draco’s pulse ticked loud in his ears.

“I’ll admit,” Shacklebolt continued, “I half expected to find someone here at Hogwarts who might prove it all false. But everyone I've spoken with has been positive, if grudgingly, in a couple of cases.”

Draco gave a short laugh. “I can give you a list, sir. Longbottom would be happy to provide some choice words, I’m sure.”

Shacklebolt actually chuckled. “I’m not here for student rivalries, Mr Malfoy, but I appreciate the candour.”

Then, Shacklebolt’s gaze softened — just slightly — and he slid a thick envelope across the table.

“Well… we’ll see what you can do, young man.”

Draco stared. Was this—?

Shacklebolt leaned forward, voice calm but serious. “ You’ll need to prove yourself every step of the way. And there will be limitations, at least to begin with. But we’ll discuss all that… when you pass training.”

Training. Draco’s breath hitched.

“So I’ve been—”

“Accepted,” Shacklebolt confirmed, his tone almost gentle. “Don’t expect an easy ride. A little hazing is standard, but you’ll likely face far worse than most.”

 Accepted.

Half an hour ago he’d been shagging Lydia in a locker room. Now he — Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater — was being offered a place in Auror training.

His mind spun. Not that he hadn’t imagined it, hoped for it — but he’d never really let himself believe it. Always held on to some vestige of doubt, ready for when they turned him down. And for a moment, all he could think was that he needed to find Lydia immediately. To summon her back to the Locker room. Or his bed. Hell he'd burst into the Hufflepuff common room if he had to — he’d kiss her senseless in front of the whole house and...

He blinked. Focused.

“Of course, sir,” he said, voice a touch too sharp. “I understand.”

Shacklebolt’s lips twitched. “One more thing. I’m taking a risk on you, Draco Malfoy. There’s resistance, make no mistake — some loud corners of the Ministry still see your name and flinch. And there will be heavy media interest. But I believe there’s value in redemption. In demonstrating that change is possible. You’ll have the chance to prove that.”

Draco nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you, sir. Truly.”

Shacklebolt stood, gathering the papers.

“If you make it through training, we’ll discuss placement. I have a particular partner in mind for you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Partner?”

Shacklebolt’s eyes glittered, amused. “Yes. Harry Potter.”

The words landed like a bludger to the stomach. Draco did not manage to stop his mouth from falling open. 

“It sends a message,” the Minister said simply. “Unity. Redemption. Forgiveness.”

Draco said nothing, his mind scrambling. He remembered to shut his mouth. Potter. Bloody hell. It was mad. It was unthinkable.

And yet…

No one would dare touch him if Potter had his back. If they were partners… fuck could they even manage to exist in the same bloody room, let alone work together? 

Shacklebolt gave him a final nod. “Everything you need is in that envelope. I expect you to report promptly in September. I’ll be watching closely.”

Draco stood, straightened his shoulders, and tucked the envelope under his arm.

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t stumble. Didn’t blush. Didn’t look away.

He was ready.

Chapter Text

The four of them should have known better.

In hindsight, Draco really shouldn’t have blindly followed Theodore Nott on an unspecified quest around the castle — especially not on a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of NEWTs with everything feeling like it might collapse at any moment. But in his defence, he was rather preoccupied — the creeping weight of impending adulthood, the quiet strain of things left unsaid between him and Lydia, the impossible prospect of what he'd face training to be an Auror... His thoughts were cluttered and sharp-edged, impossible to file neatly. His shoulders ached from the constant bracing, as if waiting for a blow that never quite landed. Wandering after Theo, for once, required less effort than pushing back.

However, that thought — about knowing better — wouldn’t hit until later anyway. Until the air grew thick with something acrid and wrong — not smoke, not quite, but something ancient and metallic that settled at the back of the throat like powder. Until the threat of magic pressed against their ribs like a second heartbeat. Until Theo’s easy grin faltered and Draco swore under his breath, as the hairs on his arm stood on end. Until Hannah and Lydia both had their wands out, defensive stances automatic, like they’d trained for this — and maybe they had. Maybe they all had.

Until the door locked behind them. Until it was too late.

But before that — well, before that, it was just Theo’s latest errand. A bit of light trespassing. Nothing unusual. He hadn’t even given them proper directions, just a vague grin and a "Trust me" that absolutely no one should have trusted. He led them through side corridors and down narrow stairwells as they talked, his gait casual, almost lazy. Draco had barely registered where they were going. He was too busy replaying the last conversation with Lydia in his head, wondering what the best way was to revisit it, without sending her bolting.

“I just need to scope out this possible venue,” Theo had said, glancing over his shoulder with all the confidence of a man who definitely wasn’t dragging them into something questionable. “I think it’ll be perfect for the end-of-year party.”

“And why, exactly,” Hannah asked dryly, “is the Room of Requirement not good enough anymore? That’s where you usually throw your not-so-secret parties.”

“Too predictable,” Theo replied with a dismissive wave. Then, with theatrical flair, he spun to face them, walking backwards as he spoke, words echoing dramatically down the empty corridor. “We’re at the end of an era, Abbott. We need mystery. Intrigue. Vibes.”

Lydia snorted, quickening her pace to catch up as Theo turned away to lead them on. She slipped her arm through Theo's and patted it fondly, inclining her head. “I think you need a little attention.”

“Well, obviously ,” he said breezily, leaning into her. “But I’d also like a proper send-off before we’re all scattered to the winds.”

Draco exhaled heavily, not really listening. He and Hannah were mid-discussion about his future — a conversation that had started with her asking if he’d accepted his Auror placement and somehow turned into a debate about whether he could handle more shifts at the Three Broomsticks over the summer without hexing someone.

“It’s character building,” Hannah said with maddening cheerfulness.

“It’s not,” Draco muttered. “It’s customer service.”

“Same thing,” Lydia called over her shoulder.

“No,” he said flatly. “It’s really not.”

“You could use the money,” Hannah added, with a softness that barely took the sting out.

“I don’t need the money,” Draco muttered.

That was a lie. He absolutely needed the money. The cost of renting in London alone was enough to give him palpitations, and that was before factoring in food, travel, and the ongoing expense of pretending he had it all together.

Theo had floated the idea of buying himself a flat — something in the city, maybe, or Merlin forbid, the Outer Hebrides if he got whimsical — but, he had suggested Draco move in with him. Lydia too, if she was inclined. The implication being: no rent required. It had been a casual offer, tossed out between butterbeers and half a game of Exploding Snap — the kind of offhand generosity Theo sometimes surprised you with, the kind that made it easy to pretend it wasn’t charity. And honestly? Draco wasn’t opposed. As long as it had a Floo so he could get to work and four solid walls, he could survive Theo’s questionable lifestyle choices. He'd done it for years already. The idiot needed someone to keep an eye on him anyway. It was basically like being a live-in carer. So that was payment enough. 

And, The Three Broomsticks was a line he was done walking. Even if he could now technically do more shifts as his community services hours were completed and his probation restrictions had ended, he absolutely wasn't going to do more than he was already rota'd. And he certainly wasn't staying over the summer to do more.

Not just because of the work—though he could do without pouring drinks for leering tourists and wiping sticky counters that never seemed clean—but because of the eyes. Always watching. Whispering. Measuring him against the boy he used to be, or the man they assumed he still was. Some came in just to gawk. Some to sneer. Some waited until he turned his back to say something vile under their breath. There’d been the odd creep who asked to see his Dark Mark, like it was a curiosity in a museum. (He'd refused. Rosa had seen to it they never came back.)

Besides, he was so tired. Tired of proving he deserved to stand where he stood. Tired of swallowing his pride just to get through a shift. Tired of the endless, aching effort to appear unaffected. So when the Hogwarts Express left Hogsmeade in July, he’d be on it. Because whatever came next—Auror training, financial ruin, hazing, a whole new kind of judgement—it would at least be new. At least it had been his choice, unlike the barwork which had felt like an only option back in the autumn. At least it would be forward. And maybe, in motion, he wouldn’t feel so stuck in place.

Besides, Lydia wouldn’t be here.

Fine. That was the truth of it. He wasn’t staying—because she wasn’t. And he wasn’t going to pretend long-distance would work. Not for them. Not for him.

Not when she’d never just been a reason to stay—she’d been the only thing that made it bearable. The one steady thing when the last two years felt like walking a tightrope blindfolded over a pool of crocodiles.

Maybe that was the problem.

She was everything he wasn’t. Brave, but quiet about it. Kind, without illusions. That maddening mix of soft-hearted and steel-spined that people underestimated—and always regretted. And s he never asked him to be anything else. That was the worst part. She just kept showing up. Kept believing in him. Quietly, fiercely, relentlessly.

But lately... cracks had begun to show in that story. Thin fractures he was afraid to look at too closely.

Because the truth was, he didn't believe he would ever stop waiting for her to leave. To remember the world that had always belonged to her—and realise he didn’t fit in it. She could’ve had someone easier. Gentler. Whole. But she’d chosen him anyway. And he’d let her. Let himself believe he could be worth it. Even while part of him kept glancing over his shoulder, bracing for the moment it was proven he wasn't.

Draco clenched his jaw.

No. Long-distance wouldn’t work. Not when he already felt like he was chasing something he was bound to lose. He would follow her to London and that was the end of it.

Meanwhile, Theo had come to a stop in front of a thick, weathered door, one hand raised to tap his chin like a man lost in theatrical contemplation.

“My dear Malfoy,” he said, spinning towards Draco with the faux-reverence of someone about to request a favour he had no business asking. “You’d be a love and take down these wards for me, wouldn’t you? You’re easily the best of us at such things, and these do look a touch… ambitious.”

Across from them, Hannah and Lydia exchanged a look. That look. The one that said: he’s doing it again .

Yes, Draco knew Theo was playing to his ego. And yes, regrettably, it still worked.

Of the four of them, he was undoubtedly the most academically gifted—barring Divination, which was all Theo (and quite frankly, dragon shit), and Care of Magical Creatures, which Hannah could have with his blessing.  Academic prowess was one area of life he was notably proud of himself for, and which no one could take away from him. And Theo knew that. 

Trying not to seem too eager, Draco stepped up to the door and considered the problem Theo had thrown at him. The magic woven into the wood was layered—complex in a way he hadn’t expected. Almost beautiful, like a piece of music composed entirely in cursework for a small, dangerous orchestra. Equal parts delicate and brutal. Intriguing.

For a brief moment, Draco thought perhaps he’d gone into the wrong field. Cursebreaking might’ve suited him better, in another life. But here he was chasing morality instead.

Idly stepping up too, Lydia skimmed the air just in front of the door with a raised hand. Not touching it, but too close. Draco shot her a warning glare. Do not touch that.

She rolled her eyes and narrowed them right back. I’m not an idiot. With a soft huff, she dropped her hand.

Unease prickling up his spine Draco clenched his jaw, he turned to Theo. “Where are we, exactly?”

Theo, predictably, offered no real answer—only a maddeningly casual shrug. But there was a faint flush to his cheeks now, lines around his eyes as if he was trying not to wince. Guilt? Anticipation? Both?

“Somewhere interesting. Unless, of course, the wards are too complicated for you…”

Draco sighed, already regretting this. Fully aware of the strings Theo was pulling and absolutely unable to help himself regardless. He reached for his wand.

“If we get cursed,” he muttered, “I’m hexing you first.”

“Completely fair,” Theo said brightly, immediately stepping back out of range. Then, after a beat, he reached out and tugged Lydia back as well—subtly, but with intent. Draco didn’t miss it. And, he supposed, it was reassuring. Safer to be a little further away. 

The wards fought back beneath his wand, tense and snarling like coiled vipers. Each layer was a tight, buzzing web of magic that bit at his fingers and resisted every attempt to unravel it. Draco’s movements were sharp and controlled, peeling back the curses one by one, sweat prickling at his temples as he focused on the delicate balance between power and precision. A sudden flare of heat hissed from a fire-shooting hex, forcing him to snap a quick counter-spell just in time to douse the burst before it could ignite. Somewhere beneath the surface, dormant re-locking charms lurked like traps, springing shut again just as he thought he’d won—forcing him to grind back and start over. The weight of the magic pressed on him like a living thing, intricate and relentless.

Behind him, the others’ light-hearted chatter felt like a distant echo—no one but him fully aware of the silent, grinding battle taking place at the door. They simply continued their cheerful argument over the merits—or lack thereof—of his future.

“Look, I came around to Draco schlepping off to a pub part-time while we’re here,” Theo said with an affected air of snobbishness, “but he only has to do something until he gets his money back. It's not like he needs a career like you lovely peasants.” Draco imagined the girl's cutting grimaces. There was a whirl of air as Theo spun to Draco. “Have you heard back about… you know.”

He trailed off as if even naming it— Auror —might summon a lecture or argument or arrest. Theo had… mixed feelings about Draco’s choice. Not that it stopped Theo from rolling his own smokes filled with increasingly suspect herbs or brewing questionable potions that teetered on recreational danger and telling Draco all about it. Inviting his opinions and advice, even. As if the lack of plausible deniability would somehow dissuade Draco from his chosen path of law enforcement. It wouldn't. 

Draco hadn’t told Lydia about Theo's potions yet, neither the ones he brewed nor the odd one he bought. She would worry, so he was still trying to manage that part of Theo’s questionable life quietly— to make sure Theo didn’t poison himself or blow up the wardrobe where he brewed. He also hadn’t told Theo about the Auror programme acceptance. So, for now, Hannah was the only one he wasn’t keeping secrets from. That made her something of a rare refuge—a person he could talk to without twisting the truth or weighing every word. And wasn’t that just a lovely little bonus?

And that— was sarcasm. It didn’t feel lovely at all. It felt lonely. Like the cracks between them all were widening, the unspoken things building walls where once there had been something closer. With Theo and Lydia, the silence was heavier—filled with things unsaid, things he wasn’t ready—or willing—to admit.

Even with Hannah, the comfort was fragile, shadowed by the knowledge that soon enough, she wouldn’t be there so readily. Because Hannah was staying. Rosa had asked her to help manage The Three Broomsticks, and Hannah had designs on finding a London pub to take over eventually. But until finances and experience allowed, she was staying in Hogsmeade. Which was fortunate for her, since Longbottom was apparently staying to do further study in Herbology.

“Couldn’t your dad get him a try-out with the Falcons, Lydia?” Theo offered, when Draco didn't respond, apparently assuming bad news or no news and making an unusual attempt to be helpful. Draco felt Lydia glance sideways, the silent we should just tell him practically loud enough to echo. It was one of the many things they’d been… disagreeing about lately.

“No offence,” Hannah murmured deadpan, “but I’m not sure he’s that good a Seeker.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, shoulders bristling but said nothing. Truth was, Qudditch as a career wouldn't be mentally stimulating enough anyway. Probably. 

“Ah, if that's all he was doing he'd be fine. Certainly a workable career—playboy Quidditch star,” Theo declared as if he'd gone all moony eyed. “I can definitely see it. Shirt always halfway off. Brooding in interviews. Bit of scandal, bit of eyeliner—very appealing.”

“There’ll be no playboy anything if I have any say in the matter,” Lydia said sweetly, elbowing Theo in the ribs.

Draco blinked. The comment hit unexpectedly deep—possessive, casual, offhanded. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It did. He felt that now-familiar tug of hope, immediately chased by the uneasy twist of confusion. He bit his lip and leaned closer to the door instead, focusing on a knot of runes pulsing faintly beneath his wand. 

Because how could she say that but not—

No. Don't question it. You'll drive yourself mad.

Distracted by the runes he’d uncovered, Draco frowned—something about fire, water, plants, and sunlight. A veritable Herbology lesson. No thank you. I've done that exam.

“The other option,” Theo said brightly, “is you become a kept man.”

Before Draco could respond, Theo slipped behind Lydia and clasped her shoulders, grinning like a showman. He gave her a little nudge forward, as if presenting her like a prize.

 “Given your future wife’s going to be a high-earning Healer in, what, three, four years? You’ll be living off her salary and drinking wine on the balcony before you know it without ever setting foot in something as gauche as an office.”

Draco winced—visibly, painfully—like he’d just been struck.

Jolting violently from Theo’s grip, Lydia spun on him so fast he staggered back a half-step, and clutched at his chest, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic response. For a moment—just long enough to matter—Lydia's body was all threat: eyes wide and furious, fingers twitching at her sides as if still deciding whether to slap, hex, or shove Theo hard enough to make the point.

Flinching, Theo's grin slipped, replaced by a flicker of something raw—pain, maybe, or confusion—like static crackling behind his eyes. His shoulders twitched as though he’d been stung. He swallowed hard and shifted his weight, forcing a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

I know that feeling, mate.

“Piss off,” Lydia snapped, low and sharp—her voice a warning that lingered, promising consequences. “No one’s talking about marriage.”

She crossed her arms tightly, jaw clenched as though holding back more than words.

Draco tried not to feel wounded by the whole thing. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was how fiercely Lydia shut down the idea, how raw and real that rejection carried. He glanced at her, at the set of her jaw, the stubborn fire in her eyes, and wondered if she even knew how much that both hurt and captivated him.

“Alright, alright,” Theo said quickly, raising both hands in surrender—or apology. “Don't have a cow.”

 Apparently, Theo was shit at apologies. No surprise there.

“You rich boys,” Lydia muttered, quieter now, edging closer to Hannah, like claiming her side in a battle no one else had noticed. “You’re all so eager to tie someone down—”

“Well, it’s one way to spice things up in the bedroom,” Theo said, eyebrows waggling, completely undeterred. Salazar—was he high right now, or just courting disaster?

Lydia rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t sprain something. But she refused to take the bait, shutting down the conversation with a mumbled, “Obviously, that’s not what I meant.”

No. It wasn’t.

What she really meant—what went unspoken—was something Draco had let slip the week before. Just a little thing. A tiny, harmless dream about the future. One that rattled Lydia more than he’d expected.

They’d been talking about living arrangements. Tentatively. He’d suggested getting a place together in London, somewhere near St Mungo’s for an easy commute once their placements started. She’d blinked at him, surprise flickering in her eyes. She’d planned to stay in the hospital’s student accommodation.

He tried to sell her on the idea—and in doing so, maybe got a little carried away.

“It’s just for a couple of years anyway,” he’d said. “Until my trust matures. Then we can get a place wherever we want—overlooking the sea. Falmouth, maybe, near your family. Or further up the coast. Somewhere elevated, with huge windows framing the horizon and a fireplace perfect for curling up during storms. Maybe a little sundeck facing southeast, for morning coffee and evening wine…”

That was when he’d seen the look on her face: Wide-eyed. Pale. Not enchanted, but panicked.

“You’ve already thought about buying a house together?” he asked quietly, brittle at the edges, something about her posture shifting towards the door.

Shit.

“No. Yes… maybe?” He stumbled, backtracking, caught between honesty and damage control. “Alright—yes. I have. I…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated with himself. Trying to rein it in, but the truth spilled out anyway.

“You remember that old barn on the cliffs?” he offered. “The one we pass on walks? You said it would have amazing views if someone ever fixed it up.”

She nodded slowly. He could almost hear her heart racing, the tight coil of effort it took not to bolt.

“That’s the sort of place I thought we might…” Her expression flickered. Draco’s chest tightened. He corrected himself, careful: “—the sort of place I could live. Someday.”

There’d been a pause. He bit back the rest—the fact he’d already made a couple of tentative enquiries about the barn, just out of curiosity. Out of hope and dreaming. Out of a need to understand Muggle property sales. 

“What about the Manor?” Lydia asked then, as if trying to anchor the conversation somewhere safer.

Draco shrugged. “I’m in no hurry to go back. The Ministry won’t release it until my parents are officially declared missing, and that’s still years away. Even if they did…” He shook his head. “So much happened there. Even forgetting the war, it’s a tomb. I’d rather start fresh.”

With you. Because you’re all I want. Because I love you. Just tell me where to be, and I’ll be there.

But she said nothing—just nodded uncertainly, shifting the conversation away. They hadn’t spoken about it since. But the tension had curled around them like smoke ever since that moment.

Draco returned his attention to the final ward, frowning. It pulsed beneath his hands like a living thing—reactive, unsettled. He muttered a string of counter-charms under his breath, carefully disrupting the last sequence. Just as the threads began to unravel, a sharp snap of magic cracked through the air.

The runes flared blue, then red, then blinding white.

“Oh, sh—” Draco didn’t have time to finish.

A loud crack shattered the silence, and the corridor exploded into motion. From the lintel above the door burst a swarm of shrieking, chittering shapes—winged and formless, like smoke given claws. Not birds, not bats—something else. Something enchanted with screaming mouths and sharp, ethereal talons.

The girls ducked instinctively. Theo yelped, arms flailing as he recoiled. Draco stood his ground, swiping his wand through the nearest one just as it zipped past his shoulder, leaving a flash of cold air and a piercing shriek in its wake.

The creatures swirled around them in a cacophonous loop, brushing their skin with static and frost. Then, after a tense moment, Draco flicked his wand sharply. Simultaneously, Hannah’s quiet voice murmured a soft counter-spell.

With a sudden pop, the creatures vanished—dissipating like mist in sunlight.

Silence fell. The air stilled.

The final rune dimmed. The door creaked slightly open.

Theo, brushing phantom sparks from his jumper, muttered, “Well, that was elegant. You sure you know what you’re doing? Or are we just winging it now and hoping for the best?”

Draco scowled, rolling his eyes at the judgement. “Obviously it was a reactive ward. Designed to lash out when broken and scare us into running away. No one got hurt.”

He glanced at Hannah then. Not in surprise. Not even in thanks. Just—confirmation. Of course she’d had his back. She always did. That ever-reliable Hufflepuff loyalty.

They talked, the two of them—maybe more than anyone realised. In the lulls during late shifts, or walking back to the castle after. Hannah had let him practise Legilimency on her, where others might have flinched. And that was even before he'd asked Lydia. Hannah never treated him like a threat. Or a project. And maybe that was why he trusted her. No performance. No eggshells. Just space to breathe. Space to be something other than a walking apology. But also, no room to wallow.

And—if he was honest—he liked that she talked to him, too. That he was the only one who knew about Neville’s long campaign to win her over. The flowers, the letters. The nights he’d show up to the pub and just sit there, nursing a drink, waiting for her to give him the time of day. Draco had seen it unfold slowly. The blush in Hannah’s cheeks. Longbottom’s persistence. Even Neville's awkward efforts to be civil to Draco hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Draco knew because he was there. Because Hannah let him be. (Had insisted he be nice back to Longbottom—Urgh.) And maybe—he realised now—she was there for him too.

“We handled it,” he muttered—more to himself than anyone. But he nodded in her direction. A small, quiet gesture. A thank you he didn’t quite know how to say. Hannah tilted her chin in response, a quiet smile playing at her lips. 

Theo pushed the great, looming door open, peering inside warily, as if expecting more flying nightmares. “Handled it like a charging Hippogriff, maybe.”

But he stepped inside anyway, and they all followed. 

They really should have known better.

Chapter Text

The hairs on Theo’s arms rose and prickled as he crossed the threshold and stepped inside. The others followed.

Looming pillars—stone columns swallowed by vines that braided skyward and curled along the ceiling like skeletal fingers. Along the right-hand wall, alcoves yawned open, their windows crudely boarded from the inside. In the far left corner, a shallow pool sat beneath what might once have been a small altar, though time had eroded any detail. Only a small weathered shelf sitting above the pool, the vague remnants of an archway curving above. The whole place felt forgotten—abandoned even by the light. But not empty. Not quite.… 

When the door slammed shut behind them the shift in the air was immediate.

It thickened — heavy, stagnant. A high, ringing note struck at the back of Theo’s teeth. A pressure behind his eyes. The magic in the room was humming — no, screaming, screeching ; brown and sickly green, like bile and mould and rust— too low in his skull, too bright in his throat. Dust hung heavy, but under it curled something far worse: the stale taste of pondwater, the sour bite of rotting leaves, and ash so dry it crackled on Theo’s tongue.

He froze as the others swept back to the door in the darkness, his shoulders tightening, a hand reflexively covering his mouth and nose. (Entirely pointless.) The others tried and failed to pull the door open.

Draco turned sharp as a crack. “Theo—”

Theo didn’t answer. Couldn’t, just yet. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom, an intimation of daylight sneaking around the boards on the windows, an eerie bioluminescent glow flickered from the pool, like it was fading. Just enough light to make out shapes, if you concentrated. For Theo, at least. He had no idea how much the others could see.

His fingers twitched, flexed, trying to ground himself. His head tilted, involuntarily, toward something no one else could hear — but it was there. A rasp, a rhythm, like something trying to speak through boiling water. The air blanketed him with static. Can the others feel that? Like the fizz of champagne—but wrong, bitter. Like voices murmuring so low he couldn’t quite be certain they were voices at all. There and gone again. There and gone…

Lydia tested the door again. It didn’t budge. The others were murmuring between themselves, Theo was about to tune in, when something whooshed at the far end of the room. Water in the small pool gurgled, the bioluminescent glow pulsing a little higher for only a moment. Whirling towards the pool, Hannah had her wand out in a flash, but then... it all settled. 

“Where are we, Theo?” she asked, with patient caution, as if she were talking to a child prone to mischief. Anticipation crept up Theo’s legs, spine, neck— hairs standing on end. Not quite dread. Not yet. Exhaling, long and slow, Theo tried not to let his breath shake. His skin felt wrong. Like his magic had risen to the surface and was peeling him apart from the inside.

“Well,” he said, forcing a smile that tasted coppery, as he glanced at Hannah’s outline. “I read about this room where they used to hold a Midsummer ritual. Thought it’d be a fitting place for an end-of-year summer party.”

He heard it — the note in his voice. Off-kilter. Shaky. They probably heard it too.

There was a beat of silence.

“But,” he added, “there was a footnote about—”

“The summer equinox ritual?” Lydia’s tone was pinched with an edge of fear. She was pulling from memory now. Books. Records. She always remembered the details he skimmed. 

“Yes,” Theo said carefully, the word catching slightly in his throat. 

Her posture sharpened, her voice too, like a dull blade. “The one they banned?  Because people kept getting mysteriously burned or drowned?”

“And that one fellow who had a tree burst through his stomach,” Theo added, winced when Draco tilted his head to the ceiling—Theo practically felt the eyeroll, the silent petition to the powers that be, like something slimy rolling down his back. “Well, technically, out of his stomach.”

Draco swore, his voice cutting. Low. Lethal. He stepped closer. “What the hell have you led us into?”

Theo opened his mouth to respond, but the room shivered. Or maybe it was just him. Magic yawned quietly around the edges of the room — a crimson-pink ripple, hot and stinging behind his eyes. His own magic coiled in response — defensive, wild, out of tune with the room’s rhythm. Grating like teeth on ice.

“It was only a footnote,” his voice wobbled and he couldn’t stop it. “So I thought—”

“You thought?” Draco said coldly. “That’s rich, coming from someone who can’t go a day without altering their perception of reality. Clearly another stroke of genius from the house connoisseur of recreational alchemy.”

Ouch. That stung. Theo’s eyes watered with it. 

Closing his eyes to focus, Theo scratched at his neck, skin buzzing with magic—as if it wanted out. He couldn't… it felt like… what was I saying?

“It was centuries ago,” he offered weakly, feeling like he was swimming through thick mud to get the words out—there was too much noise in the way. “And for all I knew, the room’s magic could’ve gone dormant.”

Draco touched the door again and hissed, yanking his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Yeah, it’s dormant alright,” he snarled. “Like a bloody Lethifold waiting to swallow us whole.”

Someone drew closer to him, a hand on his shoulder, radiating something cool, calm. 

“Theo, are you alright?” Lydia asked, her voice low. Concerned. 

No. I’m really not. This was a bad idea. This is worse than it’s ever been. I don’t… I can’t… it feels like… Fuck. What was the question?

Theo clenched his jaw. Control. He was supposed to control this. To hide it. He had beautiful control. Always. He had to. He… he couldn't. It was so much. This room…  And Lydia saw right through him, he could feel her concern sweeping over him, seeping into the creases and cracks, cool and quiet as a blade. 

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” she said with her usual concerned tone. 

You can see that well, in here? He thought, blinking up at her, struggling in the gloom. Up? No… Lydia's shorter than me, she… Theo realised he was bent over, hands braced on his knees, breathing like he’d been running uphill through wet sand. His throat was tight, jaw clenched. If he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what would come out — words, or vomit, or something more feral—something he’d never get back under control.

“He looks fucking guilty as shit,” Draco spat, and Theo closed his eyes against the glare of his tone.

“Dray…” Hannah murmured gently, from somewhere in the same direction. Theo wasn't sure if she was trying to calm Draco's panic or talk Draco down from blaming him. Either way, it tasted like crumbly shortbread. 

“He’s about to get us all killed,” Draco protested. 

Theo shook his head slightly, his mouth opening like he was about to speak—he should say something to break the tension, that's what he did. But this was not good—he closed his mouth again just as quickly.

" Theo ," Lydia pressed as she crouched in front of him, her voice softer now. " Talk to me. "

His jaw tightened. "It’s bad," he admitted to her, apology feeling rough on his tongue. "It’s…" He inhaled sharply, a sinking certainty filling his whole being. "It’s waking up!" 

He dropped to a knee, hands over his head as if bracing for an almighty hit he was sure was coming. The floor lurched beneath them. 

Lydia staggered sideways, her grip slipping from Theo's shoulder. There was a pause, a moment’s silence, and Theo glanced around to see Draco there, steadying Lydia before the walls shuddered with a grinding sound Theo could feel in his bones, sending dust and flecks of plaster or paint raining from the ceiling. 

"Fuck," Draco hissed. "Theo, did you set something off when you walked in?"

Theo cracked his eyes open, made out Draco’s silhouette as he looked to the floor, drawing his wand. A trigger ward. Draco’s looking for a trigger ward, Theo guessed. Yes, maybe that was it. 

A burst of Revelio shimmered from the floor around the door, tickling beneath Theo’s boots like little bubbles as it spread like ripples. It came to nothing. 

“Stop blaming him and try to get that damn door open,” Lydia ordered firmly, nudging Draco toward the entrance. Theo was still crouched low, fingers digging into his scalp. Taking a deep breath, Theo squeezed his eyes shut as the magic in the room tilted , as if something huge had just rolled over in its sleep—except it wasn’t asleep anymore. It was rising .

“This is ridiculous,” Hannah murmured and raised her wand. “Lumos—”

Light flared.

And something surged toward it.

Not a creature. Not even visible, not quite. Just a pressure like the room itself had drawn breath. The shadows rippled. The vines overhead stirred, their dead tendrils reaching, twitching toward the glow like pale sinuous hands straining through dark water.

Theo recoiled as if struck. “Put it out!” he shouted, voice slicing the silence as he struggled to keep his balance. “Put it—!”

The light vanished as if swallowed. Hannah cried out, stumbled back a step and Draco was there, steadying her.

But it was too late.

The magic had pounced — not with violence, but need.

Hunger.

Theo could feel it now, gnawing — not at his magic, but at the hollow space behind his ribs. A low ache, endless and echoing. Like the inside of him was nothing but dust and raw nerves. It clawed through him with that aching insistence. A kind of emptiness that made his limbs feel too heavy and too light all at once. Like vertigo. Like falling slowly and never landing. 

It was drought. It was grit behind his teeth. The ache of something that wanted to live. It was grains of rice gleaming like pearls in the dirt**. It was the sting of walking too far in new shoes as afternoon shadows grew long— the kind of pain that rubbed until you bled, and still asked you to keep moving. A plant starved of sun, straining, blind and pale, toward the nearest source of light.

It didn’t want him—them. Not exactly. It wanted to feed — and bloom . It reached, greedy and sightless, like roots in dry earth. He could feel it stirring, searching for more…

He should look. He knew he should watch for more danger but he couldn't. His eyes fixed to the ground, to the handprints and footprints he was leaving in the dust. Everything pressed out from within, and everything pressed inward from out. Magic warring from every side and his senses were the battleground.

The air thickened — too wet, too close. The pool’s bioluminescent pulse steadied. That strange blue-white-pink glow deepening. The entire room took on a hollow, ghoulish tinge as the light splintered into the edges of everything. Dry as tinder.

Was everyone else sweating like him? The walls pulsed. A low groan vibrated beneath the stone, like roots stretching after a long, bitter sleep.

Draco grabbed at Theo’s collar, shaking him. “What the fuck did you wake up, Nott?!”

Theo barely felt it. Barely heard or saw Draco. He was shaking, everything rattling around inside his bones. Cold sweat down his spine. His magic bucked violently against the pressure in the room, like it was trying to reach out of him, shield something. Protect , it urged.

Protect who? Theo squeezed his eyes tighter shut as the pressure built. How — when you're fucking torturing me! 

Lydia pushed Draco back and Theo practically collapsed to the floor as Draco let go of his shirt. Theo tried to shake his head clear, and push himself to sitting, blinked as Lydia crouched beside him. She reached for him — and just beyond her, something moved in the dark, writhed.

He didn’t speak. Just stared, half convinced he was imagining it.

Lydia turned to follow his gaze — and froze.

The shadows on the walls weren’t shadows anymore. They moved , pulling into the shapes of thick, writhing vines, curling over the stone like veiny fingers blindly groping for purchase.

Beneath him, the floor rippled. The stone shifted — softening into something that gave like damp earth.

Lydia staggered, her boot slipping on the uneven surface — and she lurched toward the fire pit in the centre of the room. It was cold and empty, for now, but something about it waited .

Draco caught her arm with a hissed curse, steadying her before she could fall in.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Just throw yourself into the suspicious ancient ritual pit, why don’t you.”

Lydia rolled her eyes at him, snatching her arm back. “Thanks, I hadn’t noticed the huge gaping hole in the floor.” 

Theo felt the sting of her clenched teeth. 

What the fuck was wrong with those two? 

Jaw clenching, Draco opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it. His indecision was far too salty, like choking on a mouthful of seawater. Theo should’ve made a quip, about bickering as foreplay, but he couldn’t focus, wasn’t sure if he did say it, or just thought it. Just had the intimation of the idea… nausea thickened in his throat. And Draco was already striding for the sealed door. He slammed his palm against it, a hollow echo reverberating like jelly in Theo's muscles — then both hands — pushing, shoving, shouldering it. Nothing.

Theo thought about vomiting. He’d had salad and rice at lunch… he didn't think that would be fun to repeat. Too stodgy and stringy now. He gagged at the thought, swallowed it back down.

Lydia returned to his side, her hand on his shoulder, the back of her hand against his forehead.

Oh, that'll be better. Healers hands. Cool, steady, calming. 

He pressed forward into the touch. But it felt as if he was hearing her through water. He tried to reach for that calmness she exuded, but it was like grasping for sunlight from the bottom of a well, just a glimmer that his fingertips could only brush. 

No!

Urgh! This fucking room! 

Hannah joined Draco, wand outstretched.
“Alohomora!” she shouted, then, “Bombarda!”

The spells ricocheted in Theo’s body, citrus and pine needles tingling beneath his shoulder blades. He tried not the whimper.

The door didn’t budge.

Draco swore under his breath and raised his wand. He cast charm after charm at the door — detection, ward-breakers, hex-reveals — all fizzled out on contact with the wood. Theo’s body shook from bracing against the frustrated onslaught.

“There’s nothing here,” Draco growled between clenched teeth, sharp as a snake’s. “No seals, no wards, no bloody locks — why won’t this fucking door open?”

Draco's panic lit the room in violets and oranges as he turned away, eyes scanning the floor, then the nearest wall — running his fingers across the worn stone, as if sheer will might force a clue to appear.

Theo tried to bite his lip, to stop it happening, but a low sound escaped his throat — somewhere between a groan and a breathless whimper — as he tried to duck his head away from the pressure that was everywhere, tried to wrap his arms around his head as if that would be enough.

“I’ve got you,” Lydia murmured, her breath soft on his cheek, fingers brushing back his hair.

Theo didn’t remember sinking to the floor.

 “Let me check — just hold still, okay?”

He didn’t resist. Didn’t even speak. Just squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it all out.

She raised her wand gently. “Revelare Corpus.”

He felt the air stir. Lydia mumbles something to herself that sounded confused and then muttered a couple of other spells. Theo didn't recognise them, but the magic flowed cool and steady, the soft silver glow wrapping around Theo’s form like a thread of the most beautiful, soft moonlight. His shoulders eased as it brushed beneath his shirt.

He exhaled and took a breath that filled his lungs. Thank Salazar for my Naiad’s healing prowess, for her cool, soothing magic, for—

The soothing light of Lydia’s spell flickered and then lessened.

Theo blinked his eyes open. Threads of her spell were siphoning not around him, but away — into the air, drawn toward the centre of the room, towards the cold, dark firepit.

Suddenly, the pit pulsed to life, a roaring fire bursting alight at its centre, casting dancing shadows all around them. The heat of midsummer burst into the room, pressing, squeezing at them.

A flash of sound rang so loud in his head, Theo scrambled to cover his ears again, his heart hammering, hammering, hammering against his ribs — voices raised in song or screaming, over so quick he couldn’t tell which.

Beside him, Draco suddenly landed with a shout, as if he'd been thrown back from the door. He was crying out, holding singed and blackened hands away from his body as he writhed on his side on the floor. The air tasted like bruised red wine, thick and sour on Theo’s tongue. Beneath it, the roughness of brittle charcoal peeling away beneath his fingers, crumbling like blackened skin.

Lydia whirled to Draco, raised her wand and cast a chain of healing charms — pale blues and greens and a yellow, soft as a baby chick. Breath held and teeth gritted, Draco tried not to cry out, but his whimpers and shaky breaths hummed in Theo's ears—a low crackle like dry leaves snapping, echoing through the hollow chamber of his skull. The burns on Draco's hands receded—started to at least—as far as Theo’s squinted eyes could make out in the too-hot firelight.

But then the room quietened for a moment, and Theo felt it twist, the pressure receding slightly as if eyes moved away from him. Lydia went to cast another charm on Draco’s hands, murmuring hurriedly — and Theo dived toward her, his hand shooting out, gripping Lydia’s wrist.

“Stop,” he rasped, as loud as he could. “Don’t.”

“What the hell?” Lydia snapped, yanking her hand away. She stared at him as Theo’s eyes chased remnants of her spells across the dusty stones toward the fire pit.

“It’s stealing the spell,” Theo answered, voice shaky. Couldn’t they see? Shit!

Draco sat up, face grim, still clutching his hands to his chest even as he flexed his healing fingers. “What does that mean? What are you talking about?” his words were breathless, pained. 

Theo opened his mouth to answer — then the gurgling from the pool in the corner increased, and dark ripples tumbled over the sides onto the stone, as if something swished beneath the surface.

Swaying, Theo barely caught himself from collapsing again as the pressure in his head — or outside it, he couldn’t tell — swung and twirled suddenly.

His fingers dug into his temples, trying to hold back the building pressure in his skull. His magic reacted wildly, trying to escape his skin.

“The room,” he groaned. “It’s like... It’s—remembering.”

“Remembering what?” Lydia demanded.

Theo’s voice dropped to a near whisper, as he tilted his head, trying to interpret the room's intentions. “The rites,” he said. “The offering. The cycle.”

Hannah swung around from the door as Draco’s eyes snapped to Theo, cold and sharp, something akin to fear flickering in them.

“Tell me we’re not the offering!” Hannah demanded. 

The pool erupted without warning — a violent spray of water and tangled vines shot upward like serpents unleashed. They crashed onto the floor, sliding fast and slick across the stone toward them, twisting and writhing like living shadows hungry for flesh. Draco and Hannah instinctively stepped forward, wands raised.

 Slicing hexes spat through the air, cutting into the stone like papercuts as the vines weaved between them. Lydia joined them, taking up a defensive stance just in front of Theo. When Hannah hit one with a nasty Diffindo , the vine let out a whining sound, paused, then shot forward again.

Theo’s magic roared in his head, fizzing at his fingertips, singing down his arms and legs. Do something. Do something. Stop it! Protect! it screamed, demanding action — but Theo was too overwhelmed by the other’s spells to act. To understand. 

Protect who? he thought, weariness threatening. Everything hurt, and stung. Over and over.

Her! it answered back, a clenching sensation engulfing his heart and twisting.

Which her?

Then—snap.

A vine grasped around Lydia’s ankle like a living whip, yanking her violently off balance. Her gasp ripped through the air as she hit the floor. Nails scraping against the stone as she scrambled for purchase. But the vine dragged her toward the pool. The water rippled dark and thick, as if something waited beneath the surface.

“Lydia!” Draco screamed, spinning on his heel. He chased after her, dodging the swollen vines, wand flicking severing charm after severing charm.

“Diffindo! ” Hannah shouted, slashing her wand through the air. “ Confringo! ” The spell struck the vine, but instead of burning, it twisted violently and seemed to absorb the magic before lurching Lydia backward. Other vines slid to assist, wrapping around her legs and waist. Lydia screamed.

Draco lunged for her, grabbing her wrist. “Hold on!” He planted his feet, trying to haul her back — but the vine was relentless, dragging them both toward the water’s edge.

Theo was shaking. His magic roiled inside him like a storm-tossed sea, an unbearable pressure building in his chest. The heat was suffocating, the smell of flowers thick enough to make him nauseous. The very air hummed with something ancient and furious. The walls felt like they were closing in.

But none of that mattered.

His wand was already in his hand, though he barely registered lifting it. His instincts took over — raw and unfiltered.

Theo moved. Head snapping up, watching Lydia tear across the floor, spilled water from the pool spraying around her, he was on his feet before he realised. Because if Lydia was dragged into that pool, Theo knew instinctively that only very, very bad things would happen and that was unacceptable…

He wasn’t thinking — not about the heat clawing at his skin, not about the voices screaming through his magic, not about the room pressing down like a living thing. Something in him reacted and all of that — every thought — disappeared in an instant.

Chapter Text

Magic burst from Theo like a rebirthed star. Golden light exploding outward, flooding the room like a solar flare. The force of it knocked Hannah clean off her feet; Draco skidded into Lydia’s side, catching her shoulder before twisting onto his back with a grunt. Dirt and dust flung out from the eye of the storm.  At the touch of the light, the tightening vines stilled and softened, uncoiling lazily from around Lydia’s leg and torso. They almost seemed to sigh before slinking away, retreating into the pool like overfed beasts. The water stilled, began to clear.

Blinking, Lydia took a breath. The oppressive heat wavered, faltering against the glow. The thick, humid air shimmered; the overwhelming scent of flowers retreated. She pushed herself up on trembling arms. The golden light still poured around them—thick and brilliant as honey—but it no longer burned like phosphorus. Instead, it lit the chamber like sunlight through stained glass. Shimmering and refracting. The cracked tiles looked glazed in amber. Dust hung suspended in the air, each mote glittering like a charm’s residue.

Draco had raised an arm to shield his face. Hannah was still blinking against the dazzle, fingers half-curled over her eyes. And Theo—

Theo stood at the centre of it all, his wand still raised, hand shaking. He was breathing hard, shoulders heaving, like something was trying to claw its way out of his chest. His clothes clung to him with sweat, hair plastered to his temples. His eyes were too bright. Too golden. The colour didn’t look natural—it looked lit from within, like a thread of the spell roared behind them and hadn’t found a way out yet. Only moments ago he’d looked pale and unsteady, sallow from heat and strain. Her diagnostic charm hadn’t shown anything wrong, but he’d looked like he was in so much pain. Now, he looked like he’d swallowed the sun. And could barely contain it. His jaw was clenched like he was holding something in—holding everything in. The muscles in his forearm and neck straining, his posture tight and rigid, nostrils flaring. The force of the spell had fluffed out his hair, the strands wildly on end. 

For a second, Lydia wasn’t entirely sure he was himself. In the gloom, in the firelight, it had been as if his mind was half somewhere else, half dragged to some other awareness. Not incoherent but not fully here. And something about his eyes… It wasn't her friend.

Then he blinked, exhaled. Sharp, ragged. He flexed his fingers, slowly lowering his wand, his posture sagging slowly again, as the last strands of light shimmered and dissolved into the air. The temperature in the room shifted again, cooled, the pressure lifting. Along the walls the vines perked up like they’d been roused from a long nap, shaking off the dust of centuries. Their colour deepened into lush, almost glowing greens — not just healthy, but exuberant — leaves stretching wide, uncurling with delight. Tiny blossoms burst open here and there: soft petals in improbable colours, like the room had decided it was a wild garden in bloom. Above them, tendrils of ivy swung gently from the ceiling as if stirred by music only the plants could hear. Fireflies — or something like them — blinked in and out of sight, trailing soft, golden light.  The fire in the pit calmed, its blaze now steady and warm, throwing out flickers of gold that made the walls glisten. Shadows danced like they were in on the joke, moving just a touch too deliberately to be random.  Above them, the ceiling seemed higher somehow. Airier. As if the room had drawn a long, silent breath and stretched to its full height, remembered what it was to be alive. The mould was gone. In its place, soft moss crept in like an invited guest, curling around the stones and giving the floor a strange, inviting plushness in places. The cracks sealed over with lazy grace, like the stone had decided to shrug off its years and start fresh.

And the pool—

The pool gleamed like spun glass and moonlight, its surface so smooth it looked enchanted — not just reflecting the room, but amplifying it. Colours shimmered just beneath it: glints of aquamarine and lilac and soft peach, like a sunrise trapped underwater. Every so often, a ripple would flicker across it, sending glittering patterns up the walls, though no one had touched it. 

The room pulsed with a kind of fizzing energy — giddy and golden, like the air before a summer storm or the moment just before someone bursts into laughter.

Lydia’s mouth fell slightly open, her eyes wide with something like delighted disbelief.

Lifting his head beside her, Draco eased his grip on her wrist, and without a word slid his hand to her face as he sat up, eyes scanning over her urgently. But before he could ask anything, Hannah rushed over. 

“Is it over?”

As if in response the entire room seemed to exhale like the perfect summer breeze, a shimmer, not quite gold, not quite silver or even pearl, ran over the entire room, the walls, the pillars, the vines. It skittered across the floor from the pool to the door. Something about the room settled.

The doors clicked open.

Lydia blinked, and for a breathless moment, frowned. It was like she was seeing a completely different room.

At the centre of it stood Theo, hunched and shaking, his wand lowered at his side. Golden light still clung to him, flickering faintly like embers in the folds of his sleeves and the collar of his shirt, at the hem of his trousers. His face was pale, his curls damp with sweat, but something about his olive skin still glowed—like the magic hadn’t entirely left. Like it wasn’t done with him. 

He looked hollowed out, like he'd given almost every ounce of magic. Not broken, but emptied. And yet… the room seemed to love him for it; a carpet of small flowers spreading out around his feet.

Theo exhaled sharply, flexing his fingers. He muttered something under his breath as he looked to his wand—

“Lumos Solem...” Not casting, but questioning. Brow creased momentarily as if he were puzzling through what had happened. Hannah’s Lumos, her own healing magic, but it hadn't been interested in anything Draco and Hannah had thrown at the door..

Lydia saw it click in his expression just before she understood too.

It was as if the room had been waiting. For this. For sunlight. For life and healing and rejuvenation. A plant forgotten in a cupboard, desperate for light.

Turning sharply, Theo swiped his wand toward the boarded windows. With a violent crack, the wooden planks tore away and clattered to the floor. True sunlight streamed through the dusty glass. The magic of the room exhaled again, warm and whole and so content it felt like standing in the middle of a beautiful dream.

Lydia shook out her leg, as she stood, found it didn't hurt like she expected, despite how tightly the vines had snatched her. 

“What the hell was that?” she asked, more to herself.

Draco stood too, brushing off his clothes , clearly somewhat irked, his mouth was tight. 

“Cauldron-damned midsummer ritual,” he muttered, shooting Theo a dark look. “You’re the one who set this whole bloody thing off.”

Theo didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, blinking slowly, not quite looking at them yet. Then he shook his head hard, like trying to clear something away and a flicker of his usual charm appeared on his face in a not so apologetic smirk. 

“A, er… Slight miscalculation,” he said faintly, running a hand through his hair as he surveyed the transformed chamber. And apparently casting a silent Scourgify as he did, his appearance dramatically improving as the magic slid down his body. Hair drying and settling in it's usual honey brown mop, shirt fresh and unstuck from his skin, smears of dust and dirty disappearing. When he lowered his hand he looked almost as effortlessly put together as normal.

“Saved us though,” Hannah offered, breathless but clearly trying for levity as she approached from behind Theo, a hand patting his back. She gave Theo a long look, then nodded, almost forgiving. “And you did seem to suffer the most. So I suppose we can forgive your reckless little posh arse.”

“Excuse me,” Theo said, indignant, “ I have a perfectly lovely posh arse.”

Hannah made a sceptical noise as she crossed to the windows. “Your hips are too narrow,” she threw over her shoulder. 

Theo gaped at her, affronted, but Lydia saw the relief in his posture, the way he perked up—almost grateful for the absurdity of it. Lydia's mouth quirked up at the corner too.

Hannah was already moving on, eyes sweeping the transformed space, spinning slowly as she took it all in. “It’s actually… really lovely here now. Like some kind of fairy grove.”

Visibly brightening, Theo practically bounced as he followed after Hannah. “Right? Perfect for the party. We could do a moss rug for a dancefloor, string up some lights there. Muggle music player here. Punch stand there—”

“Tables in the nooks,” Hannah added, nodding as she stepped into one, sunlight painting her hair gold. She shoved open a window. Fresh air spilled into the room like a charm unwinding. This time when the room sighed, it was softer . Settling. Throughly Content.

And Lydia couldn’t help thinking that for all his miscalculations… Theo might’ve done something very right.

Meanwhile, Draco had turned his focus back to her, gaze sharp as he checked her over—hands on either side of her face, sliding down her arms, searching every inch.

She huffed. “I’m fine, Draco.”

He ignored her, brow furrowed now. “You were bleeding.”

She glanced down. The scrapes on her hands were gone. No bruises on her arms. Just faint pink where there should’ve been broken skin. The knees of her jeans were torn and fraying.

Weird…  

“I… was,” she said uncertainly. “I thought—”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He drew his wand anyway, muttering a Scourgify. Dust and dirt vanished from her robes and skin, the last traces of the fight erased in a breath. With a flick, he even mended the torn denim.

“Not even a scratch,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, as he straightened.

Lydia scowled. “I could have done that.”

Draco shrugged, slipping his wand away. “I did it.” His voice was gruff, but his fingers lingered. “Just let me take care of you. For once.”

She hesitated, shifting on her feet. They were both still unsteady, still rattled in a way neither was admitting. And there was so much else hanging between them.  Things that nothing to do with whatever the hell had just happened. Everything had been so  intense since the Quidditch match—the media attention, final exams, and the looming weight of summer. The uncertain future.

Draco had been trying—desperately, carefully—to pin her down to something. A plan. Was she going to stay at home in Falmouth? Were they getting something with Theo? Without him? He needed clarity, something solid. But the more he pushed, the more Lydia felt it pressing in on her.  She swallowed, trying to push all of it aside — and that’s when she noticed: His fingers were still red-raw. The skin was cracked and healing, but not quite whole where she’d been interrupted earlier.

“Your hands—”

He looked down to them, shaking them out. "Just a few more scars,” he shrugged. 

Frowning, Lydia reached for him automatically. “You can’t just leave them like that. You know how important fine motor control is for wandwork. If the scarring stiffens across your knuckles, it could affect your grip. You might not notice it now, but—”

“Lyds...”

“I’m not lecturing. I just—” Her wand was already in her hand, the words to the spell half-formed. She muttered a diagnostic charm first, scanning the lingering inflammation. “You need full flexibility. Sensation. Control. You don’t want to be halfway through a charm and misfire because your hand cramps.”

Draco didn't argue. Not properly. But his jaw was clenched tight. He watched her work with that look he sometimes wore that he thought she couldn't read — equal parts pride, guilt, and something softer. Something like longing.

She finished the charms she’d started earlier, slower this time. Thorough. Her focus was sharp on the practical need in front of her. Something she could fix. When she'd lowered her wand Draco didn't pull his hand away. Just met her gaze, with so many questions shining in his stormy eyes. 

“You know I'm going to kiss you now, right?” He warned. And before Lydia could fully register the heat that zapped through her at his words, he moved.  He leant in and pressed a kiss to her mouth—quick but firm, like an anchor.

Lydia froze. Her breath caught sharp in her throat. For a second, the world narrowed—just the pressure of his mouth, the faint tremble between heartbeats.  Her hands found him blindly, gripping the fabric at his back, like if she held on tight enough, he wouldn’t disappear. It was instinct. Gravity. That awful, familiar inevitability they never seemed to outrun.

And it helped. God, it helped—his body warm against hers, the press of his hands, the quiet desperation wrapped up in the way they fit. For a moment, it drowned out the images that had begun slipping in again. A wedding dress so vivid she could feel the silk brushing her skin. A golden ring heavy on her finger. Her name, knotted with his, etched in looping script like a vow she didn’t remember making.

Dreams she never asked for. That didn’t feel like dreams at all.  Those visions set her heart racing in all the wrong ways. Breath shallow. Skin tingling. A twist of panic that had nothing to do with longing. 

But this—his mouth on hers, arms around backs, that fragile tension that came with holding on—this was real. This was now. Solid and sharp and steady. Something to cling to before it all slipped again.

She could do this. Just for right now.

But as Draco pulled away, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something careful. Hesitant.

And Lydia felt it too. 

Because this… them… They were standing on something fragile. Something they both wanted to hold onto, but couldn’t quite be sure how.

**

Some time later, as they stepped out of the room, Lydia fell into step beside Theo, nudging him lightly. 

“Hey. You alright?”

Theo glanced at her, then kept his eyes ahead, shrugging a shoulder. “Yeah, of course. Same as always.”

Lydia huffed a soft laugh. “That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”  She smiled, but the concern didn’t leave her eyes. She knew that tone, that shrug — the way he pushed everything behind the mask of flippancy.

Theo rolled his shoulders, straightening. Didn’t answer. Lydia sighed and, without thinking, slipped her arm through his, where his hands were jammed into his pockets. A casual, easy gesture — one that might have looked like nothing to anyone else. But it wasn’t nothing to her. She was checking. Quietly, thoroughly, in the way she'd been trained. 

No signs of magical strain, no feverish flush or pallor. Breathing even. Speech coherent. No residual spell-burn on his skin. He wasn’t trembling anymore. No wince at her touch, no desperate lean into it like before — like the contact had been the only thing tethering him to the present. His posture was straight; not stiff but solid. He was looking at her now, not through her; alert and responsive. His steps were sure, idle even. His pulse seemed steady when she surreptitiously tucked a hand over his wrist. And that trademark spark of mischief — that half-smirk dancing beneath his lashes — was back in his expression.

Still…

“What happened, Theo?” she asked quietly. “You looked... really sick. Like you were in so much pain.”

His lips pursed thoughtfully. “Probably like Draco said, I was the first one in. Must’ve triggered something.” He shot her one of his roughish grins - the one that always dragged up the corners of her mouth - and nudged her lightly. “I’m good now.”

Lydia looked him over, unconvinced. He wasn’t avoiding eye contact, but he was glancing away just a little too quickly. Of course, that wasn’t exactly unusual. Theo never liked talking about his own vulnerability. He’d much rather pretend it didn’t exist at all.

So she tried something else.

“How did you know to cast Lumos Solem? That it would work?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t. I just…” He hesitated. Unusual . “It liked Hannah’s Lumos. I didn’t realise that’s what it needed until after. I was only trying to draw its attention away from you.”

The way Theo spoke of the room like it was sentient made her pause. Not out of disbelief — the magical world was full of things that behaved with a kind of awareness — but... there was something too knowing about the way he said it.

“But it was so powerful—” Lydia protested. She’d seen the way it had knocked Hannah off her feet. She’d felt the push of it, the crackling heat and sting of dust rushing over her face. Lumos Solem wasn’t meant to have physical force. It was just light — bright, sometimes warm, but not explosive. Not like that. And Theo hadn’t even cast it verbally…

“What’s that chemical you said flares when people are scared?” Theo cut in, like he’d been waiting for the question. “The one where a mum lifts a car off her kid or something?”

“Adrenaline. And it’s a hormone,” Lydia muttered, automatic correction slipping out before she could stop herself. 

Theo nodded too quickly. “Yeah, must’ve been that.”

Lydia frowned. He’d deflected. Neatly. Eagerly. Almost… rehearsed.

But he seemed fine as far as she could observe. Avoidant, but fine. Normal. For Theo. She could scan him magically, again but… she hadn't seen anything in the room and part of her didn’t want to see anything that might confirm the quiet unease in her gut. Maybe that’s why she let it drop.

Untangling their arms, Theo threw his around her shoulders with casual ease, pulling her briefly into a side-hug. “Can’t have my Naiad disappearing into some ominous dark pool, now can we? Who would save me then?”

He pulled her against his body like it was nothing, tucking her into his warmth the way he always did, like the whole thing hadn't shaken him at all. It should have comforted her. And it did. Mostly. She tried to let the birthday candle scent of him reassure her, remind her of party games and smiling faces and chocolate cake. Happy memories. Hopes and wishes. 

Later, maybe. She’d ask again later.

“Hey, Nott!”

Draco drawing up beside her, slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her in, playfully possessive.

“Back off.” His voice was low, but there was no real heat in it. 

Theo, unbothered, did not remove his arm from her shoulders and lifted his hand to ruffle Draco’s hair. 

“Now, now, Draco. Good boys share nicely.” He smirked.

Lydia scoffed a laugh. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Hannah fell into step with them, looping her arm through Draco’s on his other side. He tensed, instinctively, the way he always did when touched without warning — but then, just as quickly, let it go. Let her in.  Lydia bit back a smile. Progress. Unexpected, maybe, but not unwelcome. If anyone could wear Draco down, it was Hannah. And he was letting it happen. That counted for something.

“You encourage them both,” Hannah finished, smirking.

Lydia tilted her head, considering. “Maybe I just like keeping you all in line.”

Theo scoffed. “Please! We all know Lady Barwench is the one keeping us all in line.”

Hannah rolled her eyes at the moniker but didn’t protest it, just shook her head. “And whatever will the three of you do without me next year?” Hannah asked. 

“To be decided,” Draco answered, but Lydia caught the edge of something in his words, as he avoided eye contact. And there it was… the pressure again!

“There’ll always be shifts at the Broomsticks,” Hannah teased him. 

“I think I'll have done my time behind bars by the time I board the Express in a few weeks,” Draco retorted. Lydia momentarily had the thought that actually, for someone who had killed three people, he'd spent incredibly little time behind bars, even if you counted the time working at the Three Broomsticks... But she also know that he carried the weight of those lives every day. The candle they'd lit back in October, for the people they'd lost, it was still burning on Draco's window sill, and she'd seen that he'd added those three names to the list they'd made. He changed the candle when necessary, made sure the flame didn't go out with careful charms. She forgot sometimes, forgot to remember lives were lost on both sides, that even Hannah had names she'd collected during the battle.

“Besides," Draco continued, pulling her out of her darkening thoughts. "You’ll have a better chance with Longbottom if I'm not giving him scathing looks every time he comes to the bar to grovel and chat you up.” 

Theo and Lydia gasped, wide-eyed in mock outrage.

Hannah pouted, lifting her chin with mock-defence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lydia blinked, something catching in her chest. Neville ?

Her eyes flicked to Hannah, and saw the slight rosy tinge to her cheeks that confirmed it. Lydia tried to picture it — not just in theory, but really see it. Hannah, steady and no-nonsense, who would roll her eyes at any self-pity and call someone out without blinking. And Neville… who had been her friend, once. Who had kissed her, once. Who had then spent months resenting her for a choice he had no right to punish her for.

There had never been anything real between her and Neville — not really. Not from her side at least.  But her chest pulled a little tight all the same, uncertain. Not with jealousy, but something more complicated. But if Hannah was seeing him, or thinking about it… well, she could handle Neville. Lydia didn’t doubt that for a second. And maybe—maybe Neville had changed. Grown. He’d certainly stopped acting like the arrogant prat he'd been in the autumn. Or that awful day in January. The one she sometimes still thought about with clenched teeth and pain in her chest. The one she wasn't sure she'd ever truly forgive him for. 

But on reflection, Lydia had caught glimpses of the old Neville in recent weeks — awkward but earnest, less wounded dog, more sheepish lion cub. He'd wordlessly helped her with her Herbology assignment last month, leaving a glob of salmon on her workbench as he'd passed when she was struggling with one of the carnivorous plants. (Slowly killing it was more accurate.) When she'd looked it up later, apparently they preferred fish over the red meat she'd been feeding it. 

At the time, Lydia had taken it as smug — like he knew better because the greenhouses were his domain and he'd wanted her to see it. But now, maybe it had been an olive branch. Quiet. Awkward. Neville-style.

She wouldn’t forget how cruel he’d been. Not entirely. But she could be happy for Hannah. And she could appreciate maybe Neville was trying to be different. 

Lydia drew in a slow breath, turning her attention back to the conversation with a small, thoughtful smile.

“Oh no, don't play coy!” Theo protested. “How long has this been going on?”

Draco chuckled, and rolled his eyes but looked ahead, having deflected attention away from himself successfully. Lydia felt his hand slip into her back pocket, securing himself beside her. And it was so easy to lean into the familiarity, the comfort of it.

She huffed a quiet laugh, nudging him. “Subtle,” she murmured into his ear.

Draco smirked but didn’t move his hand. “You don’t seem to mind." The words ghosted warmly across her cheek.

Theo groaned. “Alright, that’s enough. If we aren't finally just giving in to that rumour about the four of us, you two need to stop whatever that is. Or I’m hexing someone.”

Lydia just grinned at Theo, leaning a little into Draco’s side. “You’d never hex me.”

Theo made a thoughtful noise. “You, no. Him, however…” He shot Draco a look full of mock aggression, baring his teeth. “Grrr.” 

Draco rolled his eyes again, but Lydia could feel the way his fingers curled slightly against her, holding on.

"You two are so cute." Hannah quipped, nudging into Draco's side hard enough to veer their path a fraction. "I have so enjoyed seeing what a sweetheart was under that pointy face of yours this year, Malfoy.”

Draco scoffed, tilting his head away as if the very idea offended him. “Shut up.”

Hannah only grinned wider. “No, really. It’s adorable.” She was teasing but there was enough authenticity in her tone that Draco's cheeks tinged a little pink.

Theo smirked, scuffed the back of Draco's hair with an open palm. “Yeah, Draco, tell us—when did you become such a soft touch ?”

Draco’s grip on Lydia tightened slightly, and she could feel the tension in him, the instinctive need to reject the label. She tensed too, waiting for the storm. But instead of snapping, he just sighed, tilting his head down toward her, kissing the top of her head.

“Not soft,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against her as he met Theo’s eyes over her head, something like fire in his gaze. “Just hers.”

Lydia’s heart pounded hard against her ribs. For a moment, everything else — the chatter, the teasing, the hallway around them — faded to a hush.

Just hers.

It shouldn’t have stunned her. He’d said softer things before, in quieter moments. Scarier things. Heavier things. But something about the way he said it now — not in secrecy, not in shadow or behind locked doors, but here, in the light, in front of their friends — it settled deep in her chest. Solid and warm and terrifying.

I love you. 

The words rose fast, instinctive — a wave of truth rushing forward — but they snagged in her throat, sharp-edged. Too heavy. Too exposed. Saying it now would feel like baring her ribs. Like trusting the unknown future. 

So instead, she just glanced away, let her fingers slip into his back pocket, grounding herself in the weight of him beside her.

Hannah let out a dramatic, exaggerated awww. Theo barked a laugh and shook his head at Draco's sentiment.

As she smiled, the sound of their laughter curling around Lydia like sunlight. For a moment, she let it all settle in: the press of Draco’s hand, the weight of her friends on either side, the tentative peace that had replaced the earlier strain. There were still things she hadn’t said. Still stories under the surface and questions to ask. But this—this was enough. For now. Just for right now.

She looked up at Draco again, catching the soft tilt of his mouth, the way he was watching her like she was the only thing that made sense.

I’ll tell you , she thought. Soon .

Chapter Text

The party was already in full swing by the time Lydia arrived, sheepish and half-dazzled by fairy lights.

She hadn’t planned to be late but pulling herself together had taken longer than expected. Her hands had shaken so badly trying to do her makeup that Hannah had ended up gently prising the wand from her grip and finishing it for her. Even now, her pulse hummed unevenly beneath her skin.

But she’d made it. Looking like a floaty, pale rainbow in the summer dress she’d chosen—or a splashed watercolour canvas, perhaps. The skirt was asymmetrical and flared out beautifully with every swish. From the front, it was a sweet, almost girlish sort of dress. The heels were delicate too, with ribbon ties that wound neatly around her ankles. But from the back… well, she hadn’t meant to pick a look that said untie me, undo me, undress me— But she knew exactly what Draco would think when he saw the lace-up back.

In the end, that was what had coaxed her out of the bathroom: Hannah’s knowing smirk and a single raised brow. Somewhere beneath the soft-spoken healer and all that careful empathy, Lydia had started to lean into the part of herself that liked feeling just a little bold. A little flirty. The dress wasn’t scandalous, not really, but it hinted. A teasing lace-up back, a skirt that swished just right from her hips. She’d hoped that maybe, if she looked like someone confident, she might feel it too. That the nerves wouldn’t knot quite so tightly. That the weight in her chest might ease, even just for a night.

Maybe it was too much to ask of a dress. But here she was, all the same. Hoping. Trying to do a little more than just survive.

But by the time she’d made it through the castle to the not-so-secret, not-entirely-sanctioned, entirely-unofficial (and very much un-chaperoned) Leavers’ Party, Lydia was profoundly relieved to see that most people were barefoot. The beautiful heels, as it turned out, were horrific—the ribbons barely keeping the shoes on her feet. She’d nearly twisted her ankle twice trying to keep up with Hannah’s determined march down the corridor.

The Midsummer Room had been transformed — moss carpeting the floor in a designated dance area, ivy dripping from floating candles, students draped in glitter and wings and cloaks. Theo and Hannah had gone all in on the fairy grotto theme. A pile of shoes sat by the entrance like an offering, and Lydia added hers to the heap, her feet practically unfurling on the damp stone. Hannah had worn sandals, and decided to keep hers.

A cheer went up as they stepped further into the room, followed by a few barefoot or be-glittered Hufflepuffs clapping and calling out across the floor.

“Lydia! Hannah!”

Located between two of the huge looming pillars, Theo was standing on a chair near the punch bowl, arms thrown wide in a gesture of welcome fit for a prince, like some half-drunk Bacchus. His billowy white shirt, half hung off his neck. “About bloody time!” he called to them. 

Terry Boot was beside him, drink in hand, looking vaguely exasperated. He reached up, steadying Theo by the elbow as he wobbled in his enthusiasm.

“You’re going to fall on your arse,” Terry muttered, the words quiet and dry. “Which I’m sure you’d find hilarious.”

His hand stayed a beat too long. Just enough for it to mean something. Just enough for Lydia to notice as they approached. But Theo was already laughing, already waving madly to beckon them over like he probably hadn’t just spent twenty minutes coaxing Terry into a conversation by the punch bowl. He didn’t even glance down at the Ravenclaw. Terry’s expression flickered — barely. A shuttered look, quickly hidden. Then he dropped his hand from Theo's elbow, stepped back, and glanced over at Lydia and Hannah.

“Well. Good luck with that.” He gave them a nod — polite, neutral, subtly indicating to Theo. And then, turning to Theo as he stepped backwards, he dug his hands into his pockets and murmured “Have a good night, Theo.”

It was tossed off casually with a vague shrug of the shoulders. But there was an edge to it. Something faintly dismissive. Boot walked away through the crowd, the line of his shoulders just a little too straight.

Grinning, Theo hopped down from the chair and gathered them under his arms. If he noticed Boot's departure, he didn’t let on.

“Come on then,” he said, leading them over to the punch. “You’re drinking. Don’t argue. I’ve outdone myself.”

Lydia stared after Boot, thoughtful. She let Theo get a few steps before she leaned close to his ear to murmur over the music, “You didn’t have to forget him so quickly, you know.”

Theo had leaned in eagerly, but now he straightened with a shrug, eyes forward. “I didn’t forget. I’m just playing the long game.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “At least I know I’m wearing him down slowly now. But he’s even more skittish than you are.”

Something stung in Lydia's chest. She bit her tongue, decided not to say anything. She could’ve teased back, could’ve offered some gentle commentary or a sharp retort— but she didn’t have the energy to prop up anyone else’s defences tonight. Her own were barely standing. So she just looked at Theo. Not scolding, not pitying. Just… tired. And knowing. I see through you. Why are you being an arse? 

His smile faltered for half a second, creases appearing at the corners of his eyes. Then, too quickly, he barrelled on, handing her a conjured cup he’d filled with punch from the bowl, another for Hannah. He downed one himself with a hasty “cheers!”

“Sorry we were late,” Hannah offered. Taking a sip, she shot Theo an apologetic glance. “Wardrobe indecision.”

That was… generous.

Lydia had spent fifteen minutes locked in the bathroom, trying not to cry over a dress.

Hannah had offered to lend her something — the first option had been a pretty, floaty sort of summer thing with off the shoulder sleeves and ties at the front that would make her boobs look amazing. Romantic. Dreamy. The kind of dress that looked like it belonged in a Shakespeare comedy where everyone found true love. 

A white dress.

And that had been it. Lydia had taken one look at herself in the mirror, holding it up against her chest, and couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just that one flash of fabric and suddenly her whole body rebelled.

She kept seeing the images — flickers of a dress, a ring, the shape of a name not her own. Future-fantasy things she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t consciously wanted. But they wouldn’t stop. And if she kept seeing them, if they kept finding her, then surely it meant she did want them, right?

Except… it didn’t feel like wanting. It felt like drowning.

It felt like the weight of a future pressing down on her lungs. A future where love meant loss. Because Lydia knew what that looked like — she’d watched it happen one hospital visit at a time. Her mum, slipping away by inches. The quiet dread of being called out of class to meet her dad in the office. The uncertainty of making plans for next month or next week, that you weren’t ever sure would come true. The constant, aching question: is today the day she’s gone? 

If she let Draco in like that — white dresses, wedding bells, promises, forever — then it would be the same. And she already knew what it would feel like to lose him. She’d already done it, twice: once to Voldemort after the raid, and again when the Ministry dragged him away in chains. Maybe she hadn’t lost him to Death either time but the heartbreak felt the same. And then twice more Death had nearly separated them — blood and melted ice cream on the theatre carpet, jagged cuts peppered across his skin after the bar attack.

He was always within reach and one breath from gone. One breath from gone…

And then there was the way he looked at her, like she was some kind of miracle. Like she was the only thing keeping him together. Like he didn’t deserve her, but would spend the rest of his life trying anyway.

It was all so much. So fragile.

They were suspended together on a rope bridge, frayed and thinning. And Draco was walking forward like it would hold. Like love could hold. But Lydia—Lydia kept glancing back at solid ground, unsure what the safest path was.

She loved him. Of course she did.

She just didn’t know how to trust something that felt so easy to lose. 

“Not a problem,” Theo answered Hannah, and Lydia blinked herself from her spiralling thoughts. “You both look additionally beautiful for it. I can think of at least two boys who will appreciate the effort.” Hannah let out a nervous laugh, warmth creeping into her cheeks before she hastily glanced away to scan the crowd. Probably for a certain Gryffindor. 

Meanwhile Theo caught Lydia's eye. He gestured toward the flower-laced archway near the pool.(They still hadn't quite determined who or what the alter was to, but it appeared Theo had decorated it and left some fruit on the little shelf over the water like an offering. Whatever the alter’s purpose, the room seemed to feel exceptionally pleased about the celebration within it's walls. The water's reflections shimmering idly over the walls and ceiling like a child wriggling with a glee.) Draco stood there, idly watching the pool, drink in hand. He appeared to be half listening to Daphne Greengrass who chatted animatedly beside him with Parvarti Patel. 

“We thought you were leaving Draco at the altar already,” Theo quipped, nudging her shoulder playfully. “You were gone so long, I considered marrying him myself.”

Lydia’s breath hitched. Something sharp twisted behind her ribs. She shot Theo a look — a real one, sharp and ferocious — before she felt Hannah’s steady hand on her arm. 

He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing. And it was cruel to keep pushing. But apparently Theo was keen to poke the bear today, rather than be a good friend like she knew he could be.

Hannah let out a low, frustrated sound — almost a growl — and pulled Lydia closer, her fingers curling firm around her wrist. Her eyes snapped to Theo, too, just as sharp.

“Seriously, T, just drop it. It’s a party, don't be an arse!” She turned to Lydia, tugging gently. “Come on. Let’s dance. Let the boys figure their shit out themselves.”

Grateful as always for Hannah's friendship, Lydia let herself be pulled into the tangle of students moving across the moss rug around the firepit, where the music pulsed loudest. Lanterns bobbed overhead, and the crowd had long since blurred house lines and allegiances; there were no uniforms here, just relaxed party clothes and shirt or robe sleeves rolled to elbows, glitter-swept cheeks and smudged eyeliner, the odd set of conjured fairy wings. Everyone was laughing, dancing, careless with each other in a way that hadn’t been possible for years.

Dean and Seamus twirled Luna between them like a comet caught in orbit, her laugh trailing behind like stardust. Michael Corner and Ernie Macmillan had apparently decided to make up through the medium of an extremely dramatic dance-off, all stomping feet and ferocious concentration. Hermione was nearby, curls wild and cheeks flushed, spinning lazily in a loose circle alone with a half-empty drink raised above her head, eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

Even the Slytherins had been absorbed into the swirl, if Justin’s hands on Parkinson’s arse were anything to go by. Zabini and Goldstein stood off to one side, locked in what looked like a deep and highly amused conversation, pausing occasionally to nod toward someone on the dance floor, grinning like they were judging an unofficial talent show no one else had been told about.

It was ridiculous. Messy. Joyful. Like something fragile had finally cracked open and spilled out across the floor: youth, in all its breathless, bittersweet excess.

That wasn't to say there weren't still pockets of animosity. Lydia was sure Ernie would always be ready and grateful to snap a cruel word or spell, or even a fist in Draco's direction for instance. Even Lydia wasn't immune to old grudges, she silently acknowledged to herself that if Justin showed up with some venereal disease or other ailment tomorrow, she'd know exactly where it had come from, as she traced the path of Pansy's nails over Justin’s back.

 “We’re here to have fun,” Hannah reminded her, voice low but warm as they found Lydia's dorm mates and joined their circle. “End of year party. You’re allowed to just exist, you know?”

Lydia nodded, self consciously bobbing along to the music. After a moment she lent close to Hannah. “He’s mad I won’t move in with them.” She explained, a little sullen, a little guilty.

Hannah frowned. “Theo?”

Lydia nodded, glancing back across the room to Theo and Draco near the pool. Theo’s back was to her, but the light from the water caught Draco’s face like a shimmering rainbow, distorting his slight scowl. Theo was obviously saying or doing something typically exasperating. “Draco too.” Lydia murmured, turning back to Hannah. “He’s just… quieter about it.” 

By quieter, Lydia meant he just kept looking at her with a million questions in wide grey eyes that he never asked. Kept tucking inside himself smaller and smaller, afraid to tell her what he wanted. She hated seeing it, but it was a relief all the same because she knew what he wanted. And she didn't know if she could give it. 

“Screw them! Get your own place if you'd prefer. No one’s forcing you.” Hannah shrugged while still dancing. “You have to do what you need, it's your life. If you need space to study and chase your career then take it. They'll either love you anyway or they're not worth your time.” 

“No, I know. I just…” Her eyes tracked the firelight, the sway of students dancing. “I don’t know what’s best.”

Nudging her, Hannah spun around and began moving to the music, she took Lydia's hand and raised it, urging her to twirl too. After a quick, fond eye roll, Lydia relented. “What’s best is that you dance. It’s a problem for tomorrow. Tonight? We party!” Hannah threw her hands up as she shouted the last words and a cheer went up around them. Lydia couldn't help her expression from softening, and reluctantly let a smile creep onto her face, as she fell into step with the familiar faces around her and tried to let the moment surround her, cushion her. 

It didn’t take long for Draco to find her.

She felt the prickle first—like static skimming over her scalp—before she even looked up. Their eyes met across the firelit crowd, and she knew: Legilimency. He was practicing again. Not pushing, not reading her thoughts, just testing the waters, gauging how careful he could be. Letting her know he was there. Watching.

If he did much more than skim the edges of her awareness, the sensation grew slowly unbearable—first a dull throb, then a sharp spike, like a pickaxe driving straight through her skull. Legilimency was known to be painful at worst, uncomfortable at best for the recipient. But Draco was convinced that if he was subtle enough, precise enough, he could slip in without someone even realising. And if he could do that, it would put him ahead in his Auror training.

Another tingle, down the back of her neck this time. He was definitely getting gentler.

For her own amusement, Lydia deliberately spun around, slowly, and she knew Draco had seen the back of the dress when she felt a whisper of him down her spine. Lydia didn’t entirely understand how he did that, he’d said it was a bit like strumming strings on an instrument. Nerves, she assumed, he was using magic to tease her nerves like she was a violin or guitar. And then she thought of those long fingered, safe seeker hands and considered for a moment that he might have made a beautiful musician. She could imagine him sitting straight-backed at a piano playing some classical piece.  

Lydia shivered despite herself—and caught the glint of satisfaction in Draco’s smirk as she met his eyes over her shoulder. He pushed off the pillar he'd been leaning against and moved towards her as if pulled by gravity, cutting through the crowd with the kind of ease that made people move for him without realising. His eyes never left hers. 

Merlin—the way he was looking at her. She felt… hunted. Her pulse picked up. Her breath quickened. She gave him a small smile as he slid an arm around her waist and found her rhythm effortlessly. His presence grounded her. But it also made her chest ache—too many things unsaid, too many feelings she hadn’t worked out how to carry.

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure. She leaned against his chest and breathed in the familiar scent of him, coconut and black pepper. 

“You look…” he paused like his breath caught, or his thoughts stuttered. “... beautifully fuckable,” he murmured, voice low against her ear. Lydia huffed a laugh. “Did you do something different with your hair?”

He brushed her hair aside, fingertips trailing lightly up the back of her neck. The touch made her spine tingle.

Lydia smiled, affecting an air of nonchalance in her tone. “I think you'll find it's the dress that's turned your head. I’ve done nothing but wash my hair and leave it down. Though, I suppose that’s what you’re referring to.”

She hadn’t had the energy to plait it, to twist it up in a braid like normal, even to throw it messily into a scrunchie—not after the whole dress debacle. Draco ran his hand through it smoothly, from her temple down past her shoulder, catching the strands in the firelight. They shimmered golden between his fingers. He’d seen her hair down before, but maybe not when she was made up, dressed up like this. Even if this was just a pretty sundress and she was barefoot on a bed of moss. He was barefoot too, she realised, and something about that: Draco Malfoy, in a suit jacket and tie, barefoot, seemed surprisingly charming. Innocent even. 

“You know,” he said, “I feel a bit overdressed when you look like you belong in a wildflower meadow.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The jacket is a bit much. Should’ve gone for that Mr Darcy look.”

“Ah, yes. The billowing white shirt,” he drawled, his smile indulgent and fond all at once, “dripping with lake water, if I recall.”

Lydia shrugged one shoulder, smirking. “It is a little warm here. Might have been refreshing.”

Draco chuckled and reached up the knot of his tie. “I suppose I could lose the jacket and tie, if you wish...”

But she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “No. You look incredibly handsome. Dashing, even.”

“Since when do you use words like ‘dashing’?” He smirked, lowering his hands to her hips. She slid her hand to his cheek, drank him in, those sharp cheekbones and jaw, those endlessly storm-grey eyes, the slight tinge of colour in his cheeks from the warmth of the room. Or her. 

“You look like you,” she murmured.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing…” he began—

And then the opening notes of I Wanna Dance With Somebody rang out.

Lydia blinked. Of course it was that song.

She turned just in time to see Theo breaking from the edge of the crowd, with his shit-eating grin already in place—charming and deliberate because he already knew he'd won her forgiveness. 

Their song. The one he’d heard playing in her room over Christmas, when he’d wandered in with a toothbrush in his mouth and made her put the CD on repeat. They’d sung along with a toothbrush and a hairbrush for microphones, acting out lyrics in the mirror, twirling until they were breathless—until Draco had come in, complaining that he’d go mad if he had to hear that bloody song one more time…

“Truce?” Theo asked, holding out a hand with something verging on sincerity.

Lydia glanced at Draco—not for permission, exactly, but just to catch his response. He didn’t arch an eyebrow, didn’t scowl, didn’t even shrug. Just a flicker of muscle that suggested an eye roll, a faint implied shake of the head as he took a slow breath. Not exasperated. Just… fondly resigned. Because he knew it wasn't worth arguing that Theo was stealing her away for a dance. 

With a small smile, Lydia slid out of Draco's grip and placed her hand in Theo’s. He pulled her into the crowd, twirling her once—just like always—before curling his arm around her waist to guide her into the beat. They fell into something close to a routine: synchronised silly moves, dramatic gestures, shouting the lyrics in each other’s faces. It was muscle memory. Familiar. Almost normal. They could have been back in her bedroom.

Draco sidled up to Hannah with mock formality. “May I?” he bowed.

Hannah grinned, accepting his hand with a theatrical flourish, letting him spin her into the rhythm of the song.

Now it was the four of them in a loose tangle—laughing, bumping shoulders, shouting the lyrics like a spell to hold the world together. Lydia caught Draco’s eyes across the whirl of movement and he winked. For a moment, it felt like nothing had ever broken. She didn’t want to let go. Not of Theo. Not of Draco. Not of this pretend peace and the people who felt like family. The feeling lifted her up, made her feel ten feet tall. Like she could do anything. Including moving in with her boyfriend and one of her best friends. 

But something was… off.

Her healer’s instincts kicked in before she even realised she was assessing him. Theo’s pupils were constricted—far too small for the dim light of the room. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his brow, not from exertion, but from something internal. His skin was flushed, unevenly so, and there was a slight tremor in the hand that held hers. Most telling was his smile—still in place, still charming—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

His feet caught awkwardly beneath him. He stumbled, bumping into her with a chuckle. Before she could ask if he was alright, he lifted her hand, spun her once, twice in quick succession, the room blurring at the edges—before dropping her into a fierce dip. 

Lydia gasped, her stomach swooping as the world tipped. One hand flew to the back of his neck, the other fisted into the fabric at his ribs. She barely had time to register the movement before everything else seemed to fall away.

A breath passed between them.

“And just like that,” Theo murmured, voice low and uncertain, eyes locked on hers, “everything goes quiet...”

Blinking up at him, Lydia’s heart hammered. There was something in his expression—wonder, maybe. Or confusion. But his pupils were still too small. His cheeks still too flushed. 

Is it just the punch? He didn't smell like he'd smoked anything…

Breath catching, Lydia suddenly became aware of how close they still were —the press of his arm behind her back, his fingers splayed against the bare skin of her shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest above hers. The way his gaze drifted over her face like he was searching for something he’d misplaced. Her skin tingled with it. 

His eyes lingered—just a second too long—on her mouth.

Her heart stuttered.

And then Theo smirked. Pulling her upright with a flourish, he cracked a sharp laugh, something seemingly self satisfied and playful, like the whole thing was still a joke.

“You are welcome for the moment of the night, my darling Naiad,” he said, sweeping a grand bow. He caught her hand with theatrical flair, brushed a kiss to her knuckles. Chaste, cheeky, wholly Theo. Winking, he turned and melted into the crowd, patting Draco on the shoulder as he passed—like he was handing her back now. The bloody audacity!

Because Lydia knew exactly what that song had been—that little stunt: Theo’s version of an apology for that snide remark he’d made before. 

Never quite one to actually say sorry, was Theodore Nott.

Lydia rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth quirking as she watched him fall into conversation with a group of seventh years back at the drinks table.

Smug, bloody bastard.

The tempo shifted abruptly. The upbeat anthem faded, giving way to the soft strains of a slow ballad.

Lydia felt Draco’s gaze again even before she turned to him—this time not just a glance, but something steadier. Expectant. It landed heavy in her stomach, a nervous twist. Chest lifted with quiet pride, he stepped closer, posture confident. And then he bowed. A proper, sweeping bow. His grin was mischievous, but undeniably fond, as he looked up at her from beneath his lashes.

“Care to dance?” he murmured, voice pitched low enough for her alone.

She swallowed, pulse quickening as he straightened. Because she knew exactly what he meant. Not awkward swaying in a circle. A proper dance. A waltz, probably.

“I don’t know how…” she started to protest.

Draco was already offering his hand.

“Trust me,” he said, firm but gentle, smokey eyes alight in the shifting glow from the fire. “I’ve got you.”

Lydia hesitated. Every muscle tensed with the anxious thrill of it—being spun around a dance floor, properly; being asked like something out of a Jane Austen novel. And something in his gaze—the calm confidence, the way he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing, the way he did on the Quidditch pitch or when he talked about potions—made her ache to try. To not let fear steal this moment from her. 

Of course Draco knew how to dance. And really, who would want to miss that? It was their Leavers’ Party. They were meant to be young. To be reckless. To enjoy it while they still could.

So she placed her hand in his. 

His fingers curled around hers—warm, steady—and she felt it: not reverence, not arrogance, but quiet certainty. Like, for once, he didn’t doubt his place beside her. Like this was something he knew he could do and wanted, truly wanted to do with her. Like he wasn’t remotely afraid to ask for it. Her insides fluttered, her cheeks warmed.

“Left foot forward. Right foot back… that’s it,” he murmured gently.

Lydia met his gaze with a smirk. “Of course, Coach.”

His eyes flashed at her teasing, thrilled by it. And then he guided her back into the first step. She focused. Followed. Her steps were hesitant, clumsy at first—but he led with such surety it was hard not to fall into rhythm. The space between them shrank. His breath brushed her neck. Her body softened into motion, and for once Lydia let Draco take the lead. Trusted him to take the lead.

His expression softened into something quietly radiant. His smile wasn’t showy, just real. Assured, like he knew exactly where her next step would fall.

She answered with a smile that came from somewhere deep, unguarded. Letting herself rest in the space he’d made for her, she felt warmth catch in her chest.

It was dizzying, the way he spun her slowly, the swish of her skirt catching the light. She came back into his arms, reaching instinctively for his shoulder, and for a breathless moment—she almost kissed him. Because it felt like magic. Like being the heroine of a fairytale. The music swelled, lilting and sweet, wrapping around them like a ribbon. The lanterns overhead turned soft and golden, casting halos around the dancers. It felt like a memory being made—like one she’d return to on darker days, just to feel the warmth again.

I love you.

The words crawled up her throat, threatening to spill out on a smile. She thought maybe—maybe— she wanted them to…

 A wedding dress. A name that wasn’t hers. A flash of gold—a ring.

The images slammed into her chest. Her breath hitched. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She became aware, horribly aware, of the eyes around them. The hush that had settled. Laughter. Murmurs. Someone watching. A camera flash. 

Fuck. This would be in the papers by morning.

“Don’t look,” Draco murmured, still confident and sure. His hand shifted to her back, anchoring her. She tried to stay with him—to hold onto the moment, the confidence still swimming in those smokey depths—but it was slipping. Fast. 

Too much like a first dance. Like a wedding dance. No…

Her body stiffened. The spell broke.

She tripped. Her foot caught awkwardly, twisting against the stone floor. Draco moved without hesitation, arms catching her around the waist in a smooth, practiced motion. Like he’d done it a hundred times with those safe seeker hands.

He smiled, steady and amused, eyes sparking, warm and teasing in the firelight. “See? I’ve got you.”

But Lydia couldn’t breathe.

The closeness, the heat of him, the weight of the words, all pressed in too tightly. The imagined future, the watching crowd distorted in the firelight, the possibility of him being hers forever—

It suffocated her.

It was like the air thinned all at once. Like her lungs had forgotten how to work. The press of bodies around them blurred into static. Every heartbeat was a drum. Every eye felt like a spotlight. And still, those images burned behind her eyelids.

She tore herself from his arms, stumbling back with a gasp. “I—”

Another camera flash caught the hurt and confusion on Draco's face as he moved to reach for her. But she was already turning—already gone.

Bare feet slapped stone. The crowd parted. The moment shattered.

Lydia escaped onto the balcony, heart racing. The cool night air caught her like a fishing net as she ran headlong into the stone balustrade, as if she’d have run right through it if she could. The door had crashed shut again behind her but music still pulsed through the open windowsg. Above her, the sky stretched vast and ink-dark, scattered with stars so sharp and bright they looked like pinpricks in velvet. A soft breeze stirred her hair, carried the faint scent of summer grass and the distant whisper of the Black Lake.

Below, Hogwarts stood bathed in silver moonlight—ancient stone glowing pale against the dark, towers rising proudly around her like sentinels. Lanterns still glimmered through a few high windows, scattered points of life in the quiet hush of the grounds. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted once. The night was beautiful. Still. But it did nothing to settle the storm roiling inside her.

She gripped the cold stone, her knuckles pale against it, and tried to breathe—but her chest felt too tight, her mind too loud. Draco. The dance. The weight of what she’d nearly said. The way everyone had watched. The photos. The impossible futures pressing in around her. Her reflection in his eyes. The ache of wanting, the fear of being wanted back.

She closed her eyes and bowed her head, fighting for steady ground. She hadn’t wanted to run. She hadn’t. But she’d needed to. Needed everything to stop. Just for a minute. Just to catch her breath. She just needed time to stop...

The door creaked open behind her.

Draco stepped out, his footsteps slow. His face held a tight kind of softness—concern, confusion, a quiet hurt he didn’t quite mask. Of course he’d followed her. She could practically feel his heart pounding in the silence between them as he stopped a few feet away, hands buried in his pockets like he didn’t trust them not to reach for her.

“I should’ve known,” he said quietly. “That you’d run.”

Lydia flinched. Her chest seized, her breath catching.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he cut in, voice low but not unkind. Just tired. “You do. You are.”

She turned her face away, blinking hard. “I’m not… I’m just—” But the sentence collapsed under its own weight. She couldn’t say the rest. Couldn’t voice the thing coiled tight in her chest.

“I want to be here,” Draco said, stepping beside her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. “To support you. However you need. But you keep pushing me away, and I don’t—”

“I’m not pushing you away!” she snapped, spinning to face him. “I’m just—” Her hands flew up, her words breaking loose in a panic. “I’m scared, okay? I’m scared of what it means—what this all means. You talk about our future like it’s something I’m supposed to just be okay with. But how can I be? I’m eighteen! I haven’t even figured out who I am without all the things that came before. I can’t just—”

“Lydia,” he interrupted, firm but gentle, his voice velvet soft. “Stop…Stop.”

She did, breath ragged. Her eyes burned.

Draco stepped closer, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders—grounding her. His voice was quieter now, steadier. “I know. You lost your mum. And you lost me for a while too. And you're terrified it’ll happen again.” He paused. “But you can’t keep running from this. From us. You’ve got me. And I’m not going anywhere, not by choice.”

He held her gaze like he was bracing for impact.

“Fuck, Lydia. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her breath caught.

Those words, so simple, so dangerous, landed with the weight of a spell. The ones she had nearly said. The ones she was so afraid she couldn’t take back. Her eyes flicked to the door. The air suddenly felt too sharp against her skin, a breeze ghosting between the laces of her dress, grazing down her spine. But before she could move, before she could decide anything, Draco went on, like he’d seen it all in her eyes.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly, heartbreak catching at the edges. “Running.” His voice dropped, fragile and wavering. “You want to leave, is that it?”

She wished he’d shouted. Yelled. Slammed a door. Because then maybe she’d feel defensive instead of gutted. Because then she might have found her own self righteous things to throw back at him. But this wounded version of him… all imploring wide eyes and braced for impact… How could she fight that when all she wanted to do was fix it?

“No. No, I—” she swallowed. Her throat felt like it was closing.

“Because if you don’t want this—if you don’t want me—please, Lydia, just say it. Just put me out of my fucking misery.” His pupils were so wide and unguarded in the moonlight. His voice cracked. “I love you. I am in love with you. And it’s not because you saved me from Azkaban or held me while I broke on the floor of the infirmary. It’s not pity or gratitude. It’s because you’re you. Because you see everything. Because you make it impossible for me to hide—no matter how much I try.”

His jaw tensed. A flicker of thought crossed his face, like he was trying to figure out how they’d ended up here.

“Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong,” he said, quieter now. “Maybe I let you hide. Maybe I should’ve pushed harder. Because I see you, Lydia Hargrove. I see you. You’re right there in front of me—soaring through the sky like wildfire and hope.”

He stepped forward, voice breaking on the next words as he lifted his hand, brushed his knuckles down her cheek. Lydia's jaw clenched involuntarily, but she didn't pull away.

“And I will follow you. I will chase. But you don’t have to keep—”

“Oi, what’s all this then?”

Theo’s voice rang out from behind them, light and teasing—but not quite right. Lydia startled, the sound slicing through the thick, trembling moment like glass. She blinked, heart thudding, and turned just enough to see him saunter onto the balcony. His eyes glittered with mischief, but it didn’t mask the way he swayed slightly on his feet, the way his words dragged just a little at the edges.

He was drunk. Or high on herbs again. Or both.

For fuck’s sake, Theo!

“Thought you two were supposed to be enjoying the night,” he slurred, gesturing lazily, “not having some grand emotional breakdown.”

The humiliation hit her all at once—sharp, hot, and sour. It rushed over her skin like a rash. Frustration bubbled to the surface, sharp and immediate.

“Go away, Theo!” she snapped, brushing at her eyes with the back of her hands. Her voice rang louder than she’d meant, harsher too, and she heard the pause in Theo’s step behind her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him falter. Just for a second. The grin slipping, confusion flickering behind the blur in his gaze—like he’d caught something real beneath the tension but couldn’t quite name it. She couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or too far gone to feel it.

And then Draco moved, as if to shield her from Theo, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders, back to Theo. He didn’t speak right away, but she could feel him bristling, tense. Jaw tight from biting his tongue, nostrils flaring. 

“You two lovebirds need to chill out,” Theo muttered, half-laughing as he leaned against the wall. “It’s a party, not a couples therapy session.”

“Theo, fuck off, will you?” Draco snapped, voice slicing through the air like a whip.

Lydia flinched. 

For a moment, the silence that followed felt too big—ugly and exposed and raw. Eventually Theo held up two hands on a show of surrender, lounging back against the wall, tipping his head back to look at the sky.

Draco swore under his breath, and Lydia knew without looking that he regretted speaking to Theo like that too. She could feel it in him—the way the anger fizzled, the way his attention snapped back to her like a lifeline he was terrified to lose.

“Lydia…” Draco said, softer this time. Her name felt like it cracked something open in her chest. She just didn't know which way. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She was suddenly too aware of her pulse, her lungs, the burn behind her eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either, okay?” he said, quieter now. “Tell me what you need. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. You want space? I can do that.”

Lydia exhaled sharply though her nose, not quite a scoff. They both knew he probably couldn’t. 

“You want me to stop saying I love you?” He paused, and she turned slightly to glance at him. The pain in his expression was sharp and unhidden. “I will,” he said. “If that’s what you need.”

But it wasn’t what she needed. Was it? Not really. She just didn’t know how to ask for something when she couldn’t name it herself.

“You’re right—you’re eighteen, but…”

Draco raked a hand through his hair, and Lydia saw it—how he was barely holding it together. Like he was trying to shove the words back down before they made things worse. The wind stirred around them again, cold and quiet and full of too many unspoken things.

Then Theo’s voice broke the moment.

“Erm... You two..?”

Lydia glanced back, and there he was, braced awkwardly against the stone wall, hands and forehead pressed to the cold surface. He looked ridiculous. Slumped and slack and far too out of it to be real. 

“Not now, Theo!” Draco snapped without looking.

The heat of it made Lydia wince, but Draco was already turning back to her, eyes searching hers again with a kind of quiet desperation. And then he said it—the line that cracked her open, the one old promise they'd made when all the tomorrows had been much less certain.

“Just for right now,” he said, his voice quieter, steadier. “That’s what we said last year, remember?”

Her chest squeezed. Just for right now. The words hung between them, weightless and heavy all at once. That promise had kept them afloat when everything was crumbling—when their choices were hidden, dangerous, impossible. And hearing it again now made something in her ache. It always made her ache, as it shifted her perspective, forced her to face what was in front of her.

“Just for right now?” she repeated, as if testing the shape of it. As if trying to remember who she’d been when she’d first whispered it to him in Pomfrey’s office. Because that girl had been brave and strong in ways Lydia didn't feel anymore. 

Draco’s face softened. There was something childlike in it; relief and hope and longing all tangled together.

“Just right now,” he said again. “And right now, we’re just two teenagers at a party. Dancing. Drinking a little. Just a boy and a girl who like each other. Who maybe want to kiss at some point.”

Lydia blinked. Her throat was thick, but a smile ghosted at the corner of her mouth. That was an easy thing to be, she thought. A teenager at a party, with a boy she wanted to kiss…

“Just kiss?” she asked, the faintest trace of teasing creeping in.

A grin broke across Draco's face, relieved and a little undone by it. He tucked her hair gently behind her ear like he always did when he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

“Whatever you want.”

And the thing was—he meant it. She could feel that. He’d meant it the whole time, even when it was messy, even when she wasn’t ready. Especially then. 

“Lydia…” Theo’s voice cut in again. Softer this time. Slurred but... strange. Like he was fading out or thinking too hard. There was something different in the way he said her name—something that made the hair rise on the back of her neck.

She turned slightly, frowning, but Draco spoke before she could respond.

“Not now, Theo!” he hissed quietly, his eyes barely flicking away from hers.

Lydia’s hand found its way to Draco’s chest, the rise and fall of his breath strong and real beneath her palm. She felt the heat of him. The steadiness. The truth of how much he wanted her to stay.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lose you. I’m just scared. If I let myself love you and something happens, if you’re not there—”

She didn’t finish it. Couldn’t. The words curled in her throat like smoke.

Draco shook his head, his hand covering hers, holding it against his chest.

“Lydia,” he said, and there was something fierce and impossibly gentle in the way he spoke her name. “Not saying the words doesn’t mean you don’t love me. I know you do. The way you look at me, like the sun’s rising behind your eyes. The way you kiss me. Touch me. You already do.”

He believed it. And yet Lydia saw the flicker of doubt behind his eyes. The twist of something unspoken—like he was trying to believe it enough for both of them.

A sickening noise tore through the night.

Lydia stepped sharply around Draco.

Theo!

He was doubled over now, clutching at the stone wall like it was the only reason he was upright. The noise came again. But it wasn’t just gagging. It was choking. A horrible, rasping struggle for air.

Then—Theo collapsed.

Chapter Text

Theo’s body hit the ground with a soundless whumph — limbs splayed, eyes wide, reflecting the moonlight sightlessly.

“What the—” Draco’s voice came out flat, stunned.

But Lydia was already moving. Her knees scraped hard on the stone as she dropped beside him, too fast to think, too fast to register the chill radiating off the flagstones. Theo’s back arched suddenly, grotesquely, as though he were flinching away from someone in slow motion. His eyes rolled back. And then he began to seize.

Violently.

“Shit—Theo!” Draco shouted, lurching forward.

But Lydia was already there, hands sliding under Theo’s head, trying to cushion it. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. Adrenaline slammed into her so fast a cold flush swept over her skin, every nerve sparking with pins and needles. Time contracted, breath and heartbeat tangling together. She fought to keep her mind clear, to hold onto her healer’s ice-cold logic, but her thoughts were scattering, melting through her fingers like snowflakes.

“Draco. Jacket,” she snapped, nostrils flaring in panic.

He didn’t hesitate, tore it off, flung it toward her. She caught it mid-air, rolled it fast into a makeshift pillow, and cradled Theo’s skull against it. Her heart thudded like a hammer in her chest. Something about the way his limbs moved, like a puppet’s strings being yanked by someone else, made the hair on the back of her neck rise. It twisted something deep in her gut. A terrible wrongness, cold and coiling. But she shoved it down.

“Get help!” she shouted. “Pomfrey! Now!”

Her voice cracked halfway through, the healer in her fighting to keep control—but the edge of fear was still there, sharp and undeniable.

Draco stood frozen.

Lydia didn't have to look up to understand why Draco hadn't moved yet. She didn't have to glance over her shoulder to see the look on his face. She knew guilt was crawling up his spine, shame coiling tight around his chest. Because this reminded her of the students she’d tended after the Carrows’ Cruciatus sprees last year. And if it reminded her of that, Draco was almost certainly grappling with his own memories, haunted by the times he’d been made to cast that same curse on others. Lydia had seen the way it had sickened him after, even when he’d pretended it hadn’t. Some part of him hadn’t let it go. Might never.

But there wasn’t time for ghosts. Not now. Not here.

“Draco!” she half-screamed, voice ragged. “Go! Now!”

That broke him out of whatever trappings his mind had caught him in. He spun on his heel and bolted back into the party, disappearing through the door at a run, the wood slamming against the stone and then crashing back closed again. 

Lydia turned back to Theo, her heart hammering. His body writhed, limbs twitching, jaw clenched. His skin had gone deathly pale, veins dark and bulging against it, as if something inside him was trying to claw its way out. His breath rattled, wet and ragged, each inhale a desperate fight.

She reached for her wand with one hand, trying to remember the right spells; something to time it, something to maintain his airway. Turn on his side after.  But her mind, normally so sharp in crises, was fogged by helplessness. She knew there was nothing she could do, but all that left was dread and terror. 

“I’ve got you, love. I’m right here,” she whispered, helplessly. The muffled thump of the party drifted through the windows, a cruel reminder of the world moving on inside, while out on the balcony, time slowed into a nightmare under the cold gaze of moonlight.

His lips were starting to turn blue.

No. No no no.

“Breathe, love. Come on, breathe…” 

Don’t do this…

Lydia could taste the metallic tang of panic in her mouth, the cold stone beneath Theo’s twitching body grounding her in a reality she wished she could escape. A terrifying inhale tore from his throat, and his breathing fell into slow deep gasps, like he was trying to catch his breath at the end of a race. 

Then her gaze caught the faint shimmer of his amulet, slipping loose beneath his shirt—the one he never took off, the one his mother had given him. Reaching for the chain, desperate to free it before it strangled him, twisted in his spasms, Lydia leaned in recklessly. Theo’s head nearly smashed against her knee, his wild arm thrashing dangerously close to her face. Reluctantly she edged back.

She knew what the necklace meant to him. Had seen the way his fingers drifted to it in those rare, unguarded moments when his masks slipped—like a ritual, like reaching for something safe and solid when the world tilted. She hesitated. Just for a second. Hating the thought of how he might react if he found it gone later. But if it got tangled, or caught while he seized.

No. She had to keep him safe. With two sharp, frantic flicks of her wand; Alohomora, Accio, the amulet unclasped and hurtled through the air into her palm, warm and heavy. Lacking pockets, Lydia pulled the necklace over her own neck and tucked it into her dress. The weight of it, the chill of the metal against her skin, offered the smallest flicker of comfort.

“I’ll keep it safe,” She murmured, needing to believe she was doing something. 

Theo’s limbs spasmed again, a sharp, sudden jolt that made Lydia flinch. His arms twisted across his body, hands jerking uselessly at his sides now, like he was reaching for something he couldn’t grasp. She wanted to do more—had to do more—but her mind was a scrambled mess.

I don’t know the spell. I haven’t learned the bloody spell.

Madam Pomfrey had used something before, a charm to relax the muscles of students who’d been hit with the Cruciatus Curse under the Carrows. But it was too advanced. She hadn’t... Couldn’t… shit!

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

“Protect the head. Time it. Put him on his side after,” she whispered, repeating the steps like a prayer. Like a shield.

She slid one hand beneath the crumpled jacket, adjusting it so it stayed under his head, cushioning each jolt. Theo didn’t respond to her touch, he didn’t respond to anything. There was foam on his lips now, flecking the corner of his mouth, and his spine arched again, taut and trembling. Her breath caught. Her hands curled into fists, nails biting deep into her palms to anchor her.

Where the fuck was Draco?

She swished her wand with sweat-slick fingers and cast a diagnostic charm; her fallback, the one Pomfrey drilled into them from day one, the one she could basically cast wordlessly in her sleep. Blue light flickered at the wand’s tip, faint and wavering, like candlelight in the wind. She forced it to stabilise, to hold.

But the image pulsed like static, fuzzy and unreadable. Too much interference. His body or her panic. Or something else, maybe…

Lydia bit the inside of her cheek, hard. Reached for Theo’s shoulder without thinking, her fingers lightly brushing the cotton of his shirt. Offering comfort. Taking it.

“I’m right here, Theo.” She kept her voice steady, and calm the way she’d been taught. But inside, she was screaming.

The door creaked open. A rush of movement. Voices. Footsteps. Noise.

“What the hell—?”

 “Merlin’s beard! Is that Nott?”

 “Is he—?”

“Someone get a professor!” Lydia snapped before they could get too close, irritation sharpening her voice. Draco should have been back. Where the hell was he?

She didn’t even look up, just heard their feet shuffling forward. Too fast. Too close.

“Back up!” she barked, voice cracking with the force of it. “Give him space!”

Merlin, why did people have to stand and stare?!

Theo’s body spasmed again, his arms crossing awkwardly over his chest like he was folding in on himself. His breath coming in huge gasps now, like every breath was him breaking the surface after diving too deep. Lydia was partially aware of the gasps and murmurs of the students on the balcony. She adjusted the jacket beneath Theo’s head automatically. Her skin was slick now, not from heat, but from sheer, jagged panic humming in her veins.

“Someone get Pomfrey,” she shouted again, louder. “Now!”

A hand landed on her shoulder. She jerked, wand tightening in her grip but it was only Hannah, crouching beside her, pale-faced and grim.

“What can I do to help?” She asked.

“Keep them back,” Lydia said, her voice hoarse, ragged. Hannah didn’t move, eyes fixed on Theo’s face. Too much fear in her face. Lydia swallowed hard. “I’ve got him.” The lie nearly caught in her throat; she had no bloody idea what to do, there was nothing else she could do. “Please, just… keep them back. He doesn't need people watching…”

Hannah’s jaw clenched. She nodded once, rose and shook her shoulders like she was pulling on old habits. Then she began shoving people back with the sharp authority of someone who’d thrown out drunks from the Broomsticks at closing more than enough times. 

Lydia turned back. The seizure was ebbing; Theo’s limbs no longer thrashing, the violent jerks tapering to spasmodic shudders. His breathing was still deep, like he was trying to catch his breath, but it had lost that ragged edge. She didn’t move him. Not yet. Not until she was sure.

A thin trickle of blood curved from his mouth, where he’d bitten his lip. She wiped it away with the skirt of her dress, not caring about the stain. Just grateful he hadn’t bitten through his tongue. Or vomited. 

Eventually, Theo’s body took a deep inhale, breath hitching, and slowly, twitch by twitch, the tension began to uncoil from his long frame.

“Okay,” she breathed. “That’s it. I’ve got you, love. You’re okay.”

Chest rising in small, uneven movements, Theo’s limbs had gone mostly slack. Lydia let out a shaky breath—not full relief, but enough to function. Gently, she rolled him onto his side, hand braced on his shoulder, still watching, waiting. Her timing spell hovered in the air beside her. Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. 

It had felt like hours.

Lydia was momentarily aware of the night sky beyond the balcony, the peaceful summer warmth barely sweeping between the castle's towers. Just an endless black sky dotted by innumerable distant stars that only amplified how helpless and small she felt. 

Theo’s eyes fluttered open, glazed and unfocused.

“Theo?” she said softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “It’s Lydia. You had a seizure. I’m here, love. You’re safe.”

He blinked slowly, as if the effort hurt, lips moving like he’d forgotten how to speak. One hand shifted across the stone floor, reaching, grasping, then curling against the hem of her skirt.

A deliberate low sound escaped his throat a moment later. A groan, thick with exhaustion, like he’d woken from a hangover and everything ached as he moved. His head slid into her lap, (maybe he moved, maybe she guided him there,) and she stroked his hair without thinking, over and over as he slipped his other hand into hers, cool and trembling. He held on tight for a moment and then relaxed, as if it was too much energy to hold on.

Finally, his eyes met hers. Still foggy, but there.

“Hey,” she whispered, heart catching. “There you are.” There was something precious about the breath that he took, and that vague hint of mischief sparking in the corner of his eyes, even dampened as it was in the moonlight. He huffed a fraction of a smile in response, and Lydia whispered, “What happened, Theo?”

He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut, body curling inwards, around her, toward warmth, toward anything steady.

“Lydia…” he murmured, his voice cracked and fragile against her dress. She felt like the only thing he trusted to anchor him right then. “I just… wanted it to stop.” he slurred, barely more than air. She sensed that the admission cost him, or maybe it was the vulnerability of the whole thing. He sighed, “Too loud… too sharp and… too… everythin—”

Theo stilled. A breath caught in his chest.

“Theo?”

His body went taut, stiff, like a rubber band snapping. His eyes flew wide, then unfocused as his whole body straightened.

“No, no. Theo!”

A keening sound tore from him and the convulsions returned, faster this time, his limbs twitching and jerking so violently his head cracked on her lower leg. Lydia jumped back out of instinct, scrambling to get Draco’s jacket under his head again, numb to the pain in her shin. Her wand shook in her grip as she cast another timing spell, the numbers swimming.

Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling, her bottom lip, something in her chest too. She wanted to reach for him, to make it stop. To cradle him still in her arms and hold him still, as if that would help. Her fingers curled towards the thin material of his shirt, for his shoulder. Just a touch. As if something deep in her chest was warning, pleading, thrumming.

I don’t know the spell.

Her vision blurred. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand, trying to focus.

Blood spilled again. First a trickle, then a sudden cough, a spray as another groan was forced from his throat.

Shit!

He’d bitten his tongue this time. Lydia fumbled for her wand, her shaking fingers clumsy.

“Anapneo. Episkey.”

The words flew from her mouth, so hasty she was grateful she hadn’t screwed up the pronunciation. The blood stopped flowing; the gurgling ceased before it had barely begun. It was over in less than a minute this time, ebbing gradually, but the fear didn’t leave her. It had needled itself deep between every fibre of her being, and now her whole body fizzed. She wanted to move. To scream. To cry. It hurt in a way that wasn’t pain, just panic and static and racing thoughts. But she stayed, kept calm, because she was a healer, and how could she leave him when he needed her?

Guiding him onto his side again, Lydia gathered Theo’s head back into her lap, even though she knew she shouldn’t, and curled over him like a shield. Her hair fell like a curtain around their faces as she watched him intently, pressing her lips together to keep the worry inside. She could smell the faint, sweet scent of him, like birthday candles, and wished for him to be okay, like she had any power in any of it.

 His eyes fluttered open, then closed. His body limp, breath drifting in shallow sighs. His fingers clenched and unclenched at her skirt again, almost absently. He wasn’t waking properly.

Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale… Draco would come back… He would bring help…

She willed Theo to match her rhythm, whispering softly, not just for him, but for herself.

“I’ve got you,” she said again, forcing back tears. “You’re safe.”

The door flew open, Hannah rushing out to hold it. The balcony burst into motion.

“Out of the way!”

Professor McGonagall strode in with a sweeping swish of her robes that clearly commanded the space around them. Behind her came Madam Pomfrey, casting a string of diagnosis spells without breaking stride as she approached, and Flitwick with his wand raised protectively. Draco stumbled in behind them, pale, eyes wide with shock.

Lydia didn’t move until she felt a firm hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right, Miss Hargrove. I’ve got him,” said Pomfrey, kneeling beside her.

“He… he seized. Twice,” Lydia said, voice cracking as she pushed the wetness from her face and sat up. 

Why is my face wet? 

Draco sank down beside her, encompassing her in his arms. She could feel the panicked energy humming from him, his breathing barely controlled from where he'd sprinted through the castle. 

 “The second one was shorter.” Lydia continued, breathlessly, the words tumbling out frantic and jumbled as her pitch rose. “I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do, I think he’s bitten his tongue, I tried to stop the bleeding so he didn’t choke and—”

“You did exactly what you should,” Pomfrey said firmly, gently, her tone enough to stem the flow of Lydia's panic just enough. “You did your best. Cast a diagnostic for me, would you? Vitals check.”

Lydia nodded, blinking back tears and fumbling for her wand as Draco gave her space. He stood, backed up. Hannah’s hand found his. He didn't pull away, just let her hug his arm and lean into him. Leaned back just a fraction.

“He—he’s been drinking.” Lydia offered Pomfrey unprompted, struggling to sift through her thoughts for what mattered. The panic still thrummed in her chest, making her mouth and tongue trip over the words. “There w-was punch. A-a-and sometimes he smokes-s herbs, but this...”

Pomfrey’s lips tightened as she glanced at McGonagall. Without a word, McGonagall turned and swept back into the Midsummer Room. The music stopped abruptly, and the sounds of her clearing the party—sending students to bed, demanding to see the punch bowl—floated through the open door and the single pane of glass

“He took something,” said Draco suddenly, and the air on the balcony shifted. Lydia’s head snapped around. So did everyone else’s.

Draco swallowed, his expression grim, his voice quieter now. “A potion. He’s… been brewing them… in his room. But this one, it wasn't the same. I think… I think he bought it in Hogsmeade.”

“You saw him take it tonight?” Pomfrey asked sharply.

Draco hesitated, then nodded. Hannah abruptly yanked herself half a step back from him, her expression tight as she rolled her eyes to the night sky, looking for answers as to why these boys were so bloody stupid.

Lydia’s fists clenched at her sides. Her whole body tensed. You knew? You knew and you said nothing? Her eyes blazed with fury, but Draco didn’t meet her gaze.

“Yes,” he murmured.

Pomfrey straightened. “Do you know what it was? What it looked like? What it was meant to do?”

Draco began to shake his head, then stilled.

“Wait.”

He dropped to his knees beside Theo’s crumpled form and reached straight into the right-hand pocket of Theo’s linen trousers, fingers moving with the ease of someone who’d already known what he was looking for. Lydia’s stomach twisted at the sight, too intimate, too invasive, but Draco didn’t hesitate. He already knew where to look. 

A second later, he drew out a small glass vial, less than half-full, dark and shimmering silver, thick as mercury in the moonlight. 

It struck Lydia as odd that Theo had just put it in his pocket. As if he hadn’t even tried to hide it.

“This,” Draco announced quietly. “This is what he took.”

“You knew?” Lydia bit out through gritted teeth, her tone so sharp it could have cut rock.

Draco flinched like she'd slapped him. His mouth opened, his face tightening in defence, something cold flashing behind his eyes. But before he could utter a word, Pomfrey prompted, “Vitals, Miss Hargrove. Focus on the patient.”

Lydia sucked in a breath through her nose and cut her gaze sharply away from Draco as she turned back to Theo. Her wand moved in practised motions, casting a diagnostic charm, then another. She tried to ignore the warmth of Draco’s gaze, the tingle over her skull, the shift of movement when he backed away again, the way he sighed. She cast the diagnostic spells and pressed her fingers to Theo’s wrist, checking the pulse manually. Still too fast. She noted the rhythm under her breath. Recast. Confirm. Focus. 

Murmuring a litany of stabilisation spells, Pomfrey’s wand glowed steadily. Still, Theo’s body was sluggish to respond. His breathing remained erratic. A faint tremor persisted in one leg. Lydia frowned. Pomfrey did too, but neither voiced their concern.

Eventually, his vitals began to settle. A hint of colour returned to his cheeks. The tremors eased, then stopped completely. His skin was still cool and clammy, his limbs quiet under the effect of Pomfrey’s charms. Normally, she might have used a sedative potion by now, but until they knew exactly what he’d taken, they were limited to spells.

Theo was sleeping regardless. Definitely just sleeping, she told herself, not comatose, not brain damaged, all just a result of the relaxation charms and the aftermath of the seizures.

“All right,” Pomfrey said at last, standing and adjusting the blanket she’d conjured over Theo’s body. She glanced to McGonagall who had returned from clearing the students from the party, and Flitwick who hovered nearby. “He’s stable enough to move. Lets take him to the hospital wing.”

McGonagall nodded once, her lips pressed thin. “I've sent for Horace to help you figure out what's in that potion. Find an antidote if needed. He’ll meet you there.”

The levitation spell was cast carefully. McGonagall opened the doors ahead of them, Flitwick murmuring something low and protective as they floated Theo’s sleeping form off the balcony and through the graveyard of the party.

Lydia moved to follow only to have Pomfrey turn and block her with a gentle but unyielding hand at the door.

“I’m sorry, Lydia. You can’t assist any further. You’re too close.”

“But—” Lydia started, her voice catching.

Pomfrey softened, but didn’t relent. “You’ve done more than enough.”

Smiling a little sadly, Pomfrey's eyes glanced over the three of them, something hesitant in her smile. “The three of you should get some sleep. I’ll let you know at breakfast when you can all see him.”

The words hit like a gavel. Lydia stepped back, between Hannah and Draco, barely aware they were there as she watched the last trace of Theo vanish beyond the doors, but drawn to their presence like it might protect her all the same. A wave of cold, like ice cracking and breaking, shattered through her, even as Hannah slid her arms around her shoulders and leaned close.

And then it was quiet.

After a moment, Draco reached for her hand and it took her longer than it should to register, his fingers already intertwined with hers. A number of breaths passed before she yanked her hand away, stepped back from both of them as she cut a murderous look at Draco and stormed inside. The shock and heartbreak on his face wasn't satisfying enough. 

The Midsummer Room, once alive with laughter and music, now looked like the aftermath of a storm. The fairy lights overhead still glowed dimly, their gentle flicker at odds with the wreckage below. Abandoned glasses, spilled punch, petals and half-trampled decorations littered the floor like ruins.

Stopping in the middle of it, surveying the low flames flickering in the firepit, Lydia took a deep breath, wishing she could breathe out the ache in her chest. Footsteps scuffed on the stone and detritus on the floor behind her. She turned, slow and deliberate, until she was facing Draco. He stopped, wary, grey eyes wide and imploring.

Her arms crossed tightly across her chest. “How long?” Her voice trembled, not with fear, but fury. “How long have you known he was brewing his own potions?”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “A few months,” he said, voice low, head slightly bowed.

Lydia blinked, as if she’d been slapped.

“A few—” she stopped short, reeling under a wave of betrayal. It escaped her mouth as a laugh, bitter and sharp as lemon rind. “And you didn’t think that was important enough to tell someone?”

“I tried,” he snapped, jaw tightening. “But you know what Theo’s like. You think I didn’t tell him to leave it? You think I didn’t know it was a bad idea? It’s Theo, Lydia. He doesn’t listen to anyone! What the fuck was I supposed to do? Rip it out of his hands?” 

“Yes! If that’s what it bloody took!”

“He said it helped. That he needed it.”

“Helped what?” she snapped. “You saw what just happened!”

“I didn’t know this would happen!” Draco shot back, stepping toward her. His foot crunched a plastic cup as he moved. “I thought I could keep an eye on him.”

She shook her head, eyes blazing. “You thought you could manage it? Like you’re the bloody expert here? Like you knew better than Pomfrey, or McGonagall or me?”

His mouth opened, but he had no answer.

“I had to watch him seize twice,” she said, her voice cracking as her fury collided with fear. “Do you know what that feels like? Watching your friend break like that? Not knowing if he’d stop?”

Momentarily chastened, Draco’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Lydia hissed. “You’re sorry he got caught. You’re sorry it blew up in your face.”

He looked up sharply. “That’s not fair—”

“And what is fair, Draco?” she demanded. “Letting your best mate poison himself because you’re too scared to tell someone he’s not okay?”

The silence that followed was thick and acrid, like smoke from a damp log that never caught properly. In the corner, Hannah clattered a stack of cups into a plastic tub, a little louder than necessary. She didn’t look up, didn’t interfere, but she made sure they didn’t forget she was watching.

Taking a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with it, Draco exhaled through his nose, as if he were barely keeping his patience.

“Look, I know potions, okay?” Draco snapped, voice tight. “I did my best to make sure he wasn't going to kill himself. I thought we had it under control. He just—”

“Well, you've done a real shitty job of that tonight, haven't you?” Lydia shot back, her voice razor-sharp.

Draco flinched. “That wasn't the potion he was brewing in his room.” His eyes flashed. “And you knew he'd been smoking those herbs all year. You knew he wasn’t okay too. What have you been doing for him?”

Lydia shook her head, anger licking beneath her skin. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to hit him. God, she wanted to hit him. The pressure inside her was too much, twisting and curling in her chest, a tangled mess of helplessness and fury. She hated feeling like this, like her hands were bloody and useless, like everything was slipping through her fingers. She hated that Theo had been the one on the ground, pale and still, and she hated that Draco was standing there telling her he’d enabled it, questioning what she’d been doing when she hadn’t even known it was that bad. 

A growl escaped her throat as Lydia’s hands slammed into Draco’s chest and he stumbled away. “Fuck you!”

Something dangerous flickered in his expression as Draco blinked. Hungry, possessive, as he stepped right back into her space, spine straightening. Something shifted in him. Like he’d stopped trying to calm her down, to placate, like he was willing to feed the fire instead. The air between them warped, charged, as if about to tilt into something else. “That is definitely an option, Little Wolf,” he purred, not touching her even as he leaned close, his eyes devouring her. 

Off to the side, movement. Hannah was edging closer now, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on them. Lydia registered it distantly but not enough to curb her anger.

A flash of memory, Draco sitting across from her in the ministry holding cell, that same smug expression on his face. Part of her knew exactly what he was doing, part of her remembered that self-sacrificing game. But she was too angry now. Too brittle. And she played right into his hands.

“Sex? Theo could have died and that’s where your head is?” she bit out. Her breath caught, furious and disbelieving, as she shoved him again. Harder. And hated that she did. Hated that it felt good for one second, that it gave her something to do with the grief clawing at her ribs.

He staggered, caught himself fast, eyes glinting like he’d wanted her to push him.

Hannah took another half-step forward. Lydia saw her hand shift, subtle, near her wand.

Tilting his head, Draco appeared to be puzzling her over, the predatory movement drawing Lydia’s attention back to him. “It was your words, your invitation.” he mused, too reasonable, too controlled. “I just think you want a fight, so I'm giving you something to hit.”

And that only made Lydia angrier.

“You’re such a fucking prick,” she spat, her whole body shaking, stepping forward to shove him again.

Dodging back with disgusting grace, Draco exhaled, slow and measured. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But it’s not only me you're mad at.”

“Like hell it’s not,” she drew her wand, more instinct than intent. 

“No.” His voice was calm now, too calm, like he could see straight through her. He stepped back into her space, no attempt to reach for his own wand, or even to push hers away. As if he weren’t remotely afraid of her, of the way she was acting. She hated that too. “You’re mad because you feel helpless.”

Lydia sucked in a breath, but the words hit their mark before she could even think to refute them.

Draco stepped closer, and she didn’t stop him, so thrown she didn’t think to move as he gathered her hands between them, firmly holding her wrists, his long fingers extending to block her wand’s aim. “You want to take it out on me? Fine. But you know I’m right.”

Lydia’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He let her go, stepped back and turned his palms towards her at his side, like an offering. More than anything she hated that he’d done this; figured out how to drag the truth out of her even when she wanted to bury it. That she'd let herself play into this game and lost. Her fingers flexed around her wand, knuckles whitening. 

“Enough!” Hannah’s voice cut across the room like a bell, firm and startling in its clarity, before the spell even fully formed in Lydia's mind. They both turned, as if remembering she was there for the first time.

She stepped forward from where she’d been hovering by the drinks table, half-heartedly collecting cups into a large plastic tub. Her arms crossed over her chest, eyes full of exhausted worry. “Both of you need to stop making this about yourselves for five bloody minutes.”

Neither of them said anything. The tension hung thick between them.

Hannah continued, gentler now. “He could have died. That’s the only thing that matters right now. So instead of whatever the hell this is, maybe focus on how we help him next time.”

Lydia’s anger crumpled a little. She dragged her hands through her hair, shaking her head. “I know. I know, I just—” Her voice cracked. “I don't know how… I… he could get expelled for this…”

Draco shrugged, still quiet but slightly more guarded now. “Not like he needs the qualifications. He doesn’t need a job, does he?”

“Merlin’s beard…” Lydia looked to the ceiling like it might offer answers. “That’s not the point. He might not financially need a job, but he needs something to keep him occupied. To stop... this.” She gestured helplessly to the room, to the memory of Theo’s body jerking on the floor.

Draco scowled, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. “You think a job is going to stop this happening?”

“What the hell else is he going to do with himself when you and I are working?” Lydia protested.

“Its not your job to watch him every second, Lyds…” Hannah put in gently.

“Theo’s never going to get a job. Not a real one. Merlin, can you imagine?” Draco scoffed.

“That’s really not the point!” Lydia’s voice rose again, fraying at the edges. “It’s not the bloody point! He could have died. He could have died right in front of me and I can’t—.” She was shaking her head, trying to stop the tears from spilling, trying to keep the devastation, the sense of responsibility from overwhelming her. “Draco, I can’t…”

She looked at him then, and something broke open. For just a moment, all the fight drained out of her, leaving only devastation and fear.

Crossing the space immediately, Draco wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay. He’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was trying to save you the worry. I thought we had it under control. I'm sorry.”

Lydia sank into him, breathing raggedly as he kissed her temple. Hannah stepped aside, quiet now, giving them space without leaving.

“He’ll be okay. We'll help him. However we can. He'll be fine,” Draco promised, but they both knew it wasn't really a promise he could make. As Lydia buried her head into his chest and breathed deep, she knew it would come down to Theo, to how much he'd let them help. Which he probably wouldn't. Not really. He'd do enough to make it seem like he was fine. But he wouldn't be and they wouldn't know until something like this happened again. Lydia tried to breathe through the fear pressing against her ribs, heavy and unrelenting. Tried to lean into Draco and draw strength even if she was so mad at him. 

When she finally pulled away, Lydia glanced around the room, took in the mess. “We should probably clean up…” she sighed, with absolutely no conviction. 

“We can come back tomorrow,” Hannah suggested, equally weary, as she slid a hand to Lydia's arm, drew her into a hug too. Lydia hugged her back, tried to share what strength she had. Hannah sighed, drew back. “We probably need to get some sleep.”

Lydia nodded mutely, as she padded over to the small pile of shoes left near the door. She half-heartedly searched for the pretty ribbons of the heels she'd worn. When she'd dug them out, she straightened. “I think… I’m going to sleep in my dorm tonight…” she announced, her voice flat, unable to find the right emotion to convey. Behind her, she felt Draco go still. Then came the faint rustle of fabric, like he’d almost reached for her, and Hannah’s glance flicked his way, touched with quiet empathy. Maybe even sorrow. Exhausted, Lydia just blinked and took a step towards the door.

“We’ll walk you down,” Draco offered softly, and fell into step beside her, tucking his hands into his trousers pockets. Lydia didn’t complain, and Hannah moved to her other side. They walked in silence, like there was nothing left to say, or too much to say all at once.

*****

The fire had burned low, shadows flickering soft and long against the stone walls. The noise from the rest of the castle had faded into memory. Only Draco and Hannah remained in the common room, seated in the quiet wreckage of the night.

They’d gravitated to their usual arrangement beneath one of the large windows, Draco on the sofa facing the glass, Hannah curled in the armchair at its side. Neither seemed quite ready to go to their rooms alone. Beyond the window, the night was still and dark, pinpricks of starlight faint against a velvet sky. The sort of night that slipped past quickly but somehow felt endless.

They had sat in silence for a while, Hannah’s gaze resting on the fire somewhere over his shoulder while he stared out at the stars, as if they might hold the answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked. Eventually Draco leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, the floor pulling at his focus instead.

Hannah’s dress was creased from sitting too long, her hair still threaded with faint glitter, ghosts of a lighter evening clinging stubbornly to her. He had shed his waistcoat and tie, untucked his shirt, unfastened the top button, and pushed up his sleeves. Their shoes lay in a careless tangle on the floor between them.

He felt her watching him: thoughtful, measuring, the way she always did; weighing the shape of a thing before deciding how to meet it. He didn’t mind anymore. Hannah didn’t wield judgement like a blade. She was steady and fair, but unyielding where her own lines were drawn; the sort who would hold the boundary up so you couldn’t pretend not to see it, and stand there until you decided whether you’d keep it too.

Eventually, her voice broke the quiet. “This was the thing you were being cagey about, wasn’t it? The potions.”

Draco didn’t look up, but he nodded, slow and deliberate.

“I knew something was off,” she said after a moment. “ He stopped smelling like burning rosemary and bitter mint all the time. But he still had those moments where he was more… exuberant, and then more quiet. And, I mean, I grew up in my parents’ pub. I’ve seen…” She hesitated, like she didn’t want to name it, like speaking it aloud might set it in stone. “Addictions. Muggles who need to drink, or take drugs, every day just to function. If you can call it that. And I just kept thinking…” Her voice dropped to a fragile whisper. “I really don’t want that for him.”

Draco glanced at her, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes.  “It’s not that bad, though… right?” he tried to joke, forcing the corners of his mouth upward.

Hannah pulled a face, one Draco didn’t like; sharp, like a quiet judgement, like he was pressing against a line he didn’t want to see.

“No. But… it was never like he wanted to take the potions. He just said they helped…” Draco protested quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. “More like… healing. Muggles take tablets and medicines for illnesses all the time, right? It seems more like that. And nothing he was doing was illegal. It’s just school rules. No one would question brewing like that in the privacy of your own home.”

Hannah didn’t look convinced. She gave a slow shrug, eyes steady on his. “I really want you to be right.”

Draco pushed a hand through his hair as if he could shove her words out of his head, letting out a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. But somewhere in the gap, his defensiveness turned inward. “I should’ve stopped him.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Would you have listened, if it were you?”

That caught him. His gaze snapped to hers, but there was no accusation in her tone, just that calm, immovable honesty of hers.

“If it was you,” she went on, “drowning in noise or whatever it is… and you found something that made it stop, would you give it up just because someone told you to?”

Draco pressed a hand to his mouth. The fire hissed softly as a knot in the wood gave way.

No. He wouldn’t. Not even close. If someone told him to stop seeing Lydia, he’d hex their eyes out so they couldn’t see any reason why they didn’t work, slice out their tongue so they couldn’t say it again. For all his doubts about whether he deserved her, Draco would burn the world down before letting anyone else question them.

“He trusted me,” he said instead.

“He did,” Hannah said quietly. “But that didn’t make it your job to save him. Our job.”

He bit back the urge to tell her to try saying that to Lydia. The words sat heavy in his chest. Hannah never said these things to push him away, Draco knew that, but she could stand her ground without leaning on him, and that kind of strength made it impossible to ignore the line she was drawing.

A draught whispered through the room, stirring the ashes in the grate. Draco let out a breath that was all frustration. She wasn’t wrong. But knowing that didn’t help.

Theo wasn’t careless. He didn’t do anything without a reason. He’d taken that potion in front of Draco. He’d left the vial in his trouser pocket instead of hiding it with magic. He’d asked Draco’s advice about the potions he was brewing in his room. Theo had known this might happen. He’d planned for it. Made Draco the backup plan.

“I don’t even know what he’s trying to fix,” Draco muttered through a tight jaw. “What’s the noise he’s running from? Voices? Memories? His mum? That bastard father of his? Something from the war?” His fingers dug into the frayed edge of the sofa cushion until the threads bit into his skin. “I just… I don’t know.”

He shook his head, as if it might clear something. It didn’t.

Hannah shifted, tucking her knees beneath her.
“I’ve wondered too. Especially since the attacks. The way he froze when Lydia was bleeding in front of us — and how quiet he was in that hospital room. Do you remember?”

Vaguely. Draco had been too focused on Lydia, but he remembered Theo hunched forward on the plastic chair, head in his hands, barely moving. Braced for the worst. He nodded.

“That’s the real Theo,” Hannah said quietly, eyes distant. “Terrified, exhausted, a little lost. He looked like he was in pain.” She paused, thoughtful. “Does he talk to you? Properly?”

Draco slumped back against the sofa. “Don’t be stupid. The only person he talks to with any real emotional capacity is Lydia. With me, it’s all clever little quips and games. Exhausting.”

Hannah nodded. “Same. I think I see glimpses of the real Theo sometimes — when the banter runs out and he’s tired. But you’re right, he lets Lydia in more. Almost trips over himself trying to keep her out.” Her mouth quirked at the corner, a fragile hint of a smile.

Draco let his head tip back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer a better angle on understanding. A log in the grate shifted, scattering sparks before dying down.

“He always seemed… smarter than us,” he said eventually. “Like he was playing some other game. Now I’m wondering if that was just another shield.”

Hannah rested her chin on her knees. “Probably. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. You can be clever and hurting at the same time.” She hesitated. “You are, most of the time.”

Draco gave a humourless laugh. “Great. We’re all just bloody brilliant and emotionally stunted.”

“That should’ve been the name of our study group,” Hannah deadpanned.

Despite himself, Draco cracked a smile.

Silence stretched. The fire gave a soft hiss as a log shifted.

Then Hannah said, “He’s lucky to have you, you know. Even if he makes it impossible to help.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He looked tired, edges dulled.
“He won’t be expelled, will he?”

“Right before the end of the year? McGonagall won’t want the scandal. And the only person who got hurt was him — so who’s going to tell? His dad in Azkaban? The Ministry? Who’s going to care apart from us?”

The tragedy of that landed harder than Draco expected. He raked his fingers back through his hair, like he could tear the thought loose.

“You know, if there’s any fallout, from the school or in the papers, if it gets out… It’ll probably land on you too, right?” Hannah asked carefully. 

Draco nodded. “Yeah. I know.” A pause. “Worth it.” he managed to smirk.

“Of course it is,” she said gently.

She reached out, gave his knee a quick squeeze, leaning forward and dropping her feet to the floor.

“We should probably try to sleep.” Hannah glanced toward the dormitory corridor. 

Draco followed her gaze. His mouth tightened.

“She really didn’t want me there tonight.”

Settling back into the arm chair, Hannah nodded. “She’s just angry. She’s allowed to be.”

“I know. I screwed up. And I shouldn’t have baited her like that. I just…” Head in his hand, Draco pressed his thumb into his temple, fingers rubbing back over his forehead. He took a deep breath that sighed out of him. “She wasn’t going to stop till she got it all out.”

“I saw…” Hannah agreed. He felt her eyes on him again, felt the question coming. Hannah added gently, “She drew her wand on you.”

Shifting in his seat, Draco tried to shrug off the weight of the implications. “She was just scared.”

Hannah frowned slightly. “Of you?”

Shaking his head, Draco met Hannah’s gaze. “She just realised it’s not only me she could lose without warning. It’s him too.”

“Huh,” Hannah pouted, slumping back in the armchair, thoughtful. “I think I’m jealous she’s not crying about losing me.”

“You’re far too sensible to get yourself suddenly killed or dead.” 

Hannah gave him a sideways look, lips twitching. “I mean, I did eat that cursed treacle tart second year. I’m not completely infallible.”

Draco snorted. “Merlin, that was you? I always assumed it was Finnigan.”

“Everyone always assumes it’s Finnigan.”

They both went quiet again, the laughter ebbing away. Draco picked at the frayed edge of a cushion. The shadows from the fire had grown longer, night seeping into the common room.

“She’ll forgive you, you know,” Hannah said softly.

Draco didn’t look at her. “That’s not really what I’m worried about.”

“Then what is?”

He sat back, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere just past the firelight. “That one day I won’t be the one who gets to be there. That I’ll reach a point where the waiting and chasing hurts too much, and I’ll give up.”

Hannah blinked, startled more by the honesty than the sentiment. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, sitting forward instead.

“I don’t think you know how much she counts on you being there.”

Draco shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I always will. Doesn’t mean I can.”

“No,” Hannah said, quiet but steady. “But it’s enough that you want to be. And that you’re still trying.”

He exhaled slowly, then nodded once, slow, weary.

“You’re a good person, Draco. I know you don’t see it, but she does. I do.” She shot him a look. “Theo too, probably.”

A faint, sad smile ghosted across his face. “You Hufflepuffs. So bloody hopeful.”

Hannah shrugged half heartedly, too tired to debate or explain. Draco let his head rest against the sofa again. The fire was almost out now, casting long shadows on the walls. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly, without looking at her, he murmured, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Hannah glanced sideways at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “You’re… not easy to lie to or argue with. And you never let me off the hook. It’s bloody annoying.” A pause. Then: “But it helps. You help.”

She gave a quiet smile, warm but not sentimental. “You’re not exactly a walk in the park either, Malfoy.”

He huffed. “I know.” He turned to look at her, his expression bare in a way he rarely allowed. “You’re a good friend, Abbott. I probably don’t say it enough.”

“You don’t,” she agreed lightly. “But I know. And I know you’ve got my back. Even if you’re terrible at emotional availability and your resting face is pure arsehole.”

That made him laugh properly, just a short, low burst, but it broke some of the tension.

They sat in silence again, this time more companionable, until the fire gave its last soft crackle and hissed into embers.

“What are we going to do without you in London?” Draco asked, the words quiet and raw, like just saying them unsteadied him.

Hannah didn’t answer right away. She tucked her feet under her and spoke calmly. “I’m only going to be a Floo call away. Merlin, you can literally call me on your phone. You know, the one Lydia and I got you for Christmas, the one you’ve used exactly three times.”

Draco huffed. “Yeah, I know.” He rubbed at his jaw. “That’s not… If I think about it too hard, you not being there, I’m honestly a bit terrified it’s all going to go to shit.” His jaw clenched before he went on. “You’re the steady one. Lydia, she… I used to think she was so fucking strong. And she is. But she’s blinkered sometimes. Too scared to take it all in.” He exhaled sharply, like the next words scraped on the way out. “I think I did that to her.”

Hannah swallowed. She didn’t rush to deny it. Didn’t fill the silence with platitudes. Just let it hang there, like she thought maybe he was at least partially right.

Draco waited anyway, in the small space between their words, hoping she’d say otherwise.

Finally, softly, she said, “War did that. To all of us.” She paused. “I think Lydia is just… exhausted. She takes on so much. And maybe I’m just better at this part. I was a mess last year. Didn’t have a voice. Tried to keep myself so small and invisible. Seeing Lydia fight for you last summer, helping her, that’s what helped me figure it out. What was right. Who I wanted to be.” She glanced at him, a rueful smile tugging at her mouth. “So you could take credit for that too.”

Draco couldn't help but mirror the smile, small and tired, even as something in his chest ached with the truth of it. He’d made Lydia fearful, closed off in ways she hadn’t been before. And maybe, without meaning to, he’d helped Hannah find her strength. Maybe that balanced out somewhere. But he couldn’t see it. Not when Lydia was more frightened than ever, and Theo was balanced on a knife’s edge. Not when he couldn’t outplay Theo at his own game.

He’d tried. Swapped ingredients. Shortened brewing times to dull the effects. Hoped Theo wouldn’t notice if he did it gradually enough. But Theo wasn’t stupid. Or he was just desperate. And Lydia knew she could lose him too now. That Theo was his own worst enemy. 

Hannah finally broke into his thoughts, her voice quiet but firm. “Don’t think about it too hard. Not tonight. You’ll figure it out. You and Lydia. You and Theo. You’re not going to fall apart just because we’re at different ends of the country.”

Disbelieving, Draco gave a low grunt, tipping his head back again. “Feels like the end of something.”

“It is,” Hannah said, matter-of-fact. “But the start of many other things too. We’ll all be fine.” Draco really wanted to believe her, her tone was so sincere. And he didn’t think she was naive, he just didn’t know how to trust that hope.

“You’re not scared?” Draco asked quietly.

“About you three on your own out in the real world?” she teased. Then she sighed, smile faltering. “Maybe a bit. Especially after tonight. About Theo, mainly. But maybe this’ll be his wake-up call. And Lydia’s going to be on a crusade now, no doubt.”

Draco groaned softly, like that hadn’t occurred to him yet. “Fucksake,” he muttered toward the ceiling.

Hannah chuckled, the sound trailing off tiredly. “Mmm, good luck with that.”

They sat a little longer in the hush of the empty common room, the fire now only a faint glow.

“We should head to bed. It’s late,” Draco said, sitting forward to rise.

Hannah yawned, stretching. “I might just stay here a bit longer,” she murmured, curling deeper into the armchair, hugging a throw pillow close.

Draco looked her over, then resettled on the sofa without argument.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Theo leaned against the cold metal railing, letting the night air bite at his skin; clean, sharp, better than the cloying warmth inside. He’d deliberately left his jacket inside so the air could seep through his shirt and beneath his waistcoat. Winter air was often his favourite, every tiny breeze a different brushstroke across the canvas of his body; stronger winds clearing the slate, blowing out dust from every corner. The cold tasted faintly metallic on the back of his tongue, like silver or unfinished spells.

Behind him, bass rattled through the bones of the hotel hall, undercut by drunken laughter and the occasional shriek of fireworks bursting over someone's table. The vibrations weren’t just sound, they skittered across his ribs, buzzed behind his teeth, made the backs of his eyes pulse.

He flexed his fingers against the cold rail, trying to numb the feeling. He hadn’t meant to flee the party. Just… take a breath.

His senses had been on edge even before Lydia and Draco snuck off, and without them to ground him, everything had begun to spiral. Too many warm bodies brushing past, each contact a static jolt, as though people were charged with something unstable. Glasses clinking like dropped charms. Conversations that suddenly spiked into laughter without warning, too bright and sudden, sparklers igniting inside his chest. The noise didn’t just echo in his ears, it jarred through him, unpredictable and jagged, full of colour and heat. The scent of spiced wine and pine needles clung to the air, and gold ribbon curled underfoot like stray bits of spellwork — festive, yes, but sharp-edged. Welcome to the Hargrove Christmas Party, he thought dryly, where the baubles glittered and the people shimmered, and he could barely hold himself together beneath it all.

The Hargrove side of Lydia’s family were nice enough. Not Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood refined, but close; new money, two or three generations deep into Quidditch supremacy. Her grandparents clearly aspired to the kind of elegance Theo had grown up with, and he had the distinct impression they were quietly thrilled to have both him and Draco in attendance despite their less than stellar pasts. As if their presence lent the party an air of legitimacy, a foot in the door to the higher echelons of society. Lydia had warned them that might be the case, and had promptly roped them away from her grandparents with barely polite efficiency the moment the conversation veered toward subtle name-dropping and social climbing.

Her aunt, meanwhile, was ditzy and cultured in the very specific way of someone who had devoted their entire life to professional sport. Her husband wasn’t much better. Draco, ever diplomatic, covered that end of the conversation with his usual grace.

Meanwhile Theo found himself entertaining a gaggle of younger first and second cousins with exaggerated horror stories from Hogwarts, the kind where monsters tripped over their own feet and ghosts were more nuisance than nightmare. Their voices overlapped, bright and quick, but it was a kind of noise that didn’t scrape at him: all curiosity and mischief instead of sharp edges; lemon drops and jam doughnuts, the joy of dancing to your favourite song. He answered every interruption as if perfectly reasonable, encouraging the sass and confidence he’d never been allowed. When the smallest cousin edged closer, half-hidden behind a chair, he barely broke his stride to shift and make room beside him.

He didn’t remember the blur of family that extended beyond that. Lots of polite smiling and nodding. His responses came like muscle memory. He knew how to behave at this type of event, even if it had been a while. 

On balance, Theo preferred the other side of Lydia's family overall; the Tidewells. The cosiness, the down-to-earth, makeshift feel, the teasing camaraderie. He couldn’t imagine Nana Silvie putting up with half these self-important conversations, he was surprised Lydia did. Maybe he was just out of practice with this sort of gathering, but he’d been beyond grateful to sit down for dinner after barely surviving the hour-long drinks reception and secretly wished he’d been seated at the small kids table, rather than the young adult.

Lydia had squeezed his hand beneath the table as they took their seats, a brief touch, but steadying, like she’d sensed how thin his nerves had worn. And Draco had brushed his shoulder after tucking in Lydia’s chair. (Salazar, wasn’t that the most sweetly sickening moment he’d ever witnessed between his friends.) But they were in it together, surviving. 

He’d pushed through the meal, made limited conversation with the cousins at their table, even managed to laugh at the appropriate places. And then, with the formalities over and the party properly unravelling around him, he wasn’t going to begrudge the fact that his friends had disappeared together. He could meander through the crowd easily enough.

He’d  found himself a group of half-drunk Quidditch players loudly trading stories that straddled the line between gossip and bragging. He lingered on the edges of their circle for a while. Partly to anticipate the rhythm of their conversation so the laughter wouldn’t catch him off guard. Partly because he was bored. But mostly because, frankly, they were fit, and sex still ranked high on the list of things that might make him feel better, or at least quieter . Something physical. Tactile. Manageable. Predictable.

He’d more or less scared himself off potions after what happened at the Leavers’ Party. Lydia had put her foot down about the herbs. Which meant Draco had, too. And unless he wanted to smoke outside the flat while they were both out, scrub his skin raw, change and Scourgify his clothes the moment he was done, Lydia would know. She usually knew anyway.

And what was worse was that she didn’t even get angry anymore.

“Oh, Theo… it’s okay. We’ll start over. Do you want to talk about it?”

By talk , she invariably meant: would he like to hear about the latest recovery initiative she’d read about on his behalf. Increasingly, the answer was no, thank you. The result was tension — gentle, well-intentioned, but no less suffocating for it — and it hurt, one way or another. Like trying to breathe through cotton wool. Or drowning in lavender.

So now, the best way to quiet the static in his head, the scraping edge of too much everything, was to lean hard into the few things that still felt good.

Like sex.

It had always been something of a hobby, if one could call it that: pleasurable, absorbing, and reasonably effective as a distraction, but now he pursued it with a little more… intent. While he rarely indulged beyond the confines of a one-night stand, Theo liked to think he’d become rather adept at recognising who might be good at it, or, at the very least, who might be inclined to try something slightly off-script. There was a certain frequency to those people, a hum beneath the skin, a certain shape to their movements. Not that it mattered, strictly speaking. Given the way his body and magic so often felt misaligned with the rest of the world, even bad sex was, physiologically speaking, still useful. Like re-tuning an instrument. Like smoothing static with white noise.

He’d made a few attempts at the relationship thing since leaving Hogwarts. Three, to be precise.

The first had been inspired by the general mood in the flat during the summer; Draco and Lydia in one of their golden phases, all private smiles and half-teasing endearments, unsubtle touches and doe eyes across the room. Their energy had a weight to it, rich and warm and rose-gold, like honey left too long in sunlight.

Motivated by this dubious example, Theo had dated a sweet-tempered dancer for three weeks. A Beauxbatons graduate, she moved exactly right and was always humming, like she was practising steps in her head. She’d seemed pleasant enough, until she made a particular comment after meeting Lydia and Draco for the first time.

The comment had a sharpness to it, like poisoned berries. He’d walked out, never gone back.

Then there was the experiment.

He’d watched a film with Lydia one afternoon, when she'd come off nights and was alternately hyper and hazy with sleep deprivation. Draco was on days… or maybe he'd been sleeping before night shifts. Regardless, in this film there was this artist with a spanish accent attempting to juggle two women and making an absolute hash of it. What sort of idiot arranged to meet both of them at the same event, at the same time? Honestly. All one had to do was keep them apart, and how difficult could that possibly be?  

Theo, ever the empiricist, had decided to test the theory himself.

It had started well enough: a young woman in a café, legs crossed just so, wearing sheer black gloss tights that made his teeth itch to remove them, shimmering when she moved, like oil on water. And a man at a bar, shirt cuffs undone, tie loose, balancing a whisky tumbler between his fingers like he was testing the strength of each one. His voice had been low and warm, like the underside of velvet, and somehow he’d always managed to taste like mocha latte. 

For six weeks, he'd progressed each of them from coffee or drinks, through dates and sex, to something that started to feel almost routine. Almost real. He’d been enjoying himself, actually. He’d developed in-jokes with the man; tight, bright little things that flashed in his chest even when he remembered them now. And flirty little endearments with the woman, whose laugh had a pleasing sort of shape, like the curl of steam off hot tea. The man had really appreciated when Theo brought him coffee in bed on Sunday mornings, and the woman had been severely impressed the two times he’d surprised her with home cooked dinners. During the week, he’d sent her flowers because she was traditional like that, and for him , Theo had folded paper cranes that would play a song by his favourite artist or murmur a motivational message for the gym.

The woman had been determined and driven. Her friends, bright and polished and slightly hostile, made his skin prickle in complicated ways, a challenge he’d unconsciously leaned into, as if winning them over might prove something to himself. (Though he was careful not to win them over too far.) She softened at the art gallery, though. Something in her expression loosened and became luminous in front of certain paintings. It was beautiful to watch, her wonder shimmering through him, electric and contagious. He hadn’t dared to kiss her until they were outside again, too transfixed to break the spell with anything so ordinary.

The man was a tightly coiled ball of anxiety wrapped in a well-trained body and a mean-looking dog he treated like a child. Theo liked the contradiction — how affection ran just beneath the surface, like a fault line waiting to shift. He hadn’t minded being dragged running, or the sudden imposition of healthier eating habits. But the speed with which the man grew attached unsettled him. The messages, the way he smiled like Theo was his calm in the storm, it made Theo’s stomach clench. Not with guilt, but with a pressure he couldn’t name, a tightening that whispered he was losing himself somewhere between wanting to be needed and wanting to be free.

Unluckily, or perhaps inevitably, they knew each other. Same climbing club. What were the chances? The woman hadn’t even mentioned the sport. Theo had tagged along to a climbing session, testing out the doting boyfriend thing with the man and there she had been; all sharp shoulders and cold fury. The energy of the room shifted so quickly he could taste it. Tension, chalk-dry and splintering. There’d been shouting, accusations, and a thrown handful of white dust that exploded into the air like a spell gone wrong. Theo had made a swift and strategic exit.

Still, he made a mental note: climbers, for all their inexplicable desire to scale walls, did tend to make excellent bed partners. Maybe it was the hands.

He felt mildly guilty about the whole affair, in a detached, abstract sort of way. Especially where the man was concerned. Theo rather thought the man had been genuinely falling for him; he’d continued to reach out for weeks afterwards. Theo never replied. He missed the dog, though, enough to consider getting one of his own. Something to press against his chest when the noise in his head got too loud.

Anyway…

Theo shook the memory from his head, unwilling to examine it too closely. The air in the room suddenly became too thick, too many layers pressed together. Glittering edges, low heat, the metallic tang of alcohol and perfume, sweat threaded with sugar. The kind of atmosphere that didn’t sit on the skin so much as crawl beneath it.

Sex. That was the plan for tonight, preferably with one of the rising star Quidditch players, now that Lydia and Draco were presumably off having their own fun in their hotel room upstairs.

That was the thing about Draco and Lydia, they actually weren’t so different from him; even when they were arguing, they usually ended up in bed. It didn’t fix anything, exactly. Theo rather suspected they used sex the way Muggles used a bandage. Something to cover the wound while it festered underneath. But, quite frankly, who was he to judge such things?

And, in fairness, they’d been in a good place lately. Both had time off over the Christmas period, and the flat had been positively syrupy with teasing, flirting, and not-so-covert disappearances. The atmosphere had turned rose-gold again: warm and lazy and gently saturated. It was sweet. He was glad. Especially after the preceding weeks where they’d both had tests of various kinds and the air in the flat had felt brittle, and humid as the jungle.

The fact that this golden patch happened to coincide with one of his own sober stretches… well. No point reflecting too much on that, was there? The whole chicken and egg debate was so pedantic, after all.

Especially in his current state, when this party bordered on torture already. His skin prickled; voices fractured like mirror shards flung through molasses, too slow and too sharp all at once. The overhead lights buzzed too brightly against the silver threads in the decor. All it would take to tip it over into actual torture was for someone to start casting fireworks indoors.

Bloody hell. I need something stronger than this firewhiskey.

And then…

A slow burning warmth crept over Theo's skin. Not the alcohol. This one pulsed, shifted. Deliberate. The prickling, honey-thick sense of eyes watching. The kind of attention that left teeth marks, even from across a room.

Theo’s breath stalled. The back of his neck tingled.

Instincts sharpening, he glanced up from the drink in his hand.

Across the group, leaning against the bar with that careful, falsely casual kind of ease, stood a man who looked like he belonged on a Muggle cinema screen. Shirt sleeves rolled, stubble artfully maintained around a glinting, faintly amused smirk. He’d lost the leather jacket he’d been wearing earlier on, loosened his tie like a slovenly schoolboy. He was dressed just smartly enough to meet the dress code, and yet still managed to look faintly above it all, as if he were merely tolerating the company around him.

He didn’t blend, he displaced. The air around him looked altered somehow, clearer, sharper. Like Theo’s body had adjusted to a different pressure system without warning.

Jack Hargrove.

Theo recognised him instantly. Who wouldn't, after the entrance he’d made earlier? And when Jack looked back at him, really looked , with sharp blue eyes and that blade-sharp smile, something low in Theo’s spine lit up. A slow flicker, like candle wax dripping onto overheated skin. Not pain, not quite. But alert. Aware.

Beside Jack, the bartender slid a tray of shots across the polished surface of the bar. The Quidditch players around them let out a ragged cheer, bodies jostling with the organic rhythm of pack dynamics. As he covered his discomfort with a sharp inhale, Theo had a sense there was some kind of ritual to it. Something shared and territorial. Jack turned to distribute the glasses, handing them out one by one, flashing that easy, disarming grin as he went. (A grin that struck Theo like lightning to the gut because it felt so familiar, trustable. Like an old reflex. He wasn’t sure why.) At one point, Jack ruffled the hair of a younger player with a fondness that looked entirely natural, murmuring something that made the boy duck his head and laugh. No one rushed. No one reached. They just waited , still and hopeful, as though the shot glasses were offerings and Jack the only one with permission to bless them.

Which was strange, considering Jack wasn’t a player or coach or even involved in the sport, not directly. According to Lydia, he only dealt with the family’s administrative interests and, in fact, detested Quidditch. But here he was, centre of gravity in a crowd of athletes.

He paused to squeeze someone’s shoulder in passing, a friendly touch that earned him a mock salute, before moving on. When Jack reached an older man near the back of the group, he extended the shot glass, then drew it back as if thinking better of it. Light, teasing. Not entirely kind. There was a flicker across the man’s face: confusion, perhaps. Something close to fear. Jack tilted his head, and asked if the man had recovered from “the Great Vomiting Incident,” his hands innocently raised when the others burst into laughter. A sound with weight , like a stage floor rumbling underfoot as the man was jostled, playfully, his eyes downcast with evident shame.

“Hey, I’m just the messenger,” Jack said, with a wink that could have gone either way, gentle ribbing or knife-edge mockery. The moment left a metallic taste at the back of Theo’s tongue, too sharp, too sudden. It buzzed against his teeth like biting foil. 

Theo’s ears, unhelpfully, chose that exact moment to catch a high-pitched shriek from the far side of the room, laughter or a spell misfiring, he couldn’t tell. It sliced through his molars and shot down his spine like copper wire and warning. He blinked hard, trying not to flinch. By the time he looked back, Jack was handing over the shotglass with a sideways grin, like it was a favour and the man hadn’t quite earned it, Iike it was a last chance. 

An interesting power play, if I've had ever seen one, he thought, straightening his posture.

Theo watched the shots vanish from the tray one by one, Jack handing them out like prizes, each gesture casual and precise, like a practiced showman doling out secrets with great care. Not everyone got one and Theo didn’t care whether he was offered one. That thought arrived clearly, a flicker of quiet confidence cutting through the ambient fog. It wasn’t his crowd. These weren’t his people. And anyway, it wouldn’t help. Not really. Shots tended to hit him suddenly and late, he didn’t really understand the draw. 

But then, with only two glasses remaining, Jack picked up both. Turned on his heel. And as he surveyed the circle, he offered a soft clink of glass to each recipient, quiet little nods of acknowledgement. One girl bumped his knuckles with her and Jack grinned, almost fondly exasperated, before he walked directly toward Theo. He held out one of the remaining shotglasses, that same cutting eye contact, that glint of a smile far too familiar in shape.

A dare, Theo understood. Meanwhile his brain scrambled to place the wash of familiarity in that smile, like déjà vu wrapped in heat, a scent he couldn’t name clinging to the back of his throat.

The attention shifted around him, subtle but certain. He’d been quiet so far, a polite observer at the fringe of a pack, but now, this moment, this glass, this invitation… It was an initiation . If only for the night.

Well… If it helps me get laid, so much the better.

He accepted the glass.

Slipping in beside Theo to face the group again, Jack slid his arm around his shoulders with casual intimacy, warm and weighty, as though it belonged there. Not possessive, not quite. Just enough to draw a boundary, to mark Theo as claimed: Jack’s choice, Jack’s guest. The weight of that settled over Theo like a cloak he hadn’t realised he needed, not comfort exactly, but coverage. Protection. A signal to the others that he belonged, was worth their interest. Or, at least that questioning his place would be questioning Jack. And something about that, the implicit authority, the quiet absolution, slid beneath Theo’s ribs and locked into place like a charm he hadn’t meant to accept. He hated how much it steadied him, that he found himself caring about it. How much it worked. That something a little like pride lifted his chin a fraction.

Huh, this guy is good…

Jack raised his own glass and the others followed suit with a cheer, a ripple of movement like the drawing of a wand circle: solemn, expectant. Theo mimicked a beat behind. Then Jack turned, lowered his mouth to Theo’s ear, and said softly,

“Now swallow like a good boy.”

The words slid through the noise slow and indulgent, like caramel smoke; wrong in all the right ways. Smooth as silk and thick with heat, they curled against Theo’s skin before sinking deeper, slick and unexpected, leaving behind a pulse of something that felt suspiciously like hunger. Something that mixed eagerly with the sweet, oaky smell of whatever cologne or body wash Jack used. Something youthful and just a little dark. Something that made Theo’s mouth water. 

Shit. 

Lydia had warned him her uncle was trouble. She hadn’t specified, for entirely understandable, familial reasons, that her uncle was that sort of trouble. It took Theo a full second to reach the inevitable conclusion: absolutely not . Pursuing his best friend’s uncle in any capacity was, without question, a line best left uncrossed. Even if that uncle was objectively attractive and whispering salacious things into his ear as a form of greeting. Okay, shit, he was kind of hot. And slick.

Shit. 

No. Too complicated. Too messy. Too—no. Not happening.

Feigning nonchalance, Theo rolled his eyes — at himself, at Jack, at his stupid, magnetic maturity — and knocked back the shot, in sync with the rest of the pack.

It hit his tongue like sugar-lacquered brimstone. Scorched its way down his throat in a molten stream and then, just as he braced for the heat to bloom, it fractured. Shattered cold. A shard of ice in his gut, bright as salt and more biting, splintering outward to the tips of his fingers. Theo didn’t wince. Didn’t cough. He let it pass through him with only a faint shiver, a flick of muscle beneath his shirt, barely noticeable, unless you were watching for it.

But the taste lingered. So did Jack’s voice, low and curling at the edges of memory. And his arm, still casually looped around Theo’s shoulder. A slight jostle, a coaching squeeze of his upper arm that momentarily pulled Theo against Jack’s side. All playful on the surface, but precise. Jack caught Theo’s attention with a sideways smirk, like they were sharing a secret, like he was impressed, before his gaze swept the group. Jack seemed not just part of it, but above it. The king of this small, drunken kingdom.

It made Theo think of that first moment, hours earlier, when Jack had arrived: late, of course. And what an entrance it had been.

Just as dessert was being served, the doors had swung wide and in he came, a woman draped on each arm, both wearing heels taller than their skirts were long. He wore a leather jacket instead of the suit jacket implied by the “black tie” instruction. Had this been one of the old pureblood galas Theo had attended growing up, Jack would’ve been quietly shown the door. Or at the very least, his dates would have and he’d have been found proper attire. But here, he’d been met with cheers from select pockets, greeted like some returning anti-hero. The room seemed to bend around him in places. Reverent. A little wary. Some grumbles rippled away from him too and at the table beside Theo’s, Jack’s parents and siblings had exchanged a volley of tight-lipped frustration then summoned two additional place settings by wand. Resignation in every movement.

“And that’ll be the entertainment,” Lydia had said, almost fond. But not quite. There was a sharpness to the line of her brow, a tension to her jaw. “I used to think he was the cool uncle, you know?” she’d added. (Theo didn’t. He’d never had any kind of uncle.)  “But the older I get, the creepier he seems. It’s like he hasn’t realised he isn’t nineteen anymore. I mean, look at those girls. They can’t be much older than us. And he’s in his thirties!” She shook her head, exasperated.

Theo bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t mention the age gap between his parents. But a glance from Draco told him he was thinking the same thing.

Draco cleared his throat softly. “It’s actually not that unusual in wizarding traditions. An age gap like that, I mean. Even fifteen, twenty years isn’t seen as…” His voice drifted, apologetic, as Lydia turned on him, sharp-eyed. Theo said nothing but felt instantly vindicated for his silence.

“I’m not saying I agree with it,” Draco added quickly.

Theo felt the tension between them snap into place, quick as lightning. As if it were his own, his toes curled in his dress shoes, searching for traction on the tightrope he could feel his friends walking. He glanced away before it could break.

Jack hadn’t crossed the room immediately. He’d taken his time. Greeting people en route. Holding court. The kind of man who assumed dessert would be held for him and was apparently right. And Theo, absurdly, had admired that. The defiance , maybe. The quiet ease of someone who didn’t ask for space. Who simply arrived and made it. Glancing over at Lydia’s grandparents, Theo wondered what it would be like to have parents who indulged you like that. 

Now, one of Jack’s dates, the taller of the two, reappeared. She slid up on Jack’s other side with a feline sort of grace, glossy lips parted in a murmur meant only for him. Jack turned away from Theo without hesitation. Slid his arm off of Theo’s shoulders and glided the other around her waist.

And just like that, he was gone. Leading her off, slow and unhurried, with that same deliberate, almost predatory grace. Without him, the group around the bar faltered. Laughter flickered. Conversations frayed into fragments. A few peeled away entirely, as though someone had cancelled gravity. 

Refusing to give in to it, Theo found himself a suitably attractive Quidditch starlet, the one who’d fist-bumped Jack, and spent a respectable amount of time flirting with her. Or more accurately, trying to flirt while fending off the relentless barrage of sensation the room kept hurling at him. It was like attempting to hold a conversation while wading through a swamp, his mind was slow, heavy, dragging at every response. The conversational charm that usually slipped so easily from him now felt harder to catch every time he reached for it.

Background chatter clashed with the music, overlapping in tangled rhythms that grated against his spine. Glittery and jewel-toned dresses swirled across the dancefloor in a chaos of spinning shapes. The contrast of black suits cut through the colour like burns in parchment; void-like, his peripheral vision struggling to fill in the blanks like there was nothing to focus on. Each one left a flickering afterimage that crawled along the edge of his vision, like the frame of an old film reel stuttering near the end. He blinked, but the flicker lingered. Tap tap tap. No. Deeper. Knock knock knock. Low, like wood striking immovable wood, felt in the back teeth but not heard. Pulses that pounded somewhere within the bones of his left shoulder, rhythmic and impossible to ignore. Not pain exactly, but pressure. Like something was trying to tunnel its way out from under his skin.

Jewellery flashed in the light with a high-pitched ting , a bell-tone that rang at the wrong distance: too close and then suddenly too far. Nearby, wine and ale and firewhiskey and all manner of liquids were poured again and again; a rainbow of scents he could taste, the rise and fall of glugs in different registers, each one crowding his ears and his throat and stomach. Like he was the one drinking it all, bloated with it. The sound pressed against him like walking through a market thick with overripe fruit: sweet, cloying, too much.

But he liked the colour of her hair, a warm mingling of chestnut and honey-blonde, like violin strings soaked in sunlight hitting a beautiful aching chord, curling softly around her shoulders and gleaming beneath the bar lights. He couldn’t tell which was her natural shade. Possibly neither.

Though something kept snagging at him. The lighting pulsed against his temples, too bright, too loud, like brass bells struck underwater. The noise stuck to his skin like cobwebs. Every time she touched his arm, it sparked; not quite her fault. But it made his hips and toe nails hum unpleasantly.

It wasn’t until she laughed again that he realised what it was. One of her teeth was chipped. Tiny. Barely visible. But now that he’d seen it, the shape of it was all he could see, like a skip in a record, pulling his attention back, over and over. Every smile, every word, every flicker of her mouth scraped along the bones of his wrist and ankles with the rough edge of chalk dragged across a mirror charmed to scream. It shouldn’t have mattered. On another night, it probably wouldn’t have. But tonight, that tiny disruption flared in his mind like a fire alarm; persistent, piercing, impossible to ignore.

He tried to push through it. Drank a glass of water, the taste oddly metallic. Forced himself to focus on the things he did like; the gentle rhythm of her speech, the elegant length of her fingers, the way her thighs shifted beneath the hem of her dress like silk brushing against a cello string. There was something musical about her, he wondered if it would be enough to drown out the rest. 

He was about to ask if she’d be amenable to somewhere more private when the lights dimmed. The music stuttered. Theo was almost glad for it, as the noise died for a moment, the dancing ceased. From the stage beside the string quartet, Jack jumped up on the stage and announced “a change of pace,” his wand tipped towards his throat to project the mahogany tones of his speech. It elicited a pleasant shiver down the back of Theo's neck, as if Jack had spoken directly into his ear again. But on stage, Jack was ushering in a band with guitars and drums and dread pooled in Theo’s gut. When they started playing: loud, unrestrained, the sound vibrated through the floorboards and rose through Theo’s legs like a shockwave from a misfired charm, dragging nausea thick and threatening up his throat.

Which was how Theo found himself outside.

Fuck. 

Any other night he’d have been straight on the dance floor with that girl and… Fuck. 

Taking another deep breath, Theo closed his eyes for a moment. The terrace air was cooler, cleaner, a thin balm over skin that still buzzed faintly from the residual overstimulation. He lingered near the railing, trying to map the night ahead while he appeared to take in the hotel gardens below the terrace. Retreating to the hotel room was an option. He imagined lighting up the herbs he’d pre-rolled and tucked away in his suitcase, smoking it out on the balcony, or maybe in a cool bath and then crawling into bed. Alone.

Alone didn’t bother him on good days. Alone was quiet. Predictable. Manageable. But on bad days, the kind when the past woke up and rattled its chains, alone became something else entirely. Terrifying, if he let himself name it. And on the worst nights, after those dreams, Theo would do something he was mildly ashamed of, but just couldn’t help.

He would knock on Draco’s door.

The first time, not long after they’d moved into the flat, he hadn’t said a word. Just appeared in the doorway with his pillow and blanket, hair frazzled and cheeks puffy from the nightmares, his throat scratchy from screaming. He curled up on the floor at the foot of their bed like some oversized, exhausted dog. He hadn’t needed talking, just noise. Just breathing that wasn’t his. Just the weight of other warm bodies in the same space.

Lydia had tripped over him in the morning. And after his mother’s anniversary in July — when Hannah came down and they’d all gotten drunk and ended up in one bed, just like they had in November for Lydia — well, something had clearly shifted. Because the next time he knocked, weeks later, Draco just mumbled sleepily and shifted over. Lydia lifted the covers without question, barely even opening her eyes. Theo crawled in on her other side, and that was that. 

They all had nightmares. They didn’t talk about it much. Lydia had declared it was fine, it was healing, it was normal to need the proximity because when she had nightmares she clung to Draco. Draco hadn’t disagreed, hadn’t volunteered about his own coping strategies. He’d just commented rather dryly that it would certainly make all those old Hogwarts rumours worse. 

So they let it be what it was: a shared bed, a tangle of limbs and breath and the unspoken agreement that rare nights just needed someone else in them without it being about sex. (In actual fact, Theo suspected it was rather pathetic of him. And inconvenient for them, at best.)

But tonight didn’t feel like one of those nights. Not quite. And Theo cared enough about them, about the way Draco’s face had lit up when Lydia had come out in that dress, the syrupy laughter between them all week, to let them have this night to themselves. It was Christmas after all.

So. Alone would have to be enough. Tonight. Now.

He was fine. Probably.

Of course, he could circle back to the Quidditch starlet, collect someone warm and willing, dodge the alone part entirely. He wouldn’t notice the chip in her tooth if they kept the lights off. And by morning he wouldn’t care anyway. That was the smarter plan.

In a couple of minutes.

He just needed to breathe. Let the air press gently into his lungs without static. Just cool, fresh winter air. Let the sky settle back into its proper shade of navy. Let his skin stop buzzing like a struck glass. Then, maybe, he could go back in. Pretend this was fun.

“You’re wasted on that room.”

Theo glanced over his shoulder, hairs on the back of his neck rising at the timber of that voice. On the steps, Jack stood a few paces away, a drink in one hand, the other tucked lazily into the pocket of his trousers. Like he’d been there for a while. Theo hadn’t noticed anyone come out, certainly hadn’t sensed anyone hovering nearby. But there he was, apparently having found his leather jacket again. 

The sharp angles of his face were softened by the glow of the floating fairy lights, too soft for someone with edges like that.  The brightness flared in Theo’s periphery, tugging at his focus.

“I beg your pardon?” Theo asked, arching a brow.

Jack tipped his head towards the glass doors as he crossed the patio, his movements loose and measured all at once. Smooth as anything, his gaze not leaving Theo, he put the tumbler on a table as he passed, left it there as if he’d suddenly found something more interesting to drink in. “That crowd doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

Theo turned with deliberate care, arms folded, ankles crossing. He looked Jack over as he leaned back against the railing, dragging up walls as he did. 

“Oh? And you do?” His chin lifted, just a fraction.

Jack huffed a low laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe Theo’s nerve but liked it all the same. Then he dropped his gaze, nodded to himself, a quiet decision made. When he looked back up and stepped in, just half a pace closer, Theo felt it resonate through him like a struck gong. His heart stuttered. A slow thrill unfurled along his spine. His walls shook, cracked.

“Oh, I know exactly what to do with you, Theodore Nott.”

Theo eased into a smirk, deliberately relaxing his stance. He glanced away, a calculated risk, a show of confidence he didn’t quite feel. He rolled his tongue over the inside of his cheek, defiant and unimpressed. “Full name, is it? That usually means I’m in trouble.”

Jack let the obvious flirtation pass, diverting instead. “You know, I thought you were Lydia’s boyfriend at first. The way you two were all cosy at the table. Would’ve made sense. She’s always had good taste in boys.”

Bristling, just a little, Theo offered a non-committal smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not.”

“Evidently.” Jack’s gaze dragged over him, so slow, too heavy. Theo felt every inch of it, like nails ghosting across his skin. Was it a Hargrove thing? Because Lydia has that same skill. But where Lydia assessed, Jack's attention was something else entirely; indulgent, invasive and entirely like being devoured. Jack’s wet his lower lip with a roll of his tongue, then he caught it lightly between his teeth. And Theo found himself, absurdly, realising how much Jack’s mouth looked like Lydia’s. That had been the familiar thing he hadn’t been able to name earlier.

“You’re clearly more fun than that, too much for her, maybe,” Jack added, almost to himself, head tiled in contemplation. “And I’m hardly disappointed.”

A beat passed. The wind stirred the fairy lights overhead, made the shadows dance. Then Jack looked away with a smirk, as though this were all terribly amusing. Theo noticed how cold the air had turned without Jack’s attention. He really should counter that thing about being too much…

“My niece and her Death Eater-turned-lapdog boyfriend,” Jack mused, shaking his head as if in amused judgement. “Has he always been so soft, or did she have him fixed recently?”

Theo laughed, soft, surprised, barely more than a breath before catching himself. The taste of it was bitter-bright on his tongue, like wine gone wrong. He tilted his head, voice mild but laced with warning.

“Careful. You’re talking about my. Very. Best. Friends.”

Easing back, Jack raised both hands in mock surrender. “Fair point.” he chuckled. “I’m an arse at these things. Too much wine. Or not enough. And clearly, insulting your friends isn’t the best way to get your attention.” A beat. It wasn’t an apology, not really. “But my niece does have a thing for collecting pretty boys.”

Undecided on whether he should be offended, Theo turned slightly away, amused, but ready to let it go. The breeze picked up and curled around him, threaded through his clothes like curious fingers. There were enough reasons to let this encounter pass.

Or there had been. Until Jack reached out, fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve. The contact sparked across Theo’s skin like the first touch of cold water in summer: sharp, thrilling, and far too real.

Theo glanced back.

Offering a sheepish half-smile, the kind perfected over too many forgiven nights, Jack said, “Not that I’m complaining.”

Theo felt the drag of Jack’s gaze again, deliberately unveiled hunger. It sank into his skin like heat. Like a wet mouth against his throat. Like sweat-slick bodies in motion. He didn’t show it. Held himself still. Warning lined Theo’s brow, cool disapproval tucked neatly in his gaze.

But Jack’s eyes widened, soft, almost plaintive and his fingers gave a gentle tug at Theo’s pushed up sleeve. That little motion, as subtle as breath, pulled more than fabric. Theo’s stomach dipped. Something about the heat through the cotton of his shirt made his whole body sharpen.

When Theo turned, Jack’s hand slipped to the back of his upper arm. Natural, gentle, commanding and Theo felt his walls shake, begin to tumble. 

“Let me try again?” Said like a question. Offered like a promise. Delivered like a trap.

Theo glanced at the fingers resting on his arm, then up at Jack’s face. He ought to have pulled away. Ought to have laughed, deflected, returned inside and found someone less complicated to waste the night with.

Sleeping with Lydia’s uncle? His best mate’s uncle? It was a level of messy he usually wouldn’t touch without gloves and tongs. Not seriously, anyway. He’d flirted with Lydia’s aunts last Christmas, but that had been different; light-hearted, indulgent. Something between community theatre and maternal indulgence.

But this…?

Jack’s gaze held his. Lazy interest that felt heavy as a furlined cloak, and something else. Something that almost resembled understanding. And… maybe being noticed like this, chosen like this, meant something. Jack had followed him outside. Jack was looking at him with a kind of narrowed focus that made Theo’s skin buzz. And maybe that was worth chasing, just to see how far it might go.

On reflection, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really been pursued before. He’d always been the one who initiated, who chased or teased or offered just enough to be wanted. This was new. And it was very… very flattering.

Jack was older, at least a decade, probably more. His reputation certainly preceded him, all playboy charm and smirking provocation. But the way he moved through certain groups, the way people deferred to him, that spoke of a kind of quiet control. A man who curated chaos, rather than simply surfing it. A kindred spirit maybe, a mentor perhaps, more…

Shit.

He let his walls fall. 

“All right,” Theo said at last, easing out from Jack’s grip. He offered a vague, theatrical gesture as he lent his elbows back against the railing again, chest wide, waistcoat pulling slightly. “Try again.”

Grin sharpening, Jack held up a hand, showing Theo both sides then pointedly closed his fist. He twisted his wrist in an elaborate, poetic movement, turning his arm until it faced up. He opened his fingers, slow and smooth, one by one, like a Muggle magician.

Nestled in his palm was a small glass vial that hadn’t been there before, its contents shimmering a soft, pearlescent gold. Theo’s heart stuttered and tripped over itself. Something between longing and dread coiled beneath his ribs. Lydia hadn’t mentioned her uncle was also this kind of trouble.

“How about we start with this,” Jack murmured. Theo’s breath hitched. 

Oh no…

“Makes everything golden. You’ll like it.” Jack promised.

Theo hesitated. Just for a moment.

The memory surfaced unbidden; hospital lights and the sour taste of vomit, waking in the hospital wing with a headache that felt like it had teeth. Coming back to find his dorm stripped of all brewing equipment, the professors having swept through with righteous indignation and very little respect for his privacy. He’d been livid. At the staff. At Draco for telling them. At the dodgy potioneer, who still probably wasn’t walking quite right after Theo hexed his toenails off at the next available opportunity. But mostly, he’d been furious with himself. He should have seen it; the scar-lipped dealer in Hogsmeade with his polished robes and ruined boots. He’d looked respectable, until you looked properly. And the bastard had been cutting his stock with toxins.

This vial, though… this looked expensive .

Professional. Clean. Liquid gold under the fairy lights. It didn’t just glitter, it glowed .

And Jack wasn’t the sort to take just any potions. He was the kind of man who sourced premium everything — food, lovers, invitations, experiences. His poison of choice wouldn’t be some back-alley accident. He’d have a proper, trusted supplier. Safe magic. The good stuff .

Stepping forward, Theo took the vial, held it up to the light with the faint air of a connoisseur. He had no idea what he was looking for, but appearances mattered. Even if he may as well never bothered building walls in the first place. Besides, Jack was watching him.

I am so fucked. 

Then Jack stepped closer too, and his fingers skimmed along Theo’s cheek, then into his hair, smooth as silk and twice as bold.

“I bet nothing sweeter has ever passed that beautiful mouth of yours.” Jack’s voice dropped low, and soft. His thumb brushed the corner of Theo’s lips, and the touch sparked electric, echoing all the way to Theo’s fingertips like a low note that just held.

Theo’s eyes flicked up to meet the sharp blue of Jack’s. Something like uncertainty quivered behind his ribs, like boiling water poured over ice. 

 “You don’t waste time,” he said, keeping his tone deliberately cool, bordering on indifferent, despite the dryness gathering at the back of his throat like parchment fraying at the edges. But he didn’t step back. Didn’t move, even though his fingers tingled. He held his ground, chin lifted in quiet defiance.

“I don’t like being bored,” Jack replied with a shrug, fabric sliding over skin in a sound that was oddly mint-cool in Theo’s mind but sticky on his teeth, grit between his toes. Clearly Jack thought that was a perfectly adequate explanation as he didn’t offer more, just asked, “How about you and I find somewhere more fun to be?”

And there it was — the line. The one Theo had been eyeing all night, telling himself he wouldn’t cross it.

Because Lydia was his best friend.
Because Jack was ten years older, at least.
Because it was deeply unnerving how his mouth looked like hers . The same easy Cheshire-cat grin that he’d trusted without question since that day in the library, the same spark of calculation behind the eyes. Unsettling echoes that didn’t sit right.
Because Theo’s instincts were keening somewhere in the back of his mind, all sour-red warning and static, even as the front of his brain purred with the golden warmth of Jack’s attention and the promise of that potion.

Theo felt the heat rise to his cheeks. With a soft exhale, he straightened, spine loosening as if his body had already made the decision his brain was still arguing about. He met Jack’s smirk, saw the outcome prewritten in it.

“What about the girls you came in with?” Theo asked, as evenly as he could. Trying to tell himself he hadn’t made any decisions yet.

Jack tipped his head and something in the look he gave was too much like Lydia. Not just the bone structure, not just the mouth. It was the note in his gaze. That low hum of recognition Lydia always carried, like a chord that vibrated just under his skin when she looked at him. Saw him.

Salazar! He could feel that same frequency, cool and calm tripping through his limbs like the quiet of a fairy brook. Jack’s eyes were blue like Lydia’s magic felt and somehow that made more sense than anything. It unnerved him. Not just because the resemblance was disconcerting but because his body responded before his brain could catch up. His muscles loosened, his breath eased. He wanted to relax into that whisper of familiarity, to trust it.

Damn family genetics , he thought, his stomach twisting, half revulsion, half longing.

He should step away. He should …

But instead, some traitorous part of him leaned closer, chasing the ghost of comfort in Jack’s eyes before he could stop himself.

“Are you asking because you want them to join us, or because you don’t?” Jack asked. 

A test. Theo felt it in the deliberate way Jack’s fingers curled into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Shivers bright as lemon sherbert tingled down his spine. 

Truthfully? Given the sheer overwhelm of everything, the idea of sharing a bed with three other people sounded less like fun and more like a prelude to hugging a toilet bowl.

“Not really in the mood for that kind of fun tonight,” Theo admitted, voice controlled as he offered a nonchalant shrug. “Another time, perhaps.”

“That’s the right answer.” Jack’s words purred against his skin, his stubble grazing Theo’s jaw. “I’m not sure I want to share this clever mouth of yours anyway.”

Fuck. Theo wasn’t sure he’d ever been so aware of his own lips. They tingled with anticipation, and his mouth went ash-dry.

“Are you going to drink that?” Jack asked.

He gently coaxed the vial from Theo’s fingers, a snake shedding its skin, and lifted it in a mock toast before popping the stopper. The scent hit Theo first, sweet but mineral, like petrichor on the wind before thunder, and something deeper underneath that reminded him of lightning on metal.

Theo watched the golden liquid slide between Jack’s lips like molten metal. Glowing beneath Jack’s skin, gold slid down the line of his throat, catching in the hollow, diffusing like candlelight under parchment beneath his shirt, until the light ebbed away to a shimmer and then nothing. Nothing you could see anyway, Theo could sense it though. The shift in Jack’s posture, the way he loosened, like pouring milk on cereal in the morning. Jack hummed with satisfaction, his shoulders loosening, his neck arching in a stretch that felt too casual to be uncalculated.

Theo didn’t notice he was holding his breath until Jack opened his eyes and looked right at him, pupils dilating, a single pulse of golden light flashed within the blue, like cracks in ice. Beautiful, Theo thought, dazed. He could almost taste it; fresh, sharp, like spring water pulled straight from the earth. Fuck, I want that.

He hadn’t even realised the vial had made its way back into his hand until Jack guided it to his lips. The glass was warm, smooth, utterly inviting.

“Come on, pet,” Jack murmured, a teasing smile close enough Theo felt breath warm on his cheek. “Do I have to tell you twice? Swallow like a good boy, then I’ll show you what fun really feels like,” he winked, daring.

Theo’s smirk returned, slower this time. Measured. Real.

He tipped the vial.

The potion touched his tongue and sang ; sweet, effervescent, honey folded into champagne. It slid down warm and alive, fizzing through his chest, coating his ribs in heat and glitter. He stretched on instinct, cat-like, limbs moving to coax the magic deeper into muscle and bone.

And then Jack’s mouth was on his. Confident. Inevitable. Consuming.

The world tilted, colour and sound crashing in like waves until there was only Jack. The unmistakable swoosh of apparition swept everything else away.

Chapter Text

Mmmm, no. Not ready to wake up yet…

Salazar’s left testicle! My head… it’s bloody killing me.

As sleep released its hold on him, Theo attempted to retreat backwards, deeper into the hazy, ethereal space where everything was softened, muted, and mercifully distant. A place where light and sound didn’t press so harshly, where the world’s sharp edges dulled to gentle curves. But the creeping weight of reality was already seeping in, subtle and insistent; a slow, persistent itch behind his eyes and along the spine of his skull, pressing him into awareness. Like the gradual force of a spoon levering beneath a stubborn jar lid. 

Bollocks. Too late.

His skull throbbed as though it were submerged beneath cold water, an oppressive, bone-deep pressure that threatened to rupture at any sudden movement. A migraine was unfurling mercilessly behind his eyes, heat crawling with languid menace up the back of his neck. He braced himself for the familiar onslaught of the usual morning barrage. 

The bubble and snarl of the kettle in the kitchen. Cupboards banging open. Draco’s breakfast ritual: tipping his home-assembled granola into the metal weighing scales, the sound echoing through the flat like hail on a tin roof, biting behind Theo’s molars and eyes.

There was always a pause. Adjustments. Precision. Then the transfer: sharp, grainy, endless, like salt sprinkled on an open wound. Every seed and oat tumbled into the bowl Draco favoured, needling at Theo’s nerves, even from the cocoon of his duvet. The bowl was one Lydia had painted for Draco on one of their summer dates: all swooping brushstrokes and delicate little stars in the constellation Draco . Theo had teased him about it, but Draco used it every day for his granola, even when he was eating breakfast at 6pm before a night shift. He would then wash it by hand without fail. Sentimental idiot.

But there was no granola. No kettle. No ritual.

Just stifling quiet. The air muted and velvet-soft, dry on his tongue. There was beeping, steady and rhythmic. Not Lydia’s alarm blaring for the fourth time because she always hit snooze. (Numerous times. Then she’d grumble about the morning rush, throw her hair into a messy bun, shove toast in her mouth, and rush through the floo). No, this was different. 

And, he could hear breathing, steady and deep, as if someone was asleep. At least, one someone. 

The mattress beneath him felt wrong, slick and unforgiving, like lying on stretched rubber rather than something soft and welcoming. It shifted awkwardly, swallowing his weight instead of steadying it. The sheets against his skin were rougher than he liked, the cotton coarse and too stiff, screeching over his skin like nails on a chalkboard. Neither felt quite right. That didn’t necessarily mean anything bad. Not necessarily alarming— he’d awoken in foreign beds before, but… 

Not Jack’s either.. . Jack’s bed had a beautifully heavy duvet, the kind that made you feel safe with its weight without overheating you as it lulled you to sleep. This was something lighter, almost insubstantial.

Taking a slow, shallow breath, he fought a sudden wave of dizziness. The dull hammering behind his eyes persisted, relentless. He was definitely not alone. He could feel them now, a presence pressing just beyond his closed eyelids; a heavy weight settled around the room. He heard the faintest rustle, a quiet breath, a soft shuffle as someone adjusted their position, stretched and yawned across the room. Magic thrummed low in the air, cool and steady where fingertips brushed the skin at his wrist. He wanted to curl onto his side, pull the covers tighter around himself, to sink back into the quiet, maybe pull the steady weight of that other body into his arms to anchor him, but…

The smell smacked into him like a charging centaur. Something bitter and bright and so, so, so clean it rang through his skull at a blinding soprano pitch, scraping the inside of his sinuses raw. Too sharp, too sterile. 

Nausea rose in his throat, he tried to swallow it. 

He knew that smell, Lydia reeked of it after work…

Oh no.
Oh shit, not again.

His head pounded in tandem with his dawning horror, as his body betrayed him. It heaved. He couldn’t stop it. 

Muscles spasming, he jerked upright, lurching over the edge of the bed just as a plastic bowl was pushed under his face.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Lydia.  

Her hand firm on his shoulder, anchoring him. Magic gently thrummed at the points where her fingers pressed into his skin, steady, familiar. He latched onto that: the coolness of her voice, the faint glow of her touch. Focused there, where it was quiet while his body proceeded to empty its megre contents. Wished he could have more of her as his body squeezed and strained. 

“You’re in St Mungo’s. We’re here. You’re safe.” Lydia murmured. 

The shame came slower this time, seeping in beneath the lingering nausea.

Draco’s shoes clipped against the tiles, sharp and impatient. Hannah was somewhere nearby too, he could feel the milky smoothness of her coconut-scented hand cream in the air before he even smelled it. That overly sweet, waxy brand she swore by. The one he always used to borrow after Herbology. 

She’d come from Hogsmeade? No, she’d planned to visit for New Years, worked Christmas lunch for the privilege. And I…. Fuck… I ruined it. 

His stomach clenched again, so tight he thought something might tear inside him. There was nothing left to bring up, his entire body felt empty and hollow right down his legs to his toes, wrung out in the worst way. Just bile and shame — bitter and acrid like the sharpest spell. Skin prickled hot and cold, pulse rattling, stomach taut as a drawn bow.

But his people were here. Of course they were. Just like last time, when he’d woken in the hospital wing and Lydia had slipped his necklace from under her sweater and slid it over his head, like she understood she was bestowing something important. 

“I was hoping you wouldn’t even notice it was gone. I kept it safe,” she’d said, her eyes wide, imploring him to be safe too. They all looked like they’d barely slept that day. Hannah’s fingers had been intertwined with his own. Draco’s hand resting on the blankets at Theo’s ankle, fear having stripped away even Draco’s restraint on physical boundaries.

And here Theo was again, about to face his exhausted friends after going too far, too stupid. Worse than stupid. It should have made it better, having his friends there. Still there. He barely remembered messaging them to join him at the club, just that he’d felt good, really good, and wanted them to be there. To feel it too. Because they would have made it more real. Grounded him in it. Helped him feel like his feet were still on solid ground.

It should have made everything better. Last night. Now. That was the point, wasn’t it?

And maybe it did. But it also made everything worse. Because their worry had weight now. Depth. It had seen past the masks and the walls and glimpsed the truth of him more than once; the weakness and the ache and the damage underneath. They would start to recognise a pattern. And the more they saw, the harder it was to pretend it wasn’t real. He could already feel the shift in Draco and Hannah's response, that had been the weight he felt on the air as he woke; their frustration. A pinch of anxiety quivered in his upper arms, making them feel weak, other. 

In reality, waking up like this, with them here, it grounded him in the way of something falling from a great height and slamming into the ground. 

Shit. 

Squeezing his eyes tight shut, Theo braced against all the sensations and feelings fighting for space in his body. Fingers twisted in the starchy sheets.

Eventually, the retching passed. Someone held out a cup of water to him. The gesture burned in his chest; too gentle, too kind. He couldn’t decide if it was patronising or genuine care. Either way, he didn’t want it. Defensive instincts flared.

"Urgh. Can’t you just cast an anti-sickness charm already, Lyds? Fuck, I feel like arse,” he groaned, mustering the same bored elegance that had carried him through every tedious, overblown Death Eater gathering his father had ever hauled him to. He regarded the cup with half-mocking suspicion and made a token effort to push it away.

“Happy New Millennium to you too, T,” Hannah piped up, the words dripping with the disdain one afforded to crumbly biscuits. He barely lifted his eyes from the plastic cup, gaze caught on the sharp glare of pink nail polish against the flimsy white plastic. She was the one offering the water, waving it back towards him. Lydia wouldn’t wear nail polish by choice, especially not that shade of pink, all sugar and cinnamon, shimmering enough to stick behind his teeth. ‘Drink the water,” she ordered in her Lady Barwench voice. 

Sighing, Theo took the cup, sipped dutifully. His throat was raw; it helped. Eyes closed, he focused on the cool liquid sliding down, pooling low in his empty stomach. The empty cup was taken away, and he flopped back onto the pillows. Lydia cast a spell to clean the sick bowl; Theo barely felt it, hardly a whisper. 

“You’re welcome,” Hannah prompted.

He cracked one eye open and raised a brow. She looked resolutely unimpressed as she took a seat on one of the plastic chairs between his bed and the window, crossed her arms and pointedly stared back at him. Her foot was tapping, the movement jagged.

Beside his bed, Lydia stood watching the softly pulsing diagnostic charm above his head. Her fingers twitched. Just as Lydia reached for her wand as if on instinct, Hannah’s hand caught her wrist gently.

“No. You know you can’t.”

Theo tilted his head and eyed them both. “Why not?”

“Because she’s not here as your healer, idiot. Apparently you’re basically family, we’re all listed as your emergency contacts,” Hannah planted her hand on her hip, chin tilted just so, disdain sharpened to a point.

“It’s a conflict of interest,” Lydia mumbled quietly, shoulders deflating, her eyes flickering to Theo briefly. 

Perfect.

Glancing to him, Lydia pressed her lips together in apology. The shape of it stuttered black and white like a metronome keeping time in the chaos. The faint scent of wood polish filled his nostrils. It eased down his spine as he flexed his fingers against the thin wool blanket, like sneaking a white knight across the chessboard to take the black queen. Pieces clicked into place with calculated sacrifice.

“And when did you do that anyway? You could have at least asked.” Hannah scoffed, but the corner of her mouth curled slightly, softening her stance. Clearly, she wasn’t wholly displeased about the responsibility.

“Who else was I supposed to put?” Theo scoffed back, and rolled his eyes to keep the ache of that word from piercing his chest. Family… it slid inside his chest like grit in water, both relief and sting, impossible to swallow clean.

He’d asked to update his information before leaving the hospital wing at Hogwarts. The truth was, he’d done a few grown-up things since coming to London — including setting up a number of official documents. He hadn’t told them. That would have meant admitting he didn’t entirely trust himself, that he expected to need their help or to clean up his mess. So instead, he quietly set traps; safety nets woven with fine, deliberate threads for when he spiralled too far. Always caught between chaos and self-preservation.

Salazar! His head fucking ached . He needed a potion — any potion. Pepper-up, or the gold one. Blue. Silver. Something. Anything . He groaned again before remembering himself, resolving to stop letting his pain show. He was fine. This wasn’t any worse than usual… right?

He cracked an eye at the girls beside him again. Smudged makeup. Outfits meant for dancing, now dulled beneath conjured cardigans, colours flattened to the sound of static in his head. Wool which he could feel in his mouth, dry itchiness scraped at his tongue. They looked like they'd aged a year overnight. Shadows under their eyes, shoulders set like they were bracing for impact. Theo felt that too, tight as the screeching of rubber fighting for grip on wet tarmac, and the burn of palms pressed to an engine cover as the world dipped, thighs screaming as everything tilted sideways; barely righting in the blur of oncoming headlights. It shivered down his spine, pulled up goosebumps on his legs and arms, made him sticky with cold sweat. Or… that might be the potions’ comedown. 

Theo blinked. 

There was some silent conversation passing between Lydia and Hannah, their eyebrows moving too loudly.

“You both look awful, by the way,” he muttered. It was meant to sting. A jab to reset the tone. His lip sneered on instinct but the edge had gone soft somewhere on the way out, and he knew it before the words even hit their ears. 

“Yeah? You should’ve seen your unconscious body in a pool of your own vomit,” Hannah said flatly, sinking back into her chair, folding her arms tighter across her chest. 

Oh. Right. That sounds… entirely unattractive.

Hannah’s eyes didn’t flash with anger or frustration, just a tired, steady kind of calm, like she’d been here a dozen times before and wasn’t about to let him off easy. There was no lecture in her voice, no plea for change, just the blunt statement of fact. She looked at him as if saying, You’re better than this. But if you’re not going to help yourself, I can’t help you. I’ll be here but I won't break myself on you . The faint crease between her brows softened ever so slightly, betraying a hint of concern buried beneath the surface. But she wasn’t here to fix him. She was here to make sure he didn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.

To Theo, Hannah was a quiet shield, solid and unwavering. He could step fully behind it, let it take the weight for him—but to do so would demand a surrender he wasn’t ready to give. Instead, he pressed against it, leaning just enough to feel its steadiness without relinquishing the jagged chaos inside him.

He wanted to lean in further, to find solace in that certainty, but the weight pressing down on him was relentless. He was tangled in his own traps, exhausted beyond fight or flight, and the shield felt less like comfort and more like a barrier he wasn’t ready to cross.

She was waiting. He wasn’t ready. So Theo didn’t flinch, but he dropped her gaze.

By comparison, Lydia stood beside Hannah practically bouncing with anxious energy, her presence a current tugging at him even when he resisted. His Naiad; the one who would do anything to save him, even if he didn’t ask. Which he wouldn’t.

The one who helped. Whose mere presence soothed. Whose magic reached for him even when she didn’t mean it to, thrumming through the air like balm on skin. He could feel it, soft as a whisper against the back of his neck. She wanted to take his hand, and with it, his pain. He could see it in the tension of her fingers, the way her whole body leaned toward him, aching to offer what he wouldn’t let himself need from her.

He’d known, even as he filled out the paperwork, that naming her as an emergency contact would keep her from being his healer. That it would keep her from taking responsibility for him if he ended up in the hospital again. He’d meant it as a kindness. A safeguard. Something to protect her from herself and her self-sacrificing. One of those quiet traps he’d set in advance. Not to catch her out, but to hold her back from following him in.  And he was glad it had worked, a little smug even. Yet beneath that smugness lay a quiet, painful exhaustion, the cost of carrying his own weight alone.

So Theo closed his eyes, letting his head sink into the pillows, tried to scrape the memories of last night from the back of his mind, to remember how much fun and recklessness had preceded the downfall. Jack’s hands at his waist, mouth at his throat. Gold-tinted lights swaying around them. Potion-blurred joy. Kissing in corners. The buzz of bass beneath his feet, syncing with his pulse, louder than thought, pulsing with heat and the perfume of sweat pressed close. Breath. The sharp shadows of Jack’s associates — less friends, more predators in suits and heels. Slipping amongst bodies, into music, into the bottom of a vial or two. Maybe three.

He didn’t remember exactly when it all spiralled. Just the climb toward it, that heady thrill, inevitable and taut. Jack’s daring whispers at his ear, tickling the back of his neck, coaxing him on. Maybe that’s why he’d texted them. Perhaps even then, some part of him had been trying to set a net, trying to catch himself in someone else’s hands before he hit the ground.

And, in a way, it had worked. They had come, hadn’t they?

He loved that.
He hated that.

Eventually, the silence pressing too close, Theo sat up, awkwardly twisting, shifting pillows and crumpled sheets, so he could sit a little more upright. Lydia jumped up to help, and he let her fluff the pillows with a reluctant half-smile of thanks before settling back to survey them. 

“Look, I'm glad you’re all here but I’m fine. You don’t need to hover. I just overdid it a bit, I need a sleep and I'll be great,” Theo muttered, forcing his tone breezy, managing only brittle. “Won’t happen again.”

“Don’t insult us,” Draco said flatly, leaning by the door. He seemed almost entirely composed, if for the faint crease around his eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep—black shirt, jeans, dress shoes. Theo had been deliberately ignoring him, putting off the inevitable confrontation; he knew Draco’s response would be cutting, angry but not punishing, just… tightly controlled disappointment. Scared in that focused way he had. 

Draco’s voice cut like a blade. “You were unconscious, Theo. Unconscious . In the VIP box. Alone. I thought you were dead at first.” His words lodged behind Theo’s ribs, deep enough to make him flinch inwardly

Alone?

“Where was Jack?” Theo asked, and hated the edge in his voice.

Beside him, Theo felt Lydia still. He didn't need to look, he could already feel it, the judgement in the air like pressure behind his ribs. The other questions about his recent decision making.

Draco’s jaw flexed, something coiling in his expression. “Great fucking question.”

Lydia clenched her jaw, inhaled as if about to speak.

“Dont start.” Theo muttered before she could say a word, snapping back round to her. He didn't mean to sound so disdainful, it came out like a reflex, burning painfully in his chest as he glared at her. 

“I’m just worried about you,” she said, green eyes wide and endless. He didn't like her fear, her pleading. It skittered over his skin like crushed ice. He averted his gaze, eyes finding the fracture of daylight behind the blind, and for a fleeting moment he imagined slipping away from it all.

“I’m fine. It’s no big deal. He’s not that much older than us and it’s not weird in the wizarding world like it is for Muggles . We live longer. Anyway, we're just having fun. Going to private parties and such.” He realised he’d answered all the questions he'd told her not to ask and silently cursed himself. 

“It’s not about Jack,” Hannah started. 

“It’s a bit about Jack,” Draco corrected quietly, shifting towards the bottom of the bed.

Lydia held up a hand to them both. “We don't have to talk about Jack, right now.” Biting her bottom lip, clearly holding back judgement on that topic, Lydia moved to perch on the side of his bed. “Look, I can talk to people. There’s a rehab in the north wing—”

“I don’t need rehab.” Theo cut across her sharper than he meant, sharp enough that Lydia stood again, the space aching wide between them. Absurdly wide. Theo eased his shoulders with a careful shrug, letting a brittle charm creep into his tone. “It’s just the holidays. I’m enjoying myself. Why do you have to make it a big deal? You lot are acting like I died. I took a potion. I had a lie down. Let’s not dramatise.”

“Yeah,” Hannah snapped, “a lie down in a puddle of your own vomit, remember? Real bloody classy, T.”

Theo scoffed. “If I’d passed out after three shots of Firewhisky, you’d all be laughing about it by now.”

“But it’s not just Firewhisky, is it?” Lydia said, voice taut, he felt it around his hips like a belt pulled too tight and getting tighter. “It’s not even just those herbs you think we don’t know you still smoke.”

Theo gritted his teeth. He looked the three of them over, then settled on Draco, twisted his body to face him. “You two weren’t so bothered about what I was up to when you disappeared at the Christmas party. What? You’re arguing again, so instead of fixing your relationship you throw it all on me?”

Draco met his gaze evenly. Theo felt him slip into something darker, more dangerous—not occluding, just sharpened. A thrill, jagged as razors, ran down his spine. Tilting his head, Draco didn't rush to respond. “How long have you been waiting to throw that in our faces?” 

Actually, it had been something Jack had said that first night. The words grazing, a teasing echo that had lodged behind his ribs. But saying that felt like it would undermine his position, so Theo didn’t answer. Draco was too calm and Theo's thoughts hurt too much to figure out how to rattle him. How to put him off this course which felt very dangerous. 

“You’re right. Lydia and I have things we need to figure out. But this ,” Draco gestured vaguely to the room, to Theo’s general state. “This isn’t about us, is it? It’s about the fact I momentarily thought you were dead and then had to half-carry you out of a club because you couldn't stand. It's about you still thinking that’s something to defend.”

Theo fought hard not to falter under Draco’s gaze, not to break it. He’d seen that look before. That time Draco stood up to the entire Slytherin common room. Theo had stood at his side that day. Now, he couldn’t work out how to get back there from his current position. Theo lifted his chin with deliberate poise, letting defiance spark from him like a wand primed.

“You going to scold me now? Play daddy ?”

Theo felt the air sharpen, a metallic tang scraping the back of his tongue. Hannah and Lydia hovered at the edges of his awareness, their concern buzzing against his nerves like overbright fairy lights. Draco didn’t even flinch, just watched him back carefully.

“I’m not your parent, Theo. I'm not going to shout at you.”

“Funny, because you shouted at her last month.” Theo nodded his chin towards Lydia. “The two of you nearly screamed the building down.”

Hannah’s scowl snapped to Draco.

“We were both stressed. It was a bad day. We've apologised.” Lydia explained, soothing Hannah’s sudden glare.

True enough—it wasn’t the only time Theo had seen them argue, and while it had been the worst, it hadn’t been anything like his parents arguing, the dull coil of tension in his chest. No. As usual, Lydia had given as good as she got, her patience snapping first, sharp as ice on stone.

Theo had heard it from the lounge—the rising voices, the clang of frustration in the air that made his skin prickle. Old reflexes from his father’s rage and his mother’s fawning pressed against an instinct to intervene. When Lydia threw Draco’s door open and stormed out down the hall, Theo had been there, hovering and undecided. But she brushed straight past him, slamming her bedroom door so hard the floor shook. The sound had cracked like bright white lightning across his mind. He’d stayed there, listening: muffled screams from Draco’s room, vibrating low and dense like bruised velvet against his chest; the crash of something hitting the wall in Lydia’s room, jagged and stinging red across his senses. The air had pulled tight against his skin, old fears tickling at his spine.

A minute later, Draco had slunk past him. Their eyes met for a flicker; Draco’s a shadow of regret, Theo’s wary, a warning in the tilt of his head. Draco passed, almost brushing the edge of Theo’s shoulder, and the slight pressure had sparked a low, electric tension that lingered even after Draco had slipped into Lydia’s room. After the door closed behind Draco, a hiss of muffliato had curled against Theo’s skin like smoke. And, well…

“You mean you had sex.” Theo bit back, an accusation with more teeth than he had any right to throw.

“Theo. You're not going to distract me,” Draco said, his gaze a hypnotic trap, a storm of silver and violet that Theo couldn’t disentangle himself from. Just swirling patterns of fog and thunder, too easy to lose yourself. Theo had never felt more frustrated by being seen as Draco stepped closer to the bed. “I am standing here saying that you’re scaring people. People who care about you. Us. Your friends. The ones you trust enough to put on your damn emergency contact list.” 

Well, Fuck. Way to turn that around on me. Theo bristled.

“You want to pretend you’re fine? Go ahead. You’re good at pretending. But whatever this is; Jack, the potions, the performance, all of it. It’s not strength, it’s retreat. And you know it. You are so far from stupid; you run rings around us all on a good day. But try and tell yourself today’s a good day. Because we are all looking right at you and we’re worried. You can bluff, you can deflect, but don't insult yourself pretending this is fine.”

A cold sweat broke out over Theo's skin. His heart thumped, each beat sending splashes of copper across his vision, the numbers on the diagnostic charm spiraling higher. He tried to hold his walls up, but Draco’s sincerity cut through.

Flicking his eyes away from them, Theo let out a breath that shivered more than he meant it to. 

 “You don’t get it,” he murmured, frustrated and resigned in equal measure, exhaustion clawing at his eyelids. “You’re not in my head. You don’t know what it feels like.” 

“So tell us.” Draco challenged. A pause. Measured. Kind. 

Draco Malfoy: kind? Fuck me, who knew?  

Theo felt something sting in the back of his eyes, throat tightening as he looked at the ceiling. His fingers twisted in the blanket. When he found the words they were quiet at first, weighed down with exhaustion. “It’s everything. All the time. Just noise. Pressure. All of it. I just…” His eyes travelled over all their faces, searching for understanding. And it was there, but his heart raced, terrified. The pressure in his ears pulsed, rang. “I just want to not feel like myself. Just sometimes. It's too much. I just need to breathe. To take the edge off.”

Draco’s voice softened, deliberate. “What do you mean: everything, all the time?”

Theo looked at him then, properly looked, and for a moment it was like watching something fragile swim up from deep, dark water. Draco Malfoy stripped of all his usual armour; his shoulders were steady, his voice calm, but there was a raw honesty in the tilt of his chin, the steady, open gaze, the way he waited for Theo’s words without flinching. It was terrifying and beautiful and he thought maybe it broke his heart a little.

But the feelings, the thoughts and memories, the words… there were so many. So much of it all. How did he contain his own truth into the right words to make anyone understand when he knew no one else experienced the world the way he did? How did he pull himself out of that murky water and then let anyone see after he'd worked so hard to hide, to be normal and okay? It felt like a great cloud of jumbled, knitted strings and he couldn't find the end to untie it. He was exceptionally aware of how all three of his friends were holding their breath, willing him to be honest. The room shimmered with their hope that they were finally reaching him. It made his skin crawl, made him want to scramble back up the bed. Run . But Draco… Draco with that calm expression barely masking the plaintive dip of his chin. Theo sniffed, swallowed the lump in his throat

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “It’s been like this so long, it’s just… normal . I—”

The door swung open.

“Alright, sleeping beauty?”

Jack strode in, and the world seemed to decelerate. Every sound muted except the faint hum of Theo’s own heartbeat. Backlit by the corridor’s brighter light, the casual way he cradled the motorcycle helmet under one arm, the effortless tug of his jacket over broad shoulders—it was calm, confident, impossibly, almost unbearably cool. In that instant, Jack was sharp angles and easy smiles, the kind of presence that made it feel as though everything might actually be all right. Theo’s chest tightened, warmth climbing in an unsteady tide, and for a fleeting moment he forgot to breathe.

Jack pushed a pair of dark sunglasses up into his hair,  as he crossed the room and tossed the helmet onto the bed with an easy flick. “You ready to go?”

The tension broke like glass, it's axis shifting away from Theo. He exhaled, muscles relaxing, grateful. 

Lydia stepped forward, around the bed as if to block Jack's path. "No, Jack. He's not bloody ready to go." She snapped. Draco touched a hand to her arm, as if to hold her back, as if he sensed a danger Theo couldn't see. Theo looked Jack over, the affable smile, the promise of fun in his eyes, the easy stride. And yes, the tailored cut of his motorcycle gear that hugged his limbs in all the most delicious shapes, the white T-shirt beneath accentuating faintly sun-kissed skin, hinting at lean muscle. Theo didn't see the threat.

 "They're still observing him. His blood pressure is still low. He needs to rest." Lydia protested. 

"Cute cardigan, kid," Jack greeted as he swept past her towards the side of Theo's bed. Theo couldn't help admiring the silk smooth dismissal. "He looks fine. Great even. And everything on that charm looks good." Jack waved at the diagnostic charms behind Theo. "Green means go, right?" He turned his attention to Theo properly then. Winked at him and lent close, slipping a hand to the side of Theo's head. And there it was, that undeniably intoxicating sense of being chosen that had Theo lighting up, warm and fuzzy within. 

"Hey," Jack murmured, voice low as if only for him. Without meaning to, Theo's expression relaxed into a soft smile under Jack’s attention.

“Hi.”

Jack smiled, easy and smooth as burnt honey, Theo could practically taste it. And the way Jack’s voice itched deep in Theo’s skull? Shivers fluttered beneath Theo’s lungs. "I know a great place to ride out a hangover. You in?" 

"No! He's not going anywhere,” Lydia interrupted. Theo felt static crawl over his skin, grazing like sandpaper. He suddenly understood Draco wasn't keeping Lydia back for her own sake. It was for Jack's. Lydia was the danger. Her energy, her magic was simmering beneath all that concern. Heat prickled and burned at the base of his neck. Her worry was suffocating. “The healers haven't even seen him yet this morning. You fed him potions and then left him passed out in a club to go do whatever reckless thing took your fancy next. He's not going anywhere with you. He needs..."

"I'm right here, Lydia. You don't need to talk about me like I'm a bloody child ." Theo snapped. "Where's my wand? My clothes?" Theo threw the blanket back, swinging his legs out of the bed towards Jack. He spotted his wand on the bedside table, snatched it. “Nevermind.”

"Theo, seriously? You can't..." Lydia started, the words breaking in her throat. He shot her a sharp glare. Theo could. He absolutely could. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted. (As long as he ignored the unsettling sensation of his brain floating around in his skull.) Draco held a hand up to stop her, as if he recognised Lydia was only making Theo more irritated. 

"Come on T, let's just wait for the healers and then we can go grab breakfast and talk..." Hannah tried from the other side of the bed, but Theo was already transfiguring the starchy hospital gown into something close to Jack's outfit. Jack had mentioned that muggles made specialist materials for motorcycle gear, which Theo hadn’t managed to replicate last time. On their way back, he’d ended up soaked. He hoped it wasn’t raining outside as he worked to silence the buckles and zips clattering at his hips, because he didn’t have the energy to concentrate that hard. Once done, he reached for the helmet on the bed.

Draco was holding it, his expression entirely readable for once. Eyes a little wide, jaw tight. Theo felt his concern like a hollow ache, like drowning. It was enough to give him pause. Because this was Draco, stripped back and Theo didn't know exactly how to stand in the face of that. 

"We're just worried," Draco murmured, that surfacing, beautiful, fragile thing all over his face.

Something in Theo’s chest tightened. Why does that make me want to run away and cling on all at once?

Fingers flexing, Theo shrugged, easing the helmet from Draco’s grip. “Don’t be.” His voice was flat, eyes already skating away. “I’m not an idiot, remember?”

He didn’t wait for them to respond. Just turned and walked past the foot of the bed, jacket settling heavy across his shoulders. The tension in the room followed him like smoke, thick and clinging.

Jack clapped a hand to his back as he passed, all easy swagger and smug delight. Behind him, he heard Jack slowly following. 

“Thanks for introducing me to your friend, Lydia. And don’t worry,” he said, voice not entirely sincere, “I’ll take care of him.”

Theo heard Lydia move as if to follow, or lunge, but suspected Draco’s hand closed gently around her arm. A silent anchor. A warning, too. Hannah’s voice carried, something that sounded a lot like “ arsehole .”

Theo didn’t look back. Didn’t trust himself to.