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fatesundress · 11 months

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⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine.

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones.

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary.

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly.

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile?

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up.

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about?

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers.

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession.

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary.

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure?

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning.

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with.

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge.

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books.

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls.

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin.

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated.

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again.

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any.

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now.

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice.

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all. You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else.

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them.

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten.

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.)

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true.

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer.

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t.

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid.

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless.

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that.

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately.

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end.

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight.

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes.

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand.

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain, a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him.

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love.

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock.

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly.

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it.

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.)

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish.

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same.

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much.

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition.

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it��s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal.

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it.

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is.

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —”

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant.

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor.

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together.

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident.

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be.

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop.

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece.

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that."

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval.

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will."

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis.

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain.

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.”

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back.

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake."

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster.

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating.

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself.

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh.

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes.

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you.

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff #tom riddle smut #tom riddle angst #(the trifecta)#tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #ftltutbh

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ellecdc · 3 months

Text

Come Back, Be Here (part 7)

p1 // p2 // p3 // p4 // p5 // p6 // p7 // p8

Sirius Black x fem!reader - First Wizarding War Order of the Phoenix - 4.5K

CW: mentions of past abuse/torture, amnesia, healing/blood and injury, Bellatrix's cursed knife, angst, hurt/comfort, use of Y/N, character death

Synopsis: After sacrificing yourself to save your friend and Order partner James months before, you're found on the brink of death. It's now October 31st, and the Order has a plan.

Narcissa Black Malfoy was many things. She was a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a wife, a new mother, a Malfoy, and a Black. She was a proud pureblood, a cunning Slytherin, a noble woman, a powerful witch, and exceedingly loyal.

It was this last trait that seemed to be causing her the most problems, however.

Loyalty.

It was her loyalty that caused her to bite her tongue and smile when her husband announced that he had joined the ranks of the Dark Lord, who promised to bring the purebloods glory and to protect them from the likes of muggles and mudblood’s who were threatening their way of life. It was because of her loyalty that when her sister asked her to hide something of grave importance to the Dark Lord, even though the object exuded Darkness and Evil, she hid it in the rafters of their attic.

And it was because of her loyalty that when her baby cousin showed up at Malfoy Manor covered in blood, ash, and rubble with a lifeless body hanging limp in his arms begging for her help that she responded with, ‘bring her to the cellar’.

Narcissa needn’t wonder how she got here; she knew all too well. She was loyal, and she protected her own.

When exactly her disowned blood-traitor Gryffindor cousin’s muggle-born partner became one of her own, Narcissa wasn’t sure.

(The day you ‘died’)

“What have you done!?” Narcissa gritted through her teeth as she pulled the clothing off of the nearly-dead-witch’s body.

“’Cissa, please, I couldn’t leave her there-”

“Why not!?”

“She’s – she’s Sirius’, she’s...” Regulus took a steadying breath. “She’s Sirius’, Narcissa.”

“For crying out loud.” Narcissa growled. She wanted to argue, she wanted to scream and curse and tell him to dump this witch back where he’d found her. But she knew...

She knew she would have likely done the same.

When her son Draco was born, Narcissa had never felt so alone; her mother was long passed, her father was distant and cold, Bellatrix was insane, and she had long ago lost her favourite sister.

She thought at that moment of Andromeda and her husband and daughter.

If this had been Ted Tonks lying nearly dead on a hastily conjured drafting table, or their daughter Nymphadora...

Narcissa knew; her dog-like loyalty and her dragon-like possessiveness knew no bounds.

So, she pulled on all the blasted magic she could think of – light, dark, and ancient. Types of Oriental, coastal, Scandinavian and Aboriginal magic; anything and everything she could possibly think of to bring this witch back from the brink of death.

Spending her life as a dedicated pureblood meant spending a lot of time hiding away in libraries – no one could scold you for it, and you could hide away from whatever nonsense they were currently shoving down your throat. She thanked the deities for all of that time spent researching now.

Thoroughly exhausted and covered in another person’s blood, Narcissa stepped back as the witch finally took a breath on her own.

“Thank you, Narcissa.”

“Do not go thanking me yet, cousin.” Narcissa huffed. “What exactly is it you plan to do with her?”

Regulus stared dumbly at her. “Uhm...well, return her?”

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Right, and then the Dark Lord suspects a traitor amongst his followers and kills us all for the act of disloyalty. Really cousin, did you hit your head in this battle or something?”

“Well, what do you suggest I do then, Narcissa, since you are clearly so much smarter than I?” He questioned hotly.

“This is not my mess, Regulus. You should have left her there to die.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Narcissa asked incredulously.

“Why should she have to die? Hm? Because she was born into the wrong family? Does that make her evil? Fate does not make us evil, Narcissa; choices do. I did not choose to live as a pureblood, I was only born into this life. But I chose to follow the Dark Lord, and I chose to join this war. I choose to aim my wand at people who raise their wands in defense whilst I wield mine in hope for power and glory. So why her? Why should she die while I go home to eat from my silver spoon that was promised to me at birth?”

Narcissa balked at her cousin. “Regulus, what - what are you saying?”

But Regulus did not have a chance to respond before Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape and Barty Crouch Junior followed a small house-elf down the stairs into the cellar.

“My, my, don’t tell me you’ve plundered some booty for us, dear Reggie!” Barty exclaimed excitedly.

“What, pray tell, is the meaning of this?” Snape asked as he eyed Regulus and Narcissa skeptically.

“We were wondering where everyone got to – oh.” Mulciber added as he stepped down into the cellar with Goyle trailing behind him.

“I found her at the set-up.” Regulus said plainly after throwing up a hasty occlusion behind his eyes.

“I see. And why exactly is she here.” Snape asked again.

“Did you...heal her?” Lucius guffawed.

“Why waste your energy on a pathetic mudblood?” Mulciber asked.

Narcissa stayed quiet and allowed Regulus to swim his way out of this on his own. She would not risk her own life protecting his mistake.

But what made it a mistake?

Narcissa had never once questioned the pureblood rhetoric that her parents entrenched in her. Not when she first stepped foot into Hogwarts. Not when she watched her classmates get bullied and harassed for their muddy blood. Not when it was announced she would be wed to her own cousin upon graduating from Hogwarts when she was only twelve years old, and not even when she was again announced to be wed to Lucius Malfoy instead at thirteen, after said cousin was sorted into the wrong house – bringing disgrace to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black; and not even when her older sister defected from the family by falling in love with a filthy mudblood.

She looked at Regulus then. As the baby of the family, Regulus had seen all of this. He had witnessed the announcement of his big brother’s betrothal to his first cousin when Sirius was only ten years old. He saw the fallout and witnessed Sirius be ignored, embarrassed, and humiliated that first summer home after being sorted into the wrong house. He watched Sirius get tortured, brutalized, and starved every summer after that until he left home for good. He watched Andromeda be chastised and forced to choose between her family and her heart for falling in love with the wrong person. He watched Bellatrix descend into madness as she became more and more involved with Dark Magic.

Regulus, the baby of the family, had witnessed all of this.

Narcissa thought of her own baby then, upstairs being looked after by a house-elf whilst she was downstairs with her husband and his house guests while they argued over who had more of a right to this unconscious witch’s body than the others.

Did Regulus make a mistake?

Did she?

“Hmph, well, we’ll see how long this lasts.” Mulciber spat at Regulus before the five newcomers moved back upstairs leaving Narcissa alone with Regulus and the witch.

Narcissa watched as Regulus used Legillimency to peer inside the witch’s mind before he spoke. “You’re awake.”

The only response Regulus got was the tightening of the witch’s eyes.

“Squeezing your eyes shut will not change the fact that I know you are awake.” He commented with an eyeroll.

Narcissa watched as Regulus continued to monitor the witch.

“Yes, I am talking to you.” Regulus responded verbally.

A beat of silence.

“Very elegant.” He muttered.

“Indeed, you are.” He quipped again.

Narcissa watched as you peeled your eyes open and blinked against the light above you; she heard your neck crack loudly as you turned your head towards Regulus before your face fell.

“You can’t be serious?” You rasped disbelievingly.

“Close, but no.” Regulus smirked as he stood and moved toward the table you were lying on. “The name is Regulus. Regulus Arcturus Black.”

Narcissa watched as a look of panic crossed your features as you took in Regulus.

“I don’t suppose you happen to know occlumency, do you?”

You shook your head in response.

“Shame. Well, for your sake, I hope you are a quick learner.” Regulus said before he stupefied you.

“This just got an awful lot more complicated, Regulus.” Narcissa commented quietly.

“I know.” Regulus sighed before he turned to his cousin. “Narcissa, please, will you help me?”

Narcissa looked between her cousin – the only relative she really had left – and the unconscious witch beside him. Suddenly, the witch wasn’t just a nearly dead burden – she was a chance. An opportunity for more. An opportunity to do better. An opportunity to have better.

“I do not want this life for my son.” Narcissa admitted quietly.

“What?”

“I do not want Draco growing up worried about who he will be betrothed to before we even send him off to Hogwarts. I do not want him watching children be jinxed or hexed for being born to the wrong family – or worse – be the child jinxing or hexing them. I do not want to watch him slowly lose every single person that ever meant anything to him because they could not adhere to the same drivel. I do not want this life for him.” She took a deep breath.

“I want more for him, Regulus. I want better.”

Regulus searched Narcissa’s face for a few moments before nodding.

“Let’s do better, then.”

October 31st

“Okay, explain the plan to me one more time.” You muttered as you continued to pace a hole through Narcissa’s vintage Persian rug. Regulus fought the urge to groan and repeated the plan that Dumbledore had discussed with him for a third time.

“Remus Lupin has been made secret keeper of the currently vacant cottage in Godric’s Hollow. He, as Peter Pettigrew, will meet the Dark Lord in the town square of Godric’s Hollow at eight o’clock tonight. He will then escort the Dark Lord to Potter’s cottage where I will be in the form of James Potter and Narcissa in the form of Lily Potter. Apparently, to no one’s surprise, Sirius has demanded he be there – so Sirius will be there in his animagus form as will Professor McGonagall, and Dumbledore will be hidden under Potter’s invisibility cloak. Dumbledore has the sword of Gryffindor, and Narcissa was able to purchase Basilisk venom from Borgin & Burkes on Knockturn Alley, which means the Order will be able to slay Nagini without resorting to unforgiveables. I, however, will have no qualms firing an avada at the Dark Lord, so we will see how the rest plays out. Either way, he will die.” Regulus spouted in monotone.

You seemed to consider this as you continued pacing. “And I...”

“And you are staying here.” He said with finality.

“Why?” You asked petulantly. Regulus did not find it at all endearing.

“Because you have to look after Draco.” Narcissa offered.

You softened at the mention of the boy but seemed unconvinced. “You have a manor full of house-elves; I’m sure Dobby wouldn’t mind-”

“It has to be you, Y/N.” Narcissa said. “It needs to be someone who will not be swayed, regardless of who shows up and starts barking orders.”

Your head fell back in resignation as you looked at the ceiling.

“Okay?” Regulus asked quietly.

“Okay.” You admitted in defeat, bringing your gaze back to him.

Regulus offered you as kind a smile as the youngest Black and a chronic Slytherin could manage. “Your nose is bleeding again.”

“God damnit.” You muttered as you conjured a tissue into your hand and held it to your nose. More and more of your memories were flooding back in, and - just as the Healer had suggested - it was extremely painful. Not only were you now privy to migraines, nose bleeds, and the occasional seizure; you had an overwhelming sense of anxiety laying its damned wet blanket over you. You were somewhat annoyed that your memories appeared to be attacking you now when you would have benefitted from not remembering all of the reasons why this plan had to go just right.

“Why did it have to be Halloween?” You muttered miserably.

“Why did it have to be Halloween?” James whined. “I love Halloween.”

Lily patted her husband’s shoulder in sympathy, though neither her face nor her tone held any warmth. “You can love Halloween next year.”

James and Lily stood in the doorway of 12 Grimmauld place with Harry strapped to James’ chest. Sirius triple checked their bags before shrinking them down and putting them into a backpack and placing it onto Lily’s shoulders.

“Okay, explain the plan to me one more time.” He ordered the Potter’s.

Lily and James shared a quick glance before the former rolled her eyes.

“We’re heading to an undisclosed location. We are to set up protection wards the second we get there, and we are not to leave until Sirius’ patronus reaches us. If, in the event that we do not receive a patronus from Sirius or Moony in the next two days, we are to assume that the plan has failed. In that case, we are to begin heading west via muggle transportation and make our way to Ireland before boarding a flight to Canada where we are to remain for the rest of our lives.” She relayed to him in monotone.

Sirius beamed at her and kissed her cheek. “Right-o, Red! But, not to worry, you’ll be hearing from my patronus in no time.”

Remus watched with a small smile from the staircase. He knew Sirius was trying to stay positive mostly for himself; he’s been in such a state since you were taken, and he was running on fumes waiting with bated breath for this to be over so you could return home - return to him. He had so many questions about so many things; questions for you, questions for Regulus, questions for Dumbledore. Remus watched his friend become manic, almost as if Sirius was the one expecting the full moon at the beginning of next week. The friends tried to stay patient with him, but they were all looking forward to this being over.

“It’s me and my family they’re after, I should be here to end this.” James muttered.

“And you’re our family, Prongs. So, we’re here to end this.” Sirius responded.

“He didn’t just threaten you and Lily and Haz, he threatened all of us.” Remus added.

“I owe her my life, guys. I owe it to Vix to see this through.” He responded, shifting his gaze between his two friends.

Sirius’ eyes welled at the thought before he quickly shoved his feelings back down into his stomach – he’d deal with those later; for now, he had a megalomaniac to kill.

“You’ll have the rest of your life to make it up to her, Prongs.” He offered with as much a smile as he could muster.

James gave his friend a sad smile of his own before enveloping him in a bone crushing hug.

“I’ll see you soon, Pads.”

“Once the mischief is managed.” Sirius answered.

As Lily, James and Harry left Grimmauld place and apparated to location unknown, Remus and Sirius exchanged a look.

“Ready to finish this?” Sirius asked Remus.

“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”

The clock tower in Godric’s Hollow’s town square rang signifying eight o’clock. Remus tried rubbing his clammy hands against his cloak, not wanting his hands to be slick when it came time to brandish his wand. Thankfully, with the full moon this close, and it (by the grace of every god) seeming to be a ‘manic moon’, Remus was at his strongest, and he would not be letting that go to waste.

The rancid smell of dark magic permeated Remus’ senses signifying the arrival of Voldemort and his last horcrux.

“My dear boy,” Voldemort sang out, “are you ready to face victory in the name of your Lord.”

“Absolutely, my Lord, it is my honour to help you see this through.” He responded verbatim to what Dumbledore coached him on.

“Lead the way.”

So, Remus did.

In what felt like a death march, Remus (as Peter Pettigrew), a twelve-foot snake and melted-wax figure looking Tom Riddle made their way to the Potter’s cottage in Godric’s Hollow. Remus listened to the sound of his heartbeat and Nagini’s skin sliding along the gravel lane as he unlatched the hook of the fence and made his way up to the door.

He looked behind him to see Voldemort smiling victoriously at the house as it materialized in front of him. Remus turned back to the red painted door and knocked three times, paused, knocked once, paused, knocked twice more.

“Come in!” The sound of Lily’s voice filtered through the wood of the door and Remus heaved a breath before opening it in front of him.

“Hey Pete!” James greeted as Remus stepped inside. “We just put the kid to bed, glad you could come by.”

Remus watched as James turned his back to the door and continued toward the kitchen whilst Voldemort and Nagini let themselves in. With a quick flick of Remus’ wand, the door shut and locked behind them. No way out now, fucker.

“Come on in, Peter! I’m just making something to drink, would you like one?” Lily called from somewhere in the house as the trio continued in, watching as a cat wandered its way towards the kitchen seemingly unawares of the company behind it.

As they passed a hallway leading to a half-bath, Padfoot began to bark.

“Oh, come now Pads, it’s just Peter! You know him.” James said as he came back out into the hallway where he saw his good friend Peter in the company of Nagini and Voldemort.

Voldemort whispered something in parseltongue and in response, Nagini poised to lunge.

When the snakes body elongated and her neck stretched as she launched to sink her fangs into James, Sirius had turned back into his regular form, and with the sword of Gryffindor swung at the snake, severing its head from the rest of its body; the snake’s body and its head fell to the ground with a sickening wet thud.

“No!” Voldemort cried before Dumbledore ripped the invisibility cloak from his form and Lily exited the kitchen. Suddenly, the forms of Lily, James and Peter and the actual Dumbledore, McGonagall and Sirius stood with their wands aimed at Voldemort.

“What have you done?” Voldemort seethed at Remus. Remus smirked in response.

“I won.” He said simply.

Voldemort growled as he pulled his wand from his cloak, blocking an expelliarmus from Dumbledore and a bombarda from Sirius.

“Incarcerous!” McGonagall shouted and Voldemort was bound by invisible restraints.

Dumbledore stupefied the flailing Tom Riddle and the six exchanged glances.

“Did...did we do it? Did we just...stop Voldemort?” Sirius whispered.

“It feels sort of anti-climactic, does it not?” Lily asked before she cast a quick finite over herself, revealing Narcissa Black. Remus opted to follow suit and shed the skin of his rat of a friend.

“Narcissa?!” Sirius balked, earning him a smirk.

“Hello, cousin.”

“But, why? How?” he asked.

James followed suit and cast a finite, melting away the enchantment and leaving behind the form of Regulus Black, causing Sirius to choke back tears.

“Reggie...” he whispered reverently.

“Sirius.” Regulus responded with a curt nod, seemingly unable to meet his brothers’ eyes.

A sob tore its way through Sirius as he lunged himself at Regulus and embraced his little brother. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“Disappointed?” Regulus asked, seemingly unable to figure out what to do with his own arms which were pinned under Sirius’ grasp.

“No, not in the slightest.” Sirius answered honestly as he pulled himself back from his brother only to bring his hands up to clasp either side of his brother’s face and scrutinize him. “You’re really okay?”

Regulus’ brows scrunched together at his brother’s words. “Could be worse.” Regulus responded in a whisper.

“Why don’t we catch up later, once we have everyone together again?” Narcissa offered with a soft smile. This seemed to snap Sirius into action.

“Yes! Okay, yes. Let’s go get Y/N and then we can send the Potter’s a patronus!” He exclaimed as if were a child being told they were heading to the mall to meet Santa.

Remus chuckled and even Regulus seemed to smirk at his brother.

“You go, Minerva and I will escort Mr. Riddle here to the Ministry.” Dumbledore said with a wink at his four former students. “Thank you all, for your bravery and cunningness today.”

The four offered Dumbledore varying levels of smiles: Remus a wide one, Narcissa a polite one, Regulus’ looked more like a grimace and Sirius’ mouth stayed downturned as they watched the headmaster and deputy headmistress leave with Voldemort in tow.

“Let’s get the band back together.” Remus announced, and Narcissa held out a portkey for Remus and Sirius to use to travel to Malfoy Manor.

“See you there.” Narcissa said as she and Regulus spun and apparated to return to you.

Regulus and Narcissa were just heading toward the vine covered gate when Remus and Sirius fell unceremoniously from the sky.

“Fuck, I hate portkey’s” Sirius commented as he stood with a grimace and wiped grass stains off his jacket.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Narcissa commented from her place as the two men joined her.

“That’s like asking a fish not to swim, dear Cissy.” Sirius responded with a smirk.

Narcissa gave him a fond eyeroll before leading the way to the hidden library.

“PUT THE BOY DOWN!” The shrill voice of Bellatrix could be heard. The sound caused each of their throats to tighten as they all took off in a run towards the library.

“Get away from us!” Sirius heard you shout back.

As the four of them rounded the corner, Sirius saw you standing with a crying Draco Malfoy in your one arm as you bounced him consolingly while your wand was in the other aimed at Bellatrix in front of you. Behind Bellatrix stood Barty Crouch Junior and Mulciber.

“Bella!” Narcissa called causing the witch to turn her onyx gaze on her for a second, though her wand never faltered in its aim at you.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, NARCISSA?!” She screeched.

“Bellatrix, get away from my son this instant.” Narcissa barked. Remus took this opportunity to try to move closer to you and Draco, which earned a purple spell being shot at him from Junior’s wand.

Suddenly emersed in some kind of gothic-style Western standoff, every witch and wizard in the library had their wands pointed at someone and someone’s wand pointed at them. One errant sneeze and someone would avada or be avada’d.

“Bella, you’re frightening Draco.” Narcissa tried quietly.

“He’s frightened, Cissa, because you’ve left him alone with the likes of a FILTHY MUDBLOOD.”

“It’s over, Bellatrix.” Sirius shouted. “Voldemort has been captured, he’s on his way to Azkaban as we speak.”

Bellatrix’s already rage filled face contorted in pure outrage. As the Death Eaters were distracted by the news of their leaders down fall, Regulus and Remus began duelling with Mulciber and Junior. Narcissa and Sirius both shot curses and hexes at Bellatrix at the same time, but she quickly defected.

“You, you-you FILTHY BLOOD TRAITOR. You’ve betrayed your kind and defied OUR LORD, YOU INSOLENT-” As Bellatrix continued to rage, you began to slowly side-step your way over to Narcissa and Sirius while cooing at Draco. Sirius kept his gaze locked on you as you kept yours on Bellatrix, and both of your wands stayed on their mark. Remus had Mulciber in a muggle choke hold looking far too pleased with himself as Regulus cast an expeliarmus at Junior.

“YOU SHOULD BE DEAD! I KNEW BETTER THAN TO LET THOSE STUPID, STUPID MEN USE YOU AS THEIR PLAYTHING.” Bellatrix seethed at you, now standing directly beside Sirius, keeping the arm holding Draco just behind him. “YOU WEREN’T EVEN GOOD ENOUGH FOR A WHORE!”

At this, Sirius shot a curse at her which she deflected and began rallying more off. Bellatrix brought her other hand up to her hair and then swung her hand forward. Flying towards Sirius, you and Draco was Bellatrix’s cursed blade.

Narcissa took but half a step to her right, placing herself directly in front of you as she cast an avada kadavra at her sister. Bellatrix’s eyes rolled back as she fell to the ground with a thud and the room became deathly quiet save Draco’s sniffles.

“Oh my gods.” Sirius breathed.

Remus and Regulus were readying their captives for the Auror department as Sirius turned to face his cousin, only to find her holding her chest as blood seeped through her robes and fingers.

Narcissa slowly began sinking to the ground as you gasped and held Draco’s head to your shoulder to shield his view.

“Cissa, no!” Sirius cried as he helped lower his cousin onto the rug. Narcissa took some gasping breaths as she looked at Sirius and you, and then at her son.

“Y/N.” Narcissa called weakly.

“I’m here, Narcissa.” You offered through a sob.

“Take care of my son. Take care of Draco, please.” She begged you.

She turned her gaze to Sirius. “I want better for him. I don’t-I don’t want...” She trailed off as she choked, blood appearing in the corners of her mouth. “I don’t want him to be raised with so much hate. I want – I want him to only know love.”

She looked back to you as you bounced her son back and forth. “Make sure he knows love for me?”

You nodded emphatically as tears trailed down your face. “I promise to do good by you; both of you. He will always be safe with us, Narcissa.”

“And loved.” Sirius added.

Narcissa smiled at the two of you. “Thank you.” She said as she closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

Narcissa Black Malfoy was many things. She was a daughter, a sister, and a cousin. She was a wife, and new mother. She was a Slytherin, a noble woman, and a powerful witch.

Narcissa Black Malfoy was extremely loyal. And it was this last trait that cost Narcissa her life.

Continue to the finale here.

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ravenelyx · 1 year

Text

I love you in every timeline - Prologue: In Search of Lost Time

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Fem!Reader

Words: 1.9k

Chapter Warnings: angst if you squint, Harry Potter characters appearance, no name appearance (not even y/n dw), some swearing, use of 2nd person for the reader (I know I know but I promise it makes sense for the story)

Summary: "He turned around, and the world seemed to stop around him. She had followed him: into another timeline, into another universe.". In which Sebastian, in his search for a cure in the Dark Arts, finds himself 100 years into the future and meets his most trusted companion's descendant (who looks far too similar to the girl he was once secretly in love with).

A/N: this is the first english fic I've written, so I'm terrified. Anyway, Trimetravel! AU with Sebastian Sallow. Some background info: Reader is not MC; Reader is a Gryffindor, MC was a Slytherin; MC was a Pureblood, Reader is a Muggle Born. Also, english is not my first language so if you find any mistakes, I deeply apologise. Not proof-read (for obvious reasons).

→ Find the rest of the fanfiction here on AO3 :)

"For we are not as faithful to the being we have most loved as we are to ourselves and sooner or later we forget her — since that is one of our characteristics — so as to start loving another." - Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

If a chasm had opened under Sebastian's feet and swallowed him all the way to the depths of hell, he would have gladly accepted his demise there and then.

Unfortunately, its mercy seemed to be out of business that day — or any other day in his life, really.

Sebastian paced the corridors, a frown adorning his face; he had just come out of the Headmaster's office due to the absolute disaster that had occurred to him just a few hours prior.

After weeks of research, he had finally found something that could help him, a breakthrough with which he could finally achieve his goal. An artefact so powerful that it could break the fabric of time and space, something that could help his poor sister live a happy and healthy life again. He did not care that they were not on speaking terms at the moment: he would find a way to talk to her so that she would take this last chance. He would force her if he had to. It was his last hope, and Merlin knows he had tried everything.

If he had known about the artefact's effects earlier, he would have thought twice before using it.

"So, Mr Sallow, could you be so kind as to tell us how you came to be in our time?" the Headmaster, who had earlier introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore, had asked him.

Truth was that not having stopped dwelling with the Dark Arts in search of a cure for Anne had led him to find himself in another timeline instead. His face twitched: in terms of unlikelihood, the scales seemed pretty unbalanced.

It had been a brief conversation, really, with Sebastian omitting some details (like his friendship with an Ancient Magic wielder or the murder of his uncle, for which he bore full responsibility) and grimacing against his own will when the Headmaster had looked at him through his half-moon shaped glasses as if asking him, 'Why are you lying to me?'

He had pushed the thoughts away as quickly as they had come: it wasn't like he could read his mind... or could he?

Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief when the Headmaster had dismissed him after giving him specific instructions on how to behave until they found a way to return him to his timeline — one of which was, "Please don't inform anyone of your condition unless it's absolutely necessary." That had seemed quite reasonable to him, so he nodded.

The artefact was damaged, as expected, and unlikely to work again unless a powerful form of magic came into contact with it and repaired it: something like Ancient Magic, perhaps, or a miracle.

"I see you're still causing trouble everywhere you fare, aren't you, Mr Sallow?" the familiar voice of Phineas Nigellus Black had mocked from his portrait, effectively startling him. Sebastian had looked up and into the eyes of his old Headmaster, his mouth falling open at the sight of him. He looked old, weary, and angrier somehow — yet, in a way, he had brought Sebastian some form of comfort, almost. A sense of familiarity.

Before he could have said anything, Black had disappeared, and a woman with severe blue eyes and long robes had escorted him out of the office.

Sebastian looked around at his familiar surroundings, which would have been almost comforting if not for the nameless faces looking at him with curiosity: Hogwarts students tended to recognise each other effortlessly, and anyone who didn't fit into that bundle of familiarity was to be ostracised. He remembered all too well when he was the one helping the new fifth-year find her way around those same corridors, except he didn't need guidance: this was his home, after all.

But he did have a guide, and she wasn't as charming a student as he was either.

The Head of the Gryffindor House walked right next to him, a stern expression on her face made even more prominent by the shadow of her large witch hat. The woman Sebastian had come to know as Minerva McGonagall was also the Transfiguration teacher and Deputy Headmistress, at least it seemed that way, which was no doubt why she was accompanying him rather than the Head of his own House.

Sebastian decided not to ask himself any questions and do what the Headmaster told him to: attend class, fit in, and pretend to be either a transfer student or someone with a complex background — he hadn't decided which story to tell yet (and both, in a way or another, would be true).

The clacking of Professor McGonagall's shoes stopped so abruptly that he almost would have missed it if she hadn't started speaking.

"You're about to meet two of your new classmates. Prefects of the Gryffindor House." She raised her left arm in their direction, and his eyes followed it to two red and gold robes leading into warm faces.

"I am pleased to introduce you to Ms Hermione Granger—" she gestured to the girl with curly hair to her left, who wore a friendly smile all while maintaining a serious and clean look, "—and Mr Ronald Weasley." Sebastian's eyes shot to the boy to his right when he heard the familiar name, and to be honest, he might not have needed an introduction at all: the red-haired boy gave him a wry smile, his freckles standing out even more in the natural light. He would have recognised those features anywhere.

Finally, Sebastian noticed their uniforms. He didn't pay much attention to the boy's — he himself also wore a very similar one, uncomfortable and informal as it seemed to him — for his eyes were fixed on the girl's. She was wearing a grey cardigan with red and gold trim, the colours of her House, and her skirt was much shorter than he remembered, with black denier tights covering the rest of her legs. Sebastian felt himself blushing slightly and averted his eyes.

He wondered why the Slytherin prefects were unsuited to the situation: at the end of the day, he was a Slytherin, too. Sebastian didn't undergo the Sorting again — the Professors didn't seem to deem it necessary, not to mention the Hat had recognised him from his shelf, too. He didn’t forget easily.

McGonagall turned back to Sebastian and briefly adjusted his robes, her face softening slightly, "For the time being, it is best if you don't draw attention to yourself. We will find a solution," she straightened her posture and nodded at him, "Welcome to Hogwarts." She turned on her heels and walked away, leaving him with the two Gryffindors.

He studied their faces for a moment, searching for the right words to say, deciding on which story to tell, but the only thing he could muster was: "How come you're Gryffindors?"

The two students stared at him, appalled, and he mentally slapped himself. He wanted to correct his statement and explain his intention, but the girl stopped him before he could even form a coherent thought.

"You're wondering why they asked us to guide you and not the Slytherin Prefects, am I right?"

Either his question wasn't that unclear, or the girl had excellent deduction skills, and judging by the epiphany on the other boy's face when he understood the meaning of her words, it was most likely the latter.

Sebastian sighed inwardly and nodded, mentally promising not to stumble over his words again.

The boy — Ronald, Sebastian recalled — chimed in: "Because otherwise you'd have to deal with Malfoy, and he's an idio—" the girl slapped him on the arm and gave him a warning look before turning back to Sebastian.

Malfoy, Sebastian thought. A family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. It was clear why a Weasley would want nothing to do with him.

Sebastian wondered if they still held the same values as in his day: if the Malfoys were still blood maniacs, and so was the person they spoke of, or if he wanted to distance himself from his family as Ominis did. Judging by Ronald's opinion of him, Sebastian did not think that was possible, but then again, he did not know the fellow. Maybe, Sebastian thought, things had moved on after a century: no blood wars, discrimination or superiority complexes. Perhaps this was all just a simple rivalry between two students from different Houses.

"Professor Dumbledore thought us to be best suited for this difficult situation. No other student but us knows about your... misadventure," said Hermione.

To call it a "misadventure" would be an understatement , Sebastian wanted to say. As it turned out, however, he didn't need a story to tell. He didn't know whether to feel betrayed by the Professors who had decided to disclose that information or relieved that he didn't have to go through it all alone. A beat of silence followed, in which Sebastian could only nod at the girl's words, and then it was interrupted abruptly.

"Where have you been?" called a voice from the end of the corridor, directly behind Sebastian.

He turned around, and the world seemed to stop around him.

He definitely didn't have to go through it all alone because there she was. Standing a few feet away from him, looking straight at him, was the person who had accompanied him on all his adventures.

She had followed him: into another timeline, into another universe.

He felt his lips twist into a grin, and he beamed at the sight of her. Had she been looking for him?

He frowned a little as he noticed her expression: she seemed annoyed, almost angry. Perhaps she had no intention of following him and had just ended up here for no reason? Were the two of them connected on a deeper level than he thought? Or perhaps she was just worried for him and angry he didn't look for her too?

The girl started to walk towards them, and his smile widened even more the closer she got.

She was almost there when he realised she wasn't sparing him a glance.

Instead, her eyes were focused on the red-haired boy next to him, who was staring at her in horror, looking completely terrified.

Sebastian looked back at the girl, finally noticing the red and gold tie around her neck where a green and silver one usually belonged, a crease in her eyebrows that wasn't there before, and her eyes were a different colour than he remembered.

What the hell is going on here? he thought, staring at her wide-eyed.

"Ron, for God's sake, I've been looking all over for you! Do you intend to give me back my book before class starts, or should I pull a new one out of a hat because you can't use your own?" she threw her hands in the air disapprovingly.

Ron stuttered briefly before hesitantly pointing at the Slytherin boy next to him, "I've just had too much to do. Prefect stuff, you know."

The girl scowled at him before turning to the said boy, her eyes softening slightly. "Oh! You're the new fifth-year!"

Sebastian's eye twitched. How bloody ironic.

"I'm Sebastian Sallow," he replied feebly, body stock-still like marble.

"Nice to meet you," she smiled politely.

And then she introduced herself.

His breath caught in his throat. Sebastian could have recognised that surname anywhere, but her name fell completely deaf on his ears.

You weren't her.

→ Chapter 1

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milunalupin · 1 month

Note

Hi! It’s so cute what you’ve written about Regulus. Could I request a blurb about Regulus being so smitten with reader that he pretty much forgets how to breathe and therefore never answers whenever she talks to him? Either with them already dating or just being classmates ☺️

Hope you have a lovely day!

sorry for the wait lovely, i hope you enjoy !! :)

— take my breath away

regulus black x reader ★ 1.1k words

Divination is shit. A complete load of dragon shit. There's no hard research behind it, no factual information, just conclusions based off of feelings. Regulus doesn't understand visions and wanting to know what's to come. He's has his future planned out for him, so what were tea leaves and crystal balls going to do for him?

Continue the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black family legacy, be the perfect son and the top student in every class. Easy enough for Regulus, except for being 3rd in Divination because he "lacked natural aptitude". How ridiculous. Lucky for him his parents were far more focused on him doing well in Charms and Potions than reading tarot cards and interpreting dreams.

The one thing he doesn't mind seeing during this period was you, someone he could never dream of having the pleasure to call his. You weren't born into a pureblood family, and weren't even close to rivaling him academically. He doesn't ever recall seeing you at a quidditch match either, at least not when Slytherin was playing. With your effortless beauty and blinding smile, he's confident he would have noticed you among the others in the stands.

Regulus doesn't know when he started to crush on you, it just kind of happened. One day he started to notice small things about you, from your baby blue nail polish to your lavender perfume that did everything but calm his heartrate. He would pass by your table on the way to his own and see you reading what he assumed to be muggle poetry. The quiet Slytherin would look for those same muggle poetry books in the library late at night. He liked it when the sun sometimes shone right on your face, your eyes squinting and nose scrunching adorably. You would often mumble haikus and villanelles to yourself during class, plush lips moving quietly as you stared out the window, in your own world.

Just like today, you hovered over your parchment, your quill moving in a way that it was obvious that you were not taking notes on the lecture being given. The professor noticed your distracted state, calling your name out. "Please tell us all what ovomancy is."

"It's.. erm.." you giggled nervously, your face flushing with embarrassment. "Sorry Professor, I wasn't paying attention."

Regulus held back a lovesick sigh, smiling to himself as you continued to doodle on your parchment as soon as the professor sighed and turned their back. As lucky as he wished he was, he wasnt daft enough to believe he was your only admirer.

Edgar Bones was a charming guy. Regulus wonders what was so funny about him that he had you giggling behind your hand, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his quill a little too tight. Every table was assigned a different method, so while he and his partner were busy taking notes on capnomancy, you and Bones were having fun with palmistry. The bitter Slytherin supposed the smoke he felt coming out of his ears meant jealousy, watching Edgar asking to hold your hand to see if he can read it that way.

"Merde, ça n'a rien à voir avec.." he hissed, his anger turning to yearning as he craved to be the one holding your hand.

Ah, less-- less bright

Are the stars of night

Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

And never a flake

That the vapor can make

With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,

Can vie with the modest Eulalie's

most unregarded curl-

Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's

most humble and careless curl.

Regulus Black feels pathetic, writing love notes like a little schoolboy. Especially if his parents found out he was quoting muggle poetry. But there he was in the corner of the library, copying down yet another poem to leave on your table at the beginning of your next shared class.

He arrived early to Divination, quickly setting his folded parchment on your table and then sitting at his own. It's been weeks since he began to anonymously leave you poetry, too shy to talk to you face to face. You always read the letter and put it into your school bag, so hopefully you were keeping them and not tossing them out later when no one was watching. Regulus' knee bounced under the table as the other students started to file in, his eyes darting between the door and the folded parchment he left for you. He decided to get started on his next letter, hunching over his parchment to get the words just right.

Regulus was too distracted by perfecting his penmanship to notice you walk into the classroom and watch as he gently placed today's poem on your table. You smiled to yourself and went to your seat, tracing your beautifully written name with your finger. You had felt flattered when you first started receiving the letters, assuming that it had been your flirty class partner Edgar, but quickly realized that he wasn't the type to do such a thing.

"Your cursive letters weren't this perfect when you first started leaving me poetry, have you been practicing for me Regulus Black?"

Regulus gasps a little too fast, choking in surprise at your discovery. He turns away to cough into his sleeve like the proper boy he is. You grinned at the young heir, picking up his newest letter he had been working on.

His eyes widened and frantically waved his hands, trying to take the letter back but you held it behind you out of his reach. "You don't have to read th—"

"Shut up Regulus."

He placed his hands back in his lap, his ears burning red as you read his letter in front of him, the corners of your mouth turning upwards. Regulus felt himself holding his breath, knowing he had to say something now or sit there looking like a fool. He took a quick breath and kept his eyes on the parchment as he rushed his words out. "Perhaps, we could go to the library one day and read poetry together?"

He shouldn't have looked up because he felt himself lose oxygen again when he saw your enchanting self was smiling cheekily down at him.

"Or we could go down by the lake and you could read me some of your favorites?"

Regulus agrees with a shy nod and makes a mental note to use the Bubble-Head charm in case he forgets to breathe. He'll forget all about the charm later when your head is laying sleepily on his shoulder as he recites old poetry from his journal.

#marauders era #marauders #marauders x reader #regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus arcturus black #regulus x reader

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writingfool001 · 2 months

Text

What Really Matters

Author's Note: I decided to keep this one and delete the old one later. I like this one better.

Request:

Due to the culture of looking down on half-bloods in the wizarding world, I can picture Newt!MC sympathizing with Sebek about his internalized racism as they had seen multiple Slytherins act the way he does in order to hide the fact that they're either a half-blood or a muggle born. It'll be touching if while Newt!MC is explaining their world to Sebek they touch upon the blood status subject and bring up example of half-bloods being just as exceptional as any regular magician.

Pairing: Newt!MC x Sebek (Platonic or romantic)Warning: Newt!MC is based off of Newt Scamander, mostly dialogue, short.

You've met many people on your travels, different races, ethnicities, and so on. Compared to your fellow wizards, you would treat everyone you met with decency unless you saw a valid reason not to. Ever since you arrived at NRC, there were few who didn't let anyone doubt their magical abilities due to their background. Yet there was a certain first year, in your flying class, who often called you human and would talk about humans or about Malleus being superior. Overtime, you learned more about his lineage and how he himself was half human himself which made you thought perhaps that is what fed into his usual behavior.

“Sebek, I didn’t know your dad was a dentist?” You started out as we were studying.

“Why would that be important as of right now?” he told, looking up from his homework.

“You always ask me questions; wouldn’t it be fair if I could not do the same to you?”

He glared a bit as his eyebrow twitched a bit before speaking.

“...yes, he is.”

“Such a fascinating job, he must be quite special.”

“He’s just a magic-less human dentist.”

"So, what? His magical ability does not change the fact that he is special. I presume your mother holds him in a high regard."

"She does, though I do not entirely understand why." He grumbled as he wrote out his notes.

"She likely saw him for who he was rather than the lack of magic." You suggested, only for him to scoff at it.

"That does not take away from the fact that he does not have magic."

"That does not make him any less important besides, do you care about having magic that much?"

"Yes, or else I would be weak, it would've been easier if my father wasn't magicless."

It was a little surprising to hear Sebek be somewhat open with you considering how he's usually yelling at you and such throughout the day, but it was nice. It also showed some of his insecurities about himself.

"There have been many extraordinarily talented people I have met. Many of them being half-blooded magicians that have been more exceptional than the sum purebloods magicians." You start "I do not judge on one's magical capability or who they're related to which you should learn to do as well. Each to their own."

“You won’t see me differently for my blood?” He asked as you shook head before he let out a hearty loud laugh. “I don’t believe you.”

“I remember my first friend outside of school was a young man who was very passionate about baking and didn’t have any magical talent. I still hold him dear in my heart as he's passionate about baking. I envied how easy it was for him to talk to others while I struggled with it. He's one of the most extraordinary people I met.” You smiled gently as you recalled your dear friend.

“He didn’t have any magic?”

“He had some, but he was considered magicless by most and he was fine with that. It didn’t matter if he had any magical talents or not, it mattered that he was passionate, something I admire.”

You both sat there for a while before you packed your books and notes up then got up. Before leaving, you turn to him.

“Don’t let your lineage or magic be how you define yourself. It’s the passion that is what makes someone like you the way you are. You’re Sebek to me. Just remember that.”

You turned on your way and left. The next couple of days, you noticed a small pep in Sebek’s step and how extra loud he was during flying practice. It's good to see some things don't change.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x mc #twst x reader #newt!mc #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt

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wiliowisp · 7 months

Text

Take Care of Me ❦

Word Count ➻ 2.2k

Pairings ➻ Sebastian Sallow x masc!MC

Warnings ➻ NSFW 18+ ONLY

Tags ➻ third person POV, aged-up characters, Hogwarts seventh year, smut, sub!Sebastian, subspace, dick-sucking, back-blowing, and a whole lot of moaning

A/N ➻ i am the number one sub!Sebastian warrior. anyway, enjoy this filth before the angst in the new chapter of my longfic on sunday! (hopefully)

୧ send me prompts! i may write them! ୨

Summary:

Sebastian has been looking for something in his partners that they can't give him—until an old friend surprises him. Sebastian meets him in the restricted section, hoping to be taken care of.

Sebastian Sallow needed to be looked after. It’s not as tender as it sounds.

Since the age of thirteen, not a single morning had gone by where he hadn't woken up rigid and wanting. For a young man of his means, he’d satiated this desire. He’d managed to charm his way through many of the more outgoing ladies and gentlemen of Hogwarts. Purebloods were particularly inclined to him; due to the relative purity of his blood and his prowess with a wand. Not to mention the fact they were raised in the more progressive wizarding world.

This was where the issue with muggle-borns came into play. Muggle society was always so tight-lipped around sex and pleasure—which was ridiculous, Sebastian thought. Why would you withhold something as good as sex from yourself? The muggle-born ladies treated his flirting with doe-eyed faces and trembling hands like he might get on his knees any minute—not in the fun way. The men, however, would be nervous in an entirely other way. They were so skittish about being caught with another man, no matter how many queer couples walked their halls. When he pushed them against walls, his tongue finding its way into their mouth, they would push him off until they found somewhere ‘safe’. They hardly allowed him to flirt in class.

Until he did.

The new fifth year, as he was known. Although many years had passed since he was a fifth year, that was for certain. On the cusp of their graduation, the other boy had filled out—grown. He’d matured in a way that Sebastian had noticed, in fervid, desperate moments, when his eyes would lathe over the lines of his friend’s body, would imagine them rid of all clothes. Would imagine him under the other.

It began rather innocently. They had been friends for years and knew things about each other that they would never dare to tell anyone else. Sebastian knew that his friend had never taken any lovers while at Hogwarts. He chalked it up to the fact that the other was muggle-born and uninterested in courting without the purpose to marry; as was the custom. Regardless, Sebastian had an insatiable appetite and found endless fun in flirting with his friends. Ominis had borne the brunt of it for years, oftentimes they had been mistaken for a couple because Sebastian’s tongue reacted far too desirably in public. Their other friend, however, never returned any of Sebastian’s comments. He simply brushed over the words of his flirtatious Slytherin, changed the subject, chuckled and then moved on.

Until he didn’t.

“If those trousers hug your thighs any tighter, you may as well take them off,” Sebastian mewled.

His friend turned around and raised a brow. “Says the man in shirts so tight you may as well wear a corset.”

Sebastian baulked. The other boy smirked, his lips a wet promise.

“Then again, I think you’d look good in a corset,” he commented. Then he shrugged, turned around again, and left.

Sebastian’s cock went stiff startlingly fast. Which was new.

Therein lay the problem. He’d been yearning, desperate, for something ever since he was able to conceive of that want. But despite the number of lovers he’d taken over the years, he never felt full.

The ladies would whimper and moan into Sebastian’s mouth, their lips so pliant and easy to pry apart, to breach. His fingers would work circles into their cunt as they came apart in his hands. Afterwards, maybe they’d touch him, seal their mouth around his cock. But they remained mewling, doe-eyed things, wanting his approval. The men would bend over for him, present themselves as he pumped his pleasure into them, moaning for his assurance, his dominance. Sebastian needed something else.

He realised this when his best friend locked him in place with a simple comment about a corset. Words that sounded like a delicious promise.

I want to see you beneath me.

After that day, the flirting continued for weeks. Sly asides about Sebastian’s body, his sinful mouth, the threats that come wet and fervid off his friend’s tongue. Sebastian found himself brimming with a want that made him hungry. Each night spending up to an hour in the Slytherin showers, a hand pressed into his lips to stifle the whines and mewls that came from his throat.

As simply as it started, like putting the needle on a disc and listening to the music, it crescendoed. The object of his desire placed a note on his desk one day. Small, folded. Inside it read:

"The Restricted Section. Twelve Chimes."

Heat curled in Sebastian’s stomach. He crossed his legs, hardening cock trapped between the thighs his friend had complimented so many times. He read the same sentence over and over again for the rest of the afternoon.

As the clock chimed in a succession of twelve, Sebastian wandered through the bookshelves of the Restricted Section, his shirt clammy with sweat. His mouth dry with a thirst and a hunger he knew so well. The air still, in anticipation.

Hands were on his jaw and a mouth was on his mouth on their mouth on his. Sebastian’s back hit a shelf, arching. Hips against hips. Heat on heat. The other boy tilted Sebastian’s head, opening him with his lips until their tongues could taste each other. Everything reduced to the points they touched. Sebastian whined—whimpered—into the other’s mouth; his hips rolled into his friend’s rigid cock.

“Fuck, Sebastian—do you know what you do to me?” His voice was gravelly. Sebastian swallowed the sound.

His lips latched onto Sebastian’s neck. Sucking bruises. Sebastian was still grinding his hips, delicious friction sending fire up his nervous system. Arousal licked at his abdomen. He was aware he was moaning, keening, whining. Every sound from his mouth unbidden.

“I’ve been thinking about you every—aahn—day,” Sebastian stuttered. The other lifted up and ate the moan from his mouth.

His hand flew to Sebastian’s cock, stroking him through the fabric. Sebastian whined against his neck. His fingers grasped at the other’s scalp, clutching to his skin through the clothes. He was incorrigible. Salacious. His body was only an instrument, his friend’s hands bringing out the song.

Then they separated. Sebastian immediately went cold.

“On your knees,” His desire ordered.

His legs bent before his brain could protest. He dropped to the floor so obediently.

“So perfect,” his lover whispered, hand coming to stoke his jawline. Sebastian’s eyes wide. Fawn ears flapping at the attention. Doe legs tucked beneath him so prettily. “You okay with this?”

Sebastian blinked. Was he? What a stupid question.

He nodded. “I want this.”

“Okay.” The other boy started undoing the buckle on his belt. The sharp sound struck lightning through Sebastian’s skin. The thought made his mouth slick. His hands folded on his lap. His lover brought his cock from his briefs, his tight length wet at the tip. I did that to him. Sebastian opened his mouth.

“Good boy.”

Merlin. This is it. This is it. This is what he’d been looking for.

His lover placed the head of his dick on his bottom lip. Sebastian leaned forward, taking it into his mouth. The other boy moaned, watching Sebastian with glassy, half-lidded eyes—blown with desire. Sebastian took him, letting the heat of his cock warm his mouth. Then, he started moving. Tentative movements, working on instinct, wanting it only deeper. Further. More. Sebastian relaxed his throat. Let the calm and the pleasure pulse through him like syrup. He sunk deeper on his length until his nose was nestled into his lover’s abdomen.

“Oh holy fuck.”

Then, the other started moving. He held Sebastian’s jaw in place, softly grinding his hips into Sebastian’s eager mouth. All cocky, flirtatious quips fucked into his throat. Sebastian moaned with each thrust, his voice raw and carnal—keening.

He was so painfully hard in his trousers, a warm dampness in his briefs but Sebastian only wanted one thing. To please. To be good. His mind was a euphoric blur, all worries, all fear, standing somewhere in the distance. Like an out-of-focus photograph.

“You’re doing so well, pretty boy…” His friend's demeanour had shifted into a practised role. Sebastian’s puppy eyes shone up at him—lit up from the praise. Meanwhile, the other boy was sloppily grinning as he fucked his throat, red-faced and handsome. “Wanna be fucked, baby?”

Sebastian’s eyes fluttered shut with a moan.

“Yeah—yeah you do,” the other gasped.

He pulled his dick out of Sebastian’s mouth, a pearly string connecting them before breaking. Sebastian’s lips were glossy with spit and lust.

“On the table,” another order, Sebastian’s body attuned to the other like a dog on a leash. Sit. Good boy. Bend over. Good boy.

Sebastian bent over.

His hands were palming Sebastian’s ass, kneading the flesh. Another came in front, unbuttoning his trousers and pumping his cock through his briefs.

“Unnh—please,” Sebastian begged.

“The noises you make, Seb,” he growled, “fuckin’ beautiful.” He pulled Sebastian’s cock from his briefs, gently pumping him. “Look how wet you are, God.”

All Sebastian could do was whimper and shallowly thrust into his lover’s palm. His pleasure balled tight in his gut.

His lover released his dick, earning a cry, before he was pulling both their trousers down. His palm slid down to Sebastian’s hole, his fingers slick with something warm. He pushed in slowly, the stretch making Sebastian shiver.

“Gotta prep you darlin’.”

A hand went back to Sebastian’s cock, stroking him, while fingers pumped in and out of his hole. His lover crooked them, bending upwards into a spot Sebastian had never been able to reach. Pleasure surged into his fingertips, guttural wails coming from his throat. He no longer cared if anyone found them. Let them watch.

Another finger joined his hole, as the other massaged Sebastian’s prostate; his dick leaked precum that dribbled onto the table. “Please, please, I need you inside—Aah!”

“Yes, okay, yes—fuck.” His lover’s pleasure sat on his tongue and made all the words sugar. “Seb, honey, the safe word is ‘Graphorn’, yes? You want to stop, you say it.”

Sebastian nodded.

“Say it back to me.”

Sebastian gulped. “Graphorn,” he gurgled.

“Good boy.”

Sebastian’s back arched, another pulse of precum leaving his slit and puddling onto the table. Something warm, heady, and wet pressed into his entrance. He heard his lover inhale shakily behind him.

His dick entered him. Inch-by-inch.

Sebastian’s head thumped into the table, a whining sound erupting in his throat. It burned so good. Seconds stretched as Sebastian took his lover. The warmth thrummed through his bloodstream. Eventually, he felt the flesh of his stomach as the other bottomed out.

“You okay, baby?”

Sebastian panted. “Please—”

His lover pulled back and slammed into him.

Everything zeroed down. His tip slammed into Sebastian’s prostate in a way that made his toes curl. He started a pace, slowly grinding into Sebastian’s ass while Sebastian moaned into the wood of the table; pushing back into the sensation. A hand snaked up to his chest, fingers running over a nipple. The sensitive bud reacted, jolts of pleasure radiating into his fingertips.

His pace quickened. Wet slapping echoed through the library, clung between the books, the sound sticky music in Sebastian’s ears. Each pump punctuated by a depraved cry directly from Sebastian’s throat. His mouth open. Eyebrows pursed in rapture.

“God—need to be quiet, Seb.”

Fingers went into his mouth and that’s when it happened.

The pleasant buzz of fog that had overtaken his thoughts went white. Everything fell away. All Sebastian could feel, could think, was reduced to the points they touched. Any inhibitions remaining died against the fingers on his tongue.

He felt himself come. A tidal wave of utter bliss, warming through his bloodstream. The ball in his stomach snapped open like burst fruit. Some moments later his lover came, too. A thick pump of honeyed ecstasy filled him. Warm. So warm. So peaceful.

Things were happening around him. His body was moved, gently, but Sebastian’s eyes were unfocused. His entire being relaxed. It felt like lying in a bed that smelt like your childhood home. Or being submerged in warm soapy water. His mind was a fog but he didn’t mind. Not when it was so warm.

Slowly, things came back into focus. The lens on his camera clicked as objects and time emerged in the fog. Hands stroked his hair. Anchored his shoulder.

“You back with me, Seb?”

Sebastian hummed.

“Here, baby, drink.”

A cup was placed into Sebastian’s hands. He sipped at it. His lover’s cloak was draped over his naked body. Its owner looked at him with gentle eyes and even gentler hands as he stroked Sebastian’s cheek.

“You feelin’ okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so,” Sebastian frowned, “Merlin, that was good. Weird, but also so good.”

The other boy chuckled. “Think I may have fucked your brain out. You’re not hurt?”

“No, I’m okay.”

His lover smiled. He was already dressed again. Cock stuffed into his trousers. He went to grab Sebastian’s clothes, offering them to him. “We can’t stay here—come back to my room?”

Sebastian didn’t usually get attached to his nighttime tirades. But he was still feeling marooned after leaving his brain behind. He wanted to be held. He wanted his hair stroked as gently as his friend had done. He wanted to be looked after.

He would be.

#willow writes #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow fic #sebastian sallow smut #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #hogwarts legacy fanfic

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hufflepuffwithaslytherinkink · 1 year

Text

Tacenda - Chapter 27 Snippet

Theo disappears leaving Eleanor alone. She turns to face the mirror grimacing at her appearance. Her mascara is smudged under her eyes, her hair is sticking up at different angles and she’s a slightly green colour.

She lets out a sigh before throwing Theo’s t-shirt and her knickers to the side before stepping into the bath. She glances at the shower wondering how on Earth it works. There’re only two dials so she decides to turn one, thankfully water starts to cascade down her body. It’s the perfect temperature helping to ease her pounding headache.

She quickly turns letting it rinse away the lingering smell of alcohol before washing her hair and body with Theo’s products. She gets a little thrill from the idea of them sharing stuff and that she’s going to smell like him.

It’s stupid but it gives her butterflies. After she’s done she spends another 5 minutes in the shower enjoying the feeling of the water running over her sensitive skin.

Reluctantly she finally climbs out, wrapping the towel Theo gave her around herself, taking a second one to dry her hair roughly before glancing in the mirror again, wiping away the steam that had built up.

She doesn’t look great, but she looks better, the mascara has gone and there’s a bit more colour to her complexion, but she still looks off. She goes to brush her teeth before remembering Theo was going to get her a toothbrush.

She quickly looks around for her clothes realising they aren’t there. She’d left them in the bedroom.

She grimaces at the idea of having to go and get them in front of Theo. She turns around looking for her knickers, at least she could put them back on, though the thought of dirty underwear makes her stomach churn.

She’s shocked to find they’re gone and the t-shirt of Theo’s that she was wearing.

“What the fuck?” She mutters to herself.

She takes a deep breath holding the towel tightly around herself before entering the bedroom. Theo’s lounging on the bed with his eyes closed when she walks in. He turns towards her immediately.

“Hey the house elves-.” He cuts off suddenly, swallowing deeply as he takes her in, stood in nothing but a small towel in the doorway to his room. Eleanor shifts nervously from foot to foot as he continues to gape at her.

“I um, I forgot my clothes.” She says nervously.

Theo closes his mouth before running a hand through his hair as he clears his throat. “Yeah, yes um, yeah. The um, the er the house elves took them to clean last night, I think they must have taken your knickers too- I mean, your stuff is on the dresser. Pokey put them there like a minute ago.”

He fidgets obviously nervous about looking at her naked. Eleanor tightens the towel around herself walking towards the dresser to grab her stuff.

“There’s um, the toothbrush is there too.” He tells her.

“Thanks.” She mutters sending him a smile.

She thinks it’s adorable how flustered he gets. It so different from the cocky Theo she’s used to. Eleanor lingers at the doorway to the bathroom turning to face Theo, a small smirk on her mouth.

“I hope you enjoyed being alone with my knickers.” She tells him.

His mouth drops open as he stares at her in utter shock.

“What?” He gasps.

Eleanor’s smirk widens as she toys with the knickers on top of her clothes.

“Well I noticed the problem between your legs is gone and you had uncensored access to my knickers.” She shrugs, enjoying the way he seems to choke on air at her words. “It’s a shame really, they’re not my nicest pair.”

She turns shutting the bathroom door as she hears Theo try to stammer out a sentence. She lets out a small laugh before starting to get dressed and brush her teeth.

Her clothes feel amazing, whatever the elves did they’re softer than they’ve ever felt. She quickly checks herself over before going back into Theo’s bedroom.

#He’s sat on his bed nervously chewing his thumb.

“Eleanor.” He states anxiously, climbing off the bed and striding over to her. “You don’t think I actually- I wouldn’t do that to you, you know. I wouldn’t use your knickers like that.”

Eleanor raises her eyebrows at him with an amused smile.

“Theo it’s okay I was just teasing.” She tells him lightly.

Theo’s face relaxes as he releases a breath. “Right, okay. I respect you too much, I couldn’t just… it would feel like a violation.”

Eleanor giggles at his words causing him to frown.

“Hey don’t laugh, it wouldn’t be right.” He tells her seriously.

“I know.” Eleanor agrees trying to hold back her laughter. “But I wouldn’t mind, in fact I kind of like the idea.”

Theo’s mouth drops at her words at he stares at her.

“You what?”

Eleanor places her hands on his chest enjoying his stunned expression.

“I like it.” She tells him. “I like the idea of you pleasuring yourself when thinking about me.”

“Oh fuck.” Theo mutters under his breath.

Eleanor shrugs moving away to grab his brush and try to tame her waves.

“I guess you’re not into that sort of thing though.” She shrugs playfully.

Theo licks his lips as he watches her. “Trust me I do.” He says thickly.

“Hm?” Eleanor queries continuing to brush her hair but glancing over her shoulder at him.

“I always think of you, I always have.”

Eleanor pauses turning to stare at him properly.

“Always?”

Theo nods. “Every single time. I essentially admitted it to you once during an astronomy lesson.”

Eleanor puts the brush down turning to watch him. “I thought you were talking about Bulstrode.”

He recoils at her words.

“As if I’d ever think of her. No, it’s always been you.” He tells her before turning and walking into the bathroom, shutting the door over behind him but not closing it fully.

Eleanor stares at the small gap, her thoughts racing. He was determined to give her a heart attack or a stomach perforation with the amount of palpitations and butterflies he was causing. She clears her throat trying to get rid of the image of Theo pleasuring himself, whispering her name as he reaches his high.

“Fuck me.” She mutters grabbing the hairbrush again and trying to detangle the mess on top of her head.

Once she’s done she’s not sure what to do, she wonders around Theo’s room looking at his shelves. She takes notes of his books, his quills, the type of parchment he uses. There’s a picture of his mother on his desk and one of him and Blaise together in their Slytherin scarves.

She smiles at the small personal touches. She knows Theo is caring and one of the sweetest people – when he wants to be. But this seems to make him more human, more real. To see his magazines piled in the corner or his stuffed niffler on his bookshelf.

Soon enough Theo emerges from the bathroom, wearing just a towel draped around his waist. His hair falling into his eyes from the water, Eleanor watches as it drips down his body, clinging to the contours of his chest and ending just above his pubis.

He smirks at her cocking an eyebrow.

“I forgot my clothes.” He tells her walking towards his dresser.

Yeah right, Eleanor thinks, that’s why he’s left his body dripping wet and sinfully tempting.

But she responds with a non-comital hum instead. Theo gives her a knowing look as he routes through his clothes.

Eleanor’s eyes trailing over every inch of exposed skin, admiring the way the light reflects off the water droplets highlighting every little bump and dip.

“See something you like?” He asks giving her a lazy look over his shoulder.

“A few things.” Eleanor replies, not even attempting to be subtle as she ogles him.

Theo grins at her before turning around and leaning on the dresser, his stomach muscles tightening in the most delicious way.

“Can I ask what?” He says temptingly, giving her an eager look.

Eleanor hums sending him a playful smile. “I’m really loving the stuffed niffler. Does he have a name?”

Theo’s face blanches as he quickly glances at the niffler on his bookshelf. Eleanor smiles as she sees him close his eyes in embarrassment.

“Don’t worry.” Eleanor quickly reassures him with a happy smile. “I think it’s adorable.”

“Adorable.” Theo mutters putting a hand over his face.

Eleanor chuckles. “What? it is.”

“Eleanor that’s not what boys want to be called. I’m stood here naked, I want you to say I’m hot, handsome, distracting just not adorable and don’t even consider cute.” He warns her.

“I didn’t call you adorable I called him adorable. Look at his little face.” She states walking over to the bookshelf and picking the niffler up, pulling a cute face at it before turning to Theo. “He owns my heart now.”

Theo raises an eyebrow at her. “I love how easily I’m discarded. I take it all back please call me adorable and look at me like that.”

Eleanor chuckles as she hugs the niffler to her chest.

“I don’t think I can. He’s set the standard.”

Theo let’s out an amused laugh before pulling out his clothes.

“Fine you stay here and harass Norman, I’m going to get dressed.” He tells her.

“Oh Norman.” Eleanor exclaims in a cutesy voice staring at the niffler with wide eyes.

Theo shakes his head with a small laugh before disappearing into the bathroom. Eleanor smiles taking a seat on his bed as she stares at Norman. He really is adorable and so is Theo for keeping him.

After a couple of minutes Theo steps back into the room looking more put together than he has any right too, why doesn’t he look as shitty as she does?

“Ready?” He asks.

“What for?” Eleanor questions glancing over at him.

“For breakfast.” Theo says as if it’s obvious.

“Oh, yeah okay.” Eleanor says putting the niffler down on the bed and walking towards Theo. He smiles holding his hand out to her and she takes it with a small blush.

She could get used to holding his hand like this.

“I really like Norman.” Eleanor tells him sincerely as they walk down the stairs towards the kitchen.

Theo smiles at her. “Me too, my mum gave him to me. He’s one of the only things I have left off her.”

Eleanor’s heart breaks and swells at the same time. She didn’t even consider the niffler might be sentimental to him, she has so many teddies around her room it’s nothing to her.

“That’s lovely.” She tells him.

Theo nods. “I can’t bear to part from him. I almost took him to Hogwarts with me but dad said it was childish. I’m glad though, I think the others would have teased me and probably hid him.”

“That’s awful.” Eleanor responds wondering why anyone would tease another person over something so sentimental and why his dad told him not to act childish. It isn’t childish to want to keep something like that close.

Theo shrugs as them enter the kitchen to the smell of cooking. Marie greeting them warmly.

“It is what it is I guess.” He says casually making Eleanor frown.

“Crepes?” Theo asks eagerly.

Marie nods with a hum. “Of course, I had to cook your favourite and I refuse to make the American pancakes unless it’s a special occasion.” She says with narrowed eyes.

“What?” Theo says in shock. “You don’t think Eleanor is a special occasion?”

Eleanor blushes sending him an annoyed look.

“She most certainly is special but she deserves delicate crepes, not those heavy monstrosities.” Marie snaps at him before turning to Eleanor with a smile, it quickly drops as she takes in her appearance. Eleanor feels exposed and self-conscious as the perfectly stunning Marie glances at her.

“Eleanor why is your hair wet? You’ll catch your death.”

“Oh I’m not very good at drying spells.” Eleanor explains full of embarrassment.

“That’s no problem. Theodore, watch the crepes.” Marie commands before pulling her wand out and pointing it at Eleanor.

Eleanor closes her eyes as she feels warm air hit her. Her hair instantly curling around her head, falling into delicate waves. It never does that when she dries it, her natural waves always turn out frizzy.

“Perfect.” Marie states curling one of Eleanor’s waves around her finger before returning to the stove.

Eleanor stays for breakfast, enjoying talking with Theo and Marie before stating she’ll have to go home or her parents will start to wonder where she is. Theo nods reluctantly a sad expression filling his face as he says he’ll take her home.

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hollowwrites · 4 months

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Hii! I've had an idea in my head for a few days now and I absolutely love your writing ^^

Can I request an Ominis x Female Reader where Ominis finds out the Reader is the person his family forced him to torture with Cruciatus Curse in the past? Some angst with a fluff ending, please 🥺

Repressed Memories

Sorry did you say some angst? Hahahahahah pain…Theres barely any comfort i wont lie my brain stopped working about halfway through this

I’ve pulled Violet Flowers out of my ass. But now I love that name so much…

Warnings - Detailed descriptions of Crucio from the get go. Skip past it after ——————

Word Count - 1769

Ominis knew he recognised that name.

It was repeated over and over by his mother, taunting and torturing.

Each time a gut punch, punctuating; this is a person.

——————————————————————————

His skin prickled and tightened upon hearing the curses name. Muscle memory activating and he shrank away from the sound of gargled screaming and muffled moans.

He knew how it felt to have his veins set ablaze. The feeling of every bone breaking and mending and breaking in an instant. The feeling of an Unforgivable cast upon you.

“It’ll be over soon, Violet Flowers” His Mother cooed wickedly over the rasping sobs of the young girl in front of him. Ominis could hear the girl struggling against his mother’s arms. Against whatever restraints they had placed on her.

“If he does as he’s told you’ll only have to feel it once more, Violet” her voice suddenly sweet sang from behind him as she circled her son..

“Beg for the pain, Violet. If you do, you can leave…if you survive” She laughed cruelly.

“Please…” Violet whispered strained and aching, and he felt a tug at his ankle. Instinctually, he kicked her away.

No this wasn’t real.

If he can feel it, it’s real.

This isn’t real…

“See, my love. Violet’s asking so nicely. I…will not. Do it” his mother snapped…

“I can’t…I…” Ominis stammered as tears streamed over his cheeks. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

“Crucio!” His mother spat, sounding almost bored with this charade.

And his body buckled and broke against the pain he’d felt countless times. He’d grown, somewhat of a tolerance for it. About as much as one can grow accustomed to phantom magical pain.

His teeth cracked and eyes burned through tears as he resisted the temptation to cry out. He would not give that woman the satisfaction.

The most she would get, would be a grunt and relieved groan as the pain subsided.

“I hate to see you like this dear.” She purred once more as her personality flipped again. The doting and ‘loving’ mother reappearing. “Cast it and I’ll stop…”

And they were the last words she spoke before his whole world became pain. To this day, he doesn’t know how long he bore it. It felt like hours went by, his vision blooming from the usual inky blackness to a painful blinding white. His knees came slamming into the stone floor and a different, almost real pain throbbed from his leg. He assumed he’d broken his own knee from the force.

“Do it…it’s okay” Violets voice sang out to him. A siren song amidst a choppy sea. And to his shame, he didn’t hesitate…his hand limply held his wand against the floor and as he muttered the curse, red lightening forked across the stone and bled into her. Her screams replaced his as he cast the Curse for as short a time as possible.

——————————————————————————

So when she was called at the Sorting Ceremony, his blood ran cold.

“Violet Flowers” Headmaster Black called disgustingly, almost like he knew she wasn’t Pureblood. Of course he did. Purebloods had the names of fellow blood purists memorised. Even Weasley was respectable. But Flowers?

No…

They tortured muggles. He’d tortured a muggle.

This wasn’t possible. This wasn’t real.

He only hoped she wouldn’t be sorted into Slytherin. How could she? Very few muggle born wizards were due to its ridiculous entry requirements sewn into that stupid hat.

If she was in any other house he could avoid her…perfect if she’s Gryffindor. He interacts with so few.

“Slytherin”

Upon hearing that word…that cursed sickening name, Ominis froze. Now he would have to avoid her all year.

Then Sebastian befriended her.

And he couldn’t exactly tell him why he hated her so much. Why he avoided every interaction. Why he snapped at the mention of her name and the sound of her voice. Sebastian knew a lot about his life but this was an element he could not know. Knowing your friend had cast that curse, and seeing the person they cast it on…two completely different things.

The worst part was that he liked her.

She was enjoyable to be around.

Uplifting and happy. Bubbly but introverted. Like she was only this way for her friends. And she was like this…towards him.

Had she forgotten? Had his Mother obliviated her? It wasn’t something she normally did. She revelled in the idea that they irrevocably changed people’s lives. Warped normal everyday people into husks and sent them back on their way. She couldn’t have…

…and she hadn’t.

As Ominis paced back and forth in the old corridor below the dungeons, he wondered just how much a person could live in denial. Slowly, he rocked himself back and forth muttering more so than usual as Sebastian and Violet spoke.

This isn’t happening.

This is a nightmare.

This isn’t happening.

This is a nightmare.

“It’s up to us. I can teach you Crucio or I can cast it on you” Sebastian said flatly, though Ominis barely heard him over the ringing in his ears.

“No…” His mouth formed but no sound came out

“I’ve already felt what it’s like…cast it in me” Violet said meekly but bravely.

“No…” his voice came this time but it was still a murmur.

“You’ve already felt an Unforgivable?” Sebastian inquired, and unbeknownst to Ominis, he looked towards his blind friend, shaking and rocking over and over.

“No…” - they heard him that time, his voice slowly returning but it still sounded akin to the ramblings of a mad man. This place was truly a living nightmare

“Yes…when I was a child. A family came by our village, wiped out most of us. Those who were left alive were-“

“Enough! Please!” Ominis begged over his own erratic breathing long enough for them both to hear. His hands slammed over his temples, squeezing, as though he could physically push the memories further back and deeper. Hide them inside.

“Ominis…?” Violet questioned, her normal sing-songy tone replaced with a harsh, gravelly one. She was scared…

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he repeated, over and over like a prayer. And once again his knees buckled before her and his knee crashed into the stone, the old ache of a long since healed injury throbbing.

And she looked at him. Bent and broken, brows furrowed in confusion. She looked back at Sebastian, hoping to be met with similar bewilderment.

But instead his eyes watered slightly, a look of sympathy, almost anger, was carved into his stoic features.

“Is she-?” Sebastian started taking a step closer to the trembling crouched form of his best friend…

“I didn’t want to. You have to believe me. I couldn’t…I can’t…” Ominis babbled endlessly, no thought crossed his mind that he didn’t verbalise “…you have no idea what it feels like…I just…”

“You just wanted it to stop…” Violet interjected, her voice soft and quiet.

She knew there was something recognisable about him. She always assumed it was just her mind playing tricks on her, or that he was so easy to get along with that he felt…familiar.

Like she’d known him her whole life.

She gently pushed Sebastian out of the way and placed her hands over Ominis’ whose clung to the side of his head. He flinched, violently from her touch, almost recoiling completely away from her. He gazelessly stared up at her.

“I am so…sorry” his voice was barely there…

“Shhh…I know”

“You cannot take that curse again…I cannot be the reason you feel that curse. Not again” his eyes searched for her fruitlessly, hands now falling to her wrists and clinging somewhat painfully as he implored her to listen to reason. “I can’t hear that again. Don’t make me-“

“Ominis-“

“No” his tone shifting suddenly, his conviction strong. “You will not feel that pain again…”

Days went by after the Scriptorium and Ominis couldn’t be found. After they toiled and argued Ominis eventually made Sebastian cast that curse on him, feeling that same agony that he had felt numerous times, once more. Sebastian looked on in horror as Ominis took the full brunt of an unforgivable…and simply clenched his teeth. Perhaps he had underestimated his friend all these years…

Though despite everyone agreeing, Ominis still forced himself away from them. Both Sebastian and Violet.

He couldn’t face her.

Not now she knew…

But that didn’t stop her from trapping him in the Common Room late one night.

Ordinarily, it was borderline impossible to sneak up on Ominis. His hearing had advanced with his blindness too much for such nonsense. But in this moment, whilst he stood mind wandering in the alcove by the lake, he was too distracted to hear her walk up beside him.

“You’re avoiding me…” she stated, in as soft a tone as possible.

“Can you understand why?” He muttered, no sense in denying it.

“I can. I just wanted you to know you don’t have to…” she said once again her tone flat almost unemotional. “…as far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed”

“What?” He spat, turning on his heel to face her. “Everything has changed”

And she laughed. How could she find humour in such a thing?

“Nothing has changed” she insisted “I still felt that curse, you still torture yourself over it. Nothing has changed”

“You know it was me!” He snapped, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders. He shook her slightly, not believing she could be so…so…

“I do not blame you” she whispered, his face mere inches from hers, brows slammed over his pale eyes. And if she didn’t know him better, she would have assumed he was angry at her. “Ominis…whilst they cursed you, your brother laughed. Your mother insulted and degraded you. I do not blame you for the pain that I felt. I would have done the same.”

“No you wouldn’t…” his voice cracked and his hands loosened around her arms. His shoulders slumped and she could feel the waves of self loathing emanating from him. “…You are kind. And gentle. And-“

“Vengeful” she finished for him, taking his face in her hands “…I am spiteful and angry. If I had magic then I would’ve done anything to stop that pain…as you did”

“I-“

“Listen to me for once will you!” She snapped “You may never forgive yourself…fine. But I forgive you. And you did it to me. Surely that counts for something?”

There was a silence between them that seemed to stretch out forever…

“I am undeserving of your forgiveness. Of your kindness.” He whispered leaning into her hand, into her warmth, her love.

“You are more deserving than most…”

Sorry if the latter half of this is bad, I’m currently going through the worst flu of my life! Sorry!!

Masterlist

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luizd3ad · 3 days

Text

She's My Religion | Lily Evans x Fem!Reader One Shot

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ࣪˖⤷ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ࣪ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ˖ ⤷

Pairing: Lily Evans x Reader

WC:8,636

TW: mentions of abuse, self-doubt, cursing, little bit of homophobia and use of homophobic slur, use of the word Mud-Blood (not used by reader), use of Y/N, Reader is implied to be a Slytherin but not directly specified, mentions of violence, death threats, It’s kinda angsty, but cute at the end.

Author's Note: I’ve never wrote for Lily so I’m sorry if this is out of character or something idk I tried this is also the longest fic I’ve written I didn’t mean for it to be this long😅.

Summary: What happens when Sirius Blacks little sister and Regulus Blacks twin sister starts to fall for the intelligent and beautiful Lily Evans?

I made this cute little mood board idk I just love this tbh

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳

Y/N Black had always been seen as the colder Black out of her and her two brothers and that was saying something especially considering her twin, Regulus.

Regulus and her had been close their whole lifes. Their eldest cousin Andromeda would say they were thick as thieves. Always doing everything together refusing to go or do anything without the other.

But after years of abuse from their partners and then it only getting worse when their older brother Sirius left she closed up, to the point of even icing Regulus out to an extent.

When Regulus made the choice to mend the bond between him and Sirius, Y/N made it clear that she wanted no part in it.

In Y/N’s eyes Sirius didn't care, he didn't love her. She knew he didn't. If he did, why would he leave them? Why would he leave her? Especially with those people.

Sirius had always protected Regulus and Y/N as much as he could. He would take punishment, sneak them food if they were forced to go without.

Eventually protecting them ment having Regulus go to The Potters with him when there was talk of an arranged marriage for Regulus.

Regulus left 12 Grimmauld Place during winter break in their 5th year, Y/N being left once again.

At that point she'd separated herself from everyone who'd cared for her, admittedly it was mostly her brothers but also the few friends she and Regulus shared.

Sirius had tried many times to talk to Y/N but she never budged, she'd rarely spare him a glance. He was shattered, Sirius felt as if he'd lost his baby sister.

Regulus took it worse not that he'd admit that to anyone who wasn't Sirius. He had hoped that she'd forgive them at some point and that she'd join them or at the very least understand why they left but she didn't.

Y/N wouldn't speak, look, or even be in the same room as Regulus if she could help it.

Regulus lost his twin, his other half, his life line and she didn't even seem to care.

But she did care she cared so fucking much.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Despite Y/N being cold and dark to those around her, she was smart.

Some would say smarter than Regulus, definitely smarter than Sirius.

So it came as no surprise to her when the summer between her 5th and 6th year Y/N got word that she was to join the 7th year potions class.

Honestly she didn't care, Walburga was as pleased as she could be and Orion unsurprisingly couldn't care less.

But that's how she found herself being in the potion class the year above and being assigned partners with her.

Lily Evans.

Y/N didn't know much about Lily other than she was friends with her brother and his friends, she was smart, a Gryffindor and muggle-born.

Now Y/N didn't care for blood statues. It never made sense to her, the hatred that so many purebloods held for half-bloods or muggle-borns.

It all seemed barbaric and honestly a waste of time.

So, no Y/N didn't care that she was partnered with someone who was a muggle-born.

She did care however that she was partnered with a friend of Sirius's. And it wasn't just a friend that he would see around and chat up with sometimes no, they were close friends.

This was going to be a problem.

“Hi, I’m Lily! Your Siris’ and Regs’ little sister right?”

Lily stuck out her hand for you to shake with one of the brightest smiles you think you've ever seen.

You simply roll your eyes and dismiss her hand shake.

“I prefer to be called by my name, Y/N, rather than being referred to as Sirius and Regulus' sister.”

Lily drops her hand and her smile falls just a tad, not enough for most people to notice, but you did.

“Of course. I'm sorry, truly.”

“It's fine Evans.”

You say coldly, giving your undivided attention to Slughorn.

The rest of class was spent taking notes mostly with Lily attempting to make small talk every so often. You ignored her for the rest of the class.

You knew Lily was only trying to be nice but you also knew she was only trying to be nice so she could bring up your brothers.

And talking about them was one of the last things you wanted to do.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Days started to pass turning into weeks, weeks turning into months.

You and Lily had been cordial.

You tried your best not to be completely rude to her since she always tried to make small talk and she was kind to you.

You actually grew quite fond of her over time but you didn't think that the two of you were friends by any means.

But you were acquaintances.

And you did like being in her presents.

It had been three months since school had started and Slughorn had announced that there was a project that was due in 2 weeks, right before christmas break would start and you were to work on it with your partner.

You sighed and looked to the side to see a smiling Lily.

You weren’t upset that you had to do a project with Lily considering she was very smart and you liked being around her, but you were upset knowing that you'd have to spend time with her after class and knowing that where she goes her friends were not far most of the time.

Which meant there was a possibility of seeing her friends, which meant a possibility of seeing Sirius and or Regulus more than you'd like.

“Okay Evans we’ll meet at the library after classes are done so we can just get this done. Please refrain from bringing your friends.”

Lily knew what you meant by that, you were asking her to keep Sirius and Regulus away from you.

Lily chuckled and shook her head.

“They go where they please.”

Translation. She couldn't stop either of them, more specifically Sirius, even if she wanted to.

“I see. I'll see you later Evans.”

You sigh once more gathering your things to walk away.

“Bye Y/N.”

It always caught you off guard when she would call you by your first name instead of your surname.

First names were meant for friends, yet she never called you Black.

She only ever called you Y/N, as if you were good friends.

You supposed that was just the type of person Lily was. She was nice to everyone unless they gave her a reason not to be.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

After classes you find yourself entering the library. You were expecting to have to wait for Lily but to your surprise she beat you there.

You walk to the table she was occupying, setting your things down.

Once she notices you she looks up from her seat smiling at you.

She had a very beautiful smile, one that made you feel your heart skip a beat for a moment. But you chose to ignore the feeling, deciding, hoping, it meant nothing.

“How were your classes Y/N?”

Lily asked with genuine curiosity in her eyes.

Did she actually care? She couldn't possibly care about my day. No, she didn't care, she was just asking to be polite. That was all. You tried to convince yourself.

“It was fine… How about you?”

Lily then went on about her day. She told you her favorite thing she learned that day, a joke her friend Mary told her that made you actually crack a small smile.

You couldn't help but hold on to every word that came out of her mouth.

Without you even realizing it Lily talking was easily becoming your favorite part of the days that followed.

You spent every day that week meeting with Lily at the library and you realized you actually really liked spending time with her. She had managed to make you smile a few times which was a rare sight.

Lily had this light to her that you couldn't describe. She was just everything good in the world.

She was funny, smart, sweet, kind, beautiful and you wanted to spend every moment you could with her.

You realized as the weekend grew closer you wouldn't have a reason to see her for two days. That bothered you and you couldn't figure out why.

The two of you were working late in the back of the library. The library was practically empty.

“There's a Hufflepuff party tomorrow night. Are you going?”

“No. Parties aren't really something I enjoy. I’m assuming it’s safe to assume you're going?”

You say giving Lily a small smile.

“Yeah. We're all going… you should come.”

You knew what she meant. Sirius and most likely Regulus were going to be there.

Over the week of working with her she would make little suggestions now and then about seeing or talking to your brothers without blatantly saying so.

You just shook your head looking down at the table.

“I'm okay, thank you for the invitation.”

“Okay well, I'm going to Hogsmeade on sunday. Usually no one comes with me since they're all hungover. Would you like to join me?”

You felt yourself stop breathing. You didn't know why you felt this way.

It was just Lily, but you've never spent time with Lily outside of an academic setting.

Was this for the project? Or were you supposed to hang out as friends? Or was it.. More?

Did you want it to be more?

Before you have the chance to answer or contemplate further, your conversation was interrupted.

“Oi, Black! Three blood traitors wasn’t enough for your line? You decided to become one yourself?”

Avery said, making Mulciber laugh.

You look up at them about to get up but Lily grabs and squeezes your hand telling you to let it go.

So you did.

“Aww isn't that cute? You’re shagging the Mud-blood now? Merlin your whole family is full of a bunch of fuckin’ poof-”

Before he can finish his sentence you have him on the ground holding his nose. You felt what some people would refer to as ‘The Black Family Madness’ cloud your mind.

You thought it was just pure fucking anger, but what did you know?

You look down at Avery while having your wand pointing at Mulciber to keep him where he is, not showing any emotion on your face.

“I could kill you, you know? I could kill both of you. Make it look like self defense. ‘Oh i was so scared they cornered me and I- I didn't know what to do. I was scared for my life'.”

You say the last part in a mocking tone you then crouch in front of Avery looking him dead in the eyes.

“No one would even blink if you two died. Did you know that? I won't do it though because I refuse to risk myself being thrown in Azkaban. Especially for the likes of you, do you know why? It’s simple really, both of your lives put together don't even measure up to mine alone in terms of importance.”

You stand up straight looking at both of them.

“Now you're going to apologize to Evans for caller her such a vile and disgusting name, and if you don’t I will have a letter send to my mother by the end of the night about how I walked in on you two shoving your tongues down each other's throats and how I ‘just don't know what to do!’ and then we can see how your fathers react to just the idea of having ‘poofs’ inside they're line.”

You give them a small smirk while Avery and Mulciber look at each other debating if they're willing to have a rumor like that go around especially since it was a lie.

“And if you think my mother won't believe me. I reassure you, she will. Why would I lie? It wouldn’t benefit me as far as she's concerned and I am as close to a ‘perfect’ child as she'll ever get and if it comes out that the two of you might be shagging then the dirty looks get taken off The Black Family’ and move to The Mulcibers’ and The Averys’. So let's play this one smart boys.”

That seemed to convince Avery enough that he stands up and looks at Lily and forces out an ‘I’m sorry.’

Mulciber is a little more hesitant. You send a Stinging Jinx Mulcibers way, he falls to his knees with a small hiss and looks at Lily.

“I'm sorry Evans, really really sorry.”

Mulcibers cried out

“Now. You're both going to leave Evans alone. You are going to keep her name and both of my brothers' names out of your mouths. Am I understood?”

You say with no emotion on your face once again.

They both let out quiet ‘yes’s’ while scrambling to leave.

After the ‘Madness’ had cleared from your mind it hit you what you did. You didn't feel bad about what you did but you realize you did it all in front of Lily.

You don't even look at her as you start to gather your things.

“I’m sorry Evans, really. I-I should go.”

You ramble out while trying to walk away. Lily grabs your arm stopping you in your tracks.

“I won't lie and say I agree with what you did, but I don't blame you. I also appreciate you standing up for me. I'm not mad or scared of you Y/N.”

“I should have never done that in front of you. I'm sorry, really.”

“It's okay. I promise. Lets stop working tonight, yeah?”

You nod at Lily.

“Yeah. Okay”

“So about Hogsmeade?”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You were sitting by the entrance of Hogwarts looking down playing with the matching serpent ring that Regulus had got for you and him a few birthdays ago.

You've never taken it off.

You were just wearing some plain jeans and a jumper you had stolen from Sirius years ago. You find yourself wearing it when you think you might need moral support and you didn't know why but you felt a need to wear it today.

No matter how hurt you might be from your brothers leaving, you still loved them so much. You didn't necessarily blame them for leaving the house or the family, you just wish they were still with you.

You’re taken out of your thoughts when you hear footsteps coming your way.

You look up and forget how to breathe for a moment.

There she was. Lily fucking Evans walking towards you she was wearing a white long sleeve shirt and a plaid skirt it was so simple but she looked amazing.

Why are you feeling like this? Why does it feel like every time you're in her presents you feel like you can't breathe?

You've never felt this way before.

“Hey Y/N ready to go?”

“Yes.”

You felt like your words were stuck in your throat.

She was just so fucking beautiful.

You didn't talk much on your walk to Hogsmeade. You were too caught up in your head and Lily had noticed that.

“Are you okay Y/N?”

“Yes, I'm fine. How was your party last night?”

You asked, trying to change the subject. LIly knew what you were doing and she let you get away with it.

“It was actually a lot of fun. It would have been a lot more fun if you were there.”

Lily said, sending you a smile.

You just rolled your eyes playfully with a small smile of your own, letting Lily go on about the things that happened. She told you everything that had happened as if she didn't want you to feel left out. You didn't realize how much a little act like that could make your heart speed up a bit.

By the time you had gotten to Hogmaede Lily was laughing at a story about something her friend Marlenne had done, you were just smiling. Whether you were smiling at the story or at her laugh you didn't know and you didn't want to think about it. You just wanted to enjoy the time with her.

At some point Lily grabbed your hand holding it as you went through multiple shops, you tried not to pay too much attention to how her hand felt in yours. There were a few disagreements here and there when you insisted on paying for the things she wanted.

She in her words 'didn't want you to waste your money’ and you just responded with ‘it's not a waste if it's you.’

She finally stopped fighting you after you told her that you loved spending money on things you knew your mother and father wouldn't agree with. It was one of your little acts of rebellion. Which was true but a part of you also just wanted to spoil her.. But she didn't have to know that.

By the time you two had gotten back to the castle it was almost dark. You walked Lily to the Gryffindor tower still holding her hand.

“You know you could come in right? They want to see you.”

Lily said, squeezing your hand gently to reassure you.

Since the school year started and you wouldn't talk to Regulus he stopped coming down to the dungeons if he could help it, he started to stay in the Gryffindor tower. So other than the few classes you shared and the occasional glances across the great hall you haven't seen your twin in months.

It killed a part of you but you were still so angry and hurt.

“Me and you both know that's not a good idea.”

You said looking down. Lily was about to disagree when the portrait opened out walking James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew and last but not least both of your brothers.

You could hear a pin drop in the corridor outside of the Gryffindor common room.

Sirius and Regulus stare at you without saying a word. No one moves, no one says anything.

You look back at Lily with your jaw clenched and drop her hand, putting your hands in your pockets. You didn't miss the hurt that flashes through her eyes but you didn't focus on it. You just had to get out of there.

“I'll see you later Evans, Yeah?”

You say to Lily mustering up a very small smile at her so she knew you were not upset with her.

You started to walk away not even acknowledging the presents of anyone else. You do your best to keep walking away ignore the sound of talking down the hall, trying your best to not spare your brothers another glance

You just weren't ready to talk to them and you didn't even know if they actually wanted to talk to you.

So you just continue walking to the dungeons

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next day Lily rushed into potions class, saying how sorry she was and explaining that she didn't know that was going to happen. It was all just poor timing.

All you could do was smile at her and reassure her that you didn't blame her.

You knew she wouldn't do something like that to you,

As the days passed by getting closer to the middle of the week you and Lily continued to get closer. You both would still meet up after classes in the library to finish up your project, the project that you both knew you could have finished, days ago.

You were coming to expect that you possibly had feelings for the girl but you knew she most likely just saw you as a friend.

You both were packing up for the night, you had finally finished with your project with two days to spare. It was a bittersweet moment.

“Y/N, what are you doing tonight?”

You looked up confused but you had a spark of hope in your chest.

“Nothing, probably go to my dorm, read, sleep… Why?”

“I have rounds tonight till 8:30. Do you want to meet after?”

“Um.. Okay? Yes, I'd like that. Um where should we meet?”

Lily then gave you one of her breath taking smiles obviously excited that you agreed.

“I'll come get you after I'm down, just meet me in front of the dungeons around 9?”

“Okay, Yeah.”

You were caught off guard when Lily walked over to you and hugged you.

The only people to have hugged you were your brothers and even then it had been years. You didn't know what to do for a moment so after some hesitation you hugged her back.

You felt her relax into you for a moment. You could smell her perfume, Strawberries and vanilla.

You reluctantly pulled away after a moment. You could see a light blush on her face and you couldn't imagine that you were any better.

“I'll see you later Evans.”

You say giving Lily a small smile and walking away with your things in hand.

Once you left the library you all but ran to your dorm. Your thoughts consume you.

That was a friend hug right? It had to be. Lily was just nice like that. Are friend hugs supposed to last that long though? You wouldn't know you wouldn't ever let anyone you were friends with hug you.

So then why did you let Lily hug you?

Why did you want to do it again?

Before you knew it it was 8:55 and you were waiting in front of the dungouse. You were still over thinking the hug.

Why was something so simple as a hug throwing you off? It didn't make sense.

You continued to think while absentmindedly playing with your ring. You were so lost in thought that you didn't even notice Lily till she put her hand on yours, stopping you from fidgeting.

You look at her and smile slightly.

“Where exactly are we going Evans?”

You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Now why would I tell you that? Come on.”

Lily gave you a smirk and grabbed you hand leading you to wherever she was taking you. You couldn't help but blush at her holding your hand but you didn't pull away or protest it.

You let out a little chuckle when you finally realized where Lily was leading you.

“Really Evans? The astronomy tower? Seems a little cliché doesn’t it?”

You say with a teasing voice all Lily does is roll her eyes at you as you make it to the top of the tower.

When you get there you see that a few blankets and pillows are lying out.

You just blush again and Lily drags you over and has you sit with her in the pile of blankets and pillows.

“So why here?”

You ask leaning back on your hands.

“It’s just one of my favorite places. I like the stars.”

She says with a little shrug.

“Do you know about Cassiopeia?”

You ask, looking at her as she looks into the sky. Lily just shrugs and looks at you.

“Admittedly I’m not very good at astronomy. I would usually have… um Sirius do my work.”

Lily says looking scared that just mentioning your brother will have you running for the hills.

“Cassiopeia was the queen of Ethiopia; she was married to King Cepheus. One day she had angered Poseidon, she claimed that her and her daughter, Andromeda were more beautiful than the daughters of Nereus. So the sea nymphs, Nereids, asked Poseidon to send a monster to destroy King Cepheus's coast. To appease the monster, Cassiopeia and Cepheus chained Andromeda to a rock as a sacrifice, Perseus rescued Andromeda, but Poseidon still punished Cassiopeia, he took her and hung her in the heavens. Cassiopeia sits on her throne, but during part of the year, she appears upside down in the sky.”

Lily looks at you slightly shocked.

“How do you just know that?”

You chuckle and shake your head lightly.

“Evans, I’m a Black. It’s basically a requirement to know about the stars.”

“Okay fine, tell me about that one.”

She says point at a random constellation.

You tell her about every constellation or star she points at for a while, not noticing that the two of you have subconsciously been moving closer and closer. Eventually your shoulders are touching hands brushing against each other every so often.

“Okay how about that one?”

She pointed at one of the clusters of stars you hoped she wouldn’t have pointed out.

Then again it was bound to happen.

“Canis Major the ‘great dog’ it’s built around Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest star in the sky.”

You say looking down, playing with the ring on your finger.

There’s a silence for a moment, it’s not awkward but not necessarily comfortable either.

“They miss you, you know?”

Lily says, looking at you.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

You say not looking at her at all.

A part of you knew you couldn’t look at her because if you did you’d tell her anything she wanted to know.

“They really do. Sirius and Regulus ask me how you're doing all the time Y/N.”

Lily says grabbing your hand to stop you from playing with your ring once again.

“Lily please.”

You say looking up at her.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat for a moment once you realize how close the two of you are.

You're so caught up in the moment, so captivated by the most beautiful pair of green eyes you've ever seen that you didn't even notice.

You didn't even notice that you called her Lily. Not Evans.

Just Lily.

“You know you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen?”

Lily says, staring at your eyes.

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

You said with a new found confidence. Lily looks down at your lips for a moment and then you both start to lean in slowly.

“Ooooo naughty naughty.”

You both jump at the sound of the most annoying Poltergeist known to man.

After a few minutes of Lily somehow convincing Peeves to not tell on us for being there. You found yourself walking Lily to the Gryffindor common room hand in hand for the second time in a week.

“I hope you had fun tonight, I’m sorry Peeves kinda ruined the night.”

Lily said, stopping in front of the entrance to her common room.

“It's not your fault. You didn't know he would be there. I still had a good time.”

She just smiled at you, not letting go of your hand.

“I had a lot of fun too.”

You desperately didn't want the night to end but you didn't know how to express that. You weren't blind you could tell Lily most likely had some kind of feelings for you. There was just a part of you that was still so scared of being rejected or left.

“It's getting late so we should go to bed.”

You say ruining your thumb over her knuckles.

“What if I said I didn't want to go to bed yet?”

Lily said, stepping closer to you.

You just smile and let out a little sigh looking her in the eyes.

“I would then say that as much as I don't want this night to end, we've already been caught once and it's late, we have class tomorrow and I wouldn't want to see you tired… though under different circumstances I would love to see you tired.”

You say to her while smirking at her with confidence that you didn't know you had.

Lily just looks at you speechless blushing more than you think you've ever seen her before. You then dare to kiss her cheek softly.

“Goodnight, Lily.”

You whisper while sending a small smile towards her, not waiting for a response you start to walk away.

This had been one of the best nights of your life.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Even though you had finished your projects you and Lily found yourselves still meeting in the library after classes leading up to break.

You both had been more affectionate in your own ways, Lily had started bringing you little snacks and water because she thought you didn't eat enough or drink enough water.

You were just constantly holding her hand or hugging her when you got the chance. It didn't go farther than that physically but you two started shamelessly flirting more often.

Finally it was the day before everyone would leave for christmas break you had just turned in your project to Slughorn.

You were gathering your things to leave for the next class when you were hit with an idea.

“Lily, do you want to.. Maybe hang out tonight?”

You asked nervously while a faint blush took over your face. You don't know why you're so nervous. You had hung out with Lily so many times at this point, it should feel normal.

She smiled at you and nodded.

“Yeah. I'd like that.”

“Okay. meet me at the astronomy tower. Around 8?”

“Really Y/N the astronomy tower? How cliché.”

Lily says in a teasing tone.

“Hahaha, just meet me there okay?”

You gave Lily’s hand a little squeeze, sending her a smile.

After classes that day you got together a little picnic basket of all the candies and food that Lily had told you she liked at one point or another.

You had gone and set everything up so you went back to your dorm to change into your favorite outfit. Finally it was time to meet Lily you found her eventually and smiled at how beautiful she looked.

“So where are we going?”

Lily asked as you walked up to her.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

You say sending her a small smirk as she rolled her eyes.

“Yes I actually would.”

“You'll find out soon, calm down.”

You say grabbing her hand and leading her up to the third floor of the astronomy tower, you then let go of Lily’s hand walking in front of the blank wall while Lily looks at you curiously.

Soon the door for the Room of Requirements appears and the look Lily gives you is priceless.

“Is this the Room of Requirement?”

You nod while opening the door for her.

“Yeah. I found it in my third year. It's my own little part of the school, where no one can bother me unless I let them. You're the first person I've brought here.”

The room is full of books and a big fireplace with large comfy couches and a record player with all your favorite records next to it.

Next to the fireplace is the little picnic you had set up. Lily lets out a soft gasp as she sees the set up.

You both sit down and look at each other for a while. It's a soft moment, it feels like you both just needed to take each other in for a moment.

“So it's your last christmas here. Are you going home?”

You ask, taking a bite of a chocolate wand after.

“No. We all decided to stay here for our last christmas. Are you staying?”

“Yes. I'd rather spend Christmas in the dungeons then go back to Grimmauld Place.”

You say shaking your head with a sigh.

“Y/N, I know you try to avoid talking about this but just hear me out and if you don't want to talk about it after, I will leave it be, okay?”

You sigh already knowing where this conversation is going but you decided to hear Lily out anyway. You nod your head letting her know that she can continue.

“You said it yourself. This is mine and Sirius’s last Christmas at Hogwart. This is probably the last chance the three of you have to spend a Christmas together. They miss you Y/N, honestly they do. My sister doesn't talk to me anymore because I'm a witch and I miss her everyday. I don't want to see you go through that. I don't want you to regret not seeing your brother when you had the chance.”

You take a moment to think about it. You already knew if you didnt make up with them soon you'd regret it. Hell you already regretted it.

You remembered how heartbroken Narcissa was when she found out that Andromeda had a baby. Narcissa knew she would never be able to meet her niece. You didn't want that. You didn't want your brothers to have families and you not be involved. You knew that if you didnt get over this pettiness that there was a large possibility that that was exactly the path you were heading down.

“Okay. when everyone leaves tomorrow. I'll see them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah Lils. You're right after all. I don't want to not be a part of my brothers’ lives.”

Lily just gives you a hug whispering how proud of you she was.

Lily understood how hard this was for you. She knew you were hurt even if you never flat out said it to her.But it was time for you to get over it before you lost the only family you ever really cared for.

You and Lily spend the rest of the night talking and laughing. For a moment you forget the anxiety that will consume you tomorrow.

You'll be fine. As long as you have Lily by your side you know you'll be fine.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You waited at the entrance of the Gryffindor common room anxiously playing with the ring on your finger.

Why did you agree to this? Were you really ready to face your brothers? What if they hated you? What if they wanted nothing to do with you?

You were so caught up in your thoughts you didn't even notice your favorite red head till she touched your hands stopping you fidgeting with your ring one again.

You looked up at her, the anxiety obvious on your face.

“They want to see you. I promise.”

She gives you a comforting smile keeping her hand on yours.

“What if I fuck this up? What if I lose them for good?”

You feel the burning behind your eyes trying not to cry.

“They love you so much Y/N. All you have to do is try.”

You nod, keeping Lily’s hand in yours letting her lead you into the portrait of Elizabeth Spriggs aka ‘The Fat Lady’.

Once you walk into the common room you notice it seems uncharacteristically quiet.

You look and see two matching sets of gray eyes looking at you. You take a deep breath still trying to hold back the tears.

It's been close to a year since you talked to Sirius, quite a few months since you talked to Regulus.

“Sirius, Regulus.”

You say in a neutral voice not making eye contact with either of them.

There's a moment of silence and stillness, a part of you considers running out of the room but before you can act on that though you're being tackled into a hug by your eldest brother. You couldn't help but let a few tears fall as you hold Sirius and you can tell he's crying just the same.

Sirius cups your face with both of hands after a few moments to look at you with tears streaming down his face.

“I'm never letting you go again, you hear? I'm not losing my baby sister again.”

You let out a little sob and hug Sirius again putting your head on his chest.

“Sirius, Y/N why don't we go somewhere with a smaller audience.”

Regulus said in all his stoic glory.

“Yeah. Regs right. We'll go to my room, alright?”

You give a small nod to Sirius then leads you to his shared dorm room while Regulus follows behind.

You honestly didn't even notice the other people in the room until Regulus said something.

It wasn't many people, it was just ‘The Marauders’ as they call themselves and Lily but Regulus knew you would be more comfortable with just you three and you knew Regulus felt the same.

Once you get to Sirius room you look at Regulus for the first time in months.

“I’m sorry Regulus. I really am.”

You say trying to hold tears back once again.

“You ignored me. You ignored me for months Y/N.”

You look down ashamed playing with your ring once more.

“I know Regulus and if I could go back I would but I can’t. I was just hurt. Sirius left and that hurt so fucking much but at least I had you. Then you left, and I understand why you did but then I was just by myself. It nearly killed me to be alone with mother and father.”

You said taking a deep breath.

“I told you to come with me. Why didn’t you come?”

Regulus said with so much hurt in his voice it felt like someone ripped your heart out.

“I was afraid. I was afraid that I was too much like them. That if I would have gone, I would have tainted whatever good you made for yourselves.”

“You are nothing like them. Neither of you are. I made sure of that. Y/N if you were like them you wouldn’t be friends with Lily and Regulus if you were you would have never reached out for help.”

Sirius says while holding you against him once again.

“I really am sorry Reg.”

You look up at regulus with your tear stained face.

Regulus’s eyes softened and before you knew it, Regulus had taken you from Sirius arms and hugged you tighter than you had ever been hugged before but you didn’t mind.

You both cried into each other's arms for the first time in years.

Sirius hugged both of you and for a moment you just sat there in your brother's arms enjoying every second of it.

“So, you and Lily huh?”

Sirius says in a teasing voice. You pushed him away and glared at him.

“Shut up.”

You say with a slight pout. Regulus and Sirius just give each other a knowing look as you roll your eyes and scoff.

“I hate you both. Did you know that?”

“Nah, you love us too much baby sister.”

Sirius says ruffling your hair as you swat his hands away.

“Wait. Is that my jumper?”

“… No. You’re crazy. The Black Family Madness is catching up with you Siri.”

Sirius and you start to argue as if no time had passed. Regulus just smiles at you two feeling grateful to have this back.

You spend the rest of the break with your brothers mostly but also with the marauders and Lily.

You got to know them all.

You took a liking to Remus quickly bonding over your favorite books.

You and Peter got along well enough playing chess together often, since he would insist on rematches because you would continuously beat him.

James admittedly was harder not that you didn’t like him but a part of you had blamed him for Sirius leaving for so long that it was hard to get past that and it showed. It wasn't until christmas eve when James had pulled you aside for a moment when you felt yourself grow comfortable with him.

“You know, you don't have to go back there right?”

“What do you mean Potter?”

You looked at him with raised eyebrows as he sat next to you on the couch you were now occupying.

“You don't have to go back to Grimmauld Place. You could be with your brothers again, I already wrote mum and dad. They said they'd be more than happy to have another Black join the Potters. I mean what's another one, yeah?”

James said with a small smile, lightly bumping your shoulder with his.

“Are you sure? I don't-”

“Yes. I know. You don't want to over step or be a burden and I know you don't think you deserve it, but you do. Merlin's beard, you and your brother are just the same. I will never understand the treatment your parents put the three of you through. But what I do know is that you three deserve good things in your lives. You deserve so much more than what your parents put you through. You are worth so much more than what they made you believe you were. You deserve to be loved, to be safe and to be happy. Y/N you will always have a home with us, plus… I've always wanted a little sister.”

You didn't say anything, you just hugged James and nodded your head.

Off to the side watching the interaction between you and James was your brothers, for the first time in years Regulus and Sirius knew the three of you would be safe and they couldn't be happier.

They liked seeing you interact with the people that they’ve grown close with and getting to see you actually happy every so often was just a bounce.

But your brothers weren’t the only ones who liked it.

Lily loved seeing you interact with all of them.

You seemed so alive.

She’d never seen you act like that with anyone but her. She loved seeing you smile and laugh. She loved seeing you and your brothers truly happy.

This was her favorite Christmas so far.

You had made it her favorite Christmas.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You felt better than you had in months, no, years.

You had your brothers back and for the first time in years. The three of you were getting along and you knew you would finally be safe.

You also knew it was because of Lily as well.

She was the fire in your darkness, she gave you light, warmth and she felt so happy and safe.

Everything felt good for once. But if you knew anything, you knew that wasn't going to last.

“You don't actually think she loves you do you?”

You turn to see none other than Severus Snape leaning by the entrance to the dungeons. You raise your eyebrow at him questioningly.

You don't really talk to Snape unless it was necessary you never really liked him or the company he kept in recent years. So for him to start any conversion with you was rare.

“What are you on about Snape?”

“Lily.”

He states as if it's obvious.

“What about Lily?”

Your interest obviously peaked at hearing the name of your favorite Gryffindor.

“She'll never love you. She loves Potter.”

He says in a monotone voice. You scoff rolling your eyes.

“I don't know why I'm bothering with this nonsense.”

You turn to walk away muttering to yourself.

“She and Potter kissed, you know. The other week, at a Hufflepuff party. I saw them. Potter has been pining for Lily since our first year. It seems he finally got what he was after.”

You stood there shocked, confused, frozen with your jaw now clenched.

That couldn't be true. Lily wouldn't do that and if she did she'd tell you right? I mean you were… whatever you are, right?

And James wouldn't do that. He had all but flat out asked you to be his sister.

Snape was lying, he had to be. He was spreading lies about Lily. He just had to be. You wouldn't stand for that. You felt ‘The Madness’ creep in once again.

In one swift motion you had Snape pinned against the wall with your wand pointed at his neck.

“You will not speak of Lily again. You will not look at her, speak to her. You will not breathe the same air as her and if you do. I will kill you. Do I make myself clear?”

You say with murderous eyes.

Snape would never admit it but he was scared. He's only ever seen you as cold, emotionless. This was far from emotionless.

“Crystal.”

Snape said, trying to hide his emotions as best as he could.

You walk away without another glance stuck in your head.

He had to be lying right? But why would he lie? Nothing made sense. Maybe he wasn't lying.

Stupid. You were so fucking stupid.

How could you think someone like Lily Evans would like someone like you.

Lily brings life to everything she touches, she was sweet, caring, kind she was fucking perfect.

You were a Black, enough said.

You were angry, mean, rude, it was in your blood to ruin everything you touch.

It wasn't her fault that you thought you might actually have a chance, that you developed a stupid crush, it was your fault for being stupid enough to think that it was ever a possibility.

I mean maybe you and Lily were just friends. Maybe you misunderstood?

You couldn't blame her but that didn't mean it hurt less.

The first person you started putting your walls down for the first time in years obviously didn't care about you the way you cared for her.

So you did what you did best when people would hurt you.

You avoided and ignored her. You managed to avoid Lily for a few days skipping potions class, leaving the library when you would see her walk in.

Sirius was quickly getting irritated with your antics. He had been pestering you as to why you were avoiding Lily but you wouldn’t tell him or Regulus.

If they knew she would find out.

So you just kept avoiding her and avoiding answering any questions your brothers would ask.

Eventually she found you and tried to talk to you which led to you ignoring her. It killed you to see the look on her face but it was necessary to protect yourself. You tried to convince yourself that it would be easier after a week.

It wasn't.

For either of you apparently.

Lily had managed to find you in the library while you were looking for a book to distract yourself with. You had put your guard down for a moment. You didn't even know she was there till she spoke.

“Y/N.”

She had said to gain your attention, when you realized there wasn't anywhere for you to go you decided to just get it over with to stop avoiding your problems for the first time in your life.

You rolled your eyes and sighed looking at her for the first time in a week.

“What the hell do you want Evens? Shouldn't you be with your boyfriend, Potter?”

You say to Lily in a monotone voice looking her in the eyes.

“What are you talking about? I'm not dating James, I don't want him!”

You felt all the anger and insecurity start to cloud your brain. She was lying. How dare she lie to you. You were damned if you were made a fool once again.

“You're such a liar Evans. Snape told me everything about how Potter has been pining for you for years! How he saw you two kiss at the Hufflepuff party! I can't believe I was stupid enough to believe you'd actually like me. I can't believe I was stupid enough to think Potter would actually look at me as a sister.”

You whisper yelled with your jaw clenched while the back of your eyes burned trying to hold back tears.

“Me and James didn’t kiss I swear-”

You scoff, turning to walk away deciding you were done with this conversation, but Lily grabbed you by the arm, tapping you against the bookshelf.

“I didn't kiss James.He's a great friend but nothing more to me, and he does care for you, I know he does. But I don't want him, I want you. I've wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you. I love everything about you. I love how loyal you are, how even if you didn’t talk to your brother you'd never let anyone speak ill of them. How despite being raised to hate someone like me you never held something as stupid as my blood statutes against me. I love how smart you are. How you cover your smile when you laugh. How your eyes light up when youre reading a book you enjoy. How when you get anxious you play with your ring. Everything. Can’t you see that?”

You searched her eyes trying to see if there was any lie, but all you saw was the truth. She meant every word and it scared you.

Lily then cupped your cheek wiping away a tear you didn't know was there.

“Why would you want me? I'm cold, rude, cynical and angry all the time. I'm not a great person...”

Lily scoffs playfully while smiling.

“You're no angel but you’re my everything Y/N. To me you light up the room, you don't take shit from anyone, you stand up for what you believe and I hope you'll never change. You showed me that I'm enough. I'll never stop wanting you. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Lily whispers the last part brushing her nose against yours.

“What if I hurt you?”

You whisper your voice breaking a little.

“You'll probably hurt me a few times and I'll probably hurt you a few times but that's okay as long as we work it out together, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The anger and insecurity finally unclouding your brain letting you take in how close you two are.

Lily's hand is still cupping your cheek while her other hand is on your hip pressing you slightly in the bookshelf while she's pressed against you.

Lily's eyes flicker down to your lips and you nod softly letting her know it was okay.

You both lean in, your lips touching for the first time.

You felt warmth go through your whole body. It was beyond a spark or fireworks. It felt as if a bomb had been dropped on you.

That kiss broke something in you.

But it wasn't bad.

It had broken down every wall that you spent years building up brick by brick.

In just a moment Lily Evans had managed to do something to you, that you and so many other people thought impossible.

She healed a part of you.

Her lips were so soft they felt like silk against yours.

It felt like she was made to be with you.

It's soft and sweet, at first. Then it felt consuming. She was all around you and you didn't want it to be any other way.

You could only feel her, her hand squeezing your hip as your hand was on the back of her head pulling her closer.

You could only smell her cherry and vanilla perfume. It made you dizzy with how intoxicating it was.

You had forgotten that you were in public for a moment that was until you heard a throat clear.

Both of you pulling away with hot faces you look to see a very amused and smirking Remus Lupin.

“Finally. I was afraid neither of you would ever actually make a move. Just wait till Sirius hears about this.”

You groan, throwing your head back against the bookcase while Remus and Lily laugh at your expense.

You never expected for anyone to be able to break down your walls, to fall for someone.

Especially not someone like Lily.

But fuck were you happy that she did.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳

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