Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Roger found me in the Owlery. I had written an outline of potential responses for my parents. Like I was preparing them for court. And, I was. If the Ministry was going to barge into my home, interrogate my parents, demanding answers for things they didn’t under half the vocabulary for- then I wanted them to be ready.

I should have been asleep, instead I was sitting on the inside steps of the Owlery with six sheets of parchment spread around me. My drafts of interview preparation, my ideas of what potential questions the Ministry could ask, layered responses.

The wind pushed through the arches overhead. Owls shifted in their nests. Feathers drifted lazily through the moonlight.

I crossed out another sentence.

If asked whether your daughter demonstrated unusual magical behavior before Hogwarts-

"Flowers?"

I nearly launched myself off the step attached to the wall. The owls around me scattering from the movement.

Roger stood halfway up the staircase, breathing harder than normal.

"Merlin," I said, putting a hand to my heart.

"You vanished." He murmured.

"I walked upstairs."

"You vanished upstairs."

"Different."

Roger looked unconvinced, and his eyes dropped to the parchment spread around me. He was doing an intake of his one, "What is all this?"

I extended my leg off the stool, kicked some of the papers, and replied, “Preparation for my parents."

Roger crouched beside me and picked one of them up, when he started reading it. I regretted everything I wrote down.

His brow furrowed, then furrowed further. He picked up another one, then gathered all of them into a tidy stack of papers.

He said my name. The tone immediately told me I was in trouble. And I hated being in trouble with Roger. He sounded more disappointed rather than upset. I’d never see him upset, just saddened. His reactions were less blowing up at the universe and more like he was trying to contain the thumps in his chest.

"This is an interview strategy. You’ve made sections and color-coded them,” he says. Then, Roger sighed, “Oh, pet.”

He puts the papers down on the ground next to me.

The sympathy nearly killed me. I picked at a feather that had found itself in my hair.

"If the Ministry questions them, they should be prepared." I explain, turning the feather over and around in my hand.

Roger sat down beside me, even though I know the stone floor is freezing. He didn’t seem to mind it. He reaches over, hand hovering over the feather. Asking for permission. I give it to him, he brushes the individual feathers, arranging them into order.

“Prepared for what?” He asks.

I bite my lip, “For everything.”

He muses for a bit.

Then he puts the feather in my pocket. I had left my hand in my pocket, causing our hands to brush. The splotchy red bursts onto his face again, but he does a good job of not making it into anything in particular. His fingers twitch for a second before he slides his hand back out. Not making it into a big deal. A pair of owls above us swoop down and start preening at each other in the center of the room.

“How long have you been up here, pet?” His eyes narrow a little, looking up at me. I’d been sitting on the stool so he was looking up at me. His forearms rested against his knees, which he’d drawn up into his body slightly.

"Since dinner?" I say, unsure of myself.

His expression darkened.

"Since lunch?" I try a little more honesty. Suddenly the pair of owls in the center of the room seemed much more interesting.

"Merlin, Flowers." He rubs his eyes, "You haven't slept."

"I'm fine."

"No." He corrects me. “No, you aren’t.

The wind rattled through the Owlery. The smaller white owl clicked her beak. The bigger brown owl hoots.

Roger picks up one of the pages, I’d written that one for dad. Explaining how to answer questions he didn’t understand. What blood status is. What I was. Dark magic. Investigations. Hogwarts role in the magic world. Questions no museum curator from Galway should ever have to answer.

Roger stared at the page for a long moment. Then folded it carefully.

"Your parents love you very much."

I swallowed, “That isn’t the issue here Roger.”

"I know,” he says barely above a whisper, “And they are lucky to have you."

I laughed humorlessly. “Roger.”

"I'm serious, Flowers. You’re trying to protect them, pet.”

My throat tightens, dries out. I was trying to hard to protect them. That’s exactly what I was doing. Trying. Failing. Trying again.

Roger continued, “But this won't save them."

The stars beyond the Owlery arches blur. I feel itchy.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" I mumble, sucking in short bouts of breath to try and control the tightness in my chest.

"You let them be your parents." He says, "They’ve spent eighteen years protecting you. I think they'd be devastated if they knew you were sitting in a freezing owl tower trying to fight the Ministry by yourself."

Something in my chest cracked. Enough so that I couldn’t look at him anymore. Because if I did, I knew the tears would spill. Roger, curse him, noticed that too. He pretended to find intrigue in the pair of owls in front of us. Giving me everything I wanted, recovery, time, dignity.

He’d always been good at this. Always had been.

***

“Oi!” Roger shouts, shoving through the crowd of students. He puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder and pushes him back. “Leave her be, mate.”

I’d found myself face to face with the brat of the school. The lead of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad. And a sniffling, bloodied Ravenclaw second-year stood next to me. Draco was holding my biscuit tin in his hands, he’d taken it from my bag. My things were strewn about on the ground.

The school day was over and all I wanted was to put dittany on Isla’s hand and go to my dorm to sleep. Isla, as if reading my mind, sniffles again.

Draco sneers, eyes flicking between us like we’re something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe, “She can speak for herself,” Draco drawls.

I’m trying to muster up a response. But I can’t. Sound isn’t forming properly. But I do use my arm to push Isla more behind me.

“Yeah,” Roger says evenly, stepping in front of me, “she can. She’s just choosing not to do it right now. Mate.”

His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t sharpen. It just lands.

Roger shifts a fraction closer to me. Not aggressive. Just recalibrating the space like he’s already decided I’m not standing in it alone. I tap Isla, and she scurries away. I can’t see any prefects around. Where the hell was help when you needed it.

Draco rolls his shoulder lazily, “All those little visits,” he continues. “All those bandages disappearing from the Hospital Wing…”

The silence in the corridor increased. People were clocking that they could get a good dose of gossip if they shut their traps. Appropriate behavior followed. Silence followed. There are ways information spreads in Hogwarts that don’t involve conversation. Observations. Patterns. People notice the wrong student leaving the library too often with ink-stained hands and healing salves that never quite make it onto official records.

Draco’s gaze sharpens into something like the edge of a razor blade.

“I wonder what Umbridge would think,” he says lightly. “Students practicing unsanctioned healing. Interfering with discipline.”

Roger’s voice stays calm, “What do you want, Malfoy?”

Draco looks delighted by the question, “Oh, I don’t want anything,” he tilts his head toward me, “I’m just thinking Headmistress should know. Properly. About the little underground clinic she’s running.”

Roger’s hand shifts slightly- not touching me, but close enough that I can feel where it would be if I moved. Roger reacts to Draco’s certainty. That’s what I notice about him, even now. Roger doesn’t get pulled into the emotional surface of a threat.

He goes straight to its mechanics, “How would you explain that?” Roger asks mildly.

Draco shrugs, “I don’t need to. I just need to mention it to the right person.” Draco’s eyes trail my stuff strewn about. He drops the biscuit tin, the bottles of salve crack across the floor. I react with a flinch and Draco continues, “Umbridge already likes you, doesn’t she? Imagine what she’d do if she knew you were patching up her students behind her back.”

I feel like vomiting.

Roger exhales once through his nose, “That’s a lot of effort for someone you claim isn’t worth it,” he says.

Draco smiles again, “Oh, I’m not doing it for effort,” he says softly. “I’m doing it for leverage.”

I tightly squeeze my fists, nails making half-moons in my palms. This isn’t about Umbridge finding out. It’s about making sure I know he can make her find out.

Roger steps closer to Draco, “What do you want?” he repeats, same question- but colder this time. Not emotional. Structural.

Draco’s eyes flick between us, “I want her to stop. It’s messing up the proper flow of hierarchy you know? You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” Draco continues, as if he’s being reasonable now. “All of this little charity work. It’s messy. And it’s loud, even when you think it isn’t.”

Roger looks at him for a long moment, “And if she doesn’t?”

“I suppose I’ll have to tell Umbridge. And maybe mention her parents while I’m at it.”

I can already see it unfolding. Letters. Investigations. Officials at the door. My father trying to explain Renaissance sculptures to people who think curiosity is suspicious. My mother’s hands shaking anxiously as she answers questions, wondering what exactly her daughter is learning at school.

“That’s not a negotiation,” Roger says quietly.

Draco lifts his eyebrows, “No?”

“No,” Roger repeats, “But you are standing in a corridor at Hogwarts trying to blackmail someone into silence.”

For the first time, Draco’s smile falters.

And behind me, I feel it- George arriving before I hear him properly. The air changes. It’s heavier and denser now.

“Say it again,” George says. Asking Draco to rehash the threats he’d been throwing my way.

“Oh,” Draco says, amused again. “Flowers the mudblood collecting strays left and right. Although I suppose it suits you doesn’t it? You get the best of both worlds. A mutt Weasley to fight your battles. And a goody-too-shoes Ravenclaw to cuddle up to after.”

I push Roger and George out of the way.

I slap Draco. Draco raises his hand to me. My body stiffens in response.

Roger’s already pulling me back into him, and George had Draco by the collar. Draco is tugging at George’s hands.

George looks at me, ignoring Draco’s complaints, “You aight love?”

I nod too quickly, “I’m fine.”

My red hand mark is blooming on Draco’s pale skin. I would apologize. If Draco wasn’t being a right foul git.

George’s jaw tightens like he doesn’t believe me being okay, but he lets it sit for now, shaking Draco a little, “Let’s talk about what you were just saying,” George says.

Roger exhales, “George,” he warns.

Not because he’s worried about Draco escalating something. Roger is focused on keeping me safe. George is running on a sense of vindication.

Draco looks between them, satisfied now in a way that makes my skin crawl, “Careful,” he says lightly. “Wouldn’t want Umbridge hearing about your little underground healer.”

Draco’s posse of Goyle and Grabbe let out a low ‘ohhh’ like it meant something. Draco’s built a triangle where every single reaction is costing me something different. Roger is the only one trying to remove me from the geometry entirely.

When Roger finally speaks again, it’s to Draco, still calm, “Walk away.”

Roger pulls George’s hands off of Draco, then steps back.

Draco looks me right in the eyes. Past George. Past Roger. “I’m not asking for much. Just a little cooperation. Stop your little clinic. Stop interfering. And I won’t mention it to Umbridge. And I won’t have to bring up the matter of your parents’ file either.”

Roger’s voice cuts in, “Stop talking. You’ve said what you came to say. So here’s what’s going to happen.” Even Draco listens. That’s what makes Roger dangerous in a different way- people don’t realise they’re already complying until he’s halfway through removing their options, “You’re going to walk away. And you’re going to forget you ever thought this was leverage you could use in a hallway.”

Draco gives a small laugh, “You think you can just tell me—”

“You’re being given an exit.” Roger says, “I’d take it.

Draco tries to make everything feel like a game of pressure. Roger treats it like a system with escape routes and failure points. Like he’s already calculated how far Draco can push before it becomes self-damaging.

There’s nothing emotional to hook into. No anger to feed.

Behind me, George shifts. Tension threaded through him like wire, “Draco, I dare you to say it again,” George says. I want to shove George out of the hall. Roger had just de-escalated this. And now George was feeding the fire again.

“Oh,” Draco says softly, eyes flicking between them. “Flowers really does collect strays,” he says. “Which one is better? Which one of these blood-traitors does a better job of sucking up to you? Licking your wounds?”

George twitches like he’s going to slam his fist into Draco’s nose.

“I’m going to say this once more,” Roger explains, talking like he’s explaining addition to a child. “Just, take the favor. Go away.”

Draco hesitates. Roger doesn’t win by overpowering people. He wins by making escalation unnecessary.

“Whatever,” Draco mutters, stepping back. “This isn’t over.”

When Draco finally leaves, George watches him go like he’s memorizing where to hit later.

George makes me feel defended in the moment. But Roger makes me feel like the moment was never allowed to become dangerous in the first place. I don’t know which one is scarier to the people standing across from us. But I know which one I can survive longer.

The crowd slowly fades away. Sinks away as students focus on getting some dinner. The argument has satiated their human desire for contention. Their stomachs still needed to be filled though.

I’m staring at the space Draco left.

Roger is on his knees, picking up my stuff. Using his wand to make the broken glass come back together. Causing potions to evaporate. He’s putting my quills back into their plastic case, the plastic case that’s usually for mechanical pencils that I repurposed. I had some yellow smiley face stickers plastered on it in varying stages of getting worn down.

George mutters, “Next time he’s not getting an out. You can’t let him get away with shit like this Davies.”

“Not now.” Roger says, “Not worth it.”

“Still hate him,” George says flatly.

“Noted,” Roger replies.

Fred finds his way to us, walking against the current of students. He takes George with him to the Gryffindor common room. They chatter amongst themselves.

***

George and Fred staged their dramatic get-away. And managed to actually do it too. They blew up the exams. Fireworks bursting everywhere. And then, gone.

Roger wasn’t gone though. He was anything but gone. Assisting with my mini-hospital. Sitting with me in the owlery feeding crumbs of bread to the owls. I had garnered a large collection of owl feathers. Every time I thought a feather was pretty and picked it up, I pocketed it. Slowly, Roger had done the same. Picking the best feathers and giving them to me.

I was asking questions to Pomfrey. And Roger was sitting with us too, around her office desk.

Pomfrey finally shoved us out of her office after deciding she'd tolerated enough questions for one evening.

The door clicked shut behind us.

I opened the notebook she'd given me. Roger reached over and shut it. Leaving his hand on top of the cover, pressing it down into my hands.

I looked up.

He looked back, “Absolutely not.”

"I wasn't even doing anything." I muttered.

"You were absolutely doing something."

I roll my eyes, admitting intent to this judge, "I was about to start reading."

"You were about to walk into a wall while reading."

"I can multitask." I claim.

I looked ahead at the path before Roger and I. The wall was significantly closer than I'd realised. Roger laughed. The sound caught me off guard enough that I forgot to be defensive. We started walking in time with each other, and I could tell he was tripping himself up slightly with having to match my pace. He’d scratched to a halt when his shoes skidded at one point.

A few steps later he added, "You know, Pomfrey threatened to lock you in a cupboard."

"She says that with affection."

"She does not."

I bumped his shoulder. Roger nearly tripped. Which immediately made me grin, as I covered my face with the notebook.

Roger scanned me from shoes to the top of my head, "Oh, that's how we're behaving today?"

“I can be a little naughty, you know.”

His throat bobbed.

"You know," Roger says, "most people thank someone when they save them from walking into architecture."

"I was perfectly aware of the wall."

Roger shakes his head. I hate when he does that, because every time he laughs his whole face changes. Eyes crease, shoulders loosen, seriousness dissipates. And suddenly, he became just a boy. A very nice boy. An attractive boy who catches me staring. With nice black hair that he’s managed to cut in a very nice way.

I force my head to inspect my shoes, but Roger doesn’t let me hide from the interaction. He follows my eyeline, then leans down to catch my eyes again.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, actually wanting an answer.

"Nothing." I lied.

Better lie than let him know I was thinking about his hair. Or his face. Or his spectacularly wide shoulders.

His ears are turning red again.

Wonderful.

Now we're both idiots.

***

On Easter evening, the walls seemed to breathe easier.

Umbridge was gone. I didn’t have to hold my breath. Some kids still kept coming to me for help with little cuts and bruises. I’d take that over blood quills anyday.

I got a letter from my mum.

The Ministry said they found nothing worth investigating. Nothing out of the usual for Muggles with a magical child. I almost started crying into my salad. Maria and Ian asked if I was alright, to which I just nodded furiously. I shoved the letter into my bra and bolted out of the Great Hall.

I wondered what kind of letter they thought I’d gotten. I didn’t really explain anything to them.

Because I was running around, trying to find Roger to tell him the news.

He was at the Quidditch pitch, hovering in the sky and throwing a Quaffle around, trying to fly quick enough to catch it before it fell to the ground.

I jumped up and down, waving the paper.

“Roger!”

He was climbing into the sky.

“Roger!” I repeated, trying to jump higher.

I finally caught his eye. He loses focus for a moment while I’m pulling the letter out of the front of my shirt. The Quaffle falls and hits him in the back.

He rushes down to the grounds, when his feet touch down, he starts running, his broom forgotten.

The impact of force was still within his body, so when he tried to stop in front of me, he was still technically going forward. To prevent slamming into me, he puts his hands on my hips and we both shift backwards a few steps. My heels stumble a little into the wooden barrier of the Quidditch field.

I lose my footing, but he keeps me upright.

“Pet?” He’s panting, worried. He’s still sweaty from the drills he was running by himself.

“Read this,” I handed it to him with giddiness apparent enough for anyone to see.

He scans the letter, by the time he reaches the second paragraph, he looks up at me. Then his eyes flit back down, trying to finish reading the third paragraph. His shoulders visibly fall, loose and overwhelmingly calm.

“It’s a miracle.”

“Isn’t it brilliant!?” I grab his shoulders and start shaking them back and forth.

A grin cracks across his face. One of his hands is still on my hip.

“I’m happy for you,” he says, then he tucks his face into my neck, hugging tightly, “I was so bloody worried that something was going to happen to your parents. Merlin, Flowers, I was going to beg Chester to do something about it.”

His nose is cold.

I hadn’t realized it, but somewhere along the way, Roger had been just as anxious as I had been about the Ministry investigating my parents.

I leaned back onto the wall, and Roger stepped forward with me, both of us relieved and unbelievably happy.

***

Maria was knitting. She only did that when she was pensive. Ian had officially asked her out, no teasing, all sincere. All genuine. She was considering what she should do about it. She wouldn’t take advice from me though- so she went straight to thinking it through by weaving thread into a productive piece of clothing.

Ian laughed, “Rogerrrrr. Relax~ Eres muy atractivo por lo que no te preocupes. Let’s go in.”

I can hear Roger groan.

“I’d really rather not. If possible.”

Ian knocked on the door, “Is anyone still in there?”

Maria raises an eyebrow at me, then whispers slowly, “What do you think those two are up to?”

I flipped to another page in my book, it was about practical applications of Gillyweed in relieving issues related to drowning or fluid build-up in lungs.

“It doesn’t concern us, Maria.”

She flips her long black hair behind her shoulder. Collarbones exposed due to wearing an off the shoulder red top. One that she had knitted herself. She sighs. The metal of her knitting needles lightly clinked against each other with each movement.

Ian continues talking loudly, “No one’s still in the common room at this hour.”

“But what if.”

“You’re gonna risk splinching yourself over this?”

“...No.”

When Ian answers the puzzle question, Roger and Ian walk into the common room. Both shirtless, both wearing bronze coloured sweatpants, both very woozy.

“Bloody hell.” Roger stuttered.

Ian doubled over laughing, shoulders shaking wildly.

I looked up from my book. Didn’t see anything wrong. Then I looked properly.

Roger was standing frozen in the middle of the common room. His stature froze in shock. Hair damp, and cheeks already going red. I could see his stomach begin to tighten and twist with a whirl of emotion.

Beside him, Ian looked absolutely delighted with himself.

“See?” Ian announced. “Nobody was here.”

Roger pointed at me.

“Well,” Ian said. “I guess technically that's not a nobody to you.”

Roger looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him.

Maria, traitor that she was, continued knitting, “Good evening, Ian. Roger.”

“Mrs. Castillo.” Ian greeted her, using his last name to address her. She pretended to hate it.

“Had a nice swim?” I asked, my head still on the arm of the couch. One of my legs was in the air, resting on the knee I had propped up. I bounced my foot slightly.

I had foregone wearing tights under my skirt. With each movement of my foot, my skirt slid just a little bit further down my thighs.

Roger made a sound that wasn't quite a word.

Ian was laughing so hard he had to sit down, right next to Maria. She elbowed him, complaining about how the armchair wasn’t built for two people. Ian ignored her, and started to feel the material of the shirt she was making between his pointer finger and thumb.

I looked back at my book. Then I looked back up. Unfortunately, Roger was still shirtless.

This seemed relevant information.

“Why are you both shirtless?” Maria asked, not paying attention to either of the boys in the common room.

Roger closed his eyes.

Ian answered quickly.

“Because Davies forgot a towel in the prefect's bathroom. Which we got permission and an access key to use from our good old Anthony Goldstein.”

“Ian.” Roger started.

Ian continued, full speed ahead, “And now we're here. We had to borrow Goldstein’s extra pants. One of the ghosts stole our clothes. And I mean, all our clothes. See?”

Ian quickly got up and pulled down one side of Roger’s pants.

“Shit! Ian!” Roger tried grabbing Ian’s hand, but was too slow. Apparently their bath had slowed his reaction time.

I got a full preview of the v-shape between his hips. Skin taut and tan. The beginnings of dark curly hair. My heart starts racing. I immediately drop the leg balancing on my knee and press my thighs together, tugging my skirt down.

Maria's knitting needles clicked onward, not looking up. She’d saved herself second-hand embarrassment. Or more accurately for me, first-hand arousal.

Roger looked ready to splinch himself for the fun of it. Tugging his waistband up and then tightening the tie in the front, shooting Ian a verdict glare that Ian was in fact, extremely guilty on all counts of fragrant friendship abuse.

I glanced down at my book, but my eyes were stuck on Roger. Roger had apparently spent the last several years secretly being built like someone who chopped wood recreationally.

That seemed unfair.

“Flowers.”

I blinked.

Roger was staring directly at me.

His usually olive-toned skin had a furious, uneven wave of color creeping up his throat and blooming across his chest. It surged across his features. He looked like he was trying to will his skin to calm down, but failing miserably.

“Yes, Roger?” I mumble.

“You’re staring, pet.”

I looked back down at my book. The diagram of gillyweed was outdated. I would need to let Pomfrey know.

“No, I'm not.” I try to defend myself, pushing my shoulders deeper into the cushion.

“You absolutely are though.” Roger said, beginning his analysis.

Maria abandoned all attempts at pretending she wasn't listening, as she began giggling.

“Okay. I was observing. Scientifically.” I speak into my shirt collar, trying to hide myself by grabbing the navy blue throw blanket over my body.

Roger looked at the ceiling and tried to shake out his hands and arms, “Merlin give me strength.”

“There are medical reasons to observe things.” I spoke through the blanket. Hoping it would muffle me into silence, and maybe remove me from this moment. I press my book into my chest after closing it with a snap.

I would be safe under the blanket. I kept repeating it to myself mentally.

I hadn’t heard him move. Quidditch reflexes having caught up to him. Just in time to send me to the brink.

He had lifted the blanket and snuck underneath with me, his arms folded on the edge of the bed, against my side, brushing against my arm. He had our faces close together. I could see the shape of his nose, even though it was dark under the fabric. Did he always have a beauty mark under his left eye? Was that new? And his Adam’s apple. I did not know that an Adam's apple could be that prominent.

“Flowers.” He mouthed, breath hot against the side of my face.

Roger was smiling. He was still mortified. Completely doomed. But, smiling at me anyway.

He wasn't embarrassed because Maria was here. Or because of what Ian did, but maybe that played a small part. He didn’t mind not having a shirt. Because, at the end of the day, he was mostly embarrassed because I’d been looking. Hell, I’d been more than looking- I’d been appreciating him and sizing him up.

“Book not interesting anymore?” he said quietly, “Huh? Pet?”

“Roger.” I said, trying to be stern, but ending up somewhere along the line of strangled.

“Yes, pet?” The smile in his voice made everything worse.

"Roger." I say, closing my eyes tight.

"Hm?"

"Stop." I open my eyes, expecting him to have moved. He had gotten closer. Face directly over mine, his hands pushing against the edge of the couch. Bare chest against my side.

His smile widened.

"I haven't done anything yet."

Yet? Yet meant that there was a potential for eventuality. That something would in fact be coming to fruition.

I croak, "You're under my blanket."

"You're the one who invited the blanket." He smirks.

"I did not."

"You hid under it." He points out, using his pointer and middle finger to brush against my jaw.

"Because of you." I ramble.

"Isn’t that riveting?"

His fingers paused against my jaw, resting there. His eyes flicked briefly toward my book pressed against my chest, then he focused back onto me. 110 percent of his focus.

It was getting warm under the blanket.

Roger meditates on everything, "So the Gillyweed stopped being interesting about ten minutes ago then?"

"Roger."

"Five?" He says.

I made a smothered noise, my lips trying to keep it from escaping. Shutting my eyes again, I felt like I had more than one heartbeat within my body.

I made the mistake of peeking at him through my eyelashes.

His grin turned smaller, innocent.

"I don't mind you looking, pet."

My entire nervous system stopped functioning and I whimpered.

Roger swallows thickly, loud enough for me to hear, “You're unbelievably cute when you're flustered.”

Outside the boiling bubble of our under-the-blanket exchange, Ian shouted, “That’s rich!"

Maria smacked Ian upside the head. Ian laughed it off.

“Don’t say things like that,” I managed finally, except it came out quieter than I meant it to. Roger didn’t move away. He didn’t press closer either. That was what made it worse. Like he’d decided there was no point in pretending distance mattered anymore.

His thumb traced once, absent-minded, along my jaw- like he was testing whether I’d disappear if he stopped paying attention.

“You always say that I shouldn’t say things.” His eyes flicked to mine, then away again, like he couldn’t think right while he looked at me. “And then you look at me like that anyway.”

I crinkled my eyes.

“You can stop hiding,” he said.

“I’m not hiding.”

“Mm.” He pauses. “You are under a blanket.”

“You’re still staring,” I said, because I needed to regain control of something.

His mouth quirked.

“I’m allowed,” he said simply.

***

Graduation came and went.

My parents, in all their brilliance, asked me to invite my friends over for a dinner party. So naturally, I kept it to my core three.

Ian was taking it the best, enthusiastically shaking my parents hands, “I love your home Mr. and Mrs. Flowers.”

My mum started to pat Ian on the head, adjusting his collar so it sat straight.

Maria was sitting, all princess-like, on our floral couch, discussing the artwork my dad had hanging up on the walls. She was entranced by the fact that none of them moved. My dad was glad to engage her in the conversation.

Roger stood awkwardly in the entryway, trying to take everything in. I could tell he was stressing about it. Him and all his pureblood confusion taking over.

Dad was mid-conversation with Maria about a painting of a river that “definitely looked like it was judging them,” and Mum had just decided Ian required more food immediately, like it was some kind of emergency. Ian, to his credit, accepted a second helping without argument.

Roger stayed where he was for exactly three seconds longer than socially comfortable.

Then Mum spotted him.

“Oh,” she said warmly, like she’d been waiting for this exact moment all evening. “You must be Roger.”

He straightened so fast it looked painful, double checking that his white shirt was tucked into his trousers properly. “Yes, ma’am. Mrs- I mean-”

“Just call me Ma,” she said, waving a hand like titles were optional. “Come in properly. You look like you’re about to be questioned by the Ministry.”

She had not stopped making that joke when I had confessed how stressed out I had been about the whole ordeal.

His ears went red immediately.

“I- no, I’m alright, thank you.”

Dad appeared beside Mum with a glass of something amber-colored, studying Roger like he was trying to decide whether he could fix a leaky sink or not.

“You’re the prefect,” Dad said.

Roger hesitated. Then corrected, carefully, “No, sir. That was my older brother. Chester.”

A beat.

Dad blinked once. “Ah.”

Roger didn’t elaborate, but I saw it- the tiny recalibration in his posture. Like he was used to that being where the conversation either stopped or turned into comparisons he hadn’t asked for. He tried to rectify it by blurting out, “I was Quidditch Captain though.”

Dad just nodded. “Right. Got it.”

My Dad knew nothing about what Quidditch was, or meant.

Maria glanced over from the couch and mouthed at me, he’s terrified.

Ian, meanwhile, had already settled into the house like he’d decided my family was his second one. Roger took a careful step inside.

Then another.

Mum immediately steered him toward the food table. “Sit down, dear. You look underfed.”

“I’m not-” he started, then stopped, because she was already loading his plate like refusal wasn’t a real concept.

I caught his eye across the room.

He looked at me like he was trying to ask a question without saying it.

Is this normal for you?

I shrugged, leaning my head into my shoulder.

Yes.

Roger exhaled, slow, like he was reprocessing his entire understanding of domestic life.

My Mum had everyone join Roger at the dining table that I had set. White doilies under the plates, and Mum’s good china laid out.

Dad said, very casually, “So, Roger. What do you plan to do now you’ve graduated? Our wee’un said she’ll be studying Medicine.”

I interjected, “It’s Healing, da.”

But my Dad’s gaze stayed focused on Roger. Mum turned slightly, attentive in that quiet way she had when she actually cared about the answer.

Roger froze, “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said carefully. “Either Magical Law and Policy- becoming a solicitor- or international liaison work.”

Dad’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. “That’s quite a split.”

Roger nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

He set his fork down, more deliberate now, like he was choosing words the way he chose footing.

“I’m interested in the legal side because most of the damage in the Ministry happens through policy that sounds harmless on paper,” he added. “And I’m interested in liaison work because… well. I can speak French.”

That last part landed differently. Not impressive in a flashy way. Just… precise.

Ian let out a low whistle. “He’s basically already employed, then.”

Maria muttered, “He’s terrifyingly competent.”

Dad studied Roger for a moment longer, then gave a short nod. “Both are useful.”

It was something better than praise in my eyes, it was recognition without expectation. A fraction of tension left Roger’s shoulders.

“And what do you want?” Mum asked earnestly.

That question did what it always did. Caused Roger to blink a few times before he stole a glance at me and gave an answer, “I want,” he said slowly, “I want to help people.”

Ian looked faintly impressed again, like he was witnessing someone accidentally win an argument with the universe. Maria nodded once, approving in her own quiet way. Ian was going into Liaison work as well, capitalizing on his charm and Spanish-speaking skills. Maria was going into Magical Invention work, with a focus on embedding charms and wards into daily use items.

Dad raised an eyebrow at Roger’s answer. “Ambitious.”

Roger gave a small, almost self-aware exhale. “Yes. I’ve been told.”

Mum smiled, approving. “That’s a good thing.”

The room eased again into warmth, homemade food, Ian telling an increasingly elaborate story that had clearly lost its original point, Maria correcting him like it was a hobby, and Mum asking Roger if he’d like tea or something stronger as if he’d always belonged here.

“Ma, you can’t offer Roger whiskey.” I said.

Dad pouted, “Why not wee’un? He’s a man no?” Dad narrowed his eyes at Roger, “Ye want a pint lad?”

I stared Roger down, shaking my head slowly. Roger appeared like he was being pressed against the wall, looking at me like I could save him.

Mum grabbed the bottle of Bushmills like it was a threat. She poured a tiny shot and handed it to Roger. Who thanked Mum and downed it. Dad nodded approvingly.

I stood up, putting a hand on the table, trying to prevent Roger from having to consume more alcohol, “I have photos!”

Mum immediately set the bottle down and exclaimed with joy.

I produced the photos I’d taken from graduation, setting them in the center of the dining table for my parents to get a good look. Maria and Ian weren’t too invested, seeing as they were both poking at the black pudding with their forks. Roger, however, was trying to look at the photos I’d taken. Interested in how they didn’t move, but stood still in time yet still looked very alive.

“Oi, darling, our wee’un looks beautiful.” My mum pinched my cheek, kissing my forehead repeatedly.

I groaned softly, but didn’t move away.

Across the table, Roger had touched the edge of one of the polaroids.

I’d gotten Maria to take one of just Roger and I.

At first, I’d stood a little to the side of him, unsure where to place myself in something that was supposed to be “a moment.” But then Maria had started counting down- loud, impatient, very Maria about it- and something in me had shifted.

I tucked myself into him instead.

In the photo, he looked pleasantly caught off guard, like he hadn’t quite expected the world to arrange itself that way. His arm hovered behind my back, careful but instinctive, and his hand rested at my hip like it had simply decided that was where it belonged and hadn’t asked permission after the fact.

He was still looking at it when I noticed.

Not just seeing it, but studying it. In a very Roger Davies sort of way. He was trying to reconcile the version of himself in his head with the one Maria had accidentally frozen in time.

“You’re staring,” I said quietly, nudging his knee under the table.

His ears went pink immediately, though he didn’t look away from the photo.

“I’m not,” he replied, far too quickly to be convincing.

Ian snorted into his drink, strawberry juice splashing across his face.

Maria, without looking up from her plate, said, “You absolutely are staring, Davies. No use in deflectin’.”

Roger finally exhaled through his nose, like he was surrendering to the accusation rather than fighting it.

“I just…” he started, then stopped. His thumb brushed the edge of the Polaroid again, gentler this time, “It’s strange,” he said.

Mum was still cooing over the photos. Dad was pretending not to be affected but failing. Ian was arguing with Maria about whether black pudding counted as “food or an experience.” And Roger was still looking at the version of us trapped in paper.

Finally, he glanced at me.

“I like it,” he added. Then, quietly, “I like you there. In, uh, the photo.”

I grin, biting down into the coddle Dad had made.

Maria and Ian left after doing the dishes, the muggle way, for my parents. They had a train to catch if they wanted to attend the Celestina Warbeck concert on time. Ian had been asked to cover guitar for the band. I still wasn’t over that. Maria hadn’t gotten over it either.

Roger lingered.

Mum, as if she could sense exactly that kind of uncertainty the way other people sensed weather, looked over from her spot on the couch.

“Wee’un,” she said gently, “take the lad on a tour would ya?”

Dad, without looking away from the television, waved a hand. “Aye. Show him round. ER’s just gettin’ good.” He was entirely gone to the show at this point.

I finished the tour in the guest bedroom. Roger swallowed thickly, hovering at the doorway.

It was messy in the way that I still had boxes lying around, waiting to be unpacked and moved into my room. The windows were open, letting in a draft, white curtains waving like dancing snowflakes. I threw myself onto the bed, bouncing slightly in recoil. I sighed.

It was good to be home.

Roger didn’t look away from me. Drama didn’t exist within him, no worry. Intense focus on where I was laying.

My throat felt dry.

“You’re doing it,” I muttered.

“Doing what?”

“Looking.”

A faint smile tugged at him, but it didn’t turn into teasing this time.

“I always look at you,” he said simply.

My fingers tightened against the edge of the blanket.

“Roger,” I warned, though I wasn’t sure what I was warning him about.

He hummed softly, almost like he was agreeing with something I hadn’t said out loud. He decided to lay down next to me. Our legs hanging over the edge of the bed. He bumps his knee into mine, then slides closer, our sides pressed together.

My ears started running hot, so I did the logical thing. I grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed and threw it over myself.

Roger knew me better than that, lifting up one end of the blanket and including himself as well. He leaned over me, one arm near my head propping himself up, fingers going to toy with my hair. His other hand resting on my neck, thumb brushing my jaw.

His thumb brushed, slower along my cheekbone. It wasn’t playful anymore. It was careful.

My breath caught before I could stop it.

His eyes flicked down to my mouth for half a second.

And that was it. Just Roger leaning in like he’d already been halfway there for a while and had finally stopped pretending otherwise. The blanket suddenly felt too small to contain anything.

His forehead almost brushed mine first- close enough that I could feel the shift of his breathing, the pause right before he committed. He kept his eyes open, and I could see how his pupils were blown out, turning his already dark brown eyes even darker.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “Really, pet, please tell me to stop. My heart can’t take this.”

I move my hands into his mussed black hair, then gave an experimental tug. He hummed, so I pulled him down. Not yet closing the distance. I’d leave that to him.

And he took it. His mouth met mine like he’d been holding back the entire year and finally stopped negotiating with himself about it.

Warm. Steady. A little unpracticed in the way that made it worse, not better. Like he was still deciding, even while doing it, if this was allowed.

It was unfair that he kissed so well. Even while I was lost in thought, he didn’t pull back. If anything, he softened into it more.

A quiet exhale through his nose- half laugh, half disbelief- broke against my cheek when he finally eased back just enough to breathe.

Not far.

Just enough to look at me properly.

His eyes were brighter now. Less composed. Less controlled.

“Okay,” he said, like he was confirming something to himself, “So that’s what that feels like.”

I gape, which he takes full advantage of, preferring my open mouth to closed one. My brain couldn’t keep up. He didn’t break the kiss while pulling us up onto the bed more, feet no longer dangling.

“You’re shaking,” he said, chest heaving slightly. He picked my head up, fluffled the pillow, then set my head back down.

His head had gotten static-y from being under the blanket. I’m sure mine had too.

“I am not shaking.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

His mouth twitched again, “Alright,” he said, humoring me.

His thumb brushed my cheek once more. His forehead finally rested against mine for a second, like he was checking I was still there and not something he’d imagined.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admitted quietly.

That should’ve been terrifying information. Instead, it made my chest feel strange.

“Yeah?” I managed.

He gave a small, helpless half-shrug that didn’t really move his shoulders at all because he was still too close.

“Sorry it took me so long.” Roger exhaled a quiet laugh against my mouth, “I locked the door. The magic way.” Because to Roger, magic and non-magic apparently needed to be differentiated.

I pulled his face back down to mine.

But, he broke away.

I blinked at him, still caught halfway between whatever that was and whatever it was becoming.

“Wait,” he said- soft, but not uncertain.

I started to sit up, tugging the blanket off of us. I’d felt close to getting lightheaded from the heat.

His hand was already there at my waist, firm enough to stop me but gentle enough that I didn’t really stop so much as pause.

“No,” he said quickly, then corrected himself, quieter, “Not like that, pet. Just, stay there a second.”

The room felt suddenly too still for how loud my heartbeat was.

I exhaled through my hands, covering my face. “You’re going to kill me, you know that?”

I felt something cool at my throat.

His hands brushed my hair aside as he fastened something behind my neck, careful, deliberate, like he was handling something that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“Roger…” I started, but it came out smaller than I meant.

Only when his fingers left the clasp did he finally shift back into view.

I looked down.

A silver chain.

A crest at the center. An eagle, raised and sharp-edged, framed by crownwork and pale floral engraving. Roger Davies was Ravenclaw, unmistakably so.

It sat warm against my skin, I guess from having been in Roger’s pocket since he’d arrived to my house.

“This is too nice,” I said, but it didn’t land properly, too late to reject the gift.

He watched me for a second longer than necessary.

Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

“Yours,” he said simply.

***

He started Apparating to my family home almost every weekend over the summer.

Then, it became every weekend.

One night, after we’d had dinner. Roger asked if we could talk.

I go to open the porch door, but Roger shakes his head.

“Let’s go somewhere else. Can I, uh,” He gestures to my waist.

I nod and he wraps an arm around my torso.

We landed somewhere grassy. And when I look around, feel the wind on my face, I realize Roger’s just taken us to the Cliffs of Moher.

He’d magicked lights to appear, rising from the grassy fields, and they came around us. It wasn’t too late at night, but it was still beginning to get dark. I reached out to touch one, but it disappeared before I could grasp it.

“Can I propose something pet?”

I was still fascinated by the lights he had made appear. Floating around like lightning bugs. I hum, not expecting much from him.

“I should have focused more during Muggle Studies.” He exhales, “I only know how to do this the magic-sort of way.”

I put a hand to my hip, “What is it Roger?”

“I want to marry you.” He rushes, “I’m worried I'm missing all the traditional ways of doing it though. And I don’t think you realise I’ve already proposed.”

“You’ve already proposed?”

Roger looked increasingly concerned, “Yes?”

I stared.

He stared back.

The floating lights drifted lazily through the grass around us.

Finally he reached forward and tugged the chain around my neck. The charm emerged from beneath my shirt. The Davies crest.

I looked down at it.

Then back at him.

Roger's expression was beginning to resemble someone realizing they'd accidentally sat an exam for the wrong subject.

“Pet.”

“What?”

“That's a proposal.”

“No it isn't.” I laugh, shaking my head and stepping back a little. My heel bumped into a rock.

“It very much is.”

“Roger, you gave me a necklace.”

“With my family crest.”

“That means absolutely nothing to me.”

Of course the necklace meant something to me. But as for the meaning of gifting a necklace to someone, it was just a present. Just a kind gesture to display fondness.

His face went blank.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Oh pet,” Roger rubbed a hand across his face, sighing, “You genuinely didn't know?”

“No.”

“You thought I was just giving away heirlooms?”

“I thought you were being sentimental,” I say. I move closer to Roger and pry his hand off from where he was using it to cover the bottom half of his face.

“Flowers.”

“What?”

“That's even worse.” He groaned, tilting his head up to look at the sky, fading from inky blue into inky black, “Pet, I have Apparated to your family home every weekend for the entire summer. It’s September now, you know?”

“When you say it like that—”

“After one month I was starting to wonder if you wanted to elope because you didn’t bring up any sort of wedding planning,” Roger looked increasingly exasperated, “And I even fixed your garden fence.”

“That was nice.”

“I wasn't being nice.”

I purse my lips, “You weren't?”

“No.”

“What were you being?”

Roger looked at me like I was the least observant witch in the entire world, “Courting you. Acting like a fiance.”

The word hit me squarely in the chest.

Because suddenly all the pieces rearranged themselves. The way he’d done his best to bring floral arrangements for my mother. Carrying heavier bags for me. How he’d managed to join every photo. The way my dad had begun to give Roger advice for fixing cars, despite Roger not owning one- and still Roger paying close attention to what was being said.

He never once acted like he was visiting. Only like he was coming home.

I pressed a hand over my mouth.

Roger sighed toward the sky, “You finally got it.”

“Roger!”

He pulls me in for a tight hug, looking down at me, “You are extraordinarily clever in every area except the ones involving yourself.”

The tension he'd been carrying since we'd landed finally leaving him as I shake my head and laugh at the situation.

"I would still like to marry you."

I looked down at the crest resting against my chest.

Then back at him.

The floating lights reflected in his eyes. Like specks of gold having been brushed onto a precious dark oak wall to add embellishment.

Roger Davies had apparently been proposing to me for the entire summer.

***

EIGHT YEARS LATER

“ROGER!” I screamed, feeling another contraction coursing through my veins. I was going to kill him for doing this to me. Again.

“I got it!”

Oisín, Aoife, and Tiarnán were with Roger’s parents for the weekend.

And I was in pain.

Another contraction tore through me.

I really was going to kill him. I added it to my to-do list. Right underneath writing a Thank-you note for Madam Pomfrey, who was waiting for me at St. Mungo’s to deliver my fourth baby. The fourth time she would walk me through it all, and pat my head, forcing Roger to get me ice to be helpful.

"I got it!" Roger shouted from somewhere downstairs.

"You said that ten minutes ago!"

"I have it now!"

"ROGER DAVIES IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR YOUR SHOES I'M GOING TO HEX YOU!"

A crash sounded from the kitchen, "Found them!" another crash came from the living room, "That wasn't the shoes."

I buried my face in my elbow. Still gripping the backboard end of our bedframe and trying to rock this baby out of me.

This man had graduated top of our year. He could perform complicated healing spells. He could negotiate with Ministry officials. He could somehow convince angry people to calm down simply by talking to them.

And yet every time I went into labor he transformed into a complete idiot.

Another contraction hit.

"ROGER I WILL-"

The pain stole the rest of the sentence. I gritted my teeth.

By the time it eased, Roger had appeared in the doorway.

Hair a disaster.

One sock on.

No shirt.

Holding three different bags. His eyes locked onto me. Everything else seemed to disappear. Panic, shoes, bags. And it was just me.

"Hi, pet."

I stared at him, "Hi?"

His expression relaxed, "You look beautiful."

I nearly threw a cushion at him.

"I am actively having your child."

"You are."

"Roger."

"Still beautiful."

I pointed toward the door.

"Get us to St. Mungo's."

"Right."

He didn't move.

I narrowed my eyes.

"Roger."

"You really do look beautiful."

"ROGER."

He startled.

"Right. Hospital."

Another contraction slammed into me and I made a noise somewhere between a growl and a threat. Roger immediately crossed the room. One hand on my back, pressing down and rubbing the space between my hips. His other hand took mine off the bedframe, and he squeezed tightly.

The moment there was something he could actually do, Roger became Roger again. Warm, steady, and absolutely certain.

"Okay, pet." His thumb rubbed across my knuckles. "I got you."

I squeezed his hand hard enough to threaten structural damage, I groaned, "You did this to me."

"I did."

"You are never touching me again." I threaten.

"I know."

He knew the hormones were pumping. Oxytocin for contractions, endorphins for pain relief, adrenaline for energy, relaxin for pelvic opening, and prolactin for milk production. He’d counted them on his fingers when I was in labor with Oisín. He had assumed the science of it all would calm me down. He assumed wrong.

"You said that after Aoife."

"I’m always optimistic." Roger says, “You’re irresistible. So, apologies in advance.”

Despite myself, a laugh escaped me.

Roger visibly relaxed. The one that appeared whenever he managed to pull me back from the edge of something.

Only now there were laugh lines beside his eyes.

A wedding band on his finger.

Three children asleep at his parents' house.

And a fourth determined to make a dramatic entrance.

Another contraction arrived.

I regretted every happy thought I'd ever had about him.

"Never mind," I hissed.

Roger winced sympathetically.

I grabbed his shoulder.

"Why are you shirtless?"

Roger looked down, "I couldn't find a shirt."

"You couldn't find a shirt?" I almost started to cry.

"I found the bags."

"Roger."

"The shirt became less important."

I closed my eyes. I heard the keys twist on our front door. My parents arriving to housesit. If Roger kept talking there was a reasonable chance I'd murder him before we reached St. Mungo's.

He kissed my forehead, "You ready, pet?"

"No."

"Fair."

Another kiss.

"Me neither."

And with one arm around my waist and my hand crushing his, Roger Apparated us to the hospital.