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As I left the atrocious pink office, nothing around me stirred, as if the whole castle was frozen, lying in wait for the dawn. Light streamed through the open doorway, heralding my late release from detention. 

“Off to bed, dear,” said that sugary, poisonous voice behind me. “Don’t let Mr. Filch catch you lingering instead of being safe asleep in your bed.” Was it my imagination, or did the throbbing of the back of my hand pulse in time with her voice? 

I wanted nothing more than to scurry away as fast as my legs would allow, but like any predatory animal, Professor Umbridge could smell fear, so I simply bowed my head as demurely as possible, avoiding her deep-set gaze. “Yes, professor.” I could feel the horrid woman’s toad eyes following me as I walked down the wide staircase, heading for the dungeons. 

The door closed behind me with an ominous thud, and the light disappeared. 

Stopping in my tracks, I immediately turned the corner to a little alcove, slumping next to the window. I stared at the colored glass, depicting a dragon breathing flames up into the sky. My wound gave a particularly violent throb. “Ouch,” I hissed under my breath, staring down at the shiny red letters.

I must obey the rules.

Cradling my aching hand to my chest, I let out a long breath. Every pang seemed to ring through my whole body, and yet, instead of acting as a deterrent, I was all the more resolved in my actions. If Umbridge had forced my brother to write those words and endure this pain, even her title as High Inquisitor would not have saved her from my wrath. 

“Well, that’s a first.”

I jolted. At first, I wondered if it’d been the dragon that spoke—often things at Hogwarts spoke when one might think they shouldn’t. But the dragon didn’t move. I looked around me, just in time to see the tapestry further down the stairs shift, and a red-headed boy came out from behind it.

George Weasley. Certified troublemaker with an un-shuttable gob and downright homemade values, the very personification of Godric Gryffindor’s ideal student. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

George gestured to my hand. “I didn’t know she punished Slytherins too.” He spoke the word without distaste, but with an emphasis all the same.

I just shook my head and left my alcove, heading for the Slytherin common room. There was no point in arguing in Slytherin’s favor; the history in this castle chronicled many a Slytherin who tried and subsequently had to run for the Hospital Wing before a toenail-growing hex grew too painful to walk.

Unfortunately, the redhead sidled into my path. I took several steps back, checking for the location of his wand, prepared to whip out my own before he could cast anything. But his hands were empty, and judging by the way he watched me, his head was regrettably anything but.

“You’re in my way,” I said calmly.

“Malfoy shouldn’t have done that.”

The simple statement made my lungs falter for breath, but I kept my face impassive. “He didn’t have a choice.”

“No, he had a choice.” George’s maddeningly certain tone set my teeth on edge.

I scoffed, walking down the staircase. “You don’t understand, you couldn’t possibly understand what he faces.”

“Oh, yes,” George’s voice grew louder and mocking, following me on my heels, “poor little rich Malfoy, head of the Inquisitor Squad, can’t handle–”

“Sod off.” My gritted teeth added all the threat I wanted, but George wasn’t deterred.

“What a slog it is, having everything one could possibly–”

I whirled around, my hands finding George’s chest to shove him as hard as I could. “You don’t know what it’s like!” I hissed, glaring at him. “You and your brothers just do whatever you fancy at the moment, whatever wicked thing halfway crosses your mind. Well, not all of us have the luxury of doing what we want.”

George looked as serious as I’d ever seen him. “He could’ve spared you this and he didn’t. No true friend would scurry off to Umbridge to report you like that.”

For a moment, I considered starting a row, but Umbridge’s office was still within earshot, and I didn’t want another round of writing with that cursed quill. So I chose not to acknowledge him, walking down the stairs with my head held high, reaching the bottom of the stairs and quickly walking down the corridor, hoping my feet could outrun George’s mouth. But when I looked to my right, there was George, loping alongside me.

“Seriously–”

“Seriously, George, shut it.” I came to a stop, glaring up at him. “What are you even doing here? It’s past curfew.”

“Some of us are taking turns behind the tapestry,” he said easily. “Watching in case any first or second years get turned out of Umbridge’s office with bleeding hands.”

“Oh?” I tossed my head, moving my hair to one side. “And if it were a Slytherin first year, would you have greeted them the way you greeted me?” If my kid brother had been the one walking out of the office, I silently asked, would you have comforted him? 

“Perhaps, but I’m willing to bet that they, unlike you, would accept a hug and a trip to the kitchens for some dessert afterwards.”

My stomach rumbled, and I placed my uninjured hand over it. “Well, I’m no first year, so you can go.” I resumed my furious pace.

George easily kept up. “It wasn’t fair of Malfoy to do that.”

Was it impossible for him to leave well enough alone? “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Everyone knows you were just protecting your brother.”

I seized the collar of George’s robes, dragging his face down an inch from mine. “Don’t you dare–

“I’m not going to tell,” George said, remarkably calm considering how quickly his position had changed. 

“How am I supposed to trust that?”

“I’m not Malfoy.” 

I considered him for another moment before letting him go. He straightened, smoothing out his robes. “How did you know?” I asked. 

George gave a short laugh. “You’ve never touched a broomstick outside of Flying class, and yet I’m supposed to believe you even have a broomstick to bring into the castle?” He shook his head. “Anyone with eyes knows you’d do anything for your brother, so of course Umbridge is the only one daft enough to fall for your switcheroo.” 

I pondered his words for a moment before turning to walk back to my room. Like before, George kept time beside me. “She shouldn’t have given detention just for having a broomstick.” 

I shook my head. “There are rules.”

“And rules were made to–”

“–be broken?” I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a Gryffindor.”

“Says the Slytherin who just got out of detention.” I bit my tongue, trying to stay silent. “You should tell your head of house what Umbridge’s doing, maybe Snape’ll do something about–”

I let out a short laugh. “See, there’s the difference between you and me, George–”

George leapt forward, covering my mouth. Next thing I knew, I was being tugged behind a statue, finally pulled to meet George’s alarmed expression.

This was it. I should’ve known better than to trust a Gryffindor. Now he was going to hex me or curse me or even forgo a wand altogether and use his own two fists. 

Eyes wide, I tried to shove him away, protesting loudly from behind his hand. “Shush!” George said harshly. “Filch!”

I instantly stopped fighting, my heart pounding for a different reason. If George and I were caught by Filch right now, not only would I have another detention with Umbridge, but word would get out. I couldn’t even imagine the trouble I’d be in with my house if they found out I was out at night past curfew with a Gryffindor, and a Weasley at that!

The light of the lantern the caretaker always carried with him after hours grew closer and closer to the statue we crouched behind. George lifted his hand from my mouth, pressing a finger to his lips. I rolled my eyes. As if I didn’t already get the memo. 

“Anyone about, my dear?” Filch’s haughty voice asked. Mrs. Norris meowed back, and I heard the sound of a dark chuckle. "Professor Umbridge might allow us to try our new manacles.”

George and I met eyes. 

He made a stop gesture and then started to creep forward towards Filch. What could he possibly be planning? Filch would see him! 

Then it occurred to me. The noble idiot was about to sacrifice himself so that I would stay undetected. 

Oh no you don’t, I thought, seizing the back of George’s robes, dragging him back. I was not about to owe a Gryffindor anything. I pulled out my wand and a tissue I'd forgotten was there.

Snufflifors, I mouthed. 

The tissue morphed into a white mouse, which immediately scampered down the corridor. Immediately, Mrs. Norris sped after it. 

“My dear!” Filch protested, running after her, the light from his lantern growing farther and farther away until George and I were left alone in the dark. 

“Wow,” George stared in the direction Filch had gone, “that was quite impressive.”

The compliment made my cheeks warm. “Well, some of us jump into things without thinking about the consequences and some of us actually use our brains for more than pranks.” I shoved my wand into my pocket, about to storm down the corridor. 

“So you thought it through beforehand?”

“I didn’t necessarily plan to get caught by–”

“No, you thought through taking the blame for your brother?” 

I stopped short, allowing George to catch up with me. I eyed him warily. Was he fishing for evidence to get my brother in trouble? Or was he fishing for other reasons?  “Of course I did,” I said finally, deciding that my word against George’s was hardly any competition. 

A strange look twinkled in his eyes at that. “You actually thought about getting in trouble?” I didn’t reply. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t need to, because George could easily carry a conversation by himself. “You knew you could lose house points? And Hogsmeade could become off-limits to you? And that you might end up with words scratched into the back of your hand?” 

My silence was the only answer. Truthfully, he was right. I’d thought through all those possibilities. 

I’d earned Slytherin enough points throughout the years that any deduction wouldn’t damage my reputation too badly for anyone not in the Inquisitor Squad, especially under Umbridge’s reign. As for Hogsmeade, the castle itself was large enough to keep me from feeling claustrophobic. And, yes, I even budgeted for the possibility of getting detention with Umbridge; that’s why there was a Soothing potion waiting for me in my room. 

What I hadn’t anticipated was Malfoy being the one to report me. 

So much for being friends. 

George shuffled closer, bringing me to the present with his brown eyes. “You thought through the possibilities, and you still did it?” I nodded, and a grin broke out on his face. “Are you sure you aren’t supposed to be in Gryffindor?”

I made a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. “How dare you,” I said blandly. 

“I’m serious,” he said with a smile that said the opposite. “You’re quite the little risk-taker.” 

“Is it really risk-taking,” I murmured, “if you’re prepared for all the risks?” 

The inner corners of George’s eyebrows turned upward, his smile dimming to a more serious affect. “Was it worth it even though you got caught and punished?” 

“Is it still punishment if it was worth it?” 

His freckled face relaxed at the question, smoothing out until it was without pucker or twinge. “Should there be a rule against it if it’s still worth it?” he murmured.

I brought out my hand, looking down on it so I could once again read the message waiting there. The shiny letters didn’t hold any answers within their crimson hue. “I’m not sure.”

A hand reached out to touch mine, and my breath caught when I saw, on the back of George’s hand, familiar words, written in narrower handwriting.

I must obey the rules.

“Funny,” George said softly. “Regardless of what happened beforehand, we ended up the same.”

I slowly dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Not quite.” I smiled sadly. “I’m apparently friendless.” 

“Not friendless,” George murmured like a promise. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

I studied him, searching for any sign of deception. His locks had darkened over the years. In our first year, they could only be described as flaming, his hair as dangerous as his tendencies, but now they’d tempered into a comforting copper hue. His freckles also faded, though there were still just as many of them. His eyebrows normally promised even more trouble than his mischievous eyes, but now, nothing in his face seemed disingenuous. “Can Slytherins and Gryffindors even be friends?” I asked.

“Is it risk-taking if you’re prepared for all the risks?” George echoed.

I gave a short laugh. “Touchè.”

“Besides,” George said with a smirk, “you could do with friends better than that old tosser.”

I wanted to laugh, truly I did. Or perhaps I wanted to care little enough to be able to laugh. But alas, I cared too much, so I simply shook it off. “I’d better go, before Filch actually finds us.” 

“Fair enough.” George dropped my hand, and I missed the warmth immediately. “See you around, Y/N?”

I took great care to lessen my smile into a smirk. “If you’re lucky,” I replied.

George gave a relaxed salute before walking back the way we’d come, presumably to take up his place behind the tapestry.

I watched him go. Funny, I may not have been a first year, and he may not have taken me to the kitchens for dessert, and yet…I was glad for anyone else who might leave Umbridge’s office when George waited for them behind the tapestry.

The N.E.W.T. preparatory witch was absolute rubbish.

With the exams looming, Umbridge had allowed for a dodgy witch from the Ministry to host an exam study session of sorts on the Patronus Charm. It was hard to believe that Umbridge could hate so many things and yet endorse a witch that wore a hat with green shamrocks and orange balloons.

A load of the Gryffindors were lounging around on the seats that had been pushed against the walls, having produced a fully corporeal Patronus. They cracked jokes and laughed with each other. Every so often, one of them would lazily sweep their gaze across the room at the students still struggling with the spell. Their palpable arrogance seemed to bounce against the stone walls, weighing down the room. 

I gripped my wand tightly enough to feel every ridge of it against my skin.

Why were they still here? If they’d successfully completed the exercise, they could take their boisterousness somewhere else, preferably over the balcony of the Astronomy Tower. 

“Expecto Patronum!” I said firmly, circling my wand. The most pathetic stream of silver yet flowed from the tip of my wand, disappearing in an instant. I grit my teeth, circling my wand again. “Expecto Patronum!”

“No, dear,” said the supervising witch, waddling over to me. “The wand movement must flow. Like this.” She demonstrated, and the silver form of a dog burst forth, running through the air in the classroom with its tongue hanging out.

I ducked my head in thanks, and she walked away to help a Hufflepuff. I glared after her, imagining transfiguring her stupid hat into a flower pot of marigolds. When I turned back to the fake dementor, it wasn’t the only dummy standing there.

George leaned an elbow on the dementor’s shoulder, looking at me with his grin reeking with complications. “All right?”

I extended my wand towards the fake dementor, waiting for George to get out of the way. But he remained squarely where he was. “What?” I asked tersely. 

“Nothing.” His tone was far too smug for that to be true. “You’re just cute when you’re frustrated.”

Just then, George Weasley should’ve thanked every star in the sky that I wasn’t born a Welsh Green, otherwise he’d be a pile of cinders. Gritting my teeth, I flicked my wand at him, trying to scare him away, but George didn’t so much as flinch. “Go away,” I finally said. “I’m busy.”

George stood up straight, his arm leaving the dummy. But instead of going to join his housemates, he ambled closer. He had such a funny and easygoing way of walking. He put one foot in front of the other like it didn’t even matter where his feet ended up, because he was content wherever he was. “Struggling, are we?”

“Expecto Patronum!”

George side-stepped the spurt of silver that left my wand, and when it faded, he looked back at me. “Do you want help?”

“I’m not in the mood,” I warned. 

“What’s your memory?”

I shot him a withering glare. “I’m not telling you.” 

George brought both his hands to his chest, sticking out his lower lip. “You wound me.”

“I will if you don’t get out of the way,” I seethed.

George tilted his head to the side in the way he always did when he seemed to be sizing me up. Then he bent down and leaned in, and I prepared my wand, ready to cast the Revulsion Jinx if he so much as laid a finger on me. “Meet me on the sixth floor,” he said quietly, his words tickling my ear, “by the portrait of Edgar Stroulger.” 

“So you and your Gryffindor pals can ambush me?” I bit back, turning my head to look him directly in the eye. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you never trust anybody?” George’s soft question paired with his unassuming eyes almost made me feel guilty.

“If you want trust,” I replied, “go bestow your relentless charms on a Hufflepuff.”

George straightened, looking down on me with furrowed brows. For a moment, we simply stood there, staring at each other. Had I finally gone too far? Was he going to throw in the towel? Would he take the advice I wasn’t sure I meant and go find someone easier to talk to?

Then his face split into a grin. “You think I’m charming?”

How could he do that? I’d never known someone who could receive such acidic words from someone and spin them as if they’d been given a compliment. “Why would you help me?” 

“Because we’re friends now.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” George’s eyes flicked over to the witch who’d just finished demonstrating how her own patronus walked on all fours, “you said you don’t snog your friends. We’ve never snogged, therefore we’re friends.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the flipping of my stomach. “I don’t think that’s how logic works.”

“Innit?” George straightened. “If you want help, you know where I’ll be.” And with that, he walked in his unhurried way out of the room. 

The dark eyes of the dementor dummy bored into mine as I considered my options: staying and hoping the witch somehow became more helpful or taking a chance on George. I glanced at the witch, who was leading one of the other Slytherins in what appeared to be a breathing exercise. 

Okay, clearly George could offer as much, if not more than, the witch. But the humiliation of failing in front of the witch meant nothing compared to how I would feel if George laughed at me. 

Could I take that risk for the benefit of learning this charm?

I looked out the door George had just walked out of. 

-

Stopping at the entrance of the Study of Ancient Runes classroom, I glanced around the corner, waiting for any sign of danger. Seeing none and walking slowly, I rounded the corner, coming face to face with the portrait. 

Edgar Stroulger, the inventor of the Sneakoscope, looked warily down at me as he reached into his wrinkled purple robes to pull out the Dark Detector. It didn’t light up, spin, or whistle, which meant no one was doing anything untrustworthy nearby. 

Did George pick this portrait to make sure that I wasn’t planning anything sinister? Or did he pick it so that I could be sure he wasn’t planning anything sinister? 

Suddenly, the portrait swung outward.

My wand slid into my hand in an instant, and I pointed it, ready for action. “Calm down, it’s only me,” George said lightly, stepping out and closing the portrait behind him. 

I waited a beat, just to see if George would start squirming, but he didn’t look the least bit concerned by having the tip of my wand an inch away from the tip of his freckled nose. 

“Another make-out spot?” I asked, finally lowering my arm. 

“Not yet, but there’s always time,” George replied with a cheeky grin. I waited for him to lead me somewhere, but he just stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at me. 

“What?” I finally asked.

“You came.”

Were the words born of surprise? Excitement? Disappointment? I was unnerved by the fact that I couldn’t tell. “I don’t like failing.”

“Everyone knows that,” George chuckled. He gave a grand bow, indicating the hallway I’d just come through. “Shall we?”

I eyed George. Were we going to the Ancient Runes classroom? Or did he have somewhere else in mind? Was he bringing me to a second location? Wasn’t it common knowledge that one was never supposed to let a kidnapper take them to a second location?

“Well, we can’t practice charms in the hallway, can we?” he said, correctly interpreting my silence.

I sighed. “I’ll follow you then.”

George smiled and swept down the hallway, walking straight towards an empty stone wall. Was George about to walk right into it? And if so, did I have time to get snacks to watch? Just as I started to debate this, before my very eyes grew a large door, as if it’d just pooled out of the wall like melted chocolate. 

“How did you–” I started to ask, a bit breathless. “How did that door just…appear?

George looked pleased at my response. “Hogwarts is full of surprises.”

I shook my head. If anyone would know about a secret door in Hogwarts, my money was on the nosy Weasley twins, but still. 

George opened the door and made a little bow. “After you.”

My curiosity winning over my paranoia, I walked inside, glancing all about the room.

There was no furniture, only a wide-open space with a fire burning in the hearth across from the entrance. A few training dummies, similar to the ones the witch had been using, lined the walls. There lay an inherent conflict in the room between the cool, blue light from the windows which bounced off the mirrors and the yellow light of the glowing chandelier.

“Alright,” George said, rolling the sleeves of his uniform above his elbow as he brushed past me to stand in the very center of the room. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I followed him, dutifully pulling out my wand and keeping my eyes focused on one of the training dummies and not George. “Expecto Patronum.”

“You’re spiraling too big,” George said.

I tried again.

“No, not like–here.” The next thing I knew, George was at my back, his hand moving down my arm to encase my wand hand. “Smaller, softer.” My lips parted as his warm breath skittered across my cheek. His wrist moved, guiding my wand through the motions. “It’s not meant to be harsh.”

I glanced at the mirror across from us to see that George’s eyes weren’t focused on my hand, but on my face, which was steadily turning crimson.

If bringing me to this room was some sort of romantic move, I was determined that it would fail. The portrait of Edgar Stroulger would not become another make-out spot, and neither would this room. At least not with me. I kept my eyes studiously forward, waving my wand as instructed.

“Brilliant.” He spoke in a whisper, but it felt as though he were shouting. 

"Expecto Patronum!" Silver mist flowed from my wand, more than before, and it didn’t fade as quickly. 

“Better,” George said encouragingly. “Again.”

“Expecto Patronum!” Same result. 

“Try again.”

I repeated the action, and the silver mist was gone in a moment. “Augh, this bloody charm is impossible!”

George rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and the appraising manner with which he looked at me made me nervous. “What are you picturing when you’re trying to conjure it?”

“Not–”

“Y/L/N.”

I lapsed into silence, keeping my lips stubbornly closed. Under no circumstances was I going to give him ammunition.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” George said softly. “I’m not harboring some secret plan to humiliate you. I’m trying to help, so will you please let those walls of yours down and let me?”

I just glared back at him, folding my arms tightly.

George sighed, moving to stand between the dummy and I. “Mine is a food fight with my family.”

The admission made me blink. Why would his response to my closed doors be to open his own? In spite of myself, I was interested. “Not some prank?”

George ducked his head, and I suddenly missed his smile. “No, not some prank. We were sitting down to dinner, and my dad leaned over to give my mum a kiss and he accidentally knocked over the cauldron, spilling pea soup everywhere.” George wrinkled his nose, as if he could smell it still. “My brothers and I were covered in it, and the whole dining room was dead silent…and then Fred threw his soggy roll at Bill, and next thing you know,” George smiled broadly, “we were all throwing food, even Mum, and Mum never willingly creates a mess.” 

Even though I hadn’t been there, his memory was captivating enough that I could picture the large family laughing and slipping as they reveled in each others’ company. 

George lifted his wand, and a burst of fear shot through me. 

But before I could hurl a spell in his direction, he whispered his own: “Expecto Patronum.”

A magpie flew forth, soaring about the room with minimal flapping of its patterned wings. If patronuses could make noise, I had a feeling this one would sing the most beautiful song. Not because it was trying to compete with or impress anyone, but for itself, to represent the sheer joy that kept it aloft.

Then, it veered towards me, flying so close that I could’ve sworn I felt the brush of feathers on my leg as it began to circle. It flew higher and higher with every rotation until a silver cloud of mist surrounded me. Then, it shot away again, flying about the room. 

“The Patronus is an outpouring,” George said quietly. “It’s the happiness that can’t be contained, therefore it must leap forward.” 

I’d never been much good at outpouring. Everything I held dear was held behind my walls, for sharing things was the fastest way to spoil them.

But I wanted to learn this charm. How could I protect Clem if there was a gap in my magical prowess? 

“What are you picturing?” George asked again. 

I folded my arms. “I’m not telling you.” 

“C’mon, Y/L/N, your wand movement’s good, you’re saying the incantation right. There’s only one thing that could be keeping you from casting it.” 

I grit my teeth. If there was anything more insufferable than George Weasley, it was George Weasley when he was right. “I was…thinking of…getting my Hogwarts acceptance letter.”

George didn’t burst into laughter or devolve into mocking like I expected. “Why’s that a powerful happy memory for you?”

I looked away, staring at the door and stifling the wish to run through it. “My parents were going to send me to Durmstrang.”

“Oh.” George rubbed his neck. “Well. That would’ve been a shame.” There was a silence before I finally nodded, not wanting to say anything else on the subject. “Maybe try a different image?” he suggested. 

“Like what?” I said hopelessly. “Hippogriffs tap dancing?”

George’s eyes gleamed, and the magpie landed on top of his head. “Now that’s a good one.”

“George,” I said warningly.

George rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. The longer the silence extended, the more I wished I could simply use George’s memory of his family food fight. Finally, George blew out his cheeks, imitating a frog’s vocal sac extending with a croak. “Don’t curse me for asking this–”

“No promises.”

“–but why do you protect Clem so strongly?”

I stared at George, confused. Not by his actions, but by the small part of me that actually wanted to answer his question and share about the biggest love of my life. But I couldn’t shake the deep-seated fear that this information would somehow be the key to bringing me down.

“I swear to you,” George said softly as the magpie ruffled its wings, “Clem’s safer from me than my own siblings, because I won’t turn his teddy bear into a giant spider.” 

I debated inquiring about the story that clearly lingered behind his oddly specific word choice, but decided not to. Letting out a long breath, I looked away. 

“I was six when Clem was born,” I told the floor. It was much easier to speak to the stone floor than to the intently listening redhead. “I’d always wanted a sibling, but my parents struggled with having kids. Even when my mom was pregnant, the healers at St. Mungo warned her that she might lose the baby at any point, but my father…” I sighed. “He wanted a son. You know, carry on the family name and all that.”

Mercifully, George stayed silent, as if he knew one word from him would make me clam up and one joke right now would earn him a trip to the Hospital Wing with a pair of permanent elephant ears.

“They let me hold him, and he was so much heavier than I thought he was going to be.” I smiled softly. “I’d never seen a baby before. I thought babies were just…small people, but they’re not, they’re chubby and wrinkly and they’re red all over.” I glanced at the mirror and George’s unmoving reflection staring intently at mine, willing me to finish.

“I don’t think six-year-olds know much about anything. I definitely didn’t, but when I held my brother…” My courage quailed. I shook my head, raising my wand to attempt the charm again.

Suddenly, the magpie flew past me and then George was in front of me, his hand holding mine still as he looked down at me with something I couldn’t name or deny. “Finish it,” he said softly, but earnestly. “Finish the story.”

I couldn’t form the right words at first, but George didn’t say anything to break the silence as I struggled. “When I held my brother,” the image of my baby brother started almost glowing in my mind, “I knew what love was.”

George’s slight, answering smile was quite possibly the most genuine thing I’d ever laid eyes on. He released my hand but didn’t step away. “Try it now.”

I didn’t look away, not wanting to puncture the peace of the room with the incantation. I looked deeply into George’s brown eyes and whispered it. “Expecto Patronum.”

The room lit up with the silver mist that poured forth from my wand, more than before. At first the mist pooled beneath my wand, and then, rising up from the pool, rose a large but graceful four-legged creature that ran around the room.

A lioness. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumbled, but there was little heat behind the words. I couldn’t be ungrateful for the creature, not when it moved so freely about the room, as if it were as glad as I was that it existed. “Don’t laugh,” I warned George as the patronus walked a circle around him. “And if you make a joke about me being in Gryffindor, I’ll turn you into a toad.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” George followed the lioness with his eyes as she trotted closer to me, leaving trails of mist behind her. “Makes sense though.”

I studied the markings by the lioness’s noble face. “How?”

“Strength. Ferocity.” His eyes flicked up to mine. “Beauty.” 

I blushed, and the lioness started running again, as if energized by the heat in my cheeks. The magpie swooped to join the lioness, who playfully swatted at it before leaping into the air to join it. 

“So…what other spells are you and your friends mastering in this room?”

George’s glance cut quickly towards me, and the magpie dissipated. “What?”

I allowed the lioness to dissolve as well. “There are multiple training dummies, and whatever spell you have on that door, clearly you don’t want people inside.” I tilted my head at him. “And you’re brilliant, George, but Defense Against the Dark Arts has never been your strongest subject, and considering Umbridge’s educational skills…I can't believe you're doing it on your own."

George looked scared, and as much as I enjoyed finally seeing a bit of fear on his face, I couldn’t let it remain there for long. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret as long as you keep mine.” 

George furrowed his brow. “Your secret?”

I stared at him, tongue-tied with disbelief. Did he really have no idea that he held a vulnerable secret? Had he not recognized that the knowledge of how deeply I loved Clem was a valuable piece of information? A vulnerability that could be easily exploited?

Too late, it seemed to dawn on him, and the sheer delight in his demeanor made me quickly walk for the door. “Wait–” he said.

“Time to leave, isn’t it?” I said shortly, but George caught up with me, blocking my way.

“You’re trying to blackmail me?”

I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. “Can we forget about it?” George burst out laughing, doubling over. I shoved him, hard enough to make him stumble. “Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m…sorry,” George wheezed, clutching his stomach. “You’re just so cute!”

“Excuse me?” I shrieked.

“What do you think you are,” he said, gasping for air, “one of the SSAs?” Secret Service Aurors. As if my parents would ever let me work for the ministry.

“It’s a survival mechanism,” I mumbled, and his laughter started anew. Heat rushed into my cheeks. 

George only laughed all the harder.

My goodwill evaporating, I shoved him. Hard.

The aggression in the gesture didn’t move George that far, but his laughter stopped as I stormed out the door. “I’m sorry,” he said, jogging after me, still looking amused. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry.”

I turned to look at him and saw the door melting away again. 

“Besides,” George leaned against a pillar, “friends keep each other's secrets.” He looked so comfortable, so unbothered. I didn’t know many Gryffindors who would willingly share the same room with a Slytherin, and here was one of the most Gryffindor of Gryffindors, staring down at me without a hint of a long-suffering sigh. 

“George?” 

“Yeah?”

“Why do you want to be my friend?”

George rolled his eyes, pushing off from the pillar. “Enough with the paranoia, Y/L/N.”

“No, I’m not paranoid, I just…I’m confused.” 

George looked at me suspiciously for a moment before the suspicion dropped. “Well…why wouldn’t I?” he asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re smart, and I happen to think your survival mechanisms are extremely endearing.”

“I’m also a Slytherin.”

George groaned. “Not this again.”

I stepped forward, craning my neck to look up at George. “You’re goofy, but you’re not naive. And I don't believe that you haven’t been given any grief about your interest in me.”

George pursed his lips, clearly unable to disagree and wishing he could. 

“So why are you risking it?”

His brown eyes searched my face as he seemed to gather and ponder his response. “Maybe I was curious,” he said at last. “About the terrifying, mysterious Slytherin that never lifted a finger to harm anyone.”

“I’m not compassionate, George,” I replied. “I never lift a finger to help anyone either, and that’s just as bad.”

“No, I know you’re not, that’s not what I’m saying,” he replied. 

“Well, then what are you saying?”

“It’s…it just…it seems like…” He trailed off, and while the suspense wouldn’t kill me, I was considering killing him.

“It seems like what?”

“It’s like you try not to exist.” George’s face took on an expression of deep perplexity. “You don’t make yourself smaller, not like some people do, you just…float through this castle like the ghosts, leaving no trace and only the occasional word.” 

He stepped closer, and it took everything in me to remain still and allow him close enough to easily step on my toes if he wanted to. “You’re more than just a Slytherin, Y/N. Just like I’m more than just a Gryffindor.”

“Are you sure about that?” I replied, more breathlessly than I’d anticipated in my head. 

“If I wasn’t more,” he smirked, “we wouldn’t be such good friends.”

I blinked at him. He really was curious. And his curiosity was, in turn, making me curious as to what kind of man stood in front of me. “George?”

“Hmm?” he said. 

I gnawed on my lip. “Thank you.”

George’s face went slack. 

“For helping me,” I added, hoping confusion was the only reason he was looking at me like that. “I…appreciate it.” 

There was a beat while George stared at me like my breakfast pumpkin juice had been spiked with Nose-Grow potion and my nose was starting to resemble Professor Snape’s.

Then, a bright, dazzling smile spread across his face. “Cheers, Y/N.”

I lingered for another moment before giving George a sharp nod and quickly descending the stairs, silently asking the universe why my heart felt like it was swelling.

“And we’ve inquired about renting a place in Diagon Alley.” George easily skipped the vanishing step, turning around to offer his hand. I ignored it, jumping the step on my own and nearly losing hold of my books for my trouble. Unbothered, George gestured grandly with the untaken hand. “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, we’ve called it.”

We reached the bottom of the staircase, making our way down the nearly empty corridor. I liked to walk to my classes before the castle walkways were clogged up with bodies and sounds, and most of the other students were still at lunch. Funny, George never seemed to mind the crowds before, yet now he walked with me in the empty hallways between every class.

George hopped up on the bench against the wall, walking along the wood with his arms stretched out for balance. “We should have a response before we all go home for Christmas, and possibly have the place rented before school lets out.”

I dodged the ghost of Erling the Great that had just appeared through the wall, hoping he didn’t see me. I did not want to get trapped into one of his onerous and endless stories again. “So you’ll be selling all those prototypes the two of you’ve been testing on the first years?”

“Yup." George hopped down to walk beside me again. "Plus a few more we’ve got up our sleeves. We’re testing another one tonight, and if it’s finally ready, it’ll be one of our staples in the shop.” The light in George’s eyes as he spoke about his dream was unlike his normal errant sparkle. The shine wasn’t born of mischief, it was born of passion, and it seemed to lift George’s very heels as he bounced excitedly forward. 

“Well, I’m certain it’ll be brilliant.” Distracted, I hadn’t even thought about the words before they came flying out of my mouth. I pressed my fingertips to my lips, unsure if I were more horrified or embarrassed. 

George’s bouncing paused, and he turned the full weight of his vexingly self-possessed smirk on me. “Is that so?”

Embarrassed. Definitely embarrassed. 

My cheeks blazing, I scowled at him. “Don’t crow, it’s unbecoming.”

The redhead absentmindedly knocked the railing at the top of the next flight of stairs, causing the stairs to ripple a bit and then resolidify. “I’m just revelling in the compliment.”

“It’s hardly a compliment, more a statement of fact.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” I forged past him down the stairs, ignoring the slight tremble I felt underneath my feet. The staircase—objectively the most sensitive staircase in the castle—was just pouting over George’s knock. “The two of you are persuasive, which is objectively a good skill to have for retail, not to mention the shrewdness required for the strategy of business and the creativity and intelligence to make new products. I’d wager you’ve already made a fair bit of coin here at Hogwarts, so with a centralised location that can be open full-time, you’ll make a fortune, and likely–” I closed my mouth, pressing my lips together.

Too much. I’d said too much. 

The faint, impossibly warm chuckle from behind me made me shiver. “Well, when I have a fortune, I can perhaps afford to buy you a Christmas present.”

I stopped, rooted to the step. George passed me, continuing down a few more steps before seeming to notice I wasn’t beside him and turning to face me with a puzzled expression. "What?"

“Don’t buy me anything.” From my position three stairs higher than him, I had a tactical advantage were this to become a situation where my wand was necessary. Any offensive attack I unleashed would be that much harder to defend against. 

But George stuck his hands in his pockets, seemingly unconcerned. “With trying to go into business and all, I couldn’t rustle up enough Galleons if my life depended on it.”

“Don’t spend anything on me,” I repeated, easily masking my sudden nausea as distaste. Gifts were pointless at best, painful at worst.

The incessantly inquisitive and contrary Gryffindor tilted his head, his eyes giving me a strangely sharp assessment that made me wonder if I wasn’t masking as well as I thought. “Why not?”

I forced myself to woodenly descend the steps and then turn the corner towards the Potions classroom. “There’s nothing I need.” 

“But surely there’s something nice you want?”

“There’s nothing I want either.”

“Now you’re just joshing. Everyone wants something.”

“What do you want?” I shot back.

“I told you.” George opened the door to the Potions classroom. “To buy you a Christmas gift.” 

I didn’t walk through the doorway. “Well, I want you to not buy me a Christmas gift.”

“Nah, that doesn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Your wanting can’t just cancel someone else’s wanting. That’s like asking for it to drizzle when you don’t even like drizzles and only because I like the sunshine.” His tone was perplexingly even and carefree, despite the venom of my words. And he still held the door open. 

I gripped my books tight to my chest. “Christmas gifts are like sunshine?”

“No, you are like sunshine,” George replied, the corner of his mouth curling in an infuriatingly charming smirk. He had no right to look like that when being sarcastic. “With all your suspicion and compliments and enthusiastic statements of fact, why, you just make me feel warm all over.”

“Then go step out in the snow,” I said crossly, finally walking under his arm into the classroom. 

A cauldron bubbled merrily up by Professor Snape’s desk, just in front of the blank chalkboard. Reaching my potions station off to the left, I dropped my books down, the resulting thud much too loud but ultimately satisfying. I waited for the dungeon door to close, signalling that George had left and allowing the pit in my stomach to dissolve. But when it did close, I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. 

“Anyone sit here?” 

I looked up in time to see George gently set a copy of Advanced Potion-Making on the station next to me. 

“What are you doing?” 

He flipped through the pages, his eyes trailing down the text. “Sitting in class with you.”

A fledgling of panic rustled its wings in my stomach. “You’re not in this class.” George hadn’t achieved the Outstanding required on his O.W.L.s to continue Potions at the N.E.W.T. level. 

“Well, I see no harm in sitting in. Hogwarts rewards those who seek knowledge, you know.”

There was harm. There was much harm indeed. “George, class is going to start soon.”

George calmly met my gaze. “Lucky for us, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Are you insane?” I hissed. “They’ll eat you alive.”

“Better me than you.” His light tone couldn’t disguise the weight of his words. 

I paused, studying his freckled face. “Is that what this is about? You’re trying to rescue me again?”

“Prevent the need for rescuing, actually.” George pulled out his seat, sitting down and pulling out his potion-making kit, which clearly hadn’t been used in a while. “And be careful, or I’ll think you don’t want me to sit next to you.”

“I don’t.” Especially not when our peers were about to walk in, including Warrington. Not to mention Snape. George's misguided attempts would only succeed in making us both targets.

Unconcerned, George pulled a quill, an ink pot, and parchment out of his bag. “I promise I’ll be a model pupil.”

How did he do it? How did he brush it all off like the words meant nothing? Like consequences didn't exist? He just sat there, easily relaxing against the back of his chair like he had the ultimate conviction that it would hold him up as long as he needed. 

The classroom door opened, and I immediately but subtly slid into my seat, hoping against hope that somehow our peers wouldn’t notice us. 

But hoping George Weasley was unnoticeable was as useful as asking a kappa not to eat you. Warrington’s wicked eyes settled on George before sliding to me. I ducked my head. Maybe Warrington’s similarity to hippogriffs didn’t end with his looks and the sign of reverence would make him less dangerous. 

But even as Warrington finally sat down, directly in front of Snape’s desk, I could still feel stares.

My peers didn’t often remember I existed, as I intended. I didn’t answer questions in class, I stayed out of trouble, I took care not to offend anyone who mattered and not overly involve myself in anything. It protected me, and it protected Clem. And yet as everyone, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, stared at me with shock and disapproval, I knew they remembered me now. And that remembrance was going to bite me where it hurt. 

I shrunk down in my seat, holding my elbows tightly. George leaned over to me. “Relax,” he said softly. “No one is going to curse you in the middle of class.”

“It’s not the middle of class I’m worried about,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. 

His lips pursed, but before he could reply, the dungeon door banged open, and Professor Snape strode to the front, his cloak billowing behind him like shadows of prejudice and loathing. I could see the moment the potions master noticed George. His beady eyes narrowed, sending my trepidation through the roof. It was hard to know which house was more despised by the other in the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, but Professor Snape did not have the same amount of integrity within the rivalry as Professor McGonagall. 

“A new student today,” Professor Snape mused, the slow delivery of every word promising trouble. I sat so stiffly, my shoulder muscles were beginning to hurt, but George stayed calm and seemingly unaffected. “Is there a reason for this…change?”

“Yes, sir, I just really wanted to hear today’s lecture,” George said politely. 

“How studious of you.” Professor Snape crossed his arms, warning of the incoming confrontation. “I suppose, Mr. Weasley,” he said in his characteristically flat tone, “that you’re also studious enough to tell me what sloth brains are used for.”

George didn’t move from his laid-back yet attentive position. “Sir, that would be dragon dung fertiliser.”

The curl of Professor Snape’s mouth made me tense. “Of course. I would expect someone of your,” he paused as he rested a hand next to George’s worn textbook, “inclinations to misguidedly name dung as being the correct answer.”

A few snickers rang through the classroom, the Slytherins ready for the millionth round of Gryffindor mistreatment. “Daft Weasley,” said Warrington’s unmistakable voice, loud enough to echo through the whole classroom yet remarkably and predictably soft enough that Professor Snape didn’t seem to hear.

But I knew he had, judging by the hateful glitter in his eyes. The professor leaned in closer to George, who still hadn’t moved from his position. “Ten points from–”

“He’s not daft.”

I barely realised the words had come out of my mouth until everyone in the classroom turned to look at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George straighten in his chair.

“Excuse me?” Professor Snape finally asked. If the potions master could manage a sincere expression, he’d be aghast. As it was, he looked at me with the same chronically detached countenance he always wore.

Underneath the table, a hand brushed my leg, but I ignored it.

“Sloth brain mucus is used in the creation of dragon dung fertiliser, which Professor Sprout names as the superior fertiliser for magical plants. If you wanted him to answer what sloth brains are used for in this class, you should’ve specified, at which point he would’ve clearly said the Draught of Living Death.” I stared resolutely back at Professor Snape as the classroom fell silent aside from the bubbling of the example potion beside Professor Snape’s desk. “Sir,” I added belatedly. 

The only sign of the professor’s surprise and uncertainty was the rapid blinks. “He would’ve clearly said it?” Professor Snape asked finally. “Then I suppose Mr. Weasley would also be able to tell me what colour sloth brains turns the Draught of Living Death, hmmm?” 

“Cyan.” George’s posture, straight as an arrow, revealed the strain he was now apparently—and tardily—feeling. “It turns the potion from pink to cyan.”

See? I thought victoriously as I watched Professor Snape’s jaw move in a suspiciously gnashing way. I was right. He’s not daft. 

“Detention,” the professor finally said. 

“Yes, sir,” George responded, lowering his eyes.

“Not you, Weasley.” The dark eyes turned on me. “You, Miss Y/L/N.” George’s hand balled into a fist. “For speaking out of turn.”

I met the head of my house’s eyes without flinching. “Yes, sir.” 

As Professor Snape continued the lesson, I noticed with slight triumph that he’d completely forgotten to take ten points from Gryffindor or give George detention for showing up. 

But the triumph shrank as the class continued and George’s posture remained stiff. 

-

After brewing a nearly perfect Antidote to Veritaserum and being assigned a 42-inch essay on exactly how the antidote combatted compulsory truth-telling, class ended. Instead of waiting for Warrington and the others to leave, I shoved everything into my bag and was the first one to the door. But nowhere could I go at no possible speed to avoid the fiery anger burning behind me. 

“What were you thinking?” George hissed as I walked towards my common room. 

“Snape doesn’t get to treat you that way,” I replied with equal fervour, wondering at how completely my compliance had disappeared. “And neither does Warrington, the prat.”

A hand closed around my elbow, turning me around. “Beg Snape’s forgiveness,” George demanded. “Maybe you can beg off spending the night in the dungeons.”

“I won’t,” I snapped, wrenching my arm out of his admittedly gentle grip. “Because they were wrong; you’re not stupid. It was a stupid question. He just wanted to mock you–”

“I’ve been mocked nearly every day of my life!” The response was so impassioned that George’s cheeks were going red. “I can handle it.”

“Well, I can’t!” I said sharply. “It’s not fair.”

“Oh, like you serving detention on behalf of your brother?”

I glanced around quickly, noticing the few seventh years loitering in the corridor. Were they gathering more evidence about the sudden and unorthodox alliance between George and I? Would any of them report back to Warrington? Or Snape? Or Merlin forbid, Umbridge? 

Seizing George’s wrist, I dragged him off into an alcove, pulling so roughly that he nearly bonked his head into the sloped decorative wood carving of the tiny space. “How is what I did any different than what you’ve done for me?” The snarling tone of my words made me think of my lioness Patronus. Perhaps a lioness was more apt than I’d originally thought. 

George, however, looked nothing like his mischievous and light-hearted magpie. “Because you disrespected a professor!”

"So did you! If you hadn't sat in the class, the whole thing could've been avoided!"

"Snape already hates me! But he's your head of house, and now you've insulted him!"

I glared at him. “And if McGonagall treated me like that, would you just sit there and not say anything?” He wouldn’t, we both knew it.

George scoffed deep in his throat. “That doesn’t matter, she would never do something like that.”

“Come off it, George!” I impatiently readjusted my heavy books, resisting the urge to toss them at him. “You would stand up for me!” He had stood up for me, many times over.

George pressed his lips together so tightly, they started to whiten, stubbornly refusing to say what we both knew was true. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

I scowled. “You don’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

“Someone has to, since you clearly weren’t born with basic self-preservation!”

Livid, I tossed my head and stormed out of the alcove towards my common room where the foolhardy twin couldn’t follow me.

“What happened to not lifting a finger to help or hurt anyone?” George called after me, so loudly that the other noises in the hallway hushed.

I lifted a finger over my shoulder in an obscene gesture as my only reply.

-

My footsteps echoed through the dungeons as I neared the potions classroom. Somewhere above my head was the Great Hall, lit up with enchanted candles and everlasting torches. In the dungeons, however, the torches were so sparse, it was easy to grow convinced that there was something lying in wait in every shadow.

“I received a new Spine of Lionfish shipment this morning,” Snape was saying, gesturing towards my potions station where a stack of boxes lay before returning to the parchment he was writing on. “You will crush them all into powder without using magic. When you are finished, and only then, are you allowed to leave.”

Spine of Lionfish. Capable of causing pain and paralysis. I licked my lips. “Sir, am I allowed to wear my gloves?”

The potions master paused in his writing, making my heart sink as I tried to guess how great a punishment Professor Snape meant to inflict on me. “Yes,” he said finally.

Worried my relief would make him change his mind, I concealed it before nodding and sitting down at the desk, pulling out my dragonskin gloves and getting started.

It would’ve been meditative to pulverise the white and red spines if I wasn’t constantly aware of how long it would take to grind three boxes of spines when my mortar could only hold five spines at a time. I glanced over at the desk to see Professor Snape hunched over, his nose inches from the parchment he wrote on, as if he was struggling to see it. 

I popped open a vial, holding my breath so that I wouldn’t accidentally inhale any of the powder as I poured it inside the vial and labelled it. 

Each vial could hold the powder of about fifty spines, and I’d filled four vials when Professor Snape suddenly rose from his desk. He pulled at his cloak, untangling it from his legs as best as he could while holding a letter. Whatever the letter was, it was either important or elicited some sentiment to make him clench it so tightly. Without saying a word, Professor Snape left.

I poured the powder into the half-full vial before dropping new spines inside the mortar. It might take me all night to finish my detention, but finish it I would. Once punished, my defiance would hopefully fade in memory.

Detention would ease Snape’s ire, but my classmates would likely look to retaliate in their own ways. I took a deep breath. As long as they stayed away from Clem, I would accept whatever punishment they doled out. 

A soft rasp sounded behind me, making me freeze. And in that stillness, the unmistakable sound of a footstep sounded from behind me.

Would they interfere with the completion of my detention? Would Warrington, Parkinson, and Goyle really try to subject me to further wrath from our head of house?

Keeping the rest of my body still, I slyly slipped my hand off my pestle and into my pocket, gripping my wand. After a moment’s pause, I whirled around, thrusting my wand out. “Immobulus!” The blue spell shot from my wand tip.

“Protego.” My attacker’s wand arced, my blue projectile dissolving upon contact with the invisible shield.

Lifting my wand, another spell was about to leap from my lips when I finally recognized the face in the shadows. “What are you doing here?” I hissed.

George pocketed his wand before flinging himself down on the nearest seat as if it were a fainting couch. “I came to help my knight in shining armour. After defending my honour, I could hardly leave my dainty yet plucky princess to toil away in the dungeons.”

I clenched my wand, my heart beating at a pace I would fiercely deny if it were brought up. “I thought you said I was a knight.” 

“Maybe you’re both.”

“Maybe I’m neither.” I glanced at him. “You’re a lot more dainty than me anyhow.” And a lot more chivalrous, though he didn’t need to know that. 

George sighed like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “Can’t help it if I have easily bruisable skin, can I?” How strange. He seemed to have completely recovered from our fight earlier.

“Seriously, Weasley, what are you doing here?”

“Ooh, she brings out the last name.” George grinned. “That’s how I know I’ve got your stylish knickers in a twist.” I raised an eyebrow, and his smile fell. “Not that I’m making assumptions about your…knicker…preferences.” His cheeks were red again, but instead of accompanying the flush with a glare like earlier, he averted his eyes over towards the window where darkness was quickly falling.

“I’ll repeat my question,” I said, sparing him from acknowledging his obvious embarrassment. “What are you doing here?”

I definitely imagined the relief on his face as he dropped into the chair beside me. “Serving your detention with you.”

I returned to my mortar and pestle, grinding the spines with more aggression than before. “I know you have better things to do, perhaps some testing to do on first-years?”

“Fred can test the Canary Creams without me.”

“He’ll rename your business ‘Fred’s Wizard Wheezes’.”

George gave a short laugh, crossing his legs. “Naw, FWW doesn’t have the same ring as WWW.” 

“If Snape finds out you helped me with the work, he’ll get angry.” I didn’t want the professor getting any angrier at either of us.

“Then I won’t touch anything. I’ll just help you pass the time.” 

“By regaling me with more business plans?” My words were coming out all wrong, sharp and heated. George was being thoughtful, and yet I couldn’t seem to check my prickliness. 

“If you like. I also have some fabulous stories to tell about pranks or family or even the sausage rolls I ate for breakfast.”

My pestle scraped a little too hard against the mortar. “Maybe your knight prefers silence.” I glared down at the lovely pink powder. Without the proper knowledge, someone might mistake the powder for something innocuous, like fairy dust or rose sugar. But the seductive material could cause serious damage.

“I think I know my knight better than that.” His voice had no right to be that gentle. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He wasn’t being flattering, he was right on, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Maybe you don’t know her at all,” I said lightly, pouring the powder into the vial before dropping the next five spines into the mortar. 

A hand found my waist, and I stopped grinding the chalky spines. My eyes fluttered shut at the sparks flying beneath my skin. I turned around, resting my gloved hands on his shoulder to push him away, but my muscles wouldn't do it.

I felt as though the warmth in George’s brown eyes was somehow pouring into me, chasing away the chill of the dungeon and shadows. 

“Trust me,” I warned, “you don’t want to get close.”

“That’s just like you,” George said softly, his eyes fixed on some point beneath my nose, “just like you to tell me what I do and don’t want.” 

“George, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He licked his lips. “Uncommonly so.”

Fear flooded my body, tangling with the warmth to make a strange buzzing sensation. “Is this your plan?” I asked shakily. “The Gryffindor gets close to the Slytherin and then makes fun of her to all his friends because she fell for it?” I pressed my hand over the wand in my robes, prepared to pull it out again. “I won’t fall for it.”

George's hand brushed against mine. I wanted to pretend that he was trying to keep me from drawing my wand, but the gesture was too tender, too comforting to believe it. He stepped closer. “Maybe the Gryffindor is the one falling for it.”

“Sounds more accurate.” My voice was embarrassingly high-pitched and breathy. I cleared my throat. “Gryffindors are more gullible than Slytherins.”

“Can this gullible Gryffindor ask a question?”

He was too close. I needed to step away, to put some space in between us, but one step away was my potion station with venomous powdered Spine of Lionfish. “No,” I managed to say. “No questions.”

George lifted a hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. “Can I kiss you?”

My hands shook. If I needed to draw my wand, I wasn’t sure I would be able to hold it. “I said no questions.” Especially no questions that I didn’t know how to answer. 

His face came closer to mine until all I could see was the expanse of fair skin beneath freckles. “I’d rather drink the Draught of Living Death than be like Warrington…and yet I’m trying not to read into the fact that you seemed more ready to kiss his boot than kiss me.”

I couldn’t respond or think when he was this close. When his lips were so close that I could feel his breath on my face. He couldn’t even do me the favour of having halitosis or even just onions and garlic for lunch?

“That’s…it’s…I mean,” I stammered. Why was it impossible to form anything coherent? I would’ve been happy with a snarky comment or a quick denial. 

George tilted his head back slightly, looking me in the eye. “Say no. Say no, and I’ll sit back down and tell you about the recipe for Canary Creams.”

The refusal was prepared on my tongue, ready to launch and return both of us to the refuge of platonic banter with sporadic sincerity. Things were already too dangerous for the two of us, and the true threats of the castle and beyond hadn’t even started yet. It was better for both of us if I said no. I needed to say no. 

But I couldn’t do it. 

I never before had trouble doing what would keep myself and my brother safe, but being with George Weasley flew in the very face of safety, and I couldn't bring myself to back away.

His nose brushed against mine, and I marvelled at how smooth his skin was. I’d half-expected to feel bumps on the skin from his freckles. “Say no,” he whispered.

“I can’t,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure if the words referred to saying no or to kissing him, but George seemed to know.

Arms encircled my waist, secure and unavoidable. Lips pressed against mine, warm and soft and utterly, completely George. He was everywhere, even where he wasn’t touching me because all my body could do was sigh and all my mind could conjure were red locks and brown eyes.

He pulled back. “Do you–”

I rose to my tiptoes, kissing him before he could finish. George, apparently, didn’t mind, giving up on his words immediately to kiss me back. His fingers brushed back my hair, a gesture so comforting that I melted into him.

I pulled my gloves off, desperate to feel his face with my hands. The dragon scales let out a loud noise as they hit the stone floor, but I didn’t care, finally able to caress his face.

Without breaking the kiss, George stepped forward, moving me back on my tiptoes. I didn’t know where he was taking me, and I didn’t care enough to stop what we were doing and look. 

George took another step forward when there was a clunking sound. 

The latch of the door, I realised in horror. Instantly, George’s warmth disappeared, and I whirled around, frantically grinding at the spines while sweeping my gloves underneath the potion station with my toe.

Heart hammering, I heard the door open. The torches in the hallway casting momentary shadows before the door closed again.

Act natural, I thought frantically. Act like you've just been here the whole time, serving detention. But my inability to take a full breath undermined the nonchalance I was attempting. My lips burned, as if by kissing George, I’d kissed pure flames. 

“Miss Y/L/N.” Somehow, Snape’s voice was more chilling than before. 

Slowly, I swivelled to face the potions master. He didn’t look any more suspicious than he normally did, but he was never the type to emote.

There was a flash of movement over his shoulder, and I looked to see George with his back pressed to the wall of the dungeon, perfectly in between two torches where the shadows could partially conceal him. Quickly, I looked back to Snape, noting for the first time in my life with relief that the professor’s beady eyes were trained on me. 

“You are free to go.” 

I blinked, trying to ignore George creeping over to the dungeon door. “Sir, I haven’t finished–”

Professor Snape waved his wand, enchanting the mortar and pestle sets against the wall to soar over to the boxes and start grinding spines of their own accord. “You’ve been here for long enough.”

George reached the door, lifting the latch silently and sliding through a tiny crack in the door.

I nearly crumpled with relief, turning my attention back to Snape. “Sir, are you sure–”

“I’ve already taken points off Gryffindor.”

I frowned before quickly making my face blank. George lost points, regardless of my outburst. My actions today in class accomplished nothing. 

“As for you, I won’t take any house points.” 

Predictable. 

“But I’ve written to your parents.”

I froze.

My parents—who represented just a blip in the long history the Y/L/N family of pureblooded Slytherins and yet championed the legacy with every movement—would soon know. As I looked into Snape’s glittering eyes, I knew he’d told them everything and knew the magnitude of punishment I’d be receiving. His grin widened as I remained still as a statue. Not only did he know, he relished it. “You’re dismissed.”

Snape lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, taking his time as he folded his long, bony fingers. 

So thoroughly unable to move, I wondered if some of the dangerous pink powder had somehow made it into my body.

“Did you hear me?” The displeasure in Snape’s voice sounded like the cracking of a whip, and like a frightened mare, I stirred into action. 

“Yes, sir, goodnight, sir.” I swiftly knelt to grab my gloves and put them on before dumping the spines in my mortar into the box again. 

It wasn’t until I was pulling the dungeon door open that I remembered George, my fear only increasing. 

But instead of George awaiting me, it was the cantankerous caretaker, Mr. Filch. “Out of bed, are we?” he snarled, looking quite pleased. 

“I w-was finishing detention!” I burst out. “I’m on my way to bed, I swear!”

“You’d better hurry then.” Chapped lips curved upwards to show yellow teeth.

I fled from the teeth, from the spines, and from the consequences of the kiss. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, horror nipping at my heels. 

“Advantage,” I said quickly, and the door to the Slytherin Common Room opened. I ducked inside and ran as fast as I could towards my dormitory, not stopping until I flung myself down on my bed, burying my face in my pillow. 

Merlin, what had I done?

Fred could never, ever say this to Molly Weasley, but Hogwarts’s pancakes were better than his mother’s. The house elves just wove the buttery flavors in a way that made Fred want to sing, and it was their skill that often inspired his own creativity. He pointed at George with his fork, a whole pancake dangling from the end of it.  “I think if we amend the Hardening charm, instead of stone, we can make gobstoppers that never get smaller.” The pancake flopped off Fred’s fork and onto George’s plate, splattering syrup everywhere.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Fred carelessly ran his napkin over the syrup on the table before reclaiming his pancake. 

It was then that he noticed George hadn’t torn his eyes away from a distant spot over Fred’s shoulder. 

Narrowing his eyes, Fred glanced, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Turning back to his twin, Fred added: “We could also use a fur spell for some sort of taffy.” 

“Mmhmm,” was the vague answer.

Fred skewered a sausage from George’s plate and took a large bite, waiting for a reaction. There was none. “And once we get to the shop,” he added, “you’re going to handle all the stocking while I get to talk to all the stunners that come in, yeah?”

George didn’t even blink. “Mmhmm.”

“George?”

There was a moment before George started, as if waking from a dream. “What?” he asked, his eyes finally focusing on Fred. 

Fred dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter. Apparently, the pancakes had to wait. “Alright, what’s on your mind?”

The distracted redhead’s expression shifted from preoccupied to somber, which Fred did not see very often. “Y/N. She ran off last night, and she’s not here.”

“Is that it?” Fred folded his arms on top of the table. “Y/L/N never comes to meals.”

“No,” George replied, “she always comes to breakfast on the weekends. Half the castle sleeps in, so she can eat without getting bothered.”

Fred rested his chin on his arm, studying George’s face. It was odd to see George so worried about something so small. Perhaps Y/N didn’t feel like coming to breakfast. Maybe she was sleeping in. At the very least, the misanthropic girl missing a meal wasn’t cause for such concern. “Huh.”

“What?” George stared hard at his twin, seemingly preparing himself for any lecture on George’s life choices or disagreement born of disbelief or even some well-intended yet annoying advice.

Fred picked up his fork again, refocusing on his food. “Lee owes me two sickles.”

“Not helpful,” George huffed, looking back over at the Slytherin table, as if Y/N had snuck in without his notice in the last thirty seconds. 

“Alright, so how’d you run her off?” Fred carelessly wiped his mouth with the clean corner of his napkin. “Will it require a box of chocolates or an Italian holiday?”

“I snogged her.”

Fred’s jaw went slack. “Right. An Italian holiday for the two of you together then.” When George didn’t say anything, Fred cocked his head, sensing his twin’s hesitation. “Was it bad?”

“No!” Aghast, George scowled at his brother. “It was good–”

“Only good?” Fred asked.

George’s scowl intensified. “We were both having a great time, but then Snape interrupted.”

“Snape.”

“Yeah, she was serving detention. I snuck out and waited for her, but Filch showed up, and I had to dodge.”

“And now she’s not at breakfast.”

“Yeah.” George sighed. “Which means I need to go find her.”

Fred took a sip of his water. “Not even going to try playing it cool?” 

George shook his head. “Y/N doesn’t need cool, she needs involved.” The way he spoke gave Fred the impression that George knew much more and had thought much deeper about Y/N and what she needed than Fred anticipated. 

The doors of the Great Hall opened, and George whipped his head around with the speed of a centaur to look at those who entered, only to deflate slightly when he saw it was a gaggle of Ravenclaw third-years. 

Fred watched his twin's clear disappointment, an alarm whistle like that of a Sneakoscope going off in his head. This wasn’t just about a random snog with an uncertain ending. “Why does this matter so much?” Fred asked curiously.

George blinked, his fingers nervously twirling a fork. “I dunno,” he muttered. 

“If you're gonna lie to me,” Fred scoffed, “you could try to be convincing.” 

The fork froze, and George stared at the metal tines for a moment with so many emotions crossing his face, they couldn’t be deciphered. “Mate, she needs someone.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. A genuine answer, if also incorrect. “Y/F/N Y/L/N doesn't need anything.” 

“Yes, she does.” George's words were soft and not at all defensive. They were matter-of-fact, spoken uncannily like Granger when she answered Flitwick’s questions in Charms. “She tries to hide it, but everyone needs someone to help hold them up.”

“Are you saying that she needs you?” 

“I'm saying I might be the only one who cares enough to notice what she needs.” When George looked at Fred, there was a steadfast determination in his face that Fred had only seen a few times. And each of those times, George had plowed his way forward. Fred studied his twin, running his tongue over his teeth. Was George making a mistake? If he was, nobody would be able to talk him out of it until George himself realized it wasn’t right. 

A few days ago, Fred had seen George and Y/N walking together through the grounds. He’d known George was unusually attached to the Slytherin, but to see them chatting with each other and how enthralled George was…Fred had to admit to a little twinge. This was his twin, it was the two of them who were supposed to gravitate around each other. 

But now, looking back on the memory, Fred realized he couldn’t remember how Y/N had looked. He was sure he would’ve noticed if she seemed uncomfortable or malicious, so she must’ve meant well. Perhaps she was as taken with George as George was with her, especially if she’d let him kiss her. 

Making his decision, Fred leaned forward. “You know…the ferret will probably know where she is.”

“Ugh.” George lowered his head onto the table with a loud thunk. 

“It’s probably the fastest way to start, you know he always keeps an eye on her.”

George, head down on the table, didn’t move for a moment. “I hate it when you’re right,” he said as he finally straightened and got to his feet. 

“Most do,” Fred said solemnly, finally returning his attention to his pancakes. “Just be glad you don’t owe me two sickles.”

Not replying, George swept out of the Great Hall in such a hurry, he didn’t even stop to give Umbridge a dark look as he passed her.

-

“Malfoy.”

Standing in the Central Hall by the fountain, the slimy git turned to George, mouth already curling. “Weaselbee.” He leaned against the fountain, folding his arms in a manner which his goons quickly copied. “Come to ask for some fashion tips?” His voice rang out enough to draw the attention of a few other cliques nearby. “Of course not,” Malfoy said before George could reply. “You can't afford it.” 

George ignored the laughter from Malfoy's posse. “I’m looking for Y/N. Do you know where she is?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed to slits, glaring at George. “What do you want with her?”

George grinned. “Fashion tips.”

“Well, I knew she was spending her time with charity cases,” Malfoy said in a stage-whisper, nudging Goyle beside him, “but even she has better things to do than help the riff raff.”

George took a breath through his nose, taking a moment to grasp onto his patience. 

Malfoy, of course, didn’t allow even a moment, before squinting. “You’re the reason she’s acting up. She’s never had a detention before. Not until you got in the way.”

“As I recall,” George said, “you’re the one who reported her.” His words were easy, but he knew by Malfoy’s swallow that his expression was anything but. 

The boy stuck his nose imperiously in the air. “She’s never broken the rules before.” 

George knew his chuckle would rub Malfoy the wrong way, so he let it fly. “It’s no surprise that your loyalty lasts only as long as she does what you want.” 

Malfoy’s cheeks reddened, and he straightened to step closer to George, his hand drifting to his robe pocket. “Your loyalty only started once she got in trouble!”

George remembered that night in the corridor after Y/N’s detention with Umbridge. She’d been the last person he’d expected to come out of that gaudy pink office, and she’d walked out with a simultaneous mix of confidence and reserve. A masterful mix, if George said so himself. Nearly everyone who’d landed detention with Umbridge landed themselves also in her perpetually adverse graces. But Y/N managed to appear chastened without fear, and Umbridge hadn’t given Y/N a second glance. 

It was only after Umbridge’s office door had closed when Y/N showed a hint of pain, which had immediately evaporated the second George had revealed himself. 

“If you left her alone,” Malfoy was saying, “she wouldn’t be in hot water with Snape.”

George’s nostrils flared. As if he hadn’t done all he could for Y/N’s wellbeing. But this was not the time. “Look, have you seen her or not?” He had much better things to be doing than arguing with Malfoy. Such as arguing with Y/N. 

Malfoy scowled. “No. And you’ll–” George started walking away, and Malfoy shouted the words after him. “–stay away if you care what’s good for you!”

-

As breakfast winded down, the castle corridors filled with people. There was a massive snowstorm blowing in which prevented being out on the grounds or out at Hogsmeade, but nobody wanted to be cooped up in their dormitories. 

That apparently included the Slytherin first-year boys, huddled in a group in the fourth floor corridor. The sandy stone walls were bathed in bright light from the white snow falling outside the windows. The group chatted and laughed, Y/N’s brother standing in the centre, enjoying his clear status among them. 

“Clem?” George said, taking great care to stop a respectful distance away from the group. He was not a threat to them, and he wanted to prove it. 

The group of Slytherin boys turned, their bodies immediately tense and hands drifting to their wand pockets. The deep distrust on their faces made George hesitate. What had they experienced in their short time in this castle that could make them so paranoid? 

He held up his hands to show he wasn’t holding his wand. “I just want to talk.”

None of the Slytherins budged from their alert positions. 

“It’s about your sister.”

Since Clem was at the back of the group, George was the only one who could see the split second of worry that spread across the young boy’s face. Just like Y/N, however, his face went instantly blank, concealing his thoughts. “It’s alright guys. I’ll be right back.”

Following George around the corner, Clem’s mask lifted to reveal the worry once more. “What is it?”

“Have you seen Y/N? Last night, she and I…” George blinked, suddenly questioning the idea of telling an eleven-year-old boy that he snogged his older sister. “We were talking, and we got interrupted, and now I can’t find her anywhere.” There, that wasn’t suspicious. 

Clem’s boyish face tightened. “What did you say to her?” 

George swallowed, debating which part of the previous night’s conversation could be shared. “We talked about knights and princesses.” As soon as the words left his mouth, George felt his cheeks heat up. “We did!” he hurried to say, not that that was convincing. “We debated whether or not she was more like a knight or a princess.”

Clem’s only response was to lift an eyebrow, looking astonishingly like Professor McGongagall for having so little in common with the head of Gryffindor house. 

“We really did,” George said weakly before shaking his head slightly. “Look, can you just tell me where she is?” 

“I don’t know where she is,” Clem replied. “She wasn’t at breakfast.” 

Disappointed at the lack of new information, George nodded and turned to go.

“Whatever you did,” Clem said, making George turn around again, “you better not have hurt her.” The boy’s face turned menacing. “She really likes you.”

The first-year’s intention was certainly not to be encouraging, but George felt his spirits lift in spite of the hostility. “She said that?”

Clem shook his head. “She didn’t say anything. That’s how I know.” And with that, he left in the direction of his friends. 

George grinned stupidly at the floor. He knew Y/N would never let him close enough to snog her, much less snog him back if she didn’t like him. Still, it was nice to know. 

So nice that George practically skipped to the Gryffindor Common Room, where he’d seen Harry studying earlier. Harry’d taken to staying where Umbridge didn’t often go, meaning the Room of Requirement and Gryffindor territory. 

When George entered the sea of students all fighting for armchairs and couches, he spotted Harry in the corner by the fire and maneuvered towards him. “Harry, I need to use the map.”

Harry, to his credit, didn’t question George. He just led George into his dormitory and pulled the map from his chest to lay it on his bed. Soon, George was poring over the moving parts of the castle. 

“Who are we looking for?” Harry asked, joining George.

“Y/L/N.” 

George felt Harry tense beside him. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately,” was the Chosen One’s chosen reply. Eyes not leaving the map, George hummed affirmatively. “Are you sure she’s trustworthy?”

“Yes.” George lifted his finger to pass it over the mass of names displayed in the Great Hall, even though he knew Y/N wasn’t there. Harry’s shoes shuffled on the floor, his weight shifting. “Spit it out,” George said, his finger now tracking down the dungeons. 

“How do you know she’s trustworthy?”

Ahh. So that’s what this was about.

George glanced at Harry, taking in the stubborn jut of the boy’s chin. “Would you ask me that if she were in Hufflepuff?”

Harry didn’t reply. 

“Y’know,” George said, his thoughtful tone masking his frustration, “Merlin was a Slytherin. So is Tonks’s mum.”

“And so’s Voldemort, Malfoy, Bellatrix, and Snape, and–”

“I know.” George blinked at Harry, uncertain how to explain his attachment to this particular Slytherin and his conviction that she was of upright character. Finally, he just shrugged. “She’s different, Harry.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Harry grumbled, bending over the map once more.

“I never know what I’m doing,” George quipped, though it sounded flat to his own ears. Truthfully, with Y/N, he knew exactly what he was doing. Well, trying to do. 

“There!” Harry pointed where, sure enough, her name was written beside a pair of footprints George thought were more lovely than any of the others he’d been looking at. 

George sighed, relieved. “The owlery.” He had no idea what she was doing there, but at least now he knew where he could find answers.

-

Standing in the owlery, staring out at the worsening storm, I waited. It was too cold for anyone to be loitering in the tower and with the snowstorm coming, no one in their right mind would send their owl out with a letter. 

But I knew a letter was coming for me. Y/L/Ns were never deterred by anything, certainly not weather. 

No letter had arrived, but I could almost feel the brush of feathers and harsh peck of a beak from Eris, the family owl. I could picture the Y/L/N family crest pressed into green wax, sealing the crisp grey envelope. Worse still, I could almost certainly forge an identical letter with no help. 

Y/L/Ns didn’t break the rules and certainly didn’t associate with Gryffindors. It was the job of daughters to take care of sons. If I really wanted to be a burden, I’d better leave Clem out of it. 

The sentiments were familiar, but just because one knew a curse and its caster didn’t mean the curse didn’t hurt. 

The snow started coming down harder and harder, and still I stood, watching the snowstorm for the black, elegant owl. The longer the letter took to arrive, the more my mind raced. 

Maybe Snape hadn’t mentioned my first detention with Umbridge; he loathed her nearly as much as the students did. Maybe he told them to revoke my Hogsmeade privileges. Maybe he’d mentioned both detentions without explaining why I’d gotten them. Would that be bad? My parents wouldn’t have context, and it was the context that was both paramount and damning. 

Absentmindedly, I lifted my cold fingers to my lips, assuredly shivering from the cold and not the memories from last night. 

I definitely hadn’t expected kissing George to be anything like what it had been. 

I shook my head. Wouldn’t have expected. It wasn’t like I’d been sitting around like a silly Hufflepuff, daydreaming about what it would feel like to have George kiss me. 

…was it possible Snape told my parents about the kiss?

No, not at all. To have told my parents about the kiss, he had to have seen it. And if he’d seen it, he would’ve seen George. And if he’d seen George, there is no way George would’ve made it out of the dungeon without detention. 

At least that piece of information was safe. My eyes caught on a speck, pulling me through my thoughts. 

Was that…

I squinted at the horizon. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? 

My heart sank as the dark speck in the furiously falling snow grew large enough for me to make out the flapping wings. 

Eris. 

She covered the last furlong of her journey too quickly for me to regain my composure. Settling on the glassless window frame, she held out her claw, the grey envelope dangling from it as if the words inside did not burden her in the least. 

With shaking hands, I accepted the letter. Eris, job done, flew off, selecting one of the topmost cubbies to rest. 

There was no writing on the outside of the envelope. My parents conducted enough secret business to keep the exterior of their correspondence anonymous and charm the envelope to burst into flames if someone other than the intended recipient opened it. 

Popping the wax seal open, I pulled out the letter to reveal the elegant script of my mother. Y/L/Ns believed that delicate handwriting was the first sign of a true lady. 

I looked away from the page, trying to control my breathing. I’d accepted their criticism before, how could this time be much different? Despite my efforts, my heart was in my mouth as I finally started reading. 

Scathing. The words were like knives, flaying me open. 

They’d never gone this far before. 

I struggled to draw breath from the thin air as I reread the final line. 

It is with every hope for your refined improvement , we have decided–

I crumpled the parchment, hurling it at the wall. The light parchment only made it two feet in the air before falling to the stone floor, removing the opportunity for satisfaction. Just another effort of mine that fell short. 

I looked up at the ceiling, refusing to cry. Tears only made everything worse. Y/L/Ns didn’t cry. 

Resting my hand against the freezing stone of the window frame, I closed my eyes, allowing the cold breeze to slowly numb my face. Numbness was better than feelings. 

Y/L/Ns never let anything get to them. 

Leaning forward to expose more and more of my body to the wind, I almost couldn’t feel the tears slipping down my cheeks. Furiously, I wiped them away, but soon the flow was too great to keep up with. 

I’d known better, I’d been better for almost my entire time at Hogwarts. I’d stayed away from everyone to protect myself, yes, but also to protect others, especially Clem. I was the only one who should’ve had to bear the force of our parents’ disapproval. 

I knew how to stay out of trouble, how to ensure my parents weren’t unnecessarily reminded of my existence, and I’d acted in spite of it. 

I’d done this to myself. It was all my own fault. 

I slammed a fist into the stone frame, the pressure in my chest growing with the effort of keeping down my sobs. 

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made me jolt. Holding a hand over my mouth, I pressed myself into the wall, trying to make myself small enough that if the individual walking up the steps were looking for an owl all the way at the top of the Owlery, they wouldn’t see me. Even so, I turned to face the storm, to keep my surely blotchy face away from any observer, even the owls. 

The footsteps grew louder and louder, my heart pounding. Whoever it was, they’d passed so many of the little alcoves housing the school owls, they must’ve been looking for a specific one. 

It doesn’t take long to post a letter, I told myself. It doesn’t take–

“Imagine,” said a familiar voice, “that I’ve been looking for a friend long enough to realise I haven’t found them because they’re avoiding me, and then I have the good luck to stumble upon their hiding place.”

No.

Not now. 

I turned my face farther away, pushing the side of my face into stone. “Bugger off.” There was a slight wobble in my words, and I could only hope the howling wind outside the tower covered it. 

“Well now, that’s not very nice. Can’t a good-looking bloke just enquire how a bonnie’s doing?” George asked good naturedly. 

“Not if–” My words were croaky as they left my thick throat. I cleared it. “Not if you’re stupid enough to be the bloke and I’m unlucky enough to be the bonnie.” 

Silence fell, and somehow the silence was worse than the sound of his voice in my current defenseless moment. His voice, useless as it was against the chill of my skin, was almost a balm against the chill emanating from my chest. 

Y/L/Ns didn’t need friends.

“Don’t slip on your way out,” I snapped. “I’d hate to step in blood on the stairs.”

I expected to hear the sound of footsteps on the owlery stairs, but George was never one to do the expected. “Y/N,” he said carefully. “Why are you crying?”

Bloody hell. Bloody, minging, blooming, manky hell. 

I stared harder at the snowy mountains as they grew blurrier. “Not today, Wealsey.”

It was silent for a moment. “If you really wanted me to leave, you shouldn’t have used my last name. It's another sign that something’s wrong.”

“Please go away,” I managed to say. I should’ve known that the appearance of manners would only make George more determined. 

The next step was softer, unhurried in the way that George always was. The knowledge that he was coming closer made me curl myself tighter towards the window. “What’s wrong?” he asked slowly and clearly. As if articulation was the reason he hadn’t gotten an answer.

“Nothing.” Blinking only loosed another tear.

“I never heard of anyone crying over nothing.”

“Please,” I whispered again, not sure what I was asking for, but knowing I couldn’t bear for him to stand there and know that I was crying. 

“Don’t leave me hanging.” How could he sound so gentle and so fearful at the same time? It tugged painfully at the pressure in my chest. “Talk to me about what’s going on.” 

I was losing the will to resist. “Just leave me alone,” I begged as a last ditch effort. 

“Tell me it isn’t about last night, tell me I didn’t hurt you.” 

I squeezed my eyes shut at the alarm in his tone. He was too good, too good for this school and too good for this situation and too good for me. He really was a knight in shining armor, but I was not the princess for him. “It’s not you.” 

I’d expected some relief or further pressing, but George didn’t say anything. The only sounds in the tower was the howling of the wind outside and the rustling and shifting of hundreds of owls. He couldn’t have left, I would’ve heard him. 

In my mind, I tried to picture the way George looked behind me. The only thing I could easily see was the concern I’d seen in his face many a time. Did he have his hands in his pockets the way he tended to when he shuffled along beside me in the hall? Or were they clenched at his sides in frustration? 

The curiosity was too much. I peeked.

George’s hands weren’t in his pockets; they were holding a familiar sheet of parchment. He stared down in shock at it, and my fear skyrocketed. 

I lunged, snatching the letter from him. “Don’t!” 

Many of the sleeping owls started, some awakening from sleep to settle their attentive eyes on us. Disgruntled hoots filled the air, echoing throughout the tower. I hadn’t meant to disturb the dignified creatures, but remorse couldn’t puncture my panic. 

George’s deep horror was a terrible thing to see. “That was from your parents?”

“No.” I stuffed the letter into the pocket of my trousers. “No, a-and it’s none of your business!”

“Why would they write all that?” George's brown eyes—solemn as the owls’—tore into me even deeper than the letter crumpled in my fist. “That's messed up, Y/N.” 

I swiped at my cheeks, trying to hide the evidence of my hurt. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Y/N, I’ve gotten detention more times than I can count, my parents have never written a letter like that. Even their Howlers aren’t that awful.”

As if my parents would ever do anything as undignified as a Howler. Besides, they did just fine without the added volume. 

 George started towards me, and I shrunk away from him. He stopped. “Y/N…they’re wrong. You’re not a burden.” 

My breathing hitched. “George–”

“You’re not.”

“It’s none of your business,” I replied, but my tone was anything but convincing. Also unconvincing was the painful rate at which my breathing was reaching. 

“How could they say all that to you just for getting detention?” George asked with a clear mix of sadness and disgust.

I needed to regain control of the situation, to get the upper hand before this spiraled further. “You're overreacting.”

Anger joined Geroge’s mix. “Is that what they've told you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I told him fiercely. “It’s fine.”

“It isn’t!” George shook his head angrily. “They don’t know you, they don’t know that all that you’ve done, you’ve done to protect those you care about. First Clem…” George trailed off. “Then me.” A strange look was growing on his face, a look which threatened the conclusions he was arriving at.

I glared. “Stop talk–”

“You protected me from injustice,” he smoothly interrupted, “but Clem snuck that broomstick into the castle, that detention was rightfully his.” 

“I mean it, George!” I warned, but George didn’t heed me. 

“Now why would you try so desperately to protect him from the school? Well, you wouldn’t.”

“Stop it!”

“You were protecting him,” George pointed at the parchment still in my hand, “from that.” 

“You…” It was getting harder to catch my breath. “You don’t understand.” 

A spark flamed in George’s eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

George cracked a small smile and made a disappointed sound. “I should’ve seen that coming.” He stepped closer. “See, I don’t believe you.”

“I will end you,” I threatened, backing away but George didn’t stop this time. “You hear me? If you keep pushing me and talking to me and smiling at me and going to detention with me and kissing me and trying to save me–” My back hit the stone grid of the window, and a surprised gasp left my lips. I quickly held out my hand to keep him at bay. “If you come any closer, I…I’ll break you!”

George stepped close enough for my hand to rest on his chest. The contact made him stop, making me think he’d finally heeded my warning, until he lifted his hand to cover mine. “I know your parents made you believe that. But I don’t.”

I yanked my hand away from him like I’d been burned, even though it was my heart that stung, not my skin. I was trapped. Either I stepped further away and risked sending myself through the glassless window…or I stepped closer to George. “Walk away, George, I mean it!”

“No.”

“I’ll hex you!”

“Then hex me.” George’s hands cupped my shoulders, pulling me in.

I fought it, pushing against his chest, trying to get him to let me go, but his grip only grew more insistent. “Don’t,” I moaned, turning my face away so he couldn’t see the fresh tears falling.

But George never was good at following directions. 

His arms came around me, holding me tightly.

And I shattered.

An inhuman sound spilled from my mouth as my tears fell with foolhardy abandon. My knees gave out, George being the only thing holding me up. He slowly lowered us to the Owlery floor, never once loosening the grip that kept me upright. 

“How do you do it?” I wept, thinking of how easily George had accepted Snape’s bullying and the judgment from his housemates. “How do you not care?”

George pressed a quick kiss to my temple, his arms holding me tighter. “They’re your parents. I don’t think it’s possible for you not to care.” I pressed my face into his chest, trying to muffle the horrid sounds I was making, and he lightly ran his hand over my hair. “They don’t know the real you." I sobbed louder. “I’m not going anywhere,” George whispered into my temple. “I told you, you won’t break me.”

“You broke me,” I moaned, my nose rubbing against the soft knit of his sweater. 

George pressed his cheek to my head. “I’m here,” he said. “It’s alright.”

-

The sky was fully dark now, and the chill had crept its long fingers around my ears and toes, but still I clung to George like a raft in a storm.

And he let me, even though my cries had subsided. 

“I understand now,” he said softly when we’d been silent for what felt like hours.

I’d never wanted him to. Even now as he held me, the knowledge that he had seen me cry made my stomach twist unpleasantly. But I was too tired to fight it now, and it felt too good to be this close to him. 

“You need to warn Clem.” I didn’t immediately protest, but George seemed to know how much I hated the idea. “I know, it flies in the face of all you’ve done to protect him, but he needs to know. You might not be able to intercept the next letter.”

I sat up. “How do you know I’ve been intercepting his letters?”

George’s gaze was tired as his deft fingers tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “Because I know you, Y/N. I’ve seen you in protective mode.”

“Clem is still good.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “They will ruin him.”

“He loves you, Y/N, he loves you so much. He wouldn’t want you to keep this from him.” His hand left my ear to cup my cheek. “It’s not fair for you to shoulder this alone.” Not fair, he shouldn’t have been arguing this with me when he kept brushing his thumb across my cheekbone, like he knew his touch would make me more obliging. 

I gathered enough willpower to shake my head, which sadly made George drop his hand. “He’s the son they always wanted,” I nevertheless replied. “He will head up the family legacy one day, and the less damaged he is when he does, the better for everyone.”

“So what are you going to tell him about Christmas?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d gotten to that point of the letter. “I’ll tell them they went to the Mediterranean, they have a villa there.”

“He’s eleven, not stupid.”

“I’d rather he suspect something than know that his parents forbade him and his sister from coming home for Christmas.” 

George let out a long sigh. “How am I supposed to go home for the break if I know that you’re here by yourself?” 

I pressed myself into him again, unwilling to admit how much the idea of him leaving affected me. 

George’s fingers lightly ran through my hair. “Well,” he mused, “you’ll just have to come home with me.”

I pushed away from George and onto my feet so quickly, my head spun. “What?”

Looking marvelously unruffled from his position on the floor, George held my gaze. “If you come with me, I won’t have to spend all day worrying about you because I’ll be able to make sure you’re alright.”

“I could never leave Clem alone.”

George rolled his eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t know Clem’s included in that invitation.”

Astonishing, how quickly all my pain and embarrassment could transform into incredulity. “George, I’ve never even had a conversation with your twin, and you want me and my brother to spend Christmas with your family?” 

He didn’t dissolve into explanations or excuses. He simply looked up at me and said: “Yes.”

“That’s absurd.” 

“Yes.”

“Your family will be shocked.”

“Yes.”

“And Christmas break is almost two weeks long!”

“Yes.”

“Stop saying yes!”

George rose to his feet. “Look, you don’t want Clem to know what your parents have said, right? Simply telling him your parents are going on holiday isn’t going to be enough. But if they’re going on holiday and the two of you have an invitation elsewhere, he won’t think about it too much.”

“He’s eleven, not stupid,” I parroted.

“Trust me. As someone who once was an eleven-year-old boy, he’ll be wholly focused on playing Quidditch scrimmages and eating as much food as his stomach can hold.”

I hated to admit it, but that sounded like a better Christmas break than Clem had ever had. “But won’t your parents be–”

“My parents,” George wrapped his arms around my lower back, drawing me into his embrace again, “would love to have you home, our house has always been open to friends.”

I blinked, suddenly full of nerves of a different kind. “Friends?”

Unfortunately, George’s perception did not suffer a lapse. He grinned. “That can be a conversation for later.”

Covering my brilliantly warm cheeks with my freezing hands, I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me. “Do you trust me?” he whispered. 

“Regrettably.”

George, the wonder that he was, tilted his head back to let out a laugh. “I swear, if you and Clem come with me for Christmas, the two of you will be safe. And who knows?” He looked down at me with twinkling eyes. “You might even have fun.” 

I knew I should say no. Forget their displeasure over Snape’s letter, if my parents found out I was even entertaining spending the holidays with the Weasleys, let alone that I’d gone and brought Clem? The catastrophic repercussions for both the Weasleys and myself could not be understated. 

But with George’s arms around me once again, anchoring me, keeping me safe, I looked up in his eyes and gave him my answer.

“Okay.”

I turned the page of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes, tucking my feet up onto the leather black couch as I tried to focus on the picture of wand movements. 

Exams were over, and the Slytherin common room was nearly deserted as most students were partaking in the Christmas cheer elsewhere. Tomorrow morning, the Hogwarts Express would leave Hogsmeade and cart students back to King’s Cross, and for the first time ever, my parents wouldn’t be waiting at the station.

I hadn’t received another letter from them, not that I’d expected to receive one before Christmas day. They had decided on their punishment and they were going to hold true to it; only the new year would reveal when they next decided to contact me. In the meantime, I didn’t need a letter to feel them hovering over my head like angry storm clouds. 

I rubbed my eyes and stared hard at the wand movements, willing my brain into retaining the information.

“Y/N.” Clem sat down, not on the vacant couch opposite me or on the couch beside me, but on the low table in front of me, staring directly into my eyes. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Have not,” I retorted, closing my book with a snap. I was prepared for this. “We’ve both been busy with exams.”

Clem’s face hardened, making him look suddenly fierce for an eleven-year-old. “No, you just don’t want me to ask how long you and Weasley have been cracking on.”

“Shush!” I immediately looked around, making sure the few scarce students in the Slytherin Common Room weren’t paying attention. “We have not been cracking on!” I hissed. 

My brother’s eyebrows rose. “So he isn’t your boyfriend?” 

“No! We’re…” I set the book down with a decisive thud in lieu of having decisive words. “He isn’t my boyfriend.”

Whenever I thought of our interaction in the owlery, I wanted to light myself on fire, even with no guarantee that I would be reborn like a phoenix. In fact, being reborn left too much chance of running into George again. A regular consuming fire that would crispify me right out of any more social interaction. 

I’d cried. And clung onto him like a baby. 

How humiliating. 

I went so far as to write a letter to George backing out of his Christmas invitation, but I couldn't bring myself to send it. Nor could I figure out what held me back. 

Clem leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Is he nice to you? Like, really nice?” 

I sighed. I was glad Clem wasn’t asking questions about our parents, but marginally less glad that he was asking about George. “Yes, he’s nice.”

“And he invited both of us to spend Christmas with his family?”

I knew where Clem’s mind was going with this, and I needed to derail that path as soon as possible. “We’ve spent Christmases with the Malfoys, and this isn’t any different.” I knew how false I sounded before Clem sent me his skeptical look. 

“It is different. The Malfoys are like us.” 

“We were guests with the Malfoys and we'll be guests with the Weasleys. We'll be polite, we'll bring them a Christmas gift, and we'll come back to Hogwarts like nothing has changed.” 

“Are you trying to make Draco mad?” Clem asked in a small voice. “Because of your detention with Umbridge?”

Clem had looked up to the Malfoy heir his whole life, and my brother’s palpable conflict over his idol’s behavior saddened me. “No. Malfoy has nothing to do with this.”

“Are you gonna marry George, or is this just practice?”

“Clem!” My horror and embarrassment clashed in my face to make what I knew would be a violently rouge hue that any Gryffindor would be proud of. 

“Well, that you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” 

The familiar voice made my body lock up, just as a warm body flopped onto the couch from seemingly nowhere. I turned to see George settling into the couch cushions, his arm resting casually on the back of the couch behind me. 

“George!” Hand over my raging heart, I fought the gape of my mouth and lost. 

He was here. 

In the Slytherin common room. 

“What…are you doing…here?”

“Oh, I’m just out for a wander. It’s the last night at Hogwarts before I go home tomorrow, you know.” He snapped his fingers then pointed at me like he’d suddenly remembered something. “Weren’t you also headed somewhere tomorrow?” The smile on his face was so very self-satisfied, reminding me I could certainly never amuse George as well as he amused himself.

I knew several people who wouldn’t be amused at all by the idea of me going to the Burrow.

With a sharp exhale, I glanced around to see that two young Slytherin girls were eyeing George with growing suspicion. Two young Slytherin girls with eyebrows and frowns all too similar to Warrington’s. I seized George's arm. “We're leaving.” Pulling him off the couch, I shoved him towards the common room entrance as I ignored Clem—I did not want to see the expression on my brother’s face. Marriage indeed! Ha!

“You can’t be here,” I snapped at George, glancing over my shoulder at Warrington’s sisters. 

My hands felt not a mite of tension in the muscles of George's back. “Oh, c’mon, it’s the last night of term! No one cares!” Still, he did not resist me as I pushed him out of the common room door, which melted away behind us into an unassuming marble wall. 

I took a deep breath, some of my panic subsiding as I pulled George away from where any Slytherins entering or exiting the common room would immediately notice us. “What on earth possessed you to sneak in there? Do you want to start trouble?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He shrugged. “Starting trouble seemed like the quickest way to find you.”

“I was helping Clem study for examinations.” I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Hopefully you were studying too.”

“What, you don’t trust my natural intelligence?” George asked, a hand on his chest and a small smile toying with his lips. 

“Not as much as you clearly do.” 

Instead of firing back, George leaned against the wall, shoving his hands into the pocket of his trousers. “So…you were spending every evening in the last week helping Clem study?”

“Yes. He really needed help in Charms, he doesn’t like Flitwick.” 

George’s lips pursed. “So the fact that I saw him in the courtyard on Monday evening? Or in the library for Wednesday evening?” 

He'd been keeping tabs on my brother? 

Paranoia reared its head like a territorial centaur, and I breathed through it. George had never once shown any malice towards Clem, he wouldn't be hunting Clem down. 

“Yeah,” George said with a slight frown. “Like I said. Avoiding me.”

I blinked, realizing belatedly that I'd missed my chance to give an excuse as to why he hadn't seen me with Clem. I also realized, as I gazed at George, that there was genuine hurt lingering. 

“I wasn't trying to hurt you,” I mumbled. 

George let out a little huff. “That's not how you say what you're trying to say.” 

“Oh? And what am I trying to say?” 

“You're trying to say you're sorry.” 

I bristled. “Slytherins don't apologize.” 

“Your parents certainly don't.” 

I pressed my lips together, not certain how to respond when I could see George struggling to contain his anger. 

“I worried that I'd said too much or not enough or all the wrong things.” 

A twinge in my chest brought my pride down enough to let the words over. “I'm sorry. It wasn't you, it was just…hard. For me.” 

George's eyes lifted thoughtfully to the ceiling, but I could tell by the slight upturn of his lips that he was joking. “Well, I suppose I forgive you. After all, I'm sure no one else has ever had your snot on their favorite sweater.” 

My cheeks flamed, and I buried my face in my hands. If one could only perish from embarrassment and never have to face wizardkind ever again…

“That was meant to make you laugh.”

I peeked through my fingers just in time to see George push off the wall to come near. My heart kicked up its pace for reasons more alarming than mortification. His hands pulled mine from my face, his expression apologetic as he watched my face. 

And suddenly I wanted nothing more than to hide again. “Are you thinking of kissing me?”

George took a long breath. “I promised myself I'd behave with you.”

“Oh, because you’re an expert in behaving?”

“No, but I’m an expert on you.” He tilted his head, making his crooked smile seem even more lopsided. “If I were ever to try and kiss you when you didn’t want me to, you’d hex me.” He held both hands in a what-do-you-know gesture. “Yet here I stand…unhexed.”

I scowled. “I’m not turning this into another one of your make-out spots.”

“One of our make-out spots,” he corrected. “And we do need another one, unless you want to sneak into the Potions Classroom right now, I’m sure Professor Snape won’t notice.”

My mouth fell open, but I quickly shut it. “Twit,” I mumbled half-heartedly. 

George didn’t laugh like I’d expected. “But you’re not ready for that.” He let my hands go. “You’re not ready for me to kiss you again.” 

What?

I folded my freed arms across my chest, suddenly feeling cold. 

Was he…rejecting me? 

As soon as the thought popped into my head, George stepped closer—not touching me, but only a breath away. “I don’t want to kiss you until you have no doubt about me at all.”

“I don’t have…doubt.” 

George smiled, exercising his talent to find humor where there was none to be found. “You can’t even say you don’t without sounding like you do.” 

Feeling morose now, I uncrossed my arms and wrapped them around myself instead. For some reason, I felt like I had to apologize, which was silly! I didn’t owe George kisses, and he didn’t owe me any. 

“I didn’t mean to make you defensive,” George murmured as his hand brushed my cheek. “But I want us to kiss when we’re both bursting to. When you want to kiss me so much you can’t even joke about it. Until then?” His smile widened. “I’ll be here.” He didn’t wait for a response, meandering over to the nearby fountain near the staircase that would lead him back up the steps to the Great Hall. “I might tell you to pack a scarf.” 

I blinked, trying to process the speed with which he moved from potentially promising to stick around for years to packing. “Er…what?” 

George slid his hands into his pockets as he faced me, walking backwards away from me now. “You know, if I had any idea where you were going tomorrow.” He gave a mock salute and walked up the stairs. 

The corridor felt even colder without him.

-

Clem chose to ride in a compartment with his friends, so I wandered the Hogwarts Express until I found a compartment with a few Hufflepuffs from the year below me. I sat in the corner holding Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes in front of my face, and none of them bothered me. 

If I wasn’t in need of my inconspicuous seat, I would’ve rolled my eyes when they offered me a chocolate frog. Hufflepuffs.

I would never have admitted it to anyone, but I only managed to read two pages on the whole ride. My mind was preoccupied with worries and problem-solving. If this arrangement didn’t work out, could I bring us back to our estate? Would our parents have instructed the staff not to let us stay, even though our parents wouldn’t be there? I had enough money left from my last allowance for Clem and I to stay in a room at Diagon Alley. I didn’t know when I would next receive an allowance, so I was loath to use that much money. Buying a gift for the Weasleys had already taken a decent bite on my savings. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good alternative planned by the time the train slowed to a stop. Reluctantly, I dragged my luggage out of the compartment after the Hufflepuffs, keeping my eyes peeled for any Slytherins or any redheads. 

Stepping out onto the platform and seeing all the parents embracing their children made my heart twist unpleasantly. My parents weren’t the type to embrace me after not seeing me for months, but one of my father’s characteristic tight smiles of approval could make me feel like I was flying. Now, no such smiles waited for me. 

Clem appeared, staying close enough to be my little shadow as we moved our luggage to the end of the train. “Over there.” I followed his gaze to the reunion taking place. 

The Weasleys were like a red-haired mob, all pushing in on one another, moving luggage and greeting one another. Two grown boys had been waiting with whom I assumed were Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. The older of the two wore a charcoal gray robe with leather pants underneath and an untucked white button-up. A singular earring dangled from his right ear. The other boy, younger than the first but still older than the twins, seemed normal enough until I noticed the large, pink burn scar on one side of his neck. Forget their blood traitor heritage, my parents would take issue simply with how these boys looked. 

Mr. Weasley, a smiling man with a weak chin, stayed in one place and clapped all the boys on the shoulders in greeting as they passed him. When the Weasley daughter and Granger walked up, he enfolded them each in a quick hug. With hair seemingly as flustered as she, Mrs. Weasley couldn’t stay in one place like her husband, flitting from one to another out of excitement. She’d just as soon plant a kiss on Fred’s cheek than turn and fret over the state of Potter’s robes. When Ron thanked her for her last package of cakes, she threw her arms around him.

“I can’t breathe, woman!” Ron hollered. “Geroff!”

The Weasleys, Potter, and Granger laughed, and though every laugh was different, all were lively. This was a family unafraid to take up room. 

Clem’s eyes were as wide as my own. “There’s so many of them.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. We didn’t even have as many cousins as George had siblings. 

I glanced around for the third time, making sure no one was paying much attention. The Slytherins usually got off on the other side of the train, so it was less likely that anyone who knew our parents would see us. One less problem to worry about. 

When I finally refocused on the Weasleys, Mrs. Weasley’s eyes were settled on me, and I was shocked to see how much they resembled George’s in color, shape, and feeling. “Welcome, dear,” she said, in a much softer tone than she had been using to greet her children. “We’re so happy to have you both here.” Then, she seemed to notice the bag in my hand. “George!” She turned and swatted the back of Fred’s head. “What have I told you about a lady carrying her own bag?!”

“Oi!” Fred rubbed where she’d hit him. “I’m Fred!”

“Oh. Sorry, Fred,” she mumbled, before rounding on George.

George danced out of his mother’s reach. “Alright, alright, I’m on it!” He sidled up to me, plucking my bag from my grip. Automatically, I reached for Clem’s bag, but George knocked my hand away, picking up Clem’s bags as well. “Let me be a gentleman,” he told me, looking very serious. I supposed if I had a mother like Mrs. Weasley watching us like a hawk, I would be on my best behavior as well. I waited for George to wave his wand and charm the two bags to fly on their own, but he simply carried them, one in each arm.

Fred glanced at George’s own luggage, rolled his eyes, and started pulling it alongside his own. 

“Everyone got their things?” Mrs. Weasley called, and a round of affirmation sounded. “Then let’s go!” Without glancing behind her, she marched towards the exit of Platform 9 ¾, Mr. Weasley falling in step beside her. 

The horde of people followed her, Clem and I at the back of the group. I glanced around as we walked, hardly believing Clem and I hadn’t been seen by any of the members of our house. 

Until the group filed towards the magical gate that would lead us to the Muggle King’s Cross, and I caught sight of Malfoy watching the group with a sneer by one of the brick columns. Before I could think to hide behind a Weasley and pull Clem with me, our eyes locked. 

The hatred in Malfoy’s eyes cooled slightly, allowing room for confusion—a vulnerability I knew he wouldn’t have afforded if he’d been surrounded by any of the goons from our house. 

Slowing my pace, I watched the Weasleys pull ahead. Just at that moment, George was talking to Clem, so neither of them noticed when I took a sharp turn to join Malfoy by the column. “Don’t tell anyone.” I wasn’t sure if it sounded like I was begging or threatening, but Malfoy tipped his head back, staring at me with disapproval tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“So you are staying with them.”

I glanced around, too afraid of our surroundings to verbally confirm it. Seeing that no one was paying attention, I stepped closer so I could speak even quieter. “You owe me one for ratting me out.”

The look in Malfoy’s eyes told me he knew I was speaking the language of our house. And if anyone could respect a Slytherin gesture, it was a Malfoy. I was collecting the debt we both knew he owed me; I had named the price of our settlement. After studying me carefully, Malfoy let out a sharp sigh. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.” I calmly held his stare, not allowing him to see a single hint of the doubts and fears I felt.

“You’ll go home if it’s not safe?” he asked lowly.

I pursed my lips. “Can’t.”

One word. One word, and I knew Malfoy understood the situation far deeper than the happy Weasleys could, even George. It wasn’t about how well Malfoy knew my parents; he too had spent his entire life trying not to be crushed by the expectations of our pure-blooded legacy, and we’d both reached the maturity to realize that it could crush us one day. 

The day where our allegiance would be demanded.

“My father’s gone for the holiday,” he muttered, and I didn’t need to ask who Mr. Malfoy would be serving this Christmas. “If you need somewhere to stay…my mother won’t say anything.”

It wasn’t an empty offer. Mrs. Malfoy had always adored Clem and I. When my mother had forbade me from eating dessert during last Christmas, Mrs. Malfoy would send Malfoy up with an extra slice for me. I wanted to thank Malfoy, but Slytherins didn’t trade on gratitude. “If I have to, I will,” I promised. 

Malfoy’s gaze moved over my shoulder, and his sneer returned. “The weasel’s waiting for you.” I glanced to see Fred, standing at the nearest arch, watching us. 

I was about to go to him when Mrs. Malfoy herself walked up to us, smiling fragilely at me. “Y/N, you’re looking lovely.”

My returning smile likely looked like one of my father’s. “Mrs. Malfoy, it’s wonderful to see you.” I leaned forward to press a quick air kiss to her cheek. “I hope you two have a happy Christmas.” 

Then, without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel to join Fred, whose eyes flicked between myself and the Malfoys as if trying to decide which he would eat first if he were a Pogrebin. I studied Fred’s expression warily, trying to discern how much he’d heard. “Is there a problem?” I said lightly.

Fred’s shrewd gaze didn’t shift. “Just…didn’t want you to fall behind.” 

“Kind of you,” I muttered, biting back a more acerbic comment in my mind.

Fred fell into step behind me. “It seems even Slytherins know better than to trust other Slytherins.” His word choice was intentional, but his tone didn’t suggest that he had overheard anything of substance. 

“You’re mistaken.” I shot him a cool smile as we neared his family. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Except George.”

My cool smile slipped, and my eyes were drawn to George, who was still engaging Clem in conversation. As if sensing my attention, George looked up at me and smiled. “Except him,” I quietly agreed. 

“Do I need to–” Fred cut himself off as we stopped beside the group, which was piling all the luggage into one heap. He frowned as he busied himself with bringing the cases he carried forward, and I got the distinct impression that he hadn’t finished with me. 

I nearly cringed as I looked at the pile. There was no way to distinguish between Clem’s luggage and mine—both black, sleep, and sporting our family crest. The Weasley’s, however, had all different colors, all sporting Spell-O-Tape, stickers of various Quidditch teams and animals, and even things written in ink. 

Mrs. Weasley waved her wand, and the luggage disappeared.

“Now then, I’ve got Ginny, Dad’s got Hermione, Bill’s got Ron, Charlie’s got Harry, and…” Mrs. Weasley glanced at me. “Do you have your Apparition license, dear?” 

“Yes, and I will take Clem, if you can just show me a picture and tell me exactly where it is.”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a look. “We don’t have a photograph,” Mr. Weasley said. 

There was silence. 

None of the Weasley clan made eye contact with me, as if they were scared their eyes might give something away and not realizing that avoiding my gaze said just as much. This had to be related to security. They didn’t want me knowing exactly how to get to their house. 

George nudged me, a tentative gesture which felt unlike him. Since when did George’s confidence waver? “I can take Clem.”

I glanced at him, hating that everyone’s eyes were on me. If they weren’t watching, I could argue with George until he was blue in the face, and he still wouldn’t succeed in stealing my baby brother. But the more I disagreed now, the more everyone in this family would know that Clem was my weakness. 

Did I trust George? I wasn’t sure. 

Did I trust that, if George took Clem other than where I ended up, I could track my brother down? Yes. 

Still, I couldn’t help looking down at Clem. “You alright to go with George?”

Clem nodded and walked to George, who grinned down at him as Clem held onto his shoulder. In turn, Fred offered me his arm like a gentleman and tossed his head as if trying to show off his hair. “Our roguish looks inspire trustworthiness, do they not?”

An innocuous and characteristic comment that sent chuckles through the family. Despite the fact it felt like something George would say, I didn’t feel like laughing. I took Fred’s arm silently, irritated that I had to hold so tightly to him. 

George rubbed his hands together, looking at his family. “Last one there’s a bowtruckle!” Instantly, the designated pairs started Disapparating. 

But instead of immediately Disapparating, Fred’s arm pulled away. For a split second, I thought he was going to Disapparate without me and began to stretch my hand out to grab his shoulder before he could. He didn’t Disapparate, however. He turned to me, looking the most serious I’d ever seen him look. “Do I need to be worried?” 

Apparently Christmas break confrontations were the gifts that just kept on giving. 

I blinked languidly at Fred, as if I wasn’t at all intimidated and my heart wasn't pounding at my separation from Clem. “Worried about what? There are so many alarming things, it's hard to keep it all straight.” A flash of annoyance crossed Fred’s face. I scanned George’s twin, trying to understand what he wanted from me. He hadn’t reacted well to the sarcasm, so maybe authenticity would settle him. A risky choice, considering sarcasm was so much safer than authenticity. “Are you worried about Malfoy? Worried about my brother and I being Slytherins? Worried that I’ll somehow bring a lynch mob to your front door?”

“I’m worried about George,” Fred said shortly. “Because he really likes you, and I don’t think he’s ever been closer to getting his heart broken.” 

“Neither have I,” I said. “And if that happens, he’s got you.” I wondered if Fred could hear the real truth in my reply. If your brother and I break each others’ hearts, he has a loving family and a horde of friends to help him. I have my eleven-year-old brother who asks if we’re getting married or just practicing.

Whatever amount of subtext Fred picked up on seemed to be enough. He offered me his arm once more. I took it and shut my eyes. The momentary compression of Apparation took my breath away. But when I felt the weak winter sun on my face, I opened my eyes once more.

The first thing I saw was Clem, silently laughing as George said, “that’s when I told him that the Sea Urchin Jinx only improved his chances.” My breaths grew easy once more at the sight of my brother. 

The second thing was the pile of luggage that the Weasleys were now dismantling. 

The third thing was the house itself.

The Burrow, as George had called it, was tall and narrow. It appeared to have seven floors, but stacked like they’d been put there by a child who was never meant to be an architect. The whole structure looked moments away from toppling over with its uneven shape, laden with its clear additions. 

“What took you so long?” George asked his twin, quietly enough that it was covered by the sound of Ginny shouting at Ron for shoving her trunk into a snow bank in order to get to his own.

“We got lost,” I said before Fred could answer. “Appeared in the wrong place.” 

I half-expected Fred to defend himself, but the other twin simply nodded. “Came out over by the Diggorys’ place,” he said. 

Diggory…as in Cedric Diggory? The boy who’d died last year? 

George’s skeptical eye roved over both of us, but eventually he joined the fray and picked up Clem and I’s luggage once more before walking towards the house. My bag wasn’t light, I knew that for a fact, yet he didn’t seem encumbered by it at all. He never seemed encumbered by anything, physical or otherwise. The ease granted by his confidence made life weightless, I supposed. 

I didn’t even realize amidst all my assessing that I’d stopped walking, not until Clem glanced back at me. “Are you coming?” 

Glancing around to make sure no one had noticed my ogling, I quickly caught up with Clem, and together we walked into the lions’ den. 

I wondered, did the Weasleys gravitate towards red and orange? Or was it an intentional choice based on their house colors and the color of their hair? Whatever wasn’t orange or red was still warmly colored. The walls that weren’t covered with striped wallpaper were made up of oddly sized stones nestled in very old looking mortar. An olive green blanket lay folded on a light brown couch. The pair of armchairs were slightly different rusty shades, which made me wonder if they’d originally been the same color or if they started out fundamentally different and grew more similar with age. 

In my black robes, I felt out of place now among the warm colors. I was almost completely sure that Clem and I were the first Slytherins to ever step foot in this house. If the house were sentient, the Gryffindor pride that held up the precarious building might've literally spat Clem and I back out in the yard. 

“We weren’t sure where you would feel most comfortable,” Mrs. Weasley said to me as she pulled her hat off. “If you prefer, Y/N, you can room with Hermione and Ginny in Ginny’s room and Clem can room with Bill and Charlie. Or Clem can stay in the attic, though there’s not much room up there.”

Sleeping next to Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley for the whole holiday break? I’d never even had a conversation with either of them! All I knew about them had come from the rumor mill. Granger was the smartest student in her year and was known for being particular in all things. The youngest Weasley was a beast on the Quidditch pitch, and I’d seen Warrington after she’d hexed him. It’d taken him a whole week to stop blowing fire whenever he sneezed or coughed. 

And Clem? All by himself with the boy with an earring and the boy with substantial burn scars?

No.

No way.

“It would be best,” I said smoothly, “if Clem and I share a room.” I had already conceded with the Apparating arrangements. This, I would not bend on. “We’ll stay together in the attic.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Weasley blinked. “Well, the attic is a bit cramped for two.”

Behind his wife, Mr. Weasley shared a look with George, and I didn’t know the Weasley patriarch well enough to know what the look meant. “Dear,” Mr. Weasley said quietly, “they can stay in Percy’s room.”

Mrs. Weasley bit her lip. Was there something in that room she didn’t trust guests with? 

“Mum, it’s clean and we can easily fit another mattress up there,” George added. 

Still, his mother didn’t seem convinced, but Mr. Weasley sent another look at George. “George, why don’t you bring the bags up there?” His question felt performative, though I suspected not for my benefit. George, now with a destination, started up the stairs with our bags. 

“Go on,” I mumbled to Clem, who followed. 

Mrs. Weasley seemed to shake off whatever dark cloud had formed about the rooming arrangements. “Now, dear, do you and your brother have a favorite breakfast food?” 

I stared at Mrs. Weasley, sure I was mishearing her. “Pardon?” I managed to say.

“I normally make eggs, sausages, pancakes, and some bacon, but I would be happy to expand that if you or your brother prefer something else?”

She wanted me to make a choice. She was asking for my preference. What I wanted. 

I blinked at her like I’d been struck dumb. 

“Well,” Mrs. Weasley said after a few moments’ silence, “we’ll just do what we normally do, and if you have any requests, you can just let me know.” She beamed at me before ushering me up the stairs, the way that George and Clem had gone. “Percy’s room is just up on the second floor, right beside Fred and George’s room!”

I nearly tripped, catching myself with a hand on both walls of the narrow stairway. 

Right next door to George?

We’d gone from living on opposite sides of the castle to staying next door to each other? 

The sudden proximity made my stomach and heart flip-flap. 

As I reached the second floor landing, George was exiting the open door on the left, through which I could see Clem. George didn’t falter in his stride towards, what I assumed, was his own room but as our eyes met, he winked. 

Cheeks feeling warm, I ducked into Clem and I’s room and immediately shut the door. How would I ever survive two weeks being this close to George and his shameless behavior? Kissing or no, he was certainly…generous with his affection.

I would’ve worried about it some more, but my attention was caught by my little brother glancing around our room with furrowed eyebrows. 

An ache built in my chest. If all of this was overwhelming for me, I couldn’t imagine how it felt to him. 

“I know it’s not like what we’re used to,” I said, trying to placate the discomfort that was making him shrink his shoulders. “But it’s clean and warm. We’ll have great fun here.” I pulled Clem into my arms, and where he normally would have protested, he wrapped his arms around me in kind.

He must’ve been dejected if he was allowing me to hug him.

I pulled out of the embrace, bumping his chin affectionately. “Hey, it’ll be like an adventure. Much better than going to Monaco for the third time.”

“I miss Mom.” 

My heart dropped at the words mumbled into my sweater. Guilt swarmed my gut. Clem wasn’t upset with me. He could’ve been, even if he didn’t know that our parents had forbidden us from seeing them because of my actions. He still knew that I was the one who chose to bring us to the Burrow. I pressed my cheek to the top of his head. “I know.”

We stood like that, not moving even as the sun continued to set, throwing us into darkness. 

-

The absolute chaos of breakfast the next morning was nearly enough to snap my nerves. 

The two oldest Weasley boys—I still didn’t know which was which—were in a deep conversation with their father, seemingly blind and deaf to Fred and Ginny beside them attempting to catapult their own pancakes onto George’s plate. Granger had a book open and was pointing at something on the page for George’s benefit. Potter and Ron Weasley were mixing syrup, pumpkin juice, and ketchup into some mixture that I was convinced would result in the end product of regret. 

And right in the middle of it all was Clem, looking slightly less uncomfortable than yesterday, though still sticking out as he neatly and quietly ate the food that Mrs. Weasley plunked on his plate. None of the seats either beside or across from Clem were open. 

While I’d never willingly sat down with Granger, she was by far the most civilized part of the breakfast table, so I sat in between her and Ginny. I’d expected them to be wildly uninterested in me, since they never seemed to notice me at Hogwarts, but both watched me from either side as I cut into my pancakes. 

“At least dragons don’t lie,” I barely heard one of the older Weasley brothers—the one with the burn scars—say amidst the din of chaos. “You know where you stand with ‘em. Get too close and they’ll fry you, not curse you from behind.”

I let my eyes wander to the right over at Potter, hoping that I looked morbidly interested in the breakfast potion-making instead of the adult conversation.

“There’s just fear everywhere,” the Weasley boy continued. “One of the other dragon trainers didn’t show up for work one day. Everyone’s wondering if he just moved his whole family out of the country or if he joined You-Know-Who.”

“Or if You-Know-Who killed him,” the boy with the earring added. 

My shoulders tensed as I stared unseeingly at my plate. 

The Dark Lord. Why were they talking about the Dark Lord with Clem and I at the table? Was it a test? What would happen if I appeared too interested? I lowered my eyes to my pancakes and started eating with more enthusiasm. 

“The goblins are nervous too,” said the other brother with the earring, easier to hear due to his seat being closer to mine. “And they trust wizards even less than dragons do.”

Mr. Weasley let out a heavy sigh. “Until things change at the Ministry, there’s just not much else anyone can do.” 

“Boys,” Mrs. Weasley scolded. I looked up just in time for her to walk in with another pan of sausages, dropping them on whatever plates seemed to have room. “Don’t spoil breakfast with all your talk.”

Mr. Weasley gave his two oldest sons a significant look. While his wife communicated with her words, he seemed to prefer doing his talking with his face. He stood and faced the whole family. “I’m off to the office! You lot behave yourselves for your mother!” The last comment seemed to be aimed mostly at Fred, who chose that moment to launch a pancake that landed on Granger’s book instead of on George’s plate.

“Bye, Dad!” the Weasley children all hollered, with the harmonies of, “have a good day, Mr. Weasley” from Granger and, “see you later, Mr. Weasley” from Potter. 

“Bye, dear.” Mrs. Weasley kissed her husband and then waved her wand at the table. All the plates, platters, and silverware started floating towards the kitchen. The pancake on Granger’s book lifted and bounced after the kitchenware. 

Ginny leapt to her feet as the dishes all took flight. “I call Chaser!” The boys all shouted out various Quidditch positions, tromping towards the door and shoving each other out of the way with large grins. After rolling her eyes, Granger stood up to join them, her book tucked protectively under her arm. 

“Clem,” asked Fred, “are you coming?” All the Weasleys froze, turning back to look at Clem, still seated at his place at the table. Like me, he hadn’t moved. 

“You don’t have to wait to be excused,” I muttered to him, too softly for the others to hear.

My little brother rose uncertainly to his feet. “I…” He fiddled with his jet black robes. “I don’t have anything good for the outdoors.”

Oh.

I hadn’t even thought of that. Even if Clem had anything to wear that could function well on a broom, our mother would be furious if any of his expensive, tailored clothes needed replacing due to something like Quidditch.

Furious as she’d been once when I’d cut myself picking up broken pieces of glass and bled onto my Easter dress. 

Mrs. Weasley waved her hands affectionately. “We have more than enough hand-me-downs that should fit.” Like it was some code, the Weasley boys all scampered for the stairs. Presently, Clem had more options for clothing than the two of us had brought combined, of all shapes, sizes, colors, and thicknesses, laid on the kitchen table. He didn’t spend much time choosing, just grabbing the first things he liked and quickly changing and following the group outside. 

I sat at the table, clenching my hands as I watched him go. 

Last night, after he’d gone to sleep, I’d gone through every piece of clothing in Clem’s trunk and cast protective charms on them, down to the mismatched socks. But now he wore clothing from the Weasleys. With no charms. 

I’d always been rubbish at flying. I preferred to keep at least one foot on solid ground, for the good of my digestive system. As a result, I knew almost nothing about Quidditch. I’d only been to two Quidditch matches during my whole time at Hogwarts. It made no sense for me to join the group. 

But it would be so conspicuous for me to just watch the game in order to keep an eye on him. A dead giveaway that I didn’t trust the Weasleys. 

In the end, I only just managed to stay in my seat because George was with them. 

Whatever happened, George would hesitate long enough for Clem to run. 

Still, I ended up sitting in the window seat with Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes on my lap, anxiously glancing over at the woods where the group had gone. Occasionally, one of the players flew high enough for me to just barely see them above the tops of the trees. Once or twice, it was Clem I clapped eyes on, and my heart would start beating again. 

An agonizing half-hour passed this way. 

Then an hour. 

I came across the Aegis Flame in my book, a spell that surrounded the caster with magical flames that burnt any attackers. Was there a way that could be adapted to flames surrounding another person? Perhaps if the wand movement were reversed…

I looked up from the illustration, staring at the treeline, waiting for someone to fly above the trees to be visible.

But what felt like an eternity passed, and no one did. 

Were they still playing Quidditch? They could’ve been doing anything in those woods now. Anything at all. 

Standing from my seat, I wrapped my house scarf around my neck and walked out of the back door, eyes still fixed on the treeline. 

“I was just about to go inside to warm up.”

I jumped, and then saw George straightening up, one hand resting on the stone of the house. His shoelaces were untied, as if he truly was about to go inside the house. 

I gave him a small smile. “Having fun?”

“Loads.” George didn’t bother with taking his loosened shoes off, merely leaning against the house. Did he no longer want to go inside? “Are you?”

“I found a new spell to try sometime.” He didn’t know what the spell was, so I supposed there was no harm in telling him. 

George shook his head. “You’re as bad as Granger. It’s Christmas break, you don’t have to be studying.”

“Excellence doesn’t take breaks. I can’t keep people safe if I just–”

“Hey!”

The single word in my brother’s unmistakably strained voice sent my every mental faculty on high alert. Instantly, I broke into a run.

“Wait!” George easily caught up with me and kept pace. “Y/N, he’s fine!” He reached out to touch my arm, but I shook him off. I could hear more sounds ahead of me, whooshing and the occasional sound of an impact. 

“Get him, Charlie!” bellowed Ron Weasley’s voice, and I ran harder. I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have left him alone, shouldn’t have brought my kid brother to a house full of Gryffindors who hated us enough to hurt him. 

George started falling behind, his long legs seemingly no match for my adrenaline. “Y/N!” 

“Clem!” I shouted, pumping my legs harder. More sounds of impact grew audible as I drew closer to the sound, and I whipped my wand out of my pocket, ready to–

“Come on, Charlie!” I heard Fred bellow, just as I turned the last curve of the path to reach the clearing. The boy with the earring whizzed by on his broomstick, close enough that the wind buffeted me as I stopped and dumbly stared, trying to process the scene.

In the middle of the clearing, Potter and the boy with the burns were fighting over the Quaffle while Ron hovered in front of one side of the pitch’s hoops. As I watched, Potter got his hands on the Quaffle and tossed it to Ginny. 

She zoomed past on her broom, headed straight for Clem, who floated in front of the other homemade Quidditch hoops. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as she aimed and threw. 

The Quaffle soared towards the lowest hoop on the right, the arc perfectly executed to go straight through.

But Clem dove, and the Quaffle landed neatly in his hands. 

“Nice one, Clem!” the boy with the burns said while Ginny and Potter groaned. 

“See?” George stood beside me, breathing hard. “It’s all fine.”

“George!” Potter called, having noticed us standing at the edge of the clearing. “Come play again, we're uneven!” 

“In a minute!” George gently took my hand. “Clem's alright. Well, actually more than alright, look at him, he's not letting Ginny score without a fight, is he?” 

Without a word, I yanked my hand away, turned on my heel and stomped back the way I’d come. 

“Wait,” George said breathlessly from behind me. “I gotta catch my breath and tie my shoelaces if you're gonna take off again.”

I sped up. “He’s fine, like you said.” My clipped tone would’ve made me wince and apologize to George, if it weren’t for the banging of my heart after the scare. He’s fine. I told myself. He’s safe, he’s having fun.

George grabbed my shoulder, tight enough to make me stay in place while he cut in front of me. “I know you'd die if anything happened to Clem, and I'm very invested in the idea of you living.” His trademark easygoing smile seemed harried and frayed, and when I didn’t reply, it slipped altogether. “I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t know he would be absolutely safe.” His soft tone held no accusation, but still my cheeks flamed. 

“You think I’m overly protective, huh?” I snapped at him. 

Instead of agreeing or denying, George simply looked at me. “Y/N,” he said softly, but I was in no mood for softness. 

I marched back towards the Burrow. “Go play with the others,” I tossed over my shoulder. “I'm going to go help your mother.”With the fear burning in my mind, I wasn't sure what words would come out of my mouth next if George continued to push. I didn't know if George tried to follow me or if he'd sensed that I needed to cool off, but either way, I made it back to the Burrow undisturbed and spent the rest of the day laying on Percy Weasley's old bed, staring up at the ceiling.