Chapter Text

Part One

THE HOUSE OF GLASS

Dear you,

Winter has always been my favorite; the hush of mist, the sharp edge of cold, the quiet grace of falling snow. But most of all, I wait for the sun, when it slips through the gray after days of darkness, soft and golden, like a promise kept.

There’s something about that light; fragile, fleeting, that reminds me of you.

You arrived in my life the way sunlight breaks through frostbitten skies, not with noise or certainty, but with warmth I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. You didn’t melt the winter, you made it bearable. Beautiful, even.

In a world gone still and silver, you were the quiet ember I held close.

Time moved slowly with you, like snowflakes drifting, never in a rush, always with purpose. Even silence felt full. I found meaning in the spaces between our words, in the glance you gave before you spoke, in the way your presence softened the cold around me.

If apricity had a voice, it would sound like your laughter, distant, rare, and worth every moment of waiting.

I love you

Chapter 1

At his birthday celebration, sixteen candles flickered atop a chocolate cake adorned with the words “Happy Birthday Reuben” in green letters. As he gazed at the cake, tears of anguish streamed down his cheeks, for despite its festive appearance, it was nothing more than a façade masking the emptiness before him, a mere biscuit on the table. Glancing at the clock, he noted that it was one minute to midnight, after which he would turn sixteen.

The door to his room remained locked, secured not only by his parents from the outside but also by his own hand from within, using a chair that often played host to mysterious figures. He recalled a time when a woman clad entirely in black, her untamed dark curls spilling over her shoulders, had sat there, absently toying with a knife as she fixed her gaze upon him. They always appeared with a knife, their unspoken agreement ensuring they never crossed the boundary into harm. He was expected to offer them his plate of food, a ritual he failed to complete the previous day, as his parents had taken him out to eat, an unusual occurrence that he suspected was meant to please him ahead of his birthday. It had been his mother’s idea; his father, indifferent as ever, had never truly cared. When he was seven, after being caught playing with dolls at school, his father had even shaved his head, a memory that still brought fresh tears when recalled.

The doctor had diagnosed him with hallucinations and prescribed pills, yet he never took them, fearing that they might count as food. Instead, he would offer them to the enigmatic figure that periodically occupied the chair. As midnight chimed and he officially turned sixteen, there was no sign of the familiar black-clad presence, only a letter addressed to him lay on the cushion.

The envelope, written in beautiful green script on yellow parchment, bore the address:

  Mr R. G. Audrey
  20 Randolph Cres, London

On its reverse, a red seal bore the crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

With cautious anticipation, he opened the envelope. Inside, two sheets of paper awaited him. The first read:

  Dear Mister Audrey,
  We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
  Students are required to report to the Chamber of Reception upon arrival; further details will be provided in due course.
  Please review the attached list of requirements with the utmost care.
  We eagerly anticipate welcoming you as part of the new generation of Hogwarts heritage.
  Yours sincerely,
  Professor McGonagall

The second sheet provided a list of requirements, detailing items such as dragon hide gloves, a cauldron, and a wand. Carefully, he set the envelope and its contents on his bed, his heart still wary of the possibility that this might be an elaborate prank orchestrated by the shadowy figures who had once occupied the chair.

A sudden breeze, a reminder that he had forgotten to close the window, stirred him from his reverie. He moved to the window and peered outside, where an owl perched on the fence for a brief moment, silently observing him before taking flight into the night.

That evening, as he attempted to sleep, his mind remained restless. Though he longed for sleep, he could not shake the awareness that he was still waiting, alongside his biscuit, anticipating the return of the mysterious figure with whom he had once made his unspoken bargain.

Chapter 2

At seven p.m., a sharp knock rattled Reuben's bedroom door, followed by his father’s angry voice barking at him to wake up. Summer break had dragged on for nearly two months—two months of relentless hallucinations. The shouting continued as Reuben scrambled to unlock the door and pull away the chair he’d wedged under the handle.

When the door finally swung open, both of his parents stood outside. His mother beamed, holding a vanilla birthday cake with green letters scrawled across the top: Happy Birthday Reuben. She sang the words aloud, her voice bright and forced. His father merely mumbled them.

It was clearly her idea. Reuben followed her silently down the stairs, while his father lingered in the doorway, scanning the inside of his room.

Downstairs, there were no decorations, just three plates, three cups, and a set of cutlery laid out on the wooden dining table in their narrow townhouse. Reuben sat beside his mother. His father joined them a few minutes later, holding a letter Reuben had received. His mother’s eyes widened when she saw it.

“Not again,” she whispered.

“What does it mean, Mom?” Reuben asked quietly.

His father snapped, “It means we have to go through this bullshit again.”

Marie sighed. “Don’t yell, Antoine. It’s not his fault he’s... special.”

“No, it’s your fault,” Antoine spat. “Because you let him play with dolls. And now look at this—this whole damn mess, every year. This is the sixth time, Marie. Six years of me throwing money at something that doesn’t even exist!”

“You know that place does exist,” she shot back. “You know I can see it too.”

Antoine exploded. He slammed a glass against the table, shattering it. His voice rose, wild and cracked.
“You’re lying! You’re all fucking lying! I should’ve never let that old man into our home six years ago. None of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t!”

Marie turned to Reuben with a soft, practiced smile, the kind that tried to hide fear. “Go upstairs, sweetheart. Lock the door. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Reuben didn’t believe her. He could see it in her eyes. He tugged on her arm, not wanting to leave her alone with his father. She gave in, and together they fled up the stairs, his father’s rage echoing behind them.

They ran to the second floor, to the far end of the hallway where the old wardrobe stood. Marie opened its doors.

“Wait, Mom—what are you doing?”

“You’re going to be okay, Reuben,” she said, placing a hand on his chest. “Please remember me. I’ll be right here.” She tapped gently over his heart.

“Mom, what do you mean?” Tears streamed down Reuben’s cheeks. “Please stay with me,” he begged, trying to pull her into the wardrobe.

“I can’t. There’s only space for one,” she whispered.

Behind her, Antoine was coming up the stairs. His skin had begun to bubble and distort, boiling under an unseen force. His black hair turned straw blond in streaks, and a tattoo of a snake piercing a skull began to ink itself along his right arm.

“Please, Mom, get in!”

She looked into his eyes. “Remember me.”

“Always.”

With one last smile, she pushed the wardrobe door shut and whispered three times:

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”
“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”
“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

Through the shrinking gap between the doors, Reuben caught one final glimpse of her blue eyes—just before a green bolt of lightning struck her from behind.

The wardrobe shut.

And Reuben vanished.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

A hollow emptiness filled Reuben’s body the moment the wardrobe door shut. His mother’s final words echoed in his ears. He felt sick, heavy, and disoriented. When the door creaked open again, a man stood outside—tall, dressed in dark robes, with long, greasy black hair. Without a word, the man pulled Reuben out of the wardrobe and set it ablaze with a flick of his wand.

“Happy birthday, Reuben,” the man said with a faint smile.

Reuben stared at him, confused and dazed. “Who are you?”

“Wait,” the man replied, guiding him gently toward an old, worn-out couch. “Let me fix things first.”

He tapped his wand lightly against Reuben’s head and whispered something under his breath. A sudden rush of memories returned to Reuben all at once—his life, his mother, the chaos, and everything before the wardrobe.

“Professor Snape?” Reuben asked, blinking. “What are you doing here? This… this isn’t my house.”

“No, it’s mine,” Snape replied calmly. “You’re in my home. Spinner’s End. Your mother used the Vanishing Cabinet.”

“Where is she?” Reuben’s voice trembled. “Where’s my mom, Professor?”

Snape moved to sit opposite him and took Reuben’s hands in his own. He exhaled deeply. “I’m afraid, Reuben… your mother used the cabinet as a last resort to save you. She was killed.”

Reuben collapsed to the floor, gasping for air as the weight of the words crushed him. Tears streamed down his face, his entire body shaking. Snape knelt beside him, pulling him into an embrace.

“You’re safe now,” Snape murmured. “Dumbledore will protect you.”

Later, Snape led him to a small guest room, plain but tidy. “Next week,” he said, “we’ll go to Diagon Alley to get your supplies for the new school year.”

When that week passed, Reuben came downstairs to find Snape at the stove, cooking breakfast—bacon and an omelette. The professor turned his head and greeted him.

“Good morning, Reuben. Did you sleep well?”

“No,” Reuben replied honestly.

Snape approached him and looked into his eyes. “I’ll be here for you,” he said gently. “Just sit down. Let’s eat together.”

As Reuben sat, his eyes wandered to a copy of the Daily Prophet lying on the kitchen table. “Will I ever get my stuff back, Professor?”

“Please,” Snape said with a faint nod, “call me Severus. And I’m afraid not.” He pointed to the headline on the front page.

Reuben picked up the paper. A moving photograph showed his former home in flames. The headline read: Muggle House in Flames After Death Eater Killed Family. He kept reading. The article stated only the mother’s body had been found in the ashes—no trace of the father or the son.

Snape placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him and sat across the table.

“Do you remember who attacked your house, Reuben?” Snape asked carefully.

“He didn’t break in,” Reuben replied, his voice dull. “He was my father—or I thought he was. He used… what was it called again? That potion?”

“Polyjuice?”

“Yes… that’s it. Sorry, my memory is still messy.” Reuben sighed. “Why does Professor Dumbledore always have to lock my memory each school year?”

“To protect you,” Snape answered.

“But wouldn’t I be safer if I actually remembered things? If I could use my wand to protect myself… and protect her… so she wouldn’t be—” Reuben’s voice cracked, his anger slipping through. “—fucking dead!”

He froze, realizing how harsh the words sounded.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s alright,” Snape said quietly. “Let’s eat for now. This morning, a letter arrived from Dumbledore with a cheque—for you, to buy your new school supplies.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Snape said, his expression unreadable. “Thank him when you see him at school. We’ll leave after breakfast for Diagon Alley.”

They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Afterward, Reuben stood to help with the dishes, but Snape was already one step ahead. With a flick of his wand, the tap began to run, and the plates, cutlery, and glasses floated into the sink, cleaning themselves.

Snape retrieved his cloak from the nearby rack and turned to Reuben. “Come closer to the fireplace. Have you ever traveled with Floo Powder?”

“No,” Reuben said. “But I’ve heard Draco talk about it.”

Snape smirked. “Excited to see him again this year?”

Reuben turned away, trying not to blush. “No.”

Snape chuckled quietly. “Alright, then.” He held out a bowl of silvery-grey ash. “Go stand in the fireplace and take a handful.”

Reuben did as instructed. “Now what?” he asked, glancing down at the ash in his palm.

“Now throw it on the ground and say, loud and clear: Diagon Alley. Understood?”

“Yeah.” Reuben nodded.

He raised his voice and shouted, “DIAGON ALLEY!” as he tossed the ash down.

Green flames erupted around him, engulfing him completely. In an instant, he was pulled into the Floo Network.

Moments later, Reuben stumbled out onto a bustling cobbled street, surrounded by witches and wizards in colorful robes and tall hats. He barely had time to take it all in before Snape emerged from the fireplace behind him.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Reuben,” the professor said.

Chapter Text

“How about we start by getting you a wand—sound good?” asked Snape.
Reuben nodded. “Yes.”

They walked together down the cobbled street until they stopped in front of a narrow shop. The paint on the front walls was a peeling charcoal black, and above the door, in delicate gold lettering, a sign read: OLIVANDERS — WAND MAKERS.

“I remember Mr. Ollivander from when I bought my first wand,” Reuben said. “Mother liked him. She was terrified of nearly everything here, but she trusted him. That was six years ago. She never saw him again after that. Do you think he’ll remember her? Or me?”

Snape gave a faint smile. “Ollivander remembers everyone who’s ever bought a wand from him. Now, why don’t you go inside? I’ll go have your cheque converted into proper currency.”

Reuben nodded and entered the shop alone. The air inside was thick with dust, the scent of old wood and parchment lingering. Stacks upon stacks of wand boxes filled the shelves that lined the walls. The shop appeared empty.

He stepped up to the counter where a small brass bell sat. He rang it gently.

“Coming!” a voice called from the back.

An old man with a shock of white hair came sliding into view on a rolling ladder. He peered at the boy with sharp, knowing eyes.

“Hello, my boy—Reuben, isn’t it? Been a long time. How are you? And how’s your mother doing?”

Reuben’s voice dropped. “She’s dead.”

Ollivander’s expression fell. “I’m truly sorry. I was very fond of her.”

“They got my father too. Death Eaters. Burned our house down. I lost everything.”

The wandmaker stepped out from behind the counter and wrapped Reuben in a surprisingly strong hug. “These are dark times, dear boy. I hope you’re safe—and that you have somewhere to stay.”

“I’m staying with Professor Snape.”

At that, Ollivander’s smile faltered. “Be careful with that man, Reuben. Dumbledore may trust him, but I’ve long suspected he’s hiding something.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Reuben said, “but he’s been very kind to me.”

Ollivander only nodded. “I hope that remains true. Now, let’s get you a new wand. You said yours was destroyed?”

“Yes.”

“Pity. I always liked the design of yours. But let’s see if we can find one even better.”

With a flick of his wand, a measuring tape sprang to life, zipping around Reuben, gauging his height, finger length, chest width. Ollivander scribbled the figures on a clipboard, then began searching the shelves.

After several minutes, he returned holding a dark blue box. He opened it to reveal a black wand resting on a pale velvet cushion.

“What do you think, Reuben? Quite the pearl, isn’t it?” He lifted the wand reverently. “Dragon heartstring core, thirteen and a half inches, ebony wood, supple. Go on—try it.”

Reuben held the wand firmly. He remembered the motion: a confident swish and flick. As he performed it, the shop burst briefly into a golden gleam.

“Marvelous,” Ollivander said, eyes twinkling.

Reuben smiled. “Thank you.”

Just then, Snape stepped through the door. “I’ve got your money, Reuben.” His voice was even, but his gaze flicked to Ollivander, who looked at the professor with a stern expression.

“I’ll take care of the payment,” Snape said. “Wait outside.”

Reuben nodded and stepped out. As he stood on the stoop, the thick wooden door muffled most of their conversation, but a few words filtered through the cracks.

“Please leave, Mr. Ollivander,” Snape said quietly. “Your time here is over. It’s not safe for you. Look after your shop in Hogsmeade instead.”

“And why should I?” Ollivander replied. “Do you know something I don’t, Severus? There are whispers—rumors that you're not as... righteous as you pretend to be.” He paused. “I’ve seen where you wander in Knockturn Alley. Places no respectable wizard dares show their face.”

“And do you believe them?” Snape asked.

“I do. I’ve seen enough to make up my mind.”

“Then you won’t leave?”

“No.”

Snape’s voice dropped to a plea. “It’s for your own good.”

“Out,” Ollivander said flatly.

Through the door’s small window, Reuben saw Ollivander raise his wand, pointing it directly at Snape. The professor didn’t retaliate—only turned and left the shop.

As he stepped outside, Snape caught sight of Reuben and gave him a small, tired smile. “Show me your wand.”

Reuben handed it to him proudly. “Dragon heartstring and ebony wood.”

Snape examined it. “Beautiful craftsmanship. Ebony wood is excellent—mine’s ebony as well. Very reliable.” He handed it back. “You’re going to do great things with this wand, Reuben. Just make sure you choose the right side.”

They walked in silence, passing a series of shops until they reached one painted in bright yellow. Orange lettering announced: MADAM MALKIN’S ROBES FOR ALL OCCASIONS.

“We need to get you a new school uniform,” Snape said. “Why don’t you head in? I’ll get your potion supplies and stationery.”

Everyone at Hogwarts knew Snape disliked buying clothes. Rumor had it his closet was filled with identical black robes. But Reuben had noticed subtle variations—shades of green-black, blue-black, and gray-black. Snape had a black for every color of the rainbow, though that was as flamboyant as he ever got—unless you believed the tale about Neville Longbottom’s boggart, which supposedly turned into Snape in full granny-wear and a fur hat.

“Alright,” Reuben said with a grin as Snape strode off.

Inside, the shop smelled like pumpkin spice, oddly strong for summer. Madam Malkin, dressed in oversized clothes from at least three seasons ago, approached with a stiff smile.

“Good day, sir. How can I help you?” Her voice sounded as if it had weathered years of hardship.

“I need a new school uniform,” Reuben said.

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Step into the changing room. What school do you attend?”

“Hogwarts.”

“The best,” she chuckled, flicking her wand. “Accio uniforms!”

“I always wanted to go to Hogwarts as a girl,” she added. “But my parents couldn’t afford it.”

“Where did you go instead?”

“Primrose. Hated the maroon uniforms. I begged the headteacher to change them every year. They always said, ‘Tradition.’”

Reuben changed into the uniform: loose black trousers, dark grey V-neck, white button-up, tie, and a classic black robe. As he stepped onto the fitting podium, the trim of his robe shimmered green.

“Slytherin,” Madam Malkin said. “Ambitious, I see.”

“So they say. What house do you think you’d have been in?”

“Always admired Ravenclaw. Tallest tower, view of the Black Lake…”

“It’s beautiful. They have a private library—books only Ravenclaws can read. In case of fire, protective spells suck out the oxygen to save the books—even if it would kill anyone inside.”

“You’ve seen the common room?”

“I have.”

“I thought students weren’t allowed in other houses’ common rooms.”

“We aren’t.” Reuben smiled. “But nobody needs to know that. I have friends in Ravenclaw. On clear nights we stargaze together from their terrace.”

“That sounds like a dream. I hope you have good friends to support you.” She adjusted the hem of his trousers. “How’d you get into Hogwarts, anyway?”

“I was born lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.”

“You’re Muggle-born?”

“I am. And in Slytherin. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Very.” She gave a final tug on his sleeve. “Sometimes I wish I’d been born Muggle-born—just to experience Hogwarts as something magical.”

“Do you ever feel like you didn’t earn it?” she asked softly.

“Sometimes,” Reuben admitted.

“You look beautiful,” she said, stepping back.

Reuben looked in the mirror. His straight brown hair looked dull, his pale skin made the shadows beneath his eyes stand out more. He wondered if he had grown since last summer. His mother used to measure him at the start of every school year. Now, she was gone. He’d probably forget.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

He paid for eight uniforms—two for each season—and three pairs of shoes. When he stepped outside, Snape was already waiting.

“Thank you, Madam Malkin,” Reuben said.

“It was my pleasure, dear boy.”

Chapter 5

“I’ve got your potion requirements—and your books as well,” said Severus, handing the bags over as they walked down the bustling street, their other parcels trailing behind them, charmed to follow obediently.

“Thank you,” Reuben replied.

As they passed The Magical Menagerie, Reuben paused without thinking, eyes drawn to the animals clustered behind the glass. Severus noticed and stopped beside him.

“Would you like a pet, Reuben?” he asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Reuben replied uncertainly.

“You know,” Severus said with an unusual gentleness, “I still haven’t gotten you anything for your birthday. Let’s go in.”

The shop was better ventilated than expected—fortunate, considering the professor’s allergies. The air inside was warm, surprisingly fresh, and smelled faintly of cedar and fur polish.

“What would you like?” Snape asked. “We can get you an owl or a toad.”

“No toads,” Reuben said quickly, scrunching his nose. “And I can always use the school owls.”

“Alright. No toad, no owl. What about a rat?”

“Absolutely not. Have you heard the story about Ron’s rat? Turned out to be a grown man.”

“I have heard about Mr. Weasley’s rat, yes. But if you wanted one, I’d make sure it was one hundred percent certified to be a rat. No hidden criminals.”

Reuben laughed softly. “Thanks, but I think I want something fuzzier. A cat.”

“Ah. So, a Kneazle.”

“No, just a regular cat.”

“Oh.” Snape blinked. “Alright, let’s find you a regular cat then.”

They wandered through the shop but found no cats on the ground floor. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper was asleep in a creaky armchair, bundled in furs. A golden plaque on the desk read: L. Lackwood.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “‘L. Lackwood.’ What do you think the ‘L’ stands for?”

“Lila,” said a voice behind them.

They both turned—but no one was there.

“Did you hear that too?” Reuben whispered.

“I did.”

When they turned back, the old woman in the chair was gone. In her place sat a purple Kneazle, staring up at them with unblinking golden eyes.

“I am Lila Lackwood,” the creature said, before shifting—fur retreating, limbs reshaping—until the old woman was once again lounging at the counter, a sly smile on her lips, her eyes half-lidded under a magnificent fur hat.

“How can I help you, young men?” she purred.

“My friend would like to get a cat,” said Snape.

“A Kneazle, you mean.”

“No, just a cat,” Reuben replied.

Lackwood studied him, her gaze curious. “All cats are upstairs.”

“There are no stairs,” Snape noted.

With a snap of her fingers, a staircase slid from the wall behind her like a secret passage.

“There are now.”

They stepped past the counter and ascended, her sharp gaze following them with every step. Once upstairs, Snape sighed.

“Weird lady.”

“I heard that!” her voice floated up from below. Reuben couldn’t help but laugh, and to his surprise, Snape’s pale cheeks turned slightly red.

Upstairs was a feline paradise. Plush cushions, velvet sofas, and layers of soft carpet covered the floor. Cats lounged on every available surface. A levitating broom swept discreetly in the corner. The air smelled of lavender and vanilla—Miss Lackwood’s unmistakable signature scent.

“You’ve got quite the choice,” said Snape, cautiously approaching a few of the animals. Most darted away.

“Such stupid animals.”

“Don’t say that,” Reuben said, sinking into a couch that was quickly covered in cats. “Cats are smart.”

“But I’m smarter.”

“Of course you are.” Reuben rolled his eyes playfully.

Over the next half hour, dozens of cats came and went, curious but fleeting—until one finally stayed. A brown cat with piercing green eyes curled up contentedly in Reuben’s lap.

“Have you made up your mind?” Snape asked.

“I have,” Reuben replied, gently stroking the cat. “This one.”

“Why that one?”

“My mum had green eyes.”

“And brown hair?”

“No. She was blonde. But I have brown hair.”

“That you do.” Snape reached over and took the cat from him. It purred in his arms, swatting playfully at a loose strand of his hair. He quickly handed it back.

With the cat in tow, they returned downstairs. Lackwood was waiting at the register, her eyes still trained on them like she’d never looked away.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.

“We did,” Reuben said, setting the cat gently on the counter.

“How much for her?” asked Snape.

“Oh, this isn’t a girl, sir. This is a beautiful boy,” she said, eyes flicking back to Reuben. “Feminine though, isn’t he?”

Snape raised a brow. “Yes, quite like his owner.”

Reuben blinked. “Oh.”

“How much?” Snape asked again.

“Thirty Galleons.”

“Thirty Galleons?” Snape echoed, aghast.

“You’ve got good ears,” she purred.

“It’s alright—I’ll pay for it,” Reuben offered, reaching for his bag.

“No,” said Snape firmly. “It’s my present to you.”

He paid, and with the cat in his arms, Reuben followed Severus out into the bright street once again.

“What are you going to name him?” Snape asked.

Reuben looked down at the small, purring creature in his arms and smiled.

“Apricity.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

“Do we have everything?” Reuben asked, arms wrapped around his new cat. Their bags floated behind them, charmed to follow by Snape.

“I believe so,” said Snape. “We still need to get your ticket for the Hogwarts Express, though.”

They continued down Diagon Alley, approaching the travel shop—Globus Mundi Travel Agents—just as a young family reached for the door.

Suddenly, five strands of black mist whipped through the air like tendrils of smoke. The force knocked Reuben and Snape—and everyone nearby—into the walls.

“Fuck!” Snape hissed. “Behind the alley—now!” He shoved Reuben into a narrow passage and followed, wand already drawn.

“Vidiatur,” he muttered, sweeping his wand across the ground and then in an arc above their heads. A shimmering veil descended around them.

“Disillusionment Charm,” he whispered. “They won’t see us.”

The shadowy attackers tore through the street. Windows shattered, spells crackled. The family that had stood in front of the travel shop was…gone. The walls were painted in blood and smoke, and the door was smeared with filth and viscera. Reuben’s gasp caught in his throat as he instinctively tried to scream, but Snape’s hand clamped over his mouth.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, voice deadly low.

The black mist surged forward and stopped in front of Ollivanders. The mist cleared, revealing their attackers. Reuben recognized one of them—Fenrir Greyback. Three more masked Death Eaters entered the wand shop and returned moments later, dragging Garrick Ollivander with a sack over his head. He was screaming. The Death Eaters vanished again into the mist, leaving the shop in ruins.

“Finite,” Snape muttered, lifting the veil. “We must leave. Now.”

Grabbing Reuben’s hand tightly, he Apparated them both—with their bags and the cat—away from the chaos.

The sickening twist of Apparition ended in the quiet familiarity of Snape’s living room. With a flick of his wand, their belongings soared upstairs, cat included.

“Go to your room,” Snape said firmly, steering Reuben toward the staircase. “Whatever you hear—do not come out. Do not make a sound.”

“But why? What’s happening?”

“Do as I say. Now.”

Reuben obeyed, retreating upstairs and locking the door behind him. He could barely breathe. From below, he heard Snape unlock the wardrobe he had always been forbidden to touch. Something—or someone—fell out with a thud.

Then a high, rat-like voice began to shout.

“Imperio,” Snape said, and the voice was silenced.

The front doorbell rang.

Two women entered. Reuben recognized one of the voices—sharp, almost mocking—but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Quite the cozy little house, Snivellus,” the woman sneered.

“Thank you, Bellatrix,” Snape responded coldly.

The three moved into the living room, and their voices grew too low to hear. Curious, Reuben approached the door—only for the curtains at his window to lash out and pull him backward, wrapping around his chest and legs, pinning him to the bed. Struggling was useless. He gave up, exhausted. It had been days since he’d truly slept. He remembered catching sight of himself in the mirror at Madam Malkin’s—how pale and sunken he’d looked. He missed Hogwarts. He missed the common room beds.

The curtains covered his eyes.

And he slept.

From Snape’s Perspective

“Please, take a seat,” Snape said flatly. “Would you like tea? I had Pettigrew bake biscuits—they’re surprisingly good.”

“Thank you, Severus, but we won’t be staying long,” said the blonde woman. Narcissa Malfoy. Snape motioned for Pettigrew to go prepare the tea anyway.

“Cissy and I came to ask you a favor,” Bellatrix said.

“A favor?”

“Yes, Severus,” Narcissa added quietly. “You weren’t at the gathering last week, but the Dark Lord has made my son, Draco… a Death Eater.”

She choked on the words and dropped to her knees, nearly collapsing. Snape didn’t move to help her.

“That’s not who I am anymore,” he thought grimly.

“The Dark Lord has made your son a Death Eater,” he repeated.

“Yes. But that’s not all,” Bellatrix chimed in with a grin. “He’s given the boy a task.”

“A deadly one,” she laughed.

“What task?” Snape asked.

“He must kill Dumbledore,” Narcissa whispered.

Inside, Snape’s heart stopped—but his face remained unreadable.

“He can’t do it, Severus. You know he can’t,” Narcissa pleaded.

“And the favor is…?”

“I want you to do it instead.”

Snape’s silence was broken only by Pettigrew returning with the tea and biscuits, performing no magic—Snape had forbidden him to.

“And why,” Snape asked slowly, “would I do such a thing?”

Bellatrix pulled out a photo frame—and showed him a picture of Reuben.

His son.

“Where did you get that?” Snape asked, ice creeping into his voice.

“The Dark Lord got it,” Bellatrix purred. She slithered onto Snape’s lap, her long nails tracing down his throat like knives. Her nose brushed his. Saliva dropped onto his robes.

“You will make an Unbreakable Vow with Cissy—that you’ll kill Dumbledore. Or else.”

The picture burst into ash in her hands.

Narcissa sat motionless, cold and silent.

“Please, Severus. The Dark Lord doesn’t know about him. Not yet,” she said.

“For now,” Bellatrix hissed, slinking back into her seat.

“And you will promise not to tell him?” Snape asked, voice low.

“We swear it,” Narcissa said.

Snape stood, walked to her, and extended his hand.

“Do it.”

Reuben woke with a start as the front door slammed and the wardrobe clicked shut. Snape’s voice came from the other side of the door.

“Reuben, pack your things. We’re leaving for Hogwarts early.”

Still groggy, Reuben tried to gather his belongings, but the trunk packed itself with a flick of Snape’s wand from outside the room. Reuben held Apricity close and descended the stairs, his magically-packed trunk floating behind him.

In the living room, Snape stood with his back to him, gloved hands clasped. He was rubbing his left hand. Reuben noticed the gloves. Snape never wore gloves.

He glanced at the wardrobe.

“Don’t look at it,” Snape said sharply without turning.

“Who were those people that came to visit?” Reuben asked.

“No one.”

“What are you hiding in that wardrobe?”

“I said—don’t look at it.” Snape finally turned to face him.

“Why are we leaving? I thought I was safe here.”

“I thought so too,” Snape muttered. “But we aren’t. Not anymore.”

“Does it have to do with those women?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. It has to do with me.” He raised his wand and pointed at a vase on the coffee table. “Portus.”

“Does this have anything to do with what happened in Diagon Alley?” Reuben asked.

“It has everything to do with that.”

“Were those women Death Eaters too?”

“Why would you say that?”

“We both know the rumors about you… And sometimes, even I think they’re true.”

Snape’s hand flew out, striking Reuben across the face.

“Don’t you ever disrespect me in my house again.”

Reuben stumbled back, eyes locked with the professor’s.

Snape’s expression shifted. “I’m sorry, Reuben. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I need to get you somewhere safe.”

“Let’s leave.”

“Reuben, I—”

“Now.”

They both reached for the vase, avoiding contact. Nothing happened.

“You have to hold my hand,” Snape said.

Reuben sighed and placed his hand into Snape’s gloved one. The leather was cold against his skin. He looked into Snape’s eyes—there was something there, something fragile—and then the world began to spin.

He clutched Apricity tightly.

They vanished.

Back at Spinner’s End, the wardrobe door creaked open.

Peter Pettigrew tumbled out, dazed and groggy, with no memory of what had happened.

“What the fuck…?” he muttered.

Chapter Text

alright i am so sorry because i messed up the chapters to much, but from this point on notmally everything should be in ther ight order, please if there is anything that does not make sense commend :)

Chapter Text

The world spun wildly before dropping them at the highest level of the Astronomy Tower. Reuben landed flat on his back, still clutching his cat. Apricity let out a mildly offended meow. His belongings were flung in every direction. Beside him, Snape remained perfectly upright, as though he hadn’t just been flung through the air by a spinning portkey.

A voice greeted them calmly.

“Good evening.”

An old man stood nearby, his beard flowing down to his waist, dressed in a long grey robe with a matching slouchy hat.

“Good evening, Albus,” Snape said, inclining his head slightly. “Thank you for allowing us to arrive early.”

“No problem at all, Severus.” Dumbledore’s eyes turned toward Reuben. “Did you have a safe journey?”

Reuben stood, brushing himself off. “No,” he said flatly, shooting Snape a glare.

Dumbledore chuckled. “I can imagine.”

With a flick of his fingers, Reuben’s scattered possessions zoomed back into his trunk, which then levitated and glided smoothly down the staircase. “I’ve sent your things to your common room. Get some rest.”

Snape didn’t linger. Without a word, he descended the stairs and disappeared, his robes sweeping behind him.

Reuben stayed behind. He stepped toward the balustrade and leaned over, gazing out across the Black Lake. In the far distance, four peaks pierced the horizon—Grovewatch Peak, Sylvan Spire, Ferncliff Bastion, and Cedarshade Pinnacle. Professor Binns once claimed they represented the four founders of Hogwarts, and that Celtic passageways were hidden deep within them.

Below, the lake shimmered under a curtain of mist, disturbed only by the lazy movements of the giant squid’s arms just above the surface. A patch of grass stretched beneath the tower—lush and empty. It was the same field where first-years often played.

“Looks rather comfortable lying there, doesn’t it?” Dumbledore said, suddenly beside him. His pale blue eyes mirrored the lake’s haze. “I remember playing down there when I was a first-year… though that was a very long time ago.”

Reuben said nothing.

“Are you looking forward to your sixth year?” Dumbledore asked. “Professor Snape tells me you performed admirably on your O.W.L.s. What N.E.W.T. subjects have you chosen?”

Reuben didn’t turn to look at him. “Charms. Transfiguration. Ancient Runes. Potions.” Apricity purred softly in his arms.

Dumbledore smiled. “A beautiful cat. What’s his name?”

“Apricity.”

A breeze stirred, ruffling Reuben’s hair. Dumbledore reached over and brushed a strand back into place. But his hand lingered—just a moment too long.

Reuben turned to face him directly, eyes narrowing.

“There are still two weeks before term begins,” Dumbledore said gently. “It can be cold and lonely in an empty common room. I’ve got an extra bedroom in my office if you’d rather not be alone—”

“No. No, thank you.” Reuben’s voice was sharp. His gaze didn’t waver.

He turned and walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run.

Down the spiraling steps of the Astronomy Tower, across the ever-shifting Grand Staircase, and into the shadows of the dungeons, Reuben didn’t stop until he reached a blank stretch of stone wall—the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room.

A golden snake was embedded in the floor. As he approached, it rose from the stone and slithered up the wall, revealing a massive carved door. Scenes of ancient magical battles adorned its surface—sorcerers in duels, serpents wrapped around runes. With the school term not yet begun, no password was needed.

The doors opened.

Inside, a short corridor led to a descending spiral staircase. A silent, glowing waterfall trickled down the center, casting pale green light across the stones. Despite being at the lowest level of the castle, the air was warm. Firelight flickered against dark stone and emerald fabrics.

House-elves bustled through the common room, preparing it for the students' return. Reuben set Apricity down, letting the cat wander.

He walked toward the center of the common room, where three arched windows looked out into the depths of the Black Lake. He stood at the middle one, the glass thick and cool to the touch. Somewhere beyond the murk, shapes moved—fish, perhaps, or stranger things.

He smiled faintly, remembering how the seventh-years had once snuck in stripper poles and brought dancers from the Hogshead Hustle in Hogsmeade. Draco Malfoy had managed to sneak in but had been thrown out after only ten minutes. Later, he bragged that he saw Madie Dots—Rosmerta’s daughter—giving a lap dance to a seventh-year. Draco had worn the expression of someone proud and bewildered at the same time.

The memory was interrupted by a crash behind him.

He turned. Apricity had knocked a vase from the mantelpiece.

“Oh, bloody thing!” a familiar voice shrieked.

“Winky?” Reuben called.

“Mister Audrey?!” The tiny elf sprinted toward him and launched herself into his arms.

“Oh my god, Winky,” he said, hugging her tightly. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, sir!” she squeaked. “But who is that bloody creature knocking over my vase?!”

Reuben laughed. “That’s my cat. His name is Apricity.”

Winky squinted at the cat, who was now licking one paw like royalty. “Hmm. Alright then. But what’re you doing here so early? School’s not starting for two weeks!”

“I had to leave early. With Professor Snape.”

“Oh good heavens! Are you safe now? You’re under Professor Dumbledore’s care, yes?”

“I am,” Reuben said softly.

Winky brightened. “I got you a birthday present!”

“You remembered?”

“Of course I did! Close your eyes!”

Reuben obeyed. There was a snap, and something dropped onto his head. Winky burst into squeals of laughter.

“What is it? What’s so funny?”

“Open your eyes, sir!”

He pulled the soft fabric off his head and stared.

It was a pair of white Calvin Klein boxers.

“What is this?”

“Mr. Malfoy’s!” Winky cried gleefully. “He left them here last year!”

Reuben grimaced and tossed the underwear to the ground. “Winky, what the hell? That’s disgusting.”

But even he couldn’t stop laughing.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

The world spun wildly before dropping them at the highest level of the Astronomy Tower. Reuben landed flat on his back, still clutching his cat. Apricity let out a mildly offended meow. His belongings were flung in every direction. Beside him, Snape remained perfectly upright, as though he hadn’t just been flung through the air by a spinning portkey.

A voice greeted them calmly.

“Good evening.”

An old man stood nearby, his beard flowing down to his waist, dressed in a long grey robe with a matching slouchy hat.

“Good evening, Albus,” Snape said, inclining his head slightly. “Thank you for allowing us to arrive early.”

“No problem at all, Severus.” Dumbledore’s eyes turned toward Reuben. “Did you have a safe journey?”

Reuben stood, brushing himself off. “No,” he said flatly, shooting Snape a glare.

Dumbledore chuckled. “I can imagine.”

With a flick of his fingers, Reuben’s scattered possessions zoomed back into his trunk, which then levitated and glided smoothly down the staircase. “I’ve sent your things to your common room. Get some rest.”

Snape didn’t linger. Without a word, he descended the stairs and disappeared, his robes sweeping behind him.

Reuben stayed behind. He stepped toward the balustrade and leaned over, gazing out across the Black Lake. In the far distance, four peaks pierced the horizon—Grovewatch Peak, Sylvan Spire, Ferncliff Bastion, and Cedarshade Pinnacle. Professor Binns once claimed they represented the four founders of Hogwarts, and that Celtic passageways were hidden deep within them.

Below, the lake shimmered under a curtain of mist, disturbed only by the lazy movements of the giant squid’s arms just above the surface. A patch of grass stretched beneath the tower—lush and empty. It was the same field where first-years often played.

“Looks rather comfortable lying there, doesn’t it?” Dumbledore said, suddenly beside him. His pale blue eyes mirrored the lake’s haze. “I remember playing down there when I was a first-year… though that was a very long time ago.”

Reuben said nothing.

“Are you looking forward to your sixth year?” Dumbledore asked. “Professor Snape tells me you performed admirably on your O.W.L.s. What N.E.W.T. subjects have you chosen?”

Reuben didn’t turn to look at him. “Charms. Transfiguration. Ancient Runes. Potions.” Apricity purred softly in his arms.

Dumbledore smiled. “A beautiful cat. What’s his name?”

“Apricity.”

A breeze stirred, ruffling Reuben’s hair. Dumbledore reached over and brushed a strand back into place. But his hand lingered—just a moment too long.

Reuben turned to face him directly, eyes narrowing.

“There are still two weeks before term begins,” Dumbledore said gently. “It can be cold and lonely in an empty common room. I’ve got an extra bedroom in my office if you’d rather not be alone—”

“No. No, thank you.” Reuben’s voice was sharp. His gaze didn’t waver.

He turned and walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run.

Down the spiraling steps of the Astronomy Tower, across the ever-shifting Grand Staircase, and into the shadows of the dungeons, Reuben didn’t stop until he reached a blank stretch of stone wall—the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room.

A golden snake was embedded in the floor. As he approached, it rose from the stone and slithered up the wall, revealing a massive carved door. Scenes of ancient magical battles adorned its surface—sorcerers in duels, serpents wrapped around runes. With the school term not yet begun, no password was needed.

The doors opened.

Inside, a short corridor led to a descending spiral staircase. A silent, glowing waterfall trickled down the center, casting pale green light across the stones. Despite being at the lowest level of the castle, the air was warm. Firelight flickered against dark stone and emerald fabrics.

House-elves bustled through the common room, preparing it for the students' return. Reuben set Apricity down, letting the cat wander.

He walked toward the center of the common room, where three arched windows looked out into the depths of the Black Lake. He stood at the middle one, the glass thick and cool to the touch. Somewhere beyond the murk, shapes moved—fish, perhaps, or stranger things.

He smiled faintly, remembering how the seventh-years had once snuck in stripper poles and brought dancers from the Hogshead Hustle in Hogsmeade. Draco Malfoy had managed to sneak in but had been thrown out after only ten minutes. Later, he bragged that he saw Madie Dots—Rosmerta’s daughter—giving a lap dance to a seventh-year. Draco had worn the expression of someone proud and bewildered at the same time.

The memory was interrupted by a crash behind him.

He turned. Apricity had knocked a vase from the mantelpiece.

“Oh, bloody thing!” a familiar voice shrieked.

“Winky?” Reuben called.

“Mister Audrey?!” The tiny elf sprinted toward him and launched herself into his arms.

“Oh my god, Winky,” he said, hugging her tightly. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, sir!” she squeaked. “But who is that bloody creature knocking over my vase?!”

Reuben laughed. “That’s my cat. His name is Apricity.”

Winky squinted at the cat, who was now licking one paw like royalty. “Hmm. Alright then. But what’re you doing here so early? School’s not starting for two weeks!”

“I had to leave early. With Professor Snape.”

“Oh good heavens! Are you safe now? You’re under Professor Dumbledore’s care, yes?”

“I am,” Reuben said softly.

Winky brightened. “I got you a birthday present!”

“You remembered?”

“Of course I did! Close your eyes!”

Reuben obeyed. There was a snap, and something dropped onto his head. Winky burst into squeals of laughter.

“What is it? What’s so funny?”

“Open your eyes, sir!”

He pulled the soft fabric off his head and stared.

It was a pair of white Calvin Klein boxers.

“What is this?”

“Mr. Malfoy’s!” Winky cried gleefully. “He left them here last year!”

Reuben grimaced and tossed the underwear to the ground. “Winky, what the hell? That’s disgusting.”

But even he couldn’t stop laughing.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning.

Chapter Text

"Now where the fuck have you been, Reuben!" a loud voice rang through the entrance hall, sharp with a South London accent.

Beckie came running toward him, all smiles, and threw her arms around him.

"I’ve missed you," she said, beaming.

“Me too, Beckie,” Reuben replied, nearly stumbling from the force of her hug.

They pulled back slightly, still holding onto each other as they walked.

“Who did you sit with on the train?” he asked.

“Dumb Margaret Dawlish and her friends,” Beckie groaned, rolling her eyes.

Reuben laughed, and the two entered the Great Hall together. Despite being a Ravenclaw, Beckie walked confidently with him to the Slytherin table, taking a seat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” she said, brushing a braid off her forehead, “tell me why the hell you're already at Hogwarts.”

Reuben leaned back slightly, sighing.

“Well, first my mum was killed. Then I found out my dad was a Death Eater. After that, I went to live with Professor Snape. We had to fly to his house, and then we ended up coming straight here to the castle. So yeah—quite the summer break.”

Beckie blinked at him, stunned. “Girl, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “But now you—tell me about Ghana! You said you were visiting family.”

“I did. It was amazing. Look—my grandma braided my hair.” She leaned forward and turned her head slightly to show off her neat, short cornrows.

“Oh my God, Beckie—that looks amazing!”

Before Beckie could reply, the new first-year students entered the Great Hall. There were fewer of them than last year—a lot fewer. Rumor had it most parents, especially the cautious ones, were sending their children to smaller, closer wizarding schools, hoping to keep them safe. Those who did arrive were mostly Muggle-born or half-bloods. The few pure-bloods among them likely had no parents left to stop them.

At the podium, Dumbledore began his welcome speech. He mentioned the usual rules—the Forbidden Forest, the curfew—and swept his eyes across the Great Hall more than once. His gaze kept returning to Reuben.

“He keeps looking at me,” Reuben muttered.

“He’s looking for Harry Potter,” Beckie whispered back. “Word is, he didn’t get off the train.”

From further down the table, Draco Malfoy glanced over at them, but quickly turned away.

After Dumbledore finished speaking, the Sorting began. Of the sixty new students, only ten were sorted into Slytherin—and none of them looked happy about it. Most bore visible signs of trauma, wearing tired eyes and hidden scars.

Once the ceremony ended, food appeared on the tables. An array of delicacies from around the world shimmered on silver trays. No matter your background, Hogwarts always made sure you felt welcomed at the first feast.

While students ate, the ghosts glided through the hall to welcome everyone. The Bloody Baron floated over to the Slytherin table and settled beside Blaise Zabini. Their families were somehow connected; an ancestor of Blaise's had been the Baron’s cousin.

As the main course cleared and dessert arrived, the heavy doors of the Great Hall creaked open. Harry Potter stood in the entrance, blood covering his face and no sign of a school uniform.

“What happened to him?” Beckie whispered. “He looks awful.”

Reuben watched Harry cross the hall to the Gryffindor table, noting he had grown taller since last year—still shorter than him or Draco, but noticeably older. Harry sat between Ginny and Ron, who immediately leaned in to speak to him. On the other side of the hall, Draco rose abruptly and left the Great Hall alone. Dumbledore followed his movement with a concerned glance.

When dessert was over, Reuben and Beckie left the Slytherin table together, laughing as they walked through the castle. Beckie told stories from her time in Ghana, where she’d spent warm nights under the stars and days helping her grandmother in the market.

Eventually, they reached the old Arithmancy classroom—no longer in use and perfect for private chats.

“I need to show you something Winky gave me,” Reuben said, grinning.

“Oh no. Now I’m really curious,” Beckie replied, raising an eyebrow.

Reuben pulled a folded pair of white Calvin Klein boxers from his robe pocket.

“Are those yours?” Beckie asked, instantly suspicious.

“Haha, no! Winky said Draco left them here last year.”

“Iew! That’s disgusting, put those away!” she shrieked, and both of them collapsed into laughter.

Later, Winky arrived with tea and biscuits. They spent the rest of the evening chatting and exchanging castle gossip—Winky knew everything about the portraits and ghosts. Time passed quickly.

Eventually, it was well past curfew. They packed up and hugged goodbye—Beckie heading toward Ravenclaw Tower, and Reuben down to the Slytherin dungeons.

When he arrived at the stone wall guarding the entrance, the golden serpent didn’t move.

“Fuck,” Reuben muttered under his breath. He had missed the password, and everyone was likely already asleep.

Footsteps echoed behind him. Reuben turned, expecting a professor, but it was Draco.

“Missed the password?” Draco smirked.

“I did.”

“Good thing I’m a prefect now.” Draco flashed him a grin. “Password’s ‘Underwear.’”

Reuben’s eyes widened, but Draco didn’t seem to realize the coincidence. The snake slid aside, and they entered the common room together.

Draco, just a little taller now, walked beside him as they descended the spiral staircase.

“You left dinner early,” Reuben said.

Draco looked down at his feet—his black loafers spotless and shining.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” he murmured.

They reached the dormitory—circular, dark, and lined with seven beds. Each had a wooden dressing screen for privacy. Most of the other students were already asleep. Two beds remained—side by side. One already held Draco’s trunk and clothes.

He slipped behind his screen to change into his pajamas. Reuben, feeling grimy after the day, headed to the bathroom through a narrower doorway at the back of the dorm.

The bathroom was spacious and round, with private stalls for each student, each with a shower, sink, and storage. Reuben found his things already in the farthest stall. He undressed, brushed his teeth, and let the hot water run over him in the shower for a long thirty minutes, enjoying the solitude.

Afterward, he changed into his pajamas, walked back to the dorm, and crawled into bed.

Sleep came quickly.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

The wooden clock chimed seven times, waking everyone up. But Reuben was the only one who actually got out of bed; the others just turned over and snuggled deeper under their blankets. The Head Boys and Girls stood by the fireplace, handing out schedules to each student.

In his grey sweatpants and sweater, Reuben headed toward breakfast. On the way, he met Beckie, already dressed in her uniform.

“What monstrosity are you wearing?” she called out, eyeing his casual clothes.

“Girl, don’t be standing here telling me what to wear. I’ll get ready later,” Reuben shot back with a smirk.

They sat down to eat and compared their schedules.

“We’ve got so much free time,” Reuben said.

“Yeah, time to study,” Beckie replied.

“You’re not seriously going to give up ballet, right?”

“No way. I could never.”

Reuben and Beckie shared many classes—Ancient Runes, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Transfiguration. The only one they didn’t have together was Charms.

“That’s a bummer,” Reuben said. “But at least we have Potions together now.”

After breakfast, they headed back down to the dungeons so Reuben could change.

“Underwear,” he muttered, and the golden snake embedded in the floor slithered up, revealing the entrance.

Beckie smirked at him.

“I know,” Reuben said.

As they stepped inside, Pansy stood blocking the doorway.

“No, you’re not coming in,” she said, pointing at Beckie.

“Come on, Pansy. She won’t do anything. You know Beckie always comes in with me,” Reuben argued.

Pansy planted herself firmly in the entrance.

“See this?” She pointed to a pin on her chest engraved with the words HEAD GIRL. “You’re going to listen to me.”

Beckie stood eye-to-eye with Pansy.

“Now, you’re going to let me in, or I’ll make sure you don’t get invited to any more Ravenclaw parties,” Pansy threatened, laughing.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh yes, I would.”

“Really? Would you dare to do this?” Beckie said, pulling out her wand and deducting fifty points from Ravenclaw.

“Ah, you bitch! That’s not fair!”

“Beckie, it’s not worth it,” Reuben said quietly. “Wait here, I’ll be quick.”

Pansy laughed but stepped aside, allowing Reuben through—though she didn’t move from her spot until he returned.

“All right, let’s go,” Reuben said, pulling Beckie along.

Monday, first hour, was Potions. They had quite a walk from the common room to the classroom, but Reuben was excited. He always liked Potions.

Their new teacher, Professor Slughorn, was a chubby man with a broad smile.

“Welcome, everyone! You’ve all been accepted into my N.E.W.T. class. I’m excited to teach you the art and craft of potion-making this year and the next,” he said cheerfully.

“Where’s Harry Potter? I was told I’d be teaching him,” Slughorn asked.

“He’s late,” Hermione called out.

Beckie and Reuben liked Hermione. She was kind and often helped Reuben with Astronomy homework.

The door swung open, and Harry and Ron entered.

“Sorry we’re late, Professor.”

“No worries, Harry. And who’s this man behind you?”

“Ron Weasley, sir.”

“All right, you and Mister Webel, get to work.”

“We don’t have a book,” Beckie whispered.

“Then grab an old one from the bookcase,” Slughorn said.

Beckie rolled her eyes.

Slughorn began the lesson. They would start by making the Draught of Living Death—a potion that, if properly brewed and consumed, would put the drinker into a deep sleep that could be mistaken for death until the antidote was taken.

“The best brew wins this bottle of Felix Felicis!” Slughorn announced, holding up the golden liquid.

The class buzzed with excitement.

“You’ll have the entire hour starting now,” Slughorn said.

Everyone began quickly. Reuben opened his book and whispered to Beckie, “Look, it’s altered by Snape.”

“Why did he give you that?” Beckie asked.

“For my birthday,” Reuben said with a grin.

They started brewing. They were the only ones not struggling—except for Harry, who also seemed to find it easy. They followed every step until it was time to add the juice of the Sopophorous Bean.

“Five more minutes,” Slughorn announced.

Reuben reached into his bag for the beans—but they weren’t there.

“Fuck, I forgot my beans,” he told Beckie.

“Just use one of mine,” she said, searching her bags. “Sorry, I’m out too. Ask around—someone must have spares.”

Reuben asked the tables nearby, but everyone had only brought one bean for themselves.

“Hermione, do you have a spare bean, maybe?”

“I’m sorry, Reuben, I’m out too. But Harry has a spare one,” she said.

They all looked at the unused bean on Harry’s desk.

He put it away in his pocket.

“Sorry, I’m out as well,” he said.

“But you just put it away!”

“No,” Harry said, looking Reuben straight in the eyes.

“Reuben!” Draco called. “I’ve got a spare one.”

Reuben walked over, and Draco handed him the bean.

“Thanks,” Reuben said, but it was too late. Slughorn announced the end of the hour.

He walked past each cauldron, inspecting their potions.

Reuben failed, and so did Beckie.

Slughorn checked Harry’s potion and declared him the winner.

Harry Potter.

Leaving the classroom, Reuben and Beckie were both furious.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

The rest of the week passed peacefully. They followed their classes and went to sleep at reasonable hours. The only thing bothering Reuben was that Professor Flitwick was absent due to illness. Charms had always been his favorite subject—he was really good at it, followed closely by Transfiguration. Any class where he had to use his wand came easily. Snape hadn’t shown up either that first week, and the last time Reuben had spoken to him wasn’t even in person but through his Patronus on the Ravenclaw balcony.

Next week, Tuesday morning

Reuben woke up late. He’d been gossiping late into the night with Hermione about Harry and why Harry hadn’t wanted to give him one of his Sopophorous Beans. Beckie couldn’t join their secret hiding spot that morning—she had ballet lessons. So, Reuben was alone for his first two hours of Charms.

Dressed in his uniform—a white button-up shirt, black vest, and his Slytherin tie half-tied—he rushed up the stairs to the Charms classroom on the third floor. His classes always came in blocks: two hours on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and one hour on Friday reserved for tests.

He knocked and entered. Professor Flitwick stared at him, disappointed. The professor was explaining how his N.E.W.T. classes would be handled this year but paused when he noticed Reuben.

“You’re late, Mister Audrey,” Flitwick said, more annoyed than usual.

“I know, I’m sorry, Professor.”

Flitwick waved him in, and the only available seat was next to Draco Malfoy.

Reuben sat down, but Draco ignored him.

“How come you’re sitting alone?” Reuben asked.

“Blaize just walked out. That’s why he’s so pissed,” Draco finally said, glancing at him. “Your tie is messy.”

Reuben noticed and blushed, fixing his tie quickly.

Flitwick went on for about forty-five minutes, explaining that from this year onward, they had to perform non-verbal magic. He talked about how difficult it would be. Everyone at school knew that Flitwick and the other Charms professor, Hedgeflower, were in a personal competition to have the best class with the highest scores by year’s end.

“From now on,” Flitwick said, “the seat you are in right now will be your permanent place until the end of the year.”

Reuben glanced at Draco, who looked at him at the exact same moment. Faster than a snap, Reuben looked forward again, realizing he would be sitting next to Draco for seven hours a week—thirty hours a week, two hundred eighty hours in total. He blushed deeply.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Flitwick stopped talking.

“All right, let’s begin with a simple spell. I want you all to try casting the Levitation Charm non-verbally.”

Groans filled the room, but everyone took out their wands and feathers like they had done five years ago. Everyone struggled, even Reuben on the first two tries. But after that, his feather levitated easily.

“Third time’s the charm, they say,” Flitwick said, finally pleased. “Ten points to Slytherin.”

Reuben smiled.

“Anyone who successfully lifted their feather is dismissed.”

He left the classroom.

Outside, Beckie was already waiting, holding Apricity in her arms.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Didn’t you hear the bell chime?”

“How did you know I was late?” Reuben asked, taking his cat from her and petting his head.

“Hermione told me just five minutes ago when she left.” Reuben hadn’t seen Hermione leave; he must have been too focused.

Together, they walked to their next lesson—Defence Against the Dark Arts. Snape was finally back, and Reuben was determined to ask him about his absence after class.

The classroom blinds were closed, casting the room in shadow, reminiscent of their third year when Professor Lupin was absent and Snape had created a dungeon-like atmosphere mirroring the light of his Potions classroom—cold and dark.

Everyone took their seats, Beckie and Reuben side by side in the third row. Snape emerged from his office at the front and walked down the few steps leading to the podium where he could oversee the entire class. Dark bags hung under his eyes; he looked ill.

“Turn to page 875,” Snape said coldly. He waved his wand, and everyone’s heavy books slammed open to that page. The title read: POSSESSION CURSE.

“Isn’t the Imperius Curse a subject for seventh years?” Harry shouted across the room, already doubting Snape’s knowledge.

“No, Mister Potter. The Possession Curse and Imperius Curse are not the same,” Snape said, glaring at him.

“But they both control a person unwillingly,” Harry argued.

“Yes, but not in the same way,” Snape said. He waved his wand, and a piece of chalk began writing on the blackboard, dividing it into two columns.

“The difference is in what they control. The Imperius Curse controls the mind and therefore the body, making the victim unconscious and unaware of their actions. It’s unforgivable because once cast, it cannot be broken—even if the caster tries.”

The chalk finished the left column and moved to the right. The classroom was silent.

“On the other hand, the Possession Curse is also a curse, but not unforgivable. It controls only the body, not the mind, so the victim remains fully conscious. The effect eventually wears off, and skilled magicians can resist it, which is why it’s not unforgivable.”

The only noise was the chalk screeching. Harry spoke again.

“So which one does Voldemort use on the Death Eaters?”

The whole class turned to him.

“We do not use that name in my class, Potter. Fifty points from Gryffindor. Class dismissed.”

Snape disappeared into his office. Everyone left.

“I need to talk to him,” Reuben told Beckie. “I’ll be right back.”

Inside Severus’s office, Snape stood staring into the burning fireplace, deep in thought. The windows were covered with heavy black curtains blocking out all sunlight. The desk was cluttered with stacks of papers strewn everywhere. Cups of tea were knocked over, staining the desk and floor. A golden family tree rug hung on the wall. The room smelled of cold coffee from a half-full pot on the fireplace mantle. Flickering candlelight from nearly spent candles barely lit the space. In one corner, a craftsman’s table with an anvil sat next to a basket filled with misshapen daggers.

Still staring into the fire, Snape said, “You didn’t speak to me.”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t think about it.”

Snape turned around.

“What are you doing with all those daggers?” Reuben asked.

“Risking my life.”

“I’m sorry, Snape, but it really isn’t that serious. I was just enjoying time with my friends.”

Suddenly, Snape grabbed Reuben by the throat and pushed him against the wall, their faces inches apart.

“It is bloody serious, what I’m doing for you, boy.”

Seeing the fear in Reuben’s eyes, Snape stepped back, and Reuben fell to the ground.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” Snape sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

Crawling across the floor, Reuben reached for the door handle, about to cry.

“Reuben, I’m sorry. It’s not that serious.”

“It is fucking serious!” Reuben screamed, flicking his wand to set fire to the curtains. He ran out.

Beckie had already left for the next period, but Reuben couldn’t take any more lessons. He went to his common room, knowing he’d owe Beckie an apology tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

“What the hell took you so long?” Beckie was the first to ask Reuben at breakfast.

“I’m sorry, Snape just kept talking,” Reuben replied, trying to avoid eye contact, but Beckie always seemed to catch his looks.

“He had this whole craftsman table and was trying to create daggers or something.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“No.” A pause filled the space between them.

They ate their breakfast in silence for a moment.

“It’s kind of sad you weren’t there,” Beckie said. “We had our first Ancient Ruins lesson. Did you know we have a new teacher?”

“What? Dumbledore didn’t announce anything.”

“No, but she’s here now—and crazy, I’ll tell you that.”

“Why? How come?”

“I won’t say anything to keep the surprise.” She laughed. “But you’re going to be shocked.”

The week passed slowly, and Reuben eagerly awaited the mysterious lesson Beckie seemed so excited about. He tried to get her to spill some details, but she held firm.

Finally, Friday arrived. The bell chimed, marking the end of his Charms period and the start of his first test. It was just performing the basic spells they had all learned in their first year—but this time, non-verbally.

“How did I do?” Beckie asked as Reuben walked out of the classroom.

“Pretty well, I think. I could perform them all, but my mind was mostly on our next lesson, Beckie.”

The hour after Charms and before lunch was finally Ancient Ruins. They climbed four flights of stairs to the classroom on the sixth floor. It was a small room with windows on one side overlooking the lake and the third mountain, Ferncliff Bastion. The windows faced north, and the room felt cold.

But there was no sign of the teacher.

The desks were arranged in a U shape—only five in total. Ancient Ruins wasn’t a popular subject, and it seemed many students had dropped out since last year.

Beckie sat at the desk closest to the window and waved him over to sit beside her.

“Where is the professor?” Reuben whispered.

Beckie put her index finger to her lips and motioned for silence, pointing behind him. Reuben turned around.

There she was—an old woman with long white hair, wrinkled skin, and dull eyes that looked at least a hundred years old. But the most striking thing about her were the tattoos covering her face: black ancient runes running from top to bottom along her high cheekbones.

She stared Reuben down, unblinking, as she walked to the front of the class, finally looking away.

Seizing the moment, Reuben whispered to Beckie, “I had gone over every possible scenario, but I wasn’t prepared for this. Who is this old witch?”

Beckie laughed quietly. “That witch’s name is Professor Bayou Ibex, and she’s looking at you.”

Reuben turned his head again and saw that the professor was indeed watching him.

With a wave of her wand, their books flew onto their desks and opened to the correct page.

“Why doesn’t she talk?” Reuben whispered again, even more quietly.

“She’s mute, Reuben.” Beckie stopped talking for the entire hour. This subject was her favorite, after all. And she really liked the teacher. Beckie was smart and competitive but hated being corrected.

A piece of chalk screeched on the blackboard as the task was written: translate three chapters of Beedle the Bard.

Beckie immediately got to work. Reuben struggled. He had forgotten so many spelling and grammar rules that he could hardly write anything down.

Lost in a daydream while staring out the window, he was suddenly brought back to reality when Beckie jabbed him hard in the ribs with her elbow. She turned her paper toward him, letting him copy.

Just as he was writing down a single sentence, an old, wrinkled hand pressed down on his, snapping his feather in two.

Professor Ibex looked him directly in the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Reuben tried to say, but she had already taken his paper and ripped it apart.

The entire class fell silent.

The hour dragged by as Reuben had nothing to do but stare out the window. The professor seemed to have disappeared, but he knew she was watching from somewhere hidden.

Next to the door, the bell chimed, marking the end of the lesson. Everyone stood up and placed their papers on the professor’s desk—but there was still no sign of her.

They were the last to leave the room because Beckie was slow at packing up. She walked first through the classroom door, and Reuben followed.

But the moment he stepped through, a hand grabbed his upper arm.

He turned around and saw Professor Ibex. Her tattoos had changed. Across the middle of her forehead and down her nose to her chin, runes were glowing:

ᛞᛟ ᚾᛟᛏ ᚨᚲᚲᛖᛈᛏ ᚺᛁᛊ ᛁᚾᚢᛁᛏᚨᛏᛁᛟᚾ ᚨᚾᛞ ᛞᛟ ᚾᛟᛏ ᚷᛟ ᛊᛖᛖ ᚦᛖ ᚺᛖᚨᛞᛗᚨᛊᛏᛖᚱ ᚲᛖᛖᛈ ᚦᛖ ᛒᛟᛃ ᚨᛊ ᚨ ᚠᚱᛁᛖᚾᛞ

Reuben read it clearly:

Do not accept his invitation. Do not go see the headmaster. Keep the boy as a friend.

Mortified, Reuben looked at her. She released his arm only after making sure he had understood the message. Then she pushed the door in his face, locking it.

“What was that about?” Beckie asked, standing behind him, unaware of what had just happened.

“I have no idea.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

Professor Bayou Ibex no longer showed up to class, but she kept piling on stacks of homework. Two weeks later, Reuben returned late one night to his common room, where his task lay on his bed—no longer ripped apart, but completely filled in. In the top left corner, a big O was written: Outstanding.

By the end of October, just a few days remained until the Halloween party in Hogsmeade. Students from the third year onward were allowed to visit Hogsmeade, but only sixth and seventh years could attend the Halloween party at Hogsmeade Abbey. Younger students often tried to sneak in, but professors always caught them leaving the castle on Halloween night.

After their History of Magic class, Beckie and Reuben packed their bags and decided to take a walk through the castle. Their next lesson wasn’t for a few hours.

“How’s Charms going for you?” Reuben asked Beckie.

“Awful. Professor Hedgeflower is going feral over the fact that his classes are behind Flitwick’s,” she said.

“Yeah, I thought he was in a better mood these past few weeks.” They laughed and chatted, losing track of their path. Suddenly, realizing they were walking through the Clocktower on the south side of Hogwarts, they turned right and reached the entrance to the hospital wing.

They casually walked past, but halfway down the hall, Snape stood with his sleeves rolled up. He hadn’t noticed them and was showing his arms to Madam Pomfrey.

Reuben signaled Beckie to hide behind the entrance wall so they could overhear.

“They just won’t heal, Poppy,” Reuben barely heard Snape say.

“These are nasty wounds, Severus. How did you get them?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“I cut myself during dinner,” Snape replied, avoiding her gaze.

“These cuts aren’t from normal kitchen knives, Severus. Be honest with me.”

Snape rolled his sleeves back down.

“This is none of your business.”

“Quick,” Reuben whispered. “He’s coming.” They ran down the stairs, hoping Snape wouldn’t see them.

“Must be something to do with those daggers he’s making,” Reuben said as they caught their breath.

“But what? You know him best, Reuben.”

He looked at Beckie. “No, I don’t know him at all.”

The weekend came, and Reuben prepared in his bedroom to go shopping with Beckie in Hogsmeade for the Halloween party. Apricity lay on his bed, purring and licking his paws while Beckie stroked his back.

Suddenly, behind the dressing screen, the door opened and Goyle’s voice broke the calm.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Beckie quickly defended herself. “What do you care? I’m just waiting to leave with Reuben.”

“It’s alright, Goyle, we’ll be gone in a second,” Reuben called from behind the screen.

“Dumb bitch,” Goyle muttered to Beckie, but before she could reply, he left, slamming the door.

“What an asshole,” Beckie muttered.

“Yeah,” Reuben said, pulling on his sweater and stepping out. “Let’s go.”

Just as they grabbed their jackets, the door burst open again. Pansy stormed in.

“I told you, you’re not allowed here—especially not in the boys’ bedrooms!” Pansy yelled at Beckie.

Before Reuben could intervene, Beckie snapped back, “And why not? I’ve heard plenty of stories about you sneaking into boys’ rooms unnoticed.”

“What do you mean, dumb bitch?” Pansy growled, stepping closer.

“That you’re a fat hoe.”

Enraged, Pansy charged and punched Beckie in the face. Beckie fell but grabbed Pansy, pulling her down. On the floor, they fought fiercely, screaming and throwing punches.

“Pansy, back off!” Reuben yelled, but she kicked him in the stomach, sending him stumbling against Draco’s bed. The fight continued, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood.

“Pansy, stop! Get off her!” Reuben shouted.

Ignoring him, Pansy kept attacking.

“Stupid slut. Depulso!” Reuben yelled, casting a spell that sent Pansy flying across the room, crashing into Blaze’s bed, which collapsed under the impact.

Reuben ran to Beckie’s side. Blood poured from the right side of her head, where Pansy had pulled out a strand of cornrows.

“Stay awake, Beckie. I’m taking you to Madam Pomfrey,” he said, hands trembling with stress.

Goyle burst in, barking and rushing to Pansy, who looked worse off—her legs broken and nose fractured. He helped Beckie to her feet and supported her as they took small steps. Pansy, unable to move her legs, screamed curses at Beckie.

“Dumb ugly bitch, you always ruin everything!”

“Oh, you dumb hoe, your face isn’t even symmetrical,” Beckie snapped back as they finally left the boys’ bedroom.

They still heard Pansy’s screams and the news spreading through the living room, where second and third years playing wizard’s chess or studying turned to stare at Beckie, covered in blood.

Carefully, they made their way to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey was shocked at Beckie’s injuries.

“Oh, my sweet child, come here.” They helped Beckie lie down on a bed. She smiled up at Reuben.

“I really fucked that bitch up, huh?”

“Yes, you did,” Reuben laughed.

After treating Beckie, Madam Pomfrey invited Reuben for tea in her office so he could explain what happened while Beckie rested.

Her office was cozy, with a large arched window and a wooden desk cluttered with stacks of medical papers. A fire crackled in the hearth. On the mantle hung her Hogwarts degree and a picture of her as a nurse at St. Mungo’s.

“Please, sit down, Reuben,” she said, gesturing to a comfortable lounge chair.

She knew every Hogwarts student’s name, making it a priority each year to learn the new first years’ names so they’d feel welcome.

While preparing tea in the small kitchen corner, Reuben looked around the room. Nearby, a couple of tables were stacked with heavy books about medicine and healing spells. Madam Pomfrey poured boiling water into his cup, then helped herself.

“What kind of tea would you like?” she asked, offering her tea box.

“Breakfast tea is fine,” Reuben replied, dropping in the teabag.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Just milk.”

They sat quietly, sipping tea until Madam Pomfrey broke the silence.

“So, Reuben, tell me what happened.”

“Beckie was waiting in my common room while I got dressed to go shopping for the Halloween party. Then...” Reuben began, but she interrupted him.

“You know Beckie isn’t allowed in the Slytherin common room, right?” she asked, staring into her tea.

“Yeah, but she always comes with me, and no one usually minds—except for Pansy today.”

Madam Pomfrey looked up, concern in her voice. “Did Pansy do this to her?”

“Yes, she did,” Reuben said, puzzled by the worry in her tone.

“Where is Pansy now?”

“Last I saw, she was in the boys’ bedroom—legs broken, lying against a broken bed after I used Depulso to get her off Beckie.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, Reuben,” she sighed. “I appreciate your honesty. But I need to go look for her now.”

She rose and left the room, closing the door behind her. Reuben finished his tea and used his wand to do the dishes. Curious, he began to explore the office.

Next to her desk stood a large cupboard holding sorted medical files. Pulling open the drawer labeled ‘S’ caused it to extend across the room. The cupboard contained records for every Hogwarts student since the school’s founding. Thankfully, they were organized by graduation year.

In the 1978 section, Reuben found Snape’s file.

He flipped through it, searching for anything about the strange wounds on Snape’s arms. Beckie and he had speculated everything—from werewolves to forbidden plants—but Reuben was convinced it had to do with the daggers.

The file listed a few broken arms and legs from Snape’s time at Hogwarts, but nothing about these mysterious wounds.

Closing the drawer, Reuben headed for the door. On Madam Pomfrey’s desk, he noticed a framed drawing—childlike in style, titled My Favourite Aunt in large, clumsy letters. The picture showed two figures: a tall woman wearing a nurse’s cap (obviously Madam Pomfrey) and a little girl with black hair standing to her right.

In the bottom right corner, it was signed—Pansy.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

The following weekend and the week after, Reuben spent most of his time in the hospital wing, sleeping beside Beckie and helping her recover. She had suffered a concussion. Madam Pomfrey had explained that wizarding medicine wasn’t very advanced when it came to brain injuries—magic and potions could easily destroy brain tissue but couldn’t heal it. Beckie’s recovery was slow but steady.

After classes, Reuben always rushed to Beckie’s bedside to do homework together and share the latest gossip. Madam Pomfrey often asked about Pansy, but she never arrived at the hospital wing. Night after night, Reuben slept in the bed beside Beckie, watching her grow stronger, even as she repeatedly asked when she would be allowed to leave.

“Not until next week, Saturday,” Madam Pomfrey always answered.

“But then I’ll miss the Halloween party,” Beckie said quietly one morning.

“It’s alright, Beckie. I’ll be here to keep you company,” Reuben assured her.

“No, it’s not alright. You won’t miss your first Halloween party because of me.”

Reuben shook his head. “I’m not going without you. Besides, I don’t even like parties.”

“Yes, you will go. You’ll get a costume and come, or I’ll come and whoop your ass like I did Pansy,” Beckie declared fiercely.

Madam Pomfrey looked away, uncomfortable, ending the conversation.

Later that day, Reuben returned to his common room for the first time since the fight. As he descended the spiral staircase and entered the living room, whispers followed him. Grab and Goyle noticed him and hurried off to their bedroom. Draco Malfoy stopped Reuben from entering the boys’ sleeping quarters.

“How’s Beckie doing?” Draco asked, his voice low. “Blaize told me what happened.”

“She has a concussion but is improving,” Reuben replied, looking into Draco’s tired, dull green eyes, shadowed by heavy bags. Draco hadn’t slept in days.

“And Pansy?” Reuben asked cautiously.

Draco smirked. “She’s messed up pretty bad. Didn’t know Beckie was so good at fighting.”

Reuben smiled with quiet respect. “Yeah, she’s good at everything.”

“Where is Pansy now?”

“I haven’t seen her in days. She must be ashamed.”

They laughed and walked to their bedroom where Grab and Goyle had fled. Draco pushed open the door, revealing a disgusting scene. The room was cleaned, but near Reuben’s bed, the two boys were urinating on the sheets.

“What the fuck, assholes!” Draco yelled. Reuben stood frozen in disbelief.

“This is for Pansy. Faggot,” Grab sneered.

They turned, trousers half down, and swaggered toward them. As they moved away from the bed, Apricity—the cat—leapt off and into Reuben’s arms, soaked and with a badly injured right paw, unmoving.

“You fucking incels!” Reuben screamed, horrified. “This is animal abuse!”

The boys laughed and mocked him, barely able to stand from laughter. Reuben cast a nonverbal levitation spell, lifting the soaked sheets and wrapping them around the two. “Confringo!” he shouted, sending a fireball from his wand that engulfed Grab and Goyle. They screamed in pain as flames consumed them.

Tears streamed down Reuben’s cheeks. Draco grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room.

“We’ve got to get him to Madam Pomfrey,” Draco urged as they ran through the castle.

Turning a corner on the second floor, they nearly collided with a tall, hairy man—Hagrid.

“Watch where you’re running, Draco,” Hagrid grunted, holding his stomach where Draco had collided.

“Please, Hagrid, help us. Reuben’s cat isn’t moving,” Draco said, showing Apricity. Hagrid’s face grew serious.

“Alright, follow me,” he said, leading them to an empty classroom.

“Place him here on the desk,” Hagrid instructed. Reuben complied, still crying. Hagrid pulled out his pink umbrella and pointed it at the cat.

“Tergeo,” he muttered. The foul smell disappeared from Apricity’s fur. Then Hagrid’s wand moved to the broken paw.

“Brachio Emendum.”

Slowly, the paw straightened, but Apricity still didn’t move.

“Come on, Hagrid, do something,” Draco urged.

“I’m doing something, Draco. Hold my wand.” Hagrid handed his umbrella to Draco and placed his large fingers on Apricity’s chest, performing CPR for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, Apricity gasped for air and opened his eyes.

“Oh my god, Hagrid. Thank you,” Reuben sobbed, holding the cat close.

“Want to hold him?” Hagrid asked.

“Alright, alright,” Reuben said. Hagrid petted Apricity’s head briefly before handing him back.

The cat sneezed. Hagrid took back his umbrella.

“Now don’t go telling anyone you saw me use magic, alright? This is just an umbrella,” he said, glancing at Malfoy before leaving.

Reuben turned to Draco. “Thank you for rushing us.”

“It’s alright. I wouldn’t want to lose him,” Draco said, stroking Apricity’s head as the cat purred.

“You and Beckie make quite the aggressive pair. Should I be afraid if I see you two together?”

“Maybe you should,” Reuben teased, taking his cat back.

“You know I’m better than you combined,” Draco grinned.

“Of course you are, you prick,” Reuben smirked, pushing him playfully. He felt the warmth of Draco’s chest beneath his shirt and paused. Draco crossed his arms, grinning proudly.

“I’ve been hitting the gym a lot. Quidditch practice, you know,” Draco said, a shy smile flickering on his lips.

Reuben looked down, cheeks turning cherry red. Draco stepped closer, his gaze fixed on him.

“Thank you, Draco, for helping me,” Reuben said quietly as he headed toward the door of the empty classroom.

Before closing it behind him, he gave Draco one last look—the smirk on Draco’s face showing he was quite pleased with himself. Reuben closed the door and walked toward the hospital wing, passing a large mirror and catching his own reflection—his cheeks still bright red.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

Reuben was nervous as he approached the hospital wing, careful to avoid detection. He feared that Grabe and Goyle might already be there, recovering from their burns. Using a disillusionment charm and a silencing spell, he quietly slipped past their beds, where they lay completely wrapped in bandages.

“Beckie, it’s me,” he whispered as he stepped behind the privacy divider.

Beckie’s eyes fluttered open, and she immediately recognized him. “Oh my god, Reuben. What the hell happened? I saw them arrive on stretchers, and I was so worried about you.”

Reuben chuckled softly. “I’ll tell you everything,” he said, recounting the entire ordeal—from the fight in the common room, the attack on Apricity, to the desperate trip with Draco and Hagrid’s unexpected help. Beckie listened quietly, her expression softening with pride.

“Wow, Reuben. I’ve never been so proud of you,” she said, brushing a tear away like a mother watching her child take their first steps.

Reuben asked after Grabe and Goyle, and Beckie’s face darkened. “Bad. Madam Pomfrey says their injuries are severe. Their genitals are burned, and their faces are ruined.”

Reuben grimaced. “No way. I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

Beckie reassured him, “It’ll be alright. Dumbledore will understand.”

That night, Reuben stayed once again in the hospital wing. He kept to himself, not wanting to draw attention. Early the next morning, Beckie gently tapped him awake.

“Wake up, Reuben. Today’s the Halloween party. I hope you’ve got a costume,” she teased.

Reuben opened his eyes, smiling tiredly. “You know I’m not going without you.”

Beckie gave him a look full of mock hatred, but the biggest smile spread across her face. “Alright, alright. I’m getting ready. See you tomorrow.”

Reuben left for the library, still unsure of what to wear. As he struggled to translate an ancient text, Hermione sat down beside him.

“Are you going to the party?” she asked.

“Yeah, Beckie wants me to,” he replied, shrugging.

“I heard about what happened with her. You’re going, then?”

“Yes, but I don’t have a costume yet.”

Hermione laughed. “Come with me. I’ll help you find one.”

They made their way through the castle to the faculty tower on the third floor. Reuben joked, “Are you taking me to your common room?”

“Yeah,” Hermione smiled, “the girls will help you pick something.”

Reuben hesitated. “You do know I can’t get up the stairs, right?”

Hermione grinned mysteriously. “I know a way around that.”

At the end of the hall, Hermione approached the portrait of the Fat Lady, whispered a phrase in French, and the portrait swung open to reveal a small tunnel. Crawling through, Reuben saw Gryffindor’s common room for the first time—circular with large windows, roaring fireplaces, and plush sofas. The room fell silent, and every Gryffindor head turned toward him, eyes full of disdain for his green Slytherin robes.

“Just come with me,” Hermione whispered, guiding him through an arch to the staircases leading to the dormitories.

“Why were they looking at me like that?” Reuben asked quietly.

“They’re sticklers for rules here,” Hermione explained. “Especially the guys. That’s why Gryffindor is so isolated.”

As they climbed, Hermione told Reuben about a secret mechanism on the stair that responded to a certain phrase, a curious nod to Gryffindor’s own complicated past.

When they reached Hermione’s bedroom, Ginny appeared suddenly, teasing and wrapping an arm around Reuben. Soon, Katie Bell, Lavender Brown, and Parvati Patil joined them. Despite his discomfort, Hermione reassured Reuben, and the girls left to give him space.

Hermione opened a large trunk filled with old clothes and pulled out a simple outfit. “I thought a vampire costume would suit you.”

“Really?” Reuben asked.

“Yeah. Like a sexy Brad Pitt vampire,” Hermione said, laughing.

Reuben smiled at the thought. “So no one will recognize me?”

“But I will,” Hermione said with a smile.

Behind a wooden screen, Reuben changed and emerged wearing a casual white t-shirt, baggy jeans, black loafers, and white socks. Hermione sat beside him, makeup kit in hand.

“Have you ever worn makeup?” she asked.

“No. My dad once hit me for buying concealer,” Reuben admitted quietly.

Hermione paused, then asked gently about his parents.

“Yes, it’s true. They died this summer,” he said, voice low.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Hermione promised. “Where do you live now?”

“With Snape, I guess. I miss London.”

Hermione smiled warmly, making him feel a little less alone.

As she applied eyeliner and pale foundation, Reuben told her about his parents being dentists and their disappointment in his magical heritage.

The conversation grew quiet, the silence heavy but comforting. When Reuben asked about Hermione and Harry, she quickly shut down rumors of any romance and explained Harry’s current stress.

Reuben confessed, “I don’t trust Dumbledore.”

“Why not?” Hermione asked with a teasing smile.

“Because I’m a conspiracist,” Reuben joked.

Hermione pointed her wand at his canines. “Let’s make you a real vampire for tonight.”

With a quick spell, his teeth elongated slightly. He smiled, feeling the odd sensation.

“You look beautiful, Reuben,” Hermione said sincerely, slicking back his hair.

“All done,” she said, leaving to get ready. Reuben sat alone for a moment, staring at the carved hippogriff on the door, the quiet of the common room settling around him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

The wooden carving seemed to come alive. “You’re not naked,” a woman’s voice said softly.

Reuben frowned at the carved hippogriff. “What?”

“You’re not naked. You didn’t fuck her,” the spirit insisted.

“No. Why would I?” Reuben replied, confused.

“Everyone who knows about the mechanic uses it for sex, but you didn’t.”

“Who are you?” he asked cautiously.

“I am the spirit of Gryffindor House.”

“Nearly Headless Nick?”

“No, not a ghost. I’m Jeanne Traverse. I was the bearer of the Gryffindor heir.”

“Were you his wife?”

“No. I was his mistress, as the history books suggest.”

Her ethereal form drifted toward the lion trapped within the glass window, growing closer to Reuben.

“He killed me,” she said simply.

“Why?” Reuben asked carefully.

“Because I didn’t want him anymore after he left me.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because she likes you.”

“Who is she?”

“Élise, the spirit of Slytherin.”

“I don’t know her. I’ve never met her.”

“Yes, you have. And because she likes you, I will tell you our story.”

The glass panels of the window shifted, transforming into the rolling French countryside. On a hill stood a grand château.

“Our story begins in 985 A.D., five years before Hogwarts was built. My father, headmaster of a prestigious magical school in southern France, sought to marry me off. He was respected but despised me because I was a Squib — a stain on his legacy.”

The windows changed to show scenes of the past.

“When I heard whispers of four powerful wizards building a great school in Europe, my father reached out to Godric Gryffindor. Godric came—not for alliance but because he saw my beauty.

“My father planned for me to wed, but Godric’s intentions were different. He took me to my room and raped me. My father didn’t care; he just wanted me gone. When Godric left for England without me, my father was furious. He confronted Godric, but it ended badly.

“Godric burned our home, the school, my family. He killed them all.

“I was left alone in the forest until Élise found me. She was beautiful, and I loved her instantly. She loved me too and took me in. But soon, my body began to change—I was pregnant with Godric’s child.

“Five years later, Godric returned, demanding to marry me. I refused.

“He was enraged.

“He killed Élise, my love. Even then, I refused him. So he took my life as well.

“I woke weeks later, but my body was gone. I was trapped in this tower. I could feel Élise nearby, somewhere within the castle walls, but I could not reach her or speak to her.

“So instead, we sang. Across the castle corridors, our voices carried through the wind.”

Suddenly, the door opened and Hermione appeared, dressed as a zombie.

“What do you think?” she asked, spinning around.

Reuben smiled. “You look gorgeous, Hermione.”

“I’ve got something for you.” She grinned and pulled a big fur coat from behind her back.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes! If you want to look like Brad Pitt, you need a fur coat.”

Reuben protested but put it on. Together they looked into the mirror, and he smiled.

“Let’s go, Reuben,” Hermione said, stepping through the door first.

Before following, Reuben glanced back at the bedroom. A sweet melody of wind drifted through the air.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

Reuben and Hermione climbed into one of the carriages, finally setting off for Hogsmeade. After thirty minutes, they arrived at the entrance to Hogsmeade Alley, perched high on a hill overlooking the village below.

The abbey was an impressive old estate, built in Gothic Revival style. It rose three stories tall, its large windows flooding the interior with natural light. Their carriage rolled through the big metal gates and followed the long driveway up to the grand front door. Many students were already inside, the party in full swing. The carriage stopped, and Hermione turned to Reuben.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, stepping out after her.

Inside the entrance hall were three staircases—two ascending on either side and a third in the middle leading down and straight ahead to the back garden. Hermione and Reuben wandered through, spotting sixth and seventh years, alongside many older students Reuben recognized.

“Let’s go dance!” Hermione said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him up the stairs. They turned left through double doors into a grand ballroom adorned with golden accents. Mirrors covered the ceiling, and large windows on both sides offered views outside—the left windows opened to a terrace overlooking the garden. Students and older guests filled the room, dancing, drinking, and enjoying themselves. On a raised platform at the end of the hall, a band played.

“You know the Ague Shiners, right?” Hermione shouted over the music.

“Sorry?”

“The band—Ague Shiners. You know them, right?”

“Uh, yeah. I do,” Reuben lied.

Hermione laughed. “Of course you do.”

She pulled him into the crowd and started dancing. For the next two hours, Reuben found himself genuinely enjoying the night—dancing with Hermione, then standing behind her as she chatted with friends, then dancing again, and repeating the cycle.

But when Hermione started doing shots with a blond man at the bar, Reuben’s mood shifted. He overheard her discussing her studies while the man barely listened, grinding his hips behind her as she kept drinking. He was older, and Reuben thought he might be a former student or perhaps the owner of a Hogsmeade shop—but Reuben didn’t like him.

He tried to get Hermione to leave, but the man kept blocking his way. Frustrated, Reuben shouted over the man’s shoulder, “Hermione, I’m going to explore for a bit, alright? Want to come?”

Hermione said nothing, just waved her hand in a gesture that told him she was fine, so he left her there.

Exiting through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the left side, Reuben stepped out onto the balcony. The cold autumn breeze hit him, and he realized he had been sweating. It felt good to breathe fresh air for a moment.

Leaning against the stone balustrade overlooking the garden, he took in the scene below. A large, Roman-style pool hosted at least fifty people swimming—some still in costumes, others in underwear, but most were naked.

Behind the pool, a path led toward the garden’s rear entrance, where a magical maze awaited. Reuben decided to explore it.

He descended to the ground floor, ignoring the naked swimmers, and headed straight for the maze. To his surprise, many others were there too, despite what had happened in the fourth year. A gargoyle at the entrance gave instructions to a couple about the maze, explaining there was a port key in the center that would transport anyone back to the entrance. With that, Reuben and the others entered.

Quickly losing sight of the couple, Reuben found himself alone amid tall, lush bushes. Left, right, left, right—he walked until the music from the abbey was just a distant hum. Lanterns dotted the path, casting soft light, but he could barely see. He pulled out his wand.

“Lumos.”

A cold ball of light appeared at the tip and floated ahead, illuminating the path deeper into the maze.

The wind struck sharply, and Reuben was grateful for the fur coat Hermione had given him. He wasn’t afraid, though.

He continued until reaching a dead end. Only the pale blue glow of his wand lit the way. From behind the bushes came voices and murmurs. A girl’s laughter floated through the leaves.

Reuben pointed his wand at the bush and whispered, “Florisanté.”

The vines parted, creating a passage.

There, standing before him, were Ginny and Professor Slughorn. Slughorn’s right hand rested against the wall next to Ginny’s head as she kissed his neck.

“I—I’m sorry,” Reuben stammered, backing away but still looking at them.

“Oh, they caught us, Horace,” Ginny said with a grin.

“Indeed they did. Mind giving us a minute, darling?” Slughorn replied to Ginny. She smiled and skipped away.

Slughorn turned fully toward Reuben. Though smaller, the professor’s presence was intimidating.

“I know you’re a good lad, Reuben,” Slughorn said. “So don’t go telling everyone about our little arrangement, alright? But if you need help with your grades, just let me know.” He smirked, then headed toward where Ginny had disappeared but paused and drew his wand. Reflexively, Reuben raised a shield charm.

Slughorn laughed and flicked his wand. A piece of paper flew at the shield.

“Please come to my Christmas party—and bring your friend.” He tapped the shield. “Promise me you’ll come, Reuben. Promise.”

Frightened, Reuben nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I promise.”

“Good.” With that, Slughorn walked away, and the bush passage closed behind him.

Still with his shield raised, Reuben hurried back, turning corners again and again—left, right, left, right—until he bumped into someone.

It was an old woman with long white hair, wrinkled skin, and dull eyes. She looked over a hundred. Professor Ibex.

His shield vanished as she stared at him with a deathly gaze, looking right through him without a word. In her hand, she held the port key—a glowing blue orb ready to transport anyone who touched it back to the maze entrance.

But she had changed. The tattoo on her face had shortened. From the middle of her nose to her chin, the runes read:

ᛞᛟ ᚾᛟᛏ ᚷᛟ ᛊᛖᛖ ᚦᛖ ᚺᛖᛞᛗᚨᛊᛏᛖᚱ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚲᛖᛖᛈ ᚦᛖ ᛒᛟᛁ ᚨᛊ ᚨ ᚠᚱᛁᛖᚾᛞ

Which translated read: “Do not go see the headmaster and keep the boy as a friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Reuben whispered, taking the orb. In a blink, he was back at the beautiful abbey—but Professor Ibex was gone again.

The gargoyle’s voice sounded, “Congratulations, sir, you have won, you will now receive…”

“Shut up!” Reuben shouted, turning away and heading back inside.

He passed the now-empty pool, steam rising from the hot water and warming the cold air around it.

Climbing the stairs back to the ballroom, still filled with hundreds of people dancing to some awful pop music he hated, Reuben scanned the crowd for Hermione. Finally, he found her at the back of the room—making out with the blond man.

He tried to make his way toward her through the sweaty, singing crowd. On the podium where the band had been playing stood Harry and Ron, performing a terrible Gryffindor anthem.

Closer and closer, Reuben dodged dancing feet—until he tripped and fell into the arms of Draco Malfoy. Red wine splashed all over Reuben’s white shirt and fur coat. Draco, dressed in a classic black-tie suit, blond hair slicked back like Reuben’s, smiled down at him.

“Sorry,” Draco laughed.

Reuben quickly tried to stand. His wet shirt clung to his body, revealing every detail of his chest—his straining nipples and subtle abs. Draco stared.

“It’s alright,” Reuben said. “Don’t worry, it’s just wine.”

“No, no, let me help you,” Draco insisted.

Draco guided him out of the ballroom to the private library, closing the door behind them. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes over a hundred years old.

“It’s fine, Draco. I’ll just use a spell.”

But Draco was already behind him, removing Reuben’s fur coat and tossing it onto a nearby lounge chair.

“Are you supposed to be Brad Pitt?” Draco teased.

“Do you know Brad Pitt?” Reuben asked.

“Of course. But your version is kind of… death.”

Reuben smiled. “Hermione dressed me up. She said I was supposed to be a vampire version of him. Did it work?”

“Yeah, yeah, it did.”

“And you? What are you supposed to be?”

“Well, part of the mafia.”

“Really? Or did you just not have an outfit and decided to wear your party suit?”

“Maybe.” Draco laughed, shrugging.

Reuben glanced down at his shirt, now stained dark red.

“Let me help you with that,” Draco said huskily.

Slowly, Draco reached behind and peeled off Reuben’s shirt. Shirtless, they faced the large mirror. Draco’s eyes drifted to the acne scars on the back of Reuben’s shoulders.

Draco’s long fingers brushed over Reuben’s eyelids, urging him to close his eyes. Quietly, he murmured, “I didn’t know you had abs, Reubster.”

“Reubster?” Reuben smirked. “Is that what you’re going to call me now?”

Draco’s fingers traced the scars on Reuben’s back like mapping a constellation. “Yeah. I think you’re supposed to be a star.”

“A star? Like the sun?”

“No, like the northern star—bright, but cold.”

A silence fell as Reuben let the words sink in.

“Are you still going to dry my shirt?” Reuben asked quietly.

Draco laughed—a sweet, pure sound Reuben rarely heard. Draco was usually serious, staring ahead toward the future. Now, hearing him laugh, Reuben felt almost dazzled.

“Perhaps. But I think I’ll keep it,” Draco replied.

“And why’s that?”

“So we can be even.” His hands slid over the waistband of Reuben’s trousers and the white Calvin Klein boxers peeking over his hips. “That would be fair, don’t you think?”

Draco’s hands slipped away. His gaze burned into Reuben’s back, and after a moment, the library door closed softly behind him, leaving Reuben alone.

Sweat trickled down his skin. Draco’s woody scent lingered in the air. With his eyes closed, Reuben stood still between the towering bookshelves, the fire crackling in the hearth, his mind still imagining Draco’s hands on him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

Finally, Reuben opened his eyes, but Draco was gone. He looked again into the mirror where they had held each other’s gazes just moments before. His cheeks were cherry red, and a smile lingered on his face. He liked this version of himself.

He grabbed his coat from the lounge chair, slipped it on, and buttoned it up. It felt itchy against his bare chest. The clock chimed six thirty.

Leaving the library, Reuben searched for Hermione one last time but didn’t have to look far. At the steps of the grand staircase, he found her still making out with the blond guy—heavily kissing, his hand wandering inside her trousers.

“Hermione,” Reuben called, “I’m leaving.”

She seemed to come to her senses and stopped kissing. The blond withdrew his hand.

“Yeah, alright. See you tomorrow. I’m not leaving yet,” she smiled at the guy. “This is Vincent. He owns the Quidditch shop here in Hogsmeade.”

“Nice to meet you,” Vincent said, extending the same slick-looking hand he’d just had in her trousers.

“Same,” Reuben said, ignoring the hand. “See you tomorrow, Hermione.” With that, he walked through the big wooden entrance doors and climbed into a carriage back to Hogwarts.

About thirty minutes later, Reuben arrived at the castle. It was already past seven, judging by the clocktower. His tired legs carried him as fast as they could to the hospital wing to see Beckie.

Out of breath, he quietly opened the hospital wing doors. Beckie was fully awake, sitting on her bed. Without hesitation, Reuben sat beside her on his own bed.

“The silencing charm’s already up,” Beckie said. “Now you’re going to tell me every single detail before I let you close your eyes.”

Reuben laughed.

“Why weren’t you wearing a shirt under that coat, Reuben?”

He smirked and recounted every detail of the party—from the ballroom to the pool, the maze encounter with Slughorn, back to the ballroom, and finally the library with Draco.

Beckie listened intently, as if she’d be tested on it later.

“So, you guys fucked?” she finally asked.

“What? Oh god, no. Hermione did, is doing. Right now, with the Quidditch shopkeeper in Hogsmeade.”

“But he did take your shirt.”

“Yes, but—” Reuben’s cheeks flushed again.

Beckie laughed uproariously. “I’m so happy for you, Reuben, I really am,” she said. “But I already have to go. McGonagall came to visit me and invited me to her book club. I stayed up all night reading so we could discuss it together.”

“Oh, really? Alright, have fun,” Reuben said before collapsing on his bed and falling asleep.

This part is told from Beckie’s perspective.

Beckie put on her clothes and finally left the hospital wing, passing Grabe and Goyle—still completely bandaged, faces covered. Nobody checked on them, but Madam Pomfrey had read the letter from their parents.

She grabbed her bag from the coat rack and descended the stairs to the ground floor. Excited about McGonagall’s book club, Beckie thought about the book they had to read: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. The professor was known to be a huge Austen fan.

Reading Muggle literature at Hogwarts was refreshing, especially since most students knew little about the Muggle world.

Beckie reached the ground floor and walked the last few hallways to the Transfiguration classroom. When she entered, no one was there.

“We’re in my office, Beckie!” McGonagall called out. Beckie knocked on the door at the end of the classroom. The professor opened it, and the scent of freshly baked biscuits and tea floated out.

McGonagall stood in the doorway wearing a comfortable nightgown and the biggest smile of pure joy. “Good morning, Beckie. Please come in.”

Inside the office, students from all houses sat in pajamas, sipping tea and chatting on plush sofas and poufs surrounding the fireplace. The little kitchen was a mess, covered in flour. Beckie looked around in awe, soaking in the cozy atmosphere.

“Want one?” a boy asked, offering her a plate of biscuits. She recognized him as a first-year Hufflepuff. She took one.

With a saucer, cup, and kettle full of chamomile tea ready, McGonagall offered Beckie the last beanbag to sit on. Without looking, Beckie plopped down and glanced at the girl next to her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Beckie said to Pansy, whose black hair was now cut shoulder-length.

“Discussing the book with Professor McGonagall,” Pansy replied curtly. She looked Beckie up and down and laughed. “Your tie’s too tight; you might choke yourself.” Others nearby smirked and chuckled.

Furious, Beckie yanked off her tie and threw it into the fireplace. She shot Pansy a side-eye, seeing the girl blush and look away. Beckie hated her.

McGonagall’s voice rang out, “Alright, does everyone have tea and biscuits so we can begin?”

Everyone quieted and listened as McGonagall stood before them, clutching her well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice. The spine was cracked, pages were falling out, and notes filled nearly every margin.

Beckie had never seen McGonagall more passionate about anything—not even teaching Transfiguration. The professor shared how she discovered the book after marrying her Muggle husband, before they divorced. She spoke of how Austen was the first Muggle author she read and how deeply she fell in love with the story.

McGonagall shared personal details too—about her marriage and how her Ministry job forced their divorce, though she still missed him.

The students responded with warm comments, loving every detail of the story. After the tale, McGonagall sat with them, inviting everyone to share their thoughts. She made sure even the quietest voices were heard.

When it was Beckie’s turn, the office door suddenly swung open. Standing in the archway was Hermione—disheveled, sticky, eyes dull, and looking half dead. She looked terrible.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Professor,” Hermione shouted unintentionally loud.

“Yes, I can see that, Hermione,” McGonagall said gently. “Please go freshen up before joining us, and perhaps get some sleep. It will do you good.” She smiled kindly. But as Hermione turned, she collapsed to the floor.

Gasps filled the room.

“Oh no, not today! You’re too young to die yet!” McGonagall exclaimed and rushed to Hermione’s side. She used her wand to summon a stretcher.

“I’ll take Miss Granger to the hospital wing. Why don’t you all start preparing for luncheon?” With that, McGonagall left them.

The students began cleaning the kitchen and then brought out cutting boards, homemade bread, spreads, and vegetables to prepare sandwiches.

They chatted joyfully while working together. Beckie used magic to fold out a large table with enough chairs for everyone.

Once seated and food ready, McGonagall returned to join them.

“Miss Granger is in good hands. Everything will be alright,” she assured them. They ate and talked, with the professor joining in the gossip and adding some rumors of her own.

As the final students finished their talks about the book, they cleaned up and ended the day watching the film adaptation with hot chocolate milk.

Thus ended Beckie’s day at Professor McGonagall’s book club.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

For the first time, Beckie returned to her common room to get ready for ballet class. Her teacher’s name was Rosaire Bellerose. As Beckie entered the large dance hall on the second floor, Rosaire welcomed her with a warm smile.

“How are you feeling, Beckie?” asked the young witch of Indian descent, her long, thick braid swaying gracefully and nearly brushing the ground.

Rosaire was only around thirty and had returned to Hogwarts to teach after winning the World Championship of Royal Ballet. Despite her prestige, she let her students call her by her first name—something Beckie appreciated deeply. Rosaire was easily her favorite teacher.

“I feel good. Thank you, Rosaire,” Beckie replied sincerely.

Soon, she joined the other twenty-seven ballet students, all dressed in matching leotards and tights, their pointe shoes carefully charmed to match their skin tones.

They were already preparing for their winter performance: The Nutcracker, to be held on the final day before the holiday break.

Rosaire clapped her hands, her deep brown eyes shining with excitement. “Wonderful! Let’s begin with warm-ups. Everyone to the barre!”

Beckie hurried to her spot, rolling her shoulders back and placing one hand lightly on the wooden railing. Enchanted mirrors lined the walls, shimmering with light and reflecting twenty-eight poised dancers ready to move. In the corner, a bewitched piano began to play the familiar strains of The Nutcracker Suite, adjusting its tempo to match Rosaire’s precise wand flicks.

“Demi-plié, and stretch,” Rosaire instructed, gliding between them like a swan in motion. Beckie focused on her posture, keeping her movements fluid. The magic-infused floor gently adjusted to support their balance—a safeguard against injuries—though Rosaire always reminded them not to rely on it.

Next to Beckie, Marigold, a Ravenclaw, leaned in and whispered, “I heard Professor Flitwick is enchanting the stage to make it snow during the final performance.”

Beckie grinned. “That would be amazing. Imagine dancing Waltz of the Snowflakes with actual snow!”

Rosaire overheard them and smiled. “Ah, but you’ll have to earn that moment, mes étoiles. Now, center floor, everyone!”

They moved into position. Rosaire tapped her wand, and the piano shifted to the bright, delicate notes of The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. A thrill ran through Beckie’s body. This would be the most magical performance Hogwarts had ever seen.

This part is from Reuben’s perspective.

Later that evening, Reuben stirred from sleep around six. He decided to go watch Beckie’s ballet class. As he sat up, he realized he was still wearing his Halloween costume. He pulled on grey sweatpants, a hoodie, and some sneakers. Standing before the mirror, he fixed his hair, though it didn’t help much. He hadn’t drunk heavily, but the lack of sleep had taken its toll. His face was puffy, his eye bags darker than usual—but at least his vampire fangs were gone. Thank God.

He made his way up one floor and headed toward the sports wing, which overlooked the hill and Quidditch field.

Hogwarts offered a variety of extracurriculars: ballet, ice hockey, dancing, singing, art, music, and later in the year, sixth years could apply for Apparition lessons or join the Dueling Club. There was even a full gym just around the corner from the ballet hall.

As Reuben neared the double doors of the ballet studio, the music still echoed softly through the corridor. He paused. Miss Bellerose didn’t like outsiders peeking in during practice—she preferred to keep everything a surprise until the final performance. Reuben didn’t mind waiting.

He strolled down the marble hallway, beneath grand arches draped with royal purple fabric. Portraits of ballet legends who had studied at Hogwarts hung on the walls, all of them captured mid-performance. One of them featured Miss Bellerose herself at the moment she won her world title. The painted figures waved kindly at him as he passed.

Rounding a final corner, Reuben reached the gym. He paused, casually leaning against the cool stone wall. Through the large arched window, he could see inside. The enchanted lanterns cast a golden light over the students working out.

Some were lifting floating weights that adjusted their heaviness magically to match each student’s strength. Others jogged on treadmills charmed to simulate various terrains. One girl sprinted through a sunny forest, while the boy next to her ran through an illusionary desert, sand shifting beneath his feet.

At the far end of the room stood Draco—shirtless, in black shorts—training with Blaise. Draco’s back had widened noticeably, his legs more defined than ever. Reuben watched as Draco turned to Blaise, laughing at something. His smile was radiant, his teeth perfect, white, and straight. Reuben couldn’t help but admire the way Draco’s pecs were growing—smooth and slick with sweat. He looked like a freshly glazed donut. Reuben bit his lip at the thought.

Both boys flexed in the mirror. Blaise’s muscles were more prominent and chiseled, but there was something dreamier, more sensual about Draco—like a knight ready to unsheathe his sword and fight for what he wanted. Reuben could almost see him in armor, daggers drawn.

“See something you like?” came a voice behind him.

Startled, Reuben turned sharply and dropped to the floor, pulling Beckie down with him.

“Don’t scream,” he hissed. She burst out laughing, wrapping him in a hug as they crouched behind the wall.

“If you keep staring at him like that, he’s going to think you’re a stalker,” Beckie teased.

“I am not a stalker,” Reuben insisted, wagging a finger at her like a stern professor.

“Reuben, you wear his old underwear.”

“No—but—I… We’re even! He has my shirt!” Reuben stammered as his face turned bright red.

Beckie just laughed harder, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

Suddenly, the door to the gym creaked open, and they heard Draco’s hoarse voice.

“Shit—run,” Reuben whispered. He grabbed Beckie’s hand and bolted down the hallway, both of them laughing uncontrollably.

They finally stumbled into the Great Hall, breathless.

“Well, that was a close call,” Beckie said, panting with her hands on her knees.

“Fuck, yes,” Reuben muttered, leaning against the wall and rolling up his sleeves. His blood pulsed wildly.

Beckie threw her arm around his shoulders. “Let’s have some dinner, shall we?”

They entered the dining hall, sitting down at the Ravenclaw table just in time for dinner to begin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

After dinner, Beckie and Reuben were completely stuffed. The kitchen had served chocolate mousse for dessert, and Beckie had clearly overindulged.

“Oh fuck,” she groaned, holding her stomach. “My tummy hurts.”

“Yeah, no wonder,” Reuben said, smirking. “You ate the entire pot.”

Beckie rubbed her belly with a wince. “Will you come with me to the hospital wing to pack my stuff? I’m not allowed to stay there anymore now that I’m better.”

“Of course,” Reuben replied.

They stood up from the Ravenclaw table and made their way back up to the hospital wing. Once there, they each began to pack their belongings — Beckie with her large bag, Reuben with his smaller one. Crabbe and Goyle were still lying in their beds, wrapped head to toe in bandages and eerily motionless.

“They look dead,” Beckie commented.

“Can I be honest?” Reuben said, lowering his voice. “I kind of wish they were. I don’t trust them at all.”

Next to their beds, on a small bedside table, the Daily Prophet lay open to a small headline: MORE AND MORE RANDOM INDIGENOUS TREES FOUND IN WIZARDING GREAT BRITAIN.

After a while, Beckie floated her suitcase behind her and moved past Reuben.

“Alright, I’m heading to bed,” she said. “Good night.”

“Night,” he said, watching her leave toward Ravenclaw Tower.

Reuben left the hospital wing shortly after, his suitcase trailing behind him as he descended to the dungeons. Once downstairs, he stood before the blank wall that marked the Slytherin common room. Just as he was about to say the password, a voice interrupted him from behind.

“I wouldn’t go in if I were you.”

Reuben turned to find Draco standing on the steps behind him.

“You’re still not exactly popular after what happened with Crabbe and Goyle,” Draco said, his voice calm but pointed.

“So where should I sleep then?” Reuben asked. “Madam Pomfrey won’t let me stay another night.”

Draco ran a hand through his messy blond hair and smirked. “I know a place you can stay — a new home, if you will. Somewhere peaceful, quiet. A place to sleep, study... be alone.”

Reuben raised an eyebrow. “Really? And where is that supposed to be?”

Draco bent down to pick up Reuben’s suitcase. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Reuben smiled. “Hold on.” He flicked his wand. “Lupus.”

A golden snake rose from the floor, and with another flick: “Accio.” The suitcase Draco held dropped, snapped open, and for a full two minutes, Reuben’s belongings flew in from the dormitory — books, quills, parchment, piles of clothes. Once everything was inside, the suitcase sealed itself shut.

Draco raised his eyebrows, impressed. “You’ve got a lot of stuff.”

“I know,” Reuben said, grinning. “Now show me this magical new home.”

As they walked, Reuben turned on the steps to glance at Draco, who casually carried the suitcase in one hand.

“You know you don’t have to carry that,” Reuben said. “I could just spell it.”

“No need,” Draco replied, curling his arm and lifting the suitcase a little higher so that his bicep bulged. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I love lifting things.”

He winked. Reuben tried not to stare, but Draco’s arms looked sculpted — his veins prominent, like marble under skin. He looked like a statue from a Greco-Roman gallery, brought to life.

They climbed staircase after staircase until they reached the seventh floor.

“Draco, are we almost there?” Reuben asked, breathless and leaning against a wall.

Draco laughed, seemingly unaffected by the climb. He stood in front of a blank stretch of wall and set down the suitcase.

“We’re here,” he said.

Reuben frowned. “This is... a wall.”

“You won’t be sleeping on the ground,” Draco said, motioning for him to come closer. “Do you know the story of Barnabas the Barmy?”

“Didn’t he try to teach trolls ballet or something?”

“He did more than that, you know. He—”

“Draco, I’m too tired for story time. Can you please just show me the damn room?” Reuben sighed.

Draco put a finger to Reuben’s lips to hush him. “Don’t interrupt. Just walk across the hall three times and think about your perfect home.”

Sighing, Reuben did as told.

In his mind, he pictured a small English countryside cottage — quiet, cozy, warm. Stone walls covered in ivy. A thatched roof. Wildflowers in the garden. The scent of baking and fresh linens in the air. A fireplace, a kettle, stacks of books, a willow tree swaying gently outside.

When he turned back to Draco, the wall had changed. Fine lines began to appear, slowly etching themselves into the stone. A magnificent double door emerged — tall, arched, and carved from dark wood, adorned with patterns of ebony trees.

“This,” Draco said, “will be your new home.”

He pushed the door open and gestured for Reuben to enter first.

As Reuben stepped through, a small iron gate covered in lilies welcomed him. Beyond it stood the cottage — just as he had imagined.

A flock of white pigeons flew overhead, settling on the roof as a soft wind whispered through the trees. The front door opened by itself, releasing the scent of lemons and fresh sheets.

Inside, the hallway was paneled in dark wood, frescoes painted above it. A Persian carpet led to a grand staircase with marble steps and a delicate steel railing. Behind the stairs, a stained-glass window stretched from floor to ceiling, depicting scenes of spring — blooming flowers, sunrises, lakes, and flying birds.

Reuben walked up the steps to get a better look.

“Looks quite neat,” Draco said behind him. Sunlight filtered through the glass, catching both of them in a golden glow. He stood below, looking up with a soft expression.

Reuben smiled but said nothing. “The house,” Draco added, filling the silence.

“Yeah,” Reuben replied quietly. “The house.”

They walked into the garden together, where the willow tree stood like a guardian. Its long branches swayed in the wind, and the space beneath felt sacred — perfect for reading, tea, and solitude.

“What is this place?” Reuben asked.

“This is the Room of Requirement,” Draco explained. “Also called the Room of Come and Go. Harry used it last year for Dumbledore’s Army.”

“And no one else knows about it?”

“Not anymore. It was a well-known secret in the 1700s — until students started throwing parties. The headmaster sealed the knowledge away.”

“Do you use it often?”

Draco hesitated, then scratched his arm. “Sometimes.”

“Do you keep it a secret?”

“I’ve told no one. Until now.”

“Should I keep it secret too?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. I think it’s best.”

“Alright. Thank you, Draco. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” Draco said, smiling.

They said their goodbyes, and Reuben made his way upstairs. He trailed his fingers along the stained glass as he ascended, admiring its colors in the fading light.

His new bedroom was the most comfortable space he had ever seen. Three tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, their white curtains swaying in the spring breeze. The bed stood opposite, large and crafted from dark wood.

Only then did he realize how exhausted he truly was. The room, sensing his need, began to undress him gently, slipping his clothes away and dressing him in soft pajamas from his suitcase.

The bedcovers peeled back, inviting him in. He climbed into the crisp, freshly washed sheets, sighing in relief as they enveloped him. They were cool against his skin, comforting and luxurious.

A silk sleeping mask floated to his head and slipped over his eyes. He let it happen. Let it all happen.

This was going to be the best sleep of his life.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

The next morning, the birds at the window stirred him from sleep. Golden sunlight filtered through the curtains, warming the skin of his outstretched limbs as he slowly emerged from the bed.

His bare feet made soft sounds against the Persian rug as he padded toward the window. Beyond the glass, the countryside spread open—rolling hills to the right, a quiet lake resting to the left. As he stood gazing out, the door to his bedroom creaked open on its own. He didn’t question it. He simply followed.

Down the hallway he walked, the floor cool beneath his soles. Another door opened—this time to the left. The bathroom.

It was a vast, tiled chamber, its centerpiece a clawfoot tub poised like a relic. The walls were frescoed with faded myth: Apollo, Hyacinth, and the sorrow of their sun-drenched story.

The taps turned, unbidden. Spring water poured in, perfumed faintly with rose petals that swirled in gentle eddies. His pajamas slipped off his body as if guided by invisible hands. He stood nude, skin glowing in the morning light, and stepped carefully into the water—right foot, then left.

The bath was hot, almost painfully so, but perfectly balanced just before the threshold of discomfort. He drew his knees to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, and let himself dissolve into the sensation. Warmth. Stillness. Stirring.

A quiet arousal crept in—physical, familiar. His hand moved under the surface, slow and practiced. Always the left. The rhythm was measured, deliberate. He breathed shallowly, tension rising, trembling. Then release—white and sudden, landing across his chest in the quiet echo of breath.

Afterward, he washed—hair, body, breath—rinsing it all away. The tub drained itself as he stepped out, drying with a towel that smelled like sun. At the sink, he brushed his teeth and only then noticed the single bathrobe hanging neatly from the coatrack on the back of the door. He slipped it on, the soft fabric cinching around his waist.

From below came the whine of a boiling kettle. Time for breakfast, he thought.

Barefoot, he descended the staircase and turned toward the kitchen. The wooden table there bore the marks of time—scratches, paint stains, dents like half-remembered stories. No chair matched another. He loved that.

The kettle was nearly done. He opened cupboards, found mismatched dishes: plates with faded designs, cups chipped in charming ways, cutlery shaped like fish and flowers and stars. He chose deliberately. A green-bordered plate, a wide bowl-like mug with a worn sunburst inside, a silver knife with a fish for a handle.

He moved slowly, reverently.

When the kettle whistled, he turned off the heat and poured the water into a dark red teapot, glazed like crackled earth. As steam rose, he rested his hands on the table and inhaled the floral, bitter perfume of the tea.

Then, a soft chime behind him.

The oven.

He hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t even known it was there.

And yet, inside sat a perfect round loaf of sourdough, golden and crackled. It wasn’t hot. It was ready.

A cutting board appeared on the counter, alongside a dish of soft butter and a small jar of homemade strawberry marmalade. He sliced the bread—crackling, warm—and dressed it with the butter and jam. Back at the table, he ate in silence, watching the countryside blur through the windows like a dream trying to slip away.

When he finished, the room cleaned the plate for him.

Music drifted from the living room. A vinyl played—a blue cover, a woman on it. Dummy, it read. Portishead. The opening track crawled into the cottage like smoke.

Then Sour Times began.

The rhythm took him. He moved. Rough, graceful, barefoot. His robe slipped off. He danced—on the coffee table, onto the leather couch. Wild. Whole.

Strangers started, and the music led him upstairs. He followed. On the landing, he found a pair of tall, carved double doors. He pushed them open.

Inside: five towering wardrobes. They opened as he entered, racks sliding out like breath exhaled.

Velvet, silk, denim. Earth tones, jewel tones, pale whites and soft blacks. Every piece of clothing felt like something he could be. A different version of himself waiting to be worn.

It Could Be Sweet drifted through. He chose soft linen trousers. A loose, wide-collared shirt the color of snowy skies. In the mirror, there was no reflection—only an image of him dancing again, this time clothed in the new outfit, barefoot, joyful.

He smiled. So did the figure in the mirror.

A window cracked open in the corner. A white ladder extended up toward the roof like something carved from wax. He climbed. Each rung chimed like a harp string.

The rooftop was flat, wrapped in ivy. The view was more than countryside now. It was something beyond—maybe the sea. Maybe the end of the world.

Wandering Star played as he sat at the edge, feet dangling into the unknown. The clouds danced slowly overhead. A lantern lit itself. A plate appeared beside him: slices of pear, blue cheese, walnuts, a fork with a swan-shaped handle.

He ate slowly. He felt cared for.

Then Numb crept in, and the sun vanished. Fog drifted across the hills. He descended the ladder, house now blue with twilight.

A door to the basement stood ajar. From it, a line of golden light.

He followed.

The steps were cold. The air was slower. At the bottom: a chair. His mother’s. A cold cup of tea beside it.

He sat on the floor, leaned his head against the chair’s worn arm. “I miss you,” he said.

Roads played from above.

He climbed back to the living room, now washed in violet light. Curled onto the couch, blanket drawn over his shoulders. The world outside was mist now. Only mist.

Time spun backward.

The vinyl flipped—on its own, or maybe it never needed flipping. Pedestal began.

He stood.

The house had changed. No windows. Breathing walls. Shadows that watched. The robe hung off one shoulder. He let it.

In the mirror, he caught glimpses of himself. Not himself. Older, sharper. Knowing.

He entered a corridor where candles floated blue instead of gold. With each step, the beat grew deeper.

At the end: a firelit room, black flames curling like ink. He sat on a stool.

Figures emerged—eyes like stars, hands like mirrors. They sang. Not in words, but in essence. A drink was offered, glowing. He accepted it.

The last track began.

He was back in the wardrobe room. But this time, empty.

One robe remained, white at first glance—but beneath it, armor. Silver, intricate, ceremonial. Beside it, a sword. Small. True. Waiting.

He didn’t touch them. Just stood.

In the mirror: a future. Him, robed, armored, wind in his hair, sword in hand. Not older in years—older in soul.

The music peaked.

“I just want to be a woman,” the song whispered.

But here, it wasn’t about gender.

It was about becoming.

He took a breath.

And when he opened his eyes, he was in his dorm room at Hogwarts. Robes folded neatly beside him. Apricity asleep at his feet. But the scent lingered—lavender and steel. And under his fingernails, a shimmer of silver remained.

Chapter Text

The first thing they felt was the light. Not warm—white. Cold, clinical, like a hospital. It buzzed faintly behind their eyelids. They blinked, once, twice, and the stone ceiling above them came into focus. Familiar. Too familiar.

They were back in the Slytherin dormitory. In their own bed.

Apricity wasn’t curled at their feet. The blankets felt stiff, too perfectly folded, like they hadn’t been touched in days. Everything felt... paused. Frozen, except for the slow, rhythmic breath of someone else in the room.

A quiet shift of the sheets. Then a voice, low and steady:
“You’re awake.”

At the foot of the next bed sat Draco Malfoy. His arms were crossed. His uniform was wrinkled, his eyes darker than usual. He didn’t look surprised to see them—just tired.

“You’ve been gone for four days,” he said. There was no anger in it. No panic. Just a flatness, like he’d said the sentence a hundred times already. Practicing for when they’d finally return.

They tried to respond, but their mouth felt sewn shut. Nothing came.

Draco didn’t press. He didn’t look away either. His fingers dug into his sleeves, knuckles white against grey. In the stillness that followed, only the faint sound of water echoed from the pipes in the stone walls—distant, hollow.

Then, softly, “I’m sorry.”

No context. No explanation. No justifications. Just two words, released like something old and weighty he’d been holding back, waiting for the silence.

Their voice cracked. “Why?”

Draco shifted, glancing away. “For letting you sleep in the Room of Requirement,” he said. His eyes met theirs only briefly. “I should’ve known better. Should’ve checked. Or stayed. Or... something.”

No tears. No theatrics. But his voice was softer than it had ever been—stripped of pride, stripped of performance. Just Draco, in wrinkled robes, telling the truth like it hurt to say.

“Where’s Beckie?” they asked, barely more than a breath.

He looked up sharply. And for a moment, it seemed like he might deflect. Might lie. But then, gently, “She’s not here.”

Their mouth opened again, but Draco cut in first, quiet but firm. “It would be smarter to see Dumbledore first.”

Something shifted in the room. The name seemed to thin the air.

“He’s expecting you.”

They moved to sit up, pushing off the covers—and immediately realized their clothes were gone. A sharp intake of breath. Hands moved quickly to cover themselves.

“Draco. Where are my clothes?”

He looked up, gave them a quick once-over, the faintest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“They were soaked through. Sweat. Sent them to laundry.”

Their blush deepened, darker than before.

“Can I please have something else to wear?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “Right... so, yeah. That’s the thing. Your other clothes are still in the Room. So, you, uh... don’t exactly have anything to wear.”

They stared at him. “You expect me to see the Headmaster naked?”

“No! No, I—” he paused, then sighed. “You can wear mine.”

“Not a suggestion, Draco. That’s an order.”

He jumped up, muttering under his breath, and hurried to his wardrobe. They moved behind the dressing screen. A moment later, clothes were tossed over the top, landing in a loose pile. And then, after a pause, a pair of black Calvin Klein briefs landed softly on top.

A blush burned their ears.

They slipped the underwear on and immediately noticed the fit—loose, especially around the pouch. They pulled the waistband higher, trying to make it work.

“Draco,” they said flatly, holding up the slack band with one hand, “is it your life’s mission to keep giving me underwear that doesn’t fit?”

He laughed—a real one this time, barely muffled. “They’re the only clean pair I had. Figured you’d rather those than nothing.”

“Debatable,” they muttered, and continued dressing.

The trousers were pressed and dark, falling a little too long. The shirt hung loose on their frame, smelling faintly of cedar, cigarettes, and something sharper. Something him. Everything draped slightly wrong—too wide at the shoulders, too much space in the sleeves. Draco was broader. Stronger. The fit was unmistakably his.

They stepped out from behind the screen, adjusting the waistband again. Draco leaned casually against the bedpost, arms crossed, watching. Not smirking. Just watching. His expression unreadable.

“Don’t say a word,” they warned.

“I wasn’t going to.” But his voice had softened.

They fidgeted with the cuffs. “I’ll go alone.”

“You sure?”

A nod. “If he wants to see me, he wants to see me.”

Draco stood upright, took a few steps forward. For a moment, it looked like he might say something, offer reassurance. But instead, he simply reached out, adjusted the collar of their shirt, folding it neatly. His fingers barely grazed their skin.

“There,” he said. “Now you don’t look like you just came back from the dead.”

They exhaled the ghost of a laugh. “Feels about right, though.”

He handed over a pair of white socks and black loafers—shoes he’d worn on their first day at Hogwarts. They slipped them on.

“I’m ready,” they said quietly.

Draco straightened, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. He nodded, stepping aside to let them pass. At the last second, he handed over his jacket.

“Just in case,” he said.

The door clicked shut behind them.

The castle’s stone halls stretched ahead, colder than remembered.

Or maybe... it was them who had changed.

Chapter Text

After several minutes of climbing stairs, Reuben finally reached Dumbledore’s office. Exhausted and aching from the borrowed loafers that were too large and unforgiving on his feet, he slumped against the wall beside the stone gargoyle, panting.

“Fuck,” he muttered between breaths. “Password…”

He hadn’t thought to ask Draco for it. But it didn’t matter—the gargoyle was already shifting aside, as if it recognized him. The stone spiral staircase began to turn, lifting him upward without question.

When he reached the landing, the door to the office opened on its own. He stepped inside.

It looked exactly as he remembered—warm wooden walls, deep shadows, and shelves of dusty books that probably hadn’t been touched in decades. But the air felt different now. Still. Like the room was holding its breath.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked up and smiled.

“Reuben,” he said gently. “Please, come in.”

Reuben obeyed, slipping off Draco’s jacket and hanging it on the coatrack. Then he crossed the room and sat down across from the headmaster, the desk between them like a dentist’s tray—cold, clinical, and waiting to be used. The chair was hard and unforgiving, and Reuben couldn’t meet Dumbledore’s eyes. Silence stretched as Dumbledore fidgeted with his fingers, gaze lingering.

Finally, the old man spoke. “After nearly four months into the school year, you’ve already lived quite a few stories.”

Reuben didn’t know how to respond. He simply nodded—slowly, uncertainly—as though unsure what was being implied.

“If you’re wondering,” Dumbledore continued, “you’re not in trouble for what happened with Crabbe and Goyle.”

Some of the tension in Reuben’s chest eased at that, but wariness remained. He still didn’t trust the headmaster. Not entirely.

“That was weeks ago,” Reuben said. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

“I hadn’t planned to mention it,” Dumbledore admitted. “But you seem reluctant to speak. I thought this might... open something.”

He smiled again. Reuben hated it.

“How are you?”

Reuben ignored the question. “Why did the Room do that?”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Almost kill me.”

Dumbledore inhaled slowly. “The Room of Requirement has a mind of its own.”

“Is it also a spirit?”

“Yes. She was the first daughter of Helga Hufflepuff, and when she died, she chose to return to Hogwarts, to make the Room her home.”

“Then why did she try to kill me?”

“The spirit of the Room does not kill, Reuben,” Dumbledore said patiently. “She was a Seer in life. My guess is... she showed you something. A future. Perhaps the future. Would you like to tell me what you saw?”

“I don’t remember,” Reuben lied. “I had a blackout.”

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes slightly. “You don’t remember?”

He seemed about to speak again, but Reuben beat him to it.

“Do you enjoy being Headmaster?”

The question caught Dumbledore off-guard. But after a moment’s pause, he nodded. “Yes. Very much.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, folding his hands again. “Being Headmaster of Hogwarts comes with a certain degree of... power.” His gaze met Reuben’s. “I sit at the Ministry’s table when laws are debated. I influence how magic itself is governed.”

Reuben listened carefully. Every word.

“You could say I’m the second Minister of Magic.”

Reuben didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with that.

“But I am also very old, Reuben,” Dumbledore added. “And I need an heir.”

“Why do you need an heir? It’s a democracy.”

Dumbledore’s grin was quiet, and perhaps a little smug. “The first Minister is elected. The second... is not. It has always been a Dumbledore title, passed down. Even I cannot change that.”

“Alright.”

“Alright,” Dumbledore echoed.

“Can I go now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you want to know where your parents are, Reuben?”

Reuben’s breath caught. His chest tightened. “Why? They’re dead.”

“No,” Dumbledore said gently. “Your real parents.”

Reuben couldn’t breathe. He felt himself stiffen, something inside him shattering—but before Dumbledore could speak again, he broke the silence first.

“Why?” His voice was hoarse, trembling. “Why do you lie to me? Why does this keep happening? Why do you always lock away my memories at the end of every school year?”

He was shouting now.

Dumbledore remained calm, like he always did. “To protect you.”

“What did that help?!” Reuben shouted. “What did it help to let me grow up with fake parents?”

“Reuben,” Dumbledore said softly, “there’s no need to scream. I will tell you who your real parents are... in time. But that time is not today.”

“Then why bring it up?” Reuben snapped.

“Reuben, look—”

But he didn’t stay to hear the rest. He stormed out.

The spiral staircase blurred beneath his feet as he raced downward, vision swimming. Halfway down, he collided with someone.

“Watch it, Audrey,” the boy barked.

Reuben turned around.

Harry Potter.

He was on his way up to see the headmaster, wearing a fitted t-shirt that clung to defined biceps—smaller than Draco’s, but still impressive. A thin moustache shadowed his upper lip. He looked... respectable. More grown-up than Reuben remembered.

Mesmerized for a moment, Reuben said nothing as Harry continued upward.

Then Reuben kept walking down, slower now. But as he neared the bottom, he froze.

The jacket.

He’d left it behind.

With a groan, he turned and began the climb again.

By the time he reached the office door, it was closed once more. He didn’t knock. He just pushed it open.

“Sorry, professor, I forgot m—”

He stopped. Stared.

On Dumbledore’s lap sat Harry Potter. The boy had the headmaster’s finger in his mouth, sucking on it. The room was silent.

Both turned to look at Reuben.

Dumbledore grinned.

Reuben didn’t say a word. He forgot about the jacket and ran.

Down, down, down the staircase until he reached the gargoyle again. He was gasping when he saw the figure waiting there.

Beckie.

She stood up from the bench the moment she saw him.

“Oh, Reuben, I’m so sorry—Pansy was being a real bitch again and wouldn’t let me into the dungeons and—”

She stopped. She saw the tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

Reuben collapsed.

Beckie rushed to him, falling to her knees and pulling him into her arms. She held him tightly, rocking slightly, saying nothing.

There was no need.

She just let him cry. Later, he would tell her everything.

Later.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

*This part is told from Reuben’s perspective again.*

Winter had crept into Hogwarts without asking permission. Snow dusted the rooftops like icing sugar and gathered in lazy drifts along the castle’s winding pathways. The Black Lake was half-frozen, its surface glassy and pale, and the Forbidden Forest stood skeletal and solemn at the edge of it all, cloaked in frost. Frost traced the windows of every corridor, and the warm glow of torchlight spilled out from behind thick stone walls, making the castle look like a sleeping beast lit from within.

Inside, the air was steeped in the smell of cinnamon and pine. Garlands hung from the banisters, enchanted baubles floated lazily near the ceilings, and the occasional snowflake drifted indoors without melting. Students walked slower in winter, half from the cold, half from the weight of upcoming exams, but Reuben Vaelthorne still moved like he was late for something, even when he wasn’t.

It had been weeks since the incident at Hogsmeade Abbey, and though Reuben hadn’t breathed a word about what he’d seen in the maze, he hadn’t stopped thinking about it either. The invitation to Professor Slughorn’s Christmas party had arrived the morning after, wrapped in green velvet and sealed with gold wax. It was pristine, fancy, even a little intimidating. And Reuben had promised to go. Not that he’d had much of a choice.

But as snow fell heavier over the castle and the last week of term drew near, something strange began to happen.

Reuben found himself looking forward to it.

It was the kind of morning that made your fingers sting the second you stepped outside, but Reuben didn’t mind. He met Beckie at the bottom of the Grand Staircase, both bundled up in scarves and coats, their breath curling in the air like ghosts. They were heading into Hogsmeade, not for butterbeer or Honeydukes this time, but to get ready for the most prestigious party of the year.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Beckie muttered as they trudged through the snowy path to the village, “Willingly letting you dress me up for a party full of Slytherins and Slughorn’s favourite little puppets.”

Reuben grinned, nudging her shoulder. “Don’t act like you don’t love the drama.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I love some drama. This feels like the start of a murder mystery.”

They arrived at La Boutique Bohème, a wizarding tailoring shop tucked between an enchanted apothecary and a bookshop that specialized in cursed tomes. Its window was fogged from the warmth inside, and mannequins in the front twirled in place, displaying robes that shimmered like moonlight or sparkled like frost.

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped inside. The scent of clove and lavender clung to the velvet curtains, and gentle harp music played in the background.

A seamstress with hair that changed colour every few seconds appeared instantly.

"Welcome to La Bohème,” she said. “We're expecting you.”

They tried on dozens of outfits, Beckie nearly hexed Reuben after he suggested a floor-length dress made of owl feathers, and Reuben refused anything that had bells stitched into the hem. Eventually, they both found something that felt... right.

Reuben chose a sharp-cut suit in forest green with silver details so faint they caught only in candlelight. It was clean, elegant, still Slytherin, but subtle. Beckie, after much eye-rolling and sighing, landed on a structured midnight-blue suit that shimmered ever so slightly when she moved, like moonlight on water. She looked powerful. Unbothered. Beautiful.

They stared at each other in the mirror for a moment.

“Are we actually pulling this off?” Beckie asked.

Reuben smirked. “We’re not pulling it off, we’re setting the standard.”

Then came the haircut.

They stepped into the salon tucked in the back of the boutique, where the air was filled with the scent of fresh lavender and warm cedarwood. Floating scissors hummed softly, and combs darted around like trained birds. Beckie took her seat first, confident as ever. She instructed the stylist, "Keep the volume up, but no short sides, just let the curls flow naturally." The stylist worked her magic, leaving Beckie's hair full and bouncy, framing her face in wild, untamed curls that looked effortlessly chic. It was bold, but still soft, a reflection of her style and personality, confident and free.

When it was Reuben’s turn, he asked for just a trim, but the stylist had other ideas. She glanced at his tousled hair and, inspired by his party-cool vibe, decided to go for something sleek yet intentionally messy. His hair was sculpted into a mod-inspired style with clean, sharp sides, while the top had that windswept, "I woke up like this" look. It was polished, but still gave off that effortless charm, as if he was always ready for the next big event without even trying. Reuben took one last look in the mirror, unsure at first, but then he couldn't help but smile. It was perfect.

Then he caught Beckie looking at him through the mirror, just for a second, and he knew it worked.

By the time they stepped back out into the snow-covered street, arms looped together and paper bags of accessories floating behind them, the sky was already turning pink with sunset.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28

The classroom smelled like old ink and cold parchment. A frost-rimmed window clicked faintly in the stone wall, the morning sun barely managing to light the haze that hovered around the ghostly form of Professor Binns. He drifted lazily in front of the blackboard, mid-sentence as always, his voice thin and toneless.

“…a living lattice of defensive enchantments,” Binns droned, “grown, not simply placed. One does not simply cast wards over a castle of this size and ambition. They must be rooted. Grafted. Fed.”

Reuben sat near the front, chin propped on his hand, idly twirling a quill between his fingers. Beckie was next to him, sketching some extravagant hairstyle idea in the margin of her notes. She nudged his elbow and pointed at the page with a quick grin.

He smirked, then turned back toward the front, just as Binns floated through his own lectern with no awareness of having done so.

“But,” Binns continued, his voice flattening further, “the system is not without its peculiarities. Namely, the presence of a fifth tower, "

Reuben straightened, subtle but alert.

“, which remains unanchored to the central warding grid. Not absent, precisely, but silent. Forgotten, perhaps. More likely, intentionally removed from the magical nexus. It resists protective enchantments, even detection spells. A curiosity.”

He scribbled something on the board that looked like a blueprint, jagged and curling, and circled a section far from the main bulk of the castle.

“The tower does not appear on Rowena Ravenclaw’s original floor plan,” Binns muttered, as if this were an incidental footnote. “Which suggests either later addition… or exclusion.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Some theorize it is rune-bound. Older than the others. Certainly older than is comfortable.”

Beckie leaned toward Reuben and slid a note into his hand under the desk.

“Sounds haunted af”

He barely stifled a smile and pocketed it.

Just as he was about to turn his attention back to Binns, something, some instinct, pulled his eyes over his shoulder.

At the back of the classroom, Harry Potter was staring at him.

He wasn’t pretending to look somewhere else. He didn’t glance away when Reuben caught him. He just sat there, arms crossed, eyes steady beneath that unruly fringe. And that moustache, god, it should’ve been ridiculous, but it wasn’t. It suited him in a way Reuben hated to admit.

Reuben blinked, looked away quickly, and shifted in his seat. Beckie was now drawing a literal ghost with a speech bubble that said “you bitches have no idea how old I am.”

And still, despite the warm light and the dull drone of Binns' voice, Reuben couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just shifted, quietly, decisively, as if someone had turned a page before he’d finished reading.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29

The days leading up to Christmas break were filled with a quiet buzz of excitement at Hogwarts. Students chatted about their holiday plans, the snow-capped towers glistening outside the windows, and the upcoming festivities that would wrap up the term. For Beckie, however, there was only one thing on her mind ,  the Nutcracker performance.

Weeks of rehearsal had gone into preparing for this night, and now, as the 21st of December arrived, the entire school seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation. The usual bustle of the Great Hall and the classrooms had quieted in the days before the performance. Students whispered in the corridors, eagerly speculating about the event, while the professors stayed mostly out of sight, their own preparations well under way.

Beckie’s excitement was tempered with nerves. Reuben noticed it ,  she was more focused than usual, her usually light-hearted spirit a little quieter as the day went on. Even when they walked to dinner in the Great Hall, she seemed slightly distant, her mind already in the ballet hall. He didn't press her, but he knew that she wanted to do well, not just for herself, but for the school, for the tradition of the performance.

By the time the evening arrived, the Hogwarts ballet hall had been transformed. The room was draped in white and silver, with sparkling fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. Snowflakes, both real and enchanted, fluttered down softly from above, creating a winter wonderland effect. The air was filled with the fresh scent of pine and cinnamon, and the stone walls seemed to have come alive with the magic of the season. For one night, the castle became a fairy tale.

The students began to trickle into the ballet hall, their conversations hushed as they found their seats. Reuben sat near the front with the other Ravenclaws, glancing around in quiet curiosity. He’d never seen Beckie so serious, so focused. He could feel the weight of the occasion on her shoulders, and he couldn't help but feel a little nervous for her too.

Backstage, Beckie prepared with the other dancers, her heart beating in time with the rhythm of her thoughts. She wore a costume of shimmering silver and pale blue, the fabric catching the light as she moved. Her dark curls were pulled back in a neat bun, and her eyes sparkled with quiet determination. She had worked tirelessly for this moment, and now it was time to step onto the stage and give everything she had.

As the lights dimmed, the murmurs of the crowd faded to a hush. The soft melody of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker began to fill the room, delicate and enchanting, setting the tone for the magical performance that was about to unfold.

When Beckie stepped onto the stage, the room seemed to hold its breath. Her movements were smooth, graceful, each step deliberate and precise. She glided across the floor with an elegance that was mesmerizing, embodying the beauty of the Snow Queen in every movement. There was something magical about watching her perform, as if the whole room was under her spell.

Reuben's eyes never left her as she danced. He’d always admired her strength and confidence, but here, on this stage, he saw her in a different light. She was no longer just the girl who cracked jokes or made everything feel lighter. She was a force of nature, commanding the room with nothing more than the power of her movements and the grace of her presence.

The performance itself was a dream ,  a blur of color, music, and magic that swept the audience off their feet. Beckie’s role as the Snow Queen was one of the most critical parts of the ballet, and she performed it flawlessly. Her every turn and leap felt like an extension of the story, an embodiment of the magic that hung in the air of the castle. The audience was entranced, spellbound by her presence.

When the final notes of the ballet played, the crowd erupted into applause, but Reuben found himself frozen in place for a moment. He was overwhelmed by the sight of Beckie standing there, breathing heavily but smiling radiantly, proud of what she had just accomplished. She had, in that moment, become something beyond ordinary ,  she had become a piece of living magic.

After the final curtain fell, Beckie made her way offstage, her face flushed with excitement and exhaustion. She spotted Reuben in the crowd, and he couldn’t help but stand up, a smile spreading across his face. As she approached, he gave her a quiet but heartfelt applause, his eyes full of admiration.

“Well,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “you were absolutely amazing out there.”

Beckie laughed, her eyes sparkling with that same mischievous energy he knew so well. “Thanks, Audrey. It was… it was everything I’d hoped it would be.”

He smiled back, watching her for a moment, a silent understanding passing between them. He didn’t need to say anything more. They both knew how special that moment had been.

As the final notes of the performance hung in the air, the applause was deafening. Beckie made her way off the stage, still feeling the rush of adrenaline from the flawless performance. Her gaze instantly found Reuben, who was grinning at her, pride shining in his eyes.

"That was incredible, Beckie," he said as she approached, clearly moved by the performance.

“Thanks, Audrey," she responded, the adrenaline still keeping her buzzing.

Before she could get too comfortable, she felt a presence behind her. Beckie sighed inwardly, already knowing who it was. She turned around to face Pansy Parkinson, who was standing with arms folded, her usual sneer replaced by an almost unnerving calmness.

Beckie didn’t bother to hide her disinterest as she raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Parkinson?"

Pansy gave a slow, deliberate look up and down, sizing Beckie up before she spoke in an unusually soft tone. "You were… surprisingly good," she said, a hint of respect, almost reluctantly, undercutting the words. "I didn’t think you had it in you. But tonight… you were impressive."

Beckie’s eyes narrowed slightly, the words feeling almost patronizing, even though they were meant as a compliment. She didn’t care for the insincerity that usually came with Pansy’s words, and she wasn’t about to pretend she did.

"Yeah, well, keep it to yourself," Beckie said flatly, turning her back to Pansy without waiting for a response. "I don’t need your approval."

Pansy faltered for a moment, clearly not expecting the cold shoulder. She opened her mouth, almost as if to argue, but Beckie had already begun walking away, the sharp click of her heels echoing in the hall.

Pansy’s words hung in the air, unsaid, and after a brief pause, she simply stood there, watching Beckie’s retreating form. The compliment she’d offered, as difficult as it had been to admit, was now left unappreciated, and the awkwardness of the encounter lingered.

Reuben watched the exchange, an eyebrow raised. He hadn’t expected Beckie to turn her back so quickly on Pansy’s rare show of kindness.

"Well," he said, a smirk creeping onto his face, "I guess that’s that."

Beckie didn’t respond, her attention already back on the crowd, her pride still intact. “I don’t need Pansy’s approval to know I nailed it tonight,” she muttered, and Reuben could only chuckle in response.

Chapter Text

Chapter 30

The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as students chattered about the upcoming Christmas break. The ceiling, enchanted to reflect the wintry skies outside, shimmered with stars, casting a soft glow over the long tables. It was the final day of term, and though many students were eagerly packing for their holiday trips, others, like Reuben and Beckie, sat at the Ravenclaw table, surrounded by plates of food, each lost in their own thoughts.

Beckie scooped a bit of mashed potatoes onto her plate, glancing up at Reuben with a smile. “So, guess I’ll be off to the coast for Christmas,” she said casually, as though it were nothing extraordinary, though there was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. “I’ve never been to the beach this time of year. I think it’ll be nice to get away for a while. Just me and some family. Warm weather, no school, no... well, no Hogwarts drama for a bit.”

Reuben chuckled softly, his gaze drifting out the window to the snow falling outside. “Sounds nice. I’ll be here. Alone.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and Beckie’s smile faltered just slightly, her brow furrowing with concern. She set down her fork and leaned forward, her eyes meeting his. “You sure you’re okay with that? I mean, I know it’s not ideal, but... it’s Hogwarts, right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Reuben said, a little too quickly, but the flatness in his voice betrayed him. “I’ll have the whole place to myself. It’ll be... quiet.”

Beckie’s expression softened, but she didn’t push it. She understood enough about Reuben to know he wasn’t one for pity. But the quiet between them stretched a bit too long, and she had the feeling there was more going on in his mind than he was willing to admit.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” she asked gently. “I mean... it’s not exactly the same, but you could join me. It’s always better than sitting here by yourself.”

Reuben gave her a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nah, it’s alright. I’ve got my own plans, really.” He shrugged, then added with a half-grin, “Besides, you probably need some time to recharge from all this. You wouldn’t want me tagging along, turning it into a Hogwarts reunion, would you?”

Beckie laughed lightly, but the sound didn’t reach her eyes this time either. “I’ll miss you, you know. Even though you’ll probably be off sulking in some dark corner of the castle.”

Reuben raised an eyebrow at her. “Sulking? I’m not sulking. I’m just... keeping to myself. Less hassle that way.”

“Right, and I suppose you’re planning on spending Christmas alone in the dark, just like every other year?” she teased, though there was a slight edge to her voice, as if she were trying to make him admit what he was avoiding.

“I’m used to it,” Reuben said, not meeting her gaze. He played with his fork for a moment before setting it down. “Anyway, it’s not like you can come back to Hogwarts just to keep me company, right? You’ve got your holiday plans.” He offered a small, reassuring smile. “It’s fine. I’ll survive.”

Beckie studied him for a moment, sensing there was more beneath the surface, but she let it go. She wasn’t sure he was ready to talk about it, and forcing him wouldn’t help. She gave him a half-smile. “I suppose. But I’ll be thinking about you while I’m off basking in the sun.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Reuben said, trying to brush it off. “It’ll be good for you. You deserve the break.”

Beckie picked up her drink and took a sip, trying to hide the unease in her gaze. “And you? What are you going to do with all that ‘free time’?”

“Maybe I’ll just get some rest,” Reuben said, his tone light but the glint in his eyes unreadable. “Maybe explore the castle a bit. See what’s hidden in all the corners.”

“Sounds like the perfect holiday,” Beckie said dryly, her lips curling into a smirk. “Just don’t get caught in the forbidden corridors or whatever it is you Slytherins get up to.”

Reuben laughed, the sound more genuine this time. “Nah, I’ll be good. Just trying to survive until the break’s over.”

Beckie leaned back in her chair, glancing around the hall as students bustled past. Her fingers drummed against the edge of the table, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was hanging in the air.

Beckie’s smile softened. “I’ll be back soon enough. Just don’t go getting into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

Reuben raised his glass to her, a quiet promise behind his gaze. “You know me. Trouble’s not my thing.”

With that, they fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts as the last day of the term stretched on.

***

Reuben lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling of the dimly lit dormitory. The soft sounds of the early morning drifted in from the hallway, the castle still wrapped in the quiet before the students departed for the break. He turned over, trying to find a comfortable spot, but his mind kept drifting back to Beckie.

He’d woken up early, just before the crack of dawn, to see her off. Her bag had been slung over her shoulder, and she’d been her usual cool, composed self, despite the travel. They had exchanged a few words, her usual teasing smile present as she reassured him that she’d be fine on her own. He’d joked about getting lost on the way to the train, but it felt different this time, not bad, just… quieter.

"See you in a few weeks," she’d said with that same smile, before disappearing out the door and leaving the common room behind.

Reuben sighed and rolled over again, pulling the covers tighter around him. It wasn’t that he’d miss her, not exactly. It was just… strange, that’s all. He hadn’t expected the whole "Christmas break" thing to feel like a big deal, but here he was, still trying to get some more sleep, the faint memory of her departure lingering in his mind.

Eventually, he closed his eyes and settled into the warmth of his bed. There was no need to linger on it. She’d be back before he knew it. And for now, he just needed a little more sleep.

***

Reuben finally got up from his bed, the sheets tangled around his legs as he stretched and let out a yawn. He had tried to sleep after seeing Beckie off to the Hogwarts Express, but sleep had proven elusive. His mind had been racing, and it didn’t help that the castle was unusually quiet, most students had already left for the holidays, leaving only a handful behind.

The weight of the silence pressed in on him, so he’d given up on trying to drift back into slumber. Instead, he slipped out of bed, letting his feet hit the cold floor, the chill seeping up into his bones. He stood for a moment, eyes scanning the room before he made his way to the bathroom.

The cold water hit his face in a sharp splash, waking him up fully. Reuben let out a soft sigh, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

With a quiet groan, he finished his shower, the water washing away the remnants of sleep and the strange unease he hadn’t been able to shake off. He ran a towel through his damp hair and dressed quickly in a loose sweater and jeans, casual and comfortable for the morning. The Christmas break had just begun, and it seemed like there was plenty of time to figure things out.

He made his way out of the dormitory and into the common room, where only a few other students lingered. The silence was still thick, but he found comfort in it. As he wandered the halls, he briefly thought of the conversation he’d had with Beckie that morning, her excitement about her holiday, her plans, and the usual cheerful energy she had. It had been strange to say goodbye, especially since he knew they wouldn’t be seeing each other for a while.

Reuben made his way toward the Great Hall, his footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridors. The usual bustle of students had quieted, leaving only a few lingering stragglers, most of whom were already off to their holiday destinations. It was a strange feeling, being one of the few left behind. But Reuben wasn’t bothered by it. He’d gotten used to the solitude, especially over the past few months.

As he entered the Great Hall, he immediately noticed the emptiness. Only a handful of students were seated at the long tables, chatting in low tones as they enjoyed their early breakfast. The house tables were sparse, and the staff table, typically full of busy professors, was also noticeably quiet. The air was heavy with the scent of fresh-baked pastries and eggs, the warmth from the hearths in the far corners a comforting contrast to the chill of the castle.

Reuben grabbed a plate of food from the buffet and sat at the Ravenclaw table. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he hadn’t eaten much the day before. His eyes scanned the hall, landing on a few familiar faces: Draco Malfoy was seated at the Slytherin table, looking slightly disheveled but otherwise calm. The rest of the Slytherins, including Pansy, were nowhere to be seen. Across the hall, Harry was sitting with a small group of Gryffindors, including Hermione and a couple of others he didn’t recognize.

Reuben finished his light breakfast in the near-empty Great Hall, the quiet atmosphere settling over him as he pushed his plate aside. The castle felt unusually vast today, the silence amplifying the solitude that seemed to envelop him more and more as the holiday break wore on. After spending some time just sitting and watching the flickering candles above, he stood, stretching his legs and heading toward the castle’s farthest corridors, away from the main hustle of the Great Hall.

The castle was unusually still, and as Reuben wandered deeper into the bowels of Hogwarts, he found himself drifting past classrooms he’d never given much thought to before. Most of the rooms were dark, their doors slightly ajar with the flickering light of torches casting long shadows along the stone floors. He passed through several hallways before taking an unfamiliar turn down a narrower staircase. His curiosity guided him as the chill air of the lower levels seemed to promise quiet and maybe even peace.

As he wandered, the echo of his footsteps reverberated off the stone walls, and eventually, he stumbled upon a small classroom at the end of a dimly lit corridor. The door was slightly cracked, and through the opening, Reuben caught sight of the familiar mop of unruly hair. It was Harry, seated at a worn wooden desk, surrounded by a couple of girls from Gryffindor, engaged in quiet conversation.

Reuben paused in the corridor, his curiosity piqued. He hadn’t expected to find Harry so far from the usual bustling places. The conversation in the room was low, but Harry’s face was animated as he leaned forward, his hands gesturing as he spoke. His eyes were fixed on one of the girls, and his intense focus made Reuben feel like an intruder. The door creaked slightly as the wind blew through the hall, and Reuben instinctively took a step back, careful not to make a sound.

He remained still for a few seconds, watching the scene unfold. Harry appeared completely absorbed in his conversation, his back to the door, unaware of Reuben’s presence. The quiet murmur of the girls’ voices mixed with the occasional scrape of a chair, but it felt like another world, one that didn’t quite belong to Reuben.

Five girls, Ginny Weasley, Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Romilda Vane and Katie Bell. All surrounding him, the chosen one. He is leaning against a bench as they all are on their knees.

“Are you all going to be good girls for daddy.” They all nod. Harry unbuckles his belt and takes out his cock, erect. From his pocket he takes out a small plastic bag full with white powder, he places a line on his dick and smiles at the girls. “Go ahead.” They all dived in, sniffing the drugs.

Reuben looks perplexed at the theater in front of him and takes his ass out running away.

The echo of his footsteps bounced off the stone walls as he sprinted down the corridor, his heart hammering in his chest, not from fear, but from something stranger. The image was burned into his brain: the flickering candlelight, the slow turn of Harry’s head as he leaned in, lips brushing against Ginny’s neck, her laugh soft like velvet. It hadn’t been raunchy or even particularly scandalous, but it had been… intimate. And more than that, it felt private. Like he wasn’t supposed to see it.

Reuben took a sharp left, then another, until he found himself in a narrow, drafty passage he didn’t even recognize. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, trying to slow the rush of heat rising in his chest. The worst part was that he didn’t know why it had gotten to him. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. Maybe it was the jarring contrast between the quiet, brooding boy who had offered him a cigarette on the terrace and the boy now entangled in candlelit closeness.

He let out a breathless laugh, more confused than amused, and rubbed his hands over his face. “What the hell am I doing?” he muttered to himself, as if the castle walls would answer.

The silence offered no response, just the faint hum of magic that always pulsed under the skin of Hogwarts, ancient and indifferent.

After a moment, Reuben pushed off the wall and started walking again. Slowly this time. His stomach still stirred, not with nerves but with something he didn’t have the words for yet. He wasn’t sure where he was heading, but that was fine. It wasn’t like anyone was waiting for him.

And far behind him, down the corridor where he’d first stumbled upon them, the classroom door clicked shut again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31

The dormitory was nearly silent, the kind of deep winter quiet that crept into the bones of the castle and wrapped itself around its stone walls like a blanket. Outside, the wind whispered against the frosted windows of the Ravenclaw Tower, pushing snow into soft drifts along the ledges. Inside, the hearth had long gone cold. Reuben stood in front of the tall mirror by the wardrobe, a mess of clothes strewn across his bed behind him.

He pulled a thick grey hooded sweater over his head, the fabric soft and a bit oversized, still faintly scented of warm laundry. Baggy grey sweatpants followed, comfort over fashion today. His Birkenstocks were slipped on last, worn with thick, mismatched socks. It was a look, sure. But no one was left to care.

His eyes lingered on his reflection, hands sliding down over the hem of the sweater absently. He tugged it down, then adjusted the waistband of his sweatpants slightly, fingers brushing against the elastic band peeking out beneath, black, minimal, and branded with that familiar white-lettered “Calvin Klein.”

Draco’s boxers.

He paused, staring. He hadn’t meant to keep them. Honestly, he thought Draco might’ve taken them back during one of their more sarcastic exchanges. But there they were, still hidden in his drawer like a secret he refused to name.

Reuben exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, and turned away from the mirror.

He grabbed his scarf from the chair and wrapped it loosely around his neck, checking the small enchanted parchment Beckie had given him for Hogsmeade screenings. It lit up faintly with curling gold letters: “The Polar Express – 6PM sharp, Three Broomsticks side hall.”

He smiled, a little, despite himself. She’d written “don’t be late, or I’ll hex your knees.” beneath it before she left.

Stuffing the paper into his pocket, Reuben made his way out of the dormitory and down the empty spiral staircase, the sound of his Birkenstocks quiet on the stone. The corridors were empty but still glittering with floating garlands and little golden lights. Hogwarts had gone all out for Christmas, even if most of the students weren’t around to see it.

The Entrance Hall was cold, even with the wreaths and the giant tree twinkling by the main doors. Reuben tugged his sweater sleeves down further as he reached for the door, only to freeze mid-step.

There, slumped against the stone archway just outside the castle, was a figure, half curled in on himself, snow clinging to his white shirt, hair wet and tousled, skin pale as the frost beneath him.

Draco.

Reuben’s heart jolted in his chest.

He pushed the door open faster, stepping out into the cold as the wind hit him full in the face. "Draco?"

There was no answer, just a soft groan and the faint smell of something sweet and sharp, firewhisky.

“Bloody hell.”

Reuben crouched down beside Draco, feeling the weight of his own breath in the freezing air. The wind whipped through his hair, tugging at the collar of his sweater, but he couldn’t leave Draco out here like this. His heart was pounding, maybe a bit more from the sight of Draco in such a state than anything else.

“Draco,” Reuben repeated, gently this time, his fingers brushing against Draco’s cold, pale cheek.

The response was nothing more than a half-hearted groan, and Draco's eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, unfocused, blinking against the snowflakes that had started to settle on his lashes.

“Bloody hell,” Reuben muttered under his breath again, trying to decide whether to be annoyed or... concerned.

"Rue?" Draco slurred, voice thick, barely a whisper. He blinked a few times, as if trying to remember where he was. His hand instinctively reached for the ground for balance, but he couldn’t quite seem to steady himself. "What...?"

"You're freezing," Reuben replied quickly, his mind working to figure out how best to get him inside. He glanced around at the empty grounds, the cold night stretching out in every direction. There was no one around, not even a stray house-elf. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

Draco blinked again, then tried to sit up, wobbling for a moment before collapsing back against the stone. He looked ridiculous, his white shirt half unbuttoned, his platinum hair matted with snow. His breath came out in shaky bursts, and it took everything in Reuben not to feel some kind of protective pull toward him.

"I’m not, " Draco started, but he stopped midway through the sentence, his words muddled and lost.

"Yeah, you're clearly not alright," Reuben cut in, standing up and tugging Draco by the arm with more force than necessary, dragging him slightly upright. Draco didn’t resist, his body limp and heavy. "C'mon, let's get you inside."

Reuben half-lifted Draco into a more stable position and steadied him as best as he could. He didn’t quite know why he was doing it, why he was letting himself care so much, why he wasn’t just walking away and leaving Draco to figure this mess out on his own. Maybe it was the Christmas Eve quiet, the eerie solitude of the castle tonight, or maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever it was, he didn’t have time to think about it.

"Can you stand?" Reuben asked, though he knew the answer already.

Draco shook his head weakly, letting Reuben support his weight as they began walking toward the castle’s entrance. The cold air nipped at their faces, but Draco barely seemed to notice. He leaned against Reuben more heavily as they walked.

"I don’t even, " Draco started again, his voice rough and disjointed. "I’m just... I needed some air."

"Right," Reuben said, not really buying it. But he didn’t push. Not yet. "Air, sure."

They reached the entrance, and Reuben held the door open with his shoulder, guiding Draco inside, where the warmth of the castle immediately hit them. It felt like a physical relief, the heat wrapping around them like a blanket. Reuben could feel the tension in his shoulders start to fade just a little.

Reuben’s grip tightened on Draco’s arm as they crossed the threshold of the castle, the warmth of the entrance hall a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside. The door swung shut behind them with a heavy thud, muffling the wind’s shriek and cutting them off from the bitter night air. Draco’s weight shifted against Reuben, and though he was still practically dead weight, there was a surprising strength in him. The kind of strength that made Reuben’s pulse jump in a way he didn’t fully understand.

Draco’s body pressed into Reuben as they walked, his broad chest and muscular frame solid against him. Reuben could feel the defined muscles under Draco’s thin shirt, the contours of his abs and pecs pressing into him, as if every inch of him was real, alive and brimming with energy, despite the drunken stupor. Reuben couldn’t help but notice it, that solid, powerful presence that seemed so out of place in this moment, so vulnerable.

“What the hell happened to you?” Reuben muttered under his breath, not expecting an answer.

They made their way through the cold, dim corridors of the castle, the shadows growing deeper as they moved away from the entrance. Reuben glanced at Draco occasionally, who was still sluggishly trying to get himself upright but barely managing. His platinum hair, usually so neatly styled, now hung in loose strands around his forehead, damp and tousled from the snow.

Draco’s face, flushed from the cold and alcohol, was still strikingly sharp. There was an intensity to him, even in his current state. Reuben hated to admit it, but he couldn’t help but feel the weight of Draco’s gaze, even if it was unfocused and dazed.

As they neared the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Reuben hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to be seen carrying Draco like this, not that he had much of a choice.

Reuben stopped in his tracks, tugging Draco a little closer to him before turning and shouting the password down the hall, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

“Serpensortia!”

The stone archway to the common room rumbled, the passage opening up before them with a deep groan.

Reuben moved swiftly, pulling Draco inside with him, away from the hallway and into the warmth of the Slytherin common room. The fire crackled softly in the corner, casting flickering shadows across the space.

Draco leaned against Reuben heavily, still trying to right himself. His head lolled to the side, eyes blurry as he tried to focus on Reuben.

Reuben guided Draco toward the far end of the common room, where the entrance to the boys’ dormitories lay tucked behind a shadowed arch. They slipped past the emerald curtains and into the dim corridor beyond, the flickering torches casting shifting patterns on the stone floor. Reuben’s arm stayed firm around Draco’s waist as they climbed the steps to the sixth-year dorm.

Inside, the room was quiet, the soft rustle of the fire in the grate the only sound. The other beds were empty, their green hangings drawn tight. Reuben moved quickly, steadying Draco as he led him toward his own bed. The duvet was half-turned down from that morning, a book still open on the pillow, but Reuben didn’t care.

He turned Draco gently and eased him down onto the mattress. Draco sank into it without resistance, his body folding in on itself, one arm flopping limply across his chest. His legs dangled off the edge for a moment until Reuben leaned in and swung them up, arranging him with surprising care. The mattress dipped beneath the weight of him, and for a moment, Reuben just stood there, looking down.

Draco’s hair was still damp, clinging to his temples. His lips were parted, breath shallow but steady now, and his lashes cast faint shadows over the tops of his cheeks. There was something almost boyish about him in that moment, unguarded and tired, like he’d finally let go of whatever fight he’d been holding onto all night.

Reuben reached for the blanket and pulled it over him, tucking it in roughly, then softer. His fingers brushed Draco’s shoulder, and he felt the faint tremor of breath beneath his palm. He swallowed hard.

“There,” he muttered. “Try not to throw up on my pillow.”

Reuben moved quietly through the dim dormitory, stepping out from the warmth of his bed’s canopy and heading toward the tiny Slytherin kitchenette tucked beside the fireplace. The space was barely bigger than a broom cupboard, just a kettle, a few shelves, and a chipped set of emerald-green mugs, but it would do. He rummaged through the cluttered cabinets, pulling down some ginger tea and a jar of honey. Something warm. Something that might settle Draco’s stomach, or at least make him feel less like death in the morning.

He lit the kettle with a flick of his wand, the blue flames whispering to life beneath it, casting a soft glow over the dark stone walls. As he stirred the honey in, the quiet crackle of the fire behind him was the only sound.

Then,

A voice. Soft. Muffled.

“Reuben…”

Reuben stiffened, his back still to the bed.

A pause. Then, barely audible:

“How’d you know?”

Reuben turned his head slightly, brow furrowing. “Know what?”

There was a rustle of blankets. The sound of a breath being dragged in.

“That you were… you know. Gay.”

The question hung in the air, slurred, fragile, oddly sober despite everything. Reuben didn’t move. The kettle hissed quietly behind him, the honey spoon still in his hand.

Reuben didn’t turn around right away. He was pouring water into a chipped ceramic mug, his hands pretending to be steadier than they were. “I, I guess I just never really… I mean, it wasn’t like I knew, knew, you know? I just… didn’t like girls. At all. Not in that way. And boys, well,  I guess it was just… different.” He paused, swallowing. “Obvious. Eventually.”

Behind him, he heard the faint creak of the bed as Draco shifted, followed by a low grunt, half tired, half amused, and then a small, “Hm?”

It wasn’t sharp. If anything, it had the edge of a smirk in it, as if Draco wasn’t quite sure whether Reuben had mumbled or just tripped over a confession.

Reuben stared down at the mug in his hand like it held better answers than he did.

He sighed quietly and turned around, ready to repeat himself, slower this time, maybe clearer, maybe even a little braver. But when he looked over, the sight stopped him mid-breath.

Draco had slumped sideways on the bed, one arm curled beneath his head, the other loosely draped across Reuben’s pillow. His hair was still a mess, his shirt rumpled, but his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. He was out cold.

Reuben blinked. “Seriously?”

He stood there for a second with the mug still in hand, lips parted like the rest of the sentence was still trying to form, now entirely pointless.

Then, quieter this time, to no one but himself:

“I just… didn’t like girls.”

He crossed the room and set the mug down on the nightstand beside Draco’s sleeping form. The heat of the fire flickered against the pale gold of Draco’s hair, and for a strange second, Reuben didn’t feel cold at all.

Reuben stood there a moment longer, caught in the strange quiet between them. Then he moved carefully, setting the mug aside and lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

Draco didn’t stir. His breathing was deep now, steady, his brow finally smooth. Reuben hesitated, then reached out and gently pulled the blanket higher over him, tucking it just beneath his chin.

His fingers lingered.

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, Reuben brushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen over Draco’s face. His touch was light, tentative, like testing the weight of something fragile. He did it once… twice. On the third time, his fingers stilled near Draco’s temple.

Reuben exhaled through his nose, stood, and without another word, padded quietly across the room.

He climbed into Draco’s empty bed. It smelled faintly like bergamot and something sharper underneath, Draco’s cologne, maybe. Reuben settled onto the pillow, then paused, his face buried in the cotton for a second longer than necessary.

He breathed in slowly.

The scent was warm, clean, and distinct. It was stupid how comforting it was, how it wrapped around him like a second blanket. Reuben let his eyes slip shut, the fabric soft against his cheek, the smell of Draco in his lungs. His chest ached, not in a painful way exactly, but in that strange, quiet way that meant he was feeling more than he’d planned to.

He didn’t move again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32

The first thing that stirred him was the light, dim, grey, and already far too high in the sky. The Slytherin dorms never got proper sunlight, but still, the dull glow pressing in through the underwater windows was enough to nudge him out of sleep.

His body ached in a pleasant sort of way, cocooned in warmth that wasn’t entirely his own. The pillow beneath his cheek smelled faintly of something expensive and sharp, bergamot, maybe, and something darker. Draco.

He blinked slowly, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, still hazy with sleep. It took him a second to remember where he was, and why the sheets didn’t smell like his usual bed.

That’s when he noticed it, the delicate clink of ceramic when he shifted. A teacup, perfectly placed on the bedside table, steam still rising from the amber surface. It was still warm.

But the room was otherwise empty. Draco was gone.

The haze of sleep clung to him like fog as he blinked the morning light away, knuckling at his eyes until the shapes of the room settled into clarity. A gentle steam hung in the air, and beneath it, the unmistakable sound of running water drifted in from the bathroom, soft, rhythmic, and steady. For a moment, Reuben just sat there, heart ticking a little faster. Then he stood, padded barefoot across the cool stone floor, and paused by the half-cracked bathroom door. Through the misted glass of the shower stall, he could make out the blurred outline of Draco, tall, solid, water streaking down his back. He didn’t knock. Just leaned in enough to be heard over the hiss of the water and said quietly, “Are you okay?”

There was a pause, just a beat of silence, before the water shut off with a sharp twist of the tap. The hush that followed was heavier somehow, thick with something unspoken. Reuben stepped back as he heard movement inside, the slide of the glass door, the rustle of fabric.

A moment later, Draco emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water still trailing down his chest. His hair was damp and pushed back, revealing the sharp lines of his face, clearer now in the morning light. He looked more himself, less disoriented, but still quiet, watchful.

He stopped just in front of Reuben, brows drawing together slightly. “I’m fine,” he said, voice low and rough from sleep and silence. “Bit of a headache. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He shifted his weight, as if he didn’t quite know what to say next. “Didn’t mean to… pass out on you.”

Draco didn’t move right away. The steam still clung to his skin, catching the morning light and tracing the curves of his chest and shoulders, broad, sculpted, unfairly perfect. Water rolled slowly down the line of his collarbone and disappeared under the towel at his hips. Reuben tried not to look, but his eyes flicked upward too fast, catching Draco’s gaze just as Draco looked down at him.

“Sorry again,” Draco muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His bicep flexed slightly with the motion. “I don’t really… do that. The whole dramatic drunken collapse thing.”

Reuben shrugged a little, shifting his weight awkwardly. “No worries. You, uh… you just kind of scared the shit out of me.”

Draco gave a breath of a laugh, short but genuine. “Yeah. You and me both.”

Reuben hesitated, glancing at the steam curling out of the bathroom behind Draco, the way his damp hair still clung to his temples. The scent of something clean, Draco’s soap, maybe, drifted between them. For a second, Reuben forgot what he wanted to say.

“I, ” He coughed. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Thanks. For dragging me inside. And the tea.”

“It was just there when I woke up. Figured you left it.”

“I did,” Draco said, then looked down, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “Didn’t want to bug you.”

Reuben offered a tight smile, already stepping back toward the hallway. “You didn’t.”

Draco looked up at him then, his expression soft, unguarded, for once. Reuben blinked and tore his gaze away.

“Happy Christmas,” he said quickly, his voice a little too light as he turned around.

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 33

The Great Hall was eerily quiet, the usual hustle of students replaced by a peaceful emptiness. The long tables, usually crowded with chatter and laughter, stood still and vacant, save for a few students who had stayed behind for the holiday. The soft clinking of silverware and the occasional flutter of owl wings were the only sounds breaking the silence.

Reuben sat at the Slytherin table, a mug of steaming hot chocolate cradled in his hands. His outfit was effortlessly comfortable, a pair of well-worn grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a loose, oversized green sweatshirt, the edges frayed slightly from frequent wear. His feet were clad in thick, mismatched socks, a random combination of patterns, and his Birkenstocks, not caring for the winter chill creeping in from the open windows. His hair was still tousled from sleep, the slight messiness only adding to the air of nonchalance he exuded. It was the kind of outfit that made it easy to disappear into the space around him, sitting back in the shadows, tucked away from the bustling world outside.

The warmth from his mug seeped into his hands as he took a sip, his eyes drifting lazily over the empty hall. The Christmas decorations were still up, garlands of holly draped over the high beams, mistletoe hanging in the doorways. The usual cheerfulness of the season seemed muted now, as if the magic of Christmas had been stored away with the last of the students, leaving only the cold remnants behind.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips, his thoughts drifting as he sipped again, fingers tapping against the side of the mug. The stillness felt oddly comforting, yet it left a hollow space inside him, one that hadn't quite been filled by the night before, by the things left unsaid.

The morning in the Great Hall continued with a few students slowly trickling in to have breakfast, most of them looking far more awake than Reuben, whose mind was still wrapped in the hazy fog of sleep and lingering thoughts from the night before. At the Gryffindor table, Harry and Ron sat together, exchanging gifts wrapped in brightly colored paper. Ginny joined them shortly after, laughing at some joke Ron had cracked, and before long, they were all deep into their holiday festivities.

Nearby, Draco’s absence was noticeable. The Slytherin table remained largely deserted, save for a couple of the house’s quieter students who hadn’t left for the break. The usual cheerfulness and competitive spirit that surrounded the House of Slytherin was noticeably missing, replaced by a strange stillness that seemed to affect the entire Hall.

Reuben’s attention flickered from his mug of hot chocolate to the various students unwrapping gifts, the joy of the holiday season unfolding all around him, yet somehow he remained untouched by it. He was on the outside looking in, his gifts yet to arrive, his thoughts scattered.

Then, as if the universe was acknowledging his quiet dissatisfaction, a soft hoot came from above, and an owl landed gracefully in front of him on the edge of the table. A small, neatly folded card was attached to its leg, and Reuben’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the handwriting immediately, Beckie.

The owl stretched its wings before flying off, leaving Reuben staring down at the card. With a curious twist of his wrist, he untied the card and opened it carefully, wondering if Beckie had left any specific instructions or messages.

Inside, in her familiar looping handwriting, the note read:

Reuben, I know you’re probably holed up in that Slytherin dungeon somewhere, missing out on all the fun. Just wanted to send a little cheer your way. I’m spending my Christmas with family here in Africa, but don’t think I forgot about you. Here’s a little something to remind you that I’m still thinking of you. We’ll talk when I’m back. Don’t go getting into too much trouble.

The card was accompanied by a small, wrapped gift, a thin, rectangular shape, clearly something light but thoughtful. Reuben smiled faintly at the note, warmed by the thought of Beckie’s kindness, despite the distance between them. As he tucked the card into his pocket and gently unwrapped the present, a small, sleek leather journal revealed itself. Its soft, embossed cover had a silver snake coiling around a wand, Slytherin themed but elegantly designed, just enough to make it special without being overt.

He traced his fingers over the cover for a moment, wondering if Beckie had known how much he appreciated a good journal, something to write in when thoughts were too jumbled to say aloud. With a soft sigh, he pushed it aside for a moment, feeling the familiar tug of loneliness and the ache of unanswered questions. His eyes wandered back to the rest of the students, the scene around him continuing in a warm, festive buzz, and yet it felt like he was still apart from it all, even in the midst of the holiday cheer.

The castle had fallen into one of those strange holiday silences, every corridor slightly too quiet, every portrait either fast asleep or humming to themselves in low, contented tones. Reuben had wandered aimlessly for a while after breakfast, journal still tucked under his arm, his tea growing cold in the travel mug he’d enchanted to follow him like a loyal duckling.

Eventually, his feet took him to a narrow corridor high up in the Charms wing, past a crooked bust of Hengist of Woodcroft and a tapestry of dueling badgers. Just beyond that, almost hidden behind a crooked section of wall, was a narrow arched door that led out to a slim balcony. It jutted from the side of the castle like a secret ledge. A place for birds, loners, and overlooked students.

The wind up here was sharp, slicing over the edge of the stone like a blade. But the view was clear, uncluttered, just the glint of the frozen lake in the distance and the bleached blue of the winter sky.

Reuben lit a cigarette with the tip of his wand, drawing in the warmth as he leaned back against the railing. His robe was open over a thick jumper, scarf loose around his neck, hair slightly ruffled from the wind.

The smoke curled up around him as he reached for his wand again, holding it loosely between his fingers, and murmured under his breath, “Expecto Patronum.”

A faint shimmer danced at the tip of his wand, like the light behind a veil, flickering just past the surface. It didn’t form anything solid. It never did. Not yet. He let the wisp of magic dissolve without frustration.

He tried again.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Another swirl of silvery mist, curling into the air like breath on glass. It drifted away with the wind, fading before it could ever shape itself into something whole.

Reuben lowered his wand. He didn’t look disappointed. Just… thoughtful. He drew from the cigarette again, exhaled. His eyes followed the swirl of smoke and magic as it dissipated into the blue morning air.

It wasn’t about the spell, really.

It was just something to do.

Smoke curled lazily from the tip of Reuben’s cigarette as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the cold stone of the balcony railing. Below, the grounds stretched pale and endless, dusted with snow, the lake frozen at the edges and glinting in the pale morning light. The wind tugged lightly at his sweatshirt, carrying the crisp scent of pine and winter through the haze of smoke.

“You shouldn’t smoke those cheap things,” came a voice from behind, low, familiar, and annoyingly well-timed.

Reuben didn’t flinch. “Didn’t realise you were a connoisseur,” he said, voice dry, eyes still fixed on the snowy expanse below.

Draco stepped up beside him without a word. He reached out, plucked the cigarette from Reuben’s lips with two fingers, and tossed it over the railing. It spun once in the air, trailing a final whisper of smoke before vanishing into the distant white of the lawn far below.

Then, as if he hadn’t just committed a small act of war, Draco extended a sleek, silver cigarette case toward him. “If you’re going to ruin your lungs, at least do it properly.”

Reuben gave a soft huff of amusement before taking one, and Draco lit his own first, drawing in with a soft inhale. He leaned in slightly to light Reuben’s, their faces close for a flicker of a moment, close enough that Reuben could smell the lingering notes of Draco’s cologne, clean and sharp beneath the tobacco. It was brief, but intense, like the air between them held a charge.

Draco pulled away, his eyes lingering on Reuben for just a moment longer than necessary. He tucked the cigarette case back into his pocket, then shifted slightly, revealing the gift wrapped under his arm.

“I thought you might like something,” Draco said, his voice softer than usual as he handed over the package.

Reuben took the small package from Draco’s hands, noting the poorly wrapped corners and the too-thin ribbon, which had been hastily tied. Typical Draco. Still, he couldn't help the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The present was lopsided and barely wrapped, but there was something about it that felt genuine.

“You didn’t have to,” Reuben muttered, his voice quieter than he’d intended. It wasn’t that he was upset or angry; he just wasn’t in the mood for conversation. The air was crisp and sharp, the silence between them comfortable enough, even though his thoughts swirled like smoke in his head.

Draco leaned against the railing, his eyes flicking to the ground below as if avoiding Reuben’s gaze. “It’s for what happened yesterday,” he said, his voice low, almost as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to say it. “Consider it… a thank you. For not making it worse.”

Reuben stared at the present in his hands, the worn edges of the paper revealing the shape of something small but solid inside. The leather was soft but thick, clearly durable. He pulled at the edges carefully, revealing a small, intricately crafted leather bag, just big enough to hold a few essential items. The bag looked simple at first glance, but there was a subtle glint to it, something that made him pause. He noticed the clasp, delicately engraved with a pattern that didn’t seem entirely normal.

“What is it?” Reuben asked, his curiosity piqued despite his earlier quiet.

Draco gave him a slightly awkward look before responding, his gaze shifting to the landscape again. “It’s got an Undetectable Extension Charm on it,” Draco said, the words almost slipping out carelessly. “You can carry more than it looks like, and it’s... practical. In case you need to stash something. Or a few things. No one’ll know.”

Reuben’s brow furrowed as he turned the small bag over in his hands. It was surprisingly well-made, something that seemed subtle yet useful. He couldn’t think of a time when something like this wouldn’t come in handy, though he wasn’t sure he entirely understood why Draco would think of it.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, looking up at Draco.

Draco nodded, glancing back at him, then turned his eyes toward the horizon, his posture still slightly tense, though there was a warmth to his expression, a softness Reuben wasn’t used to seeing. He couldn’t help but notice the difference in Draco’s demeanor from the night before, still guarded, but something was shifting in him, something subtle.

“Merry Christmas,” Draco said softly, almost as an afterthought, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the moment himself.

Reuben nodded, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. He couldn’t explain why, but the simplicity of the gesture, the awkwardness in Draco’s words, made the present feel even more meaningful than it probably was.

“Merry Christmas,” Reuben echoed, his voice quieter now, more sincere.

They stood there for a moment longer, the silence settling between them, the wind tugging at the hem of their clothes as the pale winter light began to warm the edges of the landscape. Reuben turned the bag over in his hands once more, grateful for the unexpected gift, but more so for the quiet companionship of the moment.

Draco took another slow drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke swirl upwards before flicking the ash over the balcony railing. His eyes lingered on the empty grounds below, but his voice broke the stillness between them.

“You’ve been sitting alone at dinner,” Draco remarked casually, his tone light but his eyes scanning Reuben’s face as if trying to gauge his reaction. There was a subtle shift in his expression, something like a flicker of concern before he masked it with that ever-present indifference. “It’s a bit pathetic, don’t you think?”

Reuben looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “What’s it to you?”

Draco shrugged, exhaling the smoke with a quiet puff. “Nothing. Just don’t make a habit of it. It’s bad for your reputation.” His gaze flicked to the side, then back to Reuben. “Blase and Pansy have already been talking about it. They’ll have you sitting with them, but I’m making it clear. You’re joining us tonight. The Slytherin table isn’t meant for lonely souls.”

There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause before Draco continued, his voice taking on a touch of warmth, though it was buried under layers of blasé sarcasm. “It’s Christmas, after all. Might as well make the most of it.”

Reuben let out a soft chuckle, his lips curving into a small, bemused smile. “I suppose I can’t refuse now, can I?”

Draco smirked, a flicker of amusement passing over his face, and then tossed his cigarette over the edge of the balcony. “Not really. I’d like to see you try.”

The wind brushed through the castle’s high towers, the chill of the morning air still lingering, but somehow, with Draco’s presence beside him, it felt a bit warmer. He could already picture the usual dynamic at the Slytherin table, the sharp banter with Pansy, Blase’s dry humor, and Draco’s constant, sometimes irritating, but strangely comforting, proximity. It wouldn’t be so bad.

“Alright, I’ll join you,” Reuben said, pocketing the leather bag, the present from Draco still lingering in his thoughts. “But don’t expect me to act all chipper.”

Draco gave him an exaggerated look, as if he didn’t care in the slightest. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, the awkward but strangely familiar moment passed. As they turned and headed back into the castle, the echoes of their footsteps mingling with the distant sound of the holiday stillness, it was clear: it was the beginning of something else, whether Reuben was ready for it or not.

Draco is smiling hiding the invitation of the christmas dinner for pure bloods in the pocket of his jacket.

Chapter Text

Chapter 34

The crisp air of the Scottish Highlands cut through the evening as the four students stepped off the enchanted carriage, its wheels leaving no trace on the snow-covered ground. Hogwarts, as ever, was protected by its enchantments, but tonight, the magic of the castle was nowhere to be seen, distant and unseen, as though it had been left behind. Only the powerful, ancient wards that cloaked the school allowed their journey to be unhindered.

The path ahead led them to a grand maniserie, a magical estate that had long been the gathering point for wizarding high society. Its round veranda, gleaming in the pale moonlight, resembled the grand arches of the Grand Palais in Paris, only more fantastical, covered with layers of shimmering, enchanted glass that reflected the glow of the heavens above and the grand estates of the nearby hills. The magical stone structure stood imposing, magnificent, and proud against the mountainous backdrop. Reuben stood still, taking in the sight, as though he’d never seen anything like it before.

The others moved around him, eager to enter the opulent space. Draco, however, had noticed the hesitation in Reuben's eyes as he caught a glimpse of the massive estate.

“Don’t look so impressed,” Draco muttered, with his trademark smirk, his voice edged with amusement. "You won't have time to gawk once you're in there. But you look good.”

Reuben couldn’t help but notice the sly edge of Draco’s praise, and for a fleeting second, he felt an unexpected swell of warmth in his chest. The fit of his tuxedo, though slightly too large in some places and fitted elsewhere, had been adjusted with a quiet flick of Draco's wand. It was the only way Reuben had been able to attend at all, the awkwardness of not owning a formal suit had been sorted with Draco’s silent offer. The suit was black, a perfect classic tuxedo with sleek tailoring, and it had been made to fit Reuben's frame in a way that made him feel, just for a moment, like he belonged.

The click of the door opening pulled him from his thoughts, and the cold breeze seemed to cut through him as he followed Draco and the others into the entrance. The high society event was underway, with a gathering of well-dressed witches and wizards standing within the great hall, each conversation floating above the murmuring sounds of the room. The moment they entered, the atmosphere seemed to shift, the air felt warmer, the laughter louder, and the magic tingled on the edges of Reuben’s skin.

Draco’s hand rested lightly on his back as they passed, guiding him through the crowd. The black tuxedo, now paired with sleek red-bottom shoes, Draco’s own, a rare gift for the night, gleamed under the chandelier’s warm light.

Reuben slowed to a halt, blinking at the sheer decadence.

“This,” he said, turning to Draco, “is very much not the Great Hall.”

Draco arched an eyebrow, his smug expression practically luminous under the chandelier’s light. He looked, Reuben thought, like a cat who had not only got the cream but had also sold it at a profit and commissioned a painting of himself drinking it in Versailles.

“Unless the Slytherin table has grown a chandelier and a dress code, I’m calling false advertising. I was emotionally prepared for pudding and house-elf eye contact, not—whatever this is.”

Draco’s smile widened, and he leaned in just slightly. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, “there’ll still be pudding. It just won’t be thrown at you by a Weasley.”

They made their way to a quiet corner, where Blaise and Pansy were already standing, their quiet chatter barely noticed in the luxurious surroundings.

As they arrived, Draco let out a quiet laugh as he gestured toward the empty glasses on the table. “Not your scene, is it?” he teased, his voice carrying a hidden meaning Reuben couldn’t quite place.

Before Reuben could respond, the conversation turned toward the food, as if both of them had already agreed that their words had been filled with more than just casual observation. The dishes brought out were extravagant, the platters more beautiful than any Reuben had ever seen, an odd blend of elegance and excess.

As the four of them settled at the table, Draco leaned in slightly, gesturing subtly with his chin toward the different groups scattered across the room. Reuben remained silent, his eyes flitting from one elegantly dressed guest to another, taking in the grandeur of the room and the haughty, aloof expressions that seemed to accompany the guests’ laughter. This was a different world, one he was still trying to make sense of, and he couldn’t help but feel out of place in it. Yet, at the same time, there was something about the mystery of it all that drew him in.

Draco, clearly in his element, pointed out a few of the figures with practiced ease.

“That’s Lady Morwenna Blackthorne,” he said, nodding toward a tall, sharp-featured witch with a regal air. “She’s a powerful voice in the Department of Mysteries. Don’t make eye contact unless you want her to ask about your family history.”

Reuben’s gaze flickered over to Lady Blackthorne, who appeared completely absorbed in a conversation with a couple of other well-dressed witches. He wasn’t sure if Draco’s words were meant as a joke or a warning, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that the aristocracy had its own unspoken rules, and he was very much an outsider.

Draco’s voice continued in its usual tone, cool but with an undercurrent of amusement. “And that’s Jasper Nott,” he said, nodding toward a tall, imposing man with short-cropped black hair. “He’s a pureblood snob who thinks his family’s lineage makes him untouchable. Everyone kisses his arse, but he’s as boring as watching a parchment dry.”

Reuben gave a single nod, looking briefly at Nott before shifting his focus back to the surroundings. There were so many people here, all with different faces, their eyes all sparkling with unspoken secrets. For a moment, he felt a bit dizzy, as though he were walking in the middle of a dream he couldn’t fully comprehend.

“And, of course,” Draco continued, his voice softening ever so slightly, “there’s my father, Lucius. You can tell he’s here when the crowd parts like the bloody Red Sea.”

Reuben's gaze flicked involuntarily to where Draco’s father stood, surrounded by a group of lesser-known wizards who were all too eager to fawn over him. Lucius Malfoy was as immaculate as ever, his silver hair gleaming under the chandelier’s light, his sharp features framed by the crisp lines of his tuxedo. He exuded authority, and yet there was something about him that felt colder than the winter air outside.

Reuben’s quiet observation didn’t go unnoticed by Draco. He glanced at him sideways, his lips curling into an almost imperceptible smile.

“Don’t worry,” Draco added, voice slightly more amused now. “He’s not the one to be concerned about tonight. Stay away from the other purists in the room, though. They’ll sniff out your discomfort like hounds.”

Reuben offered a noncommittal grunt, still lost in the swirl of faces and conversations. He didn’t speak much, preferring to observe. His silence wasn’t born out of discomfort so much as a quiet need to understand the complexity of this world he was now a part of. The way the guests moved, how they spoke, how everything seemed so carefully choreographed. It was all a performance, and for once, Reuben didn’t feel the need to play a part. He simply wanted to watch.

As the dishes arrived, opulent, complex, and designed to be savored slowly, Reuben found himself more interested in the play of light across the grand hall and the soft chatter of the crowd. The food was a blur, more spectacle than sustenance, and he barely touched it.

Blaise leaned over, noticing his lack of interest in the meal, and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like it?” he asked with a smirk. “I’d say it’s the best meal you’ll get outside of the Hogwarts kitchens, but if you’re not into this whole fancy affair…”

Reuben offered a small, dismissive wave. “It’s fine,” he replied, his tone neutral. “I’m just not used to this much... everything.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot to take in.” Blaise’s tone softened, a touch of understanding in his eyes. “But don’t let it get to you. You’ll get used to it.”

Reuben’s eyes drifted back to Draco, who was now engaged in a quiet conversation with Pansy. He noticed how comfortable Draco seemed here, how effortlessly he moved through the crowd. There was no tension in his body, no self-doubt. Draco belonged in this world, and Reuben was just a guest, a participant in a game he didn’t know how to play.

Still, he stayed quiet, watching Draco. Maybe one day, he’d understand how to move through this world with the same ease.

After all, wasn’t that what Draco wanted?

As the conversation around them flowed in the background, Reuben found himself drawn into a quieter discussion with Blaise, who had settled back in his seat, swirling his glass of champagne with a bored flick of his wrist.

“Your mother must be thrilled you’re here,” Reuben remarked quietly, his voice almost drowned by the clatter of dishes and soft music in the background. He couldn’t help but notice how the other boy seemed at ease, as though he’d been raised in this high society world his entire life.

Blaise shot him a sideways glance, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, thrilled.” He took a sip of his drink, his expression briefly unreadable before his eyes softened. “She’s used to me being wherever the money is, I suppose. She’s… not one to worry about the little things. To be honest, she’s a bit of a socialite, always hopping from one rich man to the next. Married seven times now.”

Reuben blinked in surprise, glancing up from his half-empty plate. “Seven times?” He repeated, incredulity in his voice. “How does that even work?”

Blaise let out a dry chuckle, the sound oddly detached. “Very well, actually. She’s probably one of the wealthiest witches in the world. No one really questions it. She has a knack for making the right connections, marrying into the right families. Each marriage was… strategic, I suppose.” He paused, taking another sip, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced out across the room, his gaze flickering over the figures of his mother’s peers.

Reuben’s curiosity piqued, he leaned slightly forward. “What’s she like, then? Your mother, I mean.”

Blaise shrugged nonchalantly, his posture still relaxed, but there was a glint of something cold in his eyes. “She’s... a force, that’s for sure. Cold, calculating. But charming, when she wants to be. She’s everything you’d expect from someone who’s been in the upper echelons of society for so long. She’s the type of person who knows how to get what she wants without breaking a sweat.” He let out a sigh, his voice softening slightly. “Sometimes, I think she cares more about the status than anything else. But she’s good at what she does.”

Reuben nodded slowly, his mind whirring. He could understand that kind of drive, even if it seemed foreign to him. There were people in his life, his own parents, for instance, who had always been focused on their own success, their own ambitions. But this was a different level. This was something beyond what he’d ever experienced.

“I suppose she’s made it work for her, though,” Reuben murmured, looking down at his hands. “Must be nice, to be able to have that much control over your life.”

Blaise let out a short, bitter laugh. “Control?” he echoed. “Maybe. But it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s just one big game, Reuben. And we’re all players. You have to be sharp, you have to know when to move and when to stay still. It’s exhausting. And even then, there’s always someone higher, someone with more power, more money.” He glanced over at the other end of the room, where Lady Morwenna Blackthorne stood talking animatedly to an elderly wizard with a long, silvery beard. “Take Lady Blackthorne, for instance. She’s part of the reason my mother married so many times, she’s at the top of the food chain, so to speak. Her alliances mean more than anything.”

Reuben absorbed the words in silence, the weight of the world of high society slowly sinking in. It wasn’t just about power. It wasn’t just about money. It was a web of relationships, calculated moves, and status. And in the middle of it all, he wasn’t sure where he fit.

“You don’t sound like you’re a fan of all this,” Reuben said quietly, trying to piece together what Blaise was hinting at. “All the wealth, the power plays…”

Blaise leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable now. “It’s not about being a fan. It’s about survival. We’re born into this, and whether we like it or not, we have to play by the rules. But I don’t know if it’s worth it. Sometimes I wonder if my mother ever really sees me at all. But she doesn’t need to. As long as I fit the mold, as long as I do what’s expected…” He trailed off, his gaze lingering on the distant group of socialites, as though he could see something in the air that Reuben couldn’t.

Reuben didn’t know what to say to that. Blaise’s words lingered in his mind, but before he could form a response, Draco’s voice rang out, sharp and clear, cutting through the quiet moment between them.

“Blaise, stop scaring Reuben with all this existential nonsense. Enjoy the night, for Merlin’s sake.”

Blaise’s lips twitched at the interruption, but he only nodded, glancing back at Reuben. “Just remember, it’s all just a game.”

Reuben didn’t know if that was meant to reassure him or leave him more unsettled, but he didn’t say anything else. He just sat back, allowing the conversation to shift again, the weight of Blaise’s words settling like a fog in the back of his mind.

Draco leaned in, his voice low against the hum of the room. “All seven of Blaise’s mother’s husbands died mysteriously, by the way,” he murmured near Reuben’s ear, lips curling faintly. “Just in case you were wondering.”

Then, just as smoothly, he leaned back and lifted his fork again, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 35

The dinner ended in a gentle flurry of clinking glasses and quiet conversation, the soft hum of the live orchestra swelling as servers began clearing plates and guests drifted toward the dance floor. Candles floated higher above the grand veranda, casting flickers of gold onto glass walls now tinted lilac with nightfall. The entire space seemed to breathe with magic, the glass ceiling stretching like a jeweled dome above them, reflecting the stars outside and the chandeliers within.

Pansy stood up first, smoothing her black satin gown with a practiced grace. “I'm not sitting through a Strauss waltz without a partner,” she declared lightly, casting a pointed look at a tall, silver-haired boy across the room before striding off in his direction.

Moments later, Blaise followed with a smile that was all mischief. “Don't wait up,” he said, disappearing into the shifting crowd with a girl whose diamonds flashed with every turn of her head.

Reuben stayed where he was, half-sinking into the plush velvet of his chair, the buzz of the soirée washing over him like distant tide. He watched the crowd without speaking, half-lost in the soft, swelling notes of the orchestra.

Then, soft footsteps, a whiff of violet perfume, and a voice both crackled and precise.

“Draco Malfoy,” crooned an elderly witch as she approached, her cane tapping against the floor in time with her heavily embroidered gown. She wore silver rings stacked up each finger, and her eyebrows were arched like calligraphy. “You’ve grown even more like your father. But with better posture.”

Draco rose at once, offering a rare, polished smile. “Countess Molnár,” he said, bowing slightly, “you honour us.”

Reuben straightened a bit, watching with quiet curiosity as Draco gestured toward him. “May I introduce Reuben Audrey? A friend of mine. Reuben, this is Countess Éva Molnár, Hungarian lineage, terrifying bridge partner.”

The countess gave Reuben a cool once-over, then smiled, sharp and knowing. “Audrey? That’s a name with thorns on it,” she murmured, clearly pleased. “Good cheekbones. Tragic eyes. Are you brooding or just shy?”

Reuben opened his mouth to answer, but Draco cut in smoothly.

“He’s mysterious,” he said. “And far too modest.”

The countess chuckled, her bracelets clinking like windchimes. “Then I’m stealing you for a dance, darling,” she said, touching Draco’s elbow. “And don’t say no, I taught your mother the three-step at your parents’ engagement ball.”

Draco cast a last glance at Reuben, half-apology, half-dare, before letting the countess lead him onto the floor, the two of them quickly absorbed into the whirling sea of gowns and tails.

Reuben sat alone, watching the ballroom spin with dancing couples, the slow waltz of the orchestra blending with the sound of laughter and chatter. The soft, dim light made it difficult to tell how much time had passed, but Reuben had begun to feel that familiar itch for solitude again, something about the grandiosity of the event, the way it shimmered with opulence, made him want to slip away for a few moments.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the evening; he just couldn’t help but feel like an outsider here, a shadow among the brilliant jewels of the high society. The laughter of Draco and the others rang in his ears, but they seemed so comfortable in their skin, in this world. Reuben didn’t belong to it, he was only here by chance, and for a moment, he needed to be away from it all.

Standing up, making his way through the crowd with minimal attention. The door leading into the lounge was slightly ajar, its soft, dim light spilling out into the grand room. Reuben paused, hearing the deep rumble of men’s voices.

As he walked past, he caught the faintest smell of expensive cigars, the thick, musky scent curling in the air. He glanced inside, his eyes narrowing slightly as he spotted a few gentlemen lounging in plush chairs, each of them puffing on fat cigars.

Among them, unmistakably, was Lucius Malfoy. The patriarch of the Malfoy family sat at the far side of the room, his silver hair glowing under the low, flickering light. He held a cigar in one hand, his other hand poised delicately with a drink, eyes fixed on something far in the distance. He exuded the same cold elegance that Reuben had often seen in Draco but in a way that made Reuben feel small, somehow.

Lucius Malfoy’s gaze flicked briefly to him, a cold, calculating look, before turning back to the conversation at hand. The flick of his fingers to dismiss a servant and the deep, quiet chuckle that followed as he leaned in to speak to the men around him made Reuben feel like an intruder. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Reuben quickly pulled his gaze away, uncomfortable, and slipped through the door to the bathroom down the hall.

He pushed the door to the bathroom open, grateful for the brief respite from the buzzing chatter of the soirée. The soft click of the door closing behind him felt like the sound of his release from a place that was too bright, too loud. He stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet of the marble-floored bathroom. The warmth from the ballroom still lingered in his chest, but here, the air felt cooler, more neutral, almost welcoming.

He crossed the floor and leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His tuxedo still fit, thanks to Draco, and his hair was perfectly in place, like he was trying too hard to belong. With a small sigh, Reuben splashed cold water on his face, feeling the chill snap him back into the present. The coolness was a relief, sharp enough to clear away the fuzziness from too much glitter and polish. His heart was still racing, but he knew he could stay here as long as he wanted. The ballroom could wait.

The water dripped down his chin as he leaned back against the counter, taking a deep breath. The sound of distant laughter and clinking glasses still echoed through the thick walls, but it felt muted now. For just a few minutes, he could breathe freely.

Reuben had just finished drying his hands when the door creaked open again.

Lucius Malfoy stepped inside, cool, composed, and entirely at ease as though he owned the place. He didn’t acknowledge Reuben with a glance this time. Instead, he walked wordlessly to the line of ornate, gold-trimmed standing urinals along the far wall. With the grace of someone used to being untouchable, he undid the button of his tailored coat and began to relieve himself, perfectly content to speak over the sound.

“Strange place to be alone, isn’t it?” he said casually, voice echoing lightly in the marbled space. “Though I suppose young men need their moments. Bit overwhelming, all the noise and dresses and courtship.”

Reuben said nothing, keeping his eyes on the mirror, pretending to fix a cuff that didn’t need fixing.

Lucius continued, undeterred. “You’ve found yourself a girl, I take it?” He gave a little amused grunt, shaking off before adjusting his coat again. “And yet my son still hasn’t. At his age, that should be a concern. Don’t you think?”

Reuben didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what was more uncomfortable, the question, or the fact that Lucius was speaking so conversationally while buttoning his trousers.

Lucius moved to the sink, washing his hands as though this was the most mundane thing in the world. “How do you know Draco?” he asked at last, voice cool and direct, no longer filled with idle curiosity.

“We’re classmates,” he said simply.

Lucius arched an eyebrow, drying his hands slowly with a white cloth towel. “Classmates,” he repeated, as though testing the weight of the word. “Hogwarts does enjoy throwing all sorts into the same pot, doesn’t it?”

He folded the towel with surgical precision and set it aside. “Still,” he went on, voice smooth as polished stone, “Draco doesn’t usually keep close company with his classmates, especially not ones I haven’t heard of.”

Reuben didn’t flinch. He just shrugged, keeping his tone flat. “Guess that makes me an exception.”

Lucius let out a small, amused sound, something between a chuckle and a scoff. “Hm. Exception,” he echoed, then turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to gesture toward it with the tilt of his head. “Come with me.”

Reuben hesitated, but only for a second. There was no real choice in it, not with Lucius looking at him like that. He followed.

Back in the corridor, the music of the ballroom was muffled behind velvet-lined doors, distant and dreamy. They moved down a quieter wing of the maniserie, past a pair of gilded doors left ajar, the smell of cigar smoke already trailing through the hall.

Lucius pushed them open fully, revealing a gentleman’s lounge bathed in low amber light and paneled in rich, dark oak. The room buzzed with low conversation and laughter, the air thick with the scent of cigars, cognac, and expensive cologne. Men in formal wear sat in deep leather armchairs or stood in quiet clusters, sipping amber drinks and murmuring over politics, bloodlines, and Ministry manoeuvres.

Reuben stepped inside behind Lucius, trying not to look out of place.

A waiter approached with a tray of drinks, but Lucius waved him off. Instead, he motioned to a pair of empty seats near the fire.

“Sit,” he said, not unkindly, but not quite like a request, either.

Reuben sat. The leather groaned beneath him.

Lucius lowered himself into the chair opposite and crossed one leg over the other with fluid ease. His gaze was heavy, unreadable.

“You can learn a lot in rooms like these,” he said quietly, watching the firelight flicker across Reuben’s face. “If you know when to speak, and when not to.”

Reuben just nodded, silent.

Lucius reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a silver case. He opened it with a soft click, selecting a dark cigar before offering the case toward Reuben.

“Smoke?”

Reuben hesitated, but only for a moment. He took one.

Lucius smiled faintly, as though pleased.

“Good,” he said. “You’re not one of those delicate boys.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 36

The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air in the gentleman's lounge, the atmosphere thick with the rich, smoky scent of cigars and fine liquor. The lounge itself was opulent, high-backed velvet chairs, dark wood paneling, and golden accents glinting softly in the ambient light. Lucius Malfoy sat back in his chair, his posture impeccable, a glass of something amber in hand as he chatted idly with the woman on his lap.

Reuben sat slightly apart, awkwardly perched on the edge of a plush armchair. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here. Everything about this space, the people, the casual decadence, felt worlds away from the life he knew. His tuxedo, still feeling foreign on his body, itched at his skin.

The doors to the lounge swung open, and a soft shuffle of footsteps filled the air, followed by a group of women stepping inside, no, more than women, girls, all barely clothed, their gowns shimmering and practically see-through, their bodies bare in places Reuben had never seen a dress leave so exposed. The air thickened immediately with a strange kind of anticipation, as though a new, unsettling chapter of the evening had begun.

The women moved with purpose, each step graceful, but each one filled with the knowledge that they were there for one thing only. Lucius’s sharp gaze flicked over them with an almost predatory interest. With a slow smile, he called out two names, two of the girls closest to the door.

"Isolde, Felicia," he said, his voice smooth and cool, as though he were addressing loyal servants. "Come sit with us."

The two girls, their eyes darting between the men in the room, made their way toward the center of the lounge with practiced ease. One slid into Lucius’s lap without hesitation, while the other, a bit more cautious, perched herself on Reuben's lap. Her body felt so delicate, but her presence, sharp and assertive, was overwhelming.

Reuben tensed, his fingers instinctively gripping the armrest. The girl, completely unaware of his discomfort, settled against him with an air of practiced grace, a smile flickering on her lips.

Lucius barely glanced at Reuben as he adjusted the girl on his lap, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist. "There we go, Audrey. You’ll need to get used to this sort of thing."

Reuben stiffened, unsure of what to do or say. He glanced away from Lucius, the overwhelming wave of discomfort crashing down on him. His chest felt tight, the weight of the room pressing in from all sides.

Lucius leaned back, looking satisfied. His eyes skimmed the room, briefly locking with the other girls standing by the entrance. "Don’t be shy, ladies. Take a seat. Make yourselves comfortable."

The room was already filled with the hum of soft laughter, the rustle of fabric, and the lingering smoke of expensive cigars. The other girls, taking their cue, moved toward the men, each one confident in their position, each one familiar with the game. Reuben, however, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the fine art pieces on the wall, his attention divided.

He felt like an outsider, an observer rather than a participant.

Lucius, however, continued to talk as if nothing were out of place. "These gatherings are a bit different, aren’t they? Much more informal than the usual dinners. Not your typical ballroom affair."

The woman on Reuben's lap, Felicia, shifted again, pulling his attention back to the present. Lucius continued without pause. "But I suppose you’ve never been to something like this before, have you, Audrey?" He tilted his head slightly, almost as if inviting a response.

Reuben swallowed hard but stayed quiet. Lucius seemed to expect it.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, adjusting the girl in his lap with a casual air. He stroked her hair absently, his attention divided between the girl’s delicate form and Reuben, who seemed to be as out of place as one could be in a room like this.

The soft murmur of the lounge, the swirl of conversation and clinking glasses, was a stark contrast to the quiet, intense atmosphere surrounding their conversation. Reuben could feel Lucius’s eyes on him, cold and calculating, as the older man sipped his drink with slow, deliberate movements.

"You know, Audrey," Lucius said, his tone light but with a hint of something far darker behind it. "I’ve wondered, what brings a boy like you to an evening like this? A little far from the usual circles you travel in, aren’t you?"

Reuben shifted uncomfortably, but his gaze remained steady. He knew this wasn’t just small talk. "I suppose I just happened to be invited," he replied carefully, his voice laced with a hint of defiance. "It’s not so strange, is it?"

Lucius’s lips curved into a thin, amused smile, and he tilted his head slightly, his silver eyes glinting with a strange mix of curiosity and something darker. "Oh, it’s not strange at all," he said smoothly, his fingers tracing the curve of the girl's shoulder, idly drawing patterns in the air. "But I do wonder… What about Draco? He hasn’t been quite himself lately, has he?"

Reuben stiffened, his pulse quickening. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Lucius, he kept his gaze trained ahead, pretending to be absorbed by the conversation happening elsewhere in the room.

Lucius’s voice dropped lower, a note of challenge in his tone. "You’re close to him, aren’t you? Been to his home, seen his family’s…business. I’m sure you’ve heard things. Draco has always been a bit too… involved in his own affairs for my liking."

Reuben’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the mention of the Malfoy family’s ‘business.’ He had heard enough rumors, enough whispers in the dark corners of the school to know exactly what Lucius meant. But he couldn’t afford to reveal any hesitation.

He cleared his throat and glanced briefly at Lucius. "Draco’s my classmate. We talk, but that’s about it," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Lucius’s fingers continued their gentle, almost possessive caress across the girl’s back, but his eyes never left Reuben. There was a sharpness there, as though he were measuring every word, every movement.

"Is that so?" Lucius asked, his voice dripping with disbelief. "I suppose I’m just being paranoid. You don’t think he’s... planning anything, do you?" He allowed the question to hang in the air, thick with implications. "He’s got a reputation for being involved in things best left in the shadows."

Reuben swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, his palms damp against the cool glass of his drink. He wanted to say something, anything to divert the conversation, but Lucius’s piercing gaze made it impossible to ignore.

"I don’t know what you mean," Reuben said, his voice quieter now, more guarded.

Lucius chuckled lowly, an almost cruel sound. "You really expect me to believe that? You don’t think I can see the way Draco’s been acting? You don’t think I can feel the tension in the air when he’s around?"

Reuben kept his expression neutral, but inside, he could feel his heartbeat quicken. He had always suspected that Draco was more involved than he let on, but hearing Lucius speak so casually about it, with that much knowledge and certainty, was unnerving.

"Draco’s his own person," Reuben managed, his voice steadier than he felt. "He does his own thing."

Lucius’s smile widened, but it was more of a grin than anything resembling warmth. "Does he now?" He stroked the girl’s hair again, almost absentmindedly. "Tell me, Audrey, have you heard the whispers? About the Death Eaters, about the ranks, the... loyalty? Or is that all just too far removed for you?"

Reuben remained silent, but the words hit him like a cold splash of water. Death Eaters. He had heard enough rumors to know that Draco’s father was deeply involved in that world. But what did it mean for Draco? And what did Lucius want from him? His mind raced with questions, but his lips stayed sealed.

Lucius seemed to enjoy the silence, letting it stretch before he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "No matter what, Audrey, remember this: there’s always a price to pay. A price for power, a price for loyalty... and I wonder what price Draco will be willing to pay when the time comes."

Reuben couldn’t help but feel a chill at the way Lucius phrased it. The older man was clearly playing some sort of game, but Reuben had no idea what the stakes were. He wanted nothing more than to escape the suffocating tension of the lounge, but Lucius’s presence was like a weight on him, pinning him in place.

Lucius, still toying with the girl, glanced up at Reuben one last time, his smile sharp. "You’re more involved than you think, Audrey. I’ll be keeping an eye on you."

Reuben didn’t respond, his jaw tight with a mixture of frustration and confusion. Lucius returned to his conversation with the girls on his lap, as if nothing had happened. But Reuben, now more uneasy than ever, leaned back in his chair, feeling every inch the outsider.

Reuben shifted uneasily in his seat, his eyes flickering nervously to the other occupants of the lounge. Lucius’s hand was still resting possessively on the girl in his lap, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist as if to remind Reuben of just how comfortable he was in his surroundings. The intimacy of the moment, the casual ease with which Lucius maintained control, made Reuben feel even more like an outsider.

He tried to shift his weight, crossing his legs uncomfortably, but the sensation of being so close to the older Malfoy, his presence, his power, was suffocating. The girls on Lucius’s lap giggled, their voices light and disjointed, but to Reuben, their laughter felt out of place in the heavy atmosphere of the lounge.

Lucius, seemingly unaware of Reuben’s discomfort, leaned in closer to one of the girls, murmuring something low in her ear. His silver eyes flicked to Reuben for a brief moment, catching him in the act of shifting uneasily in his seat.

“Not quite at ease, are we?” Lucius said, his voice low and smooth. "This isn’t quite your world, is it, Audrey?”

Reuben forced a tight smile, his fingers curling around the edge of his glass. He wanted to leave, wanted to escape the suffocating tension, but his legs felt heavy, unwilling to move under Lucius's cold gaze.

It was then that the door to the lounge creaked open, and in walked Draco, looking as composed as ever. His eyes scanned the room quickly, and when they landed on Reuben, there was a flicker of recognition. A moment later, his gaze flicked to Lucius, and his posture immediately stiffened. He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation.

Lucius, sensing the shift, didn’t seem startled at all. Instead, he looked up at his son with an almost amused smirk. “Ah, Draco,” Lucius said, his voice a touch too smooth, as if daring his son to react. "We were just having a... conversation.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He took a moment to look around, his eyes lingering on the girls in his father’s lap before landing back on Reuben. He glanced briefly at Lucius, then nodded toward the door.

“We’re leaving,” Draco said simply, his tone steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority. “All of us.”

The girls on Lucius’s lap exchanged confused glances, but Lucius didn’t seem to mind. He gave a small shrug, as if he had already lost interest in the conversation and the women around him.

Draco's eyes met Reuben’s, a silent understanding passing between them. "You coming, Audrey?"

Reuben hesitated for a moment, still unnerved by the strange, tense atmosphere in the lounge. But Draco’s presence, as familiar and oddly comforting as it was, reminded him that he didn’t belong here, not in this world, not with Lucius, not with the strange game they were all playing.

He stood up slowly, nodding to Draco, grateful for the chance to leave. As he made his way toward the door, Lucius’s voice rang out behind him, low and dangerous.

“Remember, Audrey,” Lucius called out, his tone almost mocking, “we’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Reuben didn’t turn back. He kept his gaze forward, his feet carrying him toward the exit. The door opened with a soft click as they stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. Draco was already walking ahead, not saying another word, but the weight of his presence felt different now, heavier, perhaps, or maybe just more familiar in its quiet intensity.

Reuben couldn’t help but wonder just how much of Draco’s life he truly understood. How much of it was a game, and how much of it was real? As they walked side by side, the silence between them felt charged, a tension neither of them spoke about, but both could feel.

As the door to the lounge swung shut behind them, Reuben found himself standing in the dimly lit corridor, the oppressive weight of Lucius's gaze lifting for the moment. The tension, however, remained thick in the air as they made their way down the hallway. The distant sound of laughter and music echoed behind them, fading with each step.

Blaise, who had been walking quietly behind them, suddenly sidled up to Reuben and threw an arm around his neck, pulling him into a loose, almost playful embrace. The touch felt warm, but the weight of it, combined with Blaise's smirk, made Reuben stiffen instinctively.

"Well, well," Blaise said, his voice dripping with amusement as he leaned closer, "I see you’ve found yourself a girl back there. Not bad, Audrey. Not bad at all."

Reuben, still feeling the aftereffects of his discomfort with Lucius, remained silent, his throat tight. He could feel Blaise’s gaze linger on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything in return. The whole night, the whole scene, felt like a strange, uncomfortable blur, a world that didn't quite fit him.

Blaise, undeterred by Reuben’s silence, gave a low chuckle, his grip tightening slightly as he continued, "Guess you've got a bit of the Malfoy charm, huh?" He looked over at Draco, who was a few steps ahead, and then back to Reuben, his smirk widening. "Perhaps you’ll keep her for next time, then."

Draco, who had been walking ahead with his hands stuffed casually into his pockets, turned on his heel with an almost imperceptible sigh, his silver eyes narrowing at Blaise. His expression, typically composed and controlled, now showed the faintest flicker of annoyance.

"Stop teasing him, Blaise," Draco said sharply, his tone just this side of warning. His voice held an edge, and the way he looked back at Blaise left no room for argument. "He’s not interested."

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his arm dropping from Reuben’s neck as he met Draco’s gaze. “Alright, alright,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "No need to be so serious. Just having a little fun."

Reuben, still feeling like an outsider, couldn’t help but glance at Draco. There was a protective sharpness to his tone, something he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t as though Draco was standing up for him directly, but there was a subtle care in his words that Reuben hadn’t anticipated. It was strange, given how distant Draco could be at times, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

The three of them continued walking, Blaise and Draco now a few paces ahead of Reuben. He felt his mind wander for a moment, considering how out of place he still felt, even as they moved deeper into the castle. The music and laughter of the soirée behind them had a haunting quality, and it seemed like the longer he stayed, the more he began to wonder how much he truly understood about the Malfoys, and about Draco.

He caught up with them in a few strides, and as they reached the main staircase, Draco gave a quick glance at Reuben, his expression unreadable.

"You alright?" Draco asked, his voice softer now, quieter in the hallway. "No need to let my father get under your skin."

Reuben nodded quickly, brushing off the unease he’d been carrying. "I’m fine," he said, though his voice didn’t quite match the conviction he wanted it to. It felt more like a lie, but he wasn’t sure why.

Blaise, walking ahead again, didn’t seem to catch the shift in the air. Instead, he turned and flashed one of his characteristic grins at Reuben. "Don’t worry, Audrey. Next time, you’ll know better than to get caught up in the Malfoy drama. Though," he added with a shrug, "some of it’s entertaining, isn’t it?"

Reuben let out a dry laugh, feeling his discomfort fade just slightly, if only for a moment. He didn’t know if he wanted to be caught up in their drama, but as the three of them descended into the depths of Hogwarts once more, he knew one thing: his life had just gotten far more complicated than he had anticipated.

Chapter Text

Chapter 37

The carriages were waiting for them when they stepped outside, their ethereal horses pawing the snow-covered ground, steam rising from their flaring nostrils in the cold night air. The night had taken on an eerie stillness, the quiet only broken by the soft sound of snow crunching beneath their boots as they walked toward their rides.

The once grand and extravagant estate now lay behind them, like a faded memory. In its place, only the glistening expanse of snow-covered fields stretched beneath a clear, star-filled sky. The air was sharp and cold, the weight of the night settling like a blanket over everything.

Blaise and Pansy were already at the other carriage, exchanging a few parting words with Draco and Reuben before they made their farewells.

“Take care, darling,” Pansy said with a sly smile, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. She pressed a quick kiss to Draco’s cheek, much to Reuben’s surprise.

“Try not to get too lonely without me,” she teased, winking at Draco before turning to Blaise, who offered a quiet smirk in Reuben’s direction.

With a few more quiet words exchanged, Pansy and Blaise climbed into their own carriage, leaving Draco and Reuben standing by the second carriage. The horses shifted restlessly, sensing the change in atmosphere.

As the door to the carriage closed behind Blaise and Pansy, Draco glanced at Reuben, his gaze thoughtful but guarded.

“Ready to head back?” Draco’s voice was calm, almost bored, but Reuben could hear the undercurrent of something more, perhaps a desire for silence, or just a need to unwind after the evening’s events.

Reuben nodded, stepping into the carriage as Draco followed, settling into the seat across from him. The doors of the carriage closed softly behind them, and they were once again alone.

The carriage jerked into motion, the horses pulling them away from the maniserie. The road ahead was long and winding, lined with snow-dusted trees that stretched into the horizon. Reuben gazed out the window, watching the landscape blur as they headed toward the distant outline of Hogwarts Castle. The warmth of the carriage contrasted sharply with the cold outside, but the silence was heavy, pressing in on him.

Reuben shifted in his seat, his eyes catching a glimpse of Draco’s profile. He wondered what Draco was thinking, what was going through his mind now that they were alone together, away from the prying eyes of high society.

Draco, however, seemed content to stare out the window, his face unreadable. The cool night air clung to his pale skin, making his platinum blonde hair almost seem to glow in the dim light of the carriage.

Reuben couldn’t help but feel the weight of the night’s events, a mix of discomfort, curiosity, and maybe a twinge of something else. He wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words never seemed to come.

Finally, Draco’s voice broke through the stillness. “You looked... good tonight,” he said, glancing briefly at Reuben before returning his attention to the passing scenery. His tone was casual, as though he were commenting on something insignificant, but there was a strange quality to it, something that Reuben couldn’t quite place.

“Thanks,” Reuben muttered, unsure of how to respond. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tightening around the edge of his seat. “You didn’t look so bad yourself.”

Draco smirked, a flicker of amusement crossing his features, but he didn’t respond. Instead, the carriage rumbled along in silence, the rhythmic motion of the wheels and the soft thrum of magic keeping them company.

The world outside the window seemed distant, as if they were moving through a different reality altogether. Reuben’s thoughts began to wander, but he quickly pushed them away. He didn’t want to dwell on everything that had happened, not now. Not here, alone with Draco.

After what felt like hours, the carriage came to a stop. Reuben’s heart gave a small lurch as the outline of Hogwarts Castle appeared on the horizon, its towers reaching up toward the dark sky, lit only by the glow of distant torches. The castle looked almost... welcoming, as though it had been waiting for them all along.

The door opened, and Draco stepped out first, his dark silhouette framed by the light from inside the carriage. He turned to Reuben, offering a hand to help him down.

“Home sweet home,” Draco muttered, his voice tinged with something that could have been exhaustion, or perhaps something else.

Reuben took his hand, stepping down from the carriage and onto the snow-covered path. The cold air immediately hit his skin, but the warmth of the castle’s light was a comfort.

As the two of them stood there, watching the castle loom above them, the sound of Blaise and Pansy’s carriage fading into the distance, Reuben found himself wondering what the next few days would bring. The events of the night still swirled in his mind, Lucius Malfoy’s unsettling presence, the strange conversations, and the fact that he was no longer quite sure where he stood with Draco.

But for now, all he could do was follow Draco into the castle and leave the night behind them.

The warmth of the castle was a relief after the cold, crisp air outside. The journey from the carriage to the dormitory felt longer than usual, the silence between Reuben and Draco only growing thicker as they walked through the empty corridors. They didn’t speak, each lost in their own thoughts, until they finally reached the Slytherin dormitories.

Reuben followed Draco inside the familiar, dimly lit common room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The dormitory was quiet, save for the faint sound of distant whispers, probably the remnants of students still celebrating or lingering in their own rooms.

As soon as they stepped into the dormitory, Draco moved with the quiet confidence of someone who was always slightly too aware of the eyes on him ,  even when no one was looking. He shrugged off his coat with a lazy elegance, letting it slide from his shoulders like water before draping it over the nearest chair. His fingers rose to the knot of his tie, undoing it in a slow, practiced motion, like every movement was a silent ritual. The silk slipped through his collar, leaving his throat bare as he unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. Then, without a word, he rolled up his sleeves ,  first one, then the other ,  revealing pale forearms dusted with faint gold hair, his veins catching the firelight like river lines under glass. As the fabric pulled back, his biceps flexed ever so slightly with the motion, smooth and lean but strong, carved like he’d been born for the spotlight and never fully stepped out of it.

Reuben meant to look away ,  really meant to ,  but his gaze was already caught, lingering where it shouldn’t. There was something hypnotic about the way Draco’s muscles moved beneath his skin, subtle and unassuming, but enough to stir something low in Reuben’s chest. His throat felt dry. His heart stuttered in betrayal of his calm expression. He told himself it was nothing ,  just curiosity, just surprise ,  but that lie was fraying fast. Draco ran a hand through his platinum hair, pushing it back from his face, and Reuben swore he could feel the heat rising under his skin, slow and traitorous. There was nothing overt, no smirk, no invitation ,  but that only made it worse. Because Draco didn’t even need to try.

Reuben’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes snapped to the fire, too fast, too guilty. “What? No,” he said, too quickly ,  and too softly ,  like the lie had barely formed before it fell apart in his mouth. His face was already burning, and he hated how obvious it felt, how warm his ears had gone.

Draco didn’t laugh. He didn’t push. He just stepped closer ,  a slow, deliberate movement ,  until he was near enough that Reuben could feel the quiet gravity of him, heat bleeding from his skin, scent tinged with cold air and whatever expensive cologne still clung to his collar. The silence stretched, just long enough to pull taut.

“You should really work on your lying,” Draco murmured, voice low, nearly amused ,  but gentler than it had any right to be. His eyes lingered on Reuben for a second longer, then drifted away, like he’d made his point and didn’t need to press further.

Reuben kept his gaze fixed on the fireplace, jaw tight, lips parted just slightly. He was still flushed to the tips of his ears, his posture tense with the effort not to react, not to reach. But what he didn’t see ,  what he couldn’t see ,  was the way Draco’s expression softened when he looked at him again, Reuben turned away and glowing with quiet embarrassment. There was something delicate in Draco’s eyes now, something caught between amusement and awe.

He blinked slowly, almost like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Cute,” he said under his breath ,  too low for Reuben to hear.

Reuben silently changed into his sleeping clothes, an old, well-worn set of grey sweats and a simple black T-shirt. He tossed his clothes onto the chair by his bed before sliding under the covers, his mind still racing from the evening’s events.

Draco, on the other hand, didn’t bother with much more than his Calvin Klein boxers. He had always been the type to sleep as simply as possible, and tonight was no different. He slipped under the covers, though the darkness in the room seemed to feel heavier than usual.

The minutes stretched into hours as the two of them lay in their respective beds, the silence hanging thick in the air. Reuben stared at the ceiling, his mind spinning with fragments of conversations, the strange looks, and the unspoken tension between them. He shifted in bed, trying to find some comfort, but it was useless. Sleep wasn’t coming.

Draco shifted, too, the sound of the sheets rustling. His voice cut through the silence, low and almost hesitant. “Can you sleep?”

Reuben blinked, surprised by the question. He turned his head, trying to make out Draco’s form in the darkness, but it was nearly impossible. The dim light from the fire cast long shadows, but it was still too dark to see much of anything.

“No,” Reuben replied softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can.”

The air in the room felt thick, as if there was something unsaid between them. Draco didn’t immediately respond, but Reuben could hear him shifting in his bed, clearly uncomfortable in his own thoughts.

A long pause passed before Draco’s voice broke the silence again, sounding a little uncertain. “Do you want to... move our beds together? I mean... it might help.”

Reuben furrowed his brow, unsure if he had heard correctly. It wasn’t uncommon for roommates to talk in the dark when sleep eluded them, but this suggestion felt... different. He wasn’t sure why, but it did.

“Move the beds together?” Reuben repeated, his voice filled with the quiet disbelief he couldn’t hide. “Why?”

Draco’s voice came again, slightly defensive but still quiet. “Because I’m not used to sleeping alone, alright? And you’ve been... weird tonight. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be easier.”

Reuben was silent for a moment, chewing over Draco’s words. He could feel the pull of curiosity, of something deeper, but he was still unsure. The line between them had already been blurred so many times over the past few weeks, and this felt like another one of those moments.

Finally, Reuben sighed, his shoulders relaxing a little. “Fine,” he muttered, though he still wasn’t sure what to think of the suggestion. “But don’t expect me to sleep any better.”

There was a shift in the darkness as Draco moved. A soft scrape of bedposts as Draco started to pull his bed toward Reuben’s. The movement was slow, deliberate, almost hesitant, like Draco wasn’t sure how far to push, either.

Reuben watched, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light as Draco's bed inched closer. Finally, their two beds were side by side. The tension in the room was palpable, the air suddenly charged with the weight of proximity.

Draco flopped onto the newly combined bed with a soft exhale. He turned his body toward Reuben, resting his head on the pillow, the Calvin Klein boxers fitting snugly against his lean frame. Reuben, for the briefest moment, felt his heart race at the closeness, but he forced himself to breathe deeply, to calm the anxiety building in his chest.

For a few minutes, the two of them lay there in the dark, the soft sounds of breathing the only thing that filled the silence. Reuben didn’t know what to make of it. It felt oddly intimate, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, not yet.

The room was still, save for the soft sound of their breathing, as both boys lay side by side, the night pressing in on them from all sides. The darkness felt heavier, more suffocating now that their beds were so close. Reuben’s mind was buzzing, but the silence between them was thick and unbroken.

Then, in the quiet of the night, Draco's voice came out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” he said, his words hesitant, quieter than Reuben had expected. His tone wasn’t mocking or flippant, but... genuine, in a way that felt foreign coming from him. “I know he’s... well, you’ve seen him.”

Reuben didn’t immediately respond, the weight of Draco’s apology sinking into him like a stone in water. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Draco, though the darkness obscured most of his features.

Draco wasn’t looking at him, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the edge of the bed. His voice was soft but steady as he continued, “I don’t know why he acts the way he does. He’s... complicated. But that doesn’t excuse it.”

Reuben swallowed, unsure how to respond. The conversation felt like a shift, a break in the usual armor Draco wore. He hadn’t expected an apology, let alone one so personal. Reuben knew that the tension between Draco’s father and everyone else wasn’t a secret, it was practically a part of the Malfoy legacy, but hearing Draco apologize for it felt... different.

“Don’t apologize,” Reuben finally said, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he was unsure whether he should say it at all. “I know it’s not your fault.”

Draco shifted on the bed, turning his head slightly to look at him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, Draco gave a small, rueful smile, though it was faint in the dark.

“I guess that’s just it,” Draco muttered, a bit bitter now. “It’s not my fault. But I still feel like I should do something about it.”

Reuben didn’t respond right away. There was something raw in Draco’s voice, something vulnerable that Reuben wasn’t used to hearing. It was as if Draco had opened a door that Reuben hadn’t expected to be unlocked.

“I don’t know,” Draco continued, his voice quieter now, almost like he was speaking to himself more than Reuben. “Maybe I’m just tired of it all... of him. I don’t know how to be his son anymore. It’s all so... messed up.”

Reuben’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what to say. Draco had always been so confident, so certain of himself. Seeing him unravel in this way felt like a glimpse behind the mask, and it unsettled Reuben more than he cared to admit.

“I don’t have answers for you, Draco,” Reuben said softly, his words carefully chosen. “But you don’t have to carry that on your own. You’re not alone, you know?”

For a long time, there was nothing but silence between them again. Reuben could hear the sound of Draco’s breathing, steady but slightly uneven, as though he was processing the weight of the conversation.

Eventually, Draco shifted again, the bed creaking under the slight movement. “I know,” he said quietly. “I just... don’t always believe it.”

Reuben felt a pang of something, empathy, maybe, or something else entirely, as he lay in the dark, the words hanging in the space between them. He wanted to say more, but the moment felt delicate, fragile in a way he wasn’t used to.

Instead, he simply turned his head back toward the ceiling, the weight of the conversation still heavy in the air. The flicker of the fire in the common room, the only light left in the castle, cast strange shadows across the room as they lay there, side by side.

Chapter Text

Chapter 38

The castle had settled into a strange, muted stillness. The corridors were quieter now that most students had gone home for the holidays, and the snow outside had turned from crisp white to a dull, slushy grey. Somewhere deep in the belly of the dungeons, the torches burned low, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls as Reuben made his way toward Snape’s office.

He hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. Not really. Ever since the term started, every time Reuben had Defense Against the Dark Arts, he left quickly, slipping out before he could be cornered. Before Snape could look at him too long. But this time, he’d been summoned, no avoiding it.

The heavy wooden door was already ajar.

Inside, the fire was lit, but the warmth never touched the room. It always smelled faintly of burnt wood, ink, and something sharp, like dried herbs or bitterness. Snape was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up slightly, his expression unreadable as he scanned a stack of parchment. He didn’t look up.

Reuben stepped in, closed the door quietly behind him, and waited.

Without a word, Snape reached beside him and tossed something onto the desk. It slid toward Reuben with a glossy hiss.

A magazine.

The cover gleamed in the dim light, Haute Sorcellerie International. The kind of magazine that was mostly seen on tables in high-end apothecaries or Parisian wizard salons. And there he was. Front and center. Reuben Audrey, sitting stiff-backed on a velvet couch in the lounge of the maniserie, a girl perched on his lap. Lucius Malfoy was beside him, hand mid-gesture, a cigar in his other. The photo had caught the moment perfectly. It looked composed. Intentional. Like they belonged there.

THE NEW SLYTHERIN PROTÉGÉ?

Lucius Malfoy Seen With Mysterious Hogwarts Companion at Highland Soirée.

Snape didn’t speak for several seconds. When he did, his voice was a cold drawl.

“I see your taste in company has evolved.” A pause. “Or perhaps decayed.”

Reuben felt heat rise to his cheeks. He didn’t move to touch the magazine.

“It wasn’t like that,” he said, finally. “I didn’t even know they were taking photos.”

Snape didn’t react. He just sat back, lacing his fingers together on the desk, watching Reuben like he was examining a particularly reckless potion reaction.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly. Not accusatory, just stating a fact. “And now I find you… featured.”

Reuben didn’t reply.

Snape stood, slowly, and crossed to the side table where his teapot rested, pouring himself a cup without offering one to Reuben. His movements were precise, controlled.

“Lucius Malfoy is not a man one ‘accidentally’ ends up in the company of,” he said. “Nor is the lounge he took you to a room one simply wanders into.”

Reuben’s mouth was dry. “He found me,” he said. “I was just… in the corridor. I didn’t go looking for him. He was already there.”

Snape turned sharply, robes swishing around him.

“And what did he say to you?” His eyes narrowed. “What questions did he ask?”

Reuben looked away. He didn’t want to think about it. About Lucius’s cold gaze, the girl on his lap, the way his words slid into questions that sounded innocent but weren’t.

“He was just… talking,” Reuben muttered.

Snape took a slow step forward. His voice dropped, quiet and dangerous.

“You may think you’re drifting through this world untouched, Mr. Audrey, but people notice who you stand beside.”

Reuben looked up then, eyes meeting his professor’s. He wasn’t sure what he saw there, anger, maybe. Or disappointment. But underneath it all… fear.

Snape turned away again, walking back toward the desk, lifting the magazine with two fingers like it was something foul.

“You will never go back,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

Reuben said nothing.

“Never again,” Snape repeated, his voice low and steely. “Not with him. Not with any of them.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Reuben nodded.

Snape levitated the magazine back onto a pile of unopened letters and muttered something under his breath. For a moment, he looked older than usual. Tired. Like he had already lived this moment once before.

And then he said nothing more.

Reuben left the room quietly, closing the door behind him. The image on the cover stayed with him long after he turned the corner.

Chapter Text

Chapter 39

The morning after New Year’s Eve began in grey-blue light, the kind that seeped gently through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. Only a handful of students lingered at the long house tables, those who had stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays and weren’t quite ready to rejoin the world. There was the soft chime of spoons in porridge, the occasional flutter of owl wings overhead, and the hush of snow continuing to fall, unbothered by time.

Reuben sat beside Draco at the Slytherin table, both of them still in soft post-sleep clothes, jumpers layered over pyjamas, hair mussed. Their breakfast was quiet, familiar, filled with unspoken things.

Draco had nicked half of Reuben’s toast without asking. Reuben didn’t bother to protest.

There was something easy about it, until footsteps approached.

“Morning,” came a voice Reuben didn’t expect.

He looked up to see Harry Potter, confidently standing at the edge of the table, wearing a fitted, black jumper and dark jeans, his posture casual, hands tucked into his pockets. He glanced briefly at Draco before focusing on Reuben.

“We’re heading to London,” Harry said. “Hermione, Ron, me, just for the day. Thought it might be nice to see the lights, do something normal. Fireworks. Muggle stuff. Want to come?”

The question dropped into the quiet like a pebble in still water.

Draco, sitting with his elbows on the table, didn’t immediately react. He only set his fork down carefully, eyes flicking momentarily toward Harry before he took a long sip of pumpkin juice. Reuben couldn’t help but glance at him then, searching his face, his posture for some sign, but Draco’s gaze remained fixed on his cup, his face unreadable.

Reuben hesitated, his fingers tapping against the edge of his plate, trying to figure out what to make of the silence.

He didn’t ask if he should go, but his eyes lingered on Draco, as if trying to catch some clue. A simple nod, a shift in posture, something that might tell him whether it was fine or not. But Draco remained still, looking at the juice as if it held the answer to every question that had ever been asked.

Finally, Draco spoke, voice cool, without looking up. “You can go, if you want.”

There was a strange finality in his tone, though his words were vague. It was almost as if he was answering a question that Reuben hadn’t asked aloud, but one that had been hanging in the air between them for a while now.

Reuben didn’t press further. He could feel Draco’s distance in the way he’d spoken, but he wasn’t sure whether it was because he didn’t care, or if it was something else entirely. Reuben wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

Harry, oblivious to the tension that now floated between them, gave a confident nod and walked off, leaving a trail of winter air behind him. Reuben turned back to his breakfast, his appetite suddenly gone.

He could have sworn he heard Draco mutter, just as he finished his pumpkin juice: “Don’t let them dress you like some Muggle tourist. I have some pride.”

The day passed in a blur of anticipation, and before long, Reuben found himself back in the Slytherin common room, pulling open the small trunk at the foot of his bed. He didn’t need much for the trip, just a few essentials. Among the things he packed was the bag Draco had given him for Christmas, the one with the extension charm. It was a gift Reuben had never really thought about until now, but it would do perfectly for this trip.

As he tossed it over his shoulder, he quickly set about choosing what to wear. There was no need for anything too extravagant, just a casual outing, after all. But something told him that if Draco had anything to say about it, he’d probably end up needing to look slightly more polished than he’d intended.

Reuben stared at his reflection in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair. He glanced down at the clothes scattered on his bed, jeans, a simple T-shirt, a jumper, but it didn’t feel quite right.

Then, as if on cue, the door to the common room creaked open, and Draco entered, his stride confident as always. Reuben didn’t need to ask; Draco was here to make sure everything was in order.

“Need help?” Draco asked, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t really offering a choice.

Reuben raised an eyebrow. “I’m not an imbecile, you know.”

“Just making sure you don’t end up looking like a circus act,” Draco replied, smirking as he walked over to the bed. “It’s London, not some backwater village.”

Reuben rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Draco was already rifling through his clothes, pulling out a dark, fitted jumper that would look casual but still refined. Then he selected a pair of well-worn jeans that hung effortlessly on Reuben’s frame, finishing the outfit with a leather jacket that had been subtly enchanted to shimmer in the light, another subtle touch that was so Draco, so intentional.

“Don’t make it too obvious,” Draco said as he held up the jacket, eyeing Reuben’s reaction. “But this should do.”

Reuben just nodded, appreciating the effort Draco was putting in. It wasn’t something he’d expected, but there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that Draco was paying attention, even if it was disguised as casual criticism.

“I’m guessing you’re not planning to walk around in a Muggle windbreaker, then?” Reuben teased, a smile tugging at his lips as he began to change.

“Not if I can help it,” Draco replied, glancing at Reuben’s reflection. His eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary, and when Reuben caught him, Draco quickly turned away, his voice taking on a dismissive edge. “Just make sure you don’t end up embarrassing yourself.”

Reuben chuckled, not missing the small, almost imperceptible tension in Draco’s words. He threw on the clothes Draco had laid out for him, glancing at the mirror as he adjusted the collar of the jacket. It fit perfectly, naturally, Draco had chosen something that not only suited him but also fit like a glove.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Reuben said quietly, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “But thanks.”

Draco shrugged, not meeting his gaze as he stuffed a few extra items into the bag. “It’s not like I was going to let you wander off looking like a lost cause.”

Reuben smiled, watching Draco finish packing the bag with a few extra items, some money, a few charms for luck, and a few spare items of clothing Reuben hadn’t thought to pack. Draco’s focus never wavered, and Reuben could see the quiet care in how he handled each item, as if he were packing his own things rather than someone else’s.

“Ready?” Draco asked when he finished, raising an eyebrow as he looked at Reuben, who had already packed the last of his things.

Reuben took a deep breath, adjusting the strap of the bag and giving Draco a brief, appreciative glance. “Yeah. I think I’m ready.”

Reuben stood in the courtyard, the cold air of the early morning cutting through the space as he watched Harry, Ron, and Hermione gather near the Great Hall. His bag hung loosely over his shoulder, the one Draco had enchanted, its weight a constant reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone in all of this. He didn’t feel out of place, exactly, more like he was stepping into a world that was happening around him. It was strange, but not unpleasant. The fact that he had no real plans for the day beyond whatever Harry had in mind made it easier to slip into the rhythm of things without much thought.

He saw the trio of Gryffindors chatting near the door of the Hall, Hermione already checking her watch, and Harry looking up at the sky as if to judge the weather. Ron had his hands buried deep in his pockets and seemed to be kicking at a small stone on the ground, glancing over at Reuben with an unreadable expression.

“Ready to go, mate?” Harry asked, giving Reuben a small but welcoming smile. He didn’t seem to mind that Reuben hadn’t said much, that wasn’t unusual for him, after all.

“Yeah, just about,” Reuben muttered, his voice steady but a little distracted. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, maybe the sense of direction he was supposed to get once he left Hogwarts, maybe the realization that everything was about to be a lot different.

Ron tossed him a quick, half-hearted smile, and then they were all standing quietly, waiting. There was no need for many words; Harry was clearly the one leading this little group, though Hermione was giving him a few pointed looks, the kind that said she was silently judging whether Harry knew what he was doing.

Then, as if he had just appeared out of nowhere, Dumbledore stepped into the courtyard, his presence as always commanding but gentle. His robes shimmered in the early sunlight, and his eyes twinkled in that way that made Reuben feel like he was the center of something a little grander than himself.

“Well, well,” Dumbledore began, his voice rich with amusement as he walked toward them, “I trust you’re all ready for the journey ahead?”

Before anyone could respond, Dumbledore raised his hand, and with a soft gesture, a portkey materialized, a gleaming, old-fashioned brass key, etched with runes Reuben didn’t recognize. It hovered in midair, just within reach.

“All set, then,” Dumbledore said, his gaze lingering for just a moment on Harry before he gave a quick wink, as though sharing some private, mischievous secret.

Without another word, they each reached out to touch the portkey. A sharp tug at the navel, a dizzying swirl of sensation, and the next moment, they were no longer in the courtyard at Hogwarts.

The portkey dropped them straight into the suite ,  a grand, high-ceilinged room in The Ritz, all cream-colored walls with gold paneling and chandeliers that sparkled like starlight. A fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the grey London skyline stretched above green winter trees, and down below, black cabs zipped through the streets like beetles.

Reuben steadied himself. He didn’t say anything, just took a breath and looked around. The last time he’d been in London, it hadn’t been like this.

“Blimey,” Ron muttered, rubbing his arm. “Could’ve warned me about the landing.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and headed straight for her small suitcase, placed neatly near one of the king-sized beds. “You’ll survive.”

Reuben dropped his bag ,  the one Draco had given him for Christmas, the inside charmed to carry far more than it seemed ,  at the foot of the bed nearest the window.

Harry, already lounging into an armchair by the fire, shot him a curious look. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Reuben replied shortly, then added, “It’s… nice.”

“Nice?” Ron snorted. “You’ve clearly never had to share a room with three brothers and a ghoul in the attic.”

Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, Ron turned to Reuben. “You know, I saw that thing in Haute Sorcellerie International. You and Lucius Malfoy, front cover, looking like you’d just bought the bloody Ministry.”

Hermione let out a sharp, warning “Ron.”

“What?” he asked, blinking. “I didn’t mean anything by it, ”

Reuben’s face didn’t change, but the quiet in the room shifted slightly. He hadn't expected it to follow him here. He turned toward the window, pretending to admire the skyline.

Harry gave Ron a sideways glance, then back to Reuben. “Ignore him. Ron’s read about three magazines in his life and now he thinks he’s the Prophet.”

Ron opened his mouth to defend himself, then gave up with a dramatic shrug and collapsed onto the nearest bed, sprawling over it like a cat.

The room settled into a gentle hush, the kind that came before something new began.

***

London shimmered in a thin mist as the four of them stepped out from their cab onto the cobbled corner near Hyde Park. A wrought-iron lamppost flickered overhead, casting a soft, warm glow onto a brass plaque embedded into the stone wall of what looked like a disused townhouse.

It read:
The Velvet Cauldron – Est. 1817
Jazz. Joy. No Ministry Snitches.

Hermione tapped her wand to the plaque. A soft whump of magic rippled through the air, and the bricks shimmered, folding in on themselves until a sleek obsidian door appeared, gilded with runes that pulsed faintly like music notes.

“Is this…?” Reuben began.

Harry grinned. “You’re gonna like this.”

Inside, the Velvet Cauldron was dim and golden, all low lights, flickering candles in glass orbs, velvet booths, and waiters in waistcoats that changed colour with the beat of the music. A witch with a powdered afro played the saxophone on a floating stage, and small enchanted clouds hovered over tables, raining cinnamon over cocktails.

Reuben’s eyes adjusted quickly. The crowd was eclectic and dressed to kill, robes trimmed in stardust, Muggle blazers charmed with constellations, even one man in a vintage Hogwarts uniform and dragon-scale sunglasses.

“You weren’t kidding,” Reuben murmured to Harry as they were shown to a booth with sweeping curtains and a table glittering with drink menus. “This place is mad.”

“In the best way,” Hermione agreed, sliding into the booth beside Ron.

“Exactly our vibe,” Harry added. He was already scanning the drink list like he had it memorised.

A round of firewhisky-laced cocktails arrived, their surfaces crackling like lightning caught in glass. They talked. They laughed. Reuben even found himself forgetting, for a moment, about every haunted corridor in Hogwarts. It was good. Warm, fizzy, slightly surreal.

Time blurred.

By the time the countdown to midnight began, the club had dimmed into a hush of golden light and hushed anticipation. Glasses were raised. The floating stage had disappeared, replaced by a giant projection of the time in cursive script over the crowd.

“Ten!”

Someone blew a party horn. Reuben spun to find Hermione grabbing Ron’s arm. Ron looked startled but grinned, already half-drunk.

“Nine!”

Reuben turned back toward the centre of the room, and there was Harry. Standing beside him again, no drink in hand now. Just that familiar, steady expression. Quiet heat in his cheeks.

“Eight!”

The countdown echoed, pulsing through the floor like magic.

“Seven!”

Reuben barely had time to register that Harry was looking at him.

“Six!”

Not just at him, but watching. Calculating something.

“Five!”

Harry rolled his sleeves up slowly, the fabric bunching around his forearms.

“Four!”

Reuben opened his mouth, suddenly unsure what to say.

“Three!”

Harry shook his head, amused. “I’m gonna do something, okay?”

“Two!”

Reuben blinked. “What, ”

“One!”

Harry leaned in and kissed him.

Not by accident. Not hesitantly. Not like a boy testing a theory, but like someone who’d been waiting for permission and finally gave it to himself.

His mouth was warm and tasted like spiced honey. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t gentle. But it was real.

When Harry pulled back, his grin flickered lopsided. “Happy New Year, Audrey.”

But then his eyes flickered to Hermione and Ron, both staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Hermione’s expression was one of shock, her brows knitted together like she couldn't quite process what had just happened. Ron, on the other hand, looked like he might combust from the sheer surprise, his face frozen in a half-amused, half-confused stare as if to say: Are they, What just happened?

For a moment, no one moved.

Reuben just stood there, heart thumping, still caught in the whirlwind of Harry’s kiss, and trying to make sense of the weight of it all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 40

The room was still. A heavy silence hung between them after Harry’s kiss. Reuben stood there, frozen, staring at Harry’s face in a mix of confusion and surprise. His heart was still racing, his mind a swirl of emotions he couldn't quite place.

Harry’s grin remained, but there was something colder behind it now, something possessive in the way his eyes locked onto Reuben’s, waiting for a response. The seconds felt like hours as Reuben glanced at Ron and Hermione, both staring at him with wide eyes. Hermione’s expression was a mix of disbelief and concern, while Ron looked... well, Ron looked as though he'd just witnessed something completely foreign to him.

"Well," Harry said, his voice low but with an edge, "that was... a nice start to the year, wasn’t it?"

Reuben didn't answer at first. His brain felt sluggish, and the fact that Harry was standing there so confident, so... assured, made him feel small. The way Harry’s gaze never wavered made him feel like there was only one acceptable answer, one direction this could go.

“Reuben,” Harry’s voice dropped even lower, almost a murmur. “We’re... together now, yeah?” His words were sweet, but there was something in them that made Reuben’s stomach twist. "I mean... you’re mine, right?"

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but it was a question nonetheless. Harry was giving him no room to say anything other than yes.

Reuben felt his throat dry up, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. Harry took a small step forward, his presence swallowing up the space between them. There was an intensity in Harry’s eyes, and the more Reuben thought about it, the more he realized that Harry wasn’t asking for a yes, he was demanding it, demanding something that Reuben wasn’t sure he could give so easily.

The tension was thick enough to choke on, and finally, Reuben, still in shock, managed a small nod. “Yeah... I guess we are,” he whispered, though the words felt foreign on his tongue.

Harry smiled, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Good," he said, his voice soft again, but there was a possessive undertone that Reuben couldn't ignore. "It’s good that we’ve got that sorted."

Ron looked between them, clearly uncomfortable, but too polite, or maybe too confused, to say anything. Hermione was the one who broke the silence next, her voice laced with worry. “Harry, what are you, ?”

But Harry didn’t let her finish. “It’s fine, Hermione,” he cut in, his tone dismissive but smooth, like it was all just part of the plan. “We’re fine, right, Reuben?”

Reuben just nodded again, unsure of where any of this was headed. His chest felt tight, his emotions a whirlwind of confusion and discomfort. The kiss, the words, the way Harry was looking at him, it was all happening too fast, too much.

It wasn’t the kind of moment Reuben had ever imagined.

The room was still. A heavy silence hung between them after Harry’s kiss. Reuben stood there, frozen, staring at Harry’s face in a mix of confusion and surprise. His heart was still racing, his mind a swirl of emotions he couldn't quite place.

Harry’s grin remained, but there was something colder behind it now, something possessive in the way his eyes locked onto Reuben’s, waiting for a response. The seconds felt like hours as Reuben glanced at Ron and Hermione, both staring at him with wide eyes. Hermione’s expression was a mix of disbelief and concern, while Ron looked... well, Ron looked as though he'd just witnessed something completely foreign to him.

"Well," Harry said, his voice low but with an edge, "that was... a nice start to the year, wasn’t it?"

Reuben didn't answer at first. His brain felt sluggish, and the fact that Harry was standing there so confident, so... assured, made him feel small. The way Harry’s gaze never wavered made him feel like there was only one acceptable answer, one direction this could go.

“Reuben,” Harry’s voice dropped even lower, almost a murmur. “We’re... together now, yeah?” His words were sweet, but there was something in them that made Reuben’s stomach twist. "I mean... you’re mine, right?"

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but it was a question nonetheless. Harry was giving him no room to say anything other than yes.

Reuben felt his throat dry up, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. Harry took a small step forward, his presence swallowing up the space between them. There was an intensity in Harry’s eyes, and the more Reuben thought about it, the more he realized that Harry wasn’t asking for a yes, he was demanding it, demanding something that Reuben wasn’t sure he could give so easily.

The tension was thick enough to choke on, and finally, Reuben, still in shock, managed a small nod. “Yeah... I guess we are,” he whispered, though the words felt foreign on his tongue.

Harry smiled, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Good," he said, his voice soft again, but there was a possessive undertone that Reuben couldn't ignore. "It’s good that we’ve got that sorted."

Ron looked between them, clearly uncomfortable, but too polite, or maybe too confused, to say anything. Hermione was the one who broke the silence next, her voice laced with worry. “Harry, what are you, ?”

But Harry didn’t let her finish. “It’s fine, Hermione,” he cut in, his tone dismissive but smooth, like it was all just part of the plan. “We’re fine, right, Reuben?”

Reuben just nodded again, unsure of where any of this was headed. His chest felt tight, his emotions a whirlwind of confusion and discomfort. The kiss, the words, the way Harry was looking at him, it was all happening too fast, too much.

It wasn’t the kind of moment Reuben had ever imagined.

The walk back to the hotel felt like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. Reuben wasn’t entirely sure. The night air was cold against his skin, but it was Harry’s presence next to him that made him feel strangely suffocated. Harry had his arm around Reuben’s waist, pulling him close enough that every step felt intimate, as though the space between them no longer existed. Reuben tried not to think about it, tried to ignore the way his heart thudded in his chest and his mind raced with uncertainty.

“Relax,” Harry murmured, his lips brushing against Reuben’s ear as they walked. The touch sent a strange chill down Reuben’s spine. “You look a little... frazzled.”

Reuben wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He wasn’t exactly frazzled. He was more... unsettled, his thoughts still tangled in the way Harry had kissed him, in the way Harry had claimed him without giving him a chance to breathe.

But Harry’s hand tightened around his waist, his touch possessive and sure. It was the kind of thing that made it clear: Reuben wasn’t going anywhere.

They reached the hotel in silence, the grandeur of the Ritz looming before them. Harry didn’t let go of Reuben, even as they entered the building. The lobby was grand, with crystal chandeliers hanging above them and marble floors gleaming under the soft lighting. It felt like they were in a different world, far removed from the quiet hallways of Hogwarts or the chaos of New Year’s Eve celebrations.

Once they were inside the elevator, Harry finally let go of Reuben, but only to press the button for the floor. The air was thick with an unspoken tension as the doors closed. Harry didn’t say anything at first, just watched Reuben with that same intense gaze that made him feel exposed, like Harry could see right through him.

“Good,” Harry finally said after a long, suffocating pause. “I’m glad you didn’t fight it.” His voice was soft, but there was a bite to it, an undercurrent that made Reuben feel like he was being slowly pulled into something he didn’t quite understand.

Reuben didn’t know how to respond. Instead, he just stood there, watching the numbers above the door count down to their floor. The silence was deafening.

When the elevator stopped, Harry placed his hand back around Reuben’s waist, guiding him down the plush hallway towards their room. Harry’s grip was firm, his touch almost possessive again, as though he couldn’t stand the idea of Reuben being anywhere but right there beside him.

As they entered the room, Harry pulled Reuben inside, shutting the door behind them with a soft click. The room was just as lavish as the rest of the hotel, luxurious and large, with velvet curtains draped over the windows and a king-sized bed in the center of the room. The space felt distant and unfamiliar, like Reuben had stepped into a world that wasn’t his own.

Reuben stood by the door, unsure of what to do next. His eyes flickered to Harry, who was already undressing with a casual ease that made Reuben’s pulse quicken. Harry glanced over at him, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

“Don’t stand there like that,” Harry said, voice low and inviting. “Come here.”

Reuben hesitated, but then Harry’s eyes softened, his tone shifting into something that almost sounded sweet, even though Reuben could hear the control laced beneath it. “Come on, Reuben,” he coaxed, “don’t be so distant. We’re together now. You don’t need to be so nervous.”

His words were a promise, but Reuben wasn’t sure if it was a promise of comfort or of something else, something he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for. But before he could think about it too much, Harry stepped closer, his body pressing against Reuben’s in a way that left no space between them.

“Relax,” Harry whispered again, his lips brushing against Reuben’s ear. “It’s just you and me now.”

Reuben backed away toward the dressing screen, his steps quick as he needed space, just a little distance. He needed time to breathe, to process what was happening, to figure out why it felt so suffocating but somehow, at the same time, magnetic.

He glanced back at Harry, who was standing by the bed, watching him with a gaze that made Reuben’s heart skip. Without saying anything, Reuben ducked behind the screen, the heavy fabric falling around him like a wall between them.

The rustle of fabric was the only sound in the room as Reuben hastily tugged off his clothes and changed into his pajamas, comfortable, soft, but still far too formal for the moment. He tried to shake the nerves, tried to steady his breath, but the tension, thick and charged, followed him even as he turned to step back out from behind the screen.

When he emerged, his eyes snapped to Harry.

Harry was standing there, completely naked, with no shame or hesitation. His chest was bare, muscles defined beneath the dim light, and his body gleamed in the glow of the room. Reuben’s heart skipped again, his throat dry as Harry’s confident, predatory gaze fell on him. It was so casual. So natural for Harry.

Reuben swallowed, his thoughts scattered.

"Harry..." he started, but his voice faltered.

Harry’s lips curved into that same sly, knowing smile. “Come here, Reuben,” he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice, commanding, subtle. It was like an invitation, but not one that allowed for much refusal. Reuben wanted to say something, to stop it before it went any further, but the way Harry was looking at him, intense, yet strangely affectionate, made it impossible to tear his eyes away.

Without thinking, his legs moved him forward, drawn to Harry like a magnet, despite the knot in his stomach. Harry reached out, pulling him gently, but firmly, toward the bed.

Reuben tried to make sense of his thoughts, but Harry was already guiding him down, pushing him softly onto the sheets. The bed felt too large, and yet with Harry beside him, it felt too small, closing in on him.

“Relax, Audrey,” Harry murmured, leaning over him, his body pressing just a little too close. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” His fingers brushed against Reuben’s cheek, the touch both possessive and tender.

Reuben didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mind was racing, caught between wanting to push away and something deeper, something that pulled him toward Harry like gravity.

As Harry lowered himself beside him, Reuben couldn’t ignore the feeling that everything had just shifted. The lines between them blurred in ways Reuben wasn’t sure he was ready for, but there was no going back now. Harry’s arm slid over him, pulling him closer into the warmth of his chest, and Reuben’s breath caught in his throat.

There was no room for distance, no space to escape. The room was quiet except for the soft sound of their breathing, and Reuben’s heart pounded like it had been running a marathon.

Harry shifted, his lips brushing over Reuben’s ear again, soft and lingering. “I told you we were together now, right?”

Reuben didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what to say. His head was spinning too fast. But Harry didn’t give him time. His hand moved down to rest on Reuben’s side, warm and possessive, and he pulled Reuben even closer.

Reuben didn’t know what to do, but part of him wasn’t sure he wanted to. Everything felt too much, but somehow, all at once, everything felt like it was exactly where it was meant to be.

Reuben settled into the bed beside Harry, unsure of how to position himself, but Harry’s presence seemed to anchor him, making everything else fade into the background. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but Harry didn’t press any further. Instead, he moved closer, wrapping his warm, naked body around Reuben in a way that felt possessive yet strangely comforting.

Harry spooned him gently, his chest pressed to Reuben’s back, and his arm slid around him effortlessly. Reuben could feel the heat radiating from Harry’s skin, a constant reminder of the closeness they now shared. Despite everything, despite the confusion and the uncertainty, Reuben felt a strange sense of calm settle over him.

Harry’s breath was warm against the back of his neck, his lips brushing softly as he whispered into the quiet space between them. His voice was low and honeyed, each word dripping with affection, or maybe it was possessiveness. Reuben couldn’t quite tell.

“You make me feel alive, Audrey,” Harry murmured, his breath catching slightly as he tightened his hold on Reuben. “There’s something about you... Something that makes me want to be closer to you. I need you, you know that?”

Reuben stiffened slightly at the words but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if it was the intensity of the moment or just the vulnerability that Harry had shown, but there was a part of him that didn’t mind being held like this. That didn’t mind the closeness.

“You don’t have to worry, Reuben,” Harry whispered again, his voice more tender now, almost like a promise. “I’ll always take care of you.”

Reuben’s breathing slowed, his body unwinding as Harry’s warmth enveloped him. Despite his scattered thoughts, despite the storm of emotions in his chest, there was a strange peace that settled over him. Harry’s arms were a steady anchor, keeping him grounded. He couldn’t help but let his body relax into Harry’s embrace.

Harry’s fingers brushed softly against his skin, caressing his arm gently as he held him closer. “Just relax, okay? Let me take care of you. I’ve got you, Audrey. Always.”

The words were like a lullaby, and Reuben felt his eyes grow heavy. His mind was still a whirlwind of questions, of doubts, but for the first time in a long while, it was easy to let go. He let Harry’s steady presence lull him into a sense of calm, his body melting against the warmth of the bed and Harry’s chest.

And slowly, sleep began to take over.

Harry continued to hold him, his touch never faltering, the weight of his body a constant reassurance. As Reuben drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help but wonder what tomorrow would bring, what this all meant, but for now, all he could do was rest in Harry’s embrace.

And in that moment, it felt like the world had stopped moving.

Chapter Text

Chapter 41

“Oh yes, suck me good, oh fuck!” Are the moans and grunts Reuben wakes up from. Harry is no longer laying, spooning him. Now he is spread out on the bed stil butt naked beating his meat.

Reuben is still crawled up with his back facing Harry, not daring to look at the scene happening. The grunting becomes louder and louder as the boy next to him reaches his climax, he could hear it, the final moan as he shoots it load and hear it fall down on his chest. Harry laughs and reaches over to whisper in Reubens ear.

“You know I can’t start the day with a good wank.” With that he gets up and wraps a white fluffy bathrobe from the hotel around him.

Reuben didn’t respond. He stayed curled up under the covers, eyes fixed on the elaborate crown molding of the Ritz’s ceiling, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. Harry’s laugh echoed faintly as he disappeared into the bathroom, humming some cheery tune that made Reuben’s stomach twist.

By the time Reuben emerged from behind the dressing screen in his jeans and sweater, Harry was already dressed: fitted black slacks, a dark turtleneck, a silver chain around his neck. He looked like every photo in a glossy magazine, effortlessly charming, comfortable in every space. The only thing that betrayed him was the way his hand kept grazing Reuben’s lower back whenever he passed him, like he needed to mark his territory.

“Thought we could make a day of it,” Harry said with a grin as they stepped into the elevator. “Just you and me. London’s ours.”

Outside, the city was alive with post-holiday bustle. Ice-rink music drifted in from Hyde Park, and the Thames glittered in the distance. But none of it managed to settle the strange pit in Reuben’s stomach. Harry was all charm, buying him a hot drink from a festive stall, guiding him through little backstreets and hidden magical storefronts, pointing out a jazz café he used to sneak into with Sirius.

And Reuben let him. He didn’t have the energy to protest when Harry intertwined their fingers or slipped an arm around his shoulder. The weight of it was familiar now.

At lunch, seated in a little wizard-friendly bistro tucked beneath a muggle florist, Harry stirred his coffee slowly, his eyes fixed on Reuben in a way that made his skin crawl.

“You know,” Harry said, voice quiet but coaxing, “I never thought someone like you would come into my life this year. You’re not like the others. You actually listen.”

Reuben looked down at his sandwich, unsure how to reply.

“I mean… Draco? Beckie?” Harry continued, smiling like he was sharing a secret. “They like you when you’re useful. But me? I like you when you’re messy. I like the parts you don’t show anyone. They don’t get that. They just want you to be good. Perfect. Slytherin-perfect.”

Reuben blinked.

“I don’t need you to be anything but mine,” Harry said, hand sliding over Reuben’s. “That’s what’s real.”

It was so sweet it almost hurt. And Reuben wanted to believe it, wanted to drown in that easy affection and soft-spoken devotion. But something in Harry’s gaze was too calculating. Too certain. It made Reuben feel like he’d already lost the argument before he even opened his mouth.

They spent the rest of the day shopping and wandering, Harry making Reuben laugh despite himself, always pulling him closer in the crowds, always just a little too insistent. By the time the sun had set and the city lights blinked on like stars, Reuben’s mind was fuzzy with contradiction.

He hadn’t answered Harry, not with words. But he hadn’t pulled away either.

And somehow, that felt like the same thing.

The restaurant Harry chose was candlelit and tucked into a quiet corner near Covent Garden, elegant without being stuffy, the kind of place where the waiters wore discreet gold pins and the butter was served in perfect curls.

They sat across from each other in a deep leather booth, a flickering lantern between them. Outside, London carried on, horns, laughter, the faint sounds of a busker's violin, but in here, the world was hushed, intimate.

Harry had ordered for both of them without asking, leaning in toward the waiter like he was already a regular. Reuben didn’t mind, he wasn’t hungry. Not really. The whole day felt like a soft blur.

Harry watched him over his wine glass. “So,” he said lightly, “what’s your favourite subject?”

Reuben blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question.

“I, uh. Charms,” he said after a moment. “And Ancient Runes.”

Harry grinned. “Of course it is. You’re all precision and mystery.”

Reuben made a face, stabbing at a piece of roasted carrot on his plate. “That’s not a real answer.”

“It’s completely a real answer.” Harry tilted his head. “Charms makes sense. You’re careful, but not boring. And Runes, ” He paused. “I think you like things that don’t give up their secrets easily. That need to be translated. Decoded.”

Reuben didn’t say anything to that. But it wasn’t… wrong.

Harry let the silence sit for a moment, just the gentle clink of silverware between them. Then he set his fork down and looked at Reuben, softer now.

“You and Snape,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “There’s something there, isn’t there?”

Reuben’s eyes flicked up. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “Just… he treats you differently. I’ve seen it. Like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers.”

Reuben’s brow furrowed, uncomfortable. “He’s my Head of House.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Mmm. It’s more than that though, isn’t it?”

Reuben’s stomach gave a small twist. He pushed his plate away.

“I don’t know,” he said, quieter. “We haven’t really talked since before the holidays.”

Harry smiled like he’d already known that. “Well,” he said, his voice light again, “he’d be stupid to lose you.”

There was something strange in his tone, gentle, almost wistful. But just underneath it, something unreadable. Calculated.

Harry didn’t press the topic, and Reuben didn’t ask. But something about the way he’d said it made Reuben feel like he was being watched from the inside out.

Reuben opened his mouth to ask what Harry had meant, to press for answers, but Harry was already ahead of him.

“Speaking of Charms…” Harry grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I wonder if you can actually use that wand of yours properly. Can you?”

Reuben blinked, confused for a second. “What?”

“You know,” Harry leaned forward again, his voice a little lower now, teasing but sharp, “show me something impressive. A little trick, a little flare of magic. You’re a natural, after all. A little flick of your wand… make it fun.”

Reuben shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of his glass. “Well,” he muttered, “I’m not seventeen yet. So I can’t actually perform magic outside of school.”

Harry’s grin stretched wider, eyes narrowing with playful intensity. “Ah, right. That little detail. Still, that’s not going to stop you, is it? You’re clever. You’ve got a way with your wand. I’ll bet you could do something without anyone noticing. It’s not like anyone’s watching.”

Reuben looked around, unsure. The candlelit atmosphere of the restaurant was cozy, the waiters moving in and out, but his heart was starting to pound. He wasn’t sure where Harry was going with this. “I’m serious, Harry. It’s against the rules.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His gaze was intent, burning through the facade of caution Reuben had built. “But it’s fun, isn’t it? And rules were made to be bent.” He gestured toward a waiter walking by, a young man balancing a tray of wine glasses. “Let’s see a little show. Just one spell. It’ll be between us, yeah?”

Reuben hesitated. There was something in Harry’s tone that pushed him, something that made it feel like an inevitability rather than a choice. The waiter was passing by, his back to them, and for a second, Reuben almost thought it was harmless. Maybe Harry was right. He could just do one thing.

The spell was harmless, just a little push, nothing too big. But Harry’s words hung in the air, encouraging him, egging him on. He glanced at the waiter and, almost instinctively, flicked his wand discreetly beneath the table, muttering the incantation under his breath.

The waiter, still unaware, suddenly tripped, his legs buckling beneath him as his tray of wine glasses crashed to the floor with a shattering sound. People around them gasped, but Harry, grinning like a cat who just got the cream, didn’t even flinch.

The waiter scrambled to stand, a mixture of embarrassment and confusion on his face. But Harry didn’t take his eyes off Reuben, his gaze darker now, filled with something unreadable.

“Well done, Audrey,” Harry said, voice low but pleased. “That was impressive.”

Reuben swallowed hard, feeling his stomach drop. He wasn’t sure if he felt exhilarated or terrified.

“Harry,” he murmured, eyes flicking nervously between him and the chaos the waiter was now trying to clean up, “I don’t know about that. I shouldn’t have, ”

But Harry interrupted him before he could finish, his voice gentle but firm, too calm. “You did well,” he said, smiling as if nothing had happened. “It’s just a little fun, right? A bit of magic. You’ve got it in you.”

Reuben couldn’t help but feel the weight of Harry’s gaze on him, pushing him further into the space where he wasn’t sure what was expected of him anymore. That thin line between playful and pushing boundaries was growing blurrier with every word Harry spoke.

Chapter Text

Chapter 42

Reuben was just pulling on a soft jumper, one of Draco’s, he realised belatedly, the sleeves still a little long, when a soft tap-tap-tap sounded at the window.

He padded over, blinking against the grey London light, and opened the latch. A sleek barn owl blinked at him once before offering its leg, where a parchment-wrapped envelope had been tied in delicate green twine.

Beckie’s handwriting danced across the front. Reuben smiled.

“Who’s that from?” Harry asked, emerging from the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his damp hair.

Reuben didn’t answer right away. He settled into the armchair by the window, legs tucked under him, and opened the letter. Inside was a sketch, Beckie and him from the Nutcracker night, mid-curtsy and bow, surrounded by floating snowflakes. Her writing wove around the page, bubbly and full of commentary: "We saw lions today. Real ones. My cousin screamed. The beach has purple shells. I found one and thought of you. Hope you’re somewhere dazzling, mysterious, and totally you. I miss your ridiculous drama. Also, get a haircut."

He laughed softly under his breath.

Harry came closer, drying his hair. “Something good?”

Reuben looked up and held out the letter. “Beckie.”

Harry scanned it, smiling. “She’s funny.”

“She’s the best.”

Harry’s hand trailed gently down Reuben’s arm. “You don’t have to write her back, you know.” His voice was quiet, lazy. “You’re here now. And she’ll be fine. Probably surrounded by admirers.”

Reuben frowned slightly. “I wasn’t going to, ”

Harry kissed his forehead. “Good,” he murmured. “Just don’t want your head all tangled up in other places when you could just… be here with me.”

It didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like a promise.

Reuben folded the letter, slow and careful, then tucked it into the small side pocket of his bag, the one with the extension charm.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t throw it away, either.

***

The days blurred together in a kind of honeyed winter haze, window-fogged mornings and city-warmed evenings, streetlamps flickering over cobblestone, Harry's laugh echoing too loudly in echoey hotel corridors, his hand always somewhere on Reuben: shoulder, back, wrist. It was soft, sometimes. It was sweet. Sometimes.

But the holiday had passed. Like a snowglobe setting down.

On the morning of January 2nd, Reuben stood with Hermione, Ron, and Harry in the gilded parlour of the Ritz, surrounded by staff who knew not to ask questions. Their trunks had already disappeared, sent ahead. The portkey, a delicate silver hairbrush tucked in a red velvet pouch, sat on the coffee table like a gift.

Hermione was adjusting the strap of her bag, already back in prefect mode. Ron looked a little green around the edges, clutching his wand like it might bite him.

Harry, of course, looked untouched by the early hour. A perfectly undone scarf, that faint smirk always on standby. His hand found Reuben’s waist like muscle memory.

“You ready?” he asked.

Reuben gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Harry looked at the portkey. “Then let’s go home.”

They all reached out and touched it at once.

With a jerk and a rush of wind, the room peeled away. Gilded walls and city lights collapsed inward, replaced with dizzying motion, until,

, Thud.

They landed in the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts, all knees and elbows and soft thuds. A few stray feathers floated down from Peeves' recent antics. The air smelled like castle stone and roasted chestnuts.

Reuben straightened slowly, shoulders tight under his winter coat. It felt like the castle was watching him.

Hermione dusted off her robes and immediately took charge. “Ron, we need to go check the Gryffindor noticeboard. First week rotations. Come on.”

Ron groaned but followed.

Harry lingered, his thumb brushing Reuben’s knuckles before he finally let go. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Reuben nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Harry leaned close, his lips brushing his cheek in a ghost of a kiss. “Don’t disappear.”

And then he turned, robes flicking behind him, disappearing toward the dungeons. Reuben stood for a moment longer. The castle was colder than he remembered.

The bells rang across the castle, low and resonant, echoing through the stone walls like the chime of something ancient waking up. The holidays were officially over. Breakfast was done. Students began pouring out of the Great Hall, the corridors swelling with life again.

Reuben lingered at the foot of the staircase, clutching the strap of his bag. With a flick of his wand, the soft winter clothes from London shimmered away, replaced with the structured green-and-silver of his Slytherin uniform. His robes still smelled faintly of cedarwood from the enchanted wardrobe in his dormitory.

He exhaled slowly, readying himself for the rhythm of classes again. Transfiguration first. Something normal.

He was just turning toward the first-floor corridor when,

“Reuben!”

It was Beckie’s voice, sharp and warm all at once. She and Draco were walking side-by-side down the marble staircase, robes crisp and expressions unreadable. Beckie’s braids were freshly done, tucked neatly behind her ears, and Draco looked even paler than usual, something tight set in his jaw.

“You didn’t write,” Beckie said, coming to a stop in front of him. She didn’t sound angry. Just hurt.

“Not even a note,” Draco added, quieter, but it struck deeper.

Reuben opened his mouth to answer, but before he could even form the words, someone was already there.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Harry’s arm snaked around his shoulders, pulling him in from behind like he belonged there. Reuben stiffened at the unexpected closeness, but Harry didn’t seem to notice, or care. He leaned in with ease and pressed a kiss to the side of Reuben’s neck, casual and intimate and far too public.

Reuben could feel Beckie freeze beside him. Could feel Draco go still.

Harry smiled at them both, entirely unbothered. “We’re off to Transfiguration, yeah?” he said, glancing down at Reuben with that same practiced softness he always wore when he spoke to him. “Don’t want to be late.”

Reuben didn’t say anything. He was too aware of the weight of Harry’s arm, the kiss lingering like a burn. He looked between Beckie and Draco, guilt clawing somewhere deep in his chest, but there was no time to explain, no words that would have made any of this make sense.

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. Beckie looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it.

And just like that, Harry steered him away, his hand firm at the back of Reuben’s neck, as though he hadn’t just detonated something delicate in the space between them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 43

The dormitory was quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire and the occasional groan of the Black Lake pressing against the enchanted glass. Reuben sat on the edge of his bed, back curved slightly, fingers trailing idle patterns along the duvet. His wand lay beside him, untouched since dinner. He hadn’t changed out of his uniform.

The door creaked open.

Reuben looked up, expecting one of the younger boys, maybe someone looking for a book or a borrowed tie.

It was Draco.

He stood in the doorway, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at him like he was trying to work something out in his head. The light from the fireplace carved sharp edges into his face, made his expression unreadable.

“You’re alone,” Draco said finally, stepping inside. His voice was low, careful.

Reuben didn’t reply. He shifted slightly on the bed, giving Draco space if he wanted to sit. He didn’t.

“Where’s Potter?”

Reuben glanced toward the window. “Probably off charming someone else’s robes off.”

Draco raised a brow. “Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”

“I’m not.”

Silence.

Draco moved closer, finally sitting on the bed across from him. The mattress gave a soft creak under his weight. For a moment, they didn’t speak, just sat there in the hum of the firelight, the tension coiling between them like smoke.

Then, quietly:
“You didn’t write.”

“I know,” Reuben said.

“You vanished. And now you’re back, and, ” Draco cut himself off, staring into the hearth. “He’s got his arm around you like he owns you.”

Reuben looked down at his hands. “He doesn’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Draco’s tone wasn’t sharp. If anything, it was soft. Wounded.

Reuben swallowed. He wasn’t sure what to say. Everything that had happened over break already felt like a fever dream, London, the kiss, the hotel, Harry's warmth curled around him like smoke. It had felt intense and bright and fast.

But now, back at Hogwarts, everything felt louder. Realer.

“You could’ve told me,” Draco said. “Or Beckie. Anything.”

“I wanted to,” Reuben admitted. “I just didn’t know how.”

Draco watched him. And then, in a quieter voice:
“Are you happy?”

Reuben didn’t answer.

He didn’t know if he could.

Chapter Text

Chapter 44

January passed in a blur of frost-bitten mornings, long evenings hunched over parchment, and a cold that settled deep into the stones of the castle. The excitement of the holidays faded fast, replaced by routine, coursework, and a quiet shift in the air, something brittle, almost imperceptible, like the slow forming of cracks in glass.

Reuben hardly saw Beckie. Not for lack of trying on her part, there were the occasional glances across the Great Hall, a few notes tucked under his pumpkin juice glass, all signed with her looping handwriting, but he never answered them. He couldn’t explain why. Or maybe he could, and just didn’t want to say it out loud.

He saw even less of Draco. They shared classes, of course, sat across from each other in double Potions, passed each other on the way to the dungeons, but they hadn’t spoken since that evening in the dormitory. Reuben could still feel the weight of the unanswered question: Are you happy?

Instead, Reuben was almost always with Harry now. And, by extension, Ron and Hermione. They walked together to class, shared a table at breakfast, studied in the common room with his legs draped over Harry’s lap while Hermione made colour-coded revision schedules. It was comfortable. Warm. Maybe even safe.

Still, something in him missed the sting of Beckie’s teasing, the quiet sarcasm in Draco’s voice, the strange comfort of not having to explain himself. But he pushed the feeling down. Pretended it wasn’t there.

One morning, a new parchment appeared on the Slytherin notice board, written in thin black ink and bordered with an official Ministry wax seal:

Apparition Lessons ,  Beginning February 1st
All students who will be seventeen by the 31st of August are eligible to take part in Apparition instruction, to be held on Saturday mornings in the Great Hall.
Instructor: Wilhelmina Twycross, Ministry of Magic
Permission slips to be signed and returned by January 30th.

There was a flutter of interest in the common room. Students crowded around the parchment before breakfast, murmuring excitedly. A few of the older seventh-years rolled their eyes, it’s impossible to get it on the first try, but even they glanced at the names already scribbled on the sign-up sheet tacked below.

Reuben stood in front of it a while, reading it through more than once, lips pressed into a thin line. The words blurred slightly at the edges. He didn’t sign his name right then.

But he took a permission slip anyway. Folded it neatly into quarters and tucked it into the inside pocket of his robes.

Just in case.

The next morning, Reuben caught the trio at their usual table, their plates half-filled with toast and eggs, steam rising gently from mugs of tea. The Great Hall buzzed with low morning chatter and the occasional screech of owl post, but Reuben felt a little more awake than usual.

He slid into the seat beside Harry, nudging his arm playfully. “Are you three signing up for Apparition classes?”

Ron grunted around a mouthful of food. “Nah. I’m fine with flying. Less chance of splinching your eyebrows off.”

Harry, with his usual effortless calm, shrugged. “Same here. Why bother when I’ve got a Firebolt?”

Reuben raised an eyebrow. “So… neither of you are learning?”

Hermione, ever dependable, sniffed primly into her tea. “I’m going, obviously. It’s a core magical skill. The more independent you are, the less you have to rely on brooms or Floo powder. Honestly, it’s quite short-sighted not to, ”

“I’ll go with you,” Reuben offered before she could fully launch into a rant. “I’ve got the slip already.”

Harry turned toward him, resting an elbow on the table. His smile was soft, warm, so easy. “You don’t need to do that, though. I can just take you anywhere you need to go.”

Reuben blinked. “What?”

“On my broom,” Harry said simply, like it was obvious. “Wherever you want. Just hold on, and I’ll take you.”

Hermione looked up from her tea, brows drawing together slightly, but said nothing.

Reuben glanced between them. “But… that’s not really the same.”

“Sure it is,” Harry said. “It’s just faster. And safer. You’ve never even flown with me yet.”

There was a beat of silence. Ron noisily reached for another sausage.

Reuben smiled faintly, unsure whether he felt flattered or… something else.

Harry leaned closer, pressing a kiss just under Reuben’s jaw, voice lowered to something only he could hear. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, you know.”

And just like that, the form in Reuben’s pocket, still unsigned, suddenly didn’t feel so important. He folded it once, then again, and quietly tucked it back into his bag without another word.

He wouldn’t be joining the Apparition classes after all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 45

The next few days followed the same pattern, quiet corners between classes, the occasional whispered exchange in the hallways, and Harry’s increasing insistence on pulling Reuben away from his friends. Harry would smile at him, that tight-lipped grin that never quite reached his eyes, and Reuben would follow. Every time, he thought maybe today it would be different, maybe Harry would act like he used to, like the Harry who was kind, the Harry he thought he could trust. But that Harry was slipping away, replaced by someone colder, more distant.

It happened again after Charms, when Harry leaned in close to him in the hallway, his voice low, a strange edge to it.

“Come with me,” Harry murmured, eyes scanning the empty corridor. “I need you for a bit.”

Reuben hesitated. He should be going to his next class, he hadn’t spoken to Draco all day, and Beckie... well, Beckie had started asking questions, too. But Harry was already pulling him along, fingers wrapped around his wrist too tight. The heat of Harry's skin sent a strange shiver down his spine.

They ended up in the abandoned classroom on the third floor. The air was stale, dust motes floating lazily in the dim light. The door clicked shut behind them, and Harry immediately started rummaging through his bag.

“Wait here,” Harry said sharply, as though giving orders was second nature now.

Reuben stood frozen, eyes following Harry’s every movement. Something about the way Harry moved felt... off. There was an energy in the air, something heavy.

Harry came back with a small vial, the liquid inside shimmering like liquid silver. He uncorked it with a practiced twist and brought it up to his nose. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing as he exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders. For a moment, it seemed like Harry had become someone else entirely, too calm, too quiet.

Reuben didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to ask, or if he even should. But he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the vial. It was like a question hanging in the air between them.

“Don’t worry about it, Reuben,” Harry said softly, as though reading his mind. “Just... relax. It’s not a big deal. You won’t understand, not yet.”

Reuben shifted uncomfortably. “What is it?”

Harry’s eyes flickered up to meet his, that grin curling back onto his lips. “You don’t need to know, love. Just trust me.”

The words cut through the air like a sharp knife, and Reuben swallowed, the unease gnawing at his insides.

“I trust you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, unsure why he felt like he needed to say it at all. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Harry smiled, that smile that made Reuben feel both cherished and trapped at the same time. He moved closer, one hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from Reuben’s face. It felt too intimate, too much.

“I know you do,” Harry murmured. “That’s why I can show you these things. You’re special to me, Reuben. You’re the only one who gets it.”

The words lingered in the air, hanging between them, before Harry leaned in and kissed him. It was too sudden, too intense, an overwhelming rush of feeling that left Reuben breathless, dizzy.

When Harry pulled away, there was no warmth in his eyes anymore. It was as though the kiss had been a way to seal something, to mark Reuben as his own.

“I’ll see you around,” Harry said with finality, stepping back, already reaching for his bag.

Reuben stood frozen, watching as Harry moved toward the door, leaving the classroom without a second glance.

He felt sick.

Chapter Text

Chapter 46

The days began to slip through Reuben’s fingers like sand. He stopped looking at the calendar. He stopped counting the hours. Harry had a way of making everything feel… timeless. Every day was just another haze, another soft fog curling around him as the days blurred into one another.

It was always the same. Between classes. In hallways. Just moments, flashes, a nudge here, a pull there. A quiet word, a touch on the wrist, a look that held him in place.

It had started innocently enough. Well, maybe not innocent, but… reasonable. Harry had a certain way of speaking, of getting things done. His charm was effortless, untraceable, and it settled over Reuben like a blanket.

“You don’t need to go to class today,” Harry had said, voice low and smooth in the hallway, his hand warm on Reuben’s shoulder. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know, Audrey. You just have to trust me.”

The first time Reuben hesitated. “I… I shouldn’t skip…”

Harry had grinned, eyes gleaming. “You’re clever, you can always catch up. Trust me.”

It wasn’t an outright command. It never was. But it felt like one. Reuben had never realized how easy it was to fall into Harry’s orbit, like a planet tumbling into the pull of the sun.

Then came the gifts.

The small paper-wrapped packages slid into his palm between classes, or tucked into his books during meals. Harry would look at him, those eyes piercing yet soft. “Try it,” he would murmur. “It helps. You’ll feel better.”

Reuben’s heart skipped each time, but something inside him wanted to believe Harry, wanted to let go of the heaviness that always followed him. That feeling of weightlessness came only when Harry’s hands were in his, leading him to dark corners, away from anyone who could see. To the places where Harry’s whispers became promises.

The first time he tried it, he didn’t really feel anything. It was small, harmless. He didn’t expect much, but when he pulled it into his lungs, something shifted. The world became softer. The sharp edges of the stone walls melted into warm curves, the tension in his chest just… disappeared. Everything was dull, in the best way possible. Soft. Pleasant.

The second time, Reuben felt it more. The light was dimmer, the sounds quieter, and Harry was next to him. There was a comfort in Harry’s presence that made Reuben’s pulse slow, his thoughts scatter.

“You’re not like them, are you?” Harry had said, voice teasing but soft. “You’re better than them. More than them.”

Reuben didn’t know what he meant by that. He never asked.

By the third time, Reuben was desperate for it. For the silence, the absence of thought, the slow wave of relaxation that curled through him. His grades began to slip. His friendships, those awkward remnants of his life before Harry, began to fade.

Beckie stopped trying to meet him. He didn’t even realize she was still sending him messages, until one day he glanced at his parchment and saw the inked words, You never answer. His stomach twisted.

Draco no longer greeted him in the hallways. In fact, Draco seemed almost to avoid him, as if he could sense the growing distance. But Harry… Harry was always there.

The first time Harry kissed him, Reuben felt like he was floating. It had happened in the middle of the hallway, just after they’d spent their second consecutive class together. The halls were empty, save for the occasional pair of first years, their steps too small for anyone to notice what was happening.

Harry had turned to him, those eyes intense, leaning in. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft, but it was real. Harry’s lips were firm against his, and Reuben could feel every second stretch out, like time itself was slipping under the pull of that kiss.

The kiss ended almost too quickly. Harry pulled back, the smirk still fresh on his lips. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Reuben hadn’t been able to speak. Instead, he’d nodded, almost absentmindedly. He didn’t question it. He didn’t want to. Harry’s approval was enough.

Days after that, it became a routine. A quiet exchange in corners, a pull of his wrist as Harry guided him. They didn’t need to go anywhere public. They didn’t need anyone else.

But there was always more. There was always something more to be taken.

One afternoon, after a particularly long break between classes, Harry led him to the third-floor corridor. The one with the thick curtains, hidden from view. It was quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of the drapes. Reuben leaned against the wall, his heart thudding.

Harry’s lips were at his ear, just a breath away. “I’ve got something special for you, Audrey.”

Reuben swallowed. “What is it?”

Harry grinned, pulling out a small rolled paper from his robes. “Something to help you relax.”

Reuben didn’t hesitate. He never did anymore.

He took the paper between his fingers, leaned back against the wall, and inhaled. He coughed at the sharp taste, but the rush came so quickly, the warmth spreading from his chest to his fingertips.

It was smoother this time. Everything spun, everything faded, and he was caught in a cloud, floating above the weight of it all.

“See?” Harry’s voice was distant, but close, “Isn’t that better?”

Reuben could barely speak. His mouth was dry, his legs shaky, but he nodded. He always nodded.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the world slipping away. Harry’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him, guiding him back to something that wasn’t real, but felt real.

And when he woke up the next day, it wasn’t with the comfort of the world in place. It was with the same hunger, because Harry had taught him what it meant to need.

Chapter Text

Chapter 47

The days were no longer days. They were a series of moments, fleeting flashes of light, like sparks in the dark, each one brighter than the last, until they blurred together. Reuben couldn’t remember the last time he had spent a full day with anyone else but Harry. Even when he was surrounded by the chaos of students or the quiet hum of the library, Harry’s presence was a constant hum in the back of his mind, tugging him in the direction of more.

More drugs. More silence. More Harry.

Harry had a way of making everything feel like it could be just right. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t obsession, at least not at first. It was just… comfort. Comfort in a place that felt hollow and empty, until Harry filled it. Until Harry’s touch, Harry’s words, Harry’s everything wrapped around him, held him together when he was on the brink of breaking.

It had started innocently enough, with just one shared hit here, a whispered promise there. But now it was every time they found themselves alone, whether in the shadowed corridors or tucked into the dim corners of classrooms, Harry pulling him away from everything else. Away from them. From Draco, from Beckie. And, most of all, away from himself.

He didn’t need to think about the next step. Harry always had the next step planned. Harry had always known what to do. And Reuben… Reuben was learning to stop questioning.

On the morning of another rainy Tuesday, Harry led Reuben to the abandoned classroom on the second floor. It was one of Harry’s favorites, hidden behind a thick curtain of ivy that had grown over the stone walls. It was quiet, undisturbed, the only sound the low hum of rain tapping against the windowpanes.

Reuben was still foggy from the night before, the residue of something intoxicating still clinging to his senses. Harry had been generous with the doses lately, almost too generous. But Reuben didn’t mind. It made everything easier. Made the world feel like it belonged to him.

Harry stood in the middle of the room, eyes gleaming. "Here," he said, offering a small vial, the contents swirling with a faint glow. "This one's different. Just for you."

Reuben didn’t hesitate. He took it, uncapping the vial. It smelled of sweetness and smoke, sharp and thick in the air. He could feel Harry’s eyes on him, watching, waiting for him to make that decision.

“Drink it,” Harry murmured, voice soft, coaxing.

Reuben swallowed, the liquid burning down his throat, settling in his chest. It was like nothing he’d ever felt. His heart raced, but it wasn’t his heart anymore. It was something else, something new. The edges of the room blurred, and the world tilted just enough to make him feel like he was floating. For a moment, the room was too much, and then… it was nothing.

He looked at Harry, whose face was lit up with a look of quiet triumph. "Feel better?"

"Yeah," Reuben whispered, voice hoarse. His body felt light, but his mind? It was heavy, weighed down with a thousand scattered thoughts. Thoughts he didn’t want to think, but couldn’t stop.

“You’re mine now, Audrey,” Harry said, the words as simple as breathing. “No one else. Just me. You understand?”

Reuben nodded, though something deep inside him tugged, like a thread pulling at the frayed edges of his conscience. But it didn’t matter. Harry was all that mattered. Harry was everything. And Harry always knew best.

***

The next few days were a blur. Every morning was the same, Harry pulling him aside, guiding him to that same classroom, offering something new. Something stronger. Something that made him forget.

But it was never enough. Reuben needed more. And Harry was always there to give it. To feed it.

But it didn’t go unnoticed.

Draco had been quieter lately. Not angry, not dismissive, just… quiet. He had always been sharp, always noticing things that others missed, but now, his eyes seemed to follow Reuben more closely. There were no questions. Only glances. And those glances were enough.

One evening, after a particularly long day filled with more of Harry’s promises and gestures, Reuben found himself walking down the hallway toward the common room when he bumped into Draco. The hallway was empty, the only sound the faint tapping of their shoes on the stone floor.

"Where’ve you been?" Draco’s voice was casual, but there was something behind it. Something more.

Reuben paused, unsure how to answer. He could tell Draco was waiting for something, waiting for him to say something, anything. But Reuben felt a knot form in his throat. He had stopped thinking about what Draco might say, stopped wondering what anyone else thought. All that mattered was the next hit, the next feeling, the next,

"Reuben," Draco pressed, stepping closer. "You’ve been avoiding me. Us." His eyes searched Reuben’s face, the lines of concern deepening.

Reuben swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Draco’s gaze. “I’ve just been busy… with classes and stuff. You know how it is.”

Draco didn’t buy it. He didn’t have to. His eyes flicked down, briefly landing on the subtle tremor in Reuben’s hand. Reuben quickly stuffed it into his pocket, but Draco saw.

“I’ll see you later, alright?” Draco muttered, not waiting for a reply before walking off, leaving Reuben standing there, hollow, a quiet storm brewing in his chest.

***

That night, as Harry found him in their usual spot by the window in the classroom, he could feel the weight of Draco’s words still pressing down on him.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked, voice casual, but there was an edge beneath it. He always knew when Reuben was not okay.

Reuben hesitated. He wanted to say something, wanted to scream out that he was losing himself, but Harry was already there, leaning in, his lips brushing against Reuben’s ear. Harry’s words were soft, seductive. “Don’t worry about them, Audrey. You’ve got me. And that’s all that matters.”

Reuben let out a shaky breath, the lingering doubt evaporating in the heat of Harry’s proximity. The world outside seemed too cold. Too sharp. But here, with Harry, it was soft. It was warm.

And that was all he needed to know.

Chapter Text

Chapter 48

The chill of winter had settled into Hogsmeade, the streets slick with frost and the sky a heavy gray, casting a gloomy shadow over the village. It was one of those weekends where everything felt quiet, still, almost suffocating. The kind of day where students bundled themselves in layers of scarves and cloaks, huddling into the warmth of the shops and pubs.

Harry, of course, had plans, plans that didn’t include anyone but him and Reuben.

They’d slipped away from the others, leaving the trio to their chatter at a nearby table, and made their way toward the Three Broomsticks. Harry had an air about him, a glint in his eye that made Reuben nervous in an exciting, sickening way. There was something undeniably magnetic about Harry when he was like this. He had the power to make Reuben forget everything, and at that moment, that was exactly what he wanted.

Inside the Three Broomsticks, the fire crackled in the hearth, and the air smelled faintly of butterbeer and roasting meats. But as they passed the bustling bar and the tables filled with students, Harry’s gaze turned sharp, calculating. He murmured something to Madam Rosmerta, who gave a knowing nod and led them to a back room, a place dim and far from the usual noise.

Reuben’s heart began to beat faster. He wasn’t sure if it was excitement or something darker. Harry had been giving him more and more of the vials lately, each dose stronger than the last. There was always something new. Something different. And Reuben, despite everything, was always eager for more.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Harry’s presence took over the small room. He moved toward a dark wooden cabinet, pulling out another vial, the liquid swirling inside. It was a deep shade of violet, glowing faintly.

“You know, this can’t be good for me, right?” Reuben tried to joke, his voice weak and unsteady. He shifted nervously, his eyes falling on the vial, but he was already in too deep. Harry’s influence had already rewired him.

Harry smirked, turning to face him with a dark glint in his eyes. “You worry too much, Audrey,” he said, voice low and slow. “It’s all part of the process. I told you, didn’t I? I know what you need.”

Reuben opened his mouth to protest again, but Harry was already in front of him, one hand gripping his jaw and forcing him to look up. Without warning, Harry’s lips crashed onto his, hard and demanding, swallowing any words Reuben might have had.

The kiss was rough, suffocating, and Reuben couldn’t help but give in, the taste of Harry’s mouth mixing with the bitter aftertaste of something he didn’t fully understand but needed, needed to push past whatever nagging part of him was still trying to resist.

Harry pulled back, breath shallow. “You’re mine, Reuben. You need to trust me. This will make you better. You’ll see.”

Before Reuben could answer, Harry poured the vial into a glass, his movements practiced and quick. “One more time, just for tonight,” Harry murmured as he handed it to Reuben. “You’ll feel better.”

Reuben didn’t question it. He didn’t want to question it. Harry was right. Harry always knew.

He drank. The liquid burned down his throat like fire, pooling in his stomach, spreading through his veins until the world tilted once again, more intense than before.

For a moment, it felt as if everything was perfect. A sharpness faded away, and all that was left was the pull of Harry’s presence.

But it didn’t last.

By the time they made it back outside into the cold, the world had become too much. Reuben’s feet dragged as he tried to keep up with Harry, the alleyway feeling longer and darker than it should have. His head spun with every step, his stomach churning.

“Harry,” he whispered, his voice weak, “I think I’m going to, ”

Before he could finish, his body betrayed him. The contents of his stomach spilled onto the cobblestones, the foulness burning his throat and filling his mouth. He gasped for breath, his knees buckling as the world spun faster.

Harry, ever the calm presence, reached over, pulling him up by the shoulders and wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the ice-cold expression in his eyes. “It’s alright, Audrey,” Harry cooed, his voice laced with a fake sweetness. “It’s just the magic settling in. You’ll feel better soon. It’s all part of the process. Trust me.”

Reuben didn’t know if it was the drugs or the weight of Harry’s words, but he felt a pang of sickness deeper than the physical nausea that had overtaken him. His body was still trembling, the cool night air brushing against his feverish skin.

“I, ” Reuben started, but Harry cut him off, his hands gripping his arms in a tight, possessive hold.

“You need me, Reuben,” Harry said, voice low and insistent, his lips brushing Reuben’s ear as he spoke. “You always will. You know that, right? You don’t have to go back to them. Your parents, they wouldn’t know what to do with you. But I do.”

The mention of his parents made Reuben freeze. He had never known who they were, not since that evening with Dumbledore.  The hollow space inside him where their memory should have been gnawed at him whenever anyone brought it up. But Harry? Harry always had an answer, didn’t he?

“Don’t you ever wonder?” Harry asked, his voice suddenly softer, more curious. “What they were like? What they would have wanted for you?”

Reuben’s heart skipped. He had never allowed himself to think about it. The pain of wondering, of not knowing, was too much. But Harry, Harry always knew. Harry always seemed to have the answers.

“You don’t need to think about that right now,” Harry continued, wiping the last traces of bile from Reuben’s lips. “But I can help. I’ll always be here for you. We’ll figure it out together, Audrey.”

Reuben didn’t know what to say. His head still ached from the nausea, his limbs limp in Harry’s grasp. But something in Harry’s voice, something brittle, snagged at him. He looked up.

And Harry was crying.

Not the silent, composed kind of crying Reuben might have expected from someone like him, but the trembling, boyish sort, shoulders shaking, tears running unchecked down his cheeks, his mouth parted in that helpless way that made him look… young.

“I just…” Harry whispered, voice cracking. “They’re gone. My mum, my dad. They died for me. And everyone’s always telling me I’m strong, that I’m lucky to be here, but Reuben, ” he faltered, eyes glistening, “I would give anything to feel them. Just once. To know what they smelled like. What it felt like when they hugged me.”

He collapsed forward into Reuben’s chest, clinging to him with desperate hands. “And sometimes I think I’m going mad, because I pretend I don’t care, I act like it’s all behind me, but it’s not. It never is. I’m so, ” he let out a broken breath, “, so tired of being alone.”

Reuben, stunned, could only wrap his arms around him, still trembling. Harry was curled into him like a boy who had never been held, fingers digging into Reuben’s cloak, breath hot against his collarbone.

“I need you,” Harry said. “I don’t care what happens. You’re mine. I need you to love me.”

There was a long, still pause, where neither of them moved. The frost-bitten world outside might as well have ceased to exist.

“I do,” Reuben whispered into Harry’s hair, not knowing if it was true, not knowing if it was the drugs or the kiss or the truth. “I do love you.”

And in that moment, dangerous and quiet and terrible, they both believed it.

Reuben stared up at him, feeling dizzy, but strangely calm. Harry’s words were like a balm, soothing the burning confusion inside of him. He didn’t need answers about his parents. Not when Harry was here, showing him what it meant to be cared for, at least, in his own way.

***

That night, Reuben couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind filled with the lingering sensation of Harry’s words. His parents. The thought of them unsettled him in ways he didn’t want to acknowledge. But Harry had been right. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need to know.

What he needed was Harry.

Harry knew what was best.

And that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 49

Reuben tried. For three full days, he tried.

He skipped Gryffindor Tower and wandered the Slytherin corridors again, sat beside Beckie in History of Magic, let Draco pass him notes in Ancient Runes. They didn’t ask questions, at least, not at first. They just filled the space around him with sarcasm and routine, like no time had passed at all. Beckie braided her hair with enchanted beads. Draco stole biscuits from the staff table and dropped one onto Reuben’s plate without looking at him.

But it was hard to pretend he wasn’t shaking.

The tremors started in his hands, barely noticeable. Then came the cold sweats, the tightening in his throat, the sudden, sharp cravings for nothing he could name. He barely slept, just lay in bed staring up at the green-hued canopy, feeling like his skin didn’t fit.

Snape noticed.

“You look like you’ve been exhumed,” he muttered during a quiet moment after class, eyes flicking over Reuben’s pale face, the bruise-like shadows under his eyes. “If this is due to a lover, get rid of them. If it’s illness, visit the Hospital Wing. If it’s neither, don’t come into my classroom like this again.”

Reuben just nodded, stomach twisted into a sour knot. He couldn’t even bring himself to say thank you.

Later that day, as students poured out of Transfiguration, Draco caught him by the wrist in the corridor.

“You’re sweating,” Draco said flatly.

“I’m always sweating,” Reuben lied.

“You’re shaking.”

“It’s just cold, ”

“No, it’s not.”

For a moment, Reuben didn’t answer. He couldn’t meet Draco’s eyes.

Then he smiled weakly and pulled his wrist free. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

But Draco let him go.

That night, Reuben didn’t go back to the Slytherin dormitory. He wandered instead, trailing the silent halls like a ghost, eventually curling up in the abandoned Prefect’s Bathroom. The steam didn’t help. The shaking got worse. His skin felt electric.

And that’s where Harry found him.

Wrapped in one of the spare towels, crouched on the tiled floor like a bird with a broken wing.

“There you are,” Harry murmured. His voice was warm. Reassuring. He knelt, touching Reuben’s hair. “You look awful.”

Reuben tried to say something sharp. Something sarcastic. But the moment he saw Harry’s face, his half-smile, the softness around his eyes, everything inside him folded.

“I didn’t want, ” he started, but his voice cracked.

Harry hushed him. Slid an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay. I know. I know it’s hard.”

He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a tiny folded parchment. Reuben’s stomach turned at the sight of it.

“It’s just a little,” Harry whispered. “Not like before. Just to take the edge off. You’re strong, Audrey. But even strong boys need help sometimes.”

Reuben didn’t reach for it. But he didn’t stop Harry’s hand either when he guided it to his mouth.

The taste was familiar.

The calm that followed felt like floating.

Chapter Text

Chapter 50

At first, it wasn’t every day.

Just when the tremors returned, subtle shakes in his fingers when he reached for his wand, the jitter in his voice when Professor Flitwick asked a question, the way his eyes couldn’t quite keep up with the text on a page.

Then it was mornings. Then mid-afternoons. Then “just a pinch to help sleep.”

Reuben told himself it wasn’t dependence. It was maintenance.

But by the second week of January, the powder felt stitched into his veins. Without it, the world came undone, colours too loud, footsteps too sharp, thoughts fragmented and clattering against each other. He could barely sit still. The fabric of things… thinned.

He started seeing things.

Not always clearly. Just, strangeness at the edges. A door that looked different every time he passed it. The shifting way shadows clung to the banisters. He thought he saw a stag once, made of smoke, galloping through the Slytherin corridor and vanishing into the wall.

When he turned his head too quickly, the world lagged behind.

“Everything okay?” Beckie had asked softly, one afternoon as they left the library together. Her hand had brushed his. He flinched. He hadn’t seen her approach.

“I’m fine.”

“You look tired.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She didn’t ask again.

***

He tried to tell Harry.

They were tucked in a little hollow behind the Charms classroom, hidden by velvet curtains and the hiss of nearby torches. Harry was leaning against the wall, Reuben between his legs, his breath warm against Reuben’s ear.

“I think I’m seeing things,” Reuben murmured, not quite daring to meet his gaze. “Not like hallucinations, just… things feel wrong. The corridors… the light. Sometimes I see people who aren’t there.”

Harry’s arms wound tighter around him. “You’re just tired, baby,” he said, so gently it hurt. “That’s all. It’s not the magic. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“I don’t know, ”

“Shh.” His lips grazed Reuben’s temple. “You need rest. You need someone looking after you.”

Harry kissed the hollow behind his ear. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Reuben nodded. Because it was easier. Because maybe it was true.

***

He started hearing a hum.

Low and constant, like a thread pulled taut through the air. He couldn’t find the source. It wasn’t in his ears exactly. It lived behind his sternum, inside his ribs. It was quietest in the Slytherin dorms. Louder near the upper floors. Loudest near the Astronomy Tower.

One evening, following the pull, he climbed the spiralling staircase after curfew.

And there, at the end of the long corridor lined with forgotten portraits and shuttered windows, he saw him.

Dumbledore.

Tall. Still. His back to Reuben, his cloak trailing behind him like the folds of night.

In his hand: a sword.

The hilt was wrapped in pale leather, worn smooth by time. The blade shimmered in the torchlight. It wasn’t heavy. It didn’t threaten. It hummed. It felt, true.

Reuben stepped forward.

He blinked.

The hallway was empty.

The torch hissed. Dust danced in the air. The sword was gone.

***

By Friday, he couldn’t remember what day it was.

In Potions, the scent of burning thyme and pickled eel made his throat tighten. Reuben stared at his bubbling cauldron, willing his vision to stay still.

Slughorn’s voice droned like an echo underwater.

His parchment swam before him.

His hand shook.

The quill slipped. Black ink spilled, blooming like a bruise.

And then,

The room lurched.

Chairs scraped.

“Mr Audrey, ?”

Reuben tried to respond, but his mouth wouldn’t move. The air thickened. Someone was shouting. A hand caught his elbow, and the next moment, the floor wasn’t there anymore.

***

When he woke, everything was white.

The bed beneath him was stiff. Cool. The Hospital Wing smelled of antiseptic and lavender. Soft footsteps shuffled somewhere nearby. The world felt distant.

“Ah, there he is,” came a voice, smooth, familiar, too rehearsed.

Harry.

He stood at the end of the bed, school tie askew, hair tousled like he’d run there from a duel.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in behind him. “He collapsed in class, poor dear. Overexertion, likely, ”

Harry smiled, laying a hand gently on Reuben’s chest. “He has a sleeping disorder,” he said, low enough to sound intimate. “It gets worse with stress. I should’ve warned someone. I’m so sorry.”

The nurse tutted sympathetically. “You boys and your pressure. I’ll bring him some dreamless sleep.”

She left. Harry waited a beat before lowering himself beside the bed. He leaned in close.

“Next time,” he whispered, brushing hair from Reuben’s forehead, “don’t skip breakfast.”

His breath was warm.

Reuben didn’t speak.

He closed his eyes.

He could still feel the hum.

And somewhere inside him, a sword waited, patient, real, burning like truth beneath his ribs

Chapter Text

Chapter 51

Reuben hadn’t wanted to say yes.

But Beckie had found him that afternoon, alone on the courtyard steps, hood up against the wind, shoulders drawn tight like a question mark. He was chewing on his thumbnail again, staring up at a pale clouded sky like it owed him an answer.

She’d said his name the way she used to, soft and knowing, with just enough kindness to crack through the numbness blooming in his chest.

“Come study with us,” she said, dropping her voice like they were children again, whispering in the back row of Charms. “Just for an hour. You don’t even have to read.”

Reuben didn’t know why he said yes.

Maybe because she still looked at him like he was a person. Maybe because her hair smelled like cinnamon and she had ink stains on her fingers. Maybe because a part of him, a scared part, still wanted someone to reach him.

So he followed her. Quietly. Like a shadow of himself.

The library was warm, humming with whispered voices and the soft shuffle of parchment. The lamps burned low and golden. Their table in the back corner still had the dent from where Draco had dropped his wand during midterms last year.

Draco was already there, neatly seated, his satchel open with stacks of color-coded notes spilling out like ribbon. He looked up the moment Reuben appeared, and his expression shifted from neutral to unreadable in a heartbeat.

“Hey,” Draco said, almost too casually.

Reuben nodded, not quite meeting his eye. “Hey.”

They sat in an odd silence as Beckie pulled out her things and Draco handed Reuben a spare quill. It was familiar, this rhythm, comfortable, even. But it didn’t settle inside Reuben the way it used to. It just made the ache in his chest sharper.

Beckie hummed as she flipped open her textbook. Draco clicked his self-inking quill and started reviewing Ancient Runes translations. Reuben sat still for five minutes before he realized he hadn’t even opened his own book.

He blinked down at the page. The words swam.

His fingers were jittery. His legs bounced under the table. He pressed his thumb into the soft inside of his wrist, trying to breathe evenly.

Beckie glanced over. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You haven’t written anything.”

Reuben tried to pick up the quill, but it slipped. His hands were sweating. He rubbed his palms on his robes, heart picking up speed like a drum.

Draco was watching him now. Not judging, just watching. He always noticed too much.

“Reu,” he said slowly, “you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

It came out too loud, too sharp. Beckie flinched.

“I’m fine,” Reuben added, softer. “I just,  I don’t feel great.”

“Do you want to go outside?” Beckie offered. “Get air?”

“No. I just, ”

He pushed his chair back too fast, and the scrape of wood on stone made nearby students look up.

“I need to go,” he said, already standing. “I can’t,  I’m sorry.”

“Reuben, wait, ” Beckie reached for his wrist, but he jerked it back.

“I said I’m fine!”

The silence that followed was immediate and painful.

Reuben stood there, breathing too hard, fists curled. Then he turned and fled the library before either of them could stop him.

He didn’t know where he was going.

The corridors blurred, his feet moved without thought. He just needed to be alone. Needed the air, the cold, the sky.

By the time he reached the Astronomy Tower, his lungs were burning. He stumbled to the railing and gripped it with both hands, shaking.

Below him, the grounds stretched out, snow-flecked and silent, the lake black under a silver sky. His breath fogged the air.

He pressed his forehead to the stone, tears stinging his eyes.

I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I’m not okay.

The wind tugged at his robes, and for a moment, he imagined what it would feel like to just, let go. Just lean forward and let gravity take it from there.

A sound behind him.

Footsteps.

“Reuben.” Draco’s voice.

Of course.

“I told you not to follow me.”

Draco came closer anyway. His face was pale in the twilight, but his eyes burned.

“You’re shaking.”

“I said go away.”

“I won’t.”

Reuben spun, something feral sparking behind his eyes. “Why do you care, Draco? You’ve got Blaise. You’ve got your whole bloody world of perfect notes and smug comebacks and glittering smiles. You don’t need me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“None of this is fair!”

His voice cracked.

“I feel like I’m floating out of my own body. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I feel like if I sit still for too long I’ll die. And I,  I miss you. I miss Beckie. I miss me. But I don’t even know who that is anymore!”

Draco stepped forward carefully, like Reuben was a wounded animal. “Let me help.”

“You can’t.”

“I can try.”

Reuben dropped to his knees with a sob he couldn’t hold in. The stone was freezing, but he didn’t care. The tears came fast and ugly, dragging everything down with them.

“I want it to stop,” he whispered. “I don’t know how.”

Draco knelt beside him. Not touching. Just close enough to be real.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Reuben looked at him, eyes red, chest heaving.

“…Don’t leave me,” he said. Not a demand. A plea.

“I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 52

Draco wasn’t subtle anymore.

There was no point in pretending.

Everywhere Reuben went, Draco was already there ,  or on his heels, sharp-eyed and unsmiling. He didn’t speak much, but his presence clung like fog. Solid. Inevitable. Silent.

He started walking Reuben to class. Not always side-by-side. Sometimes just close enough that no one else could slip in. Close enough that if Harry came into view, Draco’s posture would shift ,  chin lifted slightly, hand in his pocket, like he was daring him to try something.

Reuben never asked him to.

And Draco never explained.

It had started after the Astronomy Tower. After Reuben’s hands had trembled so hard he couldn’t undo his cloak. After Draco found him crying into a stone wall and stayed anyway.

Since then, he had become a kind of buffer. A soft blockade between Reuben and the rest of the world. Between Reuben and Harry.

Especially Harry.

Reuben would catch glimpses of him in the halls ,  pale face in the crowd, tie askew, staring too long ,  but every time Harry moved, Draco shifted like clockwork. Like he was counting Harry’s steps before they happened. He’d draw Reuben toward a shortcut, duck into a side corridor, linger near professors.

Once, outside Charms, Harry reached out to grab Reuben’s wrist ,  and Draco stepped in so fast their shoulders nearly collided.

“Watch it,” he said, too calmly.

Harry had smiled without smiling. “Relax. Just wanted to say hello.”

Draco’s voice stayed perfectly polite. “You said it. Now piss off.”

Reuben didn’t speak. He didn’t look at either of them. He just stood there, swaying slightly, pretending the cold sweat down his spine was just the winter air.

That day had been a good day.

But not all of them were.

***

It was hard to tell whether it was morning or night anymore.

The sky outside looked perpetually grey, and the castle had taken on that dull, muffled quiet that comes in late winter ,  heavy boots on stone, distant echoes of laughter that sounded too far away to matter.

Reuben barely noticed.

He couldn’t eat. Not really.

He tried, when Beckie or Draco gave him that look ,  the one that said just one bite, please, we’re trying ,  but his stomach revolted every time. Even the smell of food turned his mouth sour.

Draco took to cutting his toast for him. Putting it in front of him like a silent offering.

Beckie brought him peppermint tea and rested her hand on his shoulder a little too long.

“Just eat a little,” she whispered one morning. “You’ll feel better.”

Reuben nodded. Smiled like he meant it.

Then let the tea go cold in his hands.

It was past curfew.

Too late for excuses, too early for anyone to be awake on purpose. The castle had fallen into its eerie nighttime hush ,  a silence that seemed to stretch down every corridor, pressing against the windows like frost.

Reuben hadn’t meant to leave the dormitory.

But something in him had twisted, tight and frantic, and he couldn’t stay still. Couldn’t stand the closeness of the four-poster bed or the way the dormitory walls pulsed like they were breathing.

Draco had offered to stay up with him ,  again. Had asked, more like ordered, that Reuben come sit near the fire with Beckie and him until he was tired enough to sleep.

Reuben had nodded. Promised.

And then waited until Draco disappeared into the prefects’ bathroom.

Now, alone in the upper corridor above the library, he moved like a shadow cast by someone else.

He was barely recognizable.

The weight he’d lost clung to him like a ghost. His face had hollowed out ,  cheeks sunken, eyes too large for his face. His skin had gone that awful, candle-wax shade of pale that made his freckles look like bruises.

His lips were chapped. Fingers trembling. His school robes hung off him like wet fabric.

And those eyes.

The bags beneath them were charcoal-dark, like thumbprints pressed into his skin. There were nights he didn’t sleep at all ,  just lay awake listening to his heartbeat like it was a second voice whispering in his ear.

It had been a full week since he last saw Harry properly.

A blessed, strange week ,  spent ducking into classes with Draco close behind, letting Beckie braid little bits of his hair while he sat staring into nothing. No high. No voice in his ear. Just the weight of silence.

But now…

Now he could feel it again.

A pulse.

A pull.

The corridor was cold. Drafty. He didn’t remember why he’d come here, only that his head had started spinning in the dormitory and the urge to move had become unbearable.

He stopped at the top of the staircase, swaying slightly, hand on the rail.

That’s when he felt it.

A warmth behind him. Too close.

Then a voice.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

His whole body locked.

Harry.

Of course.

Harry’s voice was low. Careful. Like a match being lit in the dark.

“You look awful,” he murmured, stepping into Reuben’s space. “Really. You’re white as parchment.”

Reuben didn’t say anything.

He blinked slowly. Barely seemed to register the words.

Harry’s expression softened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in thin parchment. Familiar. Precise.

“Here,” he said, coaxing. “This’ll help. Just a little. You’ll feel lighter again.”

Reuben didn’t protest.

He didn’t even look up.

He just opened his hand like it was muscle memory. Harry placed the dose in his palm, fingers brushing his skin ,  warm, steady, rehearsed.

Reuben took it dry. Swallowed it with a blink.

There was no ceremony. No fear.

Just resignation.

The kind of surrender that looks like sleepwalking.

They walked in silence, Harry guiding him gently ,  hand at the small of his back like a lover.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Reuben followed, limbs loose. Breathing shallow. Like he wasn’t really there at all.

For a while, they didn’t speak.

And then Harry did. Quietly. Like he was speaking into a dream.

“I missed you.”

Reuben didn’t respond.

Harry’s arm slid a little higher, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of Reuben’s robes. Possessive. Gentle.

“I don’t sleep when you’re not there,” Harry went on. “Did you know that? I just… I lie awake thinking about how quiet it is without you.”

Still nothing.

“You’re all I have, Rue.”

They were halfway down the staircase now. Harry slowed.

“I need you.”

Reuben’s gaze was fixed somewhere far away, like he was watching something across the lake through a frost-covered window.

Harry’s voice wavered ,  just slightly.

“I know I’m not perfect. But you,  you make me feel real. You make it all stop. The noise. The guilt. You don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

Something wet brushed Reuben’s wrist. He blinked, glanced down.

Harry was crying.

Not the loud kind. Just silent, exhausted tears ,  like something cracked inside had finally started leaking.

“I just want someone to love me,” Harry whispered. “You’re the only one who ever did.”

The words hung there, sharp as frost.

Reuben blinked again, but didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even look at him.

His body was beginning to hum again ,  that artificial clarity, the false stillness of the high settling into his bones. It made everything feel far away. Quiet.

Harry exhaled a shudder.

“I missed you,” he said again.

And this time, there was no sweetness in it.

Just heat.

They were nearly at the bottom of the stairwell now ,  that strange, spiraling descent near the west tower exit, quiet and empty this late at night. The walls pressed close, and the sconces flickered dimly, the flames curling like the breath of something watching.

Reuben moved like a ghost.

His legs barely cooperated, knees locked and trembling from the inside out. The drug had taken the edge, but not the weight. His body was hollow, floating, skin too thin to keep in the heat.

He barely noticed that Harry had stopped walking.

Until Harry grabbed his wrist.

Hard.

Reuben blinked, slow and foggy. The world shifted focus ,  the touch too sudden, too sharp. His bones felt brittle beneath the fingers digging into his arm.

Harry’s eyes were different now. No longer wet, no longer soft. Just wide. Dilated. Dangerous.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asked.

Reuben flinched. The words felt too loud in the narrow space.

“I, ” he started, but his voice came out like dry air.

“Don’t lie.”

Harry yanked him closer. Reuben stumbled forward a step, barely staying upright.

“You think I haven’t seen you?” Harry hissed. “With him? Playing puppy to Draco bloody Malfoy like he’s going to fix you.”

Reuben’s breath hitched. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Harry’s hand slipped up to his neck, thumb brushing beneath his jaw in a twisted parody of affection.

“I’m the one who sees you.”

Reuben was trembling now. Visibly. The heat from the stairwell seemed to evaporate.

Harry’s voice dropped, too calm.

“I made you better. I gave you something no one else could.”

Reuben closed his eyes. His knees wobbled.

The hum of the drug buzzed like a thousand bees in his veins. Too fast. Too much. The world wouldn’t stop rippling.

“Say something.”

But Reuben didn’t. He couldn’t.

The silence stretched too long.

And then, Harry’s face twisted.

The shift was sudden, brutal.

“You fucking ungrateful, ”

He shoved.

It wasn’t a lurch. Not even a push with both hands.

Just a single, brutal movement.

Reuben’s balance snapped like a thread. His body pitched forward. His shoulder caught the stone wall, then missed. The first step cracked against his shin. Then his ribs. Then his cheek.

His head smacked against the landing with a wet sound.

Silence.

Then the soft patter of something hitting the stone.

Blood.

It pooled fast.

His fingers twitched.

Reuben didn’t move beyond that. Couldn’t. Everything was ringing ,  a high, shrill noise in his ears that wouldn’t stop. His vision was blurred, washed with the warm haze of red running down his cheek, into his collar. His mouth tasted like pennies.

But he was still conscious.

Barely.

And Harry’s footsteps were still there, right above him.

Standing on the landing. Breathing hard.

“Look at you,” Harry muttered. “Just look at you.”

Reuben’s eyes flickered open a sliver. The stairs swam.

He couldn’t lift his head. But he could still hear.

“I tried,” Harry whispered. “You needed someone. I was that someone.”

A pause.

“I made you better. And this is how you repay me?”

His tone was strange. Less angry now. Hollow. Like something inside him had cracked, folded inward.

Reuben’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

“You’ll come back,” Harry said, softer. “They always do.”

Then his footsteps began again. Measured. Fading.

He didn’t look back.

And Reuben, bleeding on the cold stone steps, slipped deeper into the dark ,  still conscious, still reeling, but utterly alone.

The corridor spun like a slow, sick carousel. Reuben stirred, breath catching, body heavy and trembling. Every muscle ached. His face throbbed ,  cheekbone, brow, jaw ,  all blooming with deep bruises under the skin. Blood crusted against his temple, tacky and metallic on his tongue.

He heard footsteps again ,  louder this time, closer ,  echoing in that strange way stone did in quiet halls after curfew.

“Reuben?”

Draco’s voice. Low, urgent. Coming fast.

Reuben tried to push himself up, a weak arm trembling beneath him. His vision wobbled, breath hitching in his throat. He almost made it to his knees, almost. But then his legs buckled and he went down hard again,

Right into Draco’s arms.

“No, hey, hey,” Draco caught him instinctively, arms wrapping around him with surprising strength. He eased Reuben down, lowering them both to the floor. “Don’t, just stay down, you’re not, what the fuck happened?”

Reuben tried to say something, but his lips moved without sound.

Draco cupped Reuben’s cheek, thumb grazing beneath one swollen eye. Reuben flinched, and Draco paused, his expression shattering, rage curling through it like smoke.

His voice dropped, sharp and raw:

“Who did this to you?”

He didn’t wait.

“Who fucking did this to you?”

His tone was low, vibrating. His hands, though, still gentle, reverent. One resting under Reuben’s jaw, the other brushing blood-slick hair off his forehead, fingers trembling.

Reuben blinked at him, lashes sticky with tears he didn’t remember crying. He was so pale it looked like someone had drained all the colour from him. His skin stretched thin, sickly over hollow cheeks. His eyes, enormous in the bruised frame of his face, couldn’t focus.

“Look at me,” Draco said, breathless. “Who did this?”

Still no answer.

Draco’s throat worked as he swallowed something hot and heavy and impossible to name. Fury burned behind his ribs, but he didn't raise his voice again. He just held Reuben’s face in both hands, carefully, like it was something precious, something cracked.

Like Reuben might disappear if he let go.

“I swear to god, if someone touched you, if someone laid a hand on you, Reu, ”

He stopped himself. A different kind of tremble moved through him now.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And this time, he didn’t ask again.

He just pulled Reuben into his chest and stayed there, holding him through the shaking.

Draco adjusted his grip, one arm under Reuben’s back, the other beneath his knees.
The moment he lifted him, Reuben gave a quiet, broken sound ,  not quite a whimper, but something guttural and small, the sound of a body too far gone to hold itself together.

“I know,” Draco murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Reuben’s head lolled against Draco’s shoulder, his breath shallow and quick against the hollow of Draco’s throat. He was so light. Too light. His collarbones pressed like glass through his shirt, skin cold, paper-pale, trembling in his arms.

Draco’s heart thudded against his ribcage with sick fury ,  rage at whatever or whoever had done this. But he pushed it down, for now. All that mattered was getting Reuben safe.

He walked quickly through the castle, not caring about the stares of portraits or the distant sound of Filch muttering somewhere behind the walls. His eyes burned with focus. His arms did not shake.

He didn’t ask the Room for somewhere to heal.
He asked it for home.

The door that formed before him was different from any he’d ever seen: warm brown wood with a round golden knob, the kind you might find on a cottage in Devon or some little wizarding village tucked behind the hills.

A gust of spring wind curled past his ankles.
And above them, soft wingbeats.

Draco glanced up.
A flock of white pigeons glided down and perched quietly on the roof’s eaves, their soft coos a lullaby that made the air feel suddenly far, far from Hogwarts.

He turned back to the door.

Reuben stirred faintly in his arms. A flicker of something ,  not quite awareness, but recognition ,  passed across his bruised face.

Draco guided him forward gently with a hand at his back.

The door creaked open on its own.

And there it was ,  Reuben’s cottage.

Lemon. Cotton. Soap. Sunshine.

A hallway with dark wood panelling and faded frescoes. Coat hooks on the left, ready for cloaks and scarves. A rug stretched ahead, deep reds and golds, leading to three little steps and a sun-drenched main room.

Draco carried him in.

The staircase ahead curled up toward the first floor, its rail a swirl of wrought steel. Behind it, a massive stained-glass wall glowed with golden scenes of spring: birds in flight, blossoms opening, the quiet shimmer of swans gliding across a silver lake.

Draco paused to shift Reuben in his arms. The boy didn’t resist. His hands hung limp, his eyes barely open. Bruises patterned his face and neck in ugly hues. His lips were chapped. His breath rasped.

“Looks quite neat,” Draco said quietly, like he was afraid to break the spell.

Reuben turned his head, slowly. Sunlight from the glass spilled down his body ,  what was left of it ,  like he was being painted back into the world.

“The house,” Draco added. “It looks... like you.”

Reuben murmured, voice like ash

They stood there in the stillness.

Then Draco guided him through the hallway and toward the garden. The back door opened at the faintest touch.

The outside stretched wide ,  a gentle slope of wild grass and pale daffodils, ringed with trees that whispered in the wind. The great willow stood tall at the garden’s centre, its branches dipping low in greeting.

Draco stepped forward.

Reuben tried to stand. Took a weak, unsteady step from Draco’s arms.

And collapsed.

Draco caught him instantly, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other around his shoulder.

Reuben fell into him, all over again. Not crying. Not speaking. Just... there. Like he’d stopped being a person and become something weightless and breakable and quiet.

Draco cupped his cheek. His thumb brushed the edge of a purple bruise.

“Who did this?” he asked, voice low. Tight.

Reuben blinked. Didn’t answer.

“Who did this to you?”

Still no answer ,  only Reuben’s breath, fogging faintly in the soft garden air.

Draco looked like he could kill. His jaw set. His eyes cold fire. But his hands stayed soft as he touched Reuben’s face, brushed his knuckles along his jaw.

Then, with a strength he didn’t even feel, Draco swept Reuben up again ,  arms curled under his knees, hand at his back ,  and turned toward the cottage.

Not just a Room now. Not just a place to rest.

This was his.

And Draco was bringing him home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 54

The light was soft. Golden. Filtered through the stained glass like morning poured in honey.

Reuben stirred.

His eyelids dragged open like they were stitched to his cheeks, and for a long moment, the only thing he could register was the hum of quiet. No shouting. No spells. No stairs beneath him or blood in his mouth.

Just the sheets, warm and clean against his skin.

He blinked again.

He was in his bed ,  the one in the cottage. The one with the dark wood headboard and the pressed linen duvet he never remembered choosing but had always felt like his. Somewhere, he could hear birdsong. Pigeons. Distant wind in the garden.

And then,

Draco.

Sitting in the chair at the foot of the bed, facing him. Silent. Perfectly still, hands folded in his lap.

His grey sweatpants were wrinkled. The white shirt he had stolen hung too tight across his chest, a small, damp mark near the collarbone where it looked like he’d spilled water. Or sweat. Or tears.

Reuben tried to sit up, but his muscles screamed. Everything inside him felt hollow, like his bones had turned to smoke.

Draco didn’t move. Just watched him. Eyes sharper than Reuben had ever seen. Like they’d been honed over hours of silence.

"You're awake," Draco said quietly.

His voice was dry. Controlled. But the tension beneath it throbbed like something barely contained.

Reuben tried to speak. Nothing came. His throat was a scrape of ash.

"Don't talk," Draco added, already standing. He moved toward the side of the bed, reached for the cup of water on the nightstand, and held it out.

Reuben stared at it.

“Do you want it?” Draco asked.

A nod. Slow. Careful. Reuben reached, shaky fingers barely managing to curl around the glass.

Draco stayed close, ready to catch it if it fell.

The water was cold. Sharp. But it brought him back into his body just a little more.

“I cleaned you up,” Draco said after a pause. “You were, bloody. Everywhere.”

Reuben didn’t answer. His eyes fell to his arms, his hands. The bruises were already darkening, splotched violet and black beneath his skin.

Draco crouched beside the bed now, one hand resting on the edge of the mattress. His face was set, but his voice turned quiet.

“Who did this?”

No response.

“Reuben, ”

“I know who,” Draco cut himself off, voice brittle. “I just need to hear you say it.”

Reuben looked away.

The silence stretched.

“I’m not leaving,” Draco said finally, voice low. “You can push me out a hundred times. Doesn’t matter. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

He stood again. Walked to the window, pulled back the curtain. The sunlight spilled in, casting stained-glass colors across the floor like broken mosaics.

“You don’t have to talk. Not yet,” he said softly. “But when you’re ready, I’m not going anywhere.”

Reuben's fingers were still curled around the glass, but his hand had gone slack. It tilted a little, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim before Draco reached over and gently took it from him again, setting it back on the nightstand.

Reuben exhaled shakily.

He didn’t look at Draco, he couldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere on the window, on the blur of garden and sky just beyond the stained glass. He didn’t need to see Draco to feel him. The air around him was full of him: his scent, his heat, the steady, unreadable thrum of his presence.

Reuben shifted. His legs slid against the sheets like they were made of wet cloth. He gathered himself slowly, bracing a hand against the mattress, trying to sit fully up.

“Don’t,” Draco said sharply, already stepping closer. “You’re not, ”

“I’m fine,” Reuben rasped. Voice dry as parchment.

“You’re not,” Draco snapped.

Reuben gave him a thin smile, humourless and brittle. “Yeah. No kidding.”

He tried again anyway. Managed to swing one leg over the side of the bed. His foot hit the Persian rug softly.

Then the other.

Then the rest of him collapsed forward.

His knees buckled.

The room tilted,

But Draco caught him. Arms around his waist, strong and steady. His body a wall of warmth as Reuben fell into him with all the grace of a broken wing.

“Fuck,” Draco hissed. “Reuben, ”

“I’m okay,” Reuben whispered again, hoarse. But it was a lie and they both knew it.

Draco didn’t say anything at first. Just held him there. One arm around Reuben’s back, the other steadying him at the ribs like he might fall apart if Draco let go for even a second.

“You’re not okay,” Draco muttered again, more to himself than anything.

Reuben’s forehead dropped to Draco’s shoulder. His skin smelled like sun-warmed cotton. Familiar. Safe.

They stood like that for a long beat. Then Draco’s voice, tight against Reuben’s temple:

“You should’ve told me.”

Reuben didn’t answer.

Another pause.

Draco’s hand slid up to cradle the back of Reuben’s neck. Gentle. The way you hold something that’s already cracked.

“I should’ve seen it sooner.”

Still, Reuben said nothing.

Eventually, Draco pulled back just enough to see his face. His hands came up, cupping his cheeks. His thumbs traced gently along the swollen shadows under Reuben’s eyes. His bruised temple. The split just above his brow. The mess of it all.

His expression twisted, pain and fury and something else that Reuben couldn’t name. Something older. More permanent.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Draco said, voice low. “But I’m not going to let you go back to him.”

Reuben blinked slowly. “You don’t, ”

“I do.” A muscle in Draco’s jaw ticked. “I do know.”

A silence bloomed between them. Throbbing. Full of everything they hadn’t said.

Then Reuben’s voice, barely audible: “I just wanted to feel something.”

It broke something in Draco. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet internal fracture, a kind of helpless shatter he couldn’t fix with magic or sharp words.

Draco’s voice was rough. “You feel like a fucking ghost.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to vanish on me again.”

Reuben looked up at him.

“I won’t let you,” Draco said, firmer now. “Not ever.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 55

It began in small ways.

The first day, Reuben couldn’t stand on his own. His legs gave out the moment he tried. Draco didn’t comment, just moved to his side with steady arms, catching him before he hit the floor. He didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t even sigh. Just held him a moment longer than necessary and helped him back to the bed, arranging the blankets like he was tucking in something fragile and precious.

The second day, Draco coaxed him to eat. Not much. Just a little spoonful of broth at a time. He sat beside the bed with a bowl cradled in one hand, the other offering slow, patient movements, like feeding a bird.

Reuben didn’t speak. Barely made eye contact. But he opened his mouth when told, and swallowed what he could.

Draco said things sometimes, soft things, just to fill the space. Stories about the common room. A strange thing Pansy had said. A dream he’d had where Blaise was accidentally knighted by the Minister for Magic.

Reuben listened.

Didn’t smile.

But he listened.

The third day, Draco helped him to the bath.

It wasn’t a grand thing. No candlelit steam or enchanted water lilies. Just a quiet, clean space with a deep porcelain tub and warm running water. Reuben sat on the little wooden bench, arms slack at his sides, letting Draco undress him piece by piece. Not like a lover, like something holier. Reverent. Careful.

The shirt caught at Reuben’s shoulders. A hiss escaped him as the hem grazed a bruise, and Draco flinched.

“Sorry,” he said, instantly. “I’m, God, I’m trying to be gentle.”

“You are,” Reuben murmured, voice like paper. “It’s just me.”

He let Draco lower him into the water. Let him pour warm water down his back with a brass jug. Draco didn’t look away from the mess of Reuben’s skin. He washed him with a soft cloth, pressing it over every cut and bruise, every hollow and scar. His touch was light but constant. Anchoring.

By the end, Reuben was too tired to walk. Draco dried him, dressed him again in loose cotton, and carried him back to bed.

On the fourth day, Reuben asked for tea.

Just that. “Tea?”

Draco nearly dropped the book he’d been reading aloud. “Anything. What kind?”

“English breakfast. Splash of milk. One sugar cube.”

Draco smiled, and it was the first time Reuben saw that dimple in his cheek again. “So demanding.”

He brought it, of course. In a porcelain cup from the kitchen downstairs, the one with tiny painted swans. Reuben’s fingers trembled around it, but he managed to sip. Draco sat beside him, their knees almost touching on the bed.

They didn’t talk that morning. They just drank tea and watched the pigeons fly past the window.

By the end of the week, Reuben was walking again.

Slowly. Carefully. With Draco at his side, always.

They circled the garden once a day, along the cobblestone path that curved beneath the willow tree. Sometimes Reuben stopped to lean against the trunk, chest heaving. Draco didn’t rush him. Just stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, looking like he belonged there.

They didn’t talk about Harry. Not yet.

They didn’t talk about the bruises, or the near-death silence that hung over the cottage like morning fog.

They just... existed.

Together.

Draco cooked. Reuben ate. Draco watched him sleep sometimes, in the armchair across the room. Reuben pretended not to notice.

And somehow, the hours passed.

The sun rose. The sun set.

And Reuben, for the first time in weeks, felt like he might still be inside a body worth living in.

Chapter Text

Chapter 56

The air in the garden felt different today, lighter, almost. The thick fog of uncertainty that had hung over Reuben for so long seemed to lift with every step he took, even if it was slow. Draco stayed close, always at his side, but never hovering too much. The moments when they walked like this, side by side, without the rush of conversation or forced pleasantries, felt the most comfortable.

The grass beneath their feet was still wet from the morning dew, but the warmth of the sun made everything gleam, reflecting off the droplets as they moved along the path. Draco had insisted that Reuben wear his shoes, a pair of worn-out boots that still had some life in them. They were a little too big, but they fit well enough for the day.

Draco kept a steady pace beside him, hands in his pockets, his voice low and easy as he filled the silence with bits and pieces of the world outside this cottage.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Draco said with a half-smirk, eyes ahead. “Pansy’s got it in her head that we should start a new club at school, something about ‘becoming more connected with the universe’ or some other ridiculous thing.”

Reuben let out a small, dry laugh, even though he didn’t quite get the joke. It was the first time in days that something even remotely funny had found its way through the haze in his mind.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Reuben replied softly, though his voice still sounded faraway.

Draco continued as if the words had a life of their own. “And you know what’s worse? She’s dragging Blaise into it. He keeps saying he’s ‘too busy’ for anything like that, but I think he’s secretly into it. The moment she started talking about crystals and aligning her chakras, he was hooked.”

Reuben’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “Chakras?”

“Don’t ask.” Draco’s tone dropped to something teasing, but there was an edge to it that wasn’t quite playful. “He’s looking for a new hobby, apparently.”

They turned the corner of the garden, where the willow tree stood, its long branches swaying gently in the breeze, casting long shadows over the patch of grass beneath. The world seemed quieter here, tucked away beneath the limbs of the old tree.

Reuben slowed his pace, letting his hand brush over the rough bark. There was something comforting about the solidity of the tree, something that didn’t ask anything from him. Just... was.

“Do you miss school?” Draco asked suddenly, his voice carrying just enough curiosity to make it clear that he wasn’t just trying to fill the space.

Reuben thought about it for a moment. His mind flickered to the looming hallways of Hogwarts, the crowded staircases, the murmurs in the hallways. It wasn’t the school itself that he missed, he wasn’t sure if it was ever home to him. It was the life in it, the constant buzz of motion. Even if it was all a little too loud, a little too much.

“I don’t know,” Reuben said quietly. “Maybe. I miss... having something to do, even if it was terrible.” He glanced sideways at Draco. “What about you? Do you miss being around all of them?”

Draco smiled, a little ghost of a grin. “Not as much as you might think. Honestly, I’ve gotten used to the quiet here. It’s...” He hesitated, his fingers twitching in his pockets. “Nice. Calming. Gives me space to think.”

They stood there for a moment, the silence stretching out comfortably around them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 57

The garden was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirp of birds. The cool morning air clung to the earth, and Reuben could feel it brushing against his face, the faint smell of fresh grass and wildflowers mixing with the crisp scent of dew.

He felt Draco walking beside him, so close that he could feel the faint presence of him, but not crowding him. Reuben's pace was slow, measured, and though every step was an effort, there was a strange comfort in it. His body still ached, but it felt like his muscles were remembering how to work again. Draco was patient, never pushing him, just letting him set the rhythm.

The quiet between them was steady, comfortable even. Draco had been talking about trivial things, the weather, gossip from the castle, professors' quirks, but Reuben could tell he wasn’t doing it just to fill the silence. He was trying to keep things light, not expecting anything from Reuben, letting him exist in the space without pressure.

But then, out of nowhere, Reuben’s voice broke through.

“How’s Beckie?” he asked, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. He hadn’t meant to ask, but the question had slipped out before he could stop it.

Draco’s footfalls faltered, just for a second, before he carried on walking at the same pace. Reuben could feel him stiffen slightly, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, even. “Beckie’s... well, she’s struggling,” Draco said, his gaze trained ahead. “She’s hurt, Reuben. She doesn’t understand why you’ve distanced yourself from her.”

The words hit Reuben like a punch to the stomach. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He hadn’t meant to make anyone feel this way, but it was impossible to deny the truth of it now. His chest tightened, a pang of guilt rippling through him.

“I... I never meant to hurt her,” Reuben whispered, his voice softer now, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “I just... I don’t know how to fix it.”

Draco didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the words hang in the air. They continued walking, but the distance between them felt a little wider now, even though it was the same. Reuben could feel the weight of the silence between them, like a thin layer of ice that hadn’t quite cracked.

“You’ll have to approach it slowly,” Draco finally said, his voice measured. “She’ll need time to understand, just like you do. But you can’t hide from it forever, Reuben.”

Reuben’s shoulders sagged, but he said nothing. It was true. He couldn’t keep hiding from her, from everyone. But the idea of facing them, of facing her, was like staring into an abyss. How could he explain it all? How could he explain the weight of the things he didn’t even understand about himself?

They walked in silence for a few more minutes, the crunch of their footsteps the only sound between them. Then, they reached a small pond, nestled in a secluded part of the garden. The water shimmered in the morning light, the gentle ripple of it reflecting the soft, dappled sunlight. It was tranquil here, peaceful in a way that made Reuben’s chest tighten even more. The world was so still, and yet everything inside him felt so... broken.

Draco led the way to a fallen tree trunk near the water’s edge. He gestured for Reuben to sit, and after a moment’s hesitation, Reuben complied, sinking onto the trunk. The cool wood pressed into his legs, grounding him. The air felt fresh, but also heavy, like something important was about to be said.

Draco sat beside him, not too close, but close enough that Reuben could feel his presence. Without a word, Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out the small hairbrush that had appeared in the Room of Requirement. He held it up in front of Reuben, almost as if offering it. The gesture felt so natural, as though they had been doing this forever.

Reuben watched the brush for a moment, before giving a soft nod. Draco began brushing his hair, the soft strokes gentle against Reuben’s scalp. The motion was steady and soothing, and for a moment, Reuben forgot about everything else, about the weight of the world and the heaviness in his chest.

Draco’s voice broke the silence once more, quiet and casual. “What do you like, Reuben?” he asked, as though the question were a simple one, but there was something deeper in his tone, an invitation to speak, to open up.

Reuben hesitated, his chest tightening again. What did he like? The question felt so simple, and yet it stung with the reality of everything he had been hiding from. But Draco’s touch was calming, the rhythmic motion of the brush almost hypnotic. He found himself thinking about the things that had always comforted him, the small pleasures he used to enjoy.

“I... I like Russian,” Reuben finally murmured, the words escaping in a near-whisper. He immediately felt a flush rise to his cheeks.

Draco’s hand paused, the brush stilling in his fingers. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind moving through the leaves, the distant splash of water from the pond.

“Hm?” Draco asked, his voice quiet, like he hadn’t quite heard. His expression had shifted, and now he was looking at Reuben with curiosity.

Reuben’s face flushed harder, and he almost wished he hadn’t said anything. “I said... I like Russian,” he repeated, this time more clearly, but still with a hint of hesitation. “I’d like to learn it one day.”

Draco’s brow furrowed slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Russian, huh?” He sounded amused, but not in a mocking way. “Well, I suppose you could say that I’m part Russian.”

Reuben blinked, momentarily distracted from his own discomfort. “You are?”

Draco gave a small nod. “My grandfather was from Russia. He taught me some of the language when I was younger. It’s not something I speak all the time, but... I know enough.”

Reuben turned slightly to face him, eyes wide with surprise. “That’s amazing. I never would’ve guessed.”

Draco shrugged, a faint, almost shy smile on his face. “It’s not something I talk about often. It’s part of me, but... it feels strange, sometimes. Like a different life.”

There was a pause then, the sound of birds singing nearby filling the space between them. Reuben felt a sudden swell of gratitude toward Draco for sharing that part of himself, for trusting him enough to say it. He hadn’t expected it. The walls between them felt a little thinner now.

Draco was still looking at him, his expression soft but serious. “Do you want me to help you relax, Reuben?” His voice was gentle, the words filled with something tender that Reuben couldn’t quite place.

Before Reuben could respond, there was a sudden shift in the air, like a subtle change in the room around them. Draco’s eyes flicked down, and to Reuben’s astonishment, a small book appeared in Draco’s hands. The leather cover was embossed with intricate designs, a delicate gold script in Russian curling across the front.

Reuben blinked, staring at the book. “What’s that?”

Draco smiled, though there was a touch of amusement in his gaze. “Russian poetry. I think it’s just what you need.”

Reuben’s eyes widened. “Poetry?” he asked, his voice filled with awe.

Draco nodded, opening the book carefully. He began to read, the words flowing smoothly despite their foreignness. The language was different, harder to understand, but the way Draco read it, with such a steady, calming voice, made the words feel like music.

Reuben leaned back against the fallen trunk, the soft grass beneath him, and let Draco’s voice wash over him. The poetry was beautiful, even though he couldn’t fully understand it. The rhythm of the Russian words was soothing, and soon, Reuben found his eyelids growing heavier, the gentle pull of sleep tugging at him.

By the time Draco reached the end of the poem, Reuben was drifting in and out of consciousness, the last thing he felt was the warmth of the sun on his skin and the soft sound of Draco’s voice, reading quietly, like a lullaby.

Draco continued reading softly, his voice barely above a whisper, until the last words slipped from his mouth, a quiet murmur that seemed to linger in the air.

And there, in the stillness of the garden, with the soft rustling of the leaves above them and the gentle hum of the world around them, Reuben fell asleep. His body relaxed fully against the soft earth, the cool grass beneath him a grounding presence as he drifted into slumber.

Draco didn’t move immediately. He sat there for a while, watching Reuben sleep, the weight of the moment sinking in. He carefully shifted, lifting Reuben’s body with care, and laid him down on the soft bed that had appeared in the field. The sheet was cool and soft against Reuben’s skin as Draco gently adjusted it, pulling it up higher to cover him.

For a long moment, Draco stood by the bed, watching the rise and fall of Reuben’s chest as he slept.

Draco lowered his voice, the words soft and steady as he gazed at Reuben, his chest rising and falling with each quiet breath.

"Я любил тебя, но я не понимал,
Как любить без слов, без светлых глаз.
Ты был для меня как осенний туман,
Моё сердце не знало пути, но любило тебя всегда."

He whispered the words again, slower now, his hand gently brushing back a stray lock of hair from Reuben’s forehead.

"Ты был как ветер, мой непонятный свет,
Я пытался понять, но всё было в тени.
И как я могу любить, если не знаю тебя,
Твоя тень исчезала перед моими глазами."

Draco looked down at him once more, his voice barely audible now, as if speaking to Reuben’s very soul.

"Я любил тебя всегда, не зная почему,
И может быть, ты никогда не поймешь."

• Poem by Anna Akhmatova, “I Loved You" (Я вас любил)

I loved you, but I didn’t understand
How to love without words, without shining eyes.
You were like autumn mist to me,
My heart didn’t know the way, but it always loved you.

You were like the wind, my mysterious light,
I tried to understand, but everything stayed in shadow.
And how can I love, if I don’t know you?
Your shadow vanished before my eyes.

I always loved you, without knowing why,
And maybe you will never understand.

Chapter Text

Chapter 58

Reuben’s eyelids fluttered as the last syllables of Draco’s whispered Russian poem faded into the morning air. A distant birdcall wove through his half-sleep, and for a moment he thought he was still in the garden, lulled by Draco’s voice.

Then he sensed movement at the foot of the bed. His eyes cracked open.

Beckie sat there, poised and still, her silhouette outlined by the pale dawn light filtering through the high window. In her arms was Apricity, curled contentedly against her chest, eyes half-closed in feline bliss.

“Hey,” Beckie said softly, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. Apricity stretched, giving a tiny yawn before nestling deeper into Beckie’s arms.

Reuben swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “Beckie?” His voice felt raw, unfamiliar after so long without speaking her name.

She offered him a small, guarded smile. “Morning. Apricity woke me up meowing, wanted to check on you.” She lifted the cat so it could blink sleepily at him. “She said you looked like you needed company.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The space between them felt charged: relief, guilt, hope all tangled together. He glanced at Apricity, then back to Beckie. She shifted, settling Apricity on the bedside table where the cat immediately began kneading the wood with gentle paws. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me,” she admitted. “After…everything.”

Reuben swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as muscles unfamiliar with such motion complained. Beckie rose and moved to help, steadying him with a hand at his elbow. The contact was tender, careful.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes meeting hers. “I never meant to push you away.”

Her expression softened. “I know. I was hurt, but I get why you needed space.” She paused, searching his face. “How do you feel?”

He flexed his fingers and then his shoulders. “Better. Still…fragile.” He managed a small, wry smile. “Like I’ve been asleep for a hundred years.”

Beckie’s lips curved. “Well, someone had to watch over you while you slept.” She nodded toward Apricity, now perched regally on the table. “She insisted.”

Reuben laughed, quiet, relieved. It echoed in the room like the breaking of tension. “She’s resourceful.”

Beckie took a deep breath. “I’ve missed you, Reuben.” Her eyes glistened. “I want us to be okay. I don’t expect everything to be perfect, but I want to try.”

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “I’d like that too.” His thumb lingered at her temple.

For a moment they simply stood there, the morning sun pooling around them, Apricity watching with half-lidded approval. Then Beckie stepped back and patted the bed. “Sit with me? I brought tea.”

Reuben nodded and eased himself back down. Beckie perched on the edge, handing him a steaming cup. He inhaled the fragrant steam, mint and honey, and felt, perhaps for the first time in weeks, a quiet optimism stirring in his chest.

As Apricity hopped into Reuben’s lap, kneading at the fabric of his trousers, Beckie picked up another cup. “Tell me,” she said gently, “what do you remember from your dream?”

Reuben wrapped his hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into his skin. “Draco…reading Russian poetry.” He paused, tasting the words. “It felt like a promise.”

Beckie nodded, thoughtful. “A promise worth keeping.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 59

It was already past four, and the sky outside the Room of Requirement had shifted into that strange golden stillness of late afternoon, when the sun lingers just a little too long, like it's reluctant to set. Inside, everything was warm, soft, and quiet. The hush before noise. The calm before facing the world again.

Reuben sat on the windowsill, blazer hanging open, socks mismatched but hidden in his boots. His wand rested on the cushion beside him, untouched since morning. Beckie was in the center of the room, standing before the ornate three-panel mirror that curved like a crescent moon. She held a tiny brush to her lower lash line with steady fingers.

“We don’t have to go,” he said, not looking at her.

“Yes, we do,” she replied, calmly, not looking at him either.

Reuben shifted, tugging the hem of his sleeve. “He’s going to pretend he doesn’t see me.”

Beckie blinked at her reflection. “Then pretend right back.”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Draco. They’d lived together. For two weeks. Sharing the Room, sharing silence, sharing warmth under an enchanted canopy of stars that only appeared when they both stopped pretending they weren’t afraid to fall asleep.

But seeing Draco on the pitch, flying, laughing, charming the stands, it would be like looking at someone he used to dream about and now knew too well. Every freckle on his left shoulder. The exact way his hair curled when he didn’t brush it. The softness behind the cruelty when he thought Reuben was asleep.

Beckie turned to face him finally. She’d tied her braids with gold and green ribbon. Her lips glossed, her jacket cropped, her boots high.

“You look like revenge,” Reuben murmured.

“Thank you, darling. You look like heartbreak.”

He smiled. Just barely. But it was real.

They moved together toward the door, slow like sleepwalkers.

“I hate Quidditch,” he whispered as they stepped into the corridor.

“Good,” she said. “Then you’ll only be watching him.”

The walk down to the pitch was long, all cobblestones and cold breath and the muffled roar of students already in the stands. Reuben kept his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. His scarf, Slytherin green with thin silver threading, was tight around his neck, tighter than it needed to be.

As they approached the stairs leading to the lower student section, a voice called from above.

“Reuben. Miss Bagnold.”

It was Severus. Standing on the narrow staircase that led up toward the stone gallery, a sort of teacher’s veranda that overlooked the pitch from a much higher angle. One rarely used unless it was a particularly high stakes match. Or, Reuben thought grimly, a particularly volatile situation.

Beckie gave Reuben a tiny look. One brow raised. You okay?

He nodded once.

Snape waited until they reached him, then turned briskly. “Come. The lower stands are crowded and loud. You’ll have a better view from above.”

They followed in silence. The teacher’s lounge was half-enclosed, half-balcony, with tall stone archways that overlooked the entire field. There was a long oak table off to the side with silver thermoses of coffee and tartan wool blankets folded into a basket. Sprout was already seated on a high-backed bench, cheering softly into a mug. McGonagall glanced over her shoulder and nodded at them, but said nothing.

Beckie immediately clocked the best seat: dead center, second row. She sat without hesitation, smoothing her skirt. Reuben hesitated, then joined her.

Down on the pitch, the players had just begun circling. Brooms dipping, racing past banners and enchanted confetti that spiraled lazily from the enchanted clouds above.

And there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

Hair silver-white under the sharp afternoon light, robes billowing like a prince’s cape. His boots were polished, his gloves worn in just enough to show he’d practiced more than he let on. He wasn’t flying like someone who wanted to win. He was flying like someone who needed to forget.

Reuben exhaled slowly. His hand found the edge of the wooden bench, fingers curling into the groove like he might fall without it.

Beckie passed him a small paper cup of hot cider she’d nabbed from the table behind them. “Sip,” she said softly. “Then stare.”

He sipped.

Then stared.

And on the third lap around the pitch, Draco looked up.

Only for a second. But it was enough.

The whistle cut through the air like a blade.

Players surged into motion, streaking past each other in a flurry of green and yellow. The Hufflepuff team, known for their relentless optimism and charming lack of subtlety, flew in a determined wedge, all smiles and shoulder-checks. Slytherin, by contrast, moved like a machine. Sharp angles. Calculated passes. Controlled aggression.

Reuben barely registered any of it.

His eyes kept returning to one player. One pair of gloves. One blur of platinum hair and storm-gray robes that shimmered faintly when the light hit them just right. Draco wasn’t showy, at least, not today. He wasn’t flying loops or taunting the other team. He was focused. Precise. Every movement measured like he was trying not to make a single mistake.

“Has he always been that good?” Reuben asked quietly, his voice half-swallowed by the wind.

Beckie sipped her cider beside him, eyes fixed on the field. “No. He’s better now.”

They both knew why. Time in the Room. Hours spent burning off tension, fighting gravity, avoiding silence.

Reuben leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His breath fogged in front of him.

Then, like the universe had some kind of sick humor, Draco dropped lower, skimming the pitch, chasing a glimpse of gold. The crowd’s screams sharpened. A commentator’s voice, magically amplified, boomed:

“Malfoy spots the Snitch, he’s going for it, ”

Reuben stood without meaning to. The air around him thinned. His heart stumbled.

Draco dipped lower still, threading through the Hufflepuff Beaters, hair whipped by the wind, jaw clenched. Just as he neared the end of the pitch, almost beneath the teacher’s lounge, he glanced up again.

This time it lasted longer.

Just a beat too long.

Reuben didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just looked back.

Something unreadable flickered across Draco’s face, then vanished.

He pulled up hard, looping away, and the game resumed. But Reuben sat back down like he’d been hit.

“God,” Beckie muttered beside him, “you two need therapy.”

“Shut up,” he whispered.

But a smile crept in anyway.

Behind them, Snape let out a quiet hum. Not quite approval. Not quite concern. Just watching.

Always watching

It happened in one impossible second.

Draco dropped from the sky like a silver arrow. The Hufflepuff Seeker was only a breath behind him, their brooms so close they could’ve shared wind. The Snitch darted like a wild thing just inches above the pitch, flickering gold, alive and defiant. Then, with one final surge, Draco reached.

The crowd screamed before the referee even blew his whistle. A single sound tore through the stadium, green flags flying, voices thundering, students surging to their feet like a tide. Confetti burst from nowhere. Silver and green sparks lit the air.

Slytherin had won.

And yet, Reuben didn’t move.

He stayed sitting, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the boy standing alone in the center of the field, still holding the Snitch.

Draco wasn’t smiling.

His hair was windswept, face flushed from the cold, but he stood still, his teammates already flying in circles around him, shouting his name. His hands, Reuben noticed, were shaking.

“God,” Beckie whispered beside him, leaning back against the stone bench, her voice breathless. “He caught it like it owed him something.”

Reuben didn’t answer.

He watched as Draco finally looked up into the stands. Just briefly. Just high enough to catch a flash of Reuben’s eyes through the crowd and smoke. Then he turned away, disappearing into a knot of green-robed players who lifted him up on their shoulders like he was made of gold.

The cheer didn’t touch Reuben. It felt like glass breaking somewhere far away.

Beckie exhaled and stood, brushing confetti off her skirt. “Let’s go,” she said gently. “We’ll steal cider from the elves and sit in the courtyard until the glow dies down.”

Reuben nodded slowly, still watching the field like it might tell him something he didn’t already know.

He started to stand, then froze.

“Mr. Audrey.”

The voice was calm. Too calm. Low and deliberate, like a hand resting on the back of his neck.

Reuben turned his head slowly.

Behind him, tucked beneath the shadow of an archway, stood Dumbledore.

His robes were a deep, smoky purple today, embroidered with fine golden thread that glimmered when he moved. His silver beard spilled neatly down his chest, and his eyes, those unreadable, ancient eyes, were fixed gently, precisely, on Reuben’s.

“I wonder,” the headmaster said softly, “if I might steal you away for a short word.”

Beckie took a step closer to Reuben’s side, instinctively. Her shoulder brushed his.

“Is it urgent?” she asked, voice careful, polite. “He hasn’t eaten today.”

Reuben glanced at her, thankful, but Dumbledore was already shaking his head.

“It will only take a moment,” he replied, calm as a sleeping lake. “And I believe it would be best done in private.”

Beckie didn’t like that. Reuben could feel it in her stillness, in the way her hand tightened around the handle of her bag.

He nodded slowly, without looking at either of them. “I’ll meet you at the courtyard.”

Beckie hesitated.

“I’ll wait,” she said softly. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, then she walked away, her boots clicking against the stone, the green ribbon at the end of her braid fluttering behind her.

Dumbledore smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely twitching.

“This way,” he said, and gestured toward the narrow stone stairwell behind the veranda.

Reuben followed.

As they descended, the roar of the crowd above softened into something distant and hollow. The steps curved tightly, winding down like a secret. The stone beneath his boots was cold, worn smooth by years of footsteps that had gone this way and never spoken of it after.

Each step down was a step further from Beckie. Further from the pitch. Further from Draco’s gaze.

Further from safety.

The stairwell emptied into a small antechamber beneath the Quidditch stands, where the stone walls sweated with cold and the air smelled faintly of damp earth and old wood. Torches flickered in sconces along the wall, but otherwise the place felt abandoned, forgotten.

Dumbledore did not stop walking until they reached the farthest corner, where a narrow bench sat beneath a high, arched window covered in iron lattice.

He turned and folded his hands behind his back.

Reuben stood in front of him, heart ticking unevenly in his chest.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the faint roar of the crowd above filtered down like a heartbeat underwater.

Then, softly:

"I hear," Dumbledore said, his eyes steady and almost kind, "that there was an unfortunate incident in one of the stairwells."

Reuben said nothing. His throat felt like it had been tied shut.

"Between you," Dumbledore continued, "and Mr. Potter."

Still, Reuben stayed silent.

Dumbledore smiled slightly. Not a warm smile. A private one, as if humoring himself.

"It grieves me to say," he went on, "that there are certain... accounts of the event which suggest you may have provoked the confrontation."

Reuben blinked, stunned. "Provoked?"

He hadn't touched Harry. Hadn't drawn his wand. Hadn’t even raised his voice.

But Dumbledore’s gaze was as unyielding as stone.

"Mr. Potter," the headmaster said gently, "is under considerable strain. As, I am sure, are you. But Hogwarts cannot, and will not, tolerate acts of aggression between students."

"I didn’t, " Reuben started, but Dumbledore lifted a hand, and the words died in his throat.

"And then," Dumbledore said, a faint thread of something harder slipping into his voice, "there is the matter of your wandwork."

Reuben frowned. "What wandwork?"

"You performed magic," Dumbledore said, voice almost sad, "off school grounds this new year’s. In London. Without authorization. Without reporting it."

The memory struck him like a slap.

"You knew," Reuben said, voice low.

"Of course I knew," Dumbledore said, as if amused. "You are not so easily hidden, Mr. Audrey."

The way he said it sent a ripple of cold down Reuben’s spine.

For a second, Reuben thought Dumbledore might reach out, lay a hand on his shoulder, like a father might.

But he didn’t.

He just smiled again. Small. Contained.

"The time has come," Dumbledore said, "for you to face the consequences of your choices."

Reuben’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

"What choices?" he demanded.

But Dumbledore only looked at him with something like pity.

"I have," Dumbledore said slowly, "shielded you, in ways you may not even yet understand. I have kept certain... interests at bay. Protected you from inquiries. From consequences."

Reuben's mouth went dry.

Protected him from what?

Dumbledore stepped closer, until Reuben could see every etched line in the old man’s face, every glint in his calculating eyes.

"But I cannot," Dumbledore said softly, almost kindly, "protect you any longer."

Silence fell like a dropped stone.

"You will find out soon enough," Dumbledore said, taking a step back. "I suggest you be prepared."

He straightened his robes, nodded once, and turned away, leaving Reuben alone beneath the stone arches, heart hammering like a trapped thing against his ribs.

Chapter Text

Chapter 60

For a long moment after Dumbledore’s footsteps faded, Reuben just stood there.

The torches guttered in their sconces. The stone walls seemed to breathe around him, slow and cold. His hands were trembling, not from fear, not exactly. From something heavier. A feeling without a name.

He flexed his fingers once. Twice. Then shoved them deep into the pockets of his coat and turned toward the stairwell.

Each step back up was heavier than the last.

When he finally pushed open the narrow wooden door at the top of the stairs, the full noise of the world rushed in again, shouting, laughter, the scraping of boots on stone, the crinkle of food wrappers being ripped open. It was late afternoon still, but the sun had dropped lower, throwing long shadows across the castle grounds.

Beckie was standing by the low stone wall overlooking the pitch, her arms folded tight across her chest, her braid caught by the wind. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t left.

The second she spotted him, her face softened.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, careful.

Reuben walked toward her.

He didn’t know what his face looked like, but from the way Beckie straightened, alert, worried, it couldn’t have been good.

“What happened?” she asked, searching his eyes.

He shook his head. “Later.”

She nodded once. Not pushing.

“You alright?” she asked instead.

“No,” he said honestly.

A beat of silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant clang of the stadium being dismantled, students shouting over the din, the fading notes of Slytherin’s victory song being butchered by second-years who didn’t know the words.

Beckie reached into her bag and pulled out a small paper cup, the cider she’d saved. It was lukewarm now, probably, but it didn’t matter. She pressed it into his hands without a word.

Reuben took it.

He didn’t drink.

He just stood there, holding the cup between his palms like it might anchor him to the world.

Beckie shifted closer, her shoulder bumping his lightly.

“Whatever he said,” she murmured, “it’s not the whole story. Remember that.”

The cider still sat heavy in his hands, cooling, when Beckie touched his elbow.

"Go," she said simply. "I'll wait."

Reuben nodded once, more out of instinct than decision, and started down the sloping lawn toward the Quidditch tents.

The sun had fallen behind the hills now, and the world was slipping into violet-blue, the colors blurring at the edges like wet paint. The Slytherin party was already in full swing: students spilling out of the green and silver tents, butterbeer sloshing over gloved hands, scarves tied around waists, songs shouted tunelessly into the cold evening air.

As Reuben got closer, the noise hit him first ,  laughter and shouting and the clink of glass bottles against wooden tables. The flap of the main tent hung open, letting out bursts of warm, smoky air, thick with the smell of butterbeer and grass and victory.

Inside, it was chaos.

Slytherin players lounged on benches, half out of their gear ,  some shirtless, their Quidditch robes tossed over chairs, cheeks flushed with drink and triumph. Bottles of pumpkin fizz and butterbeer cluttered every surface. Someone was trying (and failing) to enchant a set of empty cups into a pyramid.

And in the middle of it all, like he belonged there, like he had never been anything but adored, was Draco.

Still in his Quidditch robes, hair mussed from the flight, face alight with a kind of reckless, exhausted glow. A bottle dangled loosely from his fingertips as he leaned back, laughing at something Blaise Zabini shouted across the table.

Reuben hesitated at the threshold.

He didn’t belong here. Not really. Not like that.

But before he could retreat, before the self-doubt could close around his ribs like iron bands,

Draco looked up.

And saw him.

Their eyes locked across the sea of bodies.

For a beat, everything else dropped away, the noise, the smoke, the motion. Reuben felt it like a blow to the chest, sharp and stupid and inevitable.

Draco didn’t hesitate.

He pushed up from his chair, cutting through the crowd with a kind of ruthless precision. One hand closed around Reuben’s wrist before he could say a word.

“Come on,” Draco muttered under his breath.

And then he was pulling Reuben outside, through the flap, into the cool sharpness of the twilight.

The sounds of the party softened into a muffled roar behind them. Out here, the world was cleaner, colder. Breath misted in the air between them.

Draco didn’t let go of Reuben’s wrist until they were several paces away from the tent, near the shadow of the castle wall.

He stopped, finally, dropping Reuben’s hand like it burned.

For a second, they just stood there. Breathing hard. Not from exertion, from something else.

“You came,” Draco said, voice low, raw around the edges.

Reuben swallowed. His heart felt too big for his ribs.

“Yeah,” he said, just as quietly. “Of course.”

Draco stared at him. As if searching for something. As if Reuben might vanish if he blinked too long.

“You shouldn’t have,” Draco said. But he didn’t sound angry. He sounded tired. Worn thin.

“I wanted to,” Reuben said. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, but he didn’t care.

A silence stretched between them, long, heavy, pulsing with everything they couldn’t say.

Then, very carefully, Draco reached out.

His fingers brushed Reuben’s sleeve, barely there.

A question.

Reuben didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The tent behind them roared again, someone singing, someone laughing, but it felt a world away.

Here, it was just the two of them. Two boys standing in the cold, in the gathering dark, trying to find a language for something too big to name.

Finally Draco said, “Thank you.” It was genuinely with a smile, a caring smile, caring about Reuben, about Draco about us.

Chapter Text

Part Two

ASHES AND BLOOM

Dear you,

There’s a silence that comes after fire.

Not peace, not absence, just a ringing stillness, like the world forgot what it was before the flames. I carry that silence with me. It clings to the spaces I walk through now, follows me like smoke on skin.

I am trying to grow in the ruin.

Sometimes I wonder if flowers know they’re breaking through the dirt, or if they just reach, blindly, because something inside tells them to. That’s how I feel. Like I’m reaching for light I can’t see, in soil that might still be burning.

You once told me that nothing truly dies in magic, that even ashes have memory. I didn’t understand you then. I think I do now.

I miss the version of me that existed when you looked at me. Not because I was whole, but because you saw something worth holding anyway. Something tender, even in the scorch.

If bloom is possible after all this, if something soft can rise from what’s been burned, I think it will be because of you.

You were never my rescue.

You were the root I held on to when the ground fell away.

I still love you, even if I don't dare to tell you.

Chapter Text

Chapter 61

He woke to cold air brushing against his cheek.

The kind of cold that didn’t belong inside the castle.
Sharp. Whispering.

Reuben shifted under the covers, blinking into the dimness of the dormitory. His bedcurtains were half-parted, a draft slipping through. Moonlight lay in puddles across the stone floor.

Something whispered against the sheets.

He sat up.

And saw them.

Feathers.

Scattered across the pillow, the sheets, even tangled in the folds of his blanket. Small, sleek feathers, black as oil, catching the moonlight in sick, glossy smudges.

Reuben stared.

Slowly, he reached for the nearest one. It clung to his skin when he picked it up, weightless and wrong. It was warm. Too warm.

His chest tightened.

There was no way. No logic. No reason.

He clutched the feather, hard enough to crush it, but it stayed whole, flexible and real against his palm.

Heart hammering, he swept the others into a trembling pile and shoved them into the pocket of his jacket, hands numb.

He stood.

The dormitory was quiet, empty except for the slow breathing of the other boys asleep around him. In the corner, someone stirred, maybe Blaise, but no one woke.

He was alone with it.

The smell of something faintly metallic clung to him, sharp like blood, sharp like iron, and he didn’t know if it came from the feathers or from himself.

Reuben pulled his coat tighter around his body.

He didn’t know what was happening.

He only knew one thing.

Whatever Dumbledore had been protecting him from,
it was starting.

And no one would be able to stop it now.

Not even him.

He kept the feathers hidden.
Buried deep in the pockets of his coat, weighing nothing but dragging at him all the same.

All morning, Reuben felt wrong in his skin. His magic prickled under his fingertips, restless and heavy, like a storm building behind his ribs.

He couldn't focus.

Not in Potions, not in Charms, not even when Beckie passed him a crooked note folded like a bird:
You okay?

He crumpled it without answering.

By the time they filed into Ancient Runes, the world was already blurring at the edges. His sleeves felt too tight. His shoulders ached.

Professor Ibex stood silently at the front of the room, her black robes folding around her like smoke.

She never spoke.
She never needed to.

The words carved down her face were all the voice she had left.

Once, months ago, the tattooed letters had sprawled from her brow to her chin, a complete warning:
Don’t accept his invitation. Keep the boy as your friend. Don’t go see the headmaster.

But Reuben had broken the first two pieces already.
He had accepted Draco’s invitation.
He had lost Beckie’s trust.

Now only the last words remained, stark and jagged, scarring across Ibex’s cheekbone:
“Don’t go see the headmaster.”

Reuben tore his eyes away.
Too late for that too.

He slumped into his seat, pressing his elbows hard into the desk, willing himself to hold together for just another hour. Just until he could be alone.

Ibex tapped her wand once against the chalkboard. Runes and sigils began to scrawl themselves across the surface in delicate white chalk, elegant and shifting.

The letters blurred under Reuben’s gaze.

His body ached from the inside out. His wrists felt hollow. His throat tasted like iron.

And then,

A small movement.

A shift of air.

Reuben froze.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it:
a single black feather drifting to the floor from his sleeve, light as breath.

It landed between his boots.

Beckie, sitting two desks over, saw it too.

He felt her gaze lock onto it, sharp, bright, terrified.

He bent down fast, snatching it up, stuffing it back into his pocket before anyone else could notice.

When he sat back up, Ibex was still standing silently by the board.
Watching him.

Only him.

The class ended in a rush of scraping chairs and muttered homework complaints. Students shoved past him, pouring into the corridor.

Reuben tried to lose himself in the crowd.
Tried to vanish.

But Beckie caught his wrist just outside the classroom.

"Rue," she said, low and fierce.

He didn't meet her eyes.

"Rue, talk to me."

"I'm fine," he said, the lie scraping raw in his throat.

"You're not." Her fingers tightened. "You're, "

"I'm fine," he snapped, pulling free.

For a moment, she just stood there, breathing hard. Hurt flashing across her face.

She let him go.

He walked away without looking back.

The corridors blurred past. Stone and torchlight and the press of bodies. Voices rose and fell around him, distant and hollow.

He turned a corner too fast.

And slammed straight into someone.

The impact jolted him, made the hidden feathers rustle faintly under his coat.

Reuben stumbled back.

And there he was.

Harry Potter.

Staring at him like he was something unpleasant tracked in on the bottom of his shoe.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Harry's mouth twisted, not a smile, not even really a sneer. Just a cold, empty thing.

"Still slithering around, Audrey?" he said, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Reuben couldn't breathe.

Harry brushed past him without waiting for a reply, shoulder knocking Reuben's as he went.

The hallway swallowed him.

Reuben stood frozen, heart beating too loud in his ears, the ghost of Harry's voice burning in his chest.

He didn't know how long he stayed there.

Long enough for the corridors to empty.
Long enough for the castle to fall back into its usual murmuring silence.
Long enough to remember, all over again, what it felt like to be small and invisible and not worth saving.

That night, Reuben dreamed he was falling.

Not on a broom. Not through air.

Through darkness.

The wind tore at him, ripping feathers loose from his arms, his back, his chest. His ribs stretched and cracked. His skin split at the shoulderblades with a sound like breaking ice.

He woke with a gasp, tangled in sweaty sheets.

Moonlight spilled across the dormitory floor.

His shirt clung to his back.

Sticky. Wet.

He sat up, breathing hard. The sheet slid off him with a faint, sick sound, pulling at the fabric plastered to his skin.

Somewhere across the room, Blaise shifted in his sleep. A quiet, restless sound.

Reuben swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet landing soundlessly on the cold stone floor. The chill bit into him, but he barely felt it.

He crossed the dormitory in a half-stumble, shoving the bathroom door open with one shoulder. The enchanted sconces flickered to life at his approach, casting a dull, golden glow against the cracked mirror above the sink.

For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard.

Then he peeled off his shirt.

The fabric stuck. Peeled away with a soft, tearing sound.

He turned slowly, craning his neck to see.

There, across his back,
Two long, shallow slashes running down from the tops of his shoulderblades.

Red welts, smeared with blood.

Exactly where wings would have sprouted.
If he had been meant to fly.

He touched one cut, gingerly.

The skin pulsed under his fingers. Warm and wrong.

In the mirror, his reflection looked like a ghost.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Blood running in slow rivers down his spine.

He gripped the edge of the sink with shaking hands.

Whatever was inside him,
whatever he had been born carrying,

was waking up.

And there was no stopping it now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 62

The day tasted wrong.

The castle breathed differently.
Like it knew.

Reuben moved through the corridors, coat pulled close against his body, keeping his head down.
Every step felt heavier.
Every glance sharper.

It wasn't Slytherin that turned against him.

It was everyone else.

The Gryffindors were the worst.
The muttering started in breakfast queues and Defense Against the Dark Arts halls, too loud to miss but just quiet enough to deny.

"That's the one, "

"Ruined him, didn't he? Broke Potter to pieces."

"Should've been expelled."

Sometimes they didn't even bother whispering.

A third-year in a scarlet scarf shoulder-checked Reuben so hard in the courtyard he staggered sideways into a snowbank.
Someone else "accidentally" tripped him near the greenhouses.

Ginny Weasley passed him once in the library, eyes flicking over him like he was something nasty under her boots.

Reuben didn't react.
Didn't speak.
Just tucked himself tighter into his coat and kept moving.

Slytherin was different.

Inside their dungeon common room, the coldness of the castle fell away.

Pansy made a production of pushing over a seat for him in the evenings, teasing like always.

"Who knew you'd be the one to finally break Saint Potter, Audrey?" she said one night, smirking behind her goblet of spiced cider. "Half the school’s been trying for years."

Blaise laughed, sprawling across the sofa.

Reuben didn't know what to say to that.

So he said nothing.

Let them laugh.
Let them think it was some grand joke, a wound he’d meant to inflict.

It was easier than explaining the truth.

The castle, though, wasn't fooled.

The stairs shifted away from him once or twice, subtle, almost playful.
Doors stuck under his hands when he tried to open them.

Magic prickled under his skin, restless and thin.
His wand felt heavier in his sleeve.

And sometimes, only sometimes, he thought he saw shadows move across the stone walls just a second too late to catch them.

That night, Reuben sat in the corner of the Slytherin common room, watching the fire gutter in the hearth.

He thought about Beckie.
About the look on her face when he lied.
About the feathers hidden in the back of his wardrobe.
About Harry, brushing past him like he was already dead.

And in the back of his mind, a voice murmured:

Not long now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 63

It was the kind of day that didn’t know what it wanted to be.

Rain smudged the sky into a greasy grey.
The stones of the castle sweated cold.
Even the fires in the Great Hall seemed half-hearted, spitting more smoke than heat.

Reuben moved through it all like a ghost in a crowd.
Present, but barely.

His body ached in quiet, ugly places ,  the shoulderblades where blood had dried, the raw edges of spells burning wrong in his veins.

He kept his hands in his pockets.
Kept his head down.

It was easier not to be noticed.

It happened near the Charms corridor ,  a narrow, bottle-necked part of the castle where first-years and second-years liked to linger after lessons, chattering too loud, scattering books and laughter like seeds.

He wasn’t paying attention.
He should have been.

Two girls crashed into him, giggling.

He staggered back a step, blinking.

They were small, red-and-gold scarves flashing ,  Gryffindors. Second-years, probably.
Sharp faces, quick hands, shoes scuffed from too many staircases.

One girl let out a breathless laugh and said, half-daring, half-snickering, "Watch it, Slytherin."

The other elbowed her sharply, muttering, "Shut up," but smiling as she dragged her friend away.

They vanished into the noise, their laughter trailing like ribbons behind them.

Reuben stood there for a second longer than he should have.
Not angry.
Not anything.

Just,
hollow.

He shook it off.
Kept walking.

The castle swallowed the sound of them.
The moment closed around him like it had never happened at all.

By dinner, the air had changed.

The Great Hall buzzed wrong ,  too loud in places, too silent in others.

Whispers chased the candles overhead.

Reuben slid into his seat at the Slytherin table, feeling the tension in the air the way a wolf feels an oncoming storm.

Blaise was grinning over something.
Pansy leaned close to Draco, eyes bright with gossip.

Across the room, at the Gryffindor table,
space.

Two empty seats.

The second-years were hunched together, talking in fast, sharp bursts.
Professor McGonagall’s mouth was a grim, bloodless line.

Reuben didn’t know, not yet.

Not until someone ,  a third-year with a torn sleeve and a red face ,  hissed it low across the table:

"Dead."

He stiffened.

"They found them near the old Quidditch stands. Spells ,  everywhere. Skin burnt. No witnesses."

The castle seemed to tilt under him for a moment.
Breath went thin in his chest.

The two girls.
The ones who had bumped into him.
Alive and laughing one minute.
Gone the next.

The rumors piled thicker by nightfall.

Not just murder.

Disappearance.

Grabbe and Goyle.
Gone from the Hospital Wing.

No signs of struggle. No broken doors. Just, emptiness.

Reuben heard it whispered in the corridors, murmured at the common room fires.

"Initiations," someone said, darkly.

"The price of entry."

"The old magic waking up again."

Pansy laughed too loud at it.
Blaise made bets on which teacher would cry first.

Even Draco, slouched in the corner with a book half-open across his knees, looked sharper, tighter.
Not amused.
Not surprised.

Reuben said nothing.
The words twisted useless against the roof of his mouth.

He sat by the fire and stared into the flames until the world blurred.

Later, as the castle wound down into uneasy sleep, Reuben walked the long way back to the dormitory.

Stone floors cold under his feet.
The smell of rain creeping through the cracks.

At the landing outside the Slytherin common room, something glinted in the torchlight.

A letter.
Black wax seal. No name.

He crouched, fingers brushing the parchment like it might bite.

Broke the seal.

Inside, only one line:

The Headmaster requests your presence. Midnight. Come alone.

His stomach twisted.

The torches hissed against the walls.

In his mind ,
clear as a blade pressed to skin ,
the memory of Professor Ibex’s silent warning bloomed:

Don’t go see the headmaster.

He stood there for a long time, the letter crumpling slowly in his hand.

The castle breathed around him, low and deep, waiting.

And somewhere very far away ,
so deep inside he could almost pretend it wasn’t there ,
something whispered:

It’s already too late.

Chapter Text

Chapter 64

The staircase to the Headmaster’s office groaned under his weight, turning slow and grinding like the gears of some ancient clock.

Reuben climbed without thinking.
Step after step after step.
Each one colder than the last.

His coat pulled tight across his shoulders, the cuts underneath aching with every breath.
The castle's walls breathed around him ,  slow, shallow, watching.

When the door swung open, he expected ,  without even realizing it ,  something monstrous.
Accusations. Chains. Shadows.

Instead,

Dumbledore.

Seated neatly behind his great oak desk, hands folded, spectacles gleaming in the firelight.

The room smelled of wax and dust and dying things.

"Mr. Audrey," Dumbledore said, voice smooth and polite. "Please sit."

Reuben obeyed.
His legs moved before his mind could stop them.
He sank into the heavy chair opposite the desk.
It felt too big for him.
Like a child’s chair at a grown man’s table.

At first, it was nothing.

A polite conversation.

The questions came soft and steady, like the drip of water from a cracked ceiling:

• Had Reuben noticed anything unusual on the grounds?
• Had he seen anything near the Quidditch stands?
• Had he been approached by anyone suspicious?

Reuben answered automatically.

No.
No.
No.

Each word slid out of his mouth smoother than the last.

He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, the sick hum of magic prickling under his skin.

He kept his hands in his lap, knuckles white with tension.

He could feel Dumbledore’s gaze like a weight pressing into him.
Watching.
Measuring.

After a while, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair.

The firelight caught the lines of his face ,  older, deeper than Reuben remembered.

"You are lying to me," Dumbledore said softly.

Reuben’s throat tightened.

"I’m not," he said, sharper than he meant.

"You are."

It wasn't anger.
Not yet.
It was certainty.
Disappointment, maybe.

Worse.

"You are clever," Dumbledore continued. "But cleverness cannot save you from truth. You are tangled in something you do not understand. I am offering you a chance to speak before it consumes you."

Reuben's fingers curled tighter in his lap.

"I don't know anything," he said, the lie scraping raw in his throat.

A muscle twitched in Dumbledore’s jaw.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Mr. Audrey."

"I'm not," Reuben snapped, standing suddenly.
The chair screeched back against the stone.

Dumbledore rose too, robes whispering against the floor.

"Sit down," he said, quieter now.
A thread of steel in his voice.

"No."

The room held its breath.

"You know more than you are saying," Dumbledore said, voice sharpening.
"You have seen things you refuse to admit. Perhaps even participated in them."

"That's not true, "

"You are lying to protect yourself," Dumbledore said. "Or worse ,  lying to protect others."

"I’m not lying!"
The words ripped from Reuben’s chest, too loud, too desperate.

"You think this is a game?" Dumbledore said sharply.
"Children are dead, Mr. Audrey."

"I know!" Reuben shouted.
His fists shook at his sides.

"You know," Dumbledore repeated, soft and lethal.
"Then why are you silent?"

Reuben could feel it ,  the panic rising, the heat behind his eyes, the bitter taste in his mouth.

Because he didn’t know what to say.
Because anything he said would be wrong.
Because it was already too late.

Something cracked.

Not in the room.
In the world.

Dumbledore stepped around the desk.

And before Reuben could flinch,
before he could even breathe,

Dumbledore slapped him.

Hard.

The sound echoed through the office.
A wet, ugly sound, like a branch breaking.

Reuben stumbled back, one hand flying to his cheek, breath hissing through his teeth.

He stood there, frozen, the burn of the slap blooming across his skin.
The shock worse than the pain.

Dumbledore stood still, robes falling silent around him.
His hand lowered, trembling once before going still.

The world narrowed to the pounding of Reuben’s heart.

The fire crackled.
The portraits on the walls watched without speaking.

Dumbledore’s voice, when it came, was low and final:

"You are expelled."

Reuben didn’t argue.

Didn’t scream.
Didn’t cry.

He just stood there, bleeding from the inside, feeling the old castle walls close in around him like a coffin.

For a long moment, he couldn’t move.

Then,
he turned.

And walked out the door.

No one stopped him.

The staircase carried him down, slow and grinding, like the fall of an executioner’s blade.

At the bottom, the corridor stretched out, empty and cold.
The castle seemed to breathe around him ,  not welcoming, not angry, just... indifferent.

He turned toward the dungeons, his boots dragging against the stones.

And there,
half-shadowed by a crooked archway,

Professor Ibex.

Waiting.

She hadn't been there a second before.
Or maybe she had, and he hadn’t seen her.

She stepped forward, robes whispering across the floor.

For the first time since Reuben had come to Hogwarts, he realized,

Her face was bare.

No ink.
No twisting lines.
No silent warnings etched into her skin.

Just her.

Real.
Mortal.
Fallible.

She looked at him with eyes older than anything the castle had ever built.
A kind of sorrow resting in them, heavy as stone.

And then,
she spoke.

Her voice was quiet. Rough-edged from years of disuse, a sound like crumpled parchment and smoke.

"You were never meant to save yourself," she said.

Reuben stared at her, throat tight, heart a slow wreck in his chest.

Ibex’s mouth quirked ,  not a smile.
Something sadder.

"Only to survive long enough," she murmured, "for someone else to find you."

And before he could ask what she meant,
before he could breathe,
she turned, and disappeared down the hall.

Leaving him alone with the weight of her words.

And the cold waiting in his bones.

Chapter Text

Chapter 65

The darkness of the dungeons wrapped around Reuben as he trudged back to the Slytherin common room, his boots clicking softly against the cold stone floors. His mind felt like a whirlwind of thoughts, each one crashing into the next, but one thing kept rising to the surface. Dumbledore's slap still burned on his cheek, but it wasn’t the physical pain that lingered, it was the feeling of being utterly, hopelessly alone.

The moment he reached the common room, it was as if the world outside had disappeared entirely. The firelight was dim, the usual chatter from his housemates absent. Everyone seemed to sense that something had changed.

He made his way through the archway, and there, sitting at a table with his back to the fire, was Draco. The silver of his hair seemed to shimmer in the low light, and the quiet hum of magic between them seemed more palpable than ever.

Draco looked up as Reuben stepped inside, his pale blue eyes searching his face. "What happened?" His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, as if afraid to disturb the fragile air around them.

Reuben didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t. There were no words for what had just happened in Dumbledore’s office. No way to explain the weight that crushed his chest, the feeling of betrayal and helplessness.

Instead, he walked over to Draco, his breath shaky but controlled. He stood there for a moment, staring down at him before finally speaking, voice rough and hollow. "I'm expelled."

Draco didn’t move at first, his face unreadable. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something darker, deeper. Then, slowly, he stood. He didn’t ask for details, didn’t press for answers. He just… stepped closer.

"Is there anything you want to say?" Draco asked, voice low.

Reuben shook his head, a soft, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Not really." He took a step back, turning toward the darkened window. "It’s over. Everything’s over."

Draco watched him for a moment longer, then took a step forward, his hand resting on Reuben’s shoulder, pulling him gently back toward him.

"You can’t just leave like that," Draco murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not without saying goodbye."

Reuben stiffened, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He didn’t deserve any goodbyes, not from Draco, not from anyone. But here, with Draco's hand warm on his shoulder, a part of him, the part he had been trying to bury, ached for the connection they had.

"I wasn’t going to say goodbye to Beckie," Reuben admitted, his voice barely audible. "I don't know how."

"You don’t have to," Draco said, his words carrying a strange, quiet finality. "She’ll understand, or she won’t. It doesn't matter."

Reuben nodded, his heart heavy. He wanted to say something more, wanted to explain everything, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, feeling Draco’s presence more solid than anything else in the world.

Then, without another word, Draco motioned for him to follow. The two of them left the common room together, heading out into the dark halls of Hogwarts, the cold night air biting at their skin as they moved toward the Black Lake.

As they walked in the silence, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. The only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath their feet, the gentle rustling of the trees above them, and the faint murmur of the water lapping at the shore. There were no more words between them, not until they reached the water’s edge, the moonlight glinting off the surface of the lake.

Reuben stopped there, staring out at the water, and felt the weight of his decision settle in his chest.

"Do you regret it?" Draco asked softly, his voice barely breaking the stillness of the night.

Reuben turned to look at him, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he didn’t know how to answer. The truth was complicated, he didn’t regret what had happened with Draco, not in the slightest. But the price of everything else… that was a different story.

"No," he said finally, his voice steady. "But I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to figure out what comes next."

Draco looked at him for a long moment before nodding. "Maybe that’s just the way it goes."

The silence that followed was heavy, but neither of them moved. They stood there, side by side, staring at the water and feeling the weight of the past days pressing in.

And then, as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, they walked together toward the carriage that would take Reuben away. The Thestral pulling it stood quietly, its dark eyes gleaming in the morning light.

Reuben’s bags were packed, his future uncertain, but there was a strange sense of peace in this final moment with Draco, an understanding that they had reached the end of something, though neither of them could put it into words.

As they approached the carriage, Beckie appeared, her silhouette framed against the dim light of the castle. She was alone, her face a mask of confusion and hurt. She caught sight of them, of Draco and Reuben standing together, side by side, and something shifted in her eyes.

Reuben froze, guilt crashing over him like a wave, but it was too late now. Everything had already changed.

Beckie took a step toward them, her expression hardening. "Reuben…" she began, her voice trembling with barely-contained emotion. "You’re really leaving?"

Reuben swallowed, but before he could answer, Draco spoke up. "He is." His voice was blunt, carrying the weight of the finality of the moment.

Beckie’s eyes flicked to Draco, then back to Reuben. The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable, but so was the anger that followed. "I can’t believe you’re doing this," she said, her voice breaking. "After everything, you just… walk away?"

Reuben didn’t respond. He couldn’t. There was no answer to give that would make any of this right.

With one last look at them both, Beckie turned, walking away with a sharp, angry step. It was the final break, her friendship with Reuben shattered beyond repair, and with it, the last connection to his past life at Hogwarts.

As Reuben climbed into the carriage, neither of them spoke. The Thestral pulled him away from the castle, from Draco, toward the train that would take Reuben far away from Hogwarts. The black lake and the distant lights of the castle faded behind them, and a new chapter began, one filled with uncertainty, but also with the strange, bittersweet sense that maybe, just maybe, he was meant to walk this path together.

And, as the carriage moved slowly into the misty morning, Reuben realized that this was the end. The end of one story, and the beginning of another.

Chapter Text

Chapter 66

The stillness inside the carriage was almost oppressive, broken only by the faint rattling of the wheels against the uneven road. The Thestral pulling it was moving at a steady pace, but Reuben couldn’t shake the tension in his chest. His fingers drummed restlessly against the wooden seat, and his wand ,  a constant companion since his expulsion ,  lay across his lap, its cool surface a quiet reminder of the chaos that had consumed his life.

The landscape blurred by outside, the rolling hills and misty moors fading into a nothingness that matched his thoughts. Reuben stared out of the small window, watching the grey sky stretch above. He felt adrift, as though the world around him was slipping into a different kind of reality, a place he no longer belonged.

That’s when it happened.

A flash ,  quick, too quick for him to make sense of it at first. A figure, massive, winged, and glowing like something divine, shot across his line of sight. It was only a blur of light, shimmering and almost translucent, but it was enough to make Reuben’s heart leap into his throat. His breath caught in his chest, eyes wide. What had he seen? Had it been real?

His fingers tightened around his wand. His thoughts raced, but before he could even begin to process what he’d glimpsed, the Thestral let out a wild scream, an unnatural sound that echoed in the stillness of the morning. The carriage jolted violently, throwing Reuben against the side, his breath leaving his body in a startled gasp.

He barely had time to react.

The Thestral’s hooves pounded against the earth, panic driving it faster, faster, until the carriage was no longer in control. The wheels spun off the uneven path, and Reuben was thrown hard to the side, his back slamming against the wooden wall of the carriage.

He saw nothing but a blur of trees and sky, and then, the world seemed to twist.

The carriage tilted, wheels digging into the earth as the Thestral reared back with a desperate, shrill cry. Reuben’s heart hammered in his chest as the carriage tipped sideways, tumbling off the road, the sound of splintering wood and cracking glass filling the air like thunder.

Time slowed.

Reuben’s hands reached out, instinctively grasping for anything to hold onto as the world around him became a blur of motion and chaos. He felt his body tossed like a ragdoll, his stomach rising up in his chest as the carriage tipped over on its side. A sharp, brutal jolt sent him flying ,  slamming against the interior of the carriage with bone-crushing force.

A shudder of magic rippled through the air, hot and sickening, before everything went silent.

Reuben lay there for a moment, dazed, his head spinning. He could taste blood in his mouth, and his ribs ached with a burning pain. His hands, slick with sweat, scrabbled against the wreckage, trying to push himself upright. The Thestral was gone ,  disappeared into the thick fog that surrounded them.

In the distance, he could still hear the faint sound of its hooves galloping away.

His legs felt like they were made of lead as he staggered to his feet, the world spinning around him. The forest around him seemed to close in, the trees dark and twisted, their branches reaching like fingers into the sky.

And then, a voice.

It was low and melodic, like an ancient lullaby woven from the very air. The words were strange, foreign, but they sent a shiver of something cold down his spine.

“Come to me... come to me, lost one…”

Reuben’s heart skipped a beat, his breath catching. It was a woman’s voice, soft and inviting, but there was something about it ,  something hypnotic ,  that tugged at him from deep within.

He glanced around, his breath shallow as the sound of the voice seemed to echo through the fog, wrapping around him, coaxing him forward. The wind picked up, stirring the leaves in a soft, rustling whisper, but the voice ,  that beautiful, tragic voice ,  called to him, stronger now.

Reuben felt his feet move before he could stop them.

His legs carried him toward the edge of the forest, the trees looming like dark sentinels on either side. There was no reasoning with himself, no thought of turning back. The pull was too strong, too powerful. The very air around him seemed charged with magic, the earth beneath his feet vibrating with an ancient force.

“Come to me, child of shadow, come into the dark.”

The mist parted before him, as if it were being drawn aside, and Reuben stepped into the darkness. His wand trembled in his hand, the only light in the surrounding gloom.

Ahead, through the trees, he could see it ,  a faint glow, flickering like a distant fire. The voice called again, gentle but insistent.

“You are mine.”

And as he walked deeper into the forest, the world around him seemed to blur and twist, the shadows growing longer and darker with each step. He didn’t look back. The world beyond the forest was gone, and there was only the pull of the song, the call of the unseen.

Reuben took one last step into the Forbidden Forest, the ancient trees closing behind him like a door, shutting him in. The mist swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Chapter 67

The Forbidden Forest was not what Reuben expected.

When he had first heard tales of it, it had been painted as a place of darkness, where twisted trees reached out like fingers, and every step taken beneath their shadow was a step closer to danger. But now, as he stepped through the gnarled undergrowth, he found himself enveloped by something... different. Something ancient.

The trees towered over him, their trunks so wide they seemed to stretch into eternity. Their leaves shimmered in shades of deep emerald, casting a faint glow under the silver light of the moon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and moss, yet there was something sweet in the air too, like the fragrance of long-forgotten flowers blooming just out of sight. Every step he took seemed to deepen the silence, the forest holding its breath around him.

The ground beneath his feet was soft, a thick carpet of fallen leaves and tangled roots, but it was the whispers of the wind through the branches that chilled him. It wasn’t the wind itself, no, the wind in the Forbidden Forest carried a voice, one that murmured in languages long dead. A constant hum, the hum of something ancient, timeless, waiting.

Reuben’s heart pounded in his chest as he wandered further in. The crash had been a jarring interruption to the quiet, but now, surrounded by this eerie stillness, the crash seemed a distant memory, as if the forest itself had swallowed it whole. And yet, the tug at his chest, the pull towards something deeper, remained. He couldn’t resist it. Not even if he wanted to.

Then he saw them.

The centaurs emerged from the shadows, their hooves silent on the soft earth. They moved like ghosts, their bodies powerful but graceful, eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. They did not speak, but Reuben could feel their gaze on him, intelligent, calculating, wary. One of them stepped forward, its face carved from stone-like features, dark hair flowing in the wind. Its eyes, deep, sorrowful, wise, met Reuben’s with an intensity that made his blood run cold.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The forest was watching him, every creature and every leaf, waiting.

The air grew heavier, thick with anticipation, and suddenly, a voice rang out, a voice unlike any he had ever heard before.

It was music, but not music made by instruments. It was the sound of the forest itself singing, notes of such beauty that they seemed to vibrate in the very air. The voice floated through the trees like a soft breeze, curling and swaying around him. It was a woman's voice, clear, crystalline, but ancient as the stars themselves.

"Child of the dawn, come closer still.
The forest calls, the night is still.
Through shadowed paths and winding way,
You’ve come to seek, to find your way."

Reuben’s heart beat faster as he followed the sound, stepping deeper into the heart of the forest. The song wrapped around him like a blanket, coaxing him forward, pulling him through the labyrinth of trees.

And then, she appeared.

At first, it was only a glow, a soft light flickering between the trees like the last embers of a fire. But then, from the mist, she emerged fully, an angelic figure, clothed in robes of shimmering silver, her wings wide and ethereal, stretching out from her back in a display of pure beauty. Her face was soft and glowing, framed by long, silken hair that seemed to catch the light in ways that defied reason.

Her eyes, when they met his, were a mirror, reflecting the world around them, shimmering with a depth that seemed to reach into eternity. The trees, the centaurs, the very air seemed to bend toward her, as though the forest itself was in awe of her presence.

And then, she sang again, her voice soft yet all-encompassing.

"Through time and space, I have watched you grow,
From shadow to light, from wind to snow.
You are the one, the seed I gave,
The one I lost, the one I saved."

Reuben’s chest tightened. He took a step back, unsure, his mind racing. There was something about her, something he couldn’t grasp, something familiar, yet so foreign. Her song was so powerful, yet the words they spoke felt like they were twisting something deep inside him.

And then, with a voice that carried the weight of centuries, she spoke.

"You were always meant to find me, my son."

Reuben froze.

His breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened in disbelief, his heart beating erratically in his chest.

Her words echoed in the stillness of the forest, reverberating like thunder in his mind.

She was... his mother?

The world tilted, and Reuben’s knees gave way beneath him. He reached out, steadying himself against the tree beside him. The centaurs watched in eerie silence, unmoving, their eyes unblinking.

But the woman, his mother, or so she claimed, stepped closer. The air around her shimmered, as though she were not entirely of this world.

"Yes, Reuben," she said, her voice soft, but carrying an undeniable weight. "I am the one who brought you into this world. I’ve been here, in the quiet corners of your life, waiting for you to find your way back."

The words seemed to tear at the very fabric of his soul, filling him with confusion, fear, and something darker. He wanted to run, to escape, but his feet wouldn’t move. The forest held him here, a prisoner to the song of this ethereal being who claimed to be his mother.

And as the trees whispered around him, as the centaurs’ eyes glowed in the night, Reuben stood on the edge of a cliff, his world spiraling out of control.

His mother, the woman of the forest, was here. And with her arrival, everything he had known, everything he had believed, was about to shatter.

Chapter Text

Chapter 68

The forest hummed with a strange, haunting cadence as Reuben stepped deeper into the shadows, the air thick with magic and ancient whispers. The trees bent inwards, their twisted branches forming a canopy that seemed to fold into the very sky. A deep, eerie mist coiled around his ankles, and the scent of damp earth and something sweet, something sharp, filled the air.

She was waiting for him.

Her silhouette flickered between the trees like a half-formed shadow, ethereal and flickering, until she fully stepped into view, her form glowing faintly in the moonlight.

The woman, or what he was beginning to understand as his mother, was beautiful in a way that felt wrong. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, like the moon itself, and her hair shimmered like strands of silver thread caught in a wind that never stopped moving. Her eyes, pools of silver light, fixed on him, unreadable and ancient.

“Reuben,” she called, her voice like a lullaby sung just out of reach, “Come closer, my son. The forest has been waiting for you.”

Her words were soft, almost a whisper, but they pulled at him, wrapped around him like a warm, dangerous embrace. She beckoned, and his feet moved before he could stop them, drawn towards her presence.

"Yes, I have waited for this moment," she continued, stepping closer, the air growing colder, but her presence was warmer, comforting in its illusion. "You have felt it, haven’t you? That gnawing, that hunger inside you. That curse. Oh, Reuben, you were born to carry it, to wear it like a crown of thorns."

Her words were honeyed, dripping with false affection, yet sharp beneath the surface.

"You were chosen, my sweet," she sang, her voice lilting in a melody that tugged at his soul. "By the one who watches, by the one who knows, the one who will give you the power to be free. To be strong. To rule."

She circled him, her fingers brushing the air around him like a spider weaving its web. Reuben stood frozen, her words entangling him, each syllable pulling him deeper into the web she wove with such care.

“Voldemort,” she whispered, his name a breath on her lips. “The Dark Lord, the one who shaped the world, who made it what it is. He is the key to your freedom, Reuben. To your true power.”

The words seeped into him, stirring something within him that he had never dared to acknowledge. Something dark, something familiar, like a shadow long cast but never seen. His heart raced.

"Why suffer," she cooed, “Why struggle with this burden alone, my child? You need only walk the path he has laid for you. He is your savior. He will make you whole. Your curse, your gift, can be lifted, can be used to wield the world at your feet.”

Her eyes glinted, the soft light of her gaze shifting to something darker, something more knowing.

She stopped before him, placing a hand gently upon his cheek, the touch cold, but it burned like fire beneath his skin.

“You are meant for this, Reuben. You belong here. The forest, the darkness, it is your home. It calls to you. It will shelter you. It will protect you.”

Her voice dropped, soft and seductive, as though each word were carefully crafted just for him.

“Come,” she whispered, “Live here, with me, in the depths of the woods. The trees will sing your name, the wind will carry your thoughts. You will never be alone again. Together, we can stand, my son. Together, we can bend the world to our will.”

Reuben’s chest tightened, his breath shallow. The words wrapped around him like a vine, pulling him, coaxing him into her embrace, into the forest that seemed to breathe with life, with power. He could almost taste it, the promise of freedom, of control, of a world that could be his if only he took the step she offered.

“Don’t you want to be free, Reuben?” she crooned, her voice low and sweet. “To cast aside your doubts, your pain? To rule with the power that is rightfully yours? Voldemort will show you the way. He will make you everything you were born to be.”

She leaned in, her lips close to his ear, and her voice became a song, a soft, haunting lullaby. “Come, my son. Take my hand. Walk with me, and the world will be yours.”

The world felt distant, blurred, like a dream he was trapped within. He could hear the forest singing around him, a thousand voices joining in her melody, coaxing him, pulling him in.

"Come home," she repeated, the words winding around him like a spell. "Come home to the place you were always meant to be."

And for a moment, he almost believed her.

The forest seemed to hum louder, alive with energy, as if waiting for him to make his choice. Reuben’s heart thundered in his chest, the weight of her words pressing down on him.

And then, as the song reached its haunting crescendo, her voice, soft and sweet, wrapped around him like a promise.

"You are mine, Reuben," she whispered. "Come, and together, we will shape this world."

Chapter Text

Chapter 69

The moment Reuben stepped further into the forest, it was as if the world held its breath. The trees loomed high above, their bark twisted into strange, arcane patterns, and the moonlight shimmered through the thick canopy in ethereal beams, casting everything in a soft, dreamlike glow. The air was alive with the hum of magic, the whispers of the forest mingling with the faint sounds of distant creatures. It was beautiful, in an eerie, otherworldly way, but it wasn’t just beauty that called to him.

It was power.

And now, it was his.

"Look at you, my son," her voice floated to him like a soft caress. She stepped into the clearing, her figure glowing faintly under the shadows, her presence radiating an almost tangible warmth. "The forest welcomes you. The very trees bow to your arrival."

Reuben blinked, uncertain for a moment, but her words wrapped around him, making him feel seen in a way he never had before. Every inch of the forest seemed to be whispering his name, echoing her praise. The sense of belonging, of being wanted, pressed into his chest, filling him with something he couldn’t name, something far more intoxicating than anything he had felt before.

"You have always been special, Reuben," she continued, her voice a honeyed melody that wound through his mind. "You were born for greatness. You were never meant to live in the shadows of others. Here, you will be worshipped, you will be adored. This forest, the creatures, the trees, the very air, they have been waiting for you, waiting for your arrival."

Her words slid into his soul like a warm blanket, wrapping around his heart and settling into every crevice. He felt... important. He felt needed. The uncertainty that had clouded his mind seemed to dissipate as her voice continued to work its magic, each syllable pushing him further from doubt, further from fear.

She stepped closer, her presence now a looming force, drawing him deeper into the forest. "They know you, Reuben. They see your worth, your power. You are the one who will lead them. You are the one who will guide the forest into the future. This place, this ancient, sacred place, belongs to you."

Her words ignited something inside him. A longing. A hunger. For so long, he had felt like a nobody, cast aside, struggling with the burden of who he was. But here, here, in this moment, he felt important. He felt like someone who mattered. The trees seemed to sway in rhythm with her words, as though the very forest was nodding in agreement, affirming everything she said.

"You were lost," she crooned softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, her touch cold but burning with power. "But you are found now. You have a place here. A home. The curse you carry, the one that haunts you, it is not a burden. It is your gift. And here, you will learn to wield it."

She smiled, her eyes glinting with a secret knowledge. "You are so much more than you realize. You will be adored, respected, revered. The forest will be your kingdom. You will not have to fight for anything ever again."

Reuben stood frozen, caught in her web, but his heart raced. She was right, he could feel it. Every creature in the woods, every living thing, seemed to call to him, whispering their respect, their adoration. The trees swayed gently, as if in a dance of welcome, the leaves rustling a soft, soothing song. The very air felt different here, thick with ancient magic, a power that was his for the taking.

"Look around you, my son," she whispered, as her voice turned into a soft, lulling melody. "They are here for you. They know you are the one. This is your home now."

The words rang true, louder than anything he had ever known. He glanced around, and indeed, the forest seemed alive with life, creatures darted between the trees, their eyes glowing in the darkness, all watching him with reverence. The earth beneath his feet hummed with a low, comforting pulse. He could feel it in his bones, the power. The acceptance. The promise of everything he had ever longed for.

Before he could fully process the weight of her words, before he could even understand the full scope of what she was offering, she moved swiftly, placing a hand upon his chest, her fingers cold but heavy. Her eyes never left his as she guided him forward, deeper into the heart of the forest.

Without warning, she gestured to the ground at their feet. A patch of moss, soft and glowing, lay before them. "Here," she murmured, her voice growing softer, like a secret. "This is where you will stay. Where you will begin. The forest will watch over you. It will cradle you in its embrace."

Reuben hesitated, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts, but before he could even form a coherent sentence, her voice, so gentle, so soothing, whispered, "Do not doubt, Reuben. Here, you will be cherished. Here, you will become who you were always meant to be."

With a gentle push, she guided him to kneel beside the moss, the soft light glowing from the earth as it seemed to welcome him. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, the forest shifting around them, pressing him into the earth, making him one with it.

And as he knelt, the full weight of what she was offering him, a life, a place, acceptance, power, settled over him like a cloak. A weight, but a warm one, a comforting one.

"Stay," she whispered, her voice almost a lullaby now. "Stay here, my son. Let the forest welcome you. Let it show you the path to your true destiny."

The words lingered in the air, sweet and suffocating, as Reuben closed his eyes. The forest seemed to hum in approval, its whispers filling the air like a symphony.

There was no turning back now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 70

The days bled together in the forest, indistinguishable from one another, like the wind that whispered through the leaves. Reuben’s senses had become attuned to the rhythm of the trees, the calls of unseen creatures, and the soft murmurs of the shadows. He had ceased to count time, no longer bothered by the need for its structure, for in the forest, time had no place. The forest was infinite, timeless, ageless, and so was he, at least, that’s what the forest made him believe.

The constant hum of magic in the air had settled into him like the weight of an old, familiar melody. It thrummed beneath his skin, in his chest, and in the places, he didn’t want to acknowledge, those parts of him that were slowly being rewired, reshaped by the deep magic of the forest.

He had tried to speak to her, his mother, once. Perhaps it was the instinct of a child who still longed for some form of recognition, some name to call his own. But she only smiled in that soft, cryptic way of hers, singing as though the answer was written in the notes of her song. "I am all you need to know, my son. I have no name beyond the forest’s heartbeat." Her voice was always a lullaby, ever-present, always pulling him further away from the world he had known.

His thoughts wandered as his feet walked the winding paths, the endless corridors of trees that seemed to bend and stretch toward him as if the forest itself were alive, breathing with him.

Reuben was no longer the boy who had once walked through the halls of Hogwarts with clothes that marked him as a student. Here, in the heart of the Forbidden Forest, the creatures had made him into something else.

They were half-human, half-animal, part of the forest, bound to it, and to him. There were beings with the graceful limbs of deer and the stoic faces of lions. Some had the lithe forms of wolves, others the haunting eyes of birds. But all had one thing in common: they worshipped him. Or so it felt.

Each day, they would dress him in robes of the purest white. Silk-like fabric, flowing and glimmering under the light of the moon, draped over his form, and in this, he became something ethereal, something born of the forest. A crown was placed on his head, not of jewels, but of lilies and thorns, the flowers intertwining with the sharp points of the thorns, creating a delicate, dangerous halo above him. It pricked his skin, but the pain was not real. It was as if the crown itself was part of him, the forest's acceptance of his place among them.

Reuben never questioned it. He wore it because he had no choice, and perhaps, a part of him wanted it. He belonged here. The thought had grown within him, slowly, surely. This was where he was meant to be.

But it wasn’t just the clothing or the rituals that had changed him. It was the way he thought. The way he felt. The forest had seeped into his bones, changed the very essence of who he was. The whispers in his mind were no longer foreign. They were familiar, friendly even, pulling him deeper into their embrace, telling him of a power greater than any he had ever known.

At night, he would sit beneath the trees, and the stars above him would whisper of his legacy. The wind would twist around him, caressing his face like a lover, and he would close his eyes and imagine the world outside, Hogwarts, the corridors, the familiar faces of those he had left behind. But there was no yearning in those memories, only a dull ache, a fading echo. It was as if they were from another life entirely. The life of someone else.

Beckie, Draco... their names floated through his mind, but they were distant now, fading like stars in the early morning sky. They were memories. They were shadows.

He was the prince of this place now, crowned not by birthright, but by the forest’s choice, and with it came a sense of peace that only the wild could offer. The animals, the beings that had once been so alien to him, had become his people, and they looked to him with reverence.

Sometimes, the song of his mother would fill the air, an ethereal melody that wrapped itself around his heart. She would sing to him, soft and clear, her voice rising and falling like the wind through the branches. And in those moments, he felt a deep sense of belonging, a certainty that he was not alone. That he was chosen.

But there was no time for doubts, no space for questions in her songs. They carried him forward, swept him along like the tide, until he could barely remember the pull of the world beyond the forest’s edge.

"You are my son, my legacy," she would whisper, her voice both a lullaby and a command. And in the silence between her words, he could feel the weight of her expectations press down on him.

He had never asked for her love. It wasn’t love, not in the way he had once understood it. It was something far older, something far deeper. She owned him now. She had claimed him, and he had allowed it. There was no space for resistance.

A flicker of a thought stirred within him, but it was quickly smothered by the forest’s call. It was fleeting, a fragment of something he couldn’t quite grasp, but it was there, somewhere deep in the corners of his mind. A faint whisper of a memory, a voice he couldn’t quite remember.

For the first time in a long while, he felt a sharp pang in his chest, a tugging at the edges of his soul.

But before he could focus on it, his mother’s song filled the air again, and the pain slipped away.

The crown of lilies and thorns sat heavy on his head, and the soft rustle of leaves around him echoed in time with the rhythm of his thoughts. He could feel the magic of the forest stirring, alive with the promise of things yet to come.

The forest was his home now. There was no going back.

And so, he walked deeper into the heart of the Forbidden Forest, embraced by the trees, his robes trailing behind him like a whisper of light, the crown of lilies and thorns a reminder of who he was becoming.

Chapter Text

Chapter 71

The forest changed on the eve of Walpurgis Night.

It was not something Reuben could name, not immediately. But something had shifted. The wind no longer curled softly between the trees like a sigh; instead, it darted with teeth, sharp and restless, as if hurrying to deliver a warning. The petals that drifted from the ever-blooming flowers now carried a strange texture, like ash and silk woven together, brushing his shoulders with a quiet, unsettling urgency. The animals he had grown used to, the hawk-eyed, furred, and antlered creatures who had once sung him awake, who had clothed him in white, who had watched him with something like reverence, now kept their distance. Their gazes were unreadable, ancient, like the shifting shadows of old gods.

Even the white robes he wore, once so light and effortless, seemed to resist him now. They no longer flowed like silk through the undergrowth but dragged behind him with weight, as if the forest itself were clutching at their hems. The crown of lilies and thorns that adorned his head had browned in places, and its thorns pricked his scalp with increasing sharpness, like a reminder.

The forest was holding its breath. And in the silence, something trembled beneath the roots.

His mother, if that was what she truly was, came to him just as the last sliver of sun kissed the horizon. She emerged from the gloom, her silhouette shimmering, her body framed by hundreds of floating fireflies that circled her like a slow, breathing halo. Her eyes, the color of water just before a storm, fixed on him with both love and something else, something vast, unknowable.

"Come, my heart," she whispered, her voice soft but gliding on the wind like a blade through silk. It was not a request. It never was.

She took him to a place he had never seen before, though he had walked these woods for what felt like years. A clearing carved in perfect geometry, too perfect for nature, surrounded by thin, bone-white trees that shimmered faintly under the stars. In its center was a pool of water, black as obsidian and perfectly still, like glass holding its breath. Reuben looked into it and saw no bottom, only himself reflected in a way that felt distorted, older, cracked, crowned.

The animals lined the clearing, silent and unmoving. They stood like statues, like sentinels guarding a ritual older than memory. Not one blinked. Not one breathed.

His mother began to sing.

It was not a song, not really. Not words, nor melody. It was the sound of wind through catacombs, of rain falling on ancient stone. A sound that brushed against the edges of thought and memory, stirring something that wasn’t language but lived deeper. The forest swayed, not physically, but spiritually. It responded.

"Tomorrow," she said at last, her fingers brushing the hair from his brow like wind sweeping a temple step. "Tomorrow the veil between things thins. Walpurgis Night is not a night. It is a door."

Reuben shivered. Not from cold, but from recognition. From knowing.

She went on. "You were never meant to live always among trees. The time has come to walk where destiny waits, where an old magic stirs, and a man with fire in his blood waits to heal the fire in yours."

She did not name him.

Reuben did not ask. The moment felt breakable, like spun glass. To speak might shatter it.

She dipped her fingers into a bowl of ash and crushed violet petals and traced ancient symbols over his chest. As she worked, she sang again, of light born in darkness, of a boy birthed by fire, of a promise forged in stars and sealed with sorrow. A promise, she said, that must be kept.

"I fed the roots, Reuben," she whispered into the hollow of his throat. "But he, he will make you bloom."

He did not understand. But her voice cracked when she said it. And so he believed her.

Then thunder tore open the sky.

The animals lifted their heads in perfect unison. Somewhere beyond the clearing, a black, oily smoke rose between the white trees, slithering like a living thing. It gathered, thickened, condensed. It took shape.

A figure emerged, tall, cloaked, masked. A Death Eater.

Reuben’s breath caught. The figure said nothing, but its presence was suffocating. The clearing felt suddenly smaller. His mother did not flinch. She turned toward the shape and inclined her head with grave solemnity.

"You must go," she said softly, turning to him. "Tonight, I give you away."

Reuben stood still. The world pulsed around him.

She touched his cheek. Her eyes glistened. "Be brave," she said. "Be glory."

The Death Eater extended a gloved hand. His fingers were long and pale even beneath the leather. Reuben hesitated, then took it.

And with a sound like wind being sucked through stone, they vanished.

The forest did not call after him. It did not scream or howl or sing. It simply watched, the boy in white, the crown askew, swallowed by smoke and shadow.

But long after they had gone, when the stars wheeled higher and the forest breathed again, hooves thundered into the clearing. Silent as judgment, the centaurs emerged from the trees. They did not speak. They did not listen. And the woman who had called herself his mother, who had sung to roots and clothed her son in lilies, was devoured by the ones who remembered the old laws.

Chapter Text

Chapter 72

There was no sky. No wind. No sense of direction, just the sound of boots on stone, and Reuben’s own ragged breathing as he was led, blindfolded and spellbound, through a place that hummed with something ancient and unspoken.

He had stopped asking questions hours ago. Or had it been minutes?

The air grew colder as they descended, whoever they were, until the person guiding him stopped without warning. A hand on his shoulder, firm and final. The blindfold was lifted. Light, dim and coppery, spilled into his eyes.

A cave. He was in a cave.

But not by the sea, not with waves crashing or salt in the air. No, this place was inland, he could sense it in the stillness. The cave walls were oddly smooth, unnaturally curved, glinting faintly with veins of something metallic, almost like gold. Strange, flickering torches burned along the edges, casting shadows that didn’t quite match the shapes they belonged to. Magic pooled here, thick in the air, ancient and coiled like a sleeping serpent.

The Death Eater, hooded and silent, backed away without a word, retreating into the darkness beyond the entrance. Reuben barely turned to look before the shadows swallowed them whole.

He was alone.

Or so he thought.

“You don’t recognize this place, do you?”
The voice, silken, low, came from deeper in the chamber.

Reuben stiffened. It was unmistakable. Not loud, not booming, but calm, venomous, elegant.

Voldemort.

Except… the voice didn’t match what he expected. Not that high, rasping hiss he’d imagined from books or whispered tales. This was a voice that chose not to shout. That didn’t need to.

“You were not brought here by accident, Reuben,” Voldemort continued, the shadows thickening, moving with him as he emerged slowly from the far side of the chamber. “You carry something... rare. Something old. And I know it has begun to change you.”

Reuben’s heart thundered in his chest. He didn’t answer.

Voldemort stepped into view. He was still cloaked, still in the form that chilled the blood, ashen skin, slitted eyes, a face distorted beyond recognition. Not fully human. Not fully anything. His presence was immense. But still, it was the stillness that made him terrifying, like something waiting to strike, yet in no rush.

“You were told I cursed you,” Voldemort said softly. “That I marked you with some ancient spell. I didn’t.”

Reuben swallowed. “Then why, ?”

Voldemort’s mouth twisted amusement, maybe. Or something more bitter. “The truth is more... intimate than that.”

He walked in a slow circle around Reuben, examining him as if studying a sculpture. “You feel it, don’t you? In your sleep. When you're alone. The way your magic coils in ways it shouldn’t. The warmth that flickers where there should be cold. The pull.”

Reuben’s jaw clenched. “What did you do to me?”

“I did nothing,” Voldemort whispered, voice like a knife sliding into silk. “It was your mother.”

Silence.

Reuben turned toward him sharply, breath catching. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” Voldemort said smoothly. “You were a child. You don’t remember the rituals. The desperation. She was trying to pass something to you. Magic she couldn’t contain. Power she didn’t understand. She failed, of course she did. She wasn’t strong enough. But she didn’t fail to bind it to you.”

He stepped closer.

“She tried to become an Animagus, didn’t she? Something wild, something rare. But her magic split. And it clung to you instead. You were the vessel.”

Reuben staggered back a step. “You’re lying.”

Voldemort didn’t stop. “I’m the only one telling you the truth. What you carry, Reuben, it isn’t a gift. It’s not strength. It’s a scar. A living curse. You’ve felt it take over when you're angry. When you're afraid. When you want something too badly. Haven’t you?”

He was too close now. Reuben could barely breathe.

“You’re not changing into something else,” Voldemort said. “You’re becoming what was sealed inside you all along.”

The torches flickered violently, and for a split second, the walls of the cave shivered. Reuben blinked. The stone was still there, but something behind it was shifting.

Voldemort lifted his hand, and the space responded, not with sound, but with feeling. A pulse in the walls. In the floor. In Reuben’s ribs.

And then the transformation began.

Stone peeled away like skin shedding. Drapes unfurled where there had been jagged walls. A soft golden glow replaced the torchlight. The cave became warm, intimate, suffused with amber light and velvet shadows. A bed formed at the center of the space, massive, canopied, covered in dark silk. The ceiling expanded into a dome painted with stars that shimmered when you didn’t look directly at them.

The cave had become a bedroom. His bedroom. Or… Voldemort’s.

Reuben turned, but Voldemort was changing too.

Gone was the corpse-pale face, the twisted inhuman features. The creature melted, like wax remolding, until a figure stood where he had been.

Tall. Towering, in fact, easily six-foot-six. With a body carved like something out of old myths. Shoulders broad, arms thick with lean muscle, his posture regal. His skin had darkened to a warm, golden bronze. His face had become beautiful, not soft, but striking. A jaw sharp enough to cut, cheekbones like marble, lips full and parted with quiet amusement.

His eyes, no longer red, had become a piercing, crystalline green, almost glowing in the low light.

Reuben stared, stunned and paralyzed.

“This,” the man said, voice unchanged but smoother now, deeper. “This is how I was before I broke myself to become more. The version the world never knew. The one you were meant to meet.”

The air shimmered between them. Magic. Desire. Fear. A deep, terrible gravity.

“You carry my key, Reuben,” the handsome stranger whispered. “And it’s waking up.”

The dark lord lifts up Reuben’s chin before forcing him on him, scarring him for life and after.

Chapter Text

Chapter 73

He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.

Darkness bloomed behind them either way, thick and soft, like the inside of a velvet-lined coffin. The bed beneath him might as well have been stone. His skin was cold. Not the kind of cold you shiver through, but the kind that comes after.

After the crying.
After the pleading.
After the body gives up.

Reuben lay still. So still. Like a child playing dead. Except he wasn’t playing. He didn’t know how to move. He didn’t know what part of him still worked. If any.

The silk sheets were tangled around his waist, loose and traitorous, and the air was scented with something sweet and wrong. Amber. Vanilla. Something that would never leave his skin again.

He couldn’t tell where the pain was. It had settled in too many places at once. Behind his ribs. Beneath his tongue. Somewhere low in his spine, like a knot tied too tight to ever be undone. His hands, when he finally saw them, were curled so hard into fists that the nails had left crescents in his palms. He hadn’t even felt them break the skin.

There was no blood. There never was. Just the silence after. Just the shame.

He tried to take a breath. It caught in his throat like glass. So he let it go.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the crackle of enchanted firelight. It made the room feel normal. Safe. As if the air hadn’t been stolen from his lungs. As if he hadn’t just watched himself disappear.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. There was something dammed up inside him, something that used to be a self. A person. A boy who made jokes. Who argued about Runes. Who cared how his hair looked. That boy was gone. Or maybe he was still in here somewhere, screaming behind Reuben’s teeth.

He wasn’t sure.

The ceiling shimmered with stars. Soft, magical, moving stars.

He hated them.

They looked too gentle. Too beautiful. They hadn’t seen what happened here. Or worse, they had, and they didn’t look away.

Reuben curled tighter into himself, trying to fold away the parts that had been touched. The parts that had been taken. His bones felt like paper. His mouth tasted like iron.

He wanted to vanish.
Not die. Not yet.
Just… vanish.

To be unseen.
Unremembered.
Untouched.

But he was still here.

And that was the cruelest thing of all

Chapter Text

Chapter 74

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there.

The bed was too soft. Too warm. And his body, his body was no longer his. It felt strange in the way a wound does after the pain has passed but before it begins to heal. Quiet. But echoing.

He lay on his back, naked, limbs heavy with stillness. His skin burned in places and felt icy in others. His chest rose, barely. Breathing had become something distant. Like a memory passed down.

He was staring at the ceiling. It didn’t shimmer anymore. Just blank stone above, cracked like old porcelain. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps whispered.

Then the door opened. Not loudly. Not with ceremony. Just the sound of a latch and the breath of air.

Two women stepped inside.

They were tall, both of them, dressed in flowing robes the color of snowdrifts before dawn. Their hair was braided and tucked beneath soft veils, their hands bare and pale. They walked in silence. Reverently. Like entering a temple.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

They approached the bed slowly. One knelt at his side, the other stood near his feet. Neither of them reached for him at first. They simply looked.

Not with pity. Not with disgust.

With knowing.

Then the woman by his side extended a hand, not to touch him, but to offer it.

“Come, little one,” she said softly. “The water is warm.”

He did not understand at first. But she waited. Patient as tide.

Finally, slowly, like glass bending under its own weight, he let her help him sit up. The other woman came to his other side. Together, they lifted him, not forcefully, but with the gravity of ritual. His feet barely touched the stone floor as they guided him through a tall door and into the adjoining room.

It was dim, lit only by candlelight.

In the centre, carved into the black marble floor, was a bath.

Not a tub.

A small pool, round, deep enough for submersion, its edges smoothed by time and ritual. Steam curled above its surface. Petals floated there, white and violet, the colour of healing bruises. The water shimmered faintly.

One of the women stepped in first, her bare feet making no sound. She waded to the middle and extended her arms. The other helped Reuben step forward.

He was trembling.

Not from cold. Not quite from fear.

From the unbearable softness of it all.

They helped him down the stone steps, first one foot, then the other. The water rose to his ankles. His knees. His waist. His ribs. And then,

He sank.

Not entirely, not all at once. But they eased him down, guiding his body into the water as though laying a relic to rest.

He gasped. Not from pain. From the contrast.

The warmth broke over him like light after shadow. It filled every hollow of his ribs, kissed every scar, every bruise, every silence in his bones.

They did not rush.

One sat behind him, her legs folded, his back against her chest. She cradled him there, one arm around his shoulders, the other holding a fine cloth soaked in lavender and clary sage. She began to wash him slowly. Reverently.

The other knelt at the edge of the bath. She reached for his hands first, taking them one at a time, cleaning beneath his fingernails, tracing the lines of his palm.

They washed him in silence.

Not like a patient.

Like an heirloom. Like something lost and found again.

She poured water over his hair, cupping his head gently. The water ran in rivulets down his temples, catching on his lashes. He blinked. Once. Twice.

When they washed the insides of his thighs, they did not flinch. And neither did he.

His shame was too tired to rise.

The petals brushed against his collarbone. The steam kissed his throat. The bath did not erase anything. But it softened it. Unknotted something that had been strangled tight.

When they finished, the woman behind him held him close for a moment. He let his head fall back against her shoulder.

“You’re here,” she murmured. “You’re still here.”

The other one stepped out of the bath and returned with a warmed towel. Together, they helped him rise, water streaming from his ribs and arms and knees. He stood, fragile and luminous, and let them wrap him in soft cloth. They dried him without urgency, pressing warmth into his skin with every touch.

Then they led him back into the candlelit bedroom.

Only then did they unfold the white garments.

The one by his side lifted a folded length of white fabric, robes, long and ethereal, split into two parts: a flowing skirt, gathered at the waist with a silver cord, and a long-sleeved top, soft and light, reaching down to the wrists. She brushed her fingers against his shoulder, featherlight.

He flinched.

Her hand withdrew immediately. But her voice followed, soft as lullabies, touched with a strange accent.

“Child,” she said gently. “May we dress you?”

He didn’t answer. His throat was tight. The tears weren’t there yet, but the pressure behind his eyes bloomed like bruises.

She took his silence as permission.

They began with his legs, unfolding them from where they had curled, stiff with shame. One woman supported his thigh as the other slipped the soft, silken skirt beneath him, pulling the fabric up over his hips. Their touch was warm. Professional. Almost sacred.

The fabric clung coolly to his skin. He noticed every place it met him, his ankles, his knees, the sharp jut of his hip bones. There were marks on him. Faint, reddish ones. Some fresh. Others older.

They never asked what had happened. They already knew.

“We’re here,” said the other woman, her voice lower. She was smoothing the long-sleeved top over his chest now, careful around the hollow between his collarbones. “You are safe now, little raven.”

The words made something snap.

A sound escaped him, small, hoarse. He curled in on himself, shoulders convulsing. His breath caught, then came in ragged sobs.

The robe slid from the woman’s hands as she gathered him up, pulling his head gently to her chest. Her arms circled him, firm and quiet. The other woman knelt behind him, cradling his back like a broken wing.

“It’s all right,” one of them murmured into his hair. “Let it out.”

He cried like a child, sharp, gasping, full-bodied grief that came from somewhere deeper than words. His fists clenched in the fabric of her robe. His face was wet against her breast.

“You survived,” whispered the other, stroking his spine, “and that is enough.”

They held him until his sobs dulled to trembling. Until the shaking stopped. Until he could breathe again.

Only then did they finish dressing him, pulling the long-sleeved top closed over his chest, tying the soft sash at his waist, slipping his arms into the sleeves that hung like moonlight.

He sat, barely upright, cloaked in white, eyes red and empty.

“You are not broken,” one of the women said, brushing the hair from his face. “But you will be different now. And we will walk with you until you can walk alone.”

Reuben closed his eyes.

And for the first time since it happened, he felt the smallest, trembling thread of warmth.

Not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But the beginning of it.