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Chapter twenty: Quidditch With A Kiss

For the next several days, Enid Sinclair didn’t know what to do, or what to think.

Every time she closed her eye, she felt the ghost of that moment again—Wednesday’s lips crushing against hers, the shock of it, the taste of mashed potatoes still bitter on her tongue, and the panic that sent her bolting up stone stairwells like she could outrun her own body.

Last night had been worse. Professor Weasley had set her and Wednesday to clean the courtyard—on their knees, ripping weeds out of the frozen earth with bare hands, raking leaves until their palms blistered raw. Enid avoided Wednesday like the plague. Didn’t look her way. Didn’t breathe the same air if she could help it. She worked until her back ached, until her fingernails cracked, until her chest heaved—anything to keep her focus anywhere but on the girl across from her.

And now…here she was.

The chill of evening bit through the wool of her scarf and coat as she settled into the Hufflepuff section of the Quidditch stands. The towers rose high and proud around the pitch, painted in their respective house colors—crimson and gold roaring across the Gryffindor side, green and silver glinting like snake scales where Slytherin supporters gathered. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had already begun to stake their places, the wooden planks creaking beneath stomping feet as students poured in, laughing, shouting, waving banners.

Beside her, Poppy Sweeting had come armed like a one-witch sweets shop: popcorn spilling from a striped paper bag, candied ginger, chocolate frogs, and pumpkin tarts all stuffed into her satchel. She sat with her hair tied back in a neat ribbon, cheeks flushed from the cold, already chewing on a licorice wand.

Enid let herself sink into the noise, into the smells of sugar and smoke, into anything that wasn’t the mess in her head.

“Oi!”

Enid blinked against the low sun, eyes following the flash of green and silver moving across the pitch.

There—hovering a good 60 feet from the grass, broom snug between her legs, emerald Slytherin robes rippling with the wind—was Imelda Reyes. The uniform suited her almost too well: tailored in sharp lines, trimmed in silver thread, the serpent crest stitched proudly over her heart. Her boots were scuffed from countless matches, laces pulled tight, her leather gloves creaking faintly as she flexed her grip on the broomstick. A pair of flying goggles hung loose around her neck, glinting in the light, the strap brushing against the neckline of her uniform.

And her—Merlin, her smile. Imelda smirked up at them as if she owned not just the pitch but the entire bloody castle. Dark hair streamed behind her in the autumn breeze, untamed, whipping around her sharp cheekbones. She lifted one hand lazily from the broom, as if the act of balancing midair was second nature, and waved.

“You excited?” she called, her voice carrying effortlessly over the growing chatter of the crowd.

Enid, caught mid-bite of a candied pecan Poppy had forced into her hands, startled. Her heart gave a weird, traitorous lurch.

She cupped her hands around her mouth, forcing herself to grin. “A little!” she shouted back, words slipping out before she could think. “Don’t fall on your ass, Reyes!”

Imelda’s grin sharpened into something cocky, dangerous. “Not a chance,” she fired back, leaning forward on her broom like she might shoot into the sky any second. “Stick around—I’ll make it worth your while.”

Enid’s face heated instantly. Worth her while? What did that even—oh gods, was that—?

She stammered, words tangling on her tongue. “Y-you’d… better, um, win, I mean. Not for me—! For Slytherin—wait, no, against Gryffindor, because obviously I don’t care, I’m just here with—”

Her rambling cut off as Imelda tilted her head and winked.

It was shameless, bold, and it made Enid’s stomach swoop like she’d just gone into a nosedive on a broom.

“You’re adorable when you trip over your words, Sinclair,” Imelda called, teeth flashing white. “Careful—I might have to dedicate my first goal to you.”

Enid made a strangled sound that was half laugh, half mortified choke. She was still flailing for a reply when a sharp huff sounded beside her.

Poppy.

Before Enid could react, her best friend hugged her arm tightly to her chest, scowling down at the Slytherin. “Don’t you have a game to play, Reyes?” she snapped, and promptly shoved an entire pumpkin tart into Enid’s mouth to silence her before she said something worse.

Enid’s eyes went wide as she choked, crumbs scattering against her scarf. She waved her free hand wildly, muffled protests useless with pumpkin filling sticking to the roof of her mouth.

Imelda just laughed, a wicked, delighted sound that rolled up to their section. “Jealous, Sweeting?” she teased, her grin widening when Poppy’s scowl deepened. With one last smirk at Enid—who was too busy choking to do more than glare helplessly—Imelda leaned forward and shot off across the pitch, robes billowing, joining her teammates as they gathered into sharp green formation.

The Gryffindor side of the stadium erupted as their team strode onto the field, led by their lion-crest captain. Scarlet banners rippled in the wind, drums pounded like war, the chant of “GRYFFIN-DOR!” clashing against the roar of Slytherin pride.

Enid wiped pumpkin tart from her chin, cheeks flushed crimson, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. Poppy muttered under her breath about “cocky broom-riders” and shoved another bag of snacks into her lap.

Enid let her friend fuss, but her eyes still strayed down to the pitch, following the green blur that was Imelda Reyes.

High above, Madam Chiyo Kogawa cut across the sky, broom slicing clean arcs through the air. Her sharp voice, amplified by spellwork, boomed across the stands:

“Welcome, Hogwarts! Today’s match—Slytherin versus Gryffindor, the first of the season!”

The stadium thundered with sound—feet stomping, fists pounding railings, banners whipping.

Kogawa raised one hand, the noise dipping into tense anticipation. “You know the rules—but I’ll remind you all the same. No targeting the Seekers. No wandwork. Beaters, bludgers only—not skulls. Seekers, no interfering with broom handles. The Snitch decides the end, but points win the season. Play with skill, not cheap tricks.”

Her dark eyes glinted, sweeping both teams. Then, in a voice sharp as steel: “Anyone who thinks themselves above the rules…” She smacked her broom into her palm. “You’ll answer to me.”

The crowd erupted again.

Enid leaned forward despite herself, chest tight with the roar of voices all around, popcorn forgotten.

Kogawa blew her whistle.

The chest at midfield sprang open.

Two bludgers screamed into the sky, spinning wildly. The Quaffle shot upward, instantly caught by a Slytherin Chaser as the Gryffindors gave chase.

And then—like a streak of sunlight—the Snitch burst into the air, golden wings glinting, gone in a flash too quick for Enid’s eyes to track.

The game had begun.

The Quaffle shot like a comet into the crisp afternoon sky, and the stands erupted with a deafening roar that rattled Enid’s bones. Banners snapped in the wind, chants clashed like dueling storms—“SLY-THER-IN!” pounding against “GRYFF-IN-DOR!”

From the first second, the match was chaos in motion. Bludgers screamed overhead like cannonballs, whistling as Beaters smashed them back with bone-jarring cracks of their bats. The Quaffle darted between hands, a blur of red and green uniforms cutting sharp patterns against the gray-blue heavens.

Imelda Reyes was in her element.

Enid’s eyes followed her instantly, as if magnetized. Imelda tucked low against her broom, every muscle coiled, dark hair lashing like a whip. She weaved between two Gryffindor Chasers, letting them overcommit before banking hard left—her emerald robes a streak of green as she pulled into a dizzying barrel roll. The crowd shrieked, the commentator’s amplified voice rising with giddy disbelief:

“And Reyes makes them look like first-years! What a dodge—she’s clear! She’s clear, and the Quaffle’s in her hands!”

Enid’s breath caught as Imelda rose, balancing one-handed on her broom in a reckless stunt, the Quaffle tucked under her other arm. She dropped, broom tilting nose-first in a vertical dive. Gasps and screams rippled across the stands as she plummeted, wind roaring in her ears. The Gryffindor Keeper lunged to intercept, stretching wide—

—and Imelda twisted at the last second, letting her broom spin under her legs in a tight corkscrew. The Quaffle sailed clean through the middle hoop.

“GOAL TO SLYTHERIN! Reyes again! That makes thirty to ten!”

The Slytherin stands went berserk, silver banners snapping like serpent tongues, students stamping and chanting her name. Enid found herself cheering too, hands cupped around her mouth, until Poppy gave her a look that could curdle pumpkin juice.

The match roared on. For the next hour, it was war in the skies. Chasers collided midair, trading elbows and shoulder slams as the Quaffle passed hand to hand. Bludgers screamed across the field, one narrowly missing a Gryffindor Beater’s head before he smashed it back with a grunt that echoed over the noise. The Seeker duel was its own lightning-fast dance—two streaks, one in red, one in green, chasing flashes of gold through cloud banks.

The Ravenclaw commentator’s voice rose and fell, breathless, ecstatic:

“Another goal for Gryffindor—sixty all!—Reyes again, she’s unstoppable today! Bludger, Bludger—oh, near miss for Finnegan, that would’ve broken his ribs! Seeker sighting—both in pursuit, neck-and-neck, they’re climbing into the clouds!”

Time blurred into adrenaline. By the ninety-minute mark, Enid was on the edge of her seat, nails biting into her knees. The score ticked higher, back and forth, brutal and fast. Slytherin—90. Gryffindor—80. Every play mattered, every throw could turn the tide.

And then—

Enid’s chest went cold.

Something prickled at the edge of her senses, sharp and unnatural. She blinked, tearing her gaze from the pitch, scanning the stands as if some invisible string tugged at her attention. And there—across the stadium, in the Slytherin seating box, sat Wednesday Addams.

Immaculate black robes. A face like carved marble.

And eyes locked on her.

The sight hit Enid like a spell. Wednesday wasn’t cheering. Wasn’t even pretending to watch the game. She sat motionless, gaze cold, sharp, unreadable, pinning Enid like a specimen on display. And then, deliberately, she turned away—jaw tightening, lips pressed thin.

She looked furious.

Enid’s heart stuttered. Wait—Wednesday? Here? Why would she—?

The thought broke when the crowd exploded. Enid jerked back toward the pitch just in time to see Imelda streak across the center field, broom tilting dangerously low. She snatched the Quaffle clean out of a Gryffindor Chaser’s grip with a brutal steal, tucked it under her arm, and shot for the hoops like a green arrow loosed from a bow.

The Gryffindor Keeper lunged. Too slow.

Imelda pitched the Quaffle into the center ring with a flick of her wrist—smooth, effortless, cocky. The Quaffle whistled through.

“ANOTHER GOAL TO SLYTHERIN! Reyes again! Ninety to eighty!” the commentator shrieked, voice cracking with excitement. “That girl is on fire! What a match!”

The Slytherin stands detonated into cheers, drums pounding, students chanting Imelda’s name like a battle cry. Enid felt her chest tighten, her throat burn—part thrill, part something else.

Because for a second, it wasn’t just a goal. Imelda had turned in the air afterward, searching the stands, flashing that sharp grin. And Enid could’ve sworn—just for her—that Reyes winked.

The game pressed on, fast and furious, the commentator’s voice barely able to keep up. Gryffindor fought tooth and claw for the lead, their Chasers hammering the Quaffle across the field in a relentless flurry. Slytherin answered with sharp plays and brutal teamwork, the Beaters smashing Bludgers with bone-jarring cracks.

It all came down to the last ten minutes. The Seeker duel had turned vicious, both streaks—scarlet and green—chasing the golden glint through clouds, shoulders nearly colliding as they darted in and out of sight. The crowd gasped with every near-catch, chants of “GRYFFINDOR!” and “SLYTHERIN!” colliding in waves.

Poppy leaned forward on the edge of her seat, cradling the last handful of popcorn like it was sacred, eyes wide. Enid could barely breathe, her focus flickering between the Seekers high above and Imelda tearing across the pitch below, Quaffle once again tucked under her arm.

The commentator’s voice cracked with disbelief:
“Reyes again—she’s unstoppable—oh my Merlin, she’s scored! Another ten for Slytherin! That brings them up to one-thirty!”

The whistle shrieked, long and piercing. The Snitch had escaped capture, but the time was up.

The pitch erupted. Slytherin banners snapped and waved, their section of the stands roaring as if they’d swallowed the sky itself. Green and silver cloaks blurred together, and in the center of it all—Imelda was swarmed midair by her teammates, surrounded and lifted, their voices echoing her name. Her grin was sharp, wild, electric.

Slytherin had won.

---

The Three Broomsticks was packed.

Hours later, the tavern brimmed with students, tables crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, mugs of butterbeer spilling froth onto sticky wood as laughter and chanting drowned out the clatter of plates. The Slytherin team sat at the heart of it, Imelda at the center like a queen on her throne, cloaked in sweat and victory. Their housemates crowded them with endless cheers, slapping backs, shoving mugs into their hands, the air almost too hot to breathe.

Enid, though, sat tucked away at a far table with Poppy, their corner slightly quieter but still buzzing with the spillover of joy. A half-empty mug of butterbeer sweated in front of her, the smell of roasted meat and sugar clinging to the air.

“That was fun,” Poppy said at last, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. “Loud as hell, but fun.”

Enid smiled faintly, swirling the froth in her mug. Her mind kept flickering back to the field, to the dizzying rush of broomsticks and wind and—Imelda’s grin, sharp and directed like an arrow.

“May I borrow you for a bit?”

The voice cut into her thoughts. Enid blinked, looking up—

Imelda stood beside their table, hair damp from the match, her Slytherin scarf hanging loose around her neck. She looked tired, flushed, but still cocky, that grin tugging at her lips. Behind her, a couple of students leaned into each other, elbowing, eyebrows raised with silent oohs.

Enid’s stomach flipped.

“Oh, sure,” she said quickly, glancing at Poppy.

Poppy whined immediately. “Seriously? Now? We were just—” She stopped herself, sighed, and with exaggerated drama, grabbed Enid’s butterbeer and downed it in one go. “Fine. Don’t take all night.”

Enid laughed, shaking her head as she stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt. Imelda only smirked, waiting until Enid was beside her before leading her through the tavern and out into the cool night air.

The sounds of celebration dulled behind them, fading into the quiet hum of Hogsmeade. The night was crisp, stars pricking the velvet sky. Imelda walked with her hands stuffed into her robe pockets until they reached the fountain, its water glinting faintly in moonlight. She sat on the stone rim, motioning for Enid to join her.

Enid did, pulling her scarf tighter around her throat. For a moment, it was quiet—the trickle of water, the distant cheers from the tavern. Then Imelda leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“So?” she asked, turning her head toward her. “Did you like it? The game, I mean.”

Enid tilted her head, pretending to think. “Hmm. You were… alright, I guess.”

Imelda barked out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Alright? I scored six goals.”

“Five and a half,” Enid corrected with a grin. “That one was sloppy.”

Imelda gasped, clutching her chest as if mortally wounded. “You wound me, Sinclair. Truly.”

Enid laughed, and the sound softened something tight in her chest. They talked after that—about the bludgers that nearly took someone’s head off, about the ridiculous chants from the Gryffindor section, about Madam Kogawa’s whistle that could probably crack glass. It was easy, effortless, like the game’s adrenaline still lingered between them.

Until Imelda fell quiet.

She rubbed the back of her neck, eyes darting to the ground. “Hey, um… are you free sometime?”

Enid blinked, caught off guard. “Free?”

“Yeah. I, uh… I know a spot. Out in the Valley. Cool place. Wanted to show you.”

Enid raised a brow, lips twitching. “A cool spot for what?”

Imelda’s cockiness faltered, her ears reddening. “Well, I… you know. I mean like—uh, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Enid teased, leaning closer, eyes glinting. “Know what?”

Imelda laughed, soft and sheepish, rubbing her neck again. “Like… a date. Or… friends. Whatever. Just—yeah.”

Enid scooted closer on the stone rim, studying her. “Imelda.”

“Yeah?”

“…Do you like me?”

Imelda froze. Looked down. Then, almost helplessly, she laughed again—short, breathy, nervous. “Yeah. I do.”

Enid’s heart jumped. Her face warmed. “…Why, though?”

Imelda finally met her gaze. Her grin was still there, but softer now, vulnerable in a way Enid hadn’t seen before.

“I mean…” Imelda started, voice lower, “you’re… different. Not in the weird way. Well—no, yeah, in the weird way too. You’re loud, and you talk too much sometimes, but it’s—Merlin, it’s kind of brilliant. You make people want to listen. Even when they pretend you’re annoying, they don’t really mean it. You just… take up space. Like you belong in it. And you fight for people, even when they don’t deserve it. That’s rare.”

Enid blinked. The words poured out fast, unpolished, almost rambling. And yet every one of them landed.

“And you’re brave,” Imelda pressed on, shoulders lifting like she couldn’t help herself. “Not Gryffindor stupid brave—just… heart brave. You care too much. It’s insane. And you’re stubborn as hell, but not in a way that makes me want to hex you. In a way that makes me want to—” She stopped herself, flushed, then laughed. “—well. That’s beside the point.”

Enid’s throat felt tight. She didn’t know what to say. Her hands twisted in her lap, her face hot. “Oh…” she managed, cheeks burning.

Imelda exhaled through her nose, grinning crookedly. “I know we don’t really know each other too well. Not yet. But I’d like to. I mean—if you’d let me. Would you, uh… like to get to know one another better?”

The way she said it—corny, fumbling—pulled a laugh right out of Enid despite the knot in her stomach. “That’s… cheesy.”

“Yeah,” Imelda admitted with a shrug, sliding her hand over Enid’s, warm and steady. “But you like cheese? Or atleast poppy told me after i asked about your favorite snacks.”

Enid opened her mouth to argue—then froze as Imelda leaned in, her dark eyes holding her like a snare.

The kiss was soft at first. Testing. Hesitant.

And Enid almost pulled away—almost—but then her chest tightened and she leaned into it instead, lips pressing back against Imelda’s, uncertain and shaky but undeniably there.

It should’ve stopped there.

It didn’t.

Imelda broke the kiss only to stand abruptly, tugging Enid up with her by the hand. Enid stumbled but followed, heart pounding, and they ducked out from the fountain, around the side of the tavern into a narrow alley cloaked in shadow. The muffled roar of the Three Broomsticks faded behind them, the world reduced to cold stone walls and the heat building between their mouths.

They crashed together again, messier this time, teeth clashing, breath sharp. Imelda kissed like she flew—reckless, hungry, daring gravity to catch her. Enid’s back hit the wall with a thud, her scarf sliding loose as Imelda pressed in, one hand gripping her waist tight.

Enid gasped against her lips, trembling, then—without even thinking—slipped her tongue into Imelda’s mouth.

Imelda jolted at the suddenness, a muffled laugh spilling out against Enid’s lips before she kissed her harder, deeper, like she’d been waiting for that very slip.

It was sloppy. Heated. Almost ridiculous. But Enid couldn’t stop.

Their mouths crashed together once more with no rhythm, no grace—just spit and teeth and breath. Saliva slicked between them, stringing when they pulled apart for half a second before smashing back in. Imelda groaned into her mouth, a raw, throaty sound that made Enid’s knees go weak. She grabbed handfuls of the Slytherin’s robe without meaning to, dragging her closer, needing her closer.

Imelda pressed harder, hips grinding into hers, instinctive, unrestrained. The sharp press of bone against bone made Enid jolt, then lean right back into it. Her body betrayed her, chasing the friction. Her pulse thundered in her ears, matching the little gasps Imelda dragged out of her with every shift, every messy grind.

Enid’s tongue slipped, searching, and Imelda met it—sloppy, wet, desperate. Their teeth clacked, a sting of pain swallowed up in the heat. Imelda moaned again, high and unguarded, and Enid’s stomach flipped. Her chest was pressed so tight to Imelda’s that every breath was stolen and shared, the heat of it suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

It was too much. Too fast. They were both aroused, too excited, hands wandering without thought—Imelda’s clutching her waist, her hip, her ribs; Enid’s gripping shoulders, sliding to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair without realizing it. Neither of them cared about precision or dignity.

Enid gasped into the kiss, her body thrumming, her thighs tightening, chasing more than she should’ve dared.

And then—Wednesday.

The cellar. The bitter taste. That cold, violent kiss.

For one terrifying second it wasn’t Imelda’s lips on hers at all. It was hers.

Enid froze. Panic slammed into her chest. She shoved a shaky hand against Imelda’s chest, breaking the kiss.

They pulled apart in a rush, panting hard, spit shining across their lips, both of them flushed crimson. Enid’s heart hammered so violently she thought she might throw up.

Imelda blinked at her, breathless, eyes wide and blown. “Shit,” she whispered, voice ragged. “Shit—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She stopped, laughed once, nervous and weak. “No. I did mean it. Just… not—like that.”

Enid pressed her fingers to her swollen lips, the ghost of heat still there, the ghost of her still burning deeper. Her chest heaved, her whole body shaking with the mix of arousal and shame.

And her palm still rested on Imelda’s chest, right over her racing heartbeat. Real, frantic. Wanting.

Too real.

Imelda’s breath shuddered out against her cheek, lips still parted, eyes wide and wild. She staggered back half a step, dragging a hand down her face as though that could wipe away the kiss. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, voice low and frayed. Then louder, tripping over herself—“I’m—sorry, Enid. I shouldn’t have—I just—”

Her hands fluttered uselessly as she smoothed down her mussed robes, tugged at her collar, fixed nothing at all. “You’re just—you were smiling at me and I thought—I don’t know what I thought, really—fuck.” She half-laughed, half-choked, shaking her head, words spilling too fast to catch. “Merlin, I always open my stupid mouth, don’t I? Or—or in this case—”

“Imelda.” Enid’s voice cracked sharper than she meant, her throat dry as sand.

Imelda’s mouth shut at once, teeth snapping together.

Enid tried to steady herself, tried to breathe, but her body still felt molten, every nerve singing, her lips raw and swollen. And when she looked up—she didn’t see Reyes. She saw her. That pale face, those black eyes, that kiss she’d shoved down into the pit of herself like poison.

Wednesday.

The image came unbidden, slicing through the haze. Enid shook her head hard, blonde curls sticking to her damp cheeks, forcing the phantom away. “It’s—” Her voice was faint, trembling. She cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s ok.”

Imelda blinked, guilt flickering raw across her face.

“Listen.” Enid pressed her lips together, tasted salt, heat. “I—I’m gonna… retire. For the night. It’s been a long day.” She forced a small smile, brittle at the edges, and leaned up quick, pressing a soft kiss against Imelda’s cheek. The heat of her skin lingered there, stunned and silent. “Goodnight, Reyes.”

She turned before she could second-guess herself, before the heat in her belly twisted any tighter. Her boots scuffed on the cobbles as she walked back toward the golden glow of the Three Broomsticks, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the noise of the village.

Behind her, Imelda stood rooted, cheek still tingling where Enid’s lips had brushed. The swagger she wore like armor was gone. What was left was flushed, burning, and fragile. She tugged at her sleeves, shame biting into her chest. Too fast. Too much. She cursed herself under her breath, hating how badly she wanted more, hating herself for wanting at all.

And she wasn’t alone.

From the mouth of a narrow alley across the square, a shadow lingered, silent as frost. Black robes blending into the dark, hands tight at her sides, face pale with fury.

Wednesday Addams had seen everything.

Her expression did not crack, but her eyes—those cold, abyssal eyes—followed Enid until she disappeared into the tavern door. Disgust curled her lip, bile in her throat. The taste of that kiss, the memory of it, still haunted her own mouth.

And now this.

The half-blood. The Hufflepuff. The lesser.

Wednesday turned away at last, the corners of her mouth twitching—not with sorrow, but with something sharper, darker, poisonous.

---

By the time they trudged back through the gates of Hogwarts, both of them were yawning, sugar and butterbeer sitting heavy in their stomachs. The castle loomed in torchlight, its windows glowing gold against the ink-dark sky, and Enid’s scarf smelled faintly of smoke and butter from the tavern.

“Bath,” Poppy announced firmly as they slipped down into the Hufflepuff basement. “Non-negotiable. You stink of butterbeer foam and sweat.”

Enid snorted but didn’t argue. The long walk, the cheers still ringing in her ears, and the restless burn in her chest all pressed down heavy. A hot soak sounded like mercy.

Minutes later, steam curled against the stone walls of the Hufflepuff bath chamber. The wide, enchanted pool frothed with pale bubbles, smelling faintly of lavender and peppermint. Enid slipped her eyepatch off, setting it carefully on the folded towel beside the water, then sank in with a soft hiss as the heat licked at her skin.

Across from her, Poppy pushed off the edge and floated on her back, brown hair fanning in the water. She ducked under, resurfaced with a splash, eyes bright and cheeks pink from the warmth.

“What’s wrong?” she asked suddenly, swimming lazily back toward Enid. Her voice was casual but her eyes weren’t. They narrowed the way they always did when she spotted a creature in distress. “You’ve been down ever since we left. Did Imelda say something to you? Or…?”

Enid froze, fingers twitching under the water.

“No. I…” Her voice thinned out, trailed away. She looked down, anywhere but Poppy.

Poppy swam closer and caught her chin gently, coaxing her head back up. Her thumb brushed slow along Enid’s jaw, grounding her in that stubbornly gentle way of hers. Her gaze flicked between Enid’s good eye and the ruined one still pink and healing, as though neither unsettled her.

Enid exhaled shakily, then leaned into the touch, too tired to hide behind smiles. “We kissed,” she murmured finally. “Imelda and me.”

Poppy blinked, tilted her head, then sighed. “Did you really? Wait—” she furrowed her brows, voice soft but incredulous. “She just went for it? Did she even ask you out first?”

Enid’s face burned, the water suddenly too hot. “No, I—I don’t know. It just happened. She’s… she’s really good with words, Poppy. Too good. And then she—” She flailed helplessly, sinking until bubbles lapped at her lips.

Poppy pulled her back up by the shoulders, shaking her head. “Do you fancy her?”

Enid flushed deeper, her throat tight. Poppy was so close their noses nearly touched, the question sharp but protective, almost scolding. “I like her,” Enid admitted softly. “But I don’t know if I like her like that. It happened so fast. Too fast.”

Poppy’s jaw tightened. “If she pulls a stunt like that again, I’ll break her bloody arm.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, not a shred of humor in it. “Both of them if she doesn’t get the message.”

Enid barked a laugh despite herself, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. She wrapped her arms around Poppy, burying her face against her damp shoulder. “You’re the freaking best.”

Poppy hugged her back fiercely, pressing her cheek to Enid’s curls. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

For a long while they just floated like that, steam curling around them, their bond as warm as the water—calm, steady, yet threaded through with a closeness most people wouldn’t understand.

Later that night, back in their dormitory, the world was quieter. Poppy had claimed most of the blanket, sprawled like a kneazle across the mattress, while Enid curled smaller beside her, snoring softly with her face half-buried in the pillow.

They didn’t notice how the darkness shifted.

How it thickened, thick as oil.

From the far corner of the dormitory, where the moonlight only skimmed the stone, a shadow peeled itself free of the wall. It moved soundlessly, inevitable, until it stood over the bed.

Wednesday Addams.

Her skin was pale enough to gleam in the dim light, her hair a black curtain down her back, her eyes nothing but pits—cold, sharp, endless. But inside those pits swirled something worse: contradiction. Fury. Hunger. A need that repulsed even her.

Her lips twitched once, as if the mask of composure cracked for half a breath. Then she lowered herself closer.

Her gaze devoured the sight of Enid Sinclair sleeping curled against Poppy Sweeting, soft and defenseless, mouth parted with the faintest snore. The very sight of her alive, unbothered, unscarred by their last encounter—ignoring her, avoiding her like a disease—was infuriating. Wednesday’s teeth ached from how hard she clenched her jaw.

Her hand moved before she gave it permission.

She traced the barest tips of her fingers down Enid’s leg beneath the blanket, gliding from calf to thigh. The warmth bled through the cotton, searing her touch. She followed the line upward, over Enid’s waist, across her chest, the rise and fall of her breathing steady, maddening.

Her fingers closed around her throat.

Not strangling. Not yet. Just there. A pale, cold hand coiled at the base of her life.

Wednesday’s lashes lowered, the corner of her mouth twitching again. She told herself it was contempt. That it was punishment. But her own hand betrayed her—shaking. Shuddering.

Dark veins spread from her wrist, writhing up her arm like smoke. They crept along her collarbone, crawled up her neck, suffocating her from within. The malediction was eating her alive, and the tremor in her hand wasn’t weakness. It was desperation.

She needed help. She needed her.

And it infuriated her more than anything.

Her grip flexed, not enough to cut breath but enough to force Enid’s pulse to jump. That pulse burned against her palm like fire on ice.

Enid stirred.

Her lashes fluttered, breath hitched, body stiffening when she realized there was weight above her. Before she could gasp—Wednesday slammed her other hand over her mouth.

The noise died in her throat.

Her good eye shot wide, the scarred one twitching faintly, as Wednesday leaned close, hair falling like a veil around their faces. Their noses almost brushed. Her weight pressed down into the mattress, pinning Enid in place with nothing but presence.

“Shh,” Wednesday hissed, her voice low, her breath icy.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, her hand still clamped across Enid’s lips. Beneath her touch, Enid’s chest rose and fell quicker, the heat of panic—or something else—rolling off her.

Wednesday’s fingers dug a little deeper into her throat, a warning, a promise, and maybe—just maybe—a plea.

Enid thrashed once, her hands gripping at Wednesday’s wrist, nails biting into pale skin. Her muffled cry against the palm went nowhere. Panic surged through her chest like fire.

“Stop—” she tried to gasp, but it broke uselessly against Wednesday’s hand.

Then Wednesday leaned closer, so close the fall of her hair brushed Enid’s cheek. Her lips ghosted the shell of Enid’s ear, her voice a blade drawn slow.

“I need your help,” she whispered, soft and venomous all at once. “It cannot wait.”

Enid froze. The words didn’t sound like a trick. They sounded like something Wednesday despised saying.

Her grip on Enid’s throat shifted, looser now, as if she couldn’t hold steady.

“It’s my curse,” Wednesday admitted, and the syllables tasted like acid on her tongue. “I am…rotting. And I am tired of you ignoring me.” Her voice dropped lower, harsh and intimate. “Who do you think you are?”

The slap. The kiss. The humiliation that still burned her bones. Wednesday’s tone held it all—shame, fury, hunger. She hated Enid for seeing her falter. Hated Enid for running. Hated her more for still needing her.

Beneath her, Enid stiffened—but then her good eye caught it.

The smoke.

Black, curling tendrils seeping from Wednesday’s wrist, licking up her arm like veins set aflame. They thickened, spilling into the air, coiling around her shoulders, her throat. Faint runes pulsed in the dark mist, symbols burning with decay and power. They reached outward, writhing, searching—and Enid realized with a lurch they were reaching for her.

Only she could see them. Only she could feel the weight of their desperate hunger.

Her panic faltered, bled into something else—concern, sharp and gut-deep.

“Wednesday…” she whispered, voice cracking under the hand still pressed over her mouth.

Wednesday’s eyes flickered at her tone. For a heartbeat, she looked less like a predator and more like a drowning girl clinging to stone.

And then the moment snapped.

The smoke thickened, and before Enid could speak again, Wednesday’s hand slid from her lips to her jaw. Her body shuddered once—then the world tore sideways.

A hard CRACK split the air.

Enid’s stomach dropped as the bed, the warmth, the dormitory dissolved in a whip of air.

Her bare feet hit cold flagstone. Her sleep-shift clung to her legs in the draft. The corridors of Hogwarts stretched around them, black and endless, torches guttering low.

She staggered, clutching at the wall, her heart still in her throat. “What the—Wednesday!”

But Wednesday stood a few paces away, shadows clinging to her like armor, her chest heaving faintly. Her hands trembled despite how tightly she fisted them at her sides.

The runes writhed thicker around her now, spilling like smoke from her pores, curling into the stones. They bent toward Enid as though she were gravity itself.

Wednesday raised her chin, forcing her voice to steady. “You wanted to run from me. You don’t get to.”

Her eyes flicked to Enid’s throat, where her handprint still burned red.

“You will listen this time.”

But Enid’s chest tightened, not with fear, but with memory—the press of Wednesday’s lips in that cellar, the shocking taste of mashed potatoes of all things, her own palm connecting with pale cheek hard enough to slice flesh.

The humiliation. The fire.

Her fists clenched, shaking. She raised one, jabbing a finger straight at Wednesday.

“How dare me! No—how fucking dare you!? You break into Hufflepuff, into my dorm, where I sleep, where I live—and you wake me up with your hand on my throat?!”

Her good eye burned, her milky one open wide, unsettling, furious.

Wednesday scoffed, trying for control, stalking a step closer. “You were hiding. You were ignoring me.”

Enid’s laugh cracked sharp. “Because you kissed me! You, Wednesday Addams, decided to shove your tongue down my throat and for what!?”

For once, silence.

Wednesday’s lips parted—then shut. No sharp barb, no cruel wit. Her face was unreadable, but her throat worked, words failing.

Enid surged forward, jabbing her finger into Wednesday’s chest. “You don’t just do that. What the fuck is wrong with you? I barely even know you—”

Wednesday’s eyes flashed, black pits sparking. “You don’t know me because you run every time I get close.”

“I run,” Enid snarled, shoving her hard into the wall, “because you scare the shit out of me!”

The crack of impact echoed. Wednesday stayed pinned, her breath coming fast.

Her body shivered—no, trembled, veins crawling like black ink beneath her skin, spreading over her collarbone, up her throat. The smoke hissed faintly, only Enid could see the damage it was causing.

The Hufflepuff faltered, but not all the way. Her voice softened a hair, still ragged. “…Did you drink your potion?”

Wednesday’s jaw flexed, eyes darting away.

That told Enid everything.

She grabbed her by the shoulders, propping her upright when Wednesday sagged, just a little. “Goddammit, you didn’t—”

“Enough.” Wednesday’s voice cracked but tried for steel. Her palms pressed weakly against Enid’s chest, but instead of pushing her away, her forehead tipped forward, brushing against Enid’s shoulder like gravity betrayed her. “Enough of this childishness. Of slaps and silly kisses. Grow up. It was—” her breath hitched, teeth baring— “a mistake.”

Enid stilled.

The words sliced her deeper than she expected.

Wednesday’s breath ghosted hot against her collarbone, uneven. Her body was taut, but trembling, cursed veins pulsing like serpents under her flesh.

She wanted to say more—about Imelda, about that filthy alleyway snog she’d spied like a phantom, bile rising in her throat with each sound, each moan. The thought of Enid giving that mess of a kiss to someone else burned hotter than any curse.

But she didn’t.

Her voice steadied, icy again, though her lips brushed close enough to Enid’s ear that it sparked heat through her veins.

“You’re helping me find a room.”

Enid scoffed, pushing back half an inch. “A room? It’s the middle of the bloody night! What room?”

“The Room of Requirement.” Wednesday’s eyes cut to hers, obsidian and fever-bright.

Enid blinked. “The what?”

“You’ll see,” Wednesday rasped, stepping off the wall with Enid’s reluctant hold still at her arm. Her body was burning, cursed, veins crawling higher as though eager to choke her. Her arousal clung to her skin like a fever she couldn’t shake.

She needed control. She needed space. She needed her.

And Enid—half-drained, half-furious—was the only one who could give it.