Chapter Text
Chapter 35: Little Red Regrets
George’s POV
Oliver Wood stood atop a bench like a general preparing to die gloriously in battle. The Gryffindor common room glowed with the warm light of ambition, butterbeer, and slightly singed furniture. Wood's face was flushed with the righteous fury of someone who’d read Quidditch Through the Ages more times than he had read actual textbooks.
“This is it,” he declared, voice trembling with raw seventeen-year-old hope. “This is my last chance to win the Cup.”
Fred and I shared a look that translated to: Here we go again. Because nothing in life was certain except death, taxes, and Oliver Wood declaring “This is it” every year.
“We’ve had bad luck,” he went on dramatically, “but we know we’re the best team.”
He began pacing like Lockhart on performance night.
“Three amazing Chasers,” he said, stabbing a finger in the air like it owed him money. “Two unbeatable Beaters—”
“Cheers,” Fred and I chorused, saluting with imaginary bats.
“—a Keeper who’s basically a brick wall with a broom—”
“You’re a brick, mate,” I added helpfully. “In the best way.”
“And a Seeker,” Oliver said, looking toward Harry like a proud uncle, “who always makes us win.”
Harry blinked under the pressure of a dozen expectations. Ginny clapped. Fred gave a war cry. Angelina rolled her eyes.
“This is our year,” Oliver vowed, hands clenched like he was swearing an unbreakable vow with the universe. “No more bad luck. We train. Three nights a week, no excuses.”
Merlin’s pants. There went my social life. Again.
*
Training began immediately, and to Wood’s credit, we got very good at dodging Bludgers and guilt. But I couldn’t help noticing that while we were knocking our skulls loose three evenings a week, the Slytherins were at it every dawn. Like some militarized Quidditch cult. Always on the pitch at sunrise -green robes, gold eyes, and matching scowls.
And right in the middle of them like she’d been painted there: Alexandra bloody Rosier.
Always grinning like she had a secret. Always with Montague, who had developed an infuriating habit of draping his arm over her shoulder like he was some overgrown boa constrictor and Alex was his heat lamp.
It made me feel like kicking something. Preferably Montague.
“She doesn’t belong to you, you fungus with eyebrows,” I muttered once, spying them from the Astronomy Tower.
“She kissed you, not him,” Fred reminded me in a tone that wasn't helpful at all.
“Yeah, and you,” I shot back, just as not-helpful.
We didn’t talk about the Kitchen Incident. We sort of pretended it had happened in a fever dream, like that time Lee Jordan swore he’d seen Professor Sprout doing interpretive dance.
To make things worse, word had spread like enchanted wildfire: Alex had agreed to go on a date with Montague. Date. Hogsmeade. Halloween. Like something out of a horror novel. One of those cursed ones in the Restricted Section with screaming bookmarks.
I’d asked Lee if we should intervene. He just handed me a biscuit and said, “Let the chaos consume itself.”
Oh, and it got worse.
Apparently, Hufflepuff was throwing a costume party after the Halloween feast. A costume party. Anthony Rickett, Cedric’s blond-haired, well-meaning Quidditch friend with the emotional range of a teaspoon, was planning to invite Alex.
As a surprise.
To surprise Cedric.
Because what better way to woo a prefect than have his secret maybe-crush show up dressed as a flirty vampire to his house party uninvited?
Brilliant.
Meanwhile, Fred and I were stuck in emotional purgatory, holding a pair of imaginary butterbeer glasses and trying to toast a girl who had kissed us both, then twirled off into a love triangle with a possessive meathead and Hufflepuff’s poster boy.
“She’s not even that pretty,” I said to Fred that evening.
“She is,” Fred said, grim. “Disgustingly so.”
We sat in silence, watching an owl fly past the window. Probably delivering a love note to Alex, wrapped in gold ribbon and smelling of honey.
“She’s going to break him,” I muttered.
“Which one?” Fred asked.
“Exactly.”
*
I hated how much I noticed her lately. How the sight of her hair in the wind made my chest feel like a Bludger was bouncing inside it. How she smiled at Montague like she was playing a game only she knew the rules to.
She hadn’t kissed me again. Not since that first time, that night, the kitchen full of sugar and secrets and—
Ugh.
Fred said it was probably a prank. A joke. Maybe she was just that kind of chaos.
Maybe she was. But Merlin help me, I liked it. Even when it made me want to hex Montague’s face off.
We had Quidditch, pranks to plan, and Detentions to earn. But the universe had other plans.
Theo had shown up in the common room one night, pale and twitchy, muttering about Montague being a sixth-year and Alex only a third-year, and how the whole thing smelled like a catastrophe waiting to happen. He wasn’t wrong.
So now Fred, Theo, Lee, and I had drawn up the most sacred of Slytherin/Gryffindor contracts: Operation Montague Surveillance.
Not because Alex needed our approval (she’d hex us into next Tuesday if she found out), but because it was our solemn duty—as best friends, as housemates, as men of principle—to ensure she wasn’t snogged senseless by a disrespectful meathead behind Zonko’s.
And Lee, of course, had immediately appointed himself narrator-in-chief. He insisted the mission required a running commentary, complete with whispered play-by-plays, overblown metaphors, and dramatic cliffhangers. (“And so, dear listeners, our young heroine approaches the Shrieking Shack with a brute in tow—will she survive the horrors of his bad cologne? Stay tuned.”)
At least, that was the official line.
Unofficially? We were four idiots—two twins, one bookish Slytherin, and a self-declared sports announcer—jealous and concerned in equal measure, planning a spy mission we’d almost certainly botch with flair.
Theo’s POV
I was not sulking. Let the record show, I, Theodore Nott, was not sulking. I was… reflecting. Contemplating the cruel injustices of the universe, such as the Gryffindor Quidditch team’s reckless decision to leave me languishing on the reserve list. An insult, really, to my talent for avoiding unnecessary movement and my unparalleled ability to scowl at opponents until they dropped the Quaffle out of sheer intimidation.
Alex, naturally, had decided I was brooding about this very snub. Which was convenient, because it meant she had no inkling of the true reason I was staring out the common room window like a Byronic hero whose fiancé had run off with a Bulgarian vampire.
Montague.
Sixth year. Smug face. Shoulders like an improperly inflated Bludger.
And somehow—the gods had abandoned us—he had persuaded Alexandra Rosier to waste an entire Hogsmeade weekend on him.
So when she plopped down beside me and announced, “You’ll get them next year, Theo,” I very nearly corrected her. I almost said, It’s not the Quidditch, it’s you. It’s you and your appallingly bad taste in dates, and I am rapidly losing my mind.
Instead, I allowed a long, aristocratic sigh.
“Yes, well. My genius is rarely recognized in its own time.”
She grinned, the sort of grin that could weaponize daylight, and elbowed me like we were still children building treehouses. And for one terrible, wonderful moment, I almost forgot to be bitter.
Which brings me to the real problem: I had always adored her like a sister. Or so I told myself. But sisters did not wear short black skirts that swished like they had personally declared war on my concentration. Sisters did not borrow Pansy Parkinson’s combat boots and somehow make them look like coronation regalia. And sisters—most importantly—did not twist their ridiculous platinum curls into a messy bun that bared the pale line of their neck, half-hidden by a too-snug turtleneck, the sort of garment that looked invented solely to torture me.
There was something indecent about it—her hair tucked up haphazardly, like even gravity had surrendered to her chaos, leaving that exposed curve at the base of her throat. I caught myself staring at it far too often, wondering what it would feel like to lean in close enough to breathe her in, to brush my lips against skin that had no business demanding such attention. Hardly the thoughts one was supposed to harbour toward a girl one had publicly demoted to “practically a sister.”
My chest felt as though a horde of particularly vindictive Cornish pixies had taken up residence there, rattling their pitchforks against my ribs. And the worst part? She hadn’t the faintest clue. She flounced about with her skirts and her boots and her bloody perfect neck, utterly unaware that I, Theodore Nott—supposedly composed, supposedly immune—was internally unravelling like a badly-knitted Gryffindor scarf.
She announced her outfit like she was delivering a state decree, smoothing her grey turtleneck with military precision.
“Confidence is ninety percent aesthetic,” she said, striking a pose, “and ten percent pretending you’re not dying inside.”
Pansy, ever the patron saint of trouble, gave her a once-over and arched an eyebrow.
“Montague, huh?” she drawled. “Didn’t think you were the ‘beef for brains’ type.”
“Just Honeydukes and a butterbeer,” Alex said smoothly. “Not a date. Barely an outing. A… scheduled accident.”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. She made it too easy.
“Of course,” I said. “And I’m the next Minister for Magic. Don’t forget to vote.”
Which would have been the perfect exit line—except, unfortunately, I had nowhere to go. My eyes—traitorous, disloyal things—kept drifting back to her. The skirt. The boots. And Merlin save me, that blasted turtleneck framing the curve of her neck, her hair piled up in that messy bun like it had been designed in a laboratory solely to torment me.
So yes, I had already conspired with the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan to shadow this entire absurd ‘scheduled accident.’ For noble reasons, obviously. Purely noble.
Someone had to ensure that a third-year girl wasn’t lured into Zonko’s back alley by a too-old Slytherin with the conversational depth of a cauldron bottom. It was chivalry. Friendship. House loyalty. A mission worthy of knights.
And absolutely not because the sight of her tugging Pansy’s boots on—and baring that maddening line of her neck—had left me incapable of coherent thought for the better part of an afternoon.
Alex’s POV
As we entered the Entrance Hall, I felt the energy shift. There’s something strange about Hogsmeade weekends - like the air buzzed with more than magic, tinged with the anticipation of stolen kisses, overpriced sweets, and poorly thought-out romantic decisions.
Montague was waiting by the doors, arms crossed like a Quidditch captain surveying his troops. His stance screamed "I’m important," like he expected me to trip on my own admiration just approaching him.
Unfortunately, the only tripping I was doing was over the slightly-too-big Doc Martens.
My eyes swept the hall—Fred, George, and Lee were huddled by the Gryffindor hourglass with Hermione, Ron, and Neville, chatting and laughing like it hadn’t been a horrible, complicated week. Cedric stood further off, flanked by Owen and Anthony, casually flipping a Chocolate Frog card between his fingers.
I offered a wave. A peace offering, a “hey, still alive, not crushed under Montague’s ego” sort of gesture. Cedric glanced up—
—and then looked away.
Ouch.
That was new. That was not Cedric Diggory, the poster boy for politeness, the Hufflepuff golden retriever who apologized to staircases when he bumped them. If Cedric was ignoring me on purpose, then either a) I’d committed an unforgivable sin, b) he was suddenly possessed by the spirit of a cold, aloof Byronic hero, or c) Montague had hexed him with selective rudeness.
And okay, maybe option d): maybe I’d ruined everything two weeks ago in the kitchen.
Truth or Dare. Butterbeer froth, pumpkin biscuits, and my so-called friends deciding my first kiss should not be sacrificed to Montague the Magnificent Disaster. So Fred swooped in with a roguish grin, George followed with matching dramatics, and then—I kissed Cedric. Soft, awkward, warm. My first real kiss. With him.
Cue me, starry-eyed. Cue him… what? Apparently cue him becoming a marble statue whenever I entered the room.
Maybe it was terrible. Maybe I kiss like a confused duckling. Maybe he’d thought, “wow, this girl smells faintly of treacle tart and bad decisions, never again.” Maybe I was the Hogwarts equivalent of a cautionary tale.
Which meant maybe I should skip the Hufflepuff Halloween party tonight. Antony and Owen had invited me, supposedly as a surprise for Cedric—because what’s more festive than springing a girl he now clearly regrets lip-locking with on him at his own party? Nothing screams holiday cheer like social humiliation dressed as a skeleton.
So yes, fantastic, Alexandra. Brilliant strategy: climb onto the Slytherin Quidditch team, win your friends’ respect, collect three kisses in one night like a deranged charity raffle, and accidentally alienate the nicest boy in Hogwarts.
Montague’s eyes lit up as I approached. “You look fantastic,” he said, offering his arm like a wizarding prince.
I took it, if only to keep the boots from dragging me down—and if only to pretend I hadn’t just been iced out by Hogwarts’ resident knight in shining Quidditch gear.
Our first stop was Honeydukes, the smell alone enough to un-write bad memories. Walls stacked high with every shade of sugar. I tried to initiate conversation—charming quips about the probability of Exploding Bonbons actually detonating teeth, or how Fizzing Whizzbees made one feel like an unsupervised levitation charm.
Montague was unimpressed.
“Did you know I scored the most goals last season?” he said, plucking a box of sweets with as much flair as a peacock preening its feathers. “Against Ravenclaw. Nine goals. I'm practically a legend.”
“Mm,” I replied, gravitating toward the Chocolate Frogs, imagining them hopping into my mouth to escape the conversation. “Do they give out medals for talking about it, too?”
He didn’t hear me. Or chose not to.
Next stop: The Three Broomsticks. A cozy booth, frothy mugs of butterbeer, and the illusion of intimacy. Madam Rosmerta winked at me like she knew I was about to regret every life choice that had led me here—including, but not limited to, my tragic weakness for free snacks and catastrophic curiosity about people shaped like broom handles with egos.
Montague, naturally, thought this was a date. Of course he did. He leaned back in the booth like he was auditioning for the role of “smug prat number one” in some terrible play, while I sipped my butterbeer and prayed to every known deity that Theo and the twins were actually sticking to the plan of lurking somewhere nearby with all the stealth of drunken Hippogriffs.
Then came the fatal blow.
Montague smirked at Theo—well, at the idea of Theo, since Theo wasn’t physically here but apparently lived rent-free in his very small brain. “Hard to believe you’re friends with Nott,” he said, swirling his butterbeer like it was brandy and he was centuries old instead of sixteen and tragically unoriginal. “Kid’s thinner than a wand reed. No wonder he didn’t make Chaser. Can’t imagine him on a broom, really. What’s the appeal? Nerdish charity case?”
Excuse me? Excuse me.
Some people can insult me, my family, even my boots—but Theo? Absolutely not.
I straightened so fast my butterbeer foam sloshed like a storm tide. “First of all,” I announced, “Theo is more talented at Quidditch than you’ll ever be. He just needs practice. Practice, which, fun fact, is not the same as flexing in front of the mirror until your biceps cry for mercy.”
Montague blinked. I wasn’t done.
“Secondly, if it weren’t for Theo’s perfect throw at tryouts, I wouldn’t even be on the team. Thirdly, he’s thirteen. Thir. Teen. Give him five minutes, and puberty will do its thing. Unlike you, who already had three extra years and still can’t grow a personality.”
Madam Rosmerta snorted loudly from behind the bar. I carried on, fueled by righteous indignation and the sheer joy of verbally dropkicking a Quidditch boy.
“And fourthly—thin men are perfect. Future poets, revolutionaries, and probably heartbreakers. I bet Theo will be devastatingly cute when he’s older. Just wait. He’ll be taller than you, smarter than you, and considerably less insufferable.”
Montague stared at me like I’d just hexed him. Which, spiritually, I had.
He tried to recover, leaning forward with a lower voice now. “You know, I still think we make a great pair.”
Do we? Because last I checked, a “great pair” doesn’t involve me tuning out half your sentences to mentally reorganize my sock drawer.
Before I could deflect with something witty, he leaned in to kiss me.
My brain had a small stroke of panic. I leaned back fast enough to almost knock over my butterbeer.
“Yeah, I don’t think this is going to work,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Teammates dating? Complicated. Tragic, really. Shakespeare-level stuff.”
He blinked, somewhere between confused and personally insulted. “Oh. Well. If that’s how you feel.”
“It is,” I said sweetly. And I raised my butterbeer in a toast to my own genius for not letting that disaster touch me.
Lee’s POV
I’ll be honest with you: if you’ve never spent a Saturday afternoon crouched behind a barrel outside Honeydukes, watching your best friend pretend she’s not on a date, you haven’t lived.
We were four deep in espionage: me, the Weasley Menace Unit (patent pending), and young Theodore Nott, whose face had the distinct expression of someone regretting all of his life choices but also unwilling to leave.
Montague strutted out of Honeydukes first, laden with sweets like a sugar dragon guarding his hoard. Alex trailed after him, wearing the fixed smile of someone being forced to listen to the collected works of Quidditch, But About Me.
“See, that’s a Quaffle average of nine goals per game,” Montague was saying loudly enough to make the Chocolate Frogs blush. “Practically unbeatable.”
“Fascinating,” Alex deadpanned, staring at a Bertie Bott’s display like she was considering whether eating soap-flavored beans would be a preferable use of her time.
From our barrel hideout, Fred whispered, “Merlin, she looks like she’s in pain.”
“Yeah,” George muttered, “real torture.”
And because it was my sacred duty as their friend, I grinned and whispered back, “Funny, that’s the same face you two make when she smiles at anyone else.”
Both twins turned to glare at me with identical expressions of offended cherubs. Delightful.
I leaned closer to Theo, who was stiff as a broomstick beside me, eyes trained on Alex like he couldn’t quite believe she’d willingly agreed to this circus. “See, mate,” I murmured in my best wildlife-documentary voice, “here we have the male Quidditch peacock, fanning his feathers in the form of game statistics. And there, the female Rosier, unimpressed, considering escape routes. Notice how her companions—the twin lions—twitch with suppressed jealousy, while the young fox—Nott—bristles at every insult.”
Theo shot me a look that was equal parts “please shut up” and “thank you for noticing.” Progress.
We followed them, with the grace of four elephants in formal robes, into the Three Broomsticks. Took a booth near the door, ordered butterbeer, and tried to look casual while leaning so hard toward Alex’s table we nearly fell out of ours.
And then Montague did it. He opened his mouth and insulted Theo.
“Thin as a reed,” Montague sneered. “Not Chaser material. Honestly, what do you even see in a nerd like him?”
I glanced at Theo. He froze. Didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl, just went still, like someone had flicked the “pause” button on his soul.
And then Alex erupted.
“No,” she snapped, sitting forward so fast her mug foamed over. “He’s brilliant at Quidditch, he just needs practice. It’s thanks to Theo’s throw I even made the team. And guess what? He’s thirteen. Give him time, he’ll be stronger than you. And—” she jabbed her finger at Montague like a wand— “he’ll be cuter, too. Thin men are perfect. Future poets, revolutionaries, and probably heartbreakers. I bet Theo will be devastatingly cute when he’s older. Just wait. He’ll be taller than you, smarter than you, and considerably less insufferable.
The twins both whispered “Merlin” under their breath, twin grins tugging at their mouths. They looked like someone had just handed them front-row seats to the best play of the century.
Me? I was watching Theo.
He ducked his head, hair falling in his eyes, but not fast enough to hide the flush spreading over his cheeks. And for a moment, just a moment, he didn’t look like the fox in the shadow of the lions. He looked like someone who finally realized he had a pack.
I sat back, pretending to sip my butterbeer, and announced in hushed, dramatic tones:
“And so, dear viewers, the moral of today’s tale: Alexandra Rosier is a nightmare date, a terrible liar, and an absolute first-class friend.”
The twins clinked their mugs. Theo said nothing, but I swear his silence was the loudest thanks I’d ever heard.
Montague, bless his delusional little heart, was still trying to salvage the wreckage of his date like a Captain clinging to the prow of a sinking ship.
“I still think you and I would make a great pair,” he declared, leaning forward with the unearned confidence of a man who had never once considered personal space laws.
Alex blinked at him like he’d just suggested they co-author a book on Goblin tax law. “Do you?” she asked, her tone flatter than a first-year’s pancake spell.
“Oh, absolutely. Power couple. Two Chasers. Beauty and brawn.” And with that, Montague actually—actually—tilted his head and leaned in for the kiss.
What followed was a display of evasive maneuvers so swift it should be taught in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Alex leaned back so sharply her chair nearly tipped.
“Teammate dating,” she blurted, words tumbling like she’d grabbed the first excuse off the shelf. “Very complicated. Messes with dynamics. Not going to work.”
And then, before Montague could even pout, she was up, Doc Martens thudding against the floorboards as she made for the door.
From our booth, George whispered, “She’s fleeing.”
Fred whispered back, “With style.”
I whispered, “Like a gazelle abandoning the watering hole after spotting a crocodile.”
Theo looked like he was torn between relief and the urge to hex Montague into a pumpkin. Personally, I was hoping for the pumpkin option.
Naturally, we all followed Alex out of the Three Broomsticks, our “subtle” tail more like a parade of badly disguised stalkers. She stalked up the high street with her coat flaring behind her, every stomp of her boots proclaiming: date aborted, thank you and goodnight.
We kept pace a few paces back, pretending to admire shop windows. The twins’ grins were brighter than Zonko’s window display, but even they had that protective edge—the kind that meant Montague better keep his distance if he valued his teeth.
Halfway to the carriages, Alex nearly barreled straight into Luna, who was skipping out of Scrivenshaft’s with ink stains on her fingers and an absentminded smile. “Oh, you look like you need company,” Luna said serenely, as though Alex hadn’t just fled from a romantic disaster.
“Do I ever,” Alex muttered, linking arms with her. The two of them turned toward the castle, Luna chattering about dirigible plums, Alex nodding like she was clinging to normalcy with both hands.
Theo drifted a little behind them, quiet, watchful. Still red-eared from earlier, still processing the fact that someone had defended him like he was worth defending. The twins shared a look—triumphant but thoughtful too, like they knew Alex’s dating life was about to become a battlefield with no clear winners.
I dropped my voice into my best documentary whisper as the five of us trudged along behind:
“And so the Rosier returns to her natural habitat, her ill-fated courtship attempt thwarted. Observe how her companions—lion, fox, and trickster birds—close ranks to ensure her safety. The peacock slinks home alone. Nature is healing.”
Fred snorted. George chuckled. Theo almost smiled.
And me? I was thinking one thing: Alexandra Rosier’s love life might be chaos, but at least she’d never have to face it alone.
Alex’s POV
If there was one thing I’d learned in two lives, it was this: never underestimate the power of good makeup and petty emotional motives. Hence why I had let Pansy do my face like I was going to seduce the entire cast of a gothic fairy tale.
“She’s Little Red Riding Hood,” Pansy had said, mascara wand in hand, “but make it feral.”
Now, as I approached the Hufflepuff common room entrance dressed in a blood-red cape, high boots, and a corset top that screamed “yes, Grandma, I am here to slay,” I felt like my heartbeat was in my shoes. Or maybe it was just the nerves. And the glitter.
The entrance opened after a few rhythmic knocks on the right barrel—honestly, everything Hufflepuff did felt like a gentle spell cast by a houseplant with a bachelor's degree in hospitality.
The earthy tunnel opened into what I could only describe as a honey-scented fever dream. The common room looked like the inside of a whimsical badger’s cottage. Warm golden light spilled across honey-colored wood, the air smelled faintly of sugar and fresh flowers, and dangling ivies kept brushing against my hair like affectionate, leafy aunties.
Someone had charmed floating pumpkins to slowly rotate in the ceiling rafters, casting spinning shadows. There were students everywhere, dressed in everything from vampire bats to sparkly grindylows, complete with faux-gills and bubbles. A third-year had transfigured herself into a literal pumpkin. I wasn’t sure if it was an accident or a fashion statement.
A portrait of Helga Hufflepuff herself smiled at me from above the fireplace, raising a golden cup like she was saying, Drink, you little disaster.
“Whoa,” said a voice, “Little Red got fangs.”
I turned to see Anthony Rickett and Owen Whitaker—Cedric’s best mates—clad in impressively clanky knight armor made of enchanted cardboard and suspicious amounts of glitter glue. Owen had a graham cracker taped to his shoulder like a battle scar. Anthony had what looked like a turkey leg tucked into his belt like a weapon.
“Anthony told me you might come,” Owen added, grinning. “Didn’t realize you were dressing to conquer.”
“She’s not conquering,” Anthony said solemnly. “She’s here for diplomacy. Also, maybe to hex Montague.”
I snorted. “That depends. Does ‘hex’ count as a diplomatic option?”
Owen grinned. “So how was the date? He didn’t mansplain Quidditch drills, did he?”
“Oh, he did,” I sighed, flopping my cape over one shoulder. “Turns out, I wasn’t interested. At all. He made me take the date on a bet, and I thought, well… sure. Why not. But let’s say: the sugar quills were the best part of the outing.”
Anthony made a pained face. “That bad?”
“He tried to kiss me mid-sentence,” I replied flatly. “Like a Niffler spotting gold. I dodged it so fast I almost pulled a muscle.”
They both burst out laughing.
“Okay, yeah, that sounds like Montague,” said Owen. “So, you came here instead?”
I hesitated. “Well. Yeah. Partly because I didn’t want to end the evening on a disaster note… and partly because I thought… maybe…”
I didn’t finish the sentence. Mostly because I spotted Cedric.
And suddenly everything in the room went crunch—like someone had stepped on my ribcage with emotional boots.
He was across the room, half-obscured by a group of dancing fifth-years and a levitating candy cauldron. His hair was as perfectly tousled as ever. His costume? A charming forest prince, complete with antlers and a moss-green cloak.
And pressed against his side—a fourth-year Ravenclaw girl, cute as a hedgehog in moonlight, was kissing him. Not on the cheek. On the mouth.
Like she meant it.
“Oh,” I said.
Owen turned. Froze. “Wait—is that…?”
Anthony winced. “Yikes.”
My heart sank with the grace of a troll on a buttered staircase.
Right. Of course. I’d been an idiot. Just because he’d let me kiss him after tryouts didn’t mean it meant anything. He’d probably been caught up in the sugar and glitter and temporary insanity. This was Cedric Diggory. Of course girls kissed him. Cute ones. Appropriately aged ones. Ones who didn’t come with reincarnated souls and a six-month subscription to Chaotic Decisions Weekly.
I smoothed my cape. “Well. So much for diplomacy.”
Owen opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but I beat him to it with a wobbly smile.
“I’m going to go find something to drink. Or something to set on fire.”
Anthony gave me a gentle nudge. “Don’t burn the pumpkins. They have personalities.”
“I make no promises.”
And with that, I melted into the warmth and hum of the party, pretending that my heart hadn’t just tried to crawl into my boots.
After all, this was Hufflepuff territory.
Where everything is sunny. Except, maybe, me.
Cedric’s POV
I hadn’t meant to be petty.
Honestly, I hadn’t planned on being bitter and dramatic. But there I was—draped in mossy velvet, fake antlers digging into my scalp, and just the right amount of emotional damage to qualify for some tragic poetry.
Great.
The cloak had been Owen’s idea. “Lean into the forest prince aesthetic,” he’d said. “Go full noble woodland boy. Girls love a theme.”
I thought I had grunted in agreement, which he had taken as enthusiasm. And now there I was, dressed like some forgotten druid heir, blending into the décor of my own common room and trying not to think about her.
But it was useless.
Alex had kissed me. That had happened. That had actually happened. Right after the Slytherin team tryouts, in the kitchen. She had looked at me like I was some kind of mystery worth solving—then kissed me like she’d already found the answer.
And I’d kissed her back.
It hadn’t been a maybe. It hadn’t been confused. It had been terrifying and brilliant and electric.
And now… she was with Montague.
Montague.
Of all the greasy, smug, self-impressed gits in the world—why him? He walked around like she already belonged to him, like he’d claimed her like a Quidditch trophy. He always had his bloody arm around her. As if that was how you held onto someone like Alex.
I had seen her earlier, in the entrance hall. She had waved at me. Smiled, too. That shy, flickering smile she didn’t use often. And I—I had just frozen.
Hadn’t waved back. Hadn’t smiled. Just looked at her like I didn’t know her at all.
Because she had been going on a date with him.
And I guessed… I had been trying to protect myself.
From what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. From how she made me feel. From the fact that I had written her letters all summer, and I had kept every one of hers. Even the one with the spilled ink and the joke about Snape’s shampoo. Especially that one.
I wasn’t supposed to fall for her. And now I didn’t know how to stop.
So tonight, I told myself, I would try to forget.
Elara Moon was lovely. Everyone knew that. She was clever and sweet and smelled like peppermint and ink. She’d had a crush on me for ages. And when she had asked if I would dance, I had said yes. Because why not? If I didn’t matter to the person I wanted to matter to… maybe someone else could help me forget.
She was dressed as a magical textbook—charmed to flip its own pages every time someone said “accio.” It was ridiculous and adorable. Her laugh was soft. Her hand fit in mine.
We danced. A few songs. We spun under floating jack-o-lanterns and fairy lights. The room smelled like cinnamon and warm cider. I let myself laugh. It wasn’t fake, exactly. Just… filtered.
And when the music slowed and she leaned in—I kissed her.
It was nice. Soft. Warm. Familiar, in a way. But it didn’t crack my chest open. Didn’t light my ribs on fire.
Still. It could grow, right?
A few dances later, Elara pulled me toward the armchairs. I fell into one, the velvet cloak folding around me like a leafy cocoon. She plopped into my lap like it was nothing. Like she’d done it a hundred times before. She giggled, and I smiled, just on instinct.
Then I glanced across the room—and the world tilted.
She was there.
Alex.
Standing by the snack table, talking to Anthony, a half-eaten chocolate frog in her hand. Red hood pushed back, a cape that was almost too dramatic even for her. Her makeup was perfect. She looked like Little Red Riding Hood… if the wolf had been the one afraid of her.
And she was looking at me.
No smirk. No chaos. Just this… puzzled sadness on her face, like she didn’t know how we had ended up here.
Neither did I.
My heart did this weird thing. Like it tripped over itself.
I thought Elara was saying something, but it was white noise now. I watched Alex turn back to Anthony, pop another bit of chocolate in her mouth, and say something I couldn’t hear.
I felt like a coward.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Not her looking at me like that. Not me pretending to move on just to protect whatever mess my heart had become.
I had wanted to be the one who kissed her at a party.
Then I saw her move.
She was slipping past the edge of the crowd, cloak trailing behind her like spilled velvet, hood up now, face hidden.
Alex.
My chest seized in that specific, familiar way it only ever did when something involved her. I stood abruptly, nearly toppling Elara off my lap.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, setting her gently upright and weaving through the party like a man possessed. The Hufflepuff common room wasn’t big, but that night it felt like a Quidditch stadium stuffed with enchanted pumpkins, dancing Hufflepuffs, and far too many fairy lights blinding me at every turn.
I pushed past a group of fifth-years dressed as enchanted tea sets. Someone was juggling jelly slugs. A bat-winged cat flew past my ear. I didn’t care. My eyes were fixed on the low, round door.
She was already gone.
The red cloak had disappeared down the passage like a warning flare—brief, bright, and vanishing.
By the time I reached the threshold, there was nothing but the sway of dangling ivy and the warmth she had left behind in the room.
Gone.
I let my head fall back against the doorframe with a soft thud, like that might knock some sense into me.
Behind me, Owen and Anthony spotted me and waved me over, half a butterbeer in each hand and matching smug grins plastered across their faces.
I trudged toward them like a man walking to his own trial.
“So…” Owen wiggled his eyebrows the moment I reached them. “How’s it going with Elara? Pretty girl. Antlers look good together.”
I didn’t answer. Just let out a breath and stared at the door like maybe it would open again if I stared hard enough.
Anthony tilted his head, curious. “You alright, mate? You look like you just missed the Hogwarts Express.”
“I think I did,” I muttered.
Anthony frowned, shifting his butterbeer. “You saw her, didn’t you?”
I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
“She came in right after you kissed Elara,” he said quietly. “Perfect timing. Or the worst.”
“She didn’t say anything,” Owen added, gentler now. “But her eyes were kind of… glassy.”
“She left,” I confirmed, like they hadn’t noticed.
“Mate,” Anthony said with a wince, “I thought I was doing something nice. I invited your Slytherin princess to surprise you. I figured—you kept talking about her. Thought you’d be thrilled. But then you were already mid-snog with your new conquest when she arrived.”
I winced. The word conquest hit like a punch.
“That’s not fair,” I said stiffly. “She’s with Montague. She went on a date with him. He’s been practically glued to her since September.”
Anthony gave me a sharp look. “She told me what happened.”
I blinked. “She did?”
“She wasn’t interested, she was bored the whole time,” Anthony said. “He made her take the date on a bet, but she said the sugar quills were the best part of the outing.”
My stomach sank.
That… hadn’t sounded like someone dating Montague. That had sounded like someone tolerating a doomed bet-date and regretting it profoundly.
“She’s not with him?” I asked, my voice embarrassingly small.
“Nope,” Owen said, popping the P. “You just panicked and kissed another girl instead.”
Anthony gave me a look of exaggerated sympathy. “And now she thinks you have a girlfriend. Brilliant.”
I buried my face in my hands. “Shit.”
“Yup,” said Owen cheerfully, clapping me on the back. “Proper Hogwarts romance chaos. Very seasonal.”
“She looked great, by the way,” Anthony added unhelpfully. “Red cloak, dramatic eye makeup. Total dark fairytale vibe. It was obvious she dressed up for you.”
“She hates Halloween parties,” I groaned. “She told me she thought they were a bit stupid.”
“Guess she didn’t think this one was that stupid,” Anthony said.
Owen whistled low. “Well. What now?”
I looked at the door again. The party roared behind us. Somewhere, someone had summoned floating bats that sang off-key.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I think I just messed up the best thing I never meant to fall into.”
Alex’s POV
I was so stupid.
No, really. It was confirmed. Stamped. Sealed. Delivered. Signed in glitter ink by the Department of Emotional Wreckage.
Who went on a date with Montague thinking that was going to end well? Who agreed to Honeydukes and Butterbeer with a boy who talked about himself in the third person and tried to kiss me mid-sentence like a human Niffler lunging for shiny things?
Me. That was who.
Because I was a bloody idiot.
And I should have known. Of course Cedric hadn’t meant that kiss. It had been a chain reaction in a sugar-fueled chaos storm. Fred kissed me. George kissed me out of sheer competitiveness. And Cedric… Cedric just—
He had looked like he was buffering.
Like his brain had been hit with a Confundus charm and rebooted halfway through.
He hadn’t even initiated it. I had. I yanked him by the jumper and kissed him like I was about to go into battle and needed a morale boost.
And it had felt real. It was real, for me. Cinnamon and warmth and a stillness I hadn’t even known I craved.
But that had been over a week ago. Since then? Nothing. Barely any eye contact. Not even a wave that afternoon in the entrance hall.
I had waved at him.
He had looked right at me and… nothing.
And now he had a Ravenclaw girl. A pretty, clever, fourth-year brunette who had been eyeing him since September and didn’t throw shoes at snakes or get detention with the Weasley twins or spiral into existential crises over sugar quills.
They were dancing.
And he kissed her.
And I—I had left. Because I couldn’t watch it. Not when I still had his taste in my memory and regret pressed against my ribs like an unspoken spell.
So there I was, swiping at my face with my cloak sleeve like a very elegant, very composed disaster. My boots scuffed along the stone floor, my nose was red, and I was blinking really hard to stop the tears from fully declaring war.
Fourteen. I was fourteen and I felt like my whole world was crashing in over a boy I technically never dated.
This was absurd.
I wasn’t even angry at him. He could date who he wanted. I was just… confused. Disappointed. In myself, mostly. For thinking the summer letters meant something. For thinking the kiss meant something. For letting myself hope.
I reached the Slytherin common room and muttered the password with a wobbly voice. The door creaked open, the green light flickered over the stone, and it was quieter than usual—most of the house was still at the party or sneaking Butterbeer from the kitchens.
Theo was curled up on the sofa, a book in his lap, a blanket over his legs like a moody grandpa in a Dickens novel.
He looked up as I walked in.
His eyes scanned my face. He saw the tear tracks. The smeared eyeliner. The absolute state of me.
And without a word, he opened his arms.
I walked over like I was sleepwalking. Sank into the sofa beside him. Let him pull the blanket over my legs too. He didn’t say anything. Just let me rest my head on his shoulder and be quiet.
I didn’t have to explain. He didn’t ask.
It was perfect.
We sat like that for ages. The fire crackled. The light danced over the lake-glass ceiling. Someone had enchanted a miniature cauldron to float and spin slowly above the hearth, like a sad disco ball.
“I saw him,” I whispered after a long time. “With her.”
Theo didn’t respond with a joke or a gasp or a you deserve better. He just squeezed my arm gently.
“He’s taken now,” I said. “Cedric has a girlfriend. A real one. With Ravenclaw robes and a very symmetrical face.”
Theo’s shoulder shifted with a half-laugh, but still—no comment. No judgment. Just presence.
And maybe it was good. Maybe that would help me sort things out. I had been feeling so many things. For Cedric. For Fred. Sometimes for George, though I was still trying to decide if it was attraction or just the shared love of chaos. And Theo—I didn’t even know what to do with Theo.
It had been a mess in my head.
But if Cedric was taken… maybe that narrowed the maze a little.
Maybe I could breathe again.
I was fourteen. I was allowed to be confused. To feel too much. To not have it all figured out, even if I had lived a life before this one. Being a teenager again was exhausting. Hormones were a plague, romance was a minefield, and—
I wiped my nose with my sleeve again.
At least he hadn’t come dressed as a vampire.
If Cedric had shown up as Edward-bloody-Cullen, I might have combusted on the spot. Just vaporized into sparkles and emotional instability.
Theo tilted his head. “You okay?”
“No,” I muttered. “But thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not asking questions. For just… being here.”
He smiled faintly. “You’d do the same for me.”
I closed my eyes, letting the fire warm my face.
For the first time in days, I allowed myself a small, sarcastic thought: maybe heartbreak could be cozy if wrapped in blankets and someone else’s patience.
And for a little while, the ache in my chest dulled.
Just a little.