He hadn’t spoken more than a maximum of 8 words to you in six years.

Not out of spite—he just hadn’t needed to. You were background noise. A fixture in corridors, a shape in classrooms, a name he never cared to remember because it had never sounded like something worth saying.

Hogwarts had been full of ghosts like that—people who passed, who filled the space with laughter, with drama, with meaningless purpose. You were one of them. Or you had been.

Now you were all he had.

He leaned against the cracked frame of the kitchen doorway, the wood splintered like it had been through war of its own. His bare feet were cold against the tile, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

His eyes were fixed on the way your back was turned to him as you stirred something over the stove, your hair pulled up in that chaotic, half-finished knot you always wore, some flyaways catching in the heat and sticking to the curve of your neck.

You were humming again. That same song. Off-key. Loud. Awful. Familiar.

He’d learned more about you in two weeks than he ever had in all of Hogwarts. You left half-drunk tea cups in every room, had a habit of forgetting where you put your wand, cursed like a sailor when you stubbed your toe, and talked to yourself when you cooked like the vegetables were plotting against you.

And yet—he hadn’t left.

He had every reason to. Could’ve disappeared the second he healed. But instead, he stayed. He told himself it was because it was safe here. Quiet. Off the map. No one would find him in this forgotten little cottage in Muggle France, with paint peeling off the shutters and a garden slowly being swallowed by weeds.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

He scratched the back of his neck, exhaled slowly.

You hadn’t noticed him watching yet. You rarely did. He liked that. He liked the way you didn’t flinch when he was silent for hours. He liked the way you argued with him over stupid shit like laundry. He liked the way your voice filled the silence, like it belonged there.

He’d never been afraid of silence. But now, in the quiet, he heard himself too loudly. Heard the whispers of his father’s voice, the promises, the rage, the legacy choking the back of his throat.

You shattered that.

He glanced at the laundry line through the window—wet socks still in the basket, exactly where you told him not to leave them. Again. He smirked. Barely.

Then he spoke, voice low and rough from disuse. “You missed a note.”

You jumped, turned around, wooden spoon clutched like a weapon. Your eyes narrowed.

He bit back a grin and shrugged one shoulder. “Just saying.”