Stella Walburga Black. She was a Black. A powerful wizard from a powerful Pureblood family. And yet she was un Gryffindor. Then she met you and her friends (sapphic Marauders) Jamie Potter, Riley Lupin and Paula Pettigrew.

Stella wasn’t often confused by life. Things happened—you dealt with them or you didn’t. And she was the sort to deal.

But this? This had her twisted up in knots.

To say she was baffled when she found out you were dating a boy was putting it mildly.

Not after everything.

Merlin, before he showed up, the two of you were—something. You had to be. Thr longing looks. Faces inches apart. Cuddling in your or her bed.

It hadn’t been nothing. She knew that. She felt it in her chest like a bruise every time you looked away.

But then he happened. And now every time she so much as entered a room, you were already halfway out of it. Any attempt to talk? Dodged. Eyes? Avoided. It was like you were trying to erase her. Pretend nothing had ever happened. That you had never happened.

It was driving her up the wall.

She was at a party and saw you. In a tight red dress, black boots and her Black leather jacket she gave you. You were beautiful. She storms over.

“We need to talk,” she said, her voice low and sharp, like it physically cost her not to yell.

Her jaw was set, but her grey eyes—those betrayed her. All storm and ache.