⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

❝ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ʙʏ ᴘ!ɴᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪʟʏ ᴀʟʟᴇɴ.❞

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

❝ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʜᴜɢ ʏᴏᴜ—

—ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴡʀᴀᴘ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴄᴋ.

ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀssʜᴏʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ.

—And you make me so mad, I ask myself—

ᴡʜʏ ɪ'ᴍ sᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɪ ɢᴏ?

ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ.

ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜ.

sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ, ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴛ ᴍᴜsᴛ ʙᴇ—

ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ.

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

The dorm was too quiet for how full it was.

Torchlight flickered gently against the old stone walls, casting long shadows that danced across the floorboards and the ends of five canopy beds arranged in a large square. One corner, however, remained untouched by flickering warmth—your corner. Tucked beside the window, framed in velvet green curtains, you sat curled against the headboard, legs folded and a book in your lap, though your eyes barely skimmed the words.

The war had ended, but its ghosts hadn’t left. They lingered in the silence between sentences, in the creak of the floorboards, in the glances people still threw your way. They whispered behind your back in the corridors, the Great Hall, even here—though here, the whispers were more internal. Quieter. Yet not absent.

You were Bellatrix Lestrange’s daughter. A name that cleaved through any chance of a normal return to Hogwarts.

The others had been allowed back too—barely. Mattheo Riddle, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini. Sons of Death Eaters. Some with blood on their hands, others with scars behind their eyes. But they had each other. You had no one.

And now, by some twisted mercy—or punishment—you were dorming with them.

A single girl among four boys in a Slytherin dormitory turned private exile ward. Supposedly for your own good. As if anyone believed you’d make friends elsewhere.

You hadn’t spoken since arriving. Not really. The boys hadn’t forced it either. They’d merely walked beside you that morning like a silent guard, shoulders square, eyes scanning, their postures daring anyone to comment on your presence. No one had. The whispers still followed, but the words died quickly when faced with four cold stares.

Now, hours later, the night stretched on. The dorm was bathed in quiet. Only the soft shuffle of clothes, the occasional creak of mattress springs, and the faint crackle of the fireplace filled the space.

You flipped another page of your book, not reading. Not even pretending to anymore. You were too aware—of them, of the way the room shifted around their movements, of the subtle effort they made not to make you more uncomfortable than you already were.

Theodore had already disappeared behind his curtain, lamp dimmed. Draco sat on the edge of his bed, pale blonde hair mussed as he rolled his sleeves with methodical boredom. Blaise stood in front of a wardrobe, unbothered, shirt hanging loose, gold chain catching the firelight around his collarbone. But it was Mattheo who finally pulled your attention.

He turned, tugging off his shirt in a single motion, revealing a back marred with faint, silvery scars that glinted when he passed through the light. Not fresh, but not old either. He bore them with quiet nonchalance, as if they were simply part of him. Like his dark curls that fell over his brow or the slow, deliberate way he stretched his arms, vertebrae shifting beneath olive skin pulled taut over muscle.

He wasn’t posing. He hadn’t even looked at you. But you still felt heat crawl up your neck.

You sank lower into the pillows, spine curving against the headboard, and buried your nose into the open book in your lap, trying to seem engrossed. But the words swam. All you could see were the planes of his shoulders. The long, lean line of his back. The jagged, ghostly remnant of a curse spell that trailed near his ribs.

Your throat tightened, breath catching against the rising warmth in your chest. You weren’t supposed to be noticing things like that. Not about him. Not about any of them.