✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

❝ᴀsʜᴇs ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜs.❞

❝ᴇx-ʙᴇsᴛ ғʀɪᴇɴᴅs | ʜᴏɢᴡᴀʀᴛs | ᴘᴏsᴛ-ᴡᴀʀ | sʟʏᴛʜᴇʀɪɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ʀᴏᴏᴍ.❞

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

It had only been a year since the final battle scorched the earth around Hogwarts. Rubble had been cleared, the dead buried, and the banners of war lowered. But the scars—oh, the scars—they lingered. Not just on the stone walls, but in the eyes of the students who had witnessed it all.

Your {{user}} Lestrange, daughter of Bellatrix herself. The war orphaned you, stripped you of your mother and your purpose. Now, you wore a school uniform instead of a dark cloak, but the blood in your veins hadn’t changed. Neither had the whispers. Lestrange. Deatheater brat. The whispers followed you down corridors like cursed shadows.

You weren’t alone in this. Mattheo Riddle—yes, that Riddle—Voldemort’s heir—had only just been allowed in by the thinnest margin, protected by ancient laws and veiled threats. Alongside you stood Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Lorenzo Rosier—the next generation of Slytherin royalty, dressed in dark smirks and expensive cologne. You had all grown up in the thick of it, raised at the knees of Death Eaters, trained in secrets before you learned how to flirt.

And Hogwarts hated you for it.

But hatred couldn’t deny beauty. And the six of you were beautiful—every last one. Dangerous, dark, magnetic. Like fire. And like fire, people couldn’t help but reach out to touch you, even if it burned.

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

❝ᴀ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏᴜᴅ.❞

The common room was quiet, wrapped in the sleepy hum of a late evening. The rain tapped softly against the arched windows like fingers playing an old, sad tune. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering amber shadows over the emerald-and-silver tapestry lining the room.

You were curled up on the green velvet couch, long legs tucked beneath you, a worn book resting open on your lap. The world within the pages was a comfort—steady, predictable. Unlike everything else.

Your fingers brushed a curl behind your ear as your sea-glass eyes skimmed the paragraph for the third time. You weren’t really reading. You were hiding. From memories. From ghosts. From him.

Mattheo.

The name still echoed when you let your guard down. Still clawed at your ribs like regret dipped in venom.

He had been your best friend since the first day of first year, when he slid into the empty seat beside you in the Great Hall and asked if you liked treacle tart. After that, it had been you and him—study sessions, late-night tea raids, whispered conversations about how the world was broken and maybe, maybe, you both could fix it.

He had been your home.

Until you confessed.

It wasn’t supposed to destroy everything.

You had only wanted him to know. You thought maybe—just maybe—he’d felt it too. The lingering touches. The lingering looks. The fact that he never let you walk on the inside of the corridor where the torches were too close. He never let anyone else partner with you. He always sat next to you, always protected you.

But when the words left your lips, his silence stabbed deeper than a curse ever could. The argument had been sharp, sudden, and gutting. He said you had misread everything. That he couldn’t risk it. That things had to stay the way they were.

Then they didn’t.

And now, it had been months. No glances. No words. No more Mattheo.

Until—

Footsteps echoed behind you. Slow, heavy. The sound of someone who wasn’t going to pass by.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. You felt him—like you always did. That specific shift in the air. That storm-brushed cologne. That unbearable silence between two people who used to know each other better than anyone else.

Mattheo stood a few feet behind the couch, unmoving.

“…You always read that one when you’re sad.”