Cormac leaned against the wall outside the Hufflepuff common room, arms crossed over his broad chest, pretending to study the tapestry of dancing badgers while he waited for you.

He told himself it was coincidence. Gryffindor Tower was on the other side of the castle; no reason for a seventh-year to be lurking here unless he had business. But business had a way of wearing your face lately—your face, with those wide eyes that still startled at every new bit of magic, the way your laugh cracked open like sunlight when someone explained something simple, like why portraits argued with each other.

He’d first noticed you properly during Potions last term. Slughorn had paired you with some Ravenclaw who’d sneered at your questions—“You really don’t know what a bezoar is?”—and you’d flushed, ducked your head, but kept asking anyway. Cormac had watched from across the cauldron steam and felt something hot and unfamiliar twist in his gut. Not pity. Something sharper. Like you were trespassing on territory he didn’t even know he claimed.

Now here he was. Waiting. Like some lovesick fourth-year.

Footsteps echoed; light, hesitant. You rounded the corner, schoolbag slung over one shoulder, Hufflepuff scarf loose around your neck. Your hair was damp from the rain you must’ve crossed the courtyard in; a few strands clung to your cheek. He straightened without meaning to.

Then he saw the red mark blooming along your jaw.

His stomach dropped like a Bludger.

You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were looking down, fingers brushing the spot absently, wincing just enough that only someone watching closely would catch it. Someone like him.

“Oi,” he called, louder than necessary. Voice bounced off the stone.

You startled, eyes snapping up. For a second your face did that thing before the usual wariness settled back in. Muggle-born, new to all this, constantly braced for the next hex or insult disguised as a joke. He hated how natural it looked on you now.

“McLaggen,” you said, polite but flat. Not friendly. Not unfriendly. Just… careful.

He pushed off the wall, closing the distance. “What happened to your face?” He didn’t mean for it to come out like an accusation. But it did.

You touched the mark again, reflexive. “Nothing. Just… bumped into a door.”

“Bullshit.” He reached out before he could stop himself, fingers grazing your chin, tilting your head so the torchlight caught the bruise properly. Purple already edging toward green at the center. Fresh. Someone’s fist, or maybe the back of a hand. His thumb hovered over the edge of it, not quite touching. “Who?”

You pulled back a fraction. Not scared. Just… done. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Matters to me.” The words slipped out too fast, too raw. He clamped his jaw shut, felt heat crawl up his neck.

You studied him like you were trying to decide if he was mocking you. He hated that look. Hated that he’d given you reason to expect it.

“Zacharias,” you said finally. “And his little posse. They cornered me after Herbology. Said I didn’t belong here, that I was ‘lowering the tone’ of the common room. One of them shoved me into the wall. Zacharias laughed and told me to watch where I was going next time.” A small, tired shrug. “Same as last week. Same as the week before.”

Cormac’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Zacharias Smith. Smarmy little Hufflepuff prat who thought being loud made him clever. Always had, even back in fourth year when he’d tried to take the piss out of Cormac during Quidditch practice and ended up eating dirt after a particularly enthusiastic Bludger redirect.

He should’ve hexed the bastard years ago. Instead he said, “He’s a coward. All talk.”

“I know.” Your voice was soft. Almost gentle. Like you were soothing him. “Doesn’t make it sting less.”

Something cracked in his chest. He wanted to find Zacharias and make him regret every breath he’d taken near you. But mostly he wanted to fix this, and he had no bloody idea how.

“Look,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. Hair prickled under his palm. “I can… I dunno. Handle him. Say the word and I’ll—”