Katie.

The fire had burned low, throwing long shadows across the Gryffindor common room.

Adrien sat curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket draped over her lap like armor, twirling her wand absently between her fingers. I sat opposite her, my Transfiguration textbook abandoned somewhere at my feet, forgotten like everything else except the mess clawing at both of us.

"So." I picked at the frayed cuff of my sweater. "Are you finally going to tell me everything? No just talk ninety kilometers an hour and then slap Millicent?"

Adrien snorted, but her mouth twisted into something sour. "About Blaise? About Fred? About how I've systematically destroyed any common sense I had left?"

"Start wherever you want," I said quietly.

She took a shaky breath, staring into the flames. "The sneaking started... not long after we came back. I thought—" She swallowed. "I thought if I just stayed quiet, if we stayed smart, we could keep what we had, have something real."

"You weren't stupid," I said fiercely. "You were in love."

Adrien laughed — a brittle, broken sound. "Same thing, apparently."

I leaned my head back against the chair, biting the inside of my cheek. "And Fred?"

She went very still.

"Fred's..." She trailed off, brows furrowing. "I don't know. I'm drawn to him. He's... easy. Real. He makes it feel like maybe the world isn't actively trying to set me on fire every second."

I smiled a little, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.

"But?" I prompted.

"But I'm still bleeding," she whispered. "Still trying to remember who I am without the wreckage."

Silence settled thick between us, heavy with everything we hadn't said yet.

Finally, Adrien straightened a little. "Maybe someday," she said, voice steady. "Maybe I'll be ready to let someone new see me. But not yet. Not while I'm still stitching myself back together."

I nodded once — proud of her and aching for her at the same time.

"Well," I said, forcing a grin, "at least we still have our sparkling detention records."

Adrien snorted. "Right. Separate detentions. New and exciting ways to torture us."

I sat forward, eyes gleaming. "Tell you what — you sabotage your side of the castle, I'll handle mine."

She grinned — wicked and wild again, the way I liked seeing her.

"We'll meet in the middle," she said, "and burn the whole place down."

"Metaphorically," I added quickly, glancing around. "Mostly."

Adrien's grin widened. "Maybe."

We both laughed — half hysteria, half survival — and for a second, it felt almost normal.

Then, softer, more serious:

"Are we stupid," Adrien asked, "for thinking we could belong here? Anywhere?"

I stared into the fire for a long moment before answering.

"No," I said finally. "We're not stupid. We're dangerous. That's why they want to break us."

Adrien tipped her head back against the couch, eyes closing. "Dangerous girls don't get happy endings."

"Maybe not," I said, tossing a Chocolate Frog at her head. "But they get damn good stories."

She caught it, laughing — and for a second, the firelight caught her face just right, and I saw her. All of her. Brave and battered and still standing.

And that? That was better than any fairytale ending.

I shoved my hands deeper into my robe pockets, trudging toward detention like I was marching to the gallows.

When I rounded the last corridor, my stomach twisted.

Waiting there, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else?

Draco bloody Malfoy.

Of course. This fucking guy.

Of course he was the one assigned to "supervise" me.

He didn't even sneer when he saw me — which was somehow worse than if he had.

I crossed my arms. "Get lost, Malfoy. I don't need a babysitter."

His mouth tightened. "Orders."

I shoved past him into the empty classroom they'd commandeered for detentions, heart pounding with rage.

He followed.

The classroom door clicked shut behind us — sharp, final.

Waiting for us were two heavy buckets of soapy water, a battered set of cleaning cloths, and a blackboard so filthy it looked like it hadn't been touched since the Founders roamed the halls.

Charming.

I eyed the setup with thinly veiled disgust. "I'm scrubbing floors now?" I drawled, turning to glare at Draco.

"You're cleaning," he said flatly. "I'm supervising."

"Of course you are," I muttered, snatching a cloth from the pile. "Wouldn't want to risk you ruining those manicured hands."

His jaw tightened — just barely — but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he stalked to the front of the room, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back against the teacher's desk like he couldn't even be bothered to pretend he gave a damn.

Typical.

I slammed the cloth into the nearest desk, scrubbing harder than necessary, letting the silence stretch — sharp and ugly — between us.

Five desks in. Six.

Still nothing but the sound of wet fabric against wood and the furious pounding of my own heart.

Seven desks in, and I snapped.

I dropped the rag onto the next desk with a wet slap, spun on my heel, and rounded on him.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" I spat, my voice slicing through the stale air.

He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Just stared at me with that cold, impassive mask he'd perfected.

I stepped closer, fire roaring in my chest."Standing there, pretending you're better than the mess you made. Pretending you didn't shatter everything you touched."

Draco straightened — just a little — tension coiling in his shoulders.

"You don't know what I'm trying to survive," he said, low and rough.

"No," I snapped. "Because you never gave me the chance to know. You made the choice for both of us."

Something flickered behind his eyes — something raw and dangerous.

I didn't stop.

"Adrien laid Blaise out in front of half the bloody school because he shoved her into the shadows, shoved her too far with lies and false hope," I said, voice trembling with rage. "What's your excuse?"

His mouth twisted — bitter, pained.

"I didn't have a choice," he ground out.

"There's always a choice," I hissed.

He shook his head once, sharply. "You don't understand the stakes."

"I understand betrayal," I said savagely.

The words hit harder than I meant them to. Hard enough that, for a second, Draco actually looked away — like he couldn't bear to meet my eyes.

Good.

Because I didn't want his pity. I didn't want his guilt. I wanted the boy who once made me believe I wasn't just a name on some bloody bloodline registry.

But that boy was gone.

And what stood in front of me now?

That was a stranger.

A coward dressed in the scraps of someone I used to care about.

I turned sharply, fists clenched, and stalked toward the door.

Behind me, the classroom hung heavy with things neither of us could unsay — and for the first time, I didn't want to fix it.

I wanted it to hurt.

But the silence stung too hard for me to stop, for me to accept.

I scoffed, provoking more—provoking something.

"You parade around like you're some kind of victim — poor Draco, forced to dance with pureblood princesses while Katie rots in the dirt."

"You don't know what they've threatened," he bit out. "You don't know what they'll do if I step out of line."

"You're right," I said coldly. "I don't. But Adrien filled me in with as much as you gave her. Playing the pureblood prince isn't as flashy as it looked, uh?"

Draco's face twisted — pain and fury warring across his features.

Silence came back over the room and the tension held tight.

Nothing else was said, just a few light touches here and there as I cleaned around him.

Once I finished, I slammed both gross coated buckets down at his feet, just hard enough for it to splash onto his perfect Prefect robes.

"Done." I scoffed as his eyes remained glued down on the bucket. I scoffed again, turned to leave, only to stop short and turn to glare at his stiff figure. "Adrien said you were doing all of this to protect me..."

Draco's eyes remained on the buckets.

I felt that tug in my chest at his fear.

"It's not that I don't understand, Draco," I spoke softly now, pulling the door open. "It's that I don't agree—and I wish you and Blasie would have just came to us. We can take care of ourselves, better than you'll ever know."

Draco didn't move.

"Bye Malfoy," I almost choked, shoving myself out of the room and taking a breath that I seemed to be holding the entire duration of the detention.

Later that night, when Adrien and I reconvened in the common room — battered, bruised, ink-stained, and grinning like lunatics — Fred and George slid onto the couch opposite us, moving with the smug precision of criminals about to unveil the perfect crime.

Fred tossed something shiny onto the battered coffee table between us.

A Prefect badge. Pansy's.

Except now — charmed to randomly shriek insults at ear-splitting volume.

In my voice.

Across the room, a faint, shrill screech echoed: "Traitor!"

George clutched his side, howling with laughter. "I'm going to frame that memory in my brain and hang it over my bed."

Fred wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "Art. Pure art."

Adrien smirked, kicking her feet up onto the table. "Told you pretending to be Pansy's new best friend would pay off."

Fred blinked. "Wait — you befriended Pansy? After laying out her actual best friend?"

"Loosely," Adrien said airily. "I let her talk about her dress collection for ten minutes straight without hexing her. If that's not friendship, I don't know what is."

George wheezed. "You deserve an Order of Merlin just for surviving it."

Fred turned to me, grinning wide. "And you?"

I smirked. "Snuck a little something onto Malfoy's badge when he was too busy brooding."

Fred and George shared a look — one of pure, twin-born glee.

Fred leaned closer, dropping his voice like a sweet, deadly secret. "Don't worry," he said, his grin sharp and wicked. "Draco's badge doesn't just shout 'coward' — it also calls him 'tiny-egoed wanker' every third insult."

As if on cue, across the room — faint and distorted through stone walls — a high, snooty voice squawked:

"Coward!"

"Embarrassment to society!"

"Tiny-egoed wanker!"

Adrien and I collapsed sideways onto each other, laughing so hard we couldn't breathe.

George mock-wiped his brow. "God, it's good to be heroes."

Fred nudged my knee with his. "You two are dangerous, you know that?"

Adrien smirked wickedly. "Takes one to know one."

"Correction," Fred said brightly. "It takes two absolute nightmares and two charming revolutionaries to pull off something this beautiful."

George lifted an invisible goblet. "To chaos. And Gryffindor-colored scalp dye."

I bumped Adrien's shoulder. She bumped mine harder.

We were a mess.

We were disasters waiting to happen.

But maybe — maybe — that was okay.

Maybe we weren't meant to belong neatly in any world that wanted to clip our wings. Maybe survival didn't mean fitting in. Maybe it meant finding the people who burned as wildly and brightly as you did — and setting the world on fire with them.

I caught Adrien's eye — her smile fierce and real for the first time all week — and felt something in my chest settle.

Because no matter what came next?

We had each other. And with Fred and George at our side? Hogwarts wasn't ready for the storm we were about to unleash.

Not even close.

The next Thursday, we found ourselves standing in McGonagall's office again — but this time, Dumbledore sat stiffly in the corner, his blue eyes twinkling just a little too knowingly for my nerves.

Adrien stood at my side, arms crossed, practically vibrating with restless energy.

"Begin," McGonagall said crisply.

Adrien didn't hesitate — she snapped her fingers sharply at a heavy wooden chair across the room.

It exploded.

Not just moved. Not just cracked. Exploded into a shower of splinters and dust.

McGonagall barely twitched. Dumbledore arched a single eyebrow, his mouth twitching like he was hiding a smile.

"Impressive," McGonagall said dryly. "If slightly... excessive."

Adrien flashed her a fierce, unapologetic grin.

My turn.

I inhaled slow and deep — grounding, steady — and flicked two fingers at the mess of debris. The fragments floated gently into the air, reassembling themselves midair before settling neatly into a pile on McGonagall's desk.

Precise. Clean. Not as flashy. But controlled.

Dumbledore folded his hands atop his knee, watching us over the rims of his glasses.

"Very good, Miss Blackwood. Both of you," he said, voice mild but warm. "Your talents have... accelerated."

"Natural causes," Adrien muttered under her breath. "Or unnatural."

I bumped her shoulder lightly, mouthing focus before McGonagall could scold us.

But instead of more drills, McGonagall crossed her arms and pinned us with that hawk-like stare she usually reserved for students caught sneaking out after curfew.

"You must understand," she said carefully, "continued lessons will no longer be possible."

Adrien's head jerked up. "What? Why?"

Dumbledore spoke then, tone grave but still kind. "Because Professor Umbridge has taken an interest. In all four of us."

Adrien and I shared a sharp glance — shit.

"She already monitors your detentions," McGonagall continued. "It won't be long before she starts demanding full access to student activities. Private lessons included."

"We're sorry," Dumbledore said — and somehow, coming from him, it didn't feel like defeat. It felt like a strategy. "But we trust you both to practice safely... elsewhere."

There was a twinkle in his eye again — sharper, pointed.

Adrien frowned. "Elsewhere like...?"

Dumbledore just smiled — maddeningly vague — and tapped his fingers lightly against his chair. "I have found," he said, "that sometimes... a little creative resistance is required when facing difficult times."

Adrien raised an eyebrow at me.

I smirked slowly.

Creative resistance.

Dumbledore was practically spelling it out without saying it.

He was referring to Harry Potter's Defense Club.

Unofficial. Unauthorized. Unbreakable if done right.

And now? It sounded like we had permission from the only two professors who mattered.

McGonagall gave a final nod, businesslike. "Dismissed."

We gathered our things, stepping back into the darkening corridor without a word.

It wasn't until we were halfway to the common room that Adrien finally exploded.

"You heard that, right?" she said, low and urgent. "Creative resistance."

I nodded, heart thudding.

"And trust you to practice elsewhere," she added. "Not with teachers."

I grinned. "He basically handed us a sword and told us to start swinging."

Adrien bumped her shoulder against mine. "Think the Golden Trio will share their secret clubhouse?"

"We did technically catch them," I said, smirking.

Adrien's mouth twisted into a mischievous grin. "We could crash it—again."

"We should crash it," I said, laughing under my breath. "Again."

But as we walked — our footsteps light and quick on the worn stone — a colder thought crept into the back of my mind.

If Umbridge was watching McGonagall and Dumbledore like hawks now...

How long before she turned her full focus on us? She was already keep an eye on us, but if her 'supervision' has escalated to this point, how long before she completely loses her mind and takes over?

Adrien must've felt it too, because her smile faltered slightly.

"We'll practice," she said, softer. Fiercer. "We'll get better."

"We have to," I agreed.

Because Hogwarts wasn't safe anymore.

Because the walls had eyes, and the shadows had teeth.

Because surviving here didn't just mean getting through exams.

It meant getting ready for war.

And for the first time — really, truly — I knew: We weren't kids anymore.

We were soldiers in the making.

And the battlefield was coming faster than any of us were ready for.

I was halfway through explaining a new hex I found — something nasty and brilliant involving itching powder and color-changing hair — when the pink smoke hit the ceiling.

"DOWN WITH TOADS!" it spelled out in big, glittering letters, raining tiny sparks over the Great Hall like a firework show gone slightly feral.

Fred and George stood dead center under it, looking way too pleased with themselves.

I snorted into my goblet. "Subtle, aren't they?"

Adrien leaned across the table, grinning wide. "Think they'll survive the hour?"

Then — faster than I could blink — the doors to the Hall banged open.

And there she was.

Umbridge.

A pink, furious blob marching toward them with a small army of ministry thugs in tow.

The laughter died.

The entire hall froze.

I saw Fred and George exchange a look — reckless and defiant — and then stand their ground.

Stupid, brave idiots.

"Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley," Umbridge simpered, her voice so sweet it made my skin crawl. "Such spirited young men. Such potential for greatness."

Fred straightened slightly. George folded his arms, face tight.

"Effective immediately," Umbridge chirped, pulling a scroll from the folds of her cardigan, "you are required to sign a Behavioral Reform Contract as dictated by Educational Decree Number Twenty-Nine."

The parchment unrolled itself midair, revealing black, cruelly neat letters.

Sign or surrender your wands.

The breath left my body.

Fred's fingers flexed at his sides.

I could see it — the fight in him. The urge to refuse.

But George touched his shoulder — subtle, grounding — and Fred stilled.

Silent. Stone-faced.

As he stepped forward and signed the scroll.

The quill scratched loudly in the stunned quiet.

Adrien's hand gripped the table so hard her knuckles turned white. Tiny sparks — red and gold — flickered against her skin without her wand even being drawn.

The temperature around us dropped.

I reached over, squeezing her arm once — silently — to keep her from doing something we'd all regret.

She was shaking with how hard she was holding herself back.

And for once?

So was I.

Because watching Fred — Fred — the boy who never took anything seriously — stand there silent while they carved rules into his future—

It broke something inside me.

Across the Hall, Draco stood frozen near the Slytherin table, his eyes flicking from me to the stage.

And when he caught the murder in my face, the unshakable, building rage...

I saw it.

The split second of regret.

The oh shit what have I done realization that no amount of pureblood alliances could protect him when the real war came.

When we came.

Because Katie Blackwood didn't sit and cry anymore.

I burned.

And right now? I was ready to light the whole bloody castle up.

As Umbridge smiled her syrupy, rotting smile and tucked the scroll into her hideous handbag, Fred turned — finally — and caught Adrien's eyes across the Hall.

For a second, he forgot the jokes.

The winks.

The easy charm.

He just looked at her — like she was the only thing tethering him to the floor.

And Adrien? She looked right back, magic sparking uncontrolled at her fingertips.

Like if anyone hurt him again, she'd tear the world in half and laugh while she did it.

When the twins were dismissed — wand-bound, gagged by rules they never agreed to — Adrien and I moved without even speaking.

Back to the Gryffindor common room.

Back to each other.

Back to a fire that wasn't about survival anymore.

It was about fighting back.

"We can't just sit here," Adrien hissed once we were tucked into a dark corner, her fists clenching and unclenching in her lap.

"We won't," I promised, my voice steady in a way it hadn't been in weeks.

Fred's grin might've faded.

George's jokes might've gone quieter.

Hermione's eyes might've been filled with terror.

Ron might've glared like he was ready to swing at the next Slytherin who breathed wrong.

But us? Adrien and I? We were ready.

For all of it.

Because Umbridge thought she was winning.

She thought she could force signatures and silence and smallness.

She didn't realize —We were wildfire.

We were the storm.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow we'd find Harry. Tomorrow we'd say yes to the secret army no one could silence. Tomorrow we'd burn her world down from the inside out.