Katie.

I'd broken a hundred rules before.

Maybe more.

But nothing ever felt as right as this.

The corridor outside Umbridge's office was empty—silent in that way that made you lean in, hold your breath, wonder if the air itself was waiting to be caught in the act.

Draco stood at the far end, wand in one hand, tension in his jaw. He looked like he'd rather be hexing Filch than helping a team-up with the Weasleys, but he hadn't moved for twenty minutes. Just watched.

Eyes forward. Arms crossed.

Protective.

Even if he wouldn't say it out loud.

Blaise was positioned directly beside the office door, leaning casually like he wasn't ready to body-slam anyone who walked by. His wand tapped against his thigh in a steady rhythm—nervous energy, or calculated timing. Hard to tell with him.

"You sure he's not going to bail?" I whispered to Adrien, motioning toward Blaise.

"If he bails, he dies tired," she replied under her breath.

"Copy that."

Inside, it was already underway.

Fred and George had charmed the walls—every last inch of hideous floral pink was turning into shimmering, glittering red velvet. The fireplace now coughed golden sparks. The carpet glowed with a lion crest so bright it pulsed.

A roaring Gryffindor banner—twenty feet long—hung behind Umbridge's desk, embroidered in shimmering gold: "We Are Not Afraid."

George was on the bookshelf, tossing down every anti-werewolf, anti-halfblood, anti-muggle-born tract and letting them burn out midair before disappearing into conjured puffs of smoke. "This one literally says 'Temper the Taint.' This woman needs therapy."

Adrien was at the desk, wand moving with sharp, deliberate flicks. "I'm turning her inkwell into blood-red ink that screams when you dip into it. Think she'll notice?"

Fred was humming as he transfigured every quill on the desk into lion-shaped feathers with eyes that blinked and glared at you. "That's the thing with hate," he muttered. "It never sees you coming until it's surrounded."

I grinned. And I let myself bask in it—for just a moment. Because it wasn't just about payback. It was about reminding this castle that she couldn't touch us. Not without fire licking back.

Every prank became a political statement. And this one? This was warpaint.

We slipped out clean.

Draco gave a curt nod when the all-clear came, then walked away without another word. Blaise lingered—eyes flicking toward Adrien, toward Fred—but didn't speak either.

That kind of silence says more than noise ever could.

Back in the Room of Requirement, the four of us regrouped.

Fred pulled out a crumpled floorplan of the old detention rooms near the dungeons and unrolled it over a stack of spellbooks. "Ready for phase two?"

George grinned. "Always."

Adrien pulled her hair into a ponytail, sleeves already rolled. "Let's make them earn their punishments."

I traced the floorplan with my finger, eyes narrowing. "Let's collapse the system. Literally."

We split tasks fast—quick, precise, rehearsed like we'd done this before.

I charmed the chairs to vanish from underneath anyone who sat too smugly. Adrien spelled the inkwells to explode on command—preferably the second anyone tried to write "I must not tell lies."

You're welcome, Potter.

Fred and George worked in perfect rhythm, enchanting the floor to tilt when pressure was applied too hard. Add a dash of magical itching powder in the robes hanging by the door, and it was the makings of a nightmare.

"Oh, and one last thing," Fred said, lifting a wand. "Let's rig the chalkboard to sing."

"To sing what?" George asked.

Fred smirked.

An hour later, the detention room was a disaster waiting to happen.

One smug step inside and Umbridge—or any snitch trying to play Prefect—would find themselves sliding across the floor, crashing into sentient chairs, covered in ink, and serenaded by a very off-key rendition of "Weasley Is Our King" in full gospel harmony.

It was glorious. It was art. And it was just the beginning.

"Who filters detention into one classroom unless the Owlery needs cleaning?" I scoffed, earning chuckles from both twins.

The screaming started before breakfast. I'd barely bitten into my toast when the High Table shook from the force of Umbridge slamming a teacup down hard enough to rattle china three seats over.

Her voice cracked through the Great Hall like a curse.

"Which one of you did it?!"

Conversation died mid-bite. Heads turned.

I didn't blink. Just popped another grape into my mouth.

"This is BLATANT defiance!" she shrieked, storming down from the table like her cloak might catch fire from indignation alone. "My office was vandalized! Violated! Turned into—into—"

"An example of good taste?" I offered helpfully, not even bothering to raise my voice.

Adrien kicked me under the table, smirking.

Umbridge spun on us, pink face going full blotchy mauve. "You! You two. Don't play innocent. I know it was you."

Next to me, Fred raised his hand with a polite little wave. "I'd like to point out I've been blamed for worse and never once received proper credit. Bit rude, really."

George chimed in. "Honestly, if we'd known you were this sentimental about lion-themed design, we would've gone full cathedral."

Umbridge was shaking now. "Detention. Every single one of you. And you'll be lucky if—"

"Hem-hem."

The clearing of a throat cut through the tension like a blade.

Every head turned as Professor McGonagall rose from her seat, robes crisp, expression carved from judgment itself.

"Dolores," she said, voice as precise as a scalpel. "On what grounds are you issuing these detentions?"

"They vandalized my—"

"Do you have any physical proof?"

Umbridge's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

McGonagall's eyebrows rose, daring her.

"No?" she continued. "Then unless you have eyewitness accounts, a confession, or—dare I say—tangible evidence, I suggest you finish your tea and sit down. You're frightening the first years."

Laughter rippled through the Hall. Low. Dangerous. Triumphant.

But what got me wasn't the laughter.

It was Blaise, sitting at the Slytherin table across the way, staring straight ahead.

Silent.

And Draco? Arms folded, expression unreadable—but not smug. Not self-satisfied. Just... watching.

And not saying a damn word. They didn't squeal.

Huh.

I glanced at Adrien, who shrugged, but the twitch of a smile tugged at her mouth.

Maybe. Just maybe.

We weren't completely alone in this war.

That night, the Room of Requirement looked like Christmas exploded.

Dobby—this adorably ugly house elf that loves the Golden Trio—had outdone himself.

Floating garlands twinkled with golden stars. Red-and-green lights blinked from enchanted candles. The fireplace crackled with cinnamon-scented warmth. And in the corner, a massive Christmas tree nearly scraped the enchanted ceiling—its base piled with oddly wrapped socks and glitter-covered boxes labeled FOR HARRY POTTER SIR AND FRIENDS.

Dobby beamed from a ladder, placing a crooked angel on top of the tree. The angel promptly sneezed sparkles and hiccupped.

"Brilliant," Adrien whispered. "I love him so much."

I nodded, heart tight in the best way.

The Dumbledore's Army, gathered quickly—last meeting before break. People were buzzing from the Umbridge incident, eyes darting toward us like we were myth come to life.

Harry cleared his throat at the front.

"I want to thank everyone for showing up these last few weeks," he said, voice strong. "Especially tonight. But before we get started—there's two people I want to introduce."

He looked at us.

"Adrien and Katie Blackwood."

A few students whispered. One Hufflepuff paled. A Ravenclaw girl clapped.

"They've survived Umbridge. And worse. And they're here because they're not just talented witches. They're fighters. And they're on our side."

That earned actual applause.

Even from people who used to avoid eye contact.

After the meeting, after hugs and cocoa and Dobby proudly giving Harry a sweater two sizes too small, Adrien nudged me toward the door.

"We're not going back yet."

I didn't ask.

Just followed.

We slipped through the castle in silence, cloaks pulled tight. The night air was sharp, clean. The moon stretched across the snow-dusted Quidditch Pitch like spilled milk.

We walked out to the center.

Breathed.

Let it be quiet for once.

"You ever think," Adrien said softly, "how we got here? Like. This exact moment?"

"Constant poor choices," I murmured.

She laughed. "Definitely that."

Silence again.

Then—

"We're not alone."

We turned at the same time.

Draco and Blaise stood at the edge of the pitch.

Unmoving.

Watching.

Of course.

Because of course they'd find us here.

They didn't speak at first.

Just crossed the field slowly, like if they walked too fast we'd vanish into the frost.

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes flicking toward me before skimming the stars instead. Blaise looked a little more sheepish, his collar turned up, his jaw tight.

"Didn't know this place was taken," Draco muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. "It's not. But it's not neutral ground either."

"We come in peace," Blaise added, holding his hands up.

"For now," Adrien said, sharp as ever.

Still, she didn't tell them to leave.

They stopped a few feet away, awkward in that boy way that somehow managed to be both smug and nervous.

"We heard about the Room," Draco said after a beat. "Umbridge looked like she'd swallowed a broomstick. We didn't get a look at it last night, but Professor McGonagall..."

He smiled faintly.

"Queen," I muttered.

Adrien grinned.

Blaise scratched the back of his neck. "We, uh... just wanted to say—thanks."

"For what?" I asked, arms crossed.

"For not publicly executing us—Blasie, again..." Draco replied, his eyes flicking to mine. "We thought you might. After everything."

"We noticed you didn't squeal," I admitted. "That earned something."

Adrien tilted her head. "But it doesn't erase anything."

"We're not asking you to forget it," Blaise said quickly. "We just... we talked. After the Owlery."

"And we want to fix it," Draco added, voice rough. "Or at least start trying."

My chest twisted.

Hope was a sharp thing when you'd been cut by it before.

"That's a long process," I said, voice quiet but firm. "Long. With setbacks. And no guarantees."

Adrien didn't miss a beat. "And it won't be the same."

Blaise's eyes flicked to her. "I don't want the same."

She blinked.

He went on. "I want better."

Draco looked at me. "Me too."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time.

It was tentative. Honest.

And then—like the universe couldn't bear the tension anymore—

"You know," Adrien said casually, "if you had sold us out, I would've replaced your shampoo with Bubotuber pus."

Blaise blanched. "You wouldn't."

"I absolutely would."

"And I'd transfigure your fancy robe collection into rainbow-checked Weasley knockoffs," I added, smirking at Draco.

"You're bluffing."

"I'm not."

Draco huffed. "Terrifying."

"Thank you."

The ice cracked just a little more.

Draco folded his arms. "So, what's next? Hijacking the library? Hexing the Great Hall ceiling to play the Hogwarts fight song every time Umbridge breathes?"

I'm listening, George's voice echoed in my memory. I snorted.

Blaise leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the stars.

Then—softer—"Are the dreams still bad?"

The question hit like a stone in still water.

Adrien froze. She didn't look at him. Just stared straight ahead. But she answered.

"They're not just bad," she said. "They're mine. They don't leave."

The wind swept between us.

Draco shifted, barely audible. "We should've done more. After the lake—after what the beginning of term—"

Adrien just rolled her eyes.

"We tried," Blaise said quietly. "I thought—I thought if I gave you space..."

"I didn't need space," she whispered. "I needed someone. And I didn't even know how to ask."

I bit the inside of my cheek.

"I thought we lost you that day, the Second task," Draco said, his voice lower now, raw. "When they pulled you out... you were struggling to breathe. You weren't there."

"I remember that," I said. "The way everything stopped. Like someone had paused the world."

Adrien didn't speak. She just closed her eyes. And for a second—we were all back there.

Cold water. Screaming lungs. Empty hands.

We just sat there, the four of us, under the wide, quiet sky.

Not whole. Not healed. But closer.

We'd gone quiet again.

Not awkward, not cold — just... quieter.

The kind of quiet that settles after you've said more than you planned to.

Blaise broke it first. "So... Christmas."

I glanced up. He tried to sound casual. Like this wasn't the question.

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. "Are you... staying? Or going home?"

Adrien let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Home's a loose term."

My jaw clenched. There was a time I would've answered that with a sharp comment, a roll of my eyes. But instead, I just shrugged.

"We don't have a real home to go back to."

Adrien looked at me.

Draco's brows drew together. Blaise looked away.

"But," I added, straightening, "we'll be with Harry and the Weasleys. Hermione too."

"Where?" Draco asked.

I arched my brow. "Nice try."

Blaise held up his hands. "Fair."

Adrien smirked. "Let's just say... it'll be somewhere warm. Spiritually."

George would've loved that line.

"You two and the Weasleys," Blaise muttered. "Sounds dangerous."

"It has been—it is," Adrien said. "Especially when we're armed."

Draco's lips twitched. "What do they get you for Christmas? Exploding ornaments? A sweater that fights back?"

"Better," I said. "Freedom. Laughs. Family."

The word hung there.

Blaise looked down again. Draco didn't.

He was still looking at me. "I hope it's good," he said quietly.

I didn't say thank you. But I didn't snap either.

Progress.

Adrien yawned suddenly, stretching like a cat. "Alright, enough vulnerability. If I get any more honest, I'll start monologuing."

I stood, brushing frost from my cloak. "And I've maxed out my emotional availability quota for the week."

Blaise looked like he wanted to say something else. So did Draco. But neither did. We turned without a word and walked back toward the castle.

The wind was quieter now. So were we.

The Next Morning, I found them in the common room — Fred, George, and Hermione huddled over a folded map, half-empty mugs of cocoa steaming beside them.

"You're late," Fred said, looking up with a grin. "For once. I was beginning to worry you'd been kidnapped again."

Adrien flipped him off playfully as she dropped into a chair. "Charming."

George slid a wrapped biscuit toward me. "Breakfast. It's probably edible."

Hermione waved me over, serious-eyed. "We've spoken to Dumbledore."

My chest tightened.

"It's arranged," she said. "You'll leave tomorrow evening."

"Portkey," Fred added. "Classic. Wobbly. Mildly nauseating."

"Convenient," George finished.

"Perfect." I smirked.