Adrien.

The sky was spinning.

Or maybe it was my brain.

Or maybe we were falling.

No—landing.

Hard.

My shoulder hit first, then my knee, then my skull cracked against something unyielding—mud-slick turf, maybe.

It all blurred.

The world howled past my ears like a scream in slow motion. Then—

Thud.

Silence.

Cold.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Everything hurt. Every bone, every nerve. My palms were still faintly burning from the runes, the echo of magic we'd just unleashed—or caged, or killed. I didn't know.

I barely breathed.

Beside me, Katie groaned—barely. Sage didn't move. Maddie had crumpled with her arms twisted under her like a broken doll. All of them were out cold.

And me? I was the lucky one. Conscious just long enough to realize where we'd landed.

Screams rang out—real ones this time. Brooms scraping through the air. Shouting.

"WHAT THE—?"

"Did someone just—?"

"Is that Maddie Robbins?"

The wind whipped around me as shadows blurred above—green robes, sharp voices, the unmistakable chaos of a Slytherin Quidditch practice slamming to a halt.

Of course.

Of course we would portkey into a fucking full-blown scrimmage. What poetic bullshit.

My head lolled to the side. I couldn't lift it. Couldn't speak.

Boots thundered toward us. And then—

Blaise.

Dropping to his knees like gravity had yanked him down. His hands—warm, real—cupped my face before I could even register it.

"Chaos?" he breathed, and I couldn't tell if it was a nickname or a prayer anymore, my brain felt like it got scrambled on the way in.

His thumb brushed just beneath my eye. "Hey. No, no, no—stay with me."

My vision swam. He was so close—closer than he'd been in weeks. Months. His eyes darted over me, frantic.

"You good?" he asked, too softly, too quickly, like he already knew the answer and hated it. "Come on, Adrien, talk to me."

I couldn't. Not yet.

"SOMEONE GET SOME FUCKING HELP!" he roared over his shoulder.

I felt his grip tighten, grounding me. One hand still on my jaw, the other sliding under my shoulder like he could pull me upright through sheer will.

"You're alright," he murmured again, voice low now, just for me. "You're gonna be alright."

And that's the last thing I heard before the world tilted sideways, and black swallowed me whole.

I woke to the familiar smell of antiseptic potions and Sage muttering something about toe fungus.

Perfect.

My eyes cracked open—everything was fuzzy at first, white ceiling beams swimming in and out of focus like ghosts. My throat was dry. My ribs ached like I'd been headbutted by a centaur.

And my hands—Burned.

I hissed.

No.

Not burned.

Blistered.

Both palms were bandaged, but the skin beneath throbbed like it was still glowing. I could feel it—deep, raw, old magic humming like it had burrowed down into the marrow.

"Oh, look who's up," Maddie whispered from the next bed over, her voice hoarse but smug. "Sleeping Beauty lives."

"I was betting she'd wake up screaming," Sage said brightly. "I owe Katie three galleons."

I turned my head. Slowly.

All three girls were propped up in beds, covered in blankets and bruises, eyes shadowed but very much alive.

"Why does it feel like my hands exploded?" I croaked.

Katie sat up straighter. "Because they kinda did."

Before I could reply, a voice cut through the curtains.

"Miss Blackwood," Professor McGonagall said, stepping into view, "I'd appreciate it if your appendages remained intact the next time you go gallivanting through forbidden magical architecture."

Dumbledore followed behind her, looking simultaneously serene and disappointed. Classic.

Snape was there too, naturally, arms crossed like he'd rather be anywhere else—but his eyes locked on mine. Sharp. Calculating.

And then—Madame Maxime.

She ducked under the curtain with a swish of silk and thunderclouds in her gaze.

"You are all very lucky," she said in her heavy accent, "zat you are not being carried back in coffins."

"Happy to disappoint," Maddie muttered.

"Do not test me, Mademoiselle Robbins."

Dumbledore stepped forward, smiling gently like we weren't all bleeding from our souls.

"I trust," he said calmly, "that this was not a recreational expedition."

Katie lifted her chin. "We needed answers. We got them."

"Did you, now?" Snape drawled. "All it took was catastrophic magical backlash and what appears to be a partial collapse of Beauxbatons' lower west wing."

"We fixed it," Sage said, raising a bandaged hand like she was in Charms class.

"You collapsed it," McGonagall said, nose wrinkling. "There's a distinct difference."

"We sealed it," I rasped. "It was open. It's not anymore."

The Professors all looked at one another. Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, but didn't push further. Instead, his gaze dropped to my hands.

"And your runes?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

Snape stepped forward and pulled something from his robes—the cursed book. It hovered in his hand like it wanted to bite.

"The final page is missing," he said quietly. "It burned itself out the moment the wards collapsed."

Maxime frowned. "Burned?"

"Burned," he repeated, looking at me. "Which suggests the rite completed."

"The what?" I said, trying to sit up straighter.

Madame Pomfrey appeared out of nowhere and shoved me gently back down with a scowl. "Lay. Still." She glared over at the book and whipped her wand, setting it on a side table without a second glance at Snape.

"Miss Blackwood," Snape continued, ignoring her entirely, "you bear the mark of a completed rite." He gestured to my palms. "Whether you understand it or not, the ritual was successful. Something has changed."

"Yeah," Maddie muttered. "Her sarcasm's more lethal."

"That was always like that," Sage whispered.

The Professors exchanged a final look before filing out—except Snape, who paused at the curtain and said, without turning:

"You sealed the door. But not the legacy." And then he was gone.

"Yeah, well—you're welcome!" Sage shouted after them, earning a snort from me.

The silence that followed was thick.

Until it wasn't.

The door slammed open and two figures burst in like thunder:

Cassian—disheveled, coat half-buttoned, eyes wild—and Rowan, who looked like someone had physically dragged him away from the Quidditch Pitch.

"What the HELL?!" Rowan said, storming to Katie's side.

Cassian didn't even blink.

He stormed past the professors, barely acknowledged the rest of us, and dropped to his knees beside Maddie's bed like he'd been holding his breath for hours.

"Mads," he said, voice low and ragged. "Say something. Please."

Maddie blinked blearily, groggy and pale, and croaked, "That's a lot of drama for someone who owes me a new jacket."

Cassian exhaled—part laugh, part broken relief—and leaned forward to press his forehead to hers.

"I'll buy you ten," he whispered. "Just don't scare me like that again."

"Not my fault you date someone with a flair for magical collapse."

"Shut up," he muttered, but kissed her temple anyway.

Rowan wasn't far behind. He crossed straight to Katie, eyes locked like he couldn't decide if he wanted to yell or cry or kiss her stupid.

"You're okay," he said, breath catching.

Katie nodded, dazed. "I think so."

"We're idiots," he added.

"Complete," she agreed, curling weakly into his side.

"Yeah, well," he murmured, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. "You're my idiot."

"Ugh," Sage groaned from her bed. "I'm concussed, not emotionally stunted. Keep it PG."

I cracked a laugh. Then immediately winced. The pressure behind my eyes hadn't faded—and my hands...

Still bandaged. Still burning.

Cassian finally looked up from Maddie and locked eyes with me, his expression sobering fast. He rose, walked over, and crouched beside my bed—not touching, just watching.

"You did it," he said softly. "But Adrien..." He nodded toward my bandaged palms. "The runes," he murmured, almost reverently. "They've... settled. But they've changed."

I met his gaze, throat dry. "Into what?"

Cassian didn't hesitate.

"A key," he said. "No longer in search of a lock."

Behind him, Maddie—tired but ever herself—snorted from her pillow. "Cool. Love that. Magical branding. Very chic."

I smiled faintly.

But deep down, I knew.

This wasn't over.

Because I'd survived a ritual that hadn't been meant for survival.

And somewhere beneath the bandages?

The door was still warm.

The door clicked shut behind Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, and Maxime—leaving behind only a trail of echoing judgment, vague threats of suspension, and a tray of weak hospital tea.

I exhaled. Loudly. Dramatically. With flair.

"Okay," I muttered, pushing myself up on my elbows, wincing. "Who's ready to unpack the fact we apparently did necromancy and lived?"

Maddie held up a hand like she was swearing an oath. "For the record, I blame the portkey."

"Blame the creepy glowing resurrection circle," Sage offered from her bed, where she was still picking dirt out of her hair. "Or the part where the stone altar screamed at us."

"You screamed at the altar," I corrected.

"You screamed at Zoe—wait, no...I'm sorry—She kissed you," Maddie added.

Katie groaned. "Can we focus? Before one of us flatlines again?"

Rowan shifted beside her, his arm still around her shoulder like he wasn't letting go ever again. "You flatline, I'm burying you under the pitch."

"Romantic," Katie deadpanned.

Cassian cleared his throat, pushing off the wall. "Right. So. Resurrection runes."

The humor fell out of the room like someone had pulled a string.

Cassian stepped forward, pulling the cursed book from where Madam Pomfrey had dumped it unceremoniously onto a side table. His fingers ghosted over the runes on the cover. They pulsed—dull, low, like they were... waiting.

"These runes aren't just tied to resurrection," he said. "They're used in rituals that attempt magical fusion—binding two incompatible sources of magic."

I blinked. "Fusion?"

He nodded. "Magics that weren't meant to exist together. That shouldn't."

Rowan straightened. "I've been researching Obscurials and Veela bloodlines. They're both... unstable. Both tied to identity suppression. One's rage. The other's allure. Two extremes."

"Two extremes that can't coexist," Cassian added. "Unless something binds them."

Everyone looked at me.

I gave a weak shrug. "Hi. It's me. I'm the problem. It's me."

Katie didn't laugh.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, brow drawn tight. "Back in the labyrinth... the writing on the wall. The altar. All of it—it wasn't about Voldemort. Not really. I don't think Anselme ever wanted to bring him back."

"No," Cassian said slowly, voice like flint catching spark. "He's not interested in resurrection as restoration. He's interested in evolution."

Rowan frowned. "He's creating something new."

"A bloodline pathway," Katie murmured. "And my family—Vexley—is the blueprint."

Maddie sucked in a breath. "Which means..."

"I'm the key," I whispered.

The words came out too easy.

Like I'd already known.

The runes on my arms pulsed—soft at first, then deeper. Not burning. Not flaring. Just... vibrating. Like they were aware of what was being said.

Like they were agreeing.

No one said anything. They didn't need to.

I saw it on their faces—Cassian's mouth set in a grim line, Maddie's fingers flexing like she didn't know what to grab, Sage pulling her knees to her chest and staring at me like I might disappear again.

Katie's jaw clenched, knuckles white against the edge of her blanket.

I wasn't cursed. I was built for this.

Tuned. Etched. Wired like a sigil on skin that didn't get a say.

And Anselme? He didn't have to be there to gloat.

He'd already made sure I'd be the one to open the door.

Even if it killed me.

"You okay?" Rowan asked, like it wasn't the dumbest question in the world.

"No," I said. "But I think I finally understand what I am."

Cassian was quiet for a long moment. Then, barely audible: "And I think he does too."

There was a long, strange quiet after that. No one said it, but we all felt it. The weight of what came next. The fact that something always came next.

Maddie curled tighter into Cassian's side like she was trying to hold off the existential dread by sheer cuddle force. Katie muttered something to Rowan that sounded suspiciously like "if we die, I'm blaming Adrien," and Sage had flopped dramatically back onto her pillow with an "I refuse to process anything else today" groan.

I didn't blame her. I was halfway to a matching groan myself when a soft knock hit the door.

Not hesitant. Not urgent. Just... expectant.

Pomfrey wasn't due back for another hour. Dumbledore wouldn't knock.

The room stilled.

And then— "Adrien?"

I froze. Katie's head whipped toward the door. Maddie made a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan.

Cassian frowned. "Oh, this should be good."

Before I could respond, the door creaked open.

And Blaise stepped inside.

Still in uniform. Still stupidly tall. Still wearing that expression like the world owed him an explanation and he was tired of asking.

His gaze swept the room, scanning all of them—lingering a second too long on Katie—before landing on me.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked. "Alone?"

Maddie didn't move.

Sage actually snorted.

Cassian narrowed his eyes in a way that reminded me he still had several very specific warding runes memorized and ready.

But I sat up anyway.

Or tried to.

My body screamed. Blaise was at my side in two seconds flat, bracing my arm before I could fall back.

"You look like hell," he said quietly.

"Thanks," I rasped. "You really know how to woo a girl."

His mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there.

"Outside," I said. "Five minutes."

Rowan glanced at Katie. Katie glanced at me.

No one said anything—but I felt it.

In their eyes. In the quiet.

They'd give me space.

But not distance.

Not really.

I shifted forward, a hiss catching in my throat. My muscles protested. My ribs screamed. My palms—still wrapped in thick layers of bandage—throbbed like live wires under my skin.

Blaise was there before I could even think about standing.

"Easy," he murmured, slipping an arm around my waist like he'd done it before. Like he remembered how I fit.

I didn't argue.

Didn't have the energy.

He helped me off the bed, slow and steady, bracing me as my knees buckled for half a second too long. My hand found his shoulder. His hand found mine—fingers curling tight through the bandage without pressing too hard.

"You're still bleeding magic," he muttered, brow furrowed.

"Good thing you're into chaos," I rasped sarcastically.

He didn't laugh.

Didn't smile.

Just helped me out of the Hospital Wing like I was something precious and fragile and made of fire. We stopped just past the corner—out of sight, out of earshot. He helped me ease down against the wall, one hand braced behind my back, the other still holding mine like I might vanish if he let go.

The silence wasn't awkward.

It was loaded.

His thumb brushed the edge of my bandage. Slow. Careful. Intentional.

He didn't speak at first.

Then: "I heard about Beauxbatons. Not everything. Just... enough."

I swallowed. "How much is enough?"

"Enough to know you nearly didn't come back." His jaw tightened. "I didn't like that."

There it was. No charm. No ego. Just a truth, dropped like a stone.

"I'm not going to die from a little resurrection magic," I muttered, out of breath. "Cursed books, sure. But death? That's dramatic even for me."

He huffed. "That's not funny."

"No," I said. "It's not."

We stood there for a beat. Then two.

Then he said, "You didn't tell me."

I looked at him. "Tell you what?"

"That you were bleeding out magic," he said, voice low, tight. "That your hands were splitting open every night. That you were carrying something too big to control." His jaw clenched. "That you were hurting."

And I broke. Just a little.

Because Blaise Zabini didn't break. But maybe this version did—the one sitting in front of me like he hadn't slept, like the space between us had never healed right, like he still saw me as something worth bleeding for.

"I tried..." My voice cracked, spine flaring with heat as I shifted against the stone wall. "I didn't want to scare you—or anyone for that matter."

He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. "You think I'm scared of you?"

"No." I looked at him—really looked. "I think you're scared of what I make you feel."

His eyes flared. Just a flicker. But he didn't deny it.

"I came to see if you were alive," he said after a beat. "But I also came to say something. And I want you to hear it, even if it's too late."

My throat tightened. "Okay."

He shifted closer—not touching, but near enough that I could see the storm in his expression.

"I meant what I said. About the book. About what I did." His voice dropped. "None of it excuses anything. Not the jealousy. Not the rage. Not what I became with it."

He swallowed. Hard.

"But I still see her. The girl who held my hand at the Yule Ball. Who kissed me in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch like the world was burning and we didn't care. Who told me I was more than my name."

He exhaled, voice already tight. "I still feel her in the room."

I froze.

Not because I believed him. But because part of me—deep down in the marrow—remembered her too. The girl who used to think Blaise Zabini could be hers. Could be enough.

But that girl didn't live here anymore.

"I still see her," he added.

I glanced away. "You see a ghost, Blaise."

His jaw twitched. "I came to see if you were okay. But I also came to say something. And I need you to listen, Adrien."

His voice sharpened, pushing past the gentle veneer.

"I know I don't get to ask for anything," he said, stepping forward. "But I meant every word. About the book. About the things I did. The things I said. I still remember the way you looked at me the night of the Yule Ball—like I was more than what they made me."

I flinched.

Not because I still loved him.

But because he did.

"You don't get to do this," I said, keeping my voice low. "Not now."

"Why?" he snapped, his voice rising. "Because I waited too long? Because he got there first?"

My chest pulled tight. "Because I chose him."

Blaise stared at me—furious, desperate, unspoken words crowding his mouth.

"I still feel it," he said, louder now. "You can pretend it's gone. But I know you. I know what this is."

"No," I said. "You knew me."

He didn't back down.

"And maybe you still remember her," I added, sharper. "But I'm not her anymore."

He stepped closer again, too close—and reached for my hand.

I pulled it back fast, hissing through my teeth as pain flared under the bandages.

"Don't," I snapped. "You don't get to touch me like that."

He looked wrecked. "You loved me."

"I did," I whispered. "And then you burned it down."

"I'm not letting you go again," Blaise said, his voice raw. "I can't."

"Then you'll be disappointed," I snapped.

He stepped closer. Too close. "I know you feel it too," he pushed, jaw tight. "You can lie to them, to him, but not to—"

And then? He was gone.

One second Blaise was mid-sentence—self-righteous and loud—and the next?

CRACK.

A blur of ginger rage collided with his jaw. Blaise's head snapped sideways, and he slammed back into the corridor wall with a grunt and the clatter of his dignity.

Fred.

Fred Weasley.

Stormed into the hall with a fist still cocked and fire in his goddamn eyes.

"Get your fucking hand off my fiancée," he growled, voice low and murderous.

George was right behind him, wild-eyed and slightly out of breath, but grinning like he'd just been handed the best Christmas present imaginable.

I stood frozen.

Fred hadn't even looked at me yet.

He was still focused on Blaise, who was groaning from the floor and wiping blood off his mouth like he couldn't quite believe what just happened.

Fred didn't give him the chance to speak.

"You touch her again," he said, deadly quiet, "and I'll break more than your fucking wrist."

"Language," George muttered helpfully.

Fred's knuckles were still clenched. His chest rose and fell like he was fighting the urge to go back for round two.

And gods, I wanted to kiss him stupid for it.

"Fred," I breathed.

His gaze snapped to mine—and everything shifted.

The rage didn't leave his eyes, but it gentled. Softened.

And then he crossed to me in two strides.

"You alright?" he asked, voice lower now, one hand already brushing back the hair from my face like he needed to make sure I was real.

I nodded, throat thick. "Yeah."

He pulled me in—arms around my waist, my cheek to his chest—and the second I felt his heartbeat thudding steady and strong against mine, I exhaled like I hadn't in days.

Not performative.

Not territorial.

Just Fred.

Mine.

Behind him, Blaise was still reeling, half-upright, dazed and bleeding.

And right on cue—Cassian and Rowan burst through the Hospital Wing doors.

Cassian froze, took one look at Blaise's bleeding lip, and nodded like it was his birthday.

Rowan blinked. "Did... Did Fred punch him?"

George threw an arm around his shoulder. "Oh yeah. You just missed it. Gorgeous right hook."

Fred didn't speak again. He just held me.

And Blaise? He finally got it. Because I didn't say a word. I didn't have to.

I had chosen. And Fred had stayed. And maybe that was the difference. He always would.

I didn't even remember walking.

One minute, I was buried in Fred's arms. The next, I was being half-carried back into the Hospital Wing—Fred on one side, Cassian on the other—both muttering curses every few steps while I hissed through my teeth like a punctured kettle.

"Easy—fuck—why does everything hurt like I got hit by a flaming Thestral—"

"You basically did," Cassian muttered, adjusting his grip. "You summoned resurrection runes through your bloodstream and face-tanked a magical implosion. You're lucky you're not soup."

"Feeling very sexy," I wheezed.

Fred exhaled sharply. "You are. But if you don't stop bleeding, I'm carrying you next time."

"You are carrying me."

He smirked. "Then I'm not putting you down next time."

The doors creaked open.

And chaos greeted us.

"Oh my god," Sage squealed, bolting upright. "You're actually here—George, hi—"

"Hi, firecracker," George grinned, sweeping her up like she weighed nothing despite the bandage still stuck to her eyebrow.

"Hey, babe!" Sage chirped again—locking eyes with me this time.

"Babe," I croaked, wincing as Fred and Cassian lowered me into bed. "God, I missed you."

"Missed you more," Sage said sweetly. "Die again and I'm repossessing your cauldron collection."

Fred froze. "Babe?"

Cassian blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"

George squinted. "Did I miss an elopement?"

"Relax," Sage said, patting George's chest like he was a pet kneazle. "She's my backup spouse. If you boys die tragically, Adrien and I are running off together. For wandless dominance and tax benefits."

"Oh yeah," I said, trying to adjust my pillow and barely swallowing a scream. "Matching cloaks. No bras. Chaos and curses only."

Fred muttered, "I knew this day would come."

George sighed. "Weasleys can't have anything nice."

Katie lifted her head from Rowan's shoulder. "Please tell me that crack we heard was Fred and not Adrien's spine."

Fred—still adjusting my blanket like a civilized menace—answered coolly, "Let's call it a team effort."

"She lives, she bleeds, she flirts," Cassian said, grinning. "All signs point to stable."

I groaned. "I'm never doing magic again."

Fred leaned over, brushing hair from my face, voice low and wicked: "Liar."

Across the room, Katie raised an eyebrow. "So are you gonna tell us what happened? Or do we just guess based on Blaise's broken face?"

"Blaise's what?" Maddie asked, instantly sitting up straighter as Cassian sunk onto the side of her bed.

Before I could answer, the door swung open again.

And in walked Madam Pomfrey.

Trailing behind her?

Blaise.

Slightly limping. Lip split. Still holding his damn wand like he was debating whether to repair his ego or his jaw first.

I tried to sit up.

Fred stopped me—an arm wrapping tight around my waist, the other bracing against the bed. His palm didn't move, but the muscles in his forearm twitched.

Hard.

"I brought him in to rewrap the burn sigils," Pomfrey said crisply. "He's trained in reversal bindings and rune-layered skin trauma. He won't be long."

Fred didn't say a word. Didn't even flinch. But when Blaise stepped toward the bed, Fred's hand moved. Just slightly.

A flex. A warning.

And Blaise froze.

"I'll keep my distance," Blaise muttered.

"Good idea," Fred said, still calm. But his fingers curled around my hip like he was deciding how many bones he'd snap if that changed.

"I'm just here to stop the bleeding."

"Could've fooled me," George piped in, arms crossed. "Looks like you started it."

"I didn't," Blaise said flatly. "That would've required me getting a word in."

Fred didn't even blink.

Katie leaned toward Maddie and whispered loudly, "Anyone else getting hot jealous fiancé about to commit murder energy, or is it just me?"

"I'm living," Maddie whispered back.

George threw a hand toward Fred. "Ten galleons says he doesn't even look at him while punching him next time."

"Twenty," Sage added. "And he still wins."

I groaned, "Can someone tell the chorus of chaos to shut up so my ribs can die in peace?"

Fred leaned closer, mouth brushing my temple.

"Want me to hex him from here?" he whispered. "I won't even get up."

"I want you to keep holding me like this."

He smiled into my hair.

"You got it, trouble."

And Blaise? He finished the wrapping in silence.

Didn't speak. Didn't stay. He walked out on his own, face taut and unreadable.

But Fred never took his hand off me. Not once.

"So..." George said slowly, glancing between all of us like he'd just walked into the final five minutes of a mystery play. "We left the shop to check on our girlfriends and stumbled into... what exactly? A minor apocalypse?"

Maddie nodded. "Resurrection runes. Bloodline rituals. A haunted underground crypt that may or may not have tried to eat us."

"Add in a cursed book, magical blood fusion, a creature with way too many teeth," Sage added casually, "and some light romantic trauma."

Fred made a sound that was equal parts groan and growl. "What the hell did I miss?"

"Don't worry," Katie muttered from her bed. "Just Adrien dying again and then yelling the Labyrinth into submission."

"Correction," I croaked, lifting one hand before immediately regretting it. "I nearly died. Then I read cursed Latin until the crypt collapsed and screamed myself into a magical coma. Entirely different vibe."

Cassian held up the cursed book like it was a nuclear warhead. "It's fine now. Mostly. Probably. I'm gonna lock it in three boxes and bury it under the greenhouse."

Rowan looked up from re-wrapping Katie's hand. "We think Anselme's trying to build something. A magical bloodline gateway."

Fred's brow furrowed. "And you all decided to go stop this alone?"

"No," Sage said brightly. "We didn't decide—it just kind of happened around us. Like a magical group project with horrible consequences."

"And no snacks," Maddie added.

George blinked. "So to be clear. You four went to Beauxbatons. Broke into a forbidden underground maze. Fought something undead. Collapsed a ritual site. Came home bleeding. And now there's a possessed book in our friend's lap?"

"Yes," I said. "It's Tuesday."

Fred's grip on my hip tightened like he was restraining himself from strangling the entire French school system. "We are never letting you out of the country again."

"Agreed," George muttered. "Next time someone suggests 'field trip,' we're taking them to Honeydukes."

"Or Azkaban," Fred said darkly.

I exhaled, dragging the blanket higher around my shoulders. "Can we all just be glad we're not currently trapped underground with a cursed altar and some cryptid screaming at us from the walls?"

George raised a brow. "Is that really the bar now?"

"Yes," all four of us answered, deadpanned.

Fred still looked like he wanted to burn something down. Preferably Blaise. Maybe Beauxbatons. Possibly the entire continent.

But when I curled tighter into him and let my head drop to his chest, he finally relaxed.

Just a little.

"You're safe," he muttered. "You're here."

"Barely," I replied.

"But here," he insisted.

And with that, the room settled again—chaotic, bruised, bloodied, and absolutely wrecked.

Fred hadn't stopped touching me.

An arm around my waist. His thumb brushing the edge of my bandage. The way he tucked my hair behind my ear like he needed to confirm I still had ears and hadn't ghosted away in a puff of trauma glitter.

"You should sleep," he murmured.

I smiled against his shoulder. "That's rich coming from the guy who just flew across half of Britain and punched someone in a hospital."

His jaw tightened. "I was going to stop you."

I blinked up at him.

"I got the owl," he said quietly. "One side had a letter from you, the other side had someone else's hand writing explaining what you were doing."

I paused, lifting my head off his chest and glaring over at Katie, who was smiling at something Rowan was saying, oblivious to the minor betrayal.

"It said you were planning something reckless and barely legal. I was going to storm the castle, throw you over my shoulder, and lock you in the shop until you came to your senses."

"You would've tried," I murmured, readjusting my head on his chest.

Fred gave a low laugh, but it was brittle around the edges. "When I saw you in the corridor? The blood, the way you were barely upright? I knew I was too late."

He didn't say I thought I'd lost you.

He didn't need to.

"I'm here," I whispered.

"Barely," he said again, like the word was personally offensive.

"But here." I mocked, earning a small playful nudge.

"You were glowing, Adrien. Glowing. Do you know how terrifying that is when it's not Christmas?"

"I did it for a reason," I said softly. "I didn't go in without a plan."

"Bullshit," he muttered. "You went in with trauma, blind confidence, and a sarcastic monologue."

I laughed. Then immediately regretted it. "Ow. Okay. Valid."

He ran his hand up my arm gently, eyes scanning every inch of me like he still didn't trust I was solid. "Promise me—next time? I'm in the loop. I go with you. I don't get a cryptic owl and a five-hour panic attack."

"I will," I said. "Promise."

There was a pause.

Then, because I'm an idiot, I added, "I mean, if it helps... I did owl Zoe."

Fred stiffened. "Zoe."

"She still goes to Beauxbatons," I rushed to explain. "She got us inside. She knew a way through the conservatory ruins—"

"You owled your ex for a tactical favor?" His voice went up a full octave.

"Contact of opportunity!" I said, defensively. "And also maybe...she kissed me."

Fred blinked.

I waited.

His jaw clenched. "On the cheek?"

I shook my head, slow. "No. The mouth."

His hand froze on my shoulder.

"I didn't kiss her back," I said. "I was too shocked. It just... happened."

He exhaled through his nose, hard. "Didn't kiss her back," he repeated, like he was filing that away in triplicate for emotional damage control.

"But I was thinking about you," I added gently, tracing a line down his chest with one finger. "Even in the middle of hell. You were still the thing I wanted to come back to."

Fred groaned and flopped onto the pillow beside me like I'd physically short-circuited his soul. "So let me get this straight. My fiancée goes on a suicidal mission into a haunted underground blood vault, gets kissed by her hot French ex, and I'm just supposed to sit back and be grateful she didn't spontaneously combust?"

I grinned. "That about covers it."

He rolled onto his side, one arm thrown over his face. "I am not okay."

"You're very sexy when you're spiraling," I whispered.

Fred peeled his hand off his face just long enough to squint at me. "Don't tempt me. I'm two seconds from writing Zoe a strongly worded letter in glitter ink."

I snorted. "You're going to threaten her with arts and crafts?"

"Oh, I'll craft," he growled. "It'll be unhinged. I'll put charms on it that make her hair fall out every time she thinks of you."

I leaned in close, lips at his ear. "Want me to kiss you and make it worse?"

His eyes flicked open, already dark with the weight of everything we hadn't said. "Immediately," he said.

So I did. Even with my lips cracked, even with the taste of blood and fear still clinging to my tongue, I kissed him like it was the only spell I had left.

Because I loved him. Because he showed up. Because he saw every piece of me—blistered, burning, breaking—and didn't look away.

Even when Zoe kissed me. Even when I told him.

He stayed.

His hand found mine beneath the blanket. Bandaged. Trembling. He brought it slowly to his lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckle with a reverence that undid something in my chest.

Then his thumb brushed over the ring.

The ruby glinted faintly in the candlelight—dark and bloody and defiant.

"I was terrified," he said, so quietly it almost didn't reach me. "When I got the owl. When I realized I was too late. When I saw you in that corridor and you didn't even flinch at him."

My throat tightened.

"You should've punched him sooner," I whispered.

"I wanted to," he muttered. "But this—" His thumb swept over the ruby again, slow and grounding. "This is the only thing that kept me from dragging you back myself."

I turned my hand, threading my fingers between his as gently as I could. "You still would've followed me."

He smiled—barely. "Every time."

"Next time?" he whispered, forehead pressing to mine. "We do it together."

"Deal," I breathed. "But you have to kiss me before the trauma, not just after."

"Done."

Then he pulled the blanket higher, curled tighter around me, one arm locked around my waist and the other still wrapped around my hand like he was holding onto something sacred.

And for the first time since I cracked open the dark...

Since the runes marked me...

I felt safe. Bruised. Scarred. Hexed to hell. But safe.

Loved. And that might be the only kind of magic strong enough to keep me together.

Fred's fingers skimmed lazy circles over my hip, like he was still checking I was here, still real. I was curled half on his chest, eyelids heavy, the pulse of the hospital wing quieting into background hum. For the first time in what felt like weeks, I wasn't bracing for the next blow.

I was just... here. With him.

Which meant, obviously, that he had to ruin it by opening his mouth.

"Oh," he said suddenly, casual in that I'm-about-to-cause-chaos kind of way. "Did I mention? My brother's getting married."

I blinked. "What?"

"End of the summer," he added, grinning at the ceiling like it wasn't a bomb he just dropped. "Big wedding. Full ceremony. Mum's already picked out centerpieces."

I lifted my head a full two inches off his chest. "I've been resurrecting ancient curses and you've been holding out wedding gossip?"

Fred looked smug. "Thought you could use the happy news."

"Wait—which brother?" came Maddie's voice from across the room.

"Bill," Fred called back, amusement clear in his tone.

Sage bolted upright in bed. "Bill Weasley?!"

"Yep."

"With the hair?" Katie asked from Rowan's arms.

Fred smirked. "The one and only."

"Oh my god," Maddie said, already clutching her chest like she'd been personally targeted. "He's marrying—who? Tell me it's not some Ministry hag with a clipboard."

Fred's grin sharpened. "Fleur Delacour."

All four of us girls gasped like it was a coordinated spell.

"Fleur?!" Sage shrieked. "The Fleur Fleur?"

"The absolute Fleur," George confirmed from where he was leaned against Sage's headboard, looking far too pleased with himself.

"She's like if moonlight had legs," Maddie muttered, half in awe, half in betrayal. "And cheekbones sculpted by the gods."

Katie covered her face. "No one tell her how disgusting we all looked last week or she'll revoke our girlhood licenses."

"She's going to ruin us," I whispered, dramatically clutching Fred's shirt like I was on death's doorstep again. "I have to find a new face."

"Relax," Fred said, tugging me back down against his chest, smug. "You're hotter."

I blinked. "You just like my trauma."

"And your ass," he added, deadpan.

Sage threw a pillow muttering something about my ass being hers and she doesn't share, as she curled back up into George's side.

And for a second—laughing, bruised, bundled in blankets and love and whatever came next—

We were whole. Not healed. But still here. Together. And that, somehow, was enough.