Liliah

Right as Draco's lips brushed mine—barely there, warm and devastating—a shiver tore through me, sharp enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

Then the door burst open.

We tore apart like we'd been burned, sitting up too fast, too straight, pretending the air between us hadn't just crackled with everything we weren't supposed to want.

"Malfoy, I was just—" Blaise stopped short. His eyes flicked between us. The bed, the way Draco's hands hadn't quite moved away from where they'd been. A slow grin tugged at his mouth. "—Whatcha doin'?"

"Get out," Draco growled, already on his feet.

My chest tightened—relief and disappointment twisting together so sharply it almost hurt. I stood too, smoothing my skirt with hands that didn't quite steady.

"Actually... I should go," I said softly, the words barely making it past my lips. Draco turned toward me instantly, ready to argue—but one look stopped him cold. "It's... for the best."

Blaise's brows shot up as I stepped around the bed, heat still humming under my skin, my pulse loud in my ears. I bent to snatch the parchment from the floor, straightened, and offered Blaise a polite nod that felt wildly out of place.

Then I brushed past Draco—close enough to feel him tense, close enough to remember exactly what I was walking away from—and slipped out the door before either of them could say another word.

I shoved the door shut behind me and leaned into it for half a second too long, breathing like I'd just outrun something feral.

Merlin help me—I wanted to go back.

My thighs were still tight, my pulse still roaring, my body aching for something dangerously close to home. I swallowed it down. Forced it back where it belonged. Want didn't get to make decisions for me—not tonight.

I pushed off the wall and took the stairs two at a time, boots thudding against stone as I barreled through the Slytherin common room without so much as a glance. I didn't breathe properly until I hit the corridor, air burning my lungs like I'd earned it.

____________________________________________

I pressed my temple to the cold glass and stared down at the parchment again, reading it for what had to be the fourteenth time that afternoon.

Still nothing stuck.

Not the threats.
Not the praise.
Not the warning dressed up like an invitation.

All I could see...all I could feel was him.

Draco.

"I know I fucked up..."

The memory of his breath against my cheek curled low and vicious inside me, heat pooling where I absolutely did not need it. I clenched my jaw and focused on the rattle of the train, the way the compartment shook and swayed—Harry's voice somewhere distant, Ron's laugh, Hermione murmuring with Ruth and Amelia.

It felt less like a ride and more like a cage.

"You're a totally different person to me now..."

My chest tightened, sharp and familiar. I'd meant it. I still did.

And Merlin, that was the problem.

"I still want—"

I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart begging for relief like it hadn't already embarrassed me enough. 

Wanting him was easy. 

Letting myself have him would've been the real mistake.

Especially after he---

"Lil?"

I blinked hard, forcing the burn back before it could spill. When I pulled away from the window, it was just us—Ruth, Amelia, and Hermione watching me a little too closely. Harry and Ron were gone.

Figures.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked gently, like she already knew the answer.

I folded the parchment with deliberate care and slid it into my jacket, pressing it flat against my chest as if that could keep everything else in place. I leaned back, rolling my shoulders, letting the seat take my weight.

"Fine," I said, flat. 

Final.

Ruth tilted her head. "What happened with Harry?"

"Or Theo?" Amelia added, trying for playful.

I shot them a look—sharp, warning—then turned back to the window.

"Both?" Hermione asked, glancing from the girls back to me. "Neither?" she offered.

I didn't answer.

I just closed my eyes and exhaled sharply, as if I was trying to shove the pain out of me.

The rhythm of the train eventually wears me down.

I remember the moment the tension in my shoulders finally gives, my head tipped toward the window as the glass hums softly against my temple.

Sleep takes me sideways.

Not deep.
Not kind.

Draco's tongue and teeth against my neck.

The gasp from my lips.

His lips trailing down my chest, over my breasts with a small nibble on my tit as a goodbye before his lips found their way to my hip bone.

"Please..." my voice echoes as he slipped my knickers down, painfully slowly.

His hands shoot up to firmly, not aggressively, grab my wrists, pinning them above my head.

The heat of his breath at my yearning, soaked core.

The pause—always the pause—where neither of us quite crosses the line, where everything is held tight and vibrating, like a bowstring pulled too far back.

In the dream, he looks at me like I'm inevitable.

Like he's already lost.

I wake with my heart racing and my mouth dry, the phantom weight of him still clinging to me like smoke. My hand immediately jerks from my inner thigh, and relief washes over me when I realized someone had covered me with one of the train blankets.

The train is slowing. 

Voices rise. 

Luggage shifts. 

Someone laughs too loudly.

Reality snaps back into place.

"So," Ruth said, eyeing me sideways as the three of us shepherded the others off the train, coats straightened and bags slung just right, "are you going to tell us your plans for the holiday or...?"

"All I want to do," I muttered, tugging my jacket tighter, "is survive it."

That earned a few laughs.

They didn't hear what I meant.

The platform is chaos.

Steam. Shouting. Families colliding in hugs and arguments and plans that already feel too loud. My boots hit the stone and instantly my nerves light up—too many people, too much noise, too many chances to see someone I absolutely do not want to see.

And then I do.

Draco.

A few paces down, flawless and infuriating as ever. Theo's beside him, laughing like the world hasn't ever burned him, saying something animated with his hands. Draco's mouth curves—not a smile, not quite—a practiced thing. Amused. Armored.

Something vicious twists low in my chest.

Not jealousy.

Something meaner.

Then his eyes lift.

Catch mine.

The platform blurs at the edges, sound dropping out like I've been dunked underwater. My throat tightens. Heat flashes hot and fast, straight to my spine.

"C'mon," Amelia whispers urgently, stepping into my line of sight. She hooks my arm just as Ruth grabs the other, dragging me backward before I can do something stupid—or worse, honest.

They haul me behind a column.

"What the fuck, Lil?" Ruth snaps, shoving me back when I try to step away. "You never sleep on the train. You never shut us out like this. Something's going on."

"Or someone," Amelia adds, arms crossing.

"It doesn't matter," I spit, trying again to move—but Ruth plants a hand on my shoulder and glares.

Really glares.

"We know, Lil," she says flatly.

Amelia's eyes go wide. "Ruth—"

"She needs to know."

"Know what?" My voice comes out sharp enough to cut. I take one look at their faces and something cold drops straight into my gut. "What the fuck is going on?"

"We know about Harry," Amelia sighs.

"The mission," Ruth adds, eyes dropping.

"And..." Amelia hesitates, then looks me dead in the eye. "Draco."

"What?" The word nearly comes out a shout.

Ruth jerks her head, panicked. "Keep your voice down—"

"No," I snap, swatting Amelia's hand away when she reaches for me. "You don't get to shh me. You're telling me my family planted fucking spies to keep tabs on me—and you two have known this whole time while I've been dealing with this shit alone?"

"We were told not to interfere," Ruth says, jaw tight.

"Until you went off course," Amelia adds quietly.

Something snaps.

I don't scream. I don't cry. I just look at them—really look—and feel the last thread of patience burn clean through.

"Move," I say coldly.

I shove between them and storm off.

"Liliah," Amelia calls after me.

I whirl.

"No!" I shout, loud enough that a few heads turn—and unfortunately, one of them belongs to Marcus.

My brother's eyes flick in our direction, already sharpening with concern.

Absolutely not.

I duck.

Slip between a wall of red hair and trunks, pull my collar up, and let the crowd swallow me whole. I don't look back. I don't slow down.

I just keep moving—because if I stop, I might do something reckless.

And I've already had enough of that for one day.

I don't plan to end up there.

I just... walk.

Let the noise thin. Let the crowd peel away. Let the anger burn itself down to something quieter and more dangerous. The streets slick with rain guide me without asking, my boots splashing through puddles as the sky finally cracks open and decides to match my mood.

By the time I stop, I'm soaked through.

And standing across the street from the one place I told myself I wouldn't go.

The shop glows like a dare.

All gold light and movement and noise behind the glass—spinning displays, laughing customers, color bleeding into the grey afternoon like it refuses to be dragged down with the rest of the world. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Loud. Ridiculous. Impossible.

So very him.

I stay where I am, rain dripping from my lashes, staring through the window like a coward.

Fred's behind the counter.

Of course he is.

Sleeves rolled up. Hair damp with sweat or steam or both. Laughing with a customer like he hasn't ever known how to be anything else. The sight of him hits low and hard, memory rising up uninvited—late nights, shared secrets, hands that knew exactly where to linger.

I should turn away.

Instead, I take a step closer to the glass.

That's when he looks up.

The grin slips instantly. 

His eyes widen. 

Shock first—then something softer, sharper, unmistakably Fred. He's moving before I can think, vaulting around the counter, barking something at George that I don't hear over the rain pounding in my ears.

The door flies open.

"Lil—Merlin, you're drenched," he says, already shrugging out of his jacket and hauling me inside by the wrist like he's done it a hundred times before. Like muscle memory never faded.

He tugs my luggage in after, shaking his hands as water splashed elsewhere.

The warmth of the store crashes over me. 

The door slams shut behind us and suddenly I'm blinking rain out of my eyes, breath caught somewhere between relief and panic as he tugs me further in, out of the way, hands firm but careful at my shoulders.

He leads me to the flat stairs, tossing a look over his shoulder at George and muttering something about my luggage before taking the steps two at a time. I barely register it—I'm too busy following the solid warmth of him, the way his presence seems to pull me forward like gravity.

The door shuts behind us with a soft but final click.

"What were you doing out there?" he asks, voice rougher than before as he grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it around my shoulders. He doesn't step away. Instead, he turns me to face him, hands warm and familiar as they cup my face, thumbs brushing lightly beneath my eyes like he's checking for damage. "You could've come in," he murmurs. "You always—"

I laugh once, short and sharp. "I know."

He freezes.

The air tightens—hot, heavy, loaded with everything we're not saying. His hands linger half a second too long before I pull my gaze away, tugging the blanket closer like it might protect me from memories I don't trust myself with.

Fred exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving me—as if he's bracing for me to disappear.

"C'mon," he says gently, stepping back just enough to give me space. "Let's get you warm. You can yell at me after."

I sink onto the couch, the cushions giving beneath me, and despite myself my lips twitch.

Same Fred.
Same pull.
Same dangerous comfort.

He moves into the kitchen, and George eventually brings my things upstairs, but I barely notice. All I can do is track Fred—the stretch of his shirt across his shoulders when he reaches for the kettle, the easy confidence in his movements, the way he still fills a room without trying.

The quiet competence of him hits harder than I expect.

He crosses back over and drops onto the couch beside me, close enough that our knees almost brush, setting two mugs down on the table. When he looks at me, really looks, it feels intimate in a way that makes my pulse trip.

Like he remembers exactly who I was with him.
Like I remember who I was, too.

And that's when it sinks in.

That familiar, treacherous feeling in my chest.

The sudden, awful realization that walking in here—letting him pull me out of the rain, letting myself stay—might've been the most reckless decision I've made all day.

Fuck...