Don't Hex the Hufflepuff

by kleinedee

Summary:

Fake dating your nemesis to stop Caleb's jealous fan club from hexing you? Easy. Catching real feelings? Not so much.

You’re a feisty Hufflepuff with charm. Sylus is a Slytherin who gives you too much attention. This was supposed to be pretend, so why is it getting so messy?

Notes:

Hope you enjoy!

The Hufflepuff common room smelled like cinnamon and parchment, warmed by the steady crackle of the fireplace. It should have been peaceful, late afternoon. Sun filtered in through the  windows. A few students studying quietly or playing enchanted chess, but the moment you stepped inside, you could feel something was off.

Everyone was suddenly too stiff.

Heads tilted together. Eyes darted away from yours. And in the center of the room, suspended midair by some overly dramatic charm, was a shimmering scroll with glittery script curling across it in obnoxiously elegant calligraphy.

You didn’t need to get closer to read it. You could easily guess what it said.

ENEMIES OF THE CALEB FANCLUB

1. You
2. Eliza Trigg
3. Loralee Devins
4. Any girl who even dares make eye contact with Caleb

Your name sparkled at the top, underlined in pulsing red. With skulls. Enchanted ones.

You stared for a second, expression carefully blank. Inside, your thoughts were a tangle of heat and disbelief. This had to be the tenth time this term only. No, actually, it was probably closer to the twentieth. It was getting hard to keep count.

A slow breath hissed through your teeth. “Are you kidding me?” you muttered, stepping forward.

The scroll gave a smug twirl in the air as if proud of itself. You waved your wand sharply and yanked it down with a twist of magic. It crackled in protest, sparkled violently, then shriveled up into a tight roll and dropped into your waiting hand.

No one stopped you. No one said a word. A few second years quickly found something fascinating on the carpet.

You turned to the room, holding up the scroll tightly. “Seriously?”

A fifth year by the fireplace grimaced. “They charmed it to show up every hour on the hour. Same list. New glitter.”

“That explains the glitter fog in the stairwell,” you muttered. You looked at her. “And no one thought to… I don’t know… report it?”

Another student shrugged. “It’s just Caleb’s fan club being weird again. Everyone knows they’re harmless.”

You gave a humorless laugh. “Harmless? Last week my butterbeer exploded in my face. Someone hexed it to bubble out my nose.”

“That could’ve been a coincidence.”

“And the howler in my bag that screamed ‘Back off, seductress’? Also a coincidence?”

Silence.

You shoved the scroll into your robe pocket and sat heavily on the edge of one of the squashy chairs. The cushion wheezed in protest, but you were too annoyed to care. This was getting ridiculous. More than ridiculous.

The Cult of Caleb, because that’s what it was at this point, was turning your life into a nightmare, and everyone just... let it happen. Because he was Caleb. Friendly, golden-boy, Gryffindor, sixth year prefect with rumors of being assigned Head boy next year, Caleb. Anything associated with him was too charming to blame, too sweet to suspect.

You thought growing up together might have shielded you from his crazy fan club’s wrath. Caleb had been like your brother since you were both barely old enough to spell your names. He was your constant, your protector. He was family. You figured everyone would see that, understand that, and move on.

But no. That wasn’t enough.

To the rabid masses of his fan club, especially its deranged club president Dalia, you were still a threat. You remembered her cornering you once outside the divination’s classroom last year, eyes wide and unblinking, her voice low and too sweet.

“I know you like him. I see right through you. And I will do everything in my power to make sure you’ll never take him from us.”

So, you suffered. From their "innocent" pranks and their whispered rumors and their magical sabotage, just because you were the girl closest to Caleb.

As if summoned by your bitter thoughts, a quiet voice piped up beside you.

“They’re completely mental.”

You turned. Tara slid into the seat beside you, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.

“I mean, the glitter spell was kind of creative,” she admitted. “But the list? That’s basically a threat. It’s getting out of hand.”

You let out a breath. Tara was one of the only people who actually saw the situation for what it was. She hadn’t been taken in by the swoony stares and pinned badges the fan club wore. She called them “Caleb’s crazy cult” from day one.

“Glad someone gets it,” you said, voice tight. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Everyone just… shrugs. Like it’s normal.”

“It’s not normal,” Tara said firmly. “It’s obsessive. If anyone else had a group like that following them around, stalking their friends and hexing their stationery, people would be worried. But because it’s Caleb…”

“Because it’s Caleb,” you echoed in a groan. “Everyone thinks it’s harmless. Sweet, even.”

Tara leaned forward, brows knit. “You need to tell someone. Seriously. If they’re putting your name on cursed scrolls and sending you charmed items, that’s not a prank anymore. That’s targeted harassment.”

You grimaced. “I can handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“I can,” you insisted. “And besides, if I go crying to someone about his fan club, everyone will think I’m jealous or making it up.”

Tara gave you a long, flat look. “You’re literally at the top of a list titled Enemies of the Club. That’s not something you made up.”

You said nothing, and Tara sighed. “Fine. Then let’s escalate past professors and the student body. Headmaster Thorne. He’s reasonable. You know he’ll listen. You’re practically his grandchild at this point.”

You frowned. Headmaster Thorne had always been kind to you. Warm and wise, with that commanding presence that made even seventh years stand up straighter when he entered a room. He was good friends with your gran. He also cared greatly for your mother when she was his student, Caleb’s father too. You’d know him since before you were accepted into Hogwarts, and since then you had been in his orbit of trust.

But still. Going to him with this? Or anyone else not involved? It felt childish, like admitting defeat.

“He’s already got so much to deal with,” you said. “The entrance ward issues, the NEWT exam updates, the entire Quidditch team drama last week…”

“He’d want to know,” Tara pushed, “Your gran would want you to tell him.”

“I’m handling it,” you said. “It’s not that serious.”

Tara arched an eyebrow and deadpanned, “With that much pride, are you sure the Sorting Hat didn’t mess up? Because I’m starting to think you should have been sorted into Gryffindor with how blocked headed you can be sometimes.”

That earned a snort out of you, despite everything. “Please. If I were in Gryffindor, I’d have set the scroll on fire and challenged them to a duel by now.”

“Exactly,” she said with a grin. “You’re too nice for that. But maybe being too nice is the problem.”

You sighed again and leaned back into the chair. The scroll crinkled in your pocket, reminding you it was still there, still waiting to pop back up unless you undid the charm completely.

“Thanks, Tara,” you said quietly.

She nudged your knee with hers. “Anytime. Just remember, even badgers bite back when pushed.”

🐦‍⬛

You found Caleb in the library’s Gryffindor wing, tucked between rows of ancient-looking tomes on magical theory. His hair catching the amber glow of the reading lamp. Despite the seriousness of his brow, the familiar warmth of his presence pulled at something inside you.

He had a quill in one hand and a textbook cracked open in the other, head bent in concentration. He looked oddly peaceful, totally unaware of the storm swirling around you.

You hesitated for a second before sliding into the chair across from him.

He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his entire face lit up. “Pipsqueak,” he said, as easily as breathing. That nickname, meant to tease, had stuck since you were six.

You gave a tired smile. “Busy?”

He leaned back, stretching a little. “Just crammin'. Again. This essay’s killin' me. What’s up?”

You shrugged, carefully folding your hands together in your lap. “Something’s... been going on.”

He tilted his head. “Is it about class?”

“No, not that.” You paused, your voice quieter. “It’s about your fan club.”

Caleb blinked. “The glitter crew?”

You huffed. “Is that what you call them?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Not to their faces. I mean, I barely talk to them. They hang around, giggle a lot. Occasionally shout things during Quidditch practice. I just figured they were, I don’t know... passionate.”

You looked at him, really looked, and realized he meant it. He wasn’t brushing you off. He didn’t know.

You forced a light laugh, testing the waters. “You don’t find it a little creepy that a group of girls is stalking your every move and printing your face on enchanted bookmarks?”

Caleb scratched the back of his neck. “It’s… weird, yeah. But they’re not hurting anyone. Just being dramatic.”

You nodded slowly, chewing the inside of your cheek. You didn’t say anything right away.

Because you could say it. You could tell him about the scroll in the common room listing you as their number one enemy. You could tell him about the screaming notes, the thorns in your robes, the spells meant to embarrass or isolate. But doing that, telling Caleb, it felt like surrendering.

It felt like breaking a promise you made to yourself a long time ago. That you would stand on your own. That you wouldn’t always need him to be your shield.

So instead you said, “I guess it’s easy to ignore when you’re on the pedestal.”

Caleb frowned at that. “You okay?”

You gave him a half-smile. “I’m fine. Just... tired of watching everyone worship at the altar of Caleb, I guess.”

He laughed, rubbing his face. “Don’t say that. I barely even know most of them.”

“They think they own you,” you muttered.

Caleb was silent for a moment, then looked down at his quill. “I didn’t realize it was bothering you this much.”

You leaned back, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s not. I just… figured I’d say something before they start a petition to build you a statue on the front lawn.”

That earned a chuckle from him, but the worry lingered in his eyes.

“Are they giving you a hard time?” he asked, quietly now. 

You looked at him then, really looked. That line in his brow was sincere. His concern was real. And just like when you were small and scared and clinging to the hem of his coat, it was written all over him: he would fight for you without hesitation, if only you asked.

But that was exactly why you wouldn’t.

“Dummy Caleb,” you threw on a fake smile. “It’s not about me.”

He studied you for a second, clearly unconvinced, but respectful. That was Caleb, he wouldn’t press, not if you weren’t really ready.

“Well, if they do start a statue petition, you’re in charge of the unveiling,” he said finally, trying to ease the tension. “I want dramatic music. Fireworks. Maybe a dove release?”

You snorted. “I’d release a flock of puffskeins. That feels more appropriate.”

He grinned. “See? That’s why I trust you.”

You laughed before you rose from the table, brushing invisible dust from your robes.

He watched you go with that quiet intensity he always had. “You know I’ve got your back, right?”

You stopped at the end of the table and turned halfway, catching his gaze. “I know. That’s why I’m trying not to lean on it.”

You left the library without looking back.

🐦‍⬛

The next day, your Astronomy book opened to a page titled “Unworthy Stars.” A hexed charm, clearly. Every time you tried to turn it, the words rearranged themselves into sentences that insulted your handwriting, your clothes, your house.

In Charms, someone slipped a note under your wand hand that read “Some people don’t deserve to be near light.”

You burned that one quietly.

In Herbology, Professor Larko found tiny, whispering vines in your bag, twisting stalks of bleeding roses that kept murmuring “He’s not yours” like a broken record.

The school day became a careful obstacle course. Avoid the note traps, don’t sit where it smells like rose petals, run at the sight of glitter, and steer clear of the girls who’d taken to hissing your name like it was an insult.

At night, you lay awake in your bed under the soft yellow canopy of your dorm, trying not to think about the letters still tucked away in your drawer, ink-stained, blood-pricked, laced with petty rage.

You could handle it. You had to. Because the alternative was telling Caleb. And he’d worry. He’d get involved. He’d shoulder it like it was his fault.

But you didn’t want him to carry that weight. Not for you. Not again.

You’d already taken too much from him.

You still remembered the way his hand gripped yours that night, years ago, when the world fell apart. The night the stars that protected your families were blocked by the harsh grey clouds. You had watched flames blur through the windows, watched the world tilt and vanish as glass shattered around you. You remembered smoke. Screaming. The way your chest hurt from crying.

And Caleb. He didn’t cry. He picked you up. Carried you through it. He wrapped his arms around you and told you the stars were still there, even if the some of the people underneath them weren’t anymore.

After that, it was Caleb who got you out of bed in the morning. Caleb who read you stories when you couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares, who walked the halls of the orphanage with your tiny fingers curled in his like a lifeline. Caleb who didn’t flinch when you had nightmares and kicked and screamed and sobbed so hard your throat bled.

He was only a year older, but he had felt a hundred years stronger.

And when Gran adopted you both, she smiled and said you’d be safe now. That she’d keep you safe. And you believed her. And she did.

She kept every promise, even the quiet ones. So, you made a promise too.

You promised you’d grow up into someone Caleb could rely on one day. Someone Gran could be proud of. Someone steady and kind and capable, someone who didn’t need rescuing.

That’s what led you here. Fifth year at Hogwarts. A Hufflepuff, through and through. Not daring. Not a charmer. Not a prodigy. But steady. Loyal. Hardworking. Capable.

You were not a little girl in the ruins of your childhood, waiting for someone stronger to carry you. You were stronger now. Even if it hurt. Even if the thorns left marks.

So you rolled onto your side, pulled the covers tighter around your shoulders like armor, and whispered into the quiet of your dorm bed:

“I’m fine.”

Even if you weren’t.

🐦‍⬛

You were crouched in the middle of the east corridor, robes soaked and reeking. You were somehow splashed with green glittery sludge across your front like someone had tossed a reject potion at you. Which, you were beginning to think, wasn’t far from the truth.

A cluster of third years had watched it happen. Some gasped. Some laughed. One offered to find a professor, but you waved them off.

You weren’t about to let a Cult member get the satisfaction.

So now, you scrubbed at your robes with the edge of your wand, trying to remember a cleansing charm that didn’t also bleach fabric. The magical gunk hissed and clung to the fabric like it had the privilege of stating its own opinions.

“Hmm,” came a voice from behind. “I knew Hufflepuffs had a thing for muck, but this is a bit much, don’t you think?”

You didn’t have to look up. You knew that voice. Sylus.

Of course.

You exhaled sharply and stood, robes clinging unpleasantly to your legs. “Shouldn’t you be off brooding in a dungeon or flirting with someone who actually likes you?”

Sylus stepped into view, hands in his pockets, cool as ever. His green and black robes hung elegantly on him. Yet, the collar of his shirt was unbuttoned, because of course it was, and his tie hung just a little loose like he was above rules, or maybe just too charming to be held to them. He raised an eyebrow.

“Flirting?” he echoed. “Sweetie, if that’s your way of admitting you like me, I’m flattered.”

You scowled. “I said ‘someone who likes you.’ Present company excluded.”

Sylus grinned. A slow, knowing grin, the kind that made you want to roll your eyes into next week.

You should’ve known he’d find you. Since you’d arrived at Hogwarts, Sylus had always had a knack for appearing when you least wanted him around. It had started mid term of your first year, offhand comments, sly remarks, a casual flick of his wand to send of flutter of air your way, just to make his presence known to you. It wasn’t constant. Just… often enough to notice. It was much more than he did with anyone else.

When you asked why, he’d smirked and say, “Because your reactions are priceless. You're fun, Hufflepuff.”

And maybe you were. Maybe being easy to ruffle made you a convenient target. Or maybe he just liked mocking someone softer than him. It didn’t matter.

You flicked more sludge from your sleeve. “Let me guess. You’ve come to offer another half-hearted insult and disappear dramatically into the shadows?”

“Actually,” Sylus said, eyeing your slime-covered robes, “I came to admire Hufflepuff resilience in action. Always an entertaining sight.”

“Glad my misery brings you joy,” you muttered.

“Oh, not joy,” he said, circling you slowly. “Amusement. And fascination, sometimes. There’s a difference.”

You turned, glare sharp. “Why are you even here?”

He stopped just in front of you, hands still in his pockets, gaze unreadable. “I heard shouting down the corridor. Thought I’d check if the Caleb’s fans struck again. And lo and behold, my favorite target, mid-glitter-bomb.”

You stiffened. “So you know about them.”

Sylus tilted his head. “Of course I know. Everyone knows. It’s hard to miss the sparkle-fog and shrieking parchment.”

“And you just... let it happen?”

“I didn’t think you wanted a Slytherin knight to come slay your monsters,” he said, mouth twitching. “You're awfully self-sufficient, aren’t you?”

You swallowed. That stung more than you expected.

He watched you for a beat too long. “But today, you look tired. More than usual.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept scrubbing.

Sylus sighed. “Tell me something, kitten. Why haven’t you told him?”

You paused.

He wasn’t mocking now.

“I did,” you said slowly. “Sort of.”

Sylus raised a brow. “And?”

“He doesn’t get it. Not really. He thinks they’re just... enthusiastic.”

Sylus scoffed. “Enthusiastic? Those girls have a shared binder system and a hex spreadsheet. One of them tried to bribe me last week for a lock of his hair.”

You blinked. “Did you take the bribe?”

“Obviously,” he said. “Though, I sold them a lock of Gideon’s hair. They still haven’t noticed.”

You stared.

Sylus gave a lopsided shrug. “Business is business.”

You shook your head. “You’re insane.”

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. “You’re being targeted, kitten. And not in the ‘oops I tripped a prank’ kind of way. They want you out of the picture.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I’ve figured that out a while ago.”

“Then why suffer through it alone?”

“Because it’s not their fault Caleb is... Caleb.”

Sylus let out a dark laugh. “Yes, how dare he be attractive, kind, and tragically haunted. The horror.”

You gave him a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help,” he said. “I’m offering a solution.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

He leaned against the stone wall, crossing one ankle over the other, eyes flicking over you with something like amusement, and calculation. “Date me.”

You stared. He smiled.

“What?”

“I mean pretend to,” he said lazily.

“You’ve actually gone insane,” you muttered, face flushing.

“I’m wounded,” Sylus grinned as if he knew you hadn’t really meant it.

You narrowed your eyes. “How would that even work?”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Those girls are only after you because they think you’re a threat. If you weren’t hovering near their golden boy anymore, if you were, say, otherwise engaged, then they’d lose interest.”

“You think they’d find someone else to hate?”

“Possibly,” he said, unconcerned. “But they’d stop hexing you.”

You stared at him. “You want me to fake date you.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

He smirked. “Because watching you squirm would be endlessly entertaining.”

You bristled. “So, this is just another joke to you?”

“No,” Sylus said, and for the first time his voice lost its teasing edge. “This is survival. You’re exhausted. You’re bleeding dignity all over the castle floor. And you think no one notices, but some of us do.”

That silenced you.

He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer, and his tone shifted again, light, smug, maddening. “Besides. Imagine the headlines. Slytherin’s resident menace caught holding hands with Hogwarts’ most persistent Hufflepuff. Everyone would lose their minds.”

You frowned. “And what do you get out of it?”

“Entertainment. Confusion. A break from the tedium.” He paused. “And maybe... a chance to see what happens when you stop pretending you don’t need anyone.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped back. “Three options, kitten,” he said, holding up three fingers. “Tell Caleb the truth, suffer in silence, or date me.”

He turned to leave, then paused just long enough to throw a look over his shoulder. “I’m curious to see what you’ll choose.”

And then he was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the corridor’s shadows, as always, leaving you standing in the mess, robes soaked, stomach churning.

Not because the sludge was cold.

But because he’d seen through you.

And he knew.

🐦‍⬛

You weren’t sure what the tipping point had been.

Maybe it was the howler that burst open in your bag right after Transfiguration and screamed, “Homewrecking Badger!” loud enough to make some passing seventh year choke on his tea.
Maybe it was the tiniest of glitter hexes one fan club member snuck into your scarf, which now shimmered with “Caleb’s biggest mistake.”

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way Sylus had looked at you before vanishing down the corridor. All smug, knowing, and, as much as you hated to admit it, maddeningly right.

You were exhausted. Out of options. And, against your better judgment, his offer was starting to make… sense.

So that’s how you found yourself lurking in the shadows near the Slytherin dorms, late in the Friday evening, robes still smelling faintly like peppermint and anxiety. The halls were quiet, most students your age already tucked in or tucked away in secret places with stolen Firewhisky and poorly-transfigured pillows.

He appeared just after curfew bells sounded throughout the halls, turning a corner like he knew you'd be there.

“Sylus,” you called, stepping into the torchlight.

He blinked once, surprised, but not really. One hand slid into his pocket with familiar ease. “What a surprise” he drawled. “Didn’t think I’d see you lurking outside my dungeon so late at night.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not be like this for five minutes?”

“No,” he said, too quickly.

 “Sylus,” you exhaled, “I want to talk.”

“That much is obvious.” He leaned against the wall, head tilting. “Let me guess. You’ve decided to throw caution, pride, and Hufflepuff honor to the wind and accept my completely rational, extremely generous offer?”

You gave him a look. “I came to set ground rules.”

Sylus smirked. “Of course. Took you long enough, kitten.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. “We can’t do this in public. Come on.”

Without waiting, you turned on your heel and led him down one of the lesser-used service corridors, a narrow stone hall behind a row of ancient portraits that mostly gossiped and rarely tattled. The castle groaned quietly above, bones settling like an old beast.

You stopped in a niche near an armor gallery, away from the main staircases. Cold. Quiet. Perfect.

Sylus surveyed the spot with a raised brow. “Romantic. Do all your first dates start in dimly lit corners that smell like teenage angst?”

You crossed your arms. “This isn’t a date. This is a business meeting. We have to write a contract and set some rules.”

He stepped closer, dropping the performance just a little. “You’re serious about this?”

You nodded. “If it keeps them off my back, I’ll do it.”

He studied your face for a moment, longer than you liked. “Alright,” he said finally. “Terms, then. You said rules?”

You pulled a folded piece of parchment from your sleeve.

Sylus stared blankly. “You made a list?”

“I’m a Hufflepuff. We do things properly.”

He snorted. “You say that like it’s not a cry for help.”

You ignored him, opening the parchment and clearing your throat. “Rule one. Both parties consent to public displays of affection only when necessary.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Only when necessary, hmm? And here I thought you just couldn’t wait to get your hands on me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You suggested this first, remember?”

He raised a finger. “Ah yes, I suggested it. And you’re the one writing it down to make it official.”

“Do you agree or not?”

He gave a low, amused hum. “Fine. PDA only when necessary. Within reason.”

“That was my rule,” you continued cautiously, “is there anything you want to add?”

He paused for a moment before frowning, “Yes. No emotional entanglement with other students while this is going on.”

You gave him a narrow look. “Why?”

“Because if you’re going to date me, I’m not going to stand around while you swoon over some blank faced Ravenclaw behind my back.” He said it flatly, as if stating the weather.

“I don’t swoon,” you muttered, suddenly remembering how silly you acted when you developed a crush on Zayne during your second year.

“You do. It’s adorable.”

You marked the rule onto the parchment with your wand. You had to stop yourself from hexing him.

“Anything else?” he asked.

You hesitated, then added quickly, “No kissing on the lips.”

Sylus blinked. “Excuse me?”

You straightened your shoulders. “You heard me.”

“But, kitten, kissing is an essential part of keeping appeara-,”

“Not on the lips,” you huffed, your face falling into a pout.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, fine. No lip kissing. I’ll just have to get creative.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet here you are.”

He watched you carefully, some of the amusement fading. “Why that rule?”

You looked away. “Because I don’t want to fake that. I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

There was a pause. Not a heavy one. Just… quiet.

Sylus didn’t press. He just gave a small nod, surprisingly respectful, and leaned back against the wall. “Three rules, then. PDA with consent. No romantic side quests. No kissing.”

You nodded.

“Anything else?”

“One more.” You met his eyes. “We end this the moment it stops working.”

He nodded without hesitation. “Deal.”

You held out your hand.

Sylus looked at it for a second. Then, with a slow smile that curled like smoke, he took it.

His palm was warm against yours, and when he squeezed, it was just tight enough to be real. You didn’t pull away right away. And neither did he.

Finally, he said, “Well then, Let's make this unforgettable, kitten.”

🐦‍⬛

By the next day, word had already started spreading.

You didn’t know how, you certainly hadn’t told anyone, and Sylus wasn’t the type to gossip, but Hogwarts ran on whispers and wildfire. The Cult of Caleb was especially efficient in that regard. By mid-morning, eyes followed you in the halls like you’d sprouted a second head. Or worse, like you’d messed with something sacred.

Like Caleb’s feelings.

You ignored it. Or you tried.

At lunch, you slipped into your usual seat at the Hufflepuff table and focused on your plate, trying to steady your thoughts. The smells of roast pumpkin and baked potatoes filled the Great Hall, but your appetite had fled hours ago.

Then, like clockwork, Sylus arrived.

He didn’t sit beside you, he adorned the seat, sliding in with all the deliberate laziness of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. A few heads turned. Conversations dropped.

“Morning, love” he said mildly, reaching for a roll like he hadn’t just made a show of sitting beside you.

You gave him a flat look. “It’s afternoon.”

“Time is a construct.”

You stabbed your potatoes.

Sylus, of course, looked unbothered. His gaze drifted across the room, taking in the onlookers with vague interest. You could feel the cult watching, rows of girls at the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables leaning in, whispering furiously. A few had already pulled out their cursed notebooks.

“They're watching,” you muttered under your breath.

His eyes flicked back to you, sharp and amused. “Then we’d better give them a show, don’t you think?”

Before you could stop him, he reached out, fingers moving with infuriating slowness, and wiped something from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Messy,” he murmured louder than usual. “You’re cute when you’re messy.”

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice.

The warmth of his hand lingered against your skin for one unbearable second. He didn’t even blink, just brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean like it was nothing.

You stared at him. He stared back. Completely, utterly unaffected.

You knew the cult had noticed. A low ripple of horrified gasps and furious scribbling told you that much. Someone across the room dropped a fork.

He was trying you.

You swallowed the heat rising to your face and forced a coy smile. If this was the game, then fine. You could play.

“Careful,” you said sweetly, leaning in just enough to be noticed. “If you keep staring at me like that, people might think you actually like me.”

Sylus blinked slowly. Then he tilted his head, lips curling in that lazy, deliberate way. “And here I thought that was the point.”

You didn’t let yourself falter. Instead, you leaned in closer, your fingers brushing over the lapel of his shirt as you smoothed an invisible wrinkle. Slowly. Deliberately. Maintaining eye contact, your hand lingered just a heartbeat too long, fingertips grazing his chest before you pulled back with a faint smile.

Then, you turned to your plate and calmly resumed eating.

Sylus let out a breath of a laugh. “Well played, kitten.”

He leaned in, moving in towards you like he had no intention of pretending this wasn’t his idea of fun. You could still feel his gaze now and then, amused and assessing. Testing your limits.

The Cult of Caleb? Losing their collective minds.

You glanced up once to see one of the co-leaders. Jana something, you couldn’t remember, clutching a quill in one hand and a celery stick in the other, staring like she’d just watched someone try to prove the sky wasn’t blue.

You nudged Sylus with your knee under the table. “Think that’s enough attention for one day?”

He shrugged. “They’re still breathing, aren’t they?”

“Can’t believe this is what passes for romance now,” you muttered.

Sylus smirked. “You wound me.”

“I wish I could.”

He tilted his head, that glint in his eye shifting from amusement to something more curious. “You're not half bad at this.”

You raised a brow. “At pretending?”

“At keeping up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hufflepuffs are good for more than snacks and crying in the greenhouse, you know.”

“Mm.” He reached for another roll, casually brushing your arm as he did. “Still messy, though.”

Your fork clattered against your plate.

He was enjoying this way too much.

But the strangest part?

You were starting to enjoy it too.

Not the fan club. Not the attention. But the banter. The thrill of giving it right back. You couldn’t tell if you were starting to hate him less, or just getting better at playing your role.

Maybe both.

You stole a glance at Sylus. He was buttering a roll like he hadn’t just upended your entire lunch hour.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you muttered. “This is temporary.”

His lips curved without looking up. “Whatever you say, kitten.”

🐦‍⬛

Somehow, “fake dating Sylus” had translated into him being everywhere.

In the halls between classes. At meals. Standing behind you during self-study like a smug shadow with opinions about your wand posture. But worst of all?

Evenings in the library.

He didn’t just show up. He lingered. Every night like clockwork, he’d stroll in and slide into the seat across from you without asking, one arm draped over the back of the chair like he owned it and the rest of the room. The librarians had stopped shushing him. You suspected he’d charmed them too.

Not magically, of course. Just… Sylus-ly.

You were midway through your Herbology revision, parchment spread across the table in careful rows of color-coded notes and diagrams, when Sylus reached across the table and plucked one from the stack.

You didn’t look up. “Put it back.”

“Hmm,” he said, turning the parchment sideways, “I didn’t realize plants could be this boring. You’re really out here writing about the lesser-known magical properties of fungus?”

You finally looked up. “I swear, if you smudge those labels—”

“‘Oh, and what’s this? Root rot: a silent killer.’” He raised an eyebrow. “Dramatic. Is this a cautionary tale or a Hufflepuff breakup letter?”

You snatched the parchment back with a glare. “I didn’t ask you to be here.”

“And yet here I am,” he said, lounging deeper into his chair. “So devoted. So tragically unappreciated.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ve got the subtlety of a Howler.”

Sylus blinked. “A what?”

“You heard me.”

A pause. Then he let out a soft laugh, the rare kind, low, genuine, and fleeting. “Kitten. That might be the most interesting insult I’ve ever been given.”

“Glad I could enrich your evening.”

“Mm.” His gaze flicked to your ink-stained fingers and then back to your tired eyes. “You’ve been over-preparing for this quiz since lunch.”

“Some of us care about passing.”

“And some of us care about having a life outside leaf diagrams and fungus-based diaries.”

You glanced back down at your notes, lips twitching despite yourself.

It was strange, how quickly this fake thing had settled into something that felt… familiar. Comfortable, even. The sniping, the sarcasm, it wasn’t new. But now, with everyone watching, there was a closeness layered into it. A new kind of intensity. One you didn’t know what to do with yet.

Footsteps passed near your table. A pair of Ravenclaws wandered by, arms full of books, whispering to each other as they stared not-so-subtly at the two of you.

One of them murmured, “They’re so in love, it’s gross.”

You opened your mouth to object, but Sylus beat you to it.

Without looking up from your notes, he said with a smirk, “So in love, we make studying scandalous.”

You bit back a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“Don’t you mean convincing?” He finally looked at you again, one brow raised. “Unless you do want to start calling me pet names in public.”

You stared at him. “Do you want to be hexed?”

He smiled, the picture of casual menace. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

He leaned in, elbows on the table, watching you closely. “Your ears turn pink when you lie. It’s adorable.”

You grabbed your quill and pointed it at his chest. “I swear, if you don’t shut up, I will write ‘Subtle Howler’ in glittering ink across your forehead.”

He looked positively delighted. “Now isn't that suggestive?"

You groaned, dropped your quill, and buried your face in your notes as he laughed at your embarrassment.

Outside the walls of your shared illusion, the cult was probably running around without a head. Whispers would spread. Theatrics would escalate. But in this moment, between jabs and eyerolls and ink-stained fingers, it didn’t feel like performance.

It felt catching your breath.

🐦‍⬛

You weren’t a detention kind of student.

But today had been... different.

It started with what should’ve been a normal passing period, just you, a quiet corridor near the Arithmancy wing, and a clear path back from class. Then a third year Slytherin, and proud member of the Cult of Caleb, had stepped directly into your way.

She made some snide comment about how Hufflepuffs had no pride when it came to love and even less shame, then tapped your bag with her wand and sent your books scattering across the stone floor. Pages fluttered like panicked birds.

You didn’t hex her. Not exactly.

You just politely returned the favor by vanishing the bottom of her bag. It wasn’t your fault half her expensive potion vials shattered when they hit the floor.

Professor Wes, of course, had rounded the corner at that exact moment. And despite your many protests and the unmistakable sound of her fake-sobbing, he simply gave you a long, unimpressed look and said:

“Detention. This evening. Don’t be late.”

Which you were, because, again, a different fan had cursed your shoes to tangle themselves with every other step.

By the time you skidded through the doorway, your tie askew and your lungs burning, Professor Wes was already standing at the front with arms crossed and a face like thunder.

“You’re late.”

“I tripped,” you muttered.

Next to him stood Sylus, leaning against a cabinet with his arms folded, a familiar expression of restrained amusement tugging at his mouth.

You blinked. “You’re here?”

“Unfortunately,” Wes cut in. “Sylus here thought it would be clever to let his bird smuggle black beetle carapace into the dining hall. It ended up in five separate cups of pumpkin juice and one student’s hair.”

You blinked again. “Mephisto did that?”

Sylus shrugged, unbothered. “He gets bored.”

“You’re both on potion cleanup. And no magic,” Wes added, already heading toward the door. “If the classroom is not spotless by curfew, you’ll be back again tomorrow.”

He left before you could argue.

The door slammed shut with a soft, echoing click. You and Sylus were alone with a row of stained cauldrons, cabinets of spilled ingredients, and the ghost of your dignity.

You sighed and rolled up your sleeves.

“Charming company, as always,” he said, already lifting the first crusted cauldron to the sink.

“Maybe if you and your emotionally unstable bird could behave for five minutes, you wouldn’t be here.”

Sylus raised an eyebrow. “Don’t blame Mephisto. He’s a creature of refined taste. He vomits on Gryffindors on purpose.”

You snorted despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, flicking a sponge toward you, “you still pretend to date me.”

You caught it midair, but not before it slapped damply against your palm. “Trust me, it’s not like I had a better choice.”

You scrubbed in silence for a few minutes, the bubbling of potion residue filling the space between you. Every so often, Sylus would glance sideways at you but say nothing, like he was waiting for you to say something first. You didn’t.

You were halfway through a particularly crusted pewter cauldron when one of the older, unstable ones on the far bench started to hiss.

You paused. “That’s not normal.”

Sylus had already noticed. “Back up.”

You didn’t argue. You took two steps to the side, and then the cauldron popped with a sharp, wet bang, sending a stream of greenish steam billowing toward you.

Sylus moved faster than you thought possible. He yanked you by the arm, pulling you behind him just as the cauldron belched its final contents. A slick of purple goo splattered the ground where you’d been standing.

The sleeve of your robe still caught some of it, sizzling, but your skin was untouched.

Your heart raced. Not from the cauldron, but because of him.

“You okay?” he asked, not turning.

“Y-Yeah. Fine.”

Only then did he glance back, his expression unreadable in the low light.

You looked down at his hand still wrapped around your wrist.

“You can let go now.”

He did. Slowly.

The silence that followed buzzed louder than any potion. You cleared your throat, returned to the sink, and resumed scrubbing like your life depended on it. Sylus spoke again after a minute, voice quieter this time. “You didn’t have to get detention either, you know.”

“That third year made it worth it.”

He huffed a short breath. “Reckless for a Hufflepuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Says the Slytherin with a criminal crow.”

“Touché.”

Another silence passed. You didn’t mind it this time. It was comfortable, charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

Eventually, he returned to his side of the sink, shoulder brushing yours as he worked beside you.

The bubbling mess behind you still hissed faintly.

🐦‍⬛

It was late.

The castle had long since quieted, its corridors hushed and empty, save for the occasional flicker of a torch or the drifting echo of a restless suit of armor. You should have headed straight to the Hufflepuff dorms after detention, but you’d lingered too long cleaning off your robes.

By the time you stepped into the open hall near the Great Staircase, you could already feel it.

The hairs on your arms lifted. That too-familiar tingle of magic, faint but sharp, like the edge of a blade just before it cut.

You glanced over your shoulder. No one. But you knew they were there. Waiting. The Cult of Caleb never really slept.

You turned back toward the stairs and nearly walked straight into Sylus.

“Sylus!” you flinched. “Can you not lurk like that?”

He didn’t move. Just gave you a look. “You were about to walk into a corridor hexed to drop molasses taffy onto your hair.”

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He nodded once. “Creative, I’ll give them that.”

You glanced back again, unease prickling at your spine.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you.”

You hesitated. “I can handle it.”

“Clearly,” he said dryly.

You gave him a look but didn’t argue. Because the truth was: you were tired. Not just of the fan club, or the stares, or the whispers. But of constantly pretending it didn’t get to you.

So you walked beside him, silent at first as the two of you descended the staircase and turned into a quieter corridor. He kept to your left, between you and any would-be attackers, not that he said anything about it.

Of course he wouldn’t. Sylus didn’t say much when it mattered. He just acted.

“You ever think Hogwarts needs an exorcism?” you asked finally.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Daily.”

You smiled, tired but real. “I miss when this place just felt like school. Not... war.”

He glanced sideways. “Hufflepuff morale finally cracking?”

“Funny.”

The next corridor was long and lined with narrow windows that let in pale strips of moonlight. Your steps echoed faintly on the stone floor.

You spoke before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Caleb and I were always close, you know.”

Sylus didn’t say anything, but he looked at you. properly, now. Like he knew you were finally ready to admit something personal, and he wasn’t about to interrupt.

“When our parents died,” you said softly, “I didn’t speak for weeks. I just… followed him around. Like if I stayed close enough, he wouldn’t disappear too.”

You gave a hollow laugh. “Stupid, right?”

“Not stupid.”

You glanced at him. He was watching the path ahead again, but his jaw was tighter than usual.

“I think I made him into my whole world back then. He saved me. Literally. I mean, I don’t even remember how he got us out of that wreckage, just that he did. And then when Josephine took us in, he just… became a constant, always hovering. I didn’t want to need him forever, though.”

Sylus said nothing for a long moment. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full of something heavy. Like he was sorting through what to say.

Then, quietly: “You ever tell him that?”

“No. He’d take it personally.”

“He’d probably say something annoyingly noble.”

You huffed. “Yeah. Like, ‘you never have to carry anything alone,’ or ‘we’re stronger together.’ Something heroic.”

Sylus made a soft sound, almost a laugh.

You looked over at him. “What?”

“Just imagining you giving that speech back.”

You smirked. “I’d combust on the spot.”

He gave a faint smile, eyes still ahead. “You ever think he hovers because he knows you’re trying not to need him?”

That stopped you.

You blinked, startled by the weight of it. “What?”

Sylus shrugged, casual. “Perhaps it’s not about him thinking you’re weak. Maybe he sees how much you're trying to be strong alone.”

You didn’t answer right away.

The two of you reached the end of the corridor, where the path would split, one way to the Slytherin dungeons, the other toward the Hufflepuff common room tucked behind barrels and earthy stone.

You stopped at the intersection, turning to face him.

“You’re so strange, Sylus.”

He tilted his head, mouth curving into that familiar half-smirk. “Says the girl who agreed to date me.”

A pause passed between you, and something in the air shifted, lighter, but still full of unspoken things.

You cleared your throat. “Thanks for walking me. I could’ve-,”

“Yeah, I know, kitten,” he said, stepping back, “but I wanted to.”

And with that, he turned and walked toward the shadows of the dungeons, Mephisto’s distant wings fluttering overhead like an omen or a promise.

You stood there a moment longer, the torchlight flickering gently against the stones behind you.

Then you whispered, barely audible.

“Goodnight, Sylus.”

🐦‍⬛

 

The next day started like most of your bad days did. Quietly.

You’d barely made it past the third-floor landing when the trap was sprung. Dalia and her entourage stepped out from behind a tapestry near the staircase, their wands already drawn.

The corridor behind you sealed with a soft thud. A whisper of a barrier spell.

You sighed. “Really?”

Dalia smiled like a shark. “We just want to talk.” Though her tone suggested she’d prefer a duel.

You crossed your arms, already tired. “Is this the part where you ask me to ‘explain myself,’ or the part where you hex my hair blue again?”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” snapped one of the girls beside her. “You and Sylus? You expect us to believe that?”

You blinked. “You think I’m... pretending to date someone? Why would I do that?”

“To throw us off your scent,” Dalia said, stepping closer. “It’s pathetic, honestly. You want Caleb so badly you’ll fake a relationship with Sylus just to keep us away.”

You didn’t respond right away. Because the truth was, there wasn’t a clever retort that would work. You could’ve said it was none of their business. You could’ve told them the whole mess had nothing to do with Caleb anymore.

But your voice caught. And they saw. The air shifted. The girls began to circle, like sharks sensing blood.

“Is that guilt?” one of them asked sweetly.

“It’s fear,” said another.

“I bet she already got dumped.”

You clenched your fists. Willed yourself to speak, to push back, to be the girl who didn’t need saving. But then-

“Ah, there you are.”

The voice came from behind them, low and unmistakably calm. Sylus. He stepped into view with maddening ease, like he hadn’t just walked into the eye of a hurricane. He barely spared the girls a glance before his eyes settled on you.

“We were supposed to meet in the courtyard, remember?” he asked, voice light. “Hogsmeade plans?”

You blinked. “I-”

“She was too busy lying to us to show up,” Dalia snapped.

Sylus ignored her. His attention didn’t leave you.

“I waited fifteen minutes,” he said, stepping close enough that his arm brushed yours. “Starting to think you’re avoiding me.”

You opened your mouth. Words failed.

He made a show of it, pulling you into a warm hug before he leaned in. Not rushed or dramatic, just... closer. A soft tilt of his head, a hand ghosting over your lower back. You felt his breath before the warmth of his lips pressed, soft, brief, maddening, against your cheek near your lips.

A few seconds. That’s all it was. But it landed like thunder in your chest. You leaned into the act. Pulling him in close, pulse a blur, heat blooming across your face in spite of yourself.

When you pulled apart, Sylus’s arm slid casually around your shoulders like it belonged there, like you belonged there, and he turned you both away from the stunned fan club.

Behind you, the silence shattered.

Dalia let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a growl. One of the girls actually dropped her wand. Another cursed so loudly a portrait shrieked and fled its frame.

“She kissed him! Did you see that?”

“He kissed her!”

“No, no, he held her like, like he cared!”

“Oh my, do you think they’ve actually been-”

“This is sabotage. She’s lying! It’s all fake! It has to be fake!”

Their voices rose in pitch, in volume, in pure, furious disbelief.

“You ladies enjoy your little book club,” Sylus called smoothly over his shoulder, completely unaffected. “But do mind the hex traps. Someone’s been leaving really sloppy work lately.”

The outraged shrieking that followed was almost impressive.

He guided you down the hallway before anyone recovered enough to follow.

It wasn’t until you’d turned the corner, out of sight, that you found your voice again.

“You didn’t have to kiss me.”

“Didn’t kiss you,” he said without looking over. “It was your cheek.”

“It still counts.”

He shrugged. “It sold the story, didn’t it?”

You stopped walking. “Sylus.”

He finally looked at you.

His expression was unreadable, the cool mask back in place, but there was something flickering underneath it. Something quiet. Careful.

“It’s part of the act,” he said, voice soft now. “Don’t overthink it, kitten.”

And then he turned to go. You didn’t follow. Not right away. Because your skin still burned where his lips had brushed, and your heart was making a mess of itself in your chest.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But that didn’t stop you from overthinking it anyway.

🐦‍⬛

The Charms classroom was nearly empty. Most students had gone to dinner already, but you stayed behind, hunched over your parchment, the fading light from the high windows casting long shadows over your notes.

Your quill scratched out another incomplete sentence. You groaned, frustrated, and dropped your head against your book.

“How tragic,” came a familiar, amused voice from the doorway. “Here I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be the hard-working ones.”

You lifted your head with a sigh.

Sylus leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, one brow raised. His tie was loosened, his robe half-unbuttoned like he’d meant to change but got distracted. Or didn’t care. Probably both.

“I am working hard,” you muttered. “Unfortunately, my brain’s decided to shut down halfway through a silencing charm analysis.”

He crossed the room without asking and slid into the seat beside you, too close for comfort and entirely unbothered by it. He glanced over your parchment.

“You have the wrong hand movement noted,” he said casually.

“I’m aware,” you grumbled.

“You also cited third theory when you should be focusing on the revised fourth.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do you enjoy correcting people?”

“Only when they make it this easy.”

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he reached for your spare quill and started making neat annotations in the margin of your assignment, like it was the most natural thing in the world to stay behind after class and help you.

You stared at him.

“You know,” you said after a moment, “for someone who claims this whole fake-dating thing is strictly for entertainment, you’re starting to look a little committed.”

He didn’t even glance at you. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You leaned closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “So you don’t care if I fail this assignment?”

“Of course I do,” he said dryly. “I must preserve the illusion that you’re smart enough to be seen with me.”

You laughed. A quiet, surprised sound that echoed faintly off the stone walls.

Sylus didn’t smile, not really, but something softened at the corners of his mouth. His hand stilled on the parchment for just a second before he kept writing.

The quiet stretched, not awkward, just... full. Like neither of you were quite ready to move.

Finally, you said, “Thanks.”

Still not looking at you, he replied, “Don’t get used to it.”

You didn’t.

But he still didn’t leave.

🐦‍⬛

It felt like a rare kind of afternoon, sunlight breaking through the castle’s ancient windows, students lounging on the grass near the greenhouses, no looming essays or detention slips hanging over your head. Even your robes felt lighter.

Maybe that was because, for the first time in weeks, you were spending time with Caleb.

He had asked that morning, almost sheepishly, if you wanted to hang out after his prefect rounds and Quidditch drills. You said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Now the two of you sat beneath the old birch tree near the edge of the courtyard, just like you used to back when everything was easier. Your shoes were kicked off, and Caleb was tossing tiny stones into the fountain, missing the center every time.

“So,” he said, after a long pause between flicked stones. “You and Sylus.”

You immediately stiffened. There it was. You’d been waiting for it. You just didn’t expect him to sound so... casual. Like he was asking what you’d had for breakfast.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah?”

He didn’t look at you. “Didn’t see that coming.”

You forced a smile, digging your fingers into the grass. “Most people didn’t.”

“But it’s serious?” he asked, and this time, he did glance over.

His eyes were unreadable. Not accusing, not upset, but there was something guarded there. Something careful.

You looked away.

“I mean... we’re dating,” you said. Technically not a lie. Technically.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“We haven’t talked much lately.”

You didn’t mean for it to come out sharp. But it did, and you regretted it immediately.

Caleb didn’t flinch, just gave a soft sigh and tossed another stone. This one skipped once before sinking.

“I know, I know. It's my fault, I’ve been busy,” he admitted in defeat. “Prefect duties are... yeah. And Professor Dallows has piling on the NEWT prep. Plus Quidditch.”

You frowned. “Caleb, it’s not your fault.”

But it still hurt. Because the truth was, you missed him. You missed Caleb, you’re only family, not by blood, but by everything that mattered. You missed how close you used to be before the world became complicated, before his fan club decided you were the villain in a love story you never asked to be part of.

You hugged your knees to your chest and added softly, “It just feels like we’re living in different parts of the castle now.”

Caleb was quiet. Then, gently, asked, “is he treating you right?”

The question made your chest twist. You looked at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“Sylus,” he said, eyes still focused on the water. “He doesn’t always... connect with people. Not really. He keeps things close. I just... want to make sure you’re okay.”

There it was again. That protective streak you’d grown up with. The one that saved you from the rubble when the world fell apart. The one that told you he’d always carry your burdens if you let him.

But you didn’t want him to. Not this one.

“I can handle myself, Caleb,” you said quietly.

He finally met your gaze, and whatever he saw in your expression made him pause. “I know,” he said. “I’ve just always looked out for you.”

You smiled, small and genuine. “You still do.”

The moment stretched, softened. And then a shadow passed across the sunlit grass. You both looked up.

Sylus stood at the far end of the courtyard, arms folded, leaning against a stone column like he’d been there for a while. He wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but his eyes were locked on you.

No smirk. No teasing glint. Just that unreadable, razor-sharp calm he wore when he was thinking through something dangerous.

Or someone.

He didn’t approach. Just watched.

Caleb noticed.

He turned back to you. “You sure you’re happy?”

You swallowed. “I am.”

It felt like the truth. At least part of it.

Caleb gave you a look that was both knowing and worried, but he didn’t push. “If he ever gives you trouble-”

“I’ll hex him first,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Eventually, Caleb stood, stretched, and said he had to meet with the Gryffindor Head Boy about patrols. You waved him off and lingered a little longer under the tree.

When you glanced back at the column across the courtyard, Sylus was gone.

🐦‍⬛

It started, as most emotional breakdowns do, with tea and denial.

You sat cross-legged on the floor of your dorm, hair damp from your shower, pajamas wrinkled, and your Charms notes strewn all around you like academic confetti. Tara lay belly-down across her bed, legs kicking behind her and wand lazily stirring the mug of peppermint tea floating between you.

“You’ve been weird lately,” she said, chin in her hand.

“I’m always weird,” you deflected, flicking a crumpled piece of parchment at her.

“I mean extra weird,” she clarified, narrowing her eyes. “And you blush now. Like, a lot. You blushed this morning when Sylus opened a door for you. You blushed yesterday when he sat next to you at breakfast and said absolutely nothing. You blushed the day before that because he looked in your direction."

You threw a pillow at her. “It’s the lighting. The castle lighting is criminally warm.”

Tara caught the pillow and didn’t even blink. “And the time he brushed your hand when you both reached for the ink bottle?”

“Static shock,” you said weakly.

Her eyes glinted. “And the time he said, and I quote, ‘Don’t look at me like that unless you’re planning to do something about it, kitten’ and you walked into the wall?”

“That wall came out of nowhere.”

Tara sat up, holding her tea like it was a truth serum. “You like him.”

“No, I-”

“You like him.”

“Tara!”

She gave you a look so flat and full of disbelief you actually considered hiding under the bed.

You sighed, pulled your knees to your chest, and stared at your parchment without reading it. For a few long seconds, the room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the enchanted fireplace.

Then, finally, quietly, you said it.

“…Okay, yeah, I like him.”

Tara screamed into a pillow.

You jumped. “That’s unnecessary.”

She let the pillow fall to the floor with a dramatic flop. “No, that was the only appropriate response to the emotional walls of my best friend finally crumbling. You like Sylus. Mr. Trouble himself.”

“I know.”

“And you’re pretending to date him.”

“I know.”

“You made him promise not to kiss you and then he did in front of that psychotic fan club and you haven’t recovered since.”

“I KNOW.”

Tara covered her face with both hands and made a long, muffled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a cry or both. Then she peeked between her fingers and said, “I hate that I’m rooting for this.”

You slumped sideways onto your pillow pile. “He’s so, Sylus. He teases me every other sentence, and he thinks my handwriting is ‘criminally inefficient,’ and he never explains what he’s thinking, just shows up, says something cryptic, and then leaves me to feel things about it.”

“Have you seen him though?” Tara asked, raising her eyebrows. “That jawline is a felony. And his butt?”

You groaned. “I can’t like him.”

“You do.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

You buried your face in a pillow. “Do you think I’ve completely lost my mind?”

Tara shrugged. “A little. But if it helps, you’re not the only one who’s catching feelings.”

You peeked out. “What do you mean?”

She leaned forward, grinning. “I’ve seen the way Sylus looks at you when you’re not watching. Like he’s planning something complicated and annoying and entirely romantic.”

You blinked. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does,” she said. “He looks at you like you’re already his problem.”

“…That’s not a compliment.”

“Coming from Sylus, it definitely is.”

You groaned again and flopped back onto the rug, arms spread dramatically.

Tara picked up your tea and placed it gently in your hand like you were a fragile thing on the edge of spontaneous combustion.

“Here,” she said, mock-serious. “Hydrate. Fall in love responsibly.”

You stared at the tea, then muttered, “I’m going to die.”

“Nah,” she said cheerfully. “You’re just going to kiss your fake boyfriend and make it real.”

You almost choked on the tea.

And Tara? She laughed so hard she fell off the bed.

🐦‍⬛

The Cult of Caleb had gone quiet.

You weren’t sure exactly when it happened. Whether it was the moment Sylus kiss you, or maybe when he started lacing his fingers through yours in the hallway without saying a word, or the day one of the louder fan girls saw you curled up in his lap beneath the courtyard tree and backed off with a hissed whisper and wide eyes.

Either way, they’d mostly stopped bothering you.

No more screaming howlers or magically wilted roses or sabotaged potion ingredients. It was eerie, the way peace slipped into your life like fog under a door.

But you didn’t think about them much anymore. No, you were too busy noticing... other things.

Like the way Sylus’s fingers had lingered against yours last week. You’d passed him a textbook, and he didn’t pull away right away. Just let the touch stay. Just long enough to feel like a question.

Or the way his gaze softened when you laughed. Not smirked. Not rolled his eyes. Softened. Like he was cataloguing the sound and saving it for later.

Or the way he started pulling you into his arms more often. At first, it had been calculated—another layer of the illusion. But lately, it felt... less like a performance. More like a habit. Like a preference. His hand would settle at your waist and tug you in until you were pressed against his side, and sometimes that led to the two of you sitting too close, you in his arms, heat pooling where your bodies met. He would lean in, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck with a kind of lazy familiarity that made you shiver and feel far too warm and tingly all at once. He never apologized for it. And you never stopped him.

And then there was the way he said your name. It had changed.

Not the nickname. Not kitten, not Hufflepuff, not whatever teasing invention he'd murmured that week. Just your name. Spoken like it meant something he hadn’t worked up the courage to name yet.

And one quiet morning in the courtyard, you were half-asleep, head lolling slightly against your palm, your open notes fluttering in the breeze. Sylus had joined you with his usual effortless grace, no greeting, just his familiar presence folding into the bench beside you.

Not too close. Not too far. For once, though, he didn’t say anything. No sarcastic remark. No dry jab at your messy hair or the ink smudge on your nose. No complaints about how you’d highlighted the wrong section in your Defense Against the Dark Arts notes again.

Silence stretched between you like ribbon pulled taut.

You glanced up. He was already looking at you. Your breath caught.

“Sylus, is something wrong?” you asked, trying to keep it light, trying not to lean into the way his gaze felt like it could undo you.

Sylus didn’t answer at first. His expression didn’t shift, but something flickered, briefly, behind his eyes.

Then he glanced away, just a little. “Nothing.”

You frowned, heart skipping. “You never look at someone like that and mean nothing, Sylus.”

He tilted his head, jaw tight. Then, so soft you barely caught it, he said, “Then let’s call it... something I am feeling.”

You froze.

Your chest was suddenly too small for the breath you took in. For all the careful rules, the whispered lines you’d both drawn, the smirking distance that had protected you from whatever this was, this wasn’t part of the plan.

You knew. And he knew. This wasn’t pretend anymore. And neither of you knew what to do with that.

You hesitated, then reached into the only safety net you had.

“…We have rules,” you said. Quietly. Carefully. You regretted it immediately because it wasn't what you meant to say, and it wasn't how you truly felt.

Sylus stiffened. Just enough for you to notice. His gaze turned sharp, distant.

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” he asked, his voice flat.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I just, I didn’t want this to be, confusing.”

“It’s only confusing if you pretend it isn’t happening,” he said, and then he stood. Just like that. As if rising would put distance between the words you’d both accidentally spoken aloud.

You reached for him, instinctively, but your hand fell short.

“Sylus-”

“I’ll see you later,” he said, already turning away. “You have Charms, don’t you?”

You watched him go.

And for the first time since this whole ridiculous arrangement began, you weren’t sure who was pretending anymore.

🐦‍⬛

Sylus didn’t disappear.

He didn’t ignore you in the halls or skip your usual library walks. He didn’t revoke the agreement or burn the contract in some dramatic flair of spell work. He didn’t even bring up what happened in the courtyard.

But something changed.

It was subtle at first. Small things. He stopped reaching for your hand in public unless someone else was watching. He still walked beside you, always with the same measured pace, the same calculated slouch, but there was space between your shoulders now. Enough to feel cold. Enough to notice.

His voice returned to its usual dry cadence, the smooth, taunting edge that everyone else heard. No more softness. No more low murmurs just for you.

You told yourself you didn’t care. That you were just imagining it. That maybe he was just tired. Or preoccupied. Or had finally realized playing up your relationship was unnecessary now that the Cult of Caleb had backed off.

But none of that worked. It still hurt.

And it was a strange kind of pain, the quiet kind that didn’t scream, didn’t demand, didn’t even really show. Just... ached. A hollow, echoing ache in the places you hadn’t realized he’d filled.

You caught yourself looking for him more often now, glancing across the Great Hall like your eyes were on a leash. You noticed when he entered a room. You noticed when he didn’t.

And you noticed how he kept his distance. All measured and intentional.

He was still polite. Still Sylus. But not quite yours anymore.

The worst part was how good he was at making you want more. He still called you kitten. Still rolled his eyes when you got too passionate about magical creature law reform. Still threw one-liners like hexes.

But it was like the warmth had been charmed out of them.

And it made you wonder, had you made the whole thing up? Had you imagined the way his fingers lingered, the way his eyes softened, the way his voice had shifted when he said your name, like it meant something more than a casual arrangement and a fake smile?

You weren’t sure anymore. Because you were used to pretending. That had been the plan from the start.

But now that something real had surfaced, uninvited, undeniable, its absence stung more than the pretending ever had.

And that terrified you.

Because you could handle being hated by Caleb’s fan club. You could handle the whispers and the hexes and the rumors.

But you weren’t sure if you could handle this. The almost. The what-if. The way he looked at you like he meant it, and then… just stopped.

🐦‍⬛

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

Not at first.

You were trying to catch up to Sylus. He’d left the library without a word, and something in your chest had knotted at the sight of his back retreating again. You just wanted to talk. To ask if he was still angry about what you’d said before. To say… something.

But you didn’t even make it halfway down the corridor before Caleb’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.

“I want to know your intentions.”

You stopped short, feet rooted, breath held and peeked around the corner.

Sylus stood, arms folded across his chest like he couldn’t be less impressed.

“And I want a quieter hallway,” he said, voice as flat as ever. “But here we are.”

“You’re not funny.”

“And you’re not subtle.”

Caleb stepped closer. His fists clenched at his sides. The expression on his face wasn’t the one he wore as a Gryffindor prefect or even as your doting older brother figure. This was raw. Defensive. Threatened.

“She’s the most important person to me,” Caleb said tightly. “I’ve known her, her whole life.”

Something about the way he said it sent a familiar ache blooming in your ribs.

Sylus didn’t flinch.

He just watched Caleb with the calm, clinical detachment of someone preparing to slice through bone.

Then he said, evenly, “Then, you should’ve noticed what that little cult of yours was doing to her.”

Caleb froze. His jaw slackened, just slightly. “…What?”

Sylus didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“You think they’re harmless. Just lovesick admirers fawning over the golden boy.” He shrugged. “Meanwhile, they hexed her textbooks. Cursed her. Sent her screaming notes. Caused her potions to explode. Terrible harassment for the past year.”

You saw Caleb’s whole body tense.

Sylus didn’t stop.

“The only reason it stopped,” he added, “is because she started dating me.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ask her yourself.”

Sylus met your eyes. And just like that, the scalpel landed squarely in your hands.

Caleb turned toward you, eyes wide, startled, and deeply hurt. “Is that true?”

You stepped fully into view. Your throat was dry. “Yeah. It is.”

His voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried... kind of,” you said quietly. “I just… I handled it myself.”

The silence that followed was brutal. It had weight. Sharp edges.

“And Sylus?” Caleb asked, still watching you like the world was tilting under his feet.

You nodded. “He helped.”

Caleb’s face twisted with something too complex to name. Betrayal. Guilt. Maybe both. Without another word, he turned and stormed off, boots echoing down the corridor until he vanished around the corner.

You stood there, stunned, heat rushing to your face.

Then you turned on Sylus. “You had no right to tell him.”

Sylus didn’t even blink. “Someone had to.”

“He’s my family-!”

“And you were suffering in silence.” His gaze pinned you, sharp and calm. “You really thought doing so was going to end well?”

You glared at him. “I could’ve told him myself.”

“But you didn’t,” he said. “And eventually, people like him need to be told the truth by someone who doesn’t idolize them.”

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, posture loose. Like it hadn’t just detonated everything between the three of you.

You stood there in the hallway long after he was gone.

You weren’t sure who you were more furious with. Him or yourself.

🐦‍⬛

The Cult of Caleb vanished.

You didn’t believe it at first. Even after their antics calmed down, you half expected them to eventually come back with sharper claws, with better illusions. But they didn’t.

Now they wouldn’t… because they were… gone.

Tara confirmed it three days later, catching up to you outside Herbology with a look of pure satisfaction on her face.

“Apparently Caleb found out,” she said, voice hushed but thrilled. “And he scorched earth.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, glancing around before leaning in, “he personally called a meeting with every girl in that awful club that harassed you and others. And locked the door. No professors . Just Caleb and about twenty very confused, very terrified admirers.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Tara kept going, clearly enjoying the drama. “Rumor has it, he made them sit down. Made them listen. Then, he read everything. Every hex, every note, every incident from last year. Stuff even I didn’t know about. He had it all written out. Names. Dates.”

You felt your stomach tighten. “How…?”

“He asked around,” she said. “Made some Ravenclaws help dig. And apparently, your fake boyfriend helped, too.”

Of course, Sylus helped.

You didn’t say that part out loud.

“He told them that what they’d done was harassment,” Tara continued. “Cruel, obsessive, and completely beneath the values of the school, of his own values. Then he ripped down their official club papers and told them, get this, that if they so much as breathed wrong in your direction ever again, he’d personally make sure they were expelled.”

You stared at her.

She nodded solemnly. “Headmaster Thorne backed him. Apparently, he posted a new disciplinary notice to the Great Hall door last night. Zero tolerance for any form of harassment. Caleb’s name was the first signed at the bottom. He got every single professor and prefect to sign it too.”

Your legs felt unsteady.

“They’re terrified of him now,” Tara added with a wicked grin. “Half of them haven’t shown up to class. The other half look like they’ve seen a ghost. A tall, noble, overachieving ghost with a prefect badge and murder in his eyes.”

You laughed, but it came out a little breathless.

It was hard to process. For so long, the Cult had been this endless background noise. You'd gotten used to the way people whispered about you when they thought you weren’t listening. The way they smirked when you entered a room. You’d survived it so long, it had become routine.

And now… gone.

Not just gone, completely denounced.

By the one person they claimed to adore.

People looked at you differently now. The same classmates who used to whisper behind their hands now offered hesitant smiles. A few of the bolder ones even approached you to apologize. A Ravenclaw in your Potions class confessed she’d been part of the group, but never realized how far it had gone. A Hufflepuff two years below you slipped a note into your bag that simply said, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve any of it.

It didn’t erase what happened. But it made it quieter. Made it easier to breathe.

Caleb didn’t speak to you about it. Not directly.

You passed each other in the hallway after the news broke. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t force a conversation or offer a knowing look. But he slowed beside you. Walked at your pace for a few quiet steps.

And when you glanced up, he was already watching you with that soft, steady calm you’d grown up with. The one that always said, I’m here if you need me.

He didn’t mention the fan club. He didn’t mention the fight with Sylus. He didn’t mention anything at all.

Later that evening, he found you in the common room and dropped into the chair across from you with a deck of cards and two mugs of cocoa.

Just like he used to, like nothing had changed.

He stayed, until you were ready to speak.

🐦‍⬛

The library was quiet.

The late evening quiet. The kind where candles burned low and shadows pooled between the shelves, and even the ghosts drifting through seemed to float more softly.

You and Sylus sat at the same table you’d been using since the start of your contract relationship. A window to your right framed the dark silhouette of the Forbidden Forest. Open books lay untouched in front of you, pages ruffled by the occasional breeze of a passing enchanted draft.

You hadn’t said much.

Neither had he.

He sat beside you like he always did, one leg crossed, elbow on the table, head tilted just slightly in that thoughtful, dangerous way he did when he was calculating a chessboard only he could see.

But tonight, there was no teasing.

No smug comments about your annotations.

Just stillness. Until you broke it.

“The club's been completely disbanded,” you said quietly.

Sylus didn’t look up.

“Seems so.”

You glanced at him, watching the way the candlelight caught the sharp lines of his profile. He looked calm. Too calm.

“So…” You hesitated, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “We don’t need to keep pretending.”

A pause.

Sylus reached for the corner of a page in one of the books, but didn’t turn it. His fingers hovered there.

Then slowly, he said, “No.”

That was all.

You blinked. “No, we don’t need to? Or no, you don’t want to?”

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“It was supposed to be fake.” His voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled. “That was the agreement.”

It shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Like a paper cut across a bruise.

You sat back in your chair, the weight of the words pressing down on your chest. “Right,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Contract fulfilled.”

His hand stilled over the page. But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t stop you. Didn’t reach.

And you stood, pushing in your chair quietly, gathering your books with hands that trembled more than they should have.

You didn’t look at him again.

Not when you walked away. Not when you reached the library doors. Not even when your chest clenched and every part of you ached to turn back.

🐦‍⬛

Your world quieted.

Not suddenly, not all at once, but in that slow, creeping way that made you realize just how loud it had been before. The constant whispering behind your back had stopped. Not only had the cruel laughter faded like it had never existed at all, so did the whispers full of pity that fill the corridors the days after everyone had realized how bad the club's harassment truly had been.

For the first time in a long time, you could walk to class without checking over your shoulder. You could feel peace. You could simply… exist.

You didn’t realize how much tension you’d been carrying until it was truly gone.

And strangely, with that peace came a silence you didn’t expect.

Caleb was around more now. Not hovering, not checking in every five minutes like he had your first year, but present. Solid. The way he used to be, before prefect duties and Quidditch practice and exams made him a ghost in your life.

He passed you in the courtyard one morning and dropped a chocolate frog into your hand without stopping. Just a pat on the head and a quiet, “You looked like you needed it, pipsqueak.”

You didn’t, not really. But you smiled anyway. It was simple again. Easy.

And then there was Sylus. You couldn’t decide if his distance was a kindness or a punishment.

He didn’t disappear. Not exactly. You still saw him in class. In the corridors. At meals. During study hours in the library. But where there had once been sharp wit and quiet hovering, there was now polite space. A nod, now and then. A brief glance.

And then nothing.

No smirks. No sly remarks. No jabs at your sleepy-morning hair or the way your handwriting devolved into a dangerous scrawl by the end of the day. He didn’t sit beside you at meals. He didn’t lean into your space. He didn’t call you kitten.

He’d stepped back the moment the fan club was gone, like the absence of danger had voided the reason to stay.

And maybe that was fair.

You had made a contract, after all. An arrangement. Terms and conditions and boundaries. And those conditions had been met. The threat had passed.

You were safe now.

And yet, your eyes couldn't help but to search for him when you entered a room. You paused whenever you heard a crow’s cry overhead, half expecting Mephisto to land on your shoulder. Your chest would ache for more when he passed by you in the corridor and offered only a small nod. 

You had wanted space from Sylus, before the club's harassment ever even started. Sylus had always been a problem you didn’t need when all you’d wanted was to complete a year with some dignity and peace. But then he slipped so easily into your life and casually he dismantled your defenses with a single smirk or one of those insufferable nicknames.

And now, with that space finally granted… you felt a little lost.

Tara had noticed, of course.

“Look at you,” she’d teased one afternoon as you walked back from the greenhouses. “Like a lovesick ghost. All pale and pensive.”

“I’m not lovesick,” you’d grumbled.

“You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?”

“…No.”

“Liar.”

You’d elbowed her, but she wasn’t wrong.

The halls felt emptier without his footsteps next to yours. Your notes were tidier, sure, but less amusing without his insults.

You didn’t miss the fake relationship. You missed him.

You missed Sylus, who never treated you like glass, who could make you feel more grounded in a storm than anyone else ever had. Sylus, who called you out when you lied to yourself and who could steady your nerves with a single look, a dry word, a brush of his fingers.

You’d promised yourself you’d be strong enough to stand on your own. To never need anyone again.

But you weren’t the same girl who came to Hogwarts trying to prove her strength in silence.

You were tired of silence.

Still, you didn’t know how to bridge the space between you now. You didn’t know how to reach for him without ruining whatever delicate peace had settled between you.

So, you let the distance stand.

🐦‍⬛

It started, as most things with Sylus did, with a comment you weren’t meant to ignore.

You were tucked into your usual corner of the library, charms notes splayed out, quill half-dipped in ink, elbow smudged with what might’ve been a coffee stain from breakfast. You were trying, in earnest, to stay focused. The parchment in front of you was a disaster, symbolic of your stress. The lines of uneven scrawl trailing into cramped margins, footnotes written sideways in the kind of handwriting only a cursed spirit could decipher.

And then, as he passed behind you, a familiar voice slid into the space above your shoulder like smoke.

“Are you planning to hex someone with that mess, or are you just writing with your eyes closed now?”

You blinked once. Then again.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t have to.

“You must’ve really missed me if you’re bothering to insult my penmanship.”

He hummed, low and noncommittal. “Or maybe I simply couldn’t bear to watch a reckless witch torture parchment like this.”

You turned your head slowly, finally catching his smirk, the one that had haunted too many study sessions and snuck into your dreams more often than you were comfortable admitting.

“Well,” you said sweetly, “must be nice, being a Slytherin prodigy. Always so arrogant.”

“And always right,” he added, sliding into the seat beside you like he had never left it. No hesitation or need for a long-winded conversation. Like there hadn’t been weeks of space between you after the contract had ended.

And just like that, the rhythm came back.

Effortlessly.

He glanced at your notes and immediately began critiquing the wand movement diagrams. You responded by “accidentally” smudging one with your sleeve. He sniffed your tea and declared it underwhelming. You poured a splash of ink dangerously close to the edge of his book.

The distance that had settled between you over the past weeks unraveled thread by thread, word by word. There were no questions, no expectations. Just commentary. Just banter. Just... you and Sylus.

The next day, he matched your steps on the way to Transfiguration without a word. Halfway there, he handed you a wrapped caramel toffee like it was the most normal thing in the world. You didn’t ask where it came from. He didn’t explain. You just tucked it into your pocket and smiled to yourself when he wasn’t looking.

The day after that, he bumped your arm during lunch, barely a nudge, a graze, but his hand lingered. For a moment too long. Just long enough for your skin to feel hot beneath your robe. Just long enough for your breath to catch, and for him to pretend like it hadn’t happened.

Mephisto reappeared a few days later too.

You were halfway through a sentence with Tara when the inky blur of feathers descended from the rafters and landed squarely on your shoulder, talons light, but firm.

The entire Hufflepuff table went silent.

“Hi there,” you murmured, cautiously glancing sideways.

The crow cawed once. Loudly. Then dropped a shiny beetle wing into your palm and fluffed his feathers like he expected praise

Tara choked on her pumpkin juice. Across the Hall, Sylus watched with the kind of barely-restrained amusement that curled his mouth just enough to be dangerous.

He sauntered over slowly, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“Apparently,” he said, nodding toward the beetle wing, “he likes you.”

You held the iridescent piece of shell between two fingers, raising a brow. “He’s got taste.”

“Terrible taste,” Sylus corrected, but his smirk softened as he said it. Like he didn’t mean it. Like he was proud of it, actually.

Mephisto preened.

You pocketed the beetle wing.

And just like that, things slipped back into place.

But it wasn’t the same as before.

The rules were gone. The contract was over. There were no terms, no public acts to protect you from the Cult of Caleb. The danger had passed. The world had moved on.

Sylus began walking beside you again. Found you in the library. Stole bites of your toast at breakfast and handed you spare quills during class without being asked. He called you kitten, though less often. Quieter now. Less for show.

And you looked for him in every room you entered.

He didn’t ask to pick the fake relationship back up. You didn’t ask him to stay.

But neither of you left.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance that had grown between you shrank again.

It happened in the way his shoulder brushed yours when you passed through narrow doorways. In the way he leaned closer during study sessions, murmuring sarcastic observations under his breath like they were meant just for you.

It was in the way he looked at you now, not sharp and challenging or cautious not to misstep, but something softer. Like he saw you, not as an amusing puzzle or an obstacle worth mocking, but as someone he… wanted to know.

You found yourself laughing more easily around him. Not forced laughter. Not flirtation. Real laughter. The kind that started in your stomach and caught you off guard. And he never told you to quiet down.

He just watched.

Smiling in that quiet way he did. Like he was cataloguing the sound.

One afternoon in the courtyard, he passed you a note mid-lecture. It was folded into a tiny paper bird, enchanted to flap its wings before settling in your lap. You opened it and read,

Your handwriting is improving. I only cried twice reading this page. – S.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. You wrote back, quick and sharp,

You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you.

He smirked when he read it. No denying. No retort. Just that look. Like he’d missed you too. And though neither of you said it aloud, you knew what was happening. You were slipping back into something. Not quite where you started, but not where you'd ended either. Not fake anymore. Not quite real yet. But close.

Too close to pretend you didn’t feel it building again. Too close to ignore the warmth when his hand brushed yours. Too close not to wonder when, if, one of you would finally say something.

Because the truth, now, wasn’t wrapped in a contract.

It was written in the silence between your banter. It was spelled out in glances. It was growing stronger with every laugh. Every moment. Every near-touch. And soon, it would be impossible to ignore.

🐦‍⬛

You didn’t plan to say it. You hadn’t rehearsed it in the mirror or scribbled it in your notes, pretending it was a spell.

It just... happened.

The Viaduct Court was nearly empty, bathed in that warm, late-afternoon haze that made the stone glow gold, and the wind move a little slower. The kind of quiet that made the world feel like it was exhaling. You were sitting on the low stone wall, your legs swinging over the edge like they had a mind of their own, your shoes scuffing against the wall with each pass.

Sylus sat right beside you. Pressed against you, book in hand, legs crossed at the ankle. His posture, as always, was maddeningly perfect.

He wasn’t reading. Not really.

You’d been doing this more often lately, meeting up without meeting up. Wandering into the same space without meaning to. Sitting close without acknowledging the way you shared heat or how you were both inching back to the days where you sat in his lap, wrapped up in his arms.

You weren’t dating. Not officially. Not technically.

But the lines between what was once "fake" and what was now becoming very "real" had blurred weeks ago. Somewhere between the late-night snack runs and the way his hand had started brushing into yours and never pulling away. Somewhere between the stolen glances and the way his voice softened when he said your name like it was something precious.

You couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter.

So… you said it. Quietly, or maybe casually. Like you weren’t holding your breath, you hoped.

“I like you.”

There was a beat of silence. Not cold or awkward. Just… still.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just turned a page of his book like he hadn’t heard you at all.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously?”

Another pause, longer this time. He kept his eyes on the page, but you could feel the shift in his attention, the way he was suddenly very, very aware of you.

“I mean,” you went on, trying not to fidget, “I’ve liked you. For a while, actually. Which I guess is kind of funny, considering how much I wanted you to leave me alone when this whole thing started.”

That made him look up.

Slowly.

His head tilted slightly, and his mouth curled. not into a smirk, not quite, but into something gentler. Like the wind had knocked some of the walls loose.

“Me too,” he said.

Just that. Two words. Simple and honest. It settled between you with a quiet finality.

You blinked, unsure if you’d imagined it. “You… yeah?”

He closed the book in his lap, thumb keeping his page.

“I like you too,” he said. “since before we wrote that contract.”

You stared at him. “Even when I insulted you constantly?”

“You still do... but, yes, that’s how I knew.”

Your lips twitched up. “That’s actually kind of pathetic.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, completely unfazed. “But you have a very charming way of calling me names. Couldn’t be helped.”

Then, without ceremony, his hand reached over and found yours.

Fingers curled between yours like they belonged there. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of touch that didn’t ask questions because it already knew the answer.

His thumb brushed yours once, twice, before settling.

And just like that, you were dating.

🐦‍⬛

You were sitting on a bench in the courtyard, sunlight on your face, a half-eaten sandwich in your hand, and a smug crow perched on your shoulder like some feathered king.

Mephisto, Sylus’s familiar and chaos incarnate, had decided he preferred your sandwich over his usual shiny rock tribute. He pecked off a corner with zero shame and cawed proudly, like he’d just completed a mission of national importance.

Sylus didn’t even flinch. He just sat beside you, sipping tea from a dark green thermos and reading a book on advanced hex theory like this was normal. Like he hadn’t casually let his crow steal your lunch. Like this wasn’t his fault.

“He does realize this isn’t a buffet, right?” you asked, eyeing the crow.

“He likes you,” Sylus replied smugly.

You gave him a look. “Is that why he tried to nest in my scarf last week?”

“Obviously. It means you're a part of his murder.”

“You mean he's infiltrated ‘our’ relationship.”

Sylus turned a page. “Same thing.”

Before you could throw a piece of lettuce at his head, two whirlwinds in the shape of human beings descended on your peaceful moment.

Luke and Kieran.

Twins. Menaces. Sylus’s longest friendship.

“You are not subtle, Boss,” Luke announced as he flopped dramatically onto the bench beside Sylus, nearly knocking the thermos from his hand.

“A master of romantic deception,” Kieran added, collapsing on your other side like a Victorian woman struck with grief. “But you could never fool us, boss. We’ve known since first year how much you love her.”

Sylus didn’t look up. “Go away.”

“No can do, boss,” Kieran said solemnly, as if he’d taken a magical vow. “This is an important milestone. We must celebrate boss-man's successful love life.”

You tried not to laugh, failing almost immediately.

Luke leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Remember that time in second year? It was in Defense Against the Dark Arts class. She hexed the practice dummy so hard it flew into the professor.”

“I remember,” Sylus said without expression.

“You looked like you wanted to propose,” Luke said with the enthusiasm of someone retelling ancient family legend.

“I was twelve,” Sylus muttered.

“Feelings do not care about age,” Kieran said wisely, stealing half your sandwich with zero shame. “You were a goner, boss.”

Sylus raised a brow at him. “If you wanted your tongue hexed to your nose again, just say so.”

“Oh no,” Kieran whispered to you. “That’s his ‘embarrassed but pretending he’s not’ tone. Very rare. Very deadly.”

“He’s definitely going to hex us later,” Luke added cheerfully.

“You two need new hobbies,” Sylus muttered.

Just then, Mephisto fluttered from your shoulder to Kieran’s head, dropped half of what used to be your biscuit onto his hair, and cawed loudly like he’d scored a goal.

“See?” Luke said, grinning. “Even Mephisto approves. That’s practically marriage.”

You rolled your eyes. “Should I be worried?”

“Extremely,” Sylus said, but his voice was warm, amused in that quiet way of his. His hand brushed yours again, familiar and natural. The gesture of someone who no longer needed excuses to reach for you.

And as chaos unfolded around you, Luke reenacting Sylus’s alleged “first love face,” Kieran sobbing with laughter as Mephisto stole his biscuit, Mephisto trying to crawl into your lap...

Sylus leaned closer, breath brushing your ear.

“I told you,” he murmured.

You glanced at him. “Told me what?”

“That we would make this unforgettable.”

You smiled, leaning into his shoulder. “You were right.”

“Say that again.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He smirked. “I like it when you’re strict.”

You shoved him gently.

He caught your hand before you could pull it back.

And just like that, you knew this was yours.

Nothing fake or forced.

Just real.

Notes:

Hahahahaha, I wrote this in one day... didn't sleep... hope you enjoyed. (also pls forgive any errors, I didn't really edit much, and I was very sleepy by the end lol)

I want to write more Hogwarts AU stuff. I've got too many ideas... leave a comment on what type of fics you would like to see next?

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of LaDS x AU Collection (Mostly Hogwarts AU)