Clockwork of hearts

by Lina_1402

Summary:

When Ministry time-operative Arianna Avery is summoned to the fading halls of Malfoy Manor, she expects routine protocol, not a private plea from Narcissa Malfoy. The war is long over. Draco Malfoy is dead. And the only thing Narcissa has left is a single forbidden hope: send Arianna back in time and alter the moment everything slipped beyond saving.
Trained to navigate timelines that must never be touched, Arianna knows the rules better than anyone. She knows what a single change can cost. Yet she agrees.
Hogwarts is colder than the history books ever recorded. The war is tightening. And Draco Malfoy, alive and dangerous in ways the future never captured, despises her from the moment they meet.
Every shift she makes trembles against the laws she swore never to break.
And soon Arianna must face the truth buried beneath every timeline: some destinies can’t be rewritten without a sacrifice that echoes across worlds.
A love story threaded through timelines, sacrifice, and the echo of a name whispered across universes.
Clockwork of Hearts is a spellbinding tragedy about destiny, memory, and the lengths we go to save the ones who were never meant to love us.

Notes:

This story starts more than twenty years after the end of the wizarding war II.
Voldemort has been defeated, the deatheaters were either imprisoned, executed or pardoned. And the world had rebuilt itself.
The story will shift between past and presence. Past meaning 1996 and later.

Chapter 1: A proposal

Arianna Avery was everything but ordinary.

Born in the afterwar, in a world still trying to rebuild what little remained, she had been marked as a threat by name alone. The Averys carried a reputation that stretched across wars and centuries: dark affiliations, whispered loyalties, and a legacy soaked in shadows. Cruel. Manipulative. Skilled in the kind of magic respectable witches pretended not to know existed.

Arianna inherited none of that. Or all of it. Depending on whom you asked.

Her childhood had been brief and bright, the kind of fragile happiness that never survives long in a world newly stitched together. At eleven, she lost her parents to a senseless magical accident that felt more like fate twisting a knife. Grief hollowed her out. Instinct shoved her forward.

And brilliance — that dangerous, feral brilliance — pushed her straight into disaster.

She stole a time-turner. Not out of ignorance. Out of certainty. She understood the mechanics, the limits, the risks. At eleven, she understood time better than most Ministry officials. Enough to try twisting it with her bare hands.

The attempt shattered around her like splintered glass. She couldn’t save them. She watched their deaths twice.

And time, enraged, left scars in its wake.

When the Ministry found her, it wasn’t because she’d left a trail. It was because she’d left an anomaly.

A signature of magic so precise and instinctive that no one her age should have been able to create it.

They took the time-turner. They took her in. They didn’t imprison her. They trained her.

By seventeen, Arianna Avery was the youngest operative in the Department of Temporal Regulation. A girl with steady hands, a sharp mouth, and a mind built to navigate the cracks between seconds.

Which was why she sat alone in her small, overlit Ministry office now, quill tapping rhythmically against a stack of sealed reports, the faint hum of time-wards thrumming through the walls like an ever-present heartbeat.

Her name carried suspicion. Her power carried weight. And somewhere in the endless ticking of clocks and trembling of hourglasses, Arianna sensed the shift before she heard the knock at her door. A ripple through the air, the kind that warned of timelines bending.

Someone had come for her. And fate, as usual, had impeccable timing.

The door slipped open and Bowman stepped inside. He was far older than her — mid-forties, maybe — and still delivering memos and daily mail.

“Hello, beauty. Got some mail for you,” he said in that distinct countryside accent she always suspected came from growing up between farmers and fools.

“Leave it on the table. Thanks, Bowman.”

She didn’t bother looking up. She knew he hated that. Hated that she, barely seventeen, had her own office and a reputation solid enough to shield her. Hated even more that she never gave him the satisfaction of eye contact.

He’d been handsome once, undeniably. Probably devastating at Hogwarts before the war swallowed him whole. Now he was just a man who lived through things she only knew from files.

Arianna scribbled down another note and flipped the file shut.

“Still here?” she asked, leaning back in her chair. Her long brown hair slipped over the backrest, and she pushed it aside with slender fingers. Her grey eyes finally lifted — steady, cold, unflinching. They pinned him in place.

For a heartbeat, Bowman forgot why he’d come.

She was so small, he thought — barely 5' 1", if that. Thin, almost fragile-looking, her waist narrow beneath her blouse. But curvy where it mattered. Those lips — full, plush, naturally flushed — looked like sin itself, and he imagined what they could do, what he could do with them, before anger jolted through him at the knowledge she’d never spare him more than a dismissive glance.

From a distance, she could have been a ballerina. Up close, the illusion broke.

Her delicate bone structure clashed with the lethal calm in her eyes. Eyes that said she could gut a man with logic alone and wouldn’t think about it twice.

“There’s an urgent one,” Bowman managed at last. He placed a single letter in her hand and dropped the rest at the edge of her desk.

Arianna looked down at it.

The envelope was thick, soft beige, the ink elegant and steady. No sender. Old money practically clung to the parchment.

“You can leave. Thanks.”

Dismissal. Sharp as a blade.

Bowman lingered a fraction too long. He stretched — casually, deliberately — just enough to steal a glance down the neckline of her blouse. Lace. Black. He smiled to himself as he walked out, already imagining more.

He would need a break. Now. With her image burned into his mind.

Arianna glared at the envelope as if sheer force of will might coax out its secrets. When it didn’t surrender, she tore it open with a swift rip. A single sheet of parchment slid into her hands — thick, heavy, and smelling faintly of paper, ink, and… peonies.

Strange.

She unfolded it carefully and read the elegant script.

Dear Miss Avery,

I’d like to invite you for a job proposal at Malfoy Manor.

This meeting is private and should not be known to the Ministry.

If you are interested in righting certain wrongs, do come tonight for dinner.

I look forward to meeting you in person.

Narcissa Malfoy

 

Arianna inhaled slowly. Narcissa Malfoy. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A Black by birth. A name that carried weight even now.

A woman tied to the wars not through the battlefield, but through blood and allegiance.

Lucius Malfoy was back in Azkaban, awaiting the Dementor’s Kiss after being found guilty on more charges than parchment could list: treason against wizardkind, use of dark magic, infiltration of Ministry departments, destruction of property, the theft of prophecies… and his role in the mass breakout of 1996.

He would not leave Azkaban alive.

Narcissa herself had never borne the Mark. She could not be charged. But everything around her had been stripped away.

Her sister and brother-in-law dead. Her husband imprisoned. And her only son — Draco Malfoy — publicly executed at twenty-one for a list of crimes that scorched the walls of the Wizengamot chambers.

Arianna let the parchment rest between her fingers. Interesting.

The widow of a fallen dynasty, reaching out privately. Perhaps she wanted to save her husband. Or reclaim something lost. Arianna wasn’t one to judge. She’d once stepped into time itself trying to save her parents from a gruesome fate.

She could understand desperation. Even respect it.

So she reached for her quill and scribbled a simple reply:

See you at dinner. — A.A.

With a flick of her wrist, she sent it gliding into the mail tube on the wall. The letter was sucked into the Ministry’s pipeline system and vanished in a soft rush of air.

Arianna leaned back in her chair. Malfoy Manor. Tonight.

 

 

Arianna Apparated to the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor.

The cold winter breeze tore at her emerald coat, sweeping her hair across her face as she stood there like a shadow carved out of the fog.

The manor was still impressive. Hedges lined the long path leading to the courtyard, their shapes swallowed in mist. Columns rose along the entrance façade, pale stone streaked with moisture, black-framed windows glaring down like watchful eyes. High above, the tower roof was crowned with a delicate wrought-iron fence shaped into a curling M — the mark of the Malfoy line.

Everything about the place whispered wealth. Old wealth. Vaults full of gold she could barely imagine.

She wasn’t poor. Far from it. But this was another world entirely.

She wondered briefly how Narcissa had managed to keep the fortunes of both the Malfoy and Black families untouched after the war. Then again, a woman with that kind of lineage did not lose anything without blood being spilled first.

Whatever she wanted, whatever she was offering — it would be paid well.

Arianna brushed windblown strands of her brown hair behind her ear and stepped through the gate.

Instantly, the air changed. Heavier. Older. The kind of atmosphere that held secrets like breath.

Against her better judgment, Arianna felt herself drawn in. Enthralled by the grandeur and cruelty woven into every stone.

By the time she reached the main entrance, the door swung open on its own. The first thing she saw was the grand entry hall: polished floors reflecting the dimmed chandelier above, and a round black table in the center crowned with a vase of peonies.

Peonies. Blooming out of season. Their scent familiar now, lingering in the back of her mind from the letter.

She stepped inside, the heavy door closing behind her with a soft echo.

Arianna had the sudden, certain feeling that whatever waited for her deeper in this manor… was the  beginning of something very dangerous.

Chapter 2: Letters of the dead

Narcissa Malfoy strode into the entry hall like a vision carved out of old magic. Age had touched her, certainly, but it had done nothing to dim her beauty. She was immaculate. As every Malfoy seemed destined to be.

Her hair was pulled into a tight chignon, the interwoven strands of white and black disappearing elegantly at the nape of her neck. Diamonds glimmered at her throat and wrists, pieces worth the price of another manor entirely. Her high heels clicked against the marble floor with the precision of a metronome, each step sharp enough to slice through the silence.

The deep crimson fabric of her dress clung to her figure with effortless sophistication — regal, commanding, and utterly unshakeable.

Arianna found herself staring. If she could look even half this composed at Narcissa’s age, she would consider it an accomplishment.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Avery,” Narcissa said, her voice smooth but carrying a thread Arianna couldn’t yet name. “Don’t be shy. Come in.”

With a graceful sweep of her hand, she pushed open the double doors to the drawing room, motioning for Arianna to follow.

The drawing room was enormous. A fireplace crackled on one side, where two armchairs and a chaise stood, all draped with black fabric embroidered with golden Malfoy crests. They clearly knew how to display their wealth.

Behind the chaise, a narrow table held a tray with crystal tumblers and a matching whiskey carafe. An old, yellowed globe stood beside it. Almost certainly a disguised stash for something far too expensive. The tall windows were framed in black, draped with heavy velvet curtains. A golden chandelier glowed above, and the carpets beneath looked hand-stitched.

On the opposite wall, next to a towering bookshelf, another set of double doors remained closed.

“Sit, please. Would you like some tea or something heavier?” Narcissa Malfoy asked, her tone polite but firm.

Arianna tried to look unimpressed, even though she was. “Tea is fine. Thanks.”

She lowered herself onto the chaise, folding her hands neatly in her lap over the fabric of her black dress, suddenly feeling smaller than ever.

Narcissa poured two cups of black tea with steady, practiced hands.

“Sugar or milk?”

“Both, please.”

Narcissa added a cube of sugar, then a measure of creamy milk. As she stirred, a sad smile pulled at her mouth.

“That’s just how my son loved his tea,” she said softly, grief woven into every syllable.

Arianna felt it like a pressure on her chest. She’d read the reports. How Narcissa had been forced to watch her only son be executed. How she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t begged, only stood rigid with Malfoy pride as silent tears slid down her cheeks. How afterward she had gathered his limp body into her lap, brushing his hair back with trembling fingers as she whispered: “May peace find you, my beautiful, sweet boy.”

Arianna had not been alive then. She only knew what the archives had recorded. Her own father, Everett Avery, had been a Death Eater at the time. A stain her surname still carried.

“Why did you send for me, Mrs. Malfoy?” Arianna asked, going straight to business. She couldn’t sit in front of that kind of grief for long.

Narcissa settled into her seat, stirring her tea once, then twice, before clearing her throat.

“As you may know, my son was executed twenty years ago.”

Arianna raised an eyebrow.

“Due to his long list of gruesome crimes,” she said and regretted it instantly. Narcissa flinched, though she didn’t deny it.

“Yes. But I assure you, he was a bright, sweet boy at heart. He was pushed into this by his father… and the Dark Lord. Without the war, I’m certain he could have been someone great. He was compelling. People were always either afraid of him or enthralled.” Her voice drifted, falling into memory.

Arianna watched her pale face grow even more ghostlike as she spoke of her son.

Arianna had seen photographs of him in the archives. He had been striking. The pale skin, the sharp blue-grey eyes he shared with his mother, the aristocratic lines of his face.

Beauty wrapped in darkness.

“I’m sure he was smart and all that,” Arianna said, sipping her tea. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”

Narcissa wiped her cheek, as if brushing away a tear that hadn’t quite formed.

“I tried to live with it. Tried to accept it. But I cannot. He was my only son. And I loved him with all my heart. He didn’t deserve this.”

A real tear slipped free as she tried to compose herself. Arianna inhaled slowly. She could see exactly where this was heading and the risks that came with it.

“I won’t ask you to save my husband,” Narcissa continued. “He built his own downfall with every decision he made. But my Draco… he deserved a chance at life.”

Arianna leaned back, lips pressing into a thin line, waiting for the inevitable.

“I want you to go back and change the timeline.”

She held up her palms quickly, halting Arianna before she could object.

“I know it’s risky. And far too much to ask. But I only want him to have a choice. To make his own decisions. Not be forced into them. And I would pay you handsomely. One Black family vault could pay for three lives well spent.”

Arianna tilted her head. One Black vault. Tempting, dangerously so.

But if she failed… if she took a wrong step… she could become just another casualty in a war she’d only read about. And then she’d never get to spend a single coin of that ancient gold.

“You want me to go back and change the course of events so your son isn’t executed?” Arianna asked, disbelief threading her words. Though deep down, she understood. “You do realise what you’re asking carries several risks. Not to mention the punishment if this ever comes out.”

Narcissa nodded, twisting her wedding ring feverishly.

“I know. But I am not afraid to pay the price, whatever it may be. And if that price is my own life, then so be it. At least then I could join my husband and my son.”

Her voice cracked. She was a woman emptied of everything but grief. Arianna knew that feeling. But she couldn’t make this decision blindly. She would need to analyse Draco Malfoy’s entire file, study the timeline, calculate the fractures and possible outcomes. Time wasn’t merciful. Nor was it obedient.

And still… she didn’t care for politics or law. If she could help, she would.

Even if Draco had become a monster by the end. Even if he had killed without blinking, without regret. Maybe she could reach him before the darkness swallowed the boy he once was. If she dared.

But curiosity always outweighed self-preservation in her.

“I’d need to go through your son’s file,” she said. “Understand the full story. Calculate risks. Form a viable plan. This will take time. And I can’t guarantee success. Time is delicate. Dangerous. And forbidden.”

Narcissa set down her teacup and reached across to take Arianna’s hand. Her fingers were ice cold, like the grieving soul that lived beneath her ribs.

“I know. Take your time. Make your decision. Just know… I would pay any price if you could give him even a headstart.”

Arianna glanced down at Narcissa’s slender fingers clutching hers, the wedding ring gleaming mockingly in the firelight.

She should have said no. Immediately. Messing with time. Breaking laws she was meant to protect.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling of how utterly broken this woman was… and the pull of history, of danger, of adventure, thrummed in her blood.

“I’ll keep in touch,” Arianna said quietly.

 

 

Three days later, Arianna sat hunched on the floor, cross-legged, papers sprawled in a chaotic circle around her. A half-empty glass of wine swayed loosely in her hand. She had needed to call in more than a few favors to get these files. The Malfoy records were confidential, protected, buried deep.

A bureaucratic inconvenience.

Nothing she couldn’t handle with a few well-timed fluttered lashes and a handful of carefully crafted, entirely fake smiles.

Now she was surrounded by every scrap of information ever recorded about Draco Malfoy.

And it was bad. Very bad.

He had killed so many people. Ruthlessly. Violently. Bloodily.

The photos from old Daily Prophet issues still moved, grainy but unmistakably alive. She slid one closer: Draco in a black suit, walking into the Wizengamot. One hand tugged lightly at his jacket button as if he needed room to breathe. His expression was eerily calm. Unafraid. Accepting.

He hadn’t looked frightened at his execution either. He had smiled.

That Malfoy arrogance in every line of his body, that effortless confidence… it irritated her how compelling she found it.

She caught herself watching his photographs more than she read his reports. Already he had a hold on her. A stranger from a past she had never lived.

“Damn,” Arianna muttered, sipping her wine, “if I’d been alive back then, I would’ve definitely had a crush on that one.”

She dragged another report closer. The killing of Albus Dumbledore. The crime that finally succeeded after multiple failed attempts. The cursed necklace, the poisoned whiskey, a dozen other strategies orchestrated by the Dark Lord.

He had managed it at last. And maybe that was the moment everything began unraveling.

Before that, there wasn’t a single documented crime to his name. If she went back… she would need to keep Dumbledore alive.

But time was stubborn. Unforgiving.

If Dumbledore survived, too many threads would shift with him. Events that should happen might never occur. The war might twist into something unrecognizable. The present — her present — could crumble beneath the weight of altered cause and effect.

Arianna sighed heavily, shoving the stack of reports aside. She took the last sip of wine before her gaze drifted to yet another moving photograph. This one from the Quidditch World Cup.

Draco Malfoy walking beside his father, turning his head sharply toward the camera — toward her, it felt like. The intensity of the look made her heart skip traitorously.

“That’s a very bad idea, Arianna. Very bad indeed,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at the mess around her.

Every time she steeled herself to write back to Narcissa Malfoy and decline, that exact picture flashed in her mind. That impossible look, the tilt of his head, the energy of someone who changed rooms simply by existing.

And her resolve shattered.

She wanted to meet him. She wanted to see him for herself. The legend. The monster. The boy who had once been neither.

She wanted to know him. She wondered what his voice had sounded like. Whether he had smelled faintly of peonies like his mother. Whether his laugh had been intoxicating or nonexistent.

“Merlin, you’re getting obsessed,” she scolded herself, rising to her feet and leaving the papers strewn where they lay.

But the image of him was already burned into her memory.

And despite every danger, despite the impossibility of saving him, despite knowing she could destroy her life and her timeline in the attempt… She wanted to try.

 

Right before lunch the next day, Bowman walked into her office again. In his hands he held the daily mail, a newspaper flashing on top of the stack.

“Hey, beauty. Love that colour on you,” he said, nodding toward her emerald silk blouse.

“Thanks,” Arianna replied, disinterested. She pulled the mail closer and unfolded the newspaper. The headline jumped out at her:

Lucius Malfoy to be executed by Dementor’s Kiss this Friday.

The photograph showed Lucius as he had once been: the immaculate suit, the cane he didn’t need but liked to flaunt, the composed tilt of his chin. Her eyes lingered on his face. On the way he moved, so much like his son.

He was going to die in two days. It shouldn’t bother her. But somehow, it did.

He had been friends with her parents, if being fellow Death Eaters could count as friendship.

She folded the paper sharply and shoved it aside. Bowman was still standing there, watching her.

“Anything else?” she asked, irritation rising.

He wrinkled his nose. “Oh girl, if you’d met me when I was your age, you would’ve fallen to your knees in an instant.” His voice dripped with disgusting pride as he snorted out a laugh.

“Shame I missed your good years,” Arianna shot back, forcing a smile.

Bowman straightened, jaw tightening.

“One day, you might want someone… experienced. Then I’m the man to call,” he said, winking.

She resisted the urge to gag and turned back to her mail, dismissing him with silence.

Her eyes drifted left to the cabinet of time-turners behind thick glass.

She forced herself to look away. Returned to her desk. Then her gaze flickered back again.

With an annoyed sigh she pushed her chair back and stood. A flick of her wrist unlocked the glass doors with a soft click.

She reached inside and pulled out one particular time-turner.

Small.

Golden.

A treasure, they had called it.

A time-turner powerful enough to send her not just hours back… but years. Decades.

It had to be this one.

Arianna placed it carefully on her desk. Her fingers rubbed at her temples, mind in turmoil.

“No. I won’t. That’s ridiculous. Suicidal even. No.”

She shoved the time-turner away from her,  then immediately retrieved it again, biting her lip as she touched it reverently.

And then, without another thought,  with the image of Draco Malfoy at the Quidditch World Cup flashing through her mind,  she turned the little wheel.

The world around her blurred.

Chapter 3: 18. August 1994

When she opened her eyes, she waited for them to adjust. Her stomach twisted, threatening to bring up her breakfast, but she swallowed it down. Voices surrounded her. People brushed past her. And when she blinked fully into focus, she found herself standing among the rows of tents at the Quidditch World Cup.

“Oh, dammit… that’s 1994,” she muttered, shoving the time-turner into her blouse. Then she glanced down at herself and groaned. She couldn’t walk around looking like a Ministry secretary.

With a flick of her wrist, her clothes dissolved and reformed into fitted black jeans, boots, and an oversized emerald sweater. That was better.

Crowds surged around her—laughing, drinking, stumbling, already half-plastered before the game had even begun. Arianna had never cared for Quidditch; to her, it had always seemed like a loud excuse for drunken chanting while arrogant players circled above pretending to be invincible.

Then again, she had never seen a match in her life.

She strode toward the stadium, trying to figure out what she was supposed to do now, when something tapped her arm.

She looked down at the tip of a black cane. And froze.

Lucius Malfoy stood behind her, clicking his tongue in irritation.

“Do you intend on staying in my way, girl?”

His voice was a cold snarl, steeped in superiority, status, and exactly the tone she had imagined. Arianna turned slowly, pushing the cane aside with one fingertip.

“I think I’m lost,” she purred sweetly.

Lucius looked her up and down, lingering on her face.

“What’s your name?” he asked, intrigued.

“Arianna Avery,” she said, fully aware that the surname would give him pause. It did. His brows pulled together in recognition.

“Avery… mmh. Any relation to Everett?”

She nodded quickly.

“Yes. He’s—uhm—the third cousin to my father. I just came to watch the game.”

She prayed Lucius didn’t know the Avery family tree well. Judging from his face, he didn’t.

“On your own?” he asked, head tilting.

“Yeah. My parents are… busy. As is Everett. So I thought I might as well come alone.”

A polite, wealthy girl sneaking away from overbearing parents. It was a believable mask.

Lucius narrowed his eyes.

“Can’t have you wandering about by yourself. You’ll sit with us. And the Minister. Follow me.”

He swept past her without waiting for a reply.

Arianna clenched her jaw. Arrogant bastard. As if he owned the entire world.

Then her breath caught.

He appeared in front of her like a punch to the ribs.

Draco Malfoy.

The face she’d stared at for days—alive, real, breathtaking. More beautiful than the photographs had ever captured. Platinum hair so pale it glowed, lips curved in a smirk that looked carved, not learned.

“Avery,” he said with disdain. “Should’ve known you were one of them. Keep up. And stop staring.”

The snarl was nearly identical to his father’s. Taken aback, Arianna stepped aside to let him pass, then followed. He was insufferable already.

She couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking, coming here.

Walking behind him, she allowed herself a moment to take him in. The careless confidence, the way people stepped out of his path automatically, the effortless command he carried at only fourteen. He was taller than her. 

And then his scent hit her.

Not peonies. Mint. A hint of smoke. Sharp, clean, expensive. Of course.

He didn’t look back once, even as he strode up the stairs into the stands. Only when he passed his father, who was speaking to an elderly wizard, did he stop and look upward.

The flash of a camera startled her.

That was the exact moment the photograph she had obsessed over had been taken, that impossible look.

She couldn’t believe she was standing there.

Next to the infamous Slytherin prince who would later be known as a cruel and ruthless killer.

But she felt no fear. Only intrigue.

Above them, someone caught her eye. Harry Potter.

The hero of the war. The Boy Who Lived.

He was looking straight at her.

Arianna’s breath stalled. Lucius followed Harry’s gaze upward with pure disdain.

He made a cutting remark. She didn’t catch it, too enchanted by where she was and who she was standing beside. These were the people who shaped the war. The names she had grown up learning.

And she stood here among them.

Harry kept glancing toward her, curious. She was striking, after all.

Lucius seemed to notice. He wrapped an arm around Arianna’s shoulders.

“A little guest of mine,” he sneered. “Do not stare, Potter. It’s very impolite. Then again—” his voice dipped with venom “—who should have taught you manners anyway?”

Harry flinched at the jab, then turned away, walking further up the stairs.

Arianna realized she was three years older than Draco at this point in the timeline. And judging from the look on his face, he didn’t particularly like her. Maybe it was because Lucius seemed oddly fond of her. Introducing her to the Minister, pointing out an empty seat beside them, even asking whether she wanted anything. Lucius Malfoy was rarely a gracious host. Or gracious at all.

But tonight, he was.

The game began, the teams flying in beneath deafening chants and bursts of color. Arianna watched Viktor Krum show off on his broom, circling the pitch with deliberate flair before an entire stadium wall transformed into his enormous moving portrait. She remembered him: one of the most famous Seekers of his era.

He was handsome, and when he hovered briefly in front of their box, he flashed her a charming smile before shooting off again.

Draco responded with a sharp wrinkle of his nose and turned away, irritated.

She doubted she would get on his good side tonight. And if she remembered correctly, the Death Eaters would be storming the tent fields in only a few hours. Burning, screaming, torturing simply because they could.

So she watched the game while she could, even finding herself a little excited as it went on. When it finally ended, she clapped her hands enthusiastically.

“You’d best get home, young lady. And tell your family we’ve taken good care of you tonight,” Lucius said as the stands emptied.

Draco stood beside him, staring at her with a mix of disdain and something else she couldn’t name.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” she managed, sounding painfully awkward. She rolled her eyes the moment Lucius walked away with a smug grin.

Draco chuckled under his breath.

“Best return to whatever place you crawled from, Avery. Socializing doesn’t seem to be your strength,” he snarled, brushing past her without waiting for a reply.

“I get why most people hated you,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

She waited until the last of the crowd had gone, waited even longer until she was absolutely sure no one was in sight. Then she slipped the time-turner out from beneath her sweater and turned the dial.

A flash of light.

A blur of motion.

Then she slammed onto the floor of her office, papers scattering off her desk and sliding across her face.

“Fuck, that was stupid,” she muttered, hauling herself upright. She shoved the papers into a neat pile, tucked the time-turner back into her neckline, and locked the glass case. With a quiet incantation, a perfect duplication of the time-turner shimmered into place.

“I’m going to need a bottle of wine after this,” Arianna huffed, leaving the Ministry behind her.

 

Back home, she dropped onto the floor again, surrounded by reports and photographs and immediately noticed something different.

The photograph of Draco at the Quidditch World Cup had changed.

Now she was standing beside him. Looking up at the camera.

“Fuck,” she breathed, praying no one else would ever dig through these old newspapers and find her there.

She emptied an entire glass of wine in one gulp, discarded her clothing on the way to the shower, and froze when she caught her reflection in the mirror.

There was a faint smear of red on her cheek. A leftover from when another fan had hugged her during the game.

She lifted her hand and rubbed at it absently… only to realize her sleeve still smelled faintly of mint.

Chapter 4: Who wouldn't?

An hour later, Arianna’s apartment door flew open and Tara raced inside. Her black hair streamed behind her like a whip, fierce blue eyes sweeping over the mess first and then locking onto Arianna sitting in the middle of it all with wet hair and a fresh glass of wine in her hand.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Tara demanded. She yanked open a cupboard, grabbed another glass, and filled it to the brim.

Tara was Arianna’s best friend. And after the little adventure she’d been through, Arianna had texted her for an emergency meeting.

Tara leaned forward, eyes narrowing as she took in the scattered photographs and files.

“Why in Merlin’s name would you be looking into Draco fucking Malfoy’s file?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you about,” Arianna said, stretching her legs out across the floor.

“Then you better start talking. And please start with why your damn face is in a picture with a dead boy.” Tara sat down across from her, impatience written across her pale face.

Arianna began explaining everything. Narcissa, Malfoy Manor, the proposal. Tara listened, her eyes growing wider, her head shaking more violently.

“Oh no. Absolutely not. You’re not doing this, Ri. This could get you imprisoned, or worse. Not to mention all the side effects a time jump could unleash.” Tara waved her glass in the air in disbelief.

Arianna sighed.

“I know. I just… fell into 1994 somehow.”

Tara tilted her head, giving her a don’t-bullshit-me look.

“You accidentally fell… into a different decade? Are you kidding me, Ri?”

She was right. There was no such thing as accidentally falling into time. And certainly not landing on the exact night the photograph on her floor had been taken.

“I just wanted to meet him. Once,” Arianna admitted, her voice small, like a guilty puppy.

Tara threw her arms into the air.

“Well, I’d like to meet Salazar Slytherin in person, but you don’t see me jumping through time and space for it,” she snapped.

Arianna let herself fall backward onto the floor with a groan, pressing her palms over her face.

“Dammit, I don’t know what I was thinking. I just wanted to—”

“To what?” Tara cut her off sharply. “Fuck the dead boy? Watch a Quidditch match you’re supposedly such a fan of? Tell me.”

Arianna didn’t move. She didn’t answer. Because she had none.

She had jumped on instinct, on some reckless fantasy about adventure and a doomed dark prince she had never met.

“You’re not helping,” Arianna muttered miserably, rubbing her eyes.

Tara blinked at her, unmoved.

“You want help? Get a therapist, baby. This was unhealthy from the very start.”

Arianna slapped her palms against the floor in frustration. She had been stupid and unfocused. Next time she needed a plan. A purpose. A reason to be there.

“Next time I’ll do better,” she said.

Tara’s head snapped up. She flipped her hair back with an exasperated gasp.

“Next time? No, sweetie. There cannot be a next time. You need to stay far away from the Malfoys and their cursed history.”

But Arianna couldn’t let it go.

Not now.

Not after she had seen him.

Not after she had heard his voice.

Not after mint and smoke had clung to her sleeve.

She was intrigued.

She was already slipping.

And she was already going down that road.

 

The wine bottle was emptied embarrassingly fast, leaving both girls sprawled on the floor, surrounded by files and old photographs of a long-dead boy.

“He does look devastatingly good, I’ll admit that much,” Tara said at last, her head resting on Arianna’s stomach as she held up another moving picture of Draco.

“Yeah. He fucking does,” Arianna sighed.

“You do realise that in 1994 you’d be older than him, right?” Tara snorted. “That’s kind of wrong, sweetie. Like… legally questionable wrong. Pedophile-adjacent.”

Arianna slapped at her blindly. “Stop joking. I didn’t want to go that far back.”

Tara dropped the picture onto her chest and rolled over, pinning Arianna with a look.

“Sweetheart, Malfoy in the nineties? That’s as dark as it gets. The only upgrade from that was dating the Dark Lord himself. So do me one favour and stay the hell out of it. The boy is dead. Leave him that way.”

Arianna inhaled slowly, nodding.

“Yeah… you’re right. I shouldn’t.”

Later, after Tara left, Arianna swept every paper and photograph into a messy pile and dumped it into a box. She shut the lid hard, reminding herself she absolutely would not go back in time for some already-dead boy.

But honestly?

Given the absurd chance to walk into the exact moment you’ve always wanted to witness… who wouldn’t be tempted?

And so Arianna did exactly what any unhinged girl with a time-turner and emotional instability would do:

She prepared transfer papers on old parchment. She enchanted a bag and stuffed it with clothes. Then she lifted the time-turner from her neckline and tugged the dial again.

She vanished with a sharp pop.

In another moment, in another decade, Draco Malfoy was sitting in an armchair by the Slytherin fire, laughing with his friends, blissfully unaware of the execution waiting at the end of his life.

And as Arianna stood on the bridge overlooking Hogwarts, its towers intact, its stones unscarred, she couldn’t help the tight pull of her heartbeat.

The castle was whole.

The war had not touched it yet.

With a breath steadier than she felt, she stepped forward, walking straight into a history she intended to undo.

Chapter 5: 20th September 1996

Walking into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on a blurry Friday morning was, without question, not Arianna’s best idea. Classes were already in full swing. Which meant hundreds of faces were pressed to the windows, craning to see the newcomer crossing the courtyard.

The scrutiny of all those watchful eyes made a shiver slide down her spine.

But she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and climbed the stone steps leading into the Great Hall.

The moment she stepped through the doors, she froze.

It was breathtaking.

The enchanted ceiling shimmered gold, echoing the early morning sky. Candles floated above the long-stretched tables, flames swaying gently. High arched windows cast soft light across the benches and polished floors. The hall felt vast, ancient, and impossibly alive.

It was like walking straight into the pages of a history book. Which, in a way, she had.

Behind her, footsteps approached. Slow and deliberate, accompanied by the unmistakable swish of heavy robes.

“What,” came a cold, drawling voice, “are you doing out of class?”

Arianna turned and found herself face-to-face with Severus Snape.

He was exactly as the old photographs depicted him: black hair hanging in oily strands past his jaw, sallow skin untouched by daylight, dark eyes sharp and unreadable.

Seeing him alive was… disorienting.

“Professor Snape,” Arianna said, flustered. “I’m sorry for barging in like this.”

His eyes flicked over her, assessing, dissecting, memorising.

“And who are you?” he asked, voice flat as stone.

Arianna shook her head lightly as though she’d forgotten her manners.

“So sorry. I’m Arianna Avery. I’ve just transferred from homeschooling. And I’m looking for the Headmaster’s office.”

She prayed her voice didn’t waver. Snape was the last person she needed prying into her background.

For a terrifying second, he simply stared. Then he turned on his heel, robes snapping behind him.

“This way.”

She followed quickly, trying to absorb every corridor, every staircase, every portrait whispering from its frame. The castle was a labyrinth of wonder, grander than anything she’d ever imagined.

When they finally reached the stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office, Snape muttered the password and motioned her forward.

The spiral staircase carried her upward, and as she stepped into the circular room, she froze again overwhelmed.

Shelves of ancient books. Glittering instruments whirring softly. The warm glow of afternoon sun spilling over impossible artifacts. And in the center of it all, Albus Dumbledore himself.

He looked at her over the rim of his half-moon spectacles with a serene, knowing expression.

As though he already knew exactly who she was.

And exactly why she was here.

“There is some… new transfer. Did you know about that?” Snape asked, giving Arianna a gentle shove forward.

“What a warm welcome,” she muttered under her breath. Snape’s face tightened into an even deeper scowl.

“Well, of course I did, Severus. Must’ve slipped my mind,” Dumbledore replied pleasantly. “You may go. I’ll take it from here.”

To Arianna’s surprise, Snape flicked his gaze between them, disbelief flickering in his dark eyes, then turned sharply and swept out of the office, robes billowing behind him.

Arianna was suddenly alone with the headmaster she had come here to save.

Dumbledore eased himself to his feet and rounded his desk slowly, studying her with quiet interest.

“Now isn’t this a curious circumstance,” he said lightly. “We have no record of a transfer student to my knowledge.”

She had expected that.

“It was a very spontaneous decision, sir. But I have all the paperwork here.”

She held out the stack of documents. He took them, glanced at the first page and then his eyes lifted back to her.

“Arianna,” he murmured. “I once had a sister with that name. She was a beautiful soul. And you remind me of her... just a little.”

His expression softened completely, the earlier confusion dissolving into warmth.

“Do take a seat, Miss…” He flipped the page. “Avery. What a coincidence. Any relation to Everett Avery?”

She knew the question was inevitable. She nodded with a polite smile.

“Yes. He was my father’s third cousin—Reginald Avery is my father. We prefer not to be associated with Everett, due to… obvious reasons.”

Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully.

“Well then,” he said, tapping the papers lightly, “let’s see. Where shall we put you?”

He wasn’t asking her, he was considering the shelves.

His gaze landed on the Sorting Hat. With a flick of his wand, it floated toward her. Without even touching her head, it spoke:

“Another Slytherin. Hopefully not as dark as her heritage.”

The hat drifted back into place. Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and nodded, unsurprised.

“I expected as much. Now, here are all the details you’ll need. Review them over the weekend. Classes are suspended on Saturdays and Sundays, so you may explore the grounds or Hogsmeade if you wish.”

Arianna was stunned by how easily she had slipped into Hogwarts. But something in the old man’s gaze suggested he understood far more than he let on.

He handed her a fresh stack of documents.

“Let me bring you to the Slytherin common room. You can tell me a bit about yourself on the way.”

He led her out, descending staircase after staircase. Down into the cold stone depths. He asked her age, her favoured subjects, whether she intended to join the Quidditch team (she declined as politely as possible), and reached the dungeons with a soft, thoughtful stride.

At the entrance to the Slytherin corridor, he paused and turned to her one last time.

“I hope you find whatever you seek within these walls, Miss Avery.”

And with that, he swept away, vanishing into a drift of white smoke.

 

Walking into the Slytherin common room was the greatest shock of all.

Vaulted ceilings arched above her, the stone dark and ancient. The huge windows were tinted green by the depth of the Black Lake beyond, casting the entire chamber in an eerie underwater glow. Students buzzed everywhere, lounging on leather sofas, polishing wands, arguing over homework, gossiping loudly. It was alive. Chaotic. Absolutely real.

And there, exactly where she had always pictured him, sat Draco Malfoy.

He lounged in an armchair by the fire, surrounded by Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. He was laughing at something Theo said, head tilted back, expression entirely unguarded until he noticed her.

The laughter died instantly.

Blaise rose from his seat in a smooth, feline motion and strutted toward her, all charm and arrogance.

“Hello there. You’re the new one?” he purred, looking her over as if appraising a rare artifact.

“Apparently,” Arianna replied. “Are you the welcome committee?”

Seeing Blaise Zabini alive—warm, breathing, smirking—made her stomach twist. Another ghost walking in the flesh. He was handsome, tall, all tanned skin and effortlessly wild black hair that looked a second away from curling. But his dark, warm, deceitful eyes were his most striking feature.

“I like to get a first look at the beautiful girls before everyone else starts crawling around them,” Blaise said with a grin. “Blaise Zabini.”

She rolled her eyes. She’d always hated flirtation and public performance.

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend or anything remotely like that. But thanks for the warning.”

Blaise laughed as if she’d amused him.

“Come on, then. Let me introduce this wonderful girl to the empire.”

He led her toward the fire and gestured flamboyantly at each of the boys, saving the final name for last.

“And this... this is the infamous prince of Slytherin. Draco Malfoy.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. A flicker of something. Confusion? Recognition? It passed through them.

“You look familiar,” he said. “Have we met?”

Arianna shook her head quickly.

“I don’t think so. And if we did, it must’ve been forgettable.”

She prayed he wouldn’t connect her to the girl at the World Cup, who looked exactly the same two years ago.

His lips curled into a smug smirk.

“Well then, we haven’t. No one forgets a Malfoy. Ever.”

Arrogant. Exactly as history had painted him. Arianna crossed her arms, fighting for air she suddenly couldn’t find.

“Can someone point me to my room?” she asked, trying to sound bored instead of overwhelmed. Seeing him now at her own age, was different. Sharper cheekbones, broader shoulders, taller than she ever expected. When he stood, she had to tilt her chin up just to meet his eyes. He was at least six feet, maybe more.

He noticed her strain and smiled like he enjoyed it.

“Blaise will show you,” Draco said and as he brushed past her, the scent hit her.

Mint. Smoke. Expensive cologne she already knew too well.

Familiar. Devastating.

Blaise led her down a narrow corridor and into her assigned room. A small dormitory with three beds. Two were already claimed, judging by the homemade blankets, mismatched pillows, and the scatter of personal belongings across them.

The third bed, the one closest to the door, was untouched.

Perfect. Close to the exit. Easy to slip out. And far enough from the other girls to keep her distance.

They weren’t there, thankfully. So after thanking Blaise, Arianna shut the door behind him and sat on the edge of the empty four-poster bed, wrapped in Slytherin green.

Her heart stuttered. She hadn’t expected it to hit her like this. She’d seen the photographs of his execution. She’d watched the old Daily Prophet footage of him being dragged in shackles. She had read every report, every gruesome detail about the monster he became.

But seeing Draco Malfoy in person… Standing before him… Alive and unbroken… It shook her.

And knowing what she knew, knowing exactly how his life ended, a cold fear settled under her ribs. If she got too close, if she let herself feel anything for him, then failing would destroy her. Because if she couldn’t change the timeline, he would die anyway.

She couldn’t stomach liking him if he was destined for the gallows.

So she made a decision. Distance. Always distance. She would pull the strings from afar. Never too close. Never too involved. Even though it was going to be excruciatingly difficult with him looking that breathtaking.

“I can do this,” she whispered to herself, drawing in a slow breath. “I’m going to do this, get paid a horrendous sum, and when I’m back he’ll already be married and happy and living his life. And Tara won’t rip my head off.”

Her breathing steadied. A little.

Everything about this place... the castle, the students, the sharp-lipped professors, the green glow of the lake pressing against the windows, was both enchanting and terrifying.

She turned her focus to the two occupied beds, trying to imagine the girls who slept in them. Their faces. Their lives.

And she hoped, with a tight twist in her chest, that they weren’t on the death lists she had memorised by heart.

 

The girls strolled in a while later, both stopping mid-step when they noticed Arianna unpacking her things. They each had long dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended.

The first was naturally pretty and slender, her features sharp and confident.

The second was heavier, broad-shouldered, with a face set in a permanent scowl that reminded Arianna faintly of a bulldog.

“You’re the new addition, then?” the thin girl said.

Arianna recognized her immediately. One of Draco Malfoy’s inner circle.

“Pansy Parkinson,” the girl announced, arms crossing as arrogance settled into every line of her posture.

“That’s Millicent Bulstrode,” Pansy added, nodding toward her companion.

The girl simply stared back, silent and unreadable and clearly not one for conversation.

“Arianna Avery,” Arianna said dryly.

Pansy Parkinson hadn’t died in the war. Arianna remembered that much. According to the records, Pansy had spent years on the run after Hogwarts fell, vanishing the moment her former friends — the ones sitting in the common room right now — were executed or locked away.

Millicent, on the other hand… Arianna knew nothing about her. Not a Death Eater. Not notable. Just a quiet girl with no entry in the archives.

The two settled onto their beds.

Pansy immediately inspected her nails, admiring the glossy black polish as if it were a masterpiece.

Millicent pulled a tin from her drawer and began eating cookies one by one, crumbs sprinkling across her lap.

Arianna watched them for a moment. Neither girl attempted conversation. Good. She wasn’t here to make friends or build strange little alliances. She wasn’t here to bond over nail polish or stolen pastries.

She had a purpose. And she needed to stay fixed on her goal.

 

The girls didn’t linger long.

Pansy immediately crossed to her trunk and began redoing her hair. Pointlessly, because it looked just as perfect before as it did afterward. She peeled off her uniform and slipped into a black dress with thin straps, something so delicate it looked more like a negligee than actual clothing.

Then came the ritual.

Makeup. Powder. Combed lashes. Lips painted a deep violet.

Millicent barely looked up, still working through her stash of cookies.

Pansy, now fully transformed into her evening self, began spraying perfume over every inch of exposed skin. The heavy floral scent rolled across the room in waves, leaving Arianna slightly dizzy.

“On weekends we gather in the common room,” Pansy said casually, inspecting her reflection. “In the summer we do it outside by the Black Lake. Some of the boys smuggle in firewhisky and we just… enjoy the freedom.” She capped her perfume and glanced at Arianna.

“You want to join?”

Arianna looked up from the book resting open on her lap, though she hadn’t read a single line. She blinked at Pansy, unsure.

Should she go? Did she even want to?

Now that she was sitting in the middle of it all, this castle, these people who were technically dead in her own time... the thought of joining their weekend gathering felt overwhelming.

But she needed proximity to Draco’s circle if she wanted to get anything done. And what better opportunity than a midnight gathering in Slytherin’s den?

“Yeah… why not?” Arianna said. It sounded like a question but was meant as agreement.

Pansy gave her a look from head to toe.

“But you don’t intend to go dressed like that, do you?” she asked, pointing at Arianna’s outfit.

Millicent chuckled behind her hand, cookie crumbs spilling onto the floor. The mess irritated Arianna instantly. She hated dirt in her room.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Arianna asked, genuinely clueless as she glanced down at her jeans and sweater.

“It’s… boring as fuck.” Pansy wrinkled her nose. “Come here, sweetheart. I can’t let you walk around like a Granger imitation.”

Arianna felt that one. Hermione Granger had been a brilliant witch, but she certainly wasn’t known for her fashion sense. With an eye roll, Arianna shut her book and climbed off the bed.

By the time she reached Pansy’s dresser, the girl was already digging through her wardrobe, pulling out fabrics far more revealing than Arianna would ever willingly choose. She had never needed to show much skin to attract attention and she didn’t plan to start now.

 

Draco Malfoy sat in his usual place, a crystal glass of firewhisky turning slowly between his fingers. Theo and Blaise lounged across from him, whistling at passing girls and laughing at every reaction. Crabbe and Goyle were sharing a massive bag of chocolate beans, contributing nothing of value to the atmosphere. As always.

Draco watched the dark liquor swirl with each movement. He was still digging through his memory, trying to place her. That girl.

He had seen her before. He was certain of it. Draco Malfoy never forgot a beautiful face. But every time he tried to recall where he’d seen hers, he came up empty.

He groaned and took another sip, then accepted the cigarette Theo passed over.

Theo could smuggle anything into Hogwarts. How he did it, no one knew, and Draco didn’t care. As long as the whiskey, the cigarettes, and the occasional illicit indulgence kept circulating, Draco was content.

And then she walked into the room. At Pansy’s side.

Draco’s eyes locked onto her immediately. His mind churned, still trying to remember where he’d seen her.

Her dark hair spilled straight down her back, glossy and smooth. Her grey eyes swept the common room as though she were searching for something or avoiding something. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t loud or staged. Effortless. Natural. She wore barely any makeup.

Just black jeans. A crimson crop top dipping low enough to ruin a man. But she didn’t need any of it.

She had that intangible something. An atmosphere that clung to her tiny frame.

She was small, thin but undeniably curvy in all the right places, and even if she shuffled in wearing pyjamas, she would still draw every eye in the room.

And she did. Girls whispered. Boys stared. And Draco was no exception.

Something about her felt… off. Not wrong. Just out of place. Like she didn’t belong in this moment. In this world.

She didn’t want the attention. He could see that clearly.

She wanted distance. Yet she let Blaise approach her, maybe because he’d been the first to greet her earlier. Blaise poured her a glass of firewhisky and whispered something that made her give a small, polite smile.

Draco couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could smell her as she passed through the room.

Magnolia. Peonies. A hint of rose. Magnolia was the strongest. Seductive, sweet, impossible to ignore.

His gaze travelled back to her face. The high cheekbones. The full, devastating lips.

He pushed the thought away sharply.

“What was her name again?” Draco asked, tapping Theo’s shoulder.

“Arianna,” Theo said without looking away from the blonde girl on the far side of the room. “Arianna Avery.”

“Avery…” Draco murmured. “Related to Everett?”

Theo shrugged. “Distant ones.”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “Is she close with him?”

Everett Avery had been a known Death Eater. Dangerous, unpredictable, and aligned with circles Draco needed to understand. Knowing whether Arianna shared those ties mattered.

Theo shrugged. “Doubt it. From what I’ve gathered, they’re not on speaking terms.”

Interesting. 

Across the room, Pansy was guiding Arianna through introductions, pointing out faces and names. Draco watched her, the firewhisky burning slow and warm in his chest.

And for the life of him, he still couldn’t remember where he’d seen her.

But he knew he had.

And it was going to bother him until he found out why.

Chapter 6: Slytherin politics

Arianna gulped down her third glass of firewhisky, ignoring the burn that clawed down her throat. In her head, the death list hummed like an unwanted tune. Her eyes swept the room.

Gregory Goyle — burned alive by fiendfyre.

Vincent Crabbe — killed after the Battle of Hogwarts.

Blaise Zabini — died in a raid.

Theodore Nott — executed.

Draco Malfoy — executed.

Marcus Flint — received the Dementor’s Kiss years after the war.

And speaking of Flint, there he was, walking straight toward them.

Arianna’s stomach tightened. According to the archives, Marcus Flint had been more than a Death Eater by the end of the war. He had helped traffic girls, had a reputation for cruelty, and was the kind of man who didn’t take “no” for an answer.

She shifted her stance just as he stopped in front of her, smiling with crooked teeth. He wasn’t handsome by any measure—not to Arianna, at least. Broad-shouldered from years of Quidditch, tall, imposing. None of it helped.

“Ah, the new arrival. Arianna, isn’t it?” Flint said, his thick dialect curling around her name.

She nodded, forcing composure. She needed to forget what she knew about his future. He wasn’t that man yet.

Probably.

“Yes,” she replied shortly, giving him nothing.

He tilted his head, his gaze sliding down her body in a way she instantly disliked.

“Can I get you another drink, sweetheart?” he asked politely, but the undercurrent beneath the words chilled her.

“No. Thanks, I’m good,” Arianna said, hoping he would lose interest.

“Sure about that? Maybe you want something different? Wine? Water?” He leaned closer.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She kept her posture straight.

“I’ll let you know if I get thirsty again,” she said, low but steady.

Flint’s gaze dropped for a moment, lingering on the neckline of her top.

“Did any of these idiots offer you a tour yet? If not, I’d be happy to step in. Show you all the good places in the castle.”

The insinuation in his tone was unmistakable.

Arianna lifted her chin defiantly.

“Actually, the Headmaster gave me one when I arrived. I don’t think I need another right now,” she said with a strained smile.

A few feet away, Draco and Blaise were watching.

“Fucking Flint,” Blaise muttered. “Hopefully she’s smart enough not to follow him anywhere.”

“Make sure she doesn’t,” Draco said, nudging him forward.

With a last look at Draco, Blaise crossed the room and clapped Flint on the shoulder.

“Marcus, you already met Arianna? Isn’t she a sweetheart?” Blaise said lightly, offering her a knowing blink.

“We were having a conversation, Blaise,” Flint said. “Getting to know each other.”

Blaise didn’t budge.

“You see, Arianna and I... we’ve already built a bit of a connection. So I’d appreciate it if you stepped back.”

He extended his hand toward her, and though Arianna was still overwhelmed by the ghosts in this room, she understood the lifeline he was offering. She took it.

She stepped to Blaise’s side, fingers curling around his, her free hand resting gently on his arm as she leaned in with an easy smile.

Flint watched the movement and groaned. Then he leaned down toward Arianna, his breath fanning her cheek. She flinched before she could stop herself. Whiskey and something sour clung to him.

“If you ever decide not to go with the house whore, you can always come back to me,” Flint whispered, closing his eyes and inhaling her perfume.

“Thanks. I’m good for now,” Arianna said evenly.

Flint gave Blaise a final annoyed glance before walking off.

Arianna exhaled slowly. One thing had become painfully clear: if she wanted to survive the politics of Slytherin House, she needed to become just as sharp and cocky as the rest of them.

This generation of pure-bloods was darker than she’d imagined. Scheming, cruel, quick-tongued, and always ready with a hex.

They played by a hierarchy she wasn’t yet part of.

And they could cut her down without blinking.

Dark times indeed.

Blaise guided her back toward the fireplace, where the inner circle of Draco Malfoy lounged like they owned the castle. Theo sprawled on the sofa, laughing, one arm slung lazily around Pansy’s shoulders. Draco sat in an armchair, swaying his glass of firewhisky, a cigarette resting between his lips. Crabbe and Goyle hovered near the mantle, swapping stolen cupcakes from the kitchens. Milicent occupied the other sofa, staring longingly as Crabbe shoved another cupcake into his mouth. Arianna couldn’t tell whether the girl coveted the treat or the boy.

She sank into the seat beside Pansy, stealing a glance at Blaise as he strolled back to Draco. Pansy leaned in, smiling with her usual mix of charm and poison.

“You look lost, girl,” Pansy said.

Arianna nodded. “I’ve never been to a school. I was taught at home. I’m trying to get the hang of… all of this.”

That part, at least, wasn’t a lie. Her parents’ isolation, their house arrest, their status as traitors to the Dark Lord. It meant she had never set foot in a proper classroom. Social skills were something Tara had always forgiven. But here, in the heart of Slytherin, her inexperience felt like a weakness she needed to correct fast.

Pansy curled her lips into a knowing smile.

“We live by our own rules. And there’s a hierarchy you should respect. Draco is the prince of Slytherin. His word is as good as law. Blaise and Theo are his… advisors, if you like. Crabbe and Goyle enforce those laws. And I’m just the side piece.”

It tracked with what Arianna had observed so far.

“And Marcus Flint?” Arianna asked, eyes drifting toward him. He was on the far side of the room, cornering another girl who didn’t seem unsettled at all. That didn’t comfort Arianna.

Pansy groaned.

“Oh, him. The cheeky bastard. Quidditch captain. He has a bit of authority. You should never let him get you alone. He’s handsy. Likes to test boundaries no one asked him to test. But being captain has its perks.”

Pansy sighed, reapplying a nonexistent smudge of lipstick.

“Stay out of his way. He does whatever he wants. The boys won’t interfere unless he crosses one of Draco’s lines.”

Arianna nodded slowly. The hierarchy here—the politics, the silent alliances, the unwritten rules—ran deeper than she imagined. This wasn’t school. It was survival. And only the sharp-edged survived. The rest got devoured.

Pansy followed her gaze back to Draco. Her lips curled into mischief.

“He’s already taking notes about you. Sorting you in.”

Arianna flicked her eyes toward him. The prince of Slytherin. Surveying the room with that razor-focus she’d read about in every damn report. He was looking at her now. Directly.

She turned back to Pansy quickly.

“Sorting me in?”

Pansy nodded.

“Draco’s mind works like this… complicated vault. He watches everything. Every twitch, every lie, every shift in your stance. He analyzes every word. And right now, darling, he’s analyzing you.”

Pansy said it like a warning.

But even with the weight of Draco Malfoy’s scrutiny on her, Arianna felt far more threatened by Marcus Flint than by the future monster sitting by the fire.

 

Arianna stayed on the sofa, letting Pansy refill her glass whenever she felt like playing bartender-queen. The whiskey burned less with every sip, and the more it warmed her veins, the easier the room became to read. Patterns emerged. Power balances shifted. Every glance meant something.

She watched everything the way a thief studies a vault.

The fireplace was the throne room. Draco’s court. His armchair was the crown itself, the center of gravity around which every ambitious Slytherin orbited. A few meters off, a smaller adjoining room glowed with candles and had rows of small desks. Officially a study chamber. In reality? A dark little hideaway where couples vanished, giggles echoing off the stone like a countdown before someone locked the door behind them.

Another connected room to the left was warmer, brighter, drenched in golden light. Quidditch territory. The captains and chasers sprawled across sofas like they owned the world. All except Draco. He stayed firmly planted in his chair, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers, the amber of his drink catching the flicker of the fire.

He didn’t mingle. He didn’t move. He observed. And he did it with the kind of sharp, hungry focus that made Arianna understand why people once followed him into darkness without hesitation.

Theo and Blaise were the only ones allowed near him. They joked, whispered, nudged him. And when he laughed — low, brief, reluctant — the entire room felt it, even if they pretended they didn’t.

A while later, Pansy rose with a flip of her hair and snapped her fingers toward Milicent.

"You wanna come? Society break in the loo. Fixing my lipstick."

Not a question. Not an invitation. A command. And Milicent scrambled up instantly, brushing crumbs off her robe like she’d been waiting all night for approval.

If Draco Malfoy was the prince, Pansy Parkinson was the crowned princess. One gesture from her rearranged the whole food chain.

Arianna didn’t want to belong to this court, but she also wasn’t stupid. You didn’t survive in Slytherin by being a loner. Not during this era. Not with this lineup.

So she nodded, pushed herself to her feet, and followed them.

And she felt it. The weight of his stare burning into her back as she walked away.

Chapter 7: Inside the serpents nest

The next morning, Draco swept down into the dungeons as if the whole castle annoyed him on principle. Snape sat behind his desk, hunched over a stack of parchment, counting ingredients with the precision of a man who’d stab someone for touching a single vial.

“What brings you down here so early, Mister Malfoy?” Snape asked without even glancing up.

Draco shoved his hands into the pockets of his far-too-tailored trousers, jaw set in annoyance. “I’m wondering if the new girl has any ties to the Death Eaters. Where does her family live again?”

Snape stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he sighed, dropped a recipe slip onto the desk, and continued packing moon-powder into a wooden casket.

“Did she get your attention because she’s pretty,” Snape asked dryly, “or simply because she’s new?”

“She got my attention because I’ve never heard a single word about her,” Draco shot back. “Which is unusual among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, don’t you think?”

Snape had thought exactly that. But he wasn’t about to discuss it with Lucius Malfoy’s heir. Especially not here, surrounded by thin walls and nosy children.

“Apparently,” Snape said, tone detached, “her parents chose to keep her out of the war and out of school politics. A coward’s choice, but not unheard of.”

Draco hummed, clearly unconvinced. His grey eyes narrowed. “You should keep an eye on that one. She smells like trouble.”

“You would do well,” Snape replied, still without looking at him, “to keep your attention on your own matters. Malfoy.”

Draco paused mid-stride. A tiny, involuntary reaction, barely there, but it betrayed him.

He knew exactly what “your own matters” meant.

Lucius had drilled it into him for years.

“Don’t worry, Severus,” Draco said coldly. “I’m well aware of what’s expected of me.”

He left with the distinct, irritating feeling that Snape knew more than he was saying.

And Draco Malfoy hated being the only one in a room without all the answers.

 

Back in the common room, Arianna dropped onto the sofa without caring whose territory it was supposed to be. Her skull throbbed—a souvenir from the firewhiskey she’d needed last night just to stop herself from spiralling.

She’d been on missions before. She’d meddled with time before. She’d bent history before. But this was different. He was different.

Draco Malfoy stepped into the common room like a dream she couldn’t scrub out of her mind. Or a nightmare she kept choosing. Arrogant, polished, crafted from money and ego and something darker underneath. Everything she read about him had been true and still not enough.

His clothes practically whispered wealth. From the polished shoes to the expensive perfume she could smell even from across the room. He moved like he expected the world to bend around him. Head tilted slightly back, chin lifted. He didn’t need the posture; he was tall enough. But it added to that insufferable superiority he wore like a second skin.

None of that was what held her. What held her was the way he scanned a room.

A person. Her.

Those blue-grey eyes, sharp and restless, never seemed to stop moving.

He looked like someone whose mind didn’t know what peace was. Someone built for storms, not quiet.

And that—Merlin help her—was the thing that kept her enthralled.

Draco swaggered over to her with a half–smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that said he was enjoying her obvious hangover. She didn’t look dishevelled—she’d made sure of that—but she was pale, tired, and very aware of how close she’d come to losing her composure the night before.

He dropped into the seat across from her and stared. No greeting. No smirk. Just a long, assessing silence.

“Anything you wanna say to me?” she muttered. “Or are you waiting for the words to walk over on their own?”

The smile widened.

“Why did your parents change their mind?” Draco asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Homeschooling you for years and suddenly tossing you into Hogwarts?”

Arianna didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. Guess my mother wanted me to have a social life. Which wasn’t exactly possible where I grew up.”

Truth. Too much truth, actually.

She blinked at how easily it slipped out. How talking to him felt bizarrely natural, as if she’d always known the shape of his presence.

Then she remembered Pansy’s warning: He sorts people. Watches them. Places them.

The softness vanished.

“And where was that again?” he asked, tone casual but eyes sharp. Suspicious.

Arianna cursed herself. She’d never rehearsed the small details of her lie. She’d prepared for events, history, battles… not basic geography.

“We have a townhouse in London,” she said. “Nothing special. My parents didn’t want me growing up thinking I was superior. Like some others.”

A jab. She didn’t even hide it. Draco laughed. Not warmly, but still a sound she could imagine getting addicted to.

“Superior,” he echoed. “Well, love, that’s what old money and pure blood does to you. It’s not taught. It’s inherited.”

She wanted so badly to tell him how that belief would crumble one day. How muggleborns would run the Ministry. How half-bloods would rise above the ashes.

But he wouldn’t listen. And she couldn’t say a word.

“London,” he repeated lightly. “Big city. What part?”

“Whitechapel,” she said. Too fast.

Draco’s eyes flickered with interest, the dangerous kind.

“Whitechapel,” he mused. “I’ve been there. Is it one of those neat white townhouses?”

Hell. Arianna had never set foot in Whitechapel her entire life.

“Yeah,” she said tightly. “A white one.”

Draco smirked, filing the lie away behind the walls of his Occlumency, where it would wait like a loaded wand for the right moment.

“And do you like it?” he asked. “Hogwarts, I mean.”

He slipped a cigarette between his lips with an effortless motion, and something hot rushed up Arianna’s spine. She straightened, forcing the reaction down. No way in hell was she blushing because he looked like a sin in human form doing absolutely nothing.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said, rubbing her temple. “Haven’t seen enough daily life here to judge.”

Draco’s gaze swept over her, too knowing. “Headache, love?”

“It’s fine,” she snapped.

“You might want to distance yourself from firewhiskey,” he said, rising to his feet. “It’s not for everyone.”

Then he walked away. No goodbye. No look back. Just the casual dismissal of a boy raised to be a prince.

Arianna stayed frozen on the sofa, her mind spinning, her pulse a frantic drumbeat she couldn’t calm.

This was going to get dangerous.

Fast.

 

Pansy had dragged Arianna, despite every complaint she’d muttered, straight into the Great Hall for lunch.

Still fighting off the pounding headache, Arianna stabbed at her plate with unnecessary aggression, her mind spinning in a dozen directions at once. She needed to refine her cover story in case Draco or any other nosy pure-blood cornered her again. She needed to review the timeline, to figure out where she could begin altering the threads of Draco’s fate. But her thoughts slipped like water through clenched fingers. Her skull ached too much to hold anything.

When she glanced up at the staff table, her breath caught.

Dumbledore.

The headmaster turned slowly, as though he had sensed her watching. His eyes peered at her over the rim of his half-moon glasses, soft and knowing, and then he smiled. Warm. Almost tender. As if he recognized her soul even when he shouldn’t recognize her face.

Arianna swallowed hard. He seemed… good. Good in that rare way people mourn for decades. The kind of good that left holes in the world when it vanished. And his death wasn’t far.

She knew that.

Sometimes, when he looked at her like that, she wondered if he knew it too.

“Gosh, girl, you need to stop brooding,” Pansy sighed beside her, crunching on her cucumber like she was punishing it. “Do you fly? We could grab some brooms and go for a ride.”

Arianna dragged her gaze away from Dumbledore.

She watched Pansy and the other girls at the table. All picking at their plates like every calorie was a death sentence. Thin wrists, strategically placed salads, careful bites. It seemed to be some silent Slytherin competition to see who could be lightest, prettiest, most controlled.

Arianna never played that game.

Her body had always been her body; she ate when she wanted, drank when she wanted. No rules, no measuring. Freedom.

Today, though, she wasn’t hungry.

She wasn’t anything except tired. I'm

Bone-deep tired.

“So?” Pansy jabbed Arianna again with her bony elbow, judgment radiating off her like perfume.

“So what?” Arianna muttered.

Pansy huffed. “Merlin, girl, I asked if you want to come fly. A little ride over the Black Lake.” She traced a dramatic arc through the air with her hand like she was illustrating destiny.

“No thanks. If I even think about flying right now, I’m going to puke.”

Arianna pushed her plate away, the fork clattering against the wood and making a first-year across the table flinch.

“Suit yourself. Go lie down and keep brooding. Miserable fits you.”

And with that, Pansy swept off with the others, all chatter and perfume and hunger for attention.

Arianna, relieved beyond measure, climbed back up to the dorm.

She curled into her bed, one hand tucked under her cheek, watching rain streak down the windowpane. Why anyone would voluntarily fly in this weather was beyond her. masochists, apparently.

After a while, her mind settled. Her thoughts finally started fitting together again.

Two weeks from now. Katie Bell. The cursed opal necklace. Draco’s first step toward the edge.

Two weeks.

She needed a plan.

Telling him “stop it” wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t listen. She had to intercept the necklace before Katie ever touched it.

 

 

Meanwhile — not far from her door — Draco stepped out of someone else’s dorm, hair mussed, shirt untucked, the curve of his smirk basically bragging for him.

Being Draco Malfoy had its perks.

Mostly in the form of pretty girls who wanted him for nothing more than a quick, intoxicating escape.

He never lingered. Never talked. Never touched affection.

In and out. A shadow with perfect cheekbones.

This morning was no different… except he paused.

His eyes drifted down the corridor toward the door he knew was now shared by Pansy and Arianna.

He could knock. He could walk in. She’d let him. He could tell.

But he was drained, the girl behind him had eaten two straight hours of his patience, and honestly… he didn’t trust Arianna Avery.

Something about her was wrong. Her story didn’t align. Her reactions were off-beat, like a song he didn’t know the rhythm to.

Shy and polite one moment, sharp as a blade the next.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaled, and walked the opposite direction.

 

He entered the common room to find Theo and Blaise soaked to the bone, laughing like idiots on the sofa.

“What happened to you two?” Draco asked, rounding the couch.

“Went flying with Pans and the girls,” Blaise said, tossing wet curls out of his face. “Theo tried to impress Kira and fell off his broom.”

Draco snorted. Kira. One of his favorites — gorgeous, fun, and blissfully uncomplicated.

“Idiot,” Draco said. “You want to impress her? Grow some balls and tell her everything you want to do to her. She’ll follow you.”

Theo looked horrified. Blaise barked a laugh from in front of the fire.

“Hey, mate, I don’t want her like that,” Theo protested.

“Everyone wants her like that,” Blaise said without shame.

Theo dragged a hand over his face. “Merlin, you’re both disgusting.”

Draco dropped into the seat beside him and slapped his leg.

“Falling in love, Theodore?”

Theo kicked him. “Twat. I’m only falling off my broom.”

“And even that you couldn’t do gracefully,” Blaise yelled over his shoulder.

“Fuck off. I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t shoved me into a tree, you dick.”

Blaise just grinned completely unrepentant.

It was stupid and loud and ridiculous. Exactly the kind of normal chaos Draco had grown up with. The kind of normal he pretended would never change.

And as he sat there, watching them argue, he hoped — quietly, desperately — that they’d all make it through the war.

 

Pansy came back soaked from the rain, Milicent trailing behind her as silent as a shadow.

“Merlin, that was fun. You should’ve come,” Pansy said, peeling off her wet clothes without the slightest concern that Arianna was still in the room. Pansy Parkinson clearly enjoyed being looked at. Arianna suspected she thrived on it.

“Honestly, Ri, you need fresh air. A walk to the library, a stroll through the courtyard, something. Otherwise I’m banning you from firewhiskey tonight.” Pansy slapped Arianna’s leg for emphasis.

Strange, how quickly Pansy had adopted her. As if Arianna had always belonged here. And Arianna, who had never collected many friends, felt a reluctant warmth toward her. In Arianna’s time, Pansy Parkinson had been a name tied to executions, raids, and dark loyalty. But here… here she was still just a girl, starved for attention and already addicted to being adored.

“You know what? You’re right. I’ll explore a bit. Want to join?” Arianna finally said, sliding off her bed.

“No, sweetheart. I’m taking a long shower, getting dressed for dinner, then checking what the boys are up to. Someone has to keep them in line.” Pansy winked. Milicent giggled.

“I could show you the kitchen,” Milicent offered quietly.

Arianna blinked at her with raised brows. “…That would be… so exciting,” she deadpanned.

Pansy snorted a laugh, already rummaging through her dresser.

“Come on,” Milicent said, and off they went.

Milicent Bulstrode wasn’t just the exception physically; she was soft where the others were sharp, gentle where they were vicious. And, surprisingly, pleasant company. Arianna had assumed she was dull. She wasn’t. She was just overshadowed by louder personalities.

Milicent led her out of the Slytherin common room into the golden-lit corridors of Hogwarts. The courtyard was scattered with students, whispering gossip, all dressed impeccably in their house colors. In contrast, Arianna’s dark jeans and loose white T-shirt made her feel underdressed. Out of sync with the era.

Down in the kitchen, the elves were already preparing dinner, clattering pots and muttering curses about “that Bulstrode girl always barging in.” Milicent simply beamed and asked for sweets anyway.

Arianna found herself smiling. Milicent hoarded pastries like a magpie, stuffing cookies and little cakes into her robe pockets and offering half of them to Arianna, who pretended to save them for later.

“So… Milicent, do you have a boyfriend?” Arianna asked gently, attempting conversation.

Milicent’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “Me? No one ever asks me that.”

“Well, I just did. So tell me.”

Milicent stared for a long moment, deciding whether Arianna was mocking her. Finally she seemed to conclude she wasn’t.

“Uhm… no, I don’t,” she said softly, gaze dropping to the floor.

“And is there anyone you like?”

Milicent blushed, scarlet blooming across her cheeks. “If I had to choose… it’s obvious, isn’t it? I’d gladly go with Draco Malfoy. I mean he's stunningly beautiful. But I know he’s not my type. And I’m not his. We don’t have anything in common.”

She hesitated, then whispered, “But Crabbe and Goyle are really fun. And… I might like Vincent. A little more.”

Arianna bit back a grin. “Ah. Vincent Crabbe? He seems nice.”

Milicent nodded eagerly. “He is! And… we both love cupcakes. The cherry ones are our favorite. He shared one with me once.”

Arianna raised her eyebrows. “Did he now? That’s sweet. Maybe you should just tell him?”

Milicent stopped dead, horrified. “Are you mad? That’s not how this works.”

“Then how does it work?”

Milicent inhaled deeply. “Well… first of all, Vincent is part of Malfoy’s inner circle. I can’t just walk up to him. And second… the boys in that group have a rather… explicit reputation.”

Arianna tilted her head. Not so dumb after all, she thought.

“What reputation?”

Milicent squirmed. “None of them ever have girlfriends. It’s… their thing. They date—sort of—but they never…” she fluttered a hand, embarrassed, “get too close. They get close, obviously, but not emotionally. Blaise once said only idiots fall in love and become blinded to important things.”

Arianna rolled her eyes. Idiots indeed. What a fragile excuse for emotional cowardice. But they were sixteen, arrogant, and raised on pure-blood nonsense. What else could she expect?

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Milicent asked as they turned into another corridor.

“No. I’m not into all that affection stuff. Or commitment. I don’t like being asked where I’m going or who I’m with. I’m more of a free spirit.”

Milicent nodded, but disappointment flickered in her eyes.

“Then you’re more like them than you want to admit.”

It didn’t sting at first.

Later, it would.

Arianna felt that line follow her like a shadow.

Chapter 8: A lie short lived

Saturday night wasn’t any different from the night before. The Slytherins gathered in their usual lazy semicircle, drinking out of stolen crystal tumblers and complaining about homework they’d never do. A few of them started childish games Arianna refused to even look at. She was perfectly fine curled beside Pansy, close enough to watch everything without being part of anything.

She wore black leggings and an oversized sweater slipping off her shoulder. Half cozy, half careless. Pansy had tried to bully her into something “appropriate,” but Arianna had shut that down fast. Comfort over couture, at least tonight.

One knee pulled to her chest, she listened to Blaise dramatically reenact how Theo had nearly died of embarrassment during the flying stunt show earlier. Arianna laughed, tucked her chin to her knee, and shook her head as she teased him. Her hair slid over her shoulder like a curtain every time she moved.

Across the room, Draco sat in his signature throne-like armchair, whiskey in hand, cigarette resting between two fingers. And, as always, he watched.

He watched the way she smiled. He watched the way her eyes lit when Blaise spoke. He watched the damn way she breathed.

Pansy leaned toward him, graceful as a cat, following his line of sight.

“Did she enchant you with her beauty?” she whispered dryly, eyes flicking to Arianna.

“No. Just curious.” Draco didn’t blink.

“You could paint her blindfolded with how long you’ve been staring.”

He stayed still. “That’s not what I’m interested in.”

“Mh-hmm.” Pansy wasn’t buying it.

“I want to know where she came from. What she wants here. Things don’t add up.” His voice dropped low. “Did she tell you anything about her family?”

He still watched Arianna, who at that moment mockingly slapped Theo’s shoulder, laughing like she’d known him since childhood. But Draco wasn’t surprised. Blaise and Theo had that effect. They made people feel welcome, cherished, entertained.

Pansy shrugged lightly. “No, she didn’t. But I could always go ask.”

She bent to kiss his cheek. Draco caught her hand, held it for half a second longer than necessary, then let her go when she slipped away.

Maybe he should ask Arianna Avery himself.

The thought lingered in his mind like smoke.

“I did not say that,” Arianna cried out laughing.

“Yes, you definitely did,” Theo scowled.

“No. I said maybe you should try a more subtle way.”

Theo raised both eyebrows. “Subtle would be flowers. And I don’t buy damn flowers for any girl.”

“No, I said—Merlin, forget it. You’re a lost cause.”

“Finally she’s got you all figured out, mate,” Blaise drawled.

“What—no. She did not.” Theo protested like a kicked puppy.

Arianna stood with a groan and a smile. “Enough. You’re both idiots. And I need a jacket before I freeze to death.”

She strolled off toward the girls’ dorms. The corridor was narrow, dimly lit by scattered sconces. The quiet pressed in on her… until footsteps followed.

She stopped. Turned.

Draco Malfoy stood there. Too close. Head tipped slightly down, mouth curved into that infuriating half-smile. He filled the whole corridor without even trying, and she hated how her pulse tripped.

“Malfoy,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Avery.” His voice was amused, lazy, knowing.

She meant to step past him. She didn’t move. He didn’t either.

His gaze dropped to the bare skin of her shoulder where her sweater had slipped. His hand rose. Fingertips brushed lightly over her shoulder, tracing a slow line that made goosebumps glitter across her skin.

“I’ve been wondering…” he murmured, still touching her. “Why you’d lie to me.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“And don’t pretend you didn’t.” His eyes lifted to hers. Cold. Sharp. Beautiful. “I’ve been to Whitechapel a hundred times. No white townhouses. It’s a poor area. Your family would’ve never lived there.”

She swallowed. Shifted her weight like her body was preparing to run.

“Well, I might’ve told you wrong. It’s Notting Hill. I must’ve been… confused.” She tried a soft laugh.

“Confused. Right.” His smile sharpened. “Because people forget where they’ve lived their entire lives all the time.”

Her relief broke when his fingers finally dropped from her skin.

“Might blame the firewhiskey from last night,” she said, stronger now.

He tilted his head. “I don’t know why you’re lying. But I know you are. And I’m going to find out. One way or another.”

“I’m not,” she lied smoothly. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’m freezing.”

She leaned in—too close—her breath brushing his chin, magnolia curling around him like a spell. Then she slipped past, hips swaying, disappearing into her room before he could think of something smart to say.

Draco stayed exactly where she’d left him. Staring at the door. Thinking.

“We’re not done, Avery.” A slow grin curved his mouth. “This just got a lot more interesting.”

He raked a hand through his hair, shook his head once as if to snap himself out of her scent, and headed back to the others like he’d never left.

 

Arianna shoved the door shut and pressed her back against it, chest rising and falling too fast. Her breath wouldn’t settle. Not because he’d caught her lie. Not because he’d practically promised to pull her apart until he figured her out.

But because he’d stood so damn close.

Because his fingers had skimmed her skin like he knew exactly where to touch to make her lose her footing. Because that mint-sharp, expensive scent of his still clung to her lungs. Because for one stupid heartbeat, she’d forgotten why she was here at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Get it together.

This wasn’t real. Not truly. This was a borrowed moment in a borrowed time. Draco Malfoy wasn’t hers to feel anything about. He was a name carved into a gravestone. A myth. A tragedy she had read about a thousand times.

He was dead.

She needed to remember that.

This version of him—alive, breathing, infuriating—was nothing but a flicker of a timeline. One she’d leave behind the second her job was done. And if she failed, he wouldn’t just be gone from her reach.

He’d be gone. Period.

She let her head fall back against the door, a slow exhale breaking from her lips.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room.

It didn’t matter how he looked at her, how he touched her, or how he made her lose her breath.

None of this was hers to keep.

 

When Arianna returned, wrapped in a ridiculous fluffy blanket, she dropped back onto the sofa beside Pansy and tucked her legs neatly under herself. Draco watched the scene unfold with a slow curl of amusement tugging at his mouth.

Sweet, wasn’t she.

Every other girl in the room would rather freeze to death than sacrifice the aesthetic of looking effortlessly stunning. Arianna, on the other hand, simply didn’t give a damn. Curled up in a heap of emerald fluff, oversized sweater sliding off one shoulder, black leggings hugging her tiny frame, she looked… comfortable. Soft. Out of place. Refreshingly honest without meaning to be.

And far too at ease beside Blaise, laughing lightly at something he’d said.

“Built different, isn’t she?” Theo muttered as he slumped into the armchair opposite Draco, still dripping from his earlier flight. “Kind of refreshing.”

“Definitely is,” Draco murmured, eyes still fixed on her. Pansy was berating Arianna for “making herself at home,” but Arianna just smiled, warm and unbothered, disappearing deeper into the blanket like a cat who owned the place.

Theo took one look at Draco’s face and nearly choked on his drink.

“I know that look.”

“What look?” Draco asked without tearing his gaze away.

“The one where you’re already picturing her without that blanket and those leggings.”

Draco blinked, slow and dismissive.

“Not in the least.” Theo arched a brow.

Draco exhaled through his nose, eyes hooked on Arianna’s bare shoulder peeking from the sweater.

“I’m picturing her in my t-shirt,” he corrected smoothly. “And only that.”

Theo let out a low whistle and burst into laughter.

Draco didn’t laugh. He just reclined back in his chair, one corner of his mouth lifting as Arianna tucked the blanket closer around herself... completely unaware that the prince of Slytherin had already begun unraveling her in his mind.

Chapter 9: Slytherin Vs. Gryffindor

The first days in class were a revelation for Arianna.

She’d never set foot in a real school before, never sat in a classroom surrounded by quills scratching and students whispering, never walked down hallways that smelled like parchment, dust, and ancient enchantments. She was fascinated by everything. She took meticulous notes. She laughed at Theo’s jokes, rolled her eyes at Blaise’s dramatic sighs, and wandered through Hogwarts with that bright-eyed wonder of a girl who didn’t belong in the past but pretended it fit her perfectly.

Sweet. Curious. Distractible.

A lie, all of it, but charming enough that Draco Malfoy watched her from across the room with a quiet, private smirk.

And then she walked straight into Cormac McLaggen.

To be fair, he absolutely could’ve stepped aside. He just… didn’t. Like half the school, he’d already noticed the tiny, beautiful new girl with the soft smile and sharp tongue.

Arianna bounced off his chest and stumbled back, grunting as she looked up.

“Not sure if that was my fault or yours,” she said, breath hitching, “but either way—sorry.”

Cormac McLaggen smiled, warm as a hearthfire. Being a year older, all lean muscle and soft blue eyes, he radiated that safe Gryffindor charm Arianna instantly felt melt into.

His fault, then. Definitely his.

“It’s Arianna, right?” he asked, turning fully toward her.

“Yeah. And you must be…?” She let it sound like she already knew.

“Cormac McLaggen.” He offered his hand.

She blinked. A Slytherin shaking hands with a Gryffindor? People would talk. But she took it anyway, his hand large around her much smaller one.

“I should go. I’m late for class,” she said quickly, before those stupid kind eyes could rope her into staying.

“Right. Maybe I’ll see you at the match this afternoon?” he asked, hopeful in a way that felt suspiciously like an invitation.

“Maybe,” she said, and hurried off.

Milicent trotted beside her, cookies somehow already in hand.

“He’s still watching you,” she whispered, glancing back. Cormac stood frozen, staring after Arianna like he’d been hit with a Confundus.

“Let him,” Arianna said calmly… but she was smirking.

Just because she’d come here to save the doomed prince of Slytherin didn’t mean she couldn’t have some fun.

And Cormac McLaggen? In her own timeline he’d be exactly the type she’d flirt with—safe, sweet, easy.

Unlike Draco Malfoy.

Who was none of those things. And never would be.

 

After classes, Arianna stood in front of her wardrobe like she was facing a dementor.

Milicent sat cross-legged on the floor, eating mini chocolates as if they were oxygen. Every so often, a wrapper floated down onto the carpet like battlefield shrapnel. Pansy lay sprawled across Arianna’s bed, flipping lazily through a Witch Weekly fashion spread like she owned the world and Arianna’s sanity.

“Why exactly are you freaking out about your outfit for a bloody Quidditch match?” Pansy asked, not bothering to look up. “You didn’t give a damn about your fashion sense last weekend.”

Arianna threw another sweater aside. It landed squarely on Milicent’s head, blinding her. Milicent just kept chewing.

“Maybe because half the school will be there,” Arianna said flatly. “And I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

Pansy let out a sharp laugh and kicked her heels up.

“Oh yes. Absolutely. That’s why you suddenly care what you look like. Because you value my approval so deeply.”

Arianna muttered something unladylike under her breath.

“It’s going to be cold,” Milicent mumbled from under the sweater hood, chocolate crumbs dribbling down her shirt.

Arianna froze. Right. Cold. She’d completely forgotten she had a body and weather existed.

She banished the top in her hands with a flick, groaning.

“Great. So I need something warm and decent.”

“Decent is the death of fun,” Pansy sang out, flipping another glossy page.

Arianna rolled her eyes so hard she saw her skull.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

Pansy gasped theatrically.

“I should hope so. To be ordinary would be my worst nightmare.”

Arianna watched her with an unwilling smile. Pansy meant every damn word and that was exactly why Arianna liked her.

In the end, Arianna chose dark jeans and a fitted midnight-blue sweater stitched with sheer cut-outs. One of the few pieces Pansy actually approved of without groaning. Over it she shrugged into an emerald trench coat with a matching scarf, the colors marking her instantly as Slytherin even if her manners didn’t.

Milicent insisted on helping with her hair. She hexed soft waves into the long dark strands, humming under her breath while the windows rattled in their frames. The wind outside howled like a creature in pain, the kind of weather that would rip every curl out within minutes. Arianna knew it. Milicent knew it. But the girl was so hopeful about her handiwork that Arianna didn’t have the heart to argue.

“You should wear crimson lipstick, darling. That would get you the attention you want,” Pansy said, leaning against the dresser and watching Arianna in the mirror like a fashion critic judging her latest muse.

“I don’t want attention,” Arianna muttered, tugging her scarf into place.

Pansy scoffed softly.

“Oh, but you do,” she purred, tapping her fingertips along Arianna’s shoulders as she passed behind her. “You just hate admitting it.”

Before Arianna could roll her eyes again, Blaise’s voice echoed down the corridor: “Hurry up, ladies! Time to go!”

He smacked his hand against the railing, impatient and theatrical as always.

Arianna took one last look at herself in the mirror. The waves already loosening, lips bare, scarf perfectly tied and exhaled.

Ready or not, she was about to step straight into another piece of history.

 

Another Quidditch match. Another place. Another time.

But as Arianna climbed the steps into the Slytherin stands, she felt that strange echo coil through her chest again. A memory layered over reality. The first time she had seen Draco Malfoy in person—1994, fireworks and crowds, the world spinning the wrong way around her.

Only this time, he wouldn’t be beside her. He wouldn’t smirk or insult her or stand too close in a narrow corridor.

Today, he would soar across the sky. She would watch him fly for the first time.

The stands filled quickly, green and silver bleeding into waves of red and gold. Shouts rose like thunder. Flags whipped in the wind. Students pressed shoulder to shoulder, the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin crackling in the air like electricity about to snap.

This wasn’t just a match. It was a battleground disguised as a sport.

Arianna tucked her scarf tighter around her throat and slid between Pansy and Theo, heart picking up speed as the players strode onto the pitch.

Gryffindor roared. Slytherin hissed. The sky trembled.

And somewhere among the green-clad figures mounting their brooms… was Draco Malfoy.

She exhaled, pulse buzzing in her veins. Eyes sweeping the Slytherin team for him. 

And then Draco Malfoy shot into the air—lean, fast, sharp as a blade and Arianna Avery felt the world tilt beneath her feet all over again.

She hadn’t remembered Quidditch being such a violent sport.

Or maybe it was simply the Slytherin way.

Elbows, kicks, brutal shoulder checks. Half the team seemed more interested in breaking Gryffindor bones than scoring points.

Ron Weasley dropped off his broom in a spectacular wobble, falling straight down like a sack of bricks. He slammed into the muddy pitch with a sickening thud, rolling over with a groan. The crowd gasped, then erupted half in concern, half in laughter.

The violence was no accident. Slytherin had nursed their grudge against Gryffindor for generations.

Cormac McLaggen spotted Arianna and flashed her a crooked grin. She barely had time to blink before Crabbe and Goyle rammed into him from both sides, flattening him between their hulking bodies.

Arianna slapped both hands over her mouth, horrified. Then she looked up.

High above the pitch hovered Draco Malfoy, elegant and effortless on his broom. He nodded down to Crabbe and Goyle with a sharp little smirk, fully approving the carnage.

And then his eyes found hers. Cold, gleaming, deliberate, before he swept away again. 

 

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were neck and neck, streaks of green and red slicing through the sky like dueling comets. The Snitch darted ahead in a manic blur of gold, taunting them.

Wind roared. Students screamed. The entire stadium was one breath held tight.

Draco didn’t blink. He swerved past a goalpost with a reckless precision only a Malfoy could pull off and leaned forward dangerously low on his broom. Potter lunged after him, reaching...  Too slow.

Draco’s gloved hand snapped shut with a decisive crack around the Snitch.

The pitch exploded.

Green and silver erupting in triumph. Pansy shrieked like he’d just proposed marriage. Blaise threw himself at Theo. Even Milicent made some startled noise that might’ve been excitement.

Arianna didn’t cheer. She froze.

Because Draco Malfoy wasn’t looking at his celebrating team. He was looking at her.

Up in the air, eyes sharp, chin tilted, that cold triumphant smirk pulling at his mouth like a secret he dared her to unravel.

He lifted the Snitch just a little higher.

Her stomach tightened.

He’d done this on purpose. He’d made a point. For her.

She shoved past cheering Slytherins and took the stairs two at a time, descending into the bowels of the stadium with determination burning hot under her skin.

She wasn’t allowed inside the locker room, but she didn’t give a single fuck. She slammed the door open, startling half-naked boys mid-conversation. The noise died the second everyone saw her.

She didn’t care. She marched straight to Draco.

He stood by his locker, towel in hand, hair wet with sweat and rain, every line of him radiating smugness.

“You did this on purpose,” she snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest.

Draco lifted a brow, amused. “Be more specific, love.”

“You told Crabbe and Goyle to attack Cormac.”

He wiped his face with a slow, lazy drag of the towel, then flicked a glance at the others. Just one glance and all the boys pretended they hadn’t heard a thing.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, voice velvet and poison. “That’s just the game.”

“Don’t insult me,” she hissed. “I saw you smirk when they hit him.”

His lips twitched. “Did you?”

“You’re a pathetic liar.”

Draco stilled, towel dropping slightly. He leaned down, breath brushing her forehead.

“Takes one to know one,” he whispered.

She ignored the jab deliberately. 

“You leave him alone. You hear me?”

He laughed under his breath.

“Why? Do you think he’s cute? Did he charm you? He’s a Gryffindor. And we do not befriend Gryffindors.”

“You don’t have to,” she shot back.

“And neither will you.”

She suddenly remembered he was shirtless. Sweat-slick muscles, pale skin, the kind of boy who looked carved from some aristocratic fever dream. The towel hung useless in his hand.

He started to turn toward the showers.

Arianna should’ve stopped. Of course, She didn’t.

“I’m not yours to command, Malfoy,” she growled, storming after him.

He spun, pinning her with a look sharp enough to cut bone. She almost slammed into his chest.

“You’re with us,” he said, stepping closer. “That means no Gryffindors in your friend list.”

She edged back, pulse kicking hard.

“…He was nice for two seconds straight. That hardly counts as friendship.”

“Good,” he said, closing the space inch by inch. “Then we understand each other.”

He tugged lightly on her scarf. One casual pull, and the emerald fabric slid from her neck and pooled at their feet. Her heart stopped.

“Emerald suits you,” he murmured, fingers brushing the collar of her sweater. Heat shot straight up her spine.

“Stop it,” she breathed, but she didn’t pull away.

He stepped in again, shadow swallowing her, and she instinctively backed up until her spine clipped a locker. He caged her with ease.

“A liar,” he whispered, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. “A Gryffindor sympathiser. What else don’t I know about you, Avery?”

“You’re a fucking creep,” she said and shoved him.

He caught her wrists instantly. Lifted them between their chests. Pinned her without even trying.

“No. I’m everything you should be afraid of,” he murmured into her skin. “And yet… you’re not.”

He was right. She wasn’t scared. Not even a little. Which was exactly the problem.

“I can talk to whoever I like,” she whispered, eyes burning into his. “And you don’t get a say.”

He hesitated for a fraction, then smirked, mouth brushing her jaw like an unspoken promise.

“As you wish.”

And just like that, he released her, turned his back, and walked off toward the showers like she was nothing but a pleasant interruption.

Arianna stayed pressed against the locker, chest heaving, skin tingling where he’d touched her.

Damn him.

 

Chapter 10: A Slytherin celebration

“There is going to be a huge celebration tonight,” Theo said as he strolled beside Arianna toward the common room, hands stuffed into his pockets, grin wide enough to rival the Black Lake.

“Because of the win?” she asked.

Theo nodded enthusiastically.

“That was a special win. We crushed Gryffindor. That’s basically a religious holiday in Slytherin.”

Arianna didn’t know where the hatred between the houses started, only that it ran deep, old as the castle stones, and apparently still alive in the far future she’d come from. A stupid tradition, but one the Slytherins clung to like gospel.

“I think I’ll pass,” she said.

Theo blinked, then threw his hands up dramatically as he half-jumped in front of her.

“You can’t! It’s going to be brilliant!”

She didn’t argue. She’d decide later, preferably when Theo wasn’t hovering like an excited puppy.

In her mind she counted the days until the weekend.

Two more.

Then she could slip back into her own timeline and check the damage she might’ve already done just by being here. She prayed she hadn’t made anything worse.

When she entered the dorm, Pansy was already in full preparation mode. Half-naked, hair in curlers, and tossing dresses onto both her bed and Arianna’s as if conducting a military operation.

“I took the liberty of choosing your outfit for tonight,” Pansy said without looking up. “You can find it on your bed.”

Milicent stood beside her, holding two dresses like she was weighing souls. Pansy shook her head each time until Milicent dumped them onto the ever-growing pile.

Arianna eyed the dresses draped across her blankets and sighed like a dying woman.

“Pans, that’s not my style. I don’t think—”

“Then stop thinking,” Pansy snapped. “You didn’t think when you stormed into the locker room to have a face-off with Draco, did you?”

Arianna stiffened.

“I did not storm—”

“Oh, you absolutely did. And it was iconic.” Pansy turned, holding a dress to her throat. “Does this make me look devastating or only mildly lethal?”

Arianna rolled her eyes.

“It fits you perfectly.”

“And apparently you lost your scarf on the way?” Pansy added, smiling wickedly.

Arianna’s hand flew up to her bare throat.

“Damn it,” she whispered, sinking back into her pillows. She could almost still feel his fingers there.

“If you don’t pick one, I will,” Pansy warned, already reaching for the dresses.

Arianna yelped, rolling over and covering them with her body. “No. Please don’t.”

Pansy laughed, deeply entertained by the entire spectacle, twirling her finger in the air.

“Tonight, darling, I want them all to see you as a true Slytherin.”

Arianna stared up at the canopy, hands folded over her face.

A true Slytherin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be one. But she had the horrible feeling she already was becoming one.

The common room was overflowing with Slytherins. Shouting, chanting, drowning the place in green and silver confetti as if they’d singlehandedly ended the war. The air tasted of smoke, whiskey, and victory.

Draco leaned against the wall beside the fireplace, one hand deep in his pocket, the other lazily balancing a cigarette between his fingers. He looked bored, almost regal in his detachment. Blaise lounged on the sofa with a girl draped across his lap, giggling at everything he said. Theo approached, handing Draco a fresh glass of firewhiskey.

Drinking had long stopped being for fun. It was a distraction. Something that muffled the dark corners of his mind until they felt further away.

Pansy slipped through the crowd in a black, dangerously short dress, curls bouncing like she owned the entire damn celebration. Draco actually smiled.

“You look lethal,” he said as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I know,” she purred. “I also persuaded our little Miss Avery to join the festivities.”

She pointed into the crowd.

At first he couldn’t spot her. Too small among the towering Slytherin boys. Flint was already hovering behind her like a dog on a leash as she waved him off and pushed through the bodies.

Then Draco found her. And paused. Arianna Avery looked… devastating.

The dress wasn’t flashy. Simple black fabric clinging to every inch of her body, long sleeves, high neckline, hem stopping mid-thigh. Bronze paisley embroidery curled around the material like something ancient and enchanted. But it wasn’t the dress.

It was her.

The perfume he couldn’t forget. The silhouette men would kill for. The dark, wavy hair cascading like spilled ink. That face—sharp, soft, impossible.

She wore black heels with golden sword-shaped stiletto blades. Definitely Pansy’s influence. Definitely lethal.

“Well, would you look at that,” Theo whispered, eyes widening. “The girl who lives in oversized sweaters finally shows her potential.”

He grabbed her hand and spun her around. She tolerated it with an eyeroll before brushing past him and walking straight up to Draco.

To his absolute shock, she grinned, plucked the whiskey from his fingers, and downed the entire glass in one swallow. Then she handed it back to him like she owned his air.

Draco’s gaze swept down her body slowly, deliberately, appreciating every damn inch.

“Someone’s in a mood,” Pansy said, delighted.

“Being bold tonight, are we?” Draco murmured, smirk curling.

“Maybe.” She turned and disappeared back into the crowd, hips swaying, leaving him speechless.

Speechless. Him.

Draco blinked once, shook his head, and inhaled sharply through his nose.

Trouble. Addictive, beautiful trouble.

 

Arianna stood with a Slytherin she’d seen on the pitch but whose name escaped her. He was talking far too loudly, running a hand through his hair as if mussing it up somehow increased his attractiveness.

“You’ve got to be violent to get anything done, sweetheart,” he said proudly.

Slender, athletic build, brown hair, sharp nose—handsome by most standards. But not Arianna’s type. Still, she’d rather endure his bragging than let herself notice how Draco Malfoy was very obviously burning holes into the back of her skull.

“Is she talking to Valsey?” Blaise asked, appearing beside Theo and Draco, all three of them staring into the shifting crowd.

“Definitely,” Theo said. He turned to Draco, who stood stiff, jaw locked. If that jawline was anything to go by, he didn’t like it.

They waited. Draco didn’t move.

“You’re not going to do anything about it?” Theo asked, baffled.

“Why would I?” Draco muttered. “She can handle herself. And if anyone should be breaking that up, it’s Blaise. He’s the one who implied he might be ‘seeing’ her.”

“Yeah, well, maybe not my strongest moment considering I’ve been carting another girl around all night,” Blaise replied with a shrug.

They watched as Valsey laughed and brushed Arianna’s arm with a little too much confidence. She smiled politely but angled her body away in a clear don’t touch me gesture.

And then Flint appeared.

He cut right between them, slinging an arm around Arianna’s shoulders like he’d bought the rights to her.

“There you are, pretty. Been lookin’ for you all night. You look ravishing,” Flint said.

Arianna’s expression changed instantly—tight, uncomfortable, annoyed. She tried to subtly shut him down, but Flint didn’t understand subtlety. He dragged her towards the adjacent room reserved for the Quidditch team.

“Don’t waste your time on Valsey,” Flint said, steering her forward. “All talk, that one and nothing to offer”

“I don’t think I’m interested in anything you have to offer,” she said, voice dripping ice.

His grin widened.

“That’s what I like best.”

Then another voice—low, cold, territorial—cut in.

“And you probably want to keep your hand attached to your arm.”

Draco.

Arianna’s breath hitched. Flint’s arm dropped from her shoulders immediately. He stepped up to Draco like he wanted a fight.

“Are you threatening me, Malfoy?” Flint hissed.

“Guess I am.”

The air tightened. Something dark rippled between them. Arianna grabbed Draco’s hand.

“It’s fine,” she whispered, tugging him back.

“It’s fine?” Draco repeated, as if tasting the words.

“That’s what she said, isn’t it?” Flint drawled, amused.

“Let it go,” Arianna whispered, fingers curling harder around Draco’s arm. His nose twitched in irritation, but when he finally looked down at her—really looked—the anger started bleeding out of him.

Her hand was wrapped around his. She stood close, clinging, pulling him back. For a moment he just stared, memorizing the image.

“You don’t touch her,” Draco snarled at Flint. “She’s one of us.”

Flint shrugged. “Let’s see for how long.”

She tugged Draco again.

“I said it’s fine.”

“And I heard you the first time,” he snapped, eyes still locked on Flint’s departing figure.

“We already talked about this. I’m not joining your club if it means you get to dictate who I speak to,” she said, though her hand was still in his.

His head snapped down to her.

“Enough.”

He tightened his grip and pulled her with him, dragging her down the dark corridor leading to the boys’ dorms. Shadows swallowed them whole.

He pushed her lightly against the wall and let go of her hand instantly, like her touch had burned him.

“You’d better listen to our warnings,” he said, voice low and furious. “Or are you really that ignorant? Marcus Flint doesn’t want dinner with you. He oversteps. Always. If you want to be another girl he corners and uses—be my guest. Go look for him.”

He gestured back toward the noisy common room.

“I’m not ignorant and I’m not stupid,” she snapped. “He wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near that far. I’d have cursed the fuck out of him. Not that any of this is your business.”

Draco scoffed.

“You’re barely half his size. You really think you’d stand a chance? No, darling. You wouldn’t. And whether you like it or not, you already joined the damn club. And we look out for each other.”

She searched his face for deceit and found none.

“So that’s it? You’re just… looking out for me?” she whispered. “Warning me about Flint?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“And Cormac? What danger does he bring?”

Draco looked annoyed all over again. He pushed a hand through his hair.

“Not this again. He’s a Gryffindor. And he’s a fucking prick.”

“That’s for me to decide. Don’t interrupt my conversations again.” She lifted her chin defiantly.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he growled. “Just follow the rules and we’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be fine if you let me do as I please.”

His mood shifted instantly. Dark to amused in a single blink.

“Speaking of pleasure now, are we?” he said with a wicked smile.

She groaned. “You’re insufferable. And no. We’re not.”

He laughed softly. The sound melted the tension between them.

When he looked at her again, something changed. She was so damned beautiful it knocked the breath out of him. He stepped closer, fingers grazing her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a gentleness she didn’t expect.

“I don’t know who you truly are, Arianna Avery… or why you keep lying,” he whispered, tracing the line of her jaw. “But I do know you played the same act the first time we met.”

Her heart stopped.

“1994. The Quidditch World Cup,” he continued. “My father invited you to sit with us. You looked exactly the same. Same hair. Same eyes. Same stubborn little attitude under all that sweetness.”

Arianna froze.

He remembered. He remembered everything.

“Tell me, Arianna… what’s the secret about you?”

She inhaled slowly. “You must be mistaken. I’ve never been to a Quidditch Cup in my life.”

He laughed. Cold and certain.

“And you keep lying. You’re a terrible liar, by the way. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

Her lips pressed together. “No.”

“You look to the right every time you lie. And you blink too much. It’s your tell. So don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

Her breath stuttered.

Behind them a crash erupted. Blaise dragging a laughing, bleeding Theo upright.

“I guess the party’s over,” she muttered. She brushed past Draco and headed for the commotion.

Theo had apparently jumped onto a coffee table to hype the crowd, only for it to collapse beneath him.

“You’re an idiot,” Arianna said, slinging her arm around his waist. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Isn’t she an angel?” Theo crowed, hugging her dramatically as she steered him toward the bathrooms.

Draco watched her go. Jaw tight. Eyes sharp. Mind racing.

Chapter 11: The execution of Belief

Arianna nudged Theo onto the windowsill, where he swayed like the drunken disaster he was. She tore a paper towel, drenched it under the tap, wrung it out, and stepped between his knees. With one finger under his chin, she tipped his head back.

"You're a dream, Ri," Theo murmured, smiling up at her with half-lidded grey eyes.

Arianna snorted and pressed the cold towel to the cut on his eyebrow. "And you're a bloody idiot."

"No, I mean it," Theo said, voice surprisingly clear despite the alcohol. "You're exactly what we didn’t know we were missing. Pans wouldn’t look at me twice if I was bleeding out. Milicent would, but only if I bribed her with pastries. But you... you’re the caring one. The gentle one."

Arianna’s brows rose. “Gentle? No one’s called me that in… well. A very long time.”

Theo blinked up at her. “Never? Then everyone else is blind. I see it.”

She swallowed hard. For a moment, she forgot they were in a grimy boys' bathroom, forgotten the thundering party behind them. She had watched Theo tease Draco out of dark moods all night, watched how he took burdens off his friends without fanfare. He saw more than he let on.

“My mother used to say that,” she whispered before she could stop herself. “When I was little. She said I had a gentle soul. But I don’t think she was right.”

Theo’s hand drifted up, wrapping around her wrist—not possessive, just grounding. His brows knit together. “I can see it, Ri. You have… warmth. Don’t you ever lose it.”

She exhaled softly, the words hitting a place she didn’t realise was hollow. With a snap of her fingers she summoned a faint shimmer of light, chanting quietly as the split skin knitted together. When she dropped her hand, the cut was gone.

“Well, good news—you’re not dying,” she said, stepping back. “Bad news, you killed the party.”

 

Draco lingered in the shadows, half-hidden behind one of the cold stone arches as Arianna guided Theo out of the bathroom. She had an arm looped around him, steadying him as he stumbled over his own feet, both of them laughing like idiots.

For the first time since she’d arrived, she didn’t look like an outsider dropped into the wrong world. She fit. Effortlessly. With snarky Pansy. With flirtatious Blaise. With chaotic, hopeless Theo.

It calmed Draco… and irritated him at the same time.

Because if she did have a secret motive—and he still believed she did—then where did that leave the rest of them? Would she drag Theo into it? Would she pull Blaise along? Would Pansy get caught up in whatever storm she hid behind that sweet little smile?

He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

And yet… she laughed at something Theo said, shoving him lightly, scolding him like an exasperated older sister. Theo beamed. She caught his arm again when he tripped, muttering something Draco couldn’t hear but could easily imagine.

Pansy would never be that for any of them.

But Arianna—whoever she truly was—brought something warm into their cold little circle. Something they had needed, even if none of them would admit it.

Draco watched them, jaw tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets, refusing to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth blooming in his chest: She was becoming one of them. And he needed to know what she came for, even more now.

 

On Friday, just after lunch, Arianna barely made it three steps down the corridor before Cormac McLaggen materialised beside her like an overeager golden retriever.

"Hey, Arianna. Didn’t see you much around lately. Did you enjoy the game?" he asked, falling into step without invitation.

She didn’t slow down, didn’t even look up fully. He simply kept pace, all bright eyes and boyish charm.

"I did. Sorry you lost," she said, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth.

Cormac waved it off. "Nah, just a game. We’ll win the next time. You’re going to be in the stands again, right?" 

Arianna tilted her head with that soft, harmless little smile she wielded like a weapon. Cute, demure… completely fake. It worked on men like magic every time.

"I will," she said, barely above a whisper.

 His grin widened like Christmas had come early. 

"Would you—er—maybe want to meet on the weekend? I could show you the school grounds?"

Shy. Merlin, she hated shy. But he was handsome in that Gryffindor-poster-boy way… and annoying Draco Malfoy had become a guilty pleasure. 

"So sorry, I won’t be here this weekend. I need to go home. Something came up with my parents. Maybe next week?" she offered. 

Cormac nodded, clearly disappointed but trying to play it cool.

"Yeah, of course. Family first. We could meet next week then. After class. Maybe… you’d like to come to Gryffindor’s quidditch training?"

"Maybe," she said with a smile that practically knocked him flat.

She walked off, straight past Draco Malfoy, who was leaning against the wall with the sourest expression this side of the dungeons.

Up in her room, Arianna packed quickly. Out of her uniform, hair tucked behind her ears, bag slung over her shoulder.

The door burst open. 

Pansy swept in like she owned the entire floor.

"Where are you going? Don’t tell me you’re running off with that prick McLaggen," she said, casually inspecting her nails.

"No. Merlin, Pans. I’m going home for a day or two. Getting a new wardrobe since mine clearly offends your delicate standards," Arianna lied smoothly. 

Pansy snorted.

"Good. I’ll be waiting to see what pathetic scraps you bring back."

She flopped onto her bed like a lounging cat, kicking her heels up as she flipped through Witch Weekly. 

Arianna didn’t bother hunting for Milicent. She slipped out with a quick goodbye.

The common room was buzzing. Milicent was sharing cupcakes with Vincent Crabbe, cheeks flaming red. Arianna smiled.

"Going somewhere?" Draco’s voice rolled across the room from his usual throne by the fireplace.

"I’ll be back Sunday. Try not to kill Theo or Blaise while I’m gone, would you?" she shot back without slowing. 

"No promises," he smirked. 

And then she was gone.

 

Arianna apparated a few miles outside the city, took a breath, and pulled the time-turner out. She rotated the dial carefully. Not too far. Not too short. Landing precisely in a moment of time was nearly impossible, which was why she reserved the weekends for this. Two days gave her enough room for a safe hop.

The world blurred. Cracked. Snapped back together.

She stumbled straight into her living room.

“Fucking hell!” Tara shrieked.

A whole stack of papers exploded into the air like disturbed pigeons. Tara had apparently been sitting on the little chair by the wall, waiting for this exact disaster to occur, and still managed to get startled out of her skin.

Arianna blinked, dropped her bag, and looked around at the paper storm settling all over the floor.

“What the hell is going on here?” she asked.

“Oh, don’t you dare throw that question at me.” Tara jabbed a finger toward her. “Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Arianna wisely obeyed and dropped to the floor, dragging a few papers into a messy pile. Her eyes skimmed the pages: archive reports. Lists. Names.

Tara stared at her as if she were a resurrected corpse.

“You sneaky, idiotic, irresponsible little witch,” she hissed. “You did it again, didn’t you?”

Arianna gave her best innocent blink. “Could you… be more specific?”

“Don’t you puppy-eye me.” Tara stormed closer and grabbed a paper off the floor, slapping it into Arianna’s hand. “Read.”

Arianna glanced down.

Listing of Students, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1996.

“Oh… damn.”

“Exactly,” Tara snapped. She stabbed her finger at a name printed in bold letters halfway down the page. “Care to explain how this exists?”

Arianna Avery.

Transfer: September 20th, 1996.

House: Slytherin.

Arianna’s jaw dropped. Tara was vibrating with fury.

“What in the actual fuck were you thinking?” Tara shouted. “I thought we talked about this!”

Arianna opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She shut it again.

Tara paced, arms flailing. “Since you didn’t answer my calls, I went to your office. Thought you were drowning in paperwork again. And what does your little stalker Bowman tell me? You called in sick.” She held up a finger. “Which you never do. Ever. So I think—okay, maybe she really is sick. Let’s check her flat. And guess what I find?”

Arianna winced preemptively.

“Nothing!” Tara threw her arms up. “Not a soul. Not a shadow. Not even one of your stupid coffee mugs left on the counter. It looked exactly like the last time you pulled this shit!”

Arianna tried not to laugh. It only made Tara angrier.

“So I ask myself: if a suicidal, stubborn disaster of a woman disappears off the radar, where would she go?” Tara jabbed a thumb toward the papers. “And the answer is apparently: right. Fucking. Here.”

Arianna sighed. “Tara—”

“No. No, no, no. I went to the archives. I did some digging. And guess what?” She snatched another paper from the floor and tossed it at Arianna. “I find your name in the Hogwarts roster. In 1996. Where you didn’t exist. Where you weren’t born yet.”

Arianna let the paper fall from her fingers. Tara collapsed from her chair onto the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of her like a furious therapist.

“Okay,” Tara breathed, rubbing her temples. “Okay. I’m calm. I’m mature. Tell me everything. Start from the beginning.”

Arianna swallowed and did exactly that. She told her about Draco. About Slytherin. About Pansy, Blaise, Theo. About Flint. About lying. About the cursed necklace. About getting entangled in history she shouldn’t even touch.

Tara’s expression morphed from disbelief, to horror, to amusement, to judgment, and finally to that silent, exhausted look that screamed: Of course it’s you. Only you would do something like this.

"Okay. So you travelled back in time. Again. And you're now a Hogwarts student. Well… not now. But then.” Tara rubbed her temples. “And no one questioned you?”

Arianna shifted, picking at her thumbnail like a scolded child.

“They did. I made up a story. They bought it.”

Lie. Draco hadn’t bought a single second of it. But Tara didn’t need gasoline poured onto her fury.

Tara inhaled slowly, moving her hands like some unhinged meditation instructor trying not to explode.

“I get that you couldn’t let this slide. You’ve been obsessed with that damned war since your father first lectured us. But this? This is lunacy. Even for you.”

Arianna shrugged. Stayed quiet. Scratched harder.

“Tell me.” Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Did you fuck the dead boy?”

Arianna’s head snapped up, eyebrows knotting.

“No! Tara, bloody hell, I did not.”

“Kissed him?”

“No.”

“But you want to.”

“No.”

Tara’s slow, vicious smirk spread.

“Oh, yes you do. You hesitated. And don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” Arianna said, outraged and caught.

“You keep looking to your right. You do it every time you lie.” Tara flicked her fingers.

And Arianna felt her stomach drop. Draco had said the exact same thing.

Tara’s tone softened, but her eyes stayed sharp.

“Darling… you’ve been obsessed for years. But you can’t fix the past. Fate snaps back like a rubber band. You need to let this go. He’s dead. Twenty years dead.”

Arianna whispered before she could stop herself.

“He’s not the monster they painted him to be.”

Tara jerked back like she’d been slapped.

“Arianna Avery. Do not defend that man. You read the records. You know what he did. He knew it was wrong and did it anyway. He became the monster.”

“But maybe I can fix it,” Arianna murmured. “So he never becomes that version of himself.”

Tara stood abruptly, hands on her waist, pacing like a thunderstorm in human form.

“Why are you so stubborn? You don’t even know him. He died before you were even born.”

Arianna bit the inside of her cheek. Hard.

“I do know him,” she whispered. “Kind of. And he doesn’t deserve this.”

Tara froze. Then she turned slowly, marched over, and yanked Arianna to her feet with a grip that bordered on violent.

“Oh, you want to play saviour? Fine. You think he’s not a monster? You think you can change what’s coming?” Tara hissed. “Then you’re going to watch it.”

“Wait—Tara, what are you—” Too late.

Tara snatched the time-turner off Arianna’s chest, twisted the dial, and the world cracked apart.

When Arianna blinked, she was standing in a freezing crowd under a black winter sky.

“Where are we?” she breathed, then a booming voice answered her.

“In the name of the Ministry of Magic and Wizardkind, you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, are found guilty of war crimes…”

Arianna’s knees buckled.

“No. Tara—no. We can’t watch this. Please—”

Tara shoved her forward through the crowd.

“You need to. Maybe then you’ll understand.”

Arianna broke through the front row and froze.

Draco Malfoy stood on a wooden platform, wrists bound, wearing an immaculate black suit. Chin high. Back straight. Smirking like the arrogant aristocrat he had always been written to be.

He didn’t look scared. He looked like he’d chosen this.

“Any last words, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco swept the crowd with cold blue eyes.

Then he found her. His gaze locked with Arianna’s. Her breath shattered.

“I never made any promises,” he said softly, smiling like the devil.

Arianna’s heart broke so loudly she almost didn’t hear the minister step forward.

“That’s the end of your darkness, Malfoy.”

Draco’s smirk sharpened.

“I’ll greet your wife when I cross over.”

Gasps. Rage. The minister’s jaw clenched.

Arianna tried to fight to the front.

“Tara, stop—Tara please—”

But the world narrowed to one cold voice: “Avada Kedavra.”

A blast of green light cut the night open.

The curse slammed into Draco’s chest with a crack that echoed like the sky breaking. His body jerked violently. His eyes went wide—bright for one last heartbeat—then hollowed out into nothing.

He dropped to his knees, still wearing that damned, haunting smirk. Then he fell forward onto the wood.

Dead.

Arianna’s lungs locked.

“No…” she breathed, voice barely there. Then everything inside her snapped.

“No!” she screamed, stumbling forward, but Tara’s arm banded around her waist and yanked her back.

“Arianna, stop,” Tara hissed, her own voice cracking. “It’s too late. It’s been too late for twenty years. Did you not see him? He had no remorse. None.”

Arianna fought her, hands clawing at the air toward the dais. “Let me go—Tara please—”

“No,” Tara snapped, holding her tighter. “You can’t save him.”

Around them, the crowd cheered. Clapped. Roared. A sickening swell of victory.

As they began to disperse, Arianna turned and froze again. 

Narcissa Malfoy had climbed onto the platform, elegant even in devastation. She sank to her knees beside her son’s body, gathered him into her lap, and stroked his hair back like she was brushing it for school. Her fingers trembled, but her face remained composed the way aristocrats are trained from birth.

She whispered to him. Soft words. Mother words. Words he’d never hear.

Arianna didn’t even feel the tears until Tara’s thumb brushed one off her cheek. She blinked, dazed, aching, broken.

She was crying.

For a boy she shouldn’t know.

For a boy history condemned.

For a boy who became a monster.

But right now, he looked like nothing more than a fallen son. A life cut wrong.

And she mourned him anyway.

 

Back in her apartment, Arianna tore herself out of Tara’s grip and staggered across the room like she was choking on air. She pressed a hand to her chest, gasping, pacing in sharp, unsteady lines.

“Look at you,” Tara snapped. “You’re crying! Over a monster, Arianna. A man long dead.”

Arianna spun around so fast her hair whipped over her shoulder. Fury twisted her features.

“He is not a monster!” she screamed, jabbing a shaking finger at Tara. “He was just a boy. Twenty-one. Barely lived. And the war claimed him before he even had a damn chance. How the hell would you have turned out in his place?”

A tear slid down her cheek. A real one. Tara froze, her breath catching.

“I don’t know, Ri,” she said quietly. “But we weren’t there. And he made choices. Horrible choices.”

Arianna stopped pacing. Her hands hung limp at her sides, eyes glistening, voice raw.

“I can fix this, Tara. I can save him. I can turn it all around.”

Tara’s expression fractured between disbelief and heartbreak.

“You don’t even know him. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Arianna swallowed. Hard.

She did know him. Not in the normal way. Not enough to justify the pain ripping her in half. But enough to understand him. Enough to see what everyone else refused to. Enough to watch him die and feel something inside her snap.

Every file she’d ever read. Every photograph. Every whispered rumour. Every detail etched into her mind.

And then meeting him.. alive, breathing, sharp, flawed, arrogant, observant.

Not a monster.

A boy made by his upbringing.

A boy cornered by a war he didn’t create.

A boy whose kindness slipped through the cracks when he thought no one was watching.

“There was nothing monstrous about him when he stepped between me and Flint,” Arianna whispered. “Or when he laughed. Or when he—” Her voice broke. “Tara, he’s not who history says he is.”

Tara pressed her palms to her temples.

“You’re delusional. This could get you killed. And you know damn well what time travel does. One wrong ripple and time wipes you out like you never existed. I don’t even know if you’ve already changed things. Merlin, I hope not.”

Arianna’s throat tightened. But she nodded.

“I’ll check,” she whispered.

Tara stepped carefully over the scattered papers and came to stand in front of her, shoulders sagging.

“You’re not going back… are you?”

Arianna didn’t answer. She walked to her table instead. Pulled a slip of parchment toward herself. Wrote two words with steady, elegant handwriting.

Then flicked her wrist, sending the message off in a spark of magic.

Tara watched the note vanish into thin air. Her face went pale.

“What did you write?” she whispered.

Arianna stared at the empty air where the message had been.

“‘I’m in,’” she said.

A message to Narcissa Malfoy.

A promise.

A vow.

A declaration that she was stepping into the war.

Again.

Chapter 12: A loop in time

Narcissa Malfoy sat in her drawing room at Malfoy Manor, sipping her tea like the perfect lady she’d been bred to be. Her hair fell in immaculate waves of black streaked with white, cascading down her back without a single rebellious strand. Her nails were polished obsidian, gleaming whenever the light caught them. The emerald velvet of her gown hugged her slender frame, and her wedding ring glinted like a reminder carved into her skin.

Elegance. Composure. Control.

But beneath all of it, she was unraveling.

Today she would visit her husband for the last time.

His Dementor’s Kiss was scheduled for Friday. Quietly, discreetly, almost shamefully, and she had spent the entire morning sorting through words she had rarely allowed herself to say. Words that should’ve been spoken more freely, but Malfoys did not hand out affection. Their love was rare, private, and razor-sharp.

And today, she would have to spend every last bit of it. There would be no other chance.

She would say goodbye to the second man she loved. First her son, now her husband. Two losses in a lifetime was cruel. Two losses in a single war was unforgivable.

It had not been a traditional love between her and Lucius, but Merlin, she had loved him fiercely. From the moment she saw him for the first time in the Hogwarts Great Hall, she had known he would be the beginning and the end of everything. She had loved him before the darkness, before the obligations, before the war tore their world into pieces. And she had loved him still, even after he had shaped their son into the very monster the world condemned.

She forgave his weakness.

She forgave his fear.

And Merlin help her, she forgave him even now.

With Lucius gone, she would be the last Malfoy standing. The final name in a bloodline that had danced with darkness for centuries. And perhaps this was how the Malfoy legacy was always meant to end. Swallowed by the same shadows they once commanded.

A faint pop snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts.

A folded piece of parchment floated in the air before her.

Narcissa reached out, unfolded it, and read the message.

I’m in.

A.A.

Just that.

Her breath hitched softly. A smile — a real one — curved her lips as she pressed the note to her chest like a secret love letter.

“I knew you would,” she whispered.

Ever since that cold night twenty years ago, when she saw the fierce, beautiful girl at her son’s execution — the girl who arrived out of nowhere, young and defiant, crying for a boy the world called a monster — Narcissa had known Arianna Avery would matter.

And when she saw her picture years later in the Daily Prophet, the youngest Ministry agent ever appointed to the Time Division, she recognized her instantly.

The ripple had already begun.

Arianna Avery had always been part of their story.

Now Narcissa would make sure she became part of their salvation.

 

 

Tara watched as Arianna tore open her closet and began flinging clothes across the bed in a frantic blur.

“What are you planning to do?” Tara asked, painfully calm. She had already watched Arianna swear at the air, watched her kick a stack of reports into a corner, watched her tear through the room like a hurricane. And now this.

“I’m going back,” Arianna said, matter-of-fact, not even pausing the destruction of her wardrobe.

Tara rolled her eyes, pushed up from the chair, and planted both hands firmly on Arianna’s shoulders to stop her from moving.

“Listen to me,” she said, quietly but with that dangerous edge only Tara had. “I know you’re going to do it anyway. You always do. But I need to say this one last time. This is going to end badly.”

Arianna’s jaw clenched. Tara continued.

“What if you erase yourself? What if you trigger a paradox? What if something here collapses? What if I wake up tomorrow and you’re just a gap in the air, and I don’t even know why?”

Concern carved itself into Tara’s face, genuine and raw. Arianna’s shoulders dropped. She exhaled, long and slow.

“Then you won’t remember it,” she whispered.

It was the last thing Tara wanted to hear, because it was true.

And in that moment, Tara saw it clearly again, the thing she hated most about Arianna: she wasn’t driven by obsession alone. It wasn’t just her fascination with the war, or the victims, or the endless what-ifs. There was something else. Something brighter and far more dangerous.

A flicker in Arianna’s eyes.

A direction she didn’t choose... something that chose her.

The way she defended Draco Malfoy with ferocity and certainty that didn’t belong to her seventeen years. The way fate seemed to curl around her shoulders like a hand, nudging her forward.

Tara swallowed hard. That was the worst part. Arianna wasn’t just being reckless. Fate was helping her. Encouraging her.

And Tara knew that nothing — not logic, not fear, not even her friendship and love — would stop her now.

 

“How did you know how often to turn the dial for a jump that precise?” Arianna asked.

Tara glanced at the half-packed bag on the bed, then at the girl she’d practically grown up with. A girl seconds away from doing something not just forbidden… but stupidly dangerous.

“It’s about intention,” Tara said. “If you know the date and time, then you have to want it so badly that the loop doesn’t miss. Time only listens when you’re desperate.”

Arianna nodded softly. “Thank you. And yes, I’ll be careful. I’m not planning to erase myself… or you.”

Tara pulled her into a hug. When she stepped back, her expression was tight around the edges, the way it got whenever she was terrified but pretending she wasn’t.

“You always saw life in maybes,” she whispered. “Not what people are… but what they could’ve been. It’s your greatest strength… and your worst curse.”

“I know,” Arianna breathed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Tara exhaled sharply. Then her mouth curved into that wicked grin she only used when she was seconds from causing trouble.

“And just in case you get the chance… go fuck the dead boy. I swear to Merlin, I’d climb him like a tree.”

Arianna snorted, shoving her shoulder. “You’re an awful friend.”

“I’m realistic.”

“Well, remember that when I come back,” Arianna said, kissing Tara’s cheek before she lifted the chain of her time-turner. “I hope you still remember everything I said.”

She turned the dial.

The world shattered into gold and wind.

Back to 1996.

Chapter 13: Sins and potions

Hogwarts lay in darkness. The sun had set hours before Arianna returned, and the corridors glowed only with the low, flickering torches along the stone walls. Most students had already vanished into their dorms; only a few stragglers wandered back from the library, robes whispering against the cold floors.

Slytherins, as always, clung to their dungeon like territorial cats. They had a natural aversion to everyone else, but their contempt for Gryffindors was practically a religion.

So when Arianna stepped into the common room, it was full to the brim. Warmth. Laughter. Sarcasm. The usual Slytherin chaos.

“Oy, Ri! Back so soon?” Theo called out from their usual corner. He waved like an idiot, grinning from ear to ear.

Arianna walked over, matching his grin, then without warning, dropped her bag straight into his lap. Theo jolted with a pained sound.

“Bloody hell, Ri. What’s in there? Bricks?”

“No. Clothes and shoes,” she said sweetly. “Feel free to carry them up to my room.”

She blew him a kiss.

Theo groaned on instinct. “Always the same. Abused by a woman half my size.”

He heaved himself up, bag slung over his shoulder, and disappeared toward the stairs.

Arianna let her gaze drift lazily across the room… then froze when it found his.

Draco Malfoy. Leaning back in his armchair like he owned the world. Pansy was bent over him, far too low for it to be innocent, giving him an unobstructed view straight down her dress. Arianna looked away before her expression betrayed her.

Milicent, meanwhile, stood nearby lecturing some younger Slytherin. The moment she spotted Arianna, she abandoned the boy mid-sentence and hurried over.

“Ri, you’re back!” she said, crouching as if Arianna were royalty returning from war.

“Milicent. No.” Arianna tugged her up by the elbow. “You’re not a dog. Sit like a human.”

Milicent flushed crimson and sank into the spot beside Arianna. Theo’s usual seat, which only made her blush harder when Arianna gently pat her knee.

“Did I miss something?” Arianna asked, her eyes betraying her for a split-second as they flicked toward Draco and Pansy.

Milicent followed the stare… and sighed like a girl carrying ancient, forbidden knowledge.

“Don’t waste your time thinking about that,” she muttered. “They have this… weird understanding.”

Arianna raised a brow. “Understanding?”

Milicent nodded, twisting a loose thread on her sweater until it broke.

“It’s strange,” she whispered. “They’ve been best friends forever. But whenever one of them feels—well—sad, lonely, whatever… Pansy disappears with him for an hour. They don’t talk about it. They’re not dating. But we all know they’re… uhm…” she blushed violently, “…having sex.”

Arianna just blinked. Unmoved. Unbothered. But very aware.

“Is she in love with him?”

“Merlin, no,” Milicent snorted. “Pansy says it’s convenience. Familiarity. No feelings. Just… something they do.”

Arianna let her eyes slide back to Pansy. Suddenly every flutter of lashes, every coy lean, every toss of her hair looked different.

Sex buddies. Not weird where Arianna came from.

But here—in 1996—wrapped in velvet tradition and pureblood pride?

It was practically scandalous.

Blaise drifted around the sofa like he owned the place, fingers brushing over Arianna’s shoulder in a feather-light stroke that made her look up.

“There she is,” he purred. “The only Slytherin bold enough to date a Gryffindor.”

Every head turned.

Arianna blinked at him. Milicent froze beside her. Pansy lifted a brow. And Draco—Draco straightened in his chair like someone had just insulted his bloodline.

“I—wait—what?” Arianna stammered, genuinely confused. Did she mess up the timeline?

Blaise’s grin widened with pure, deliberate malice. “Little McLaggen asking you out. Heard all about it. Right before you ran off and left us to rot of boredom.”

Arianna scoffed, sitting up straighter, spine like a whip. “First of all, who told you that? And second: I didn’t say yes, and nothing happened. So no, I’m not dating Cormac.”

Blaise lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Apologies. Thought maybe you met outside school. He left right after you, after all.”

“I did not. Idiot.” She swatted at him, but he dodged easily, laughing.

“Woah, no need to get physical. At least not in that way.”

Arianna released a murderous sigh and pressed her fingertips to her temple. Milicent, bless her overeager soul, leaned sideways to block Arianna from Draco’s line of sight. Though the damage was very much done.

“We’re not dating Gryffindors,” Milicent whispered, as if reciting scripture.

“And I don’t,” Arianna hissed, annoyed beyond saving. “Honestly? I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She shot to her feet and stalked toward the dormitory corridor, emerald trench coat swaying behind her.

Silence hung for half a second. Then Theo stepped out from behind Goyle, shaking his head.

“What?” Blaise said, palms up like he was the victim of a grave injustice.

“You’ve got a talent,” Theo muttered. “A real gift for lobbing grenades into people’s evenings.”

“I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to say anything,” Blaise insisted, putting on his innocent face—his absolutely not innocent face.

Theo snorted. “Yeah. And Slytherin himself didn’t know opening the Chamber would kill all the Muggleborns.”

Blaise smirked. “Bit dramatic.”

Draco still hadn’t said a single word. But his jaw was clenched so tightly a vein pulsed in his cheek. His glass hung suspended between his fingers, untouched.

He didn’t take his eyes off the corridor Arianna had disappeared into.

The next morning began with an utterly stunned Pansy Parkinson.

She stood in the doorway, toothbrush still in her mouth, staring at Arianna like she’d just risen from the dead.

“What’s gotten into you?” Pansy demanded, foam dripping down her chin in a way only Pansy could make look aristocratic.

Arianna turned with a slow, smug grin.

“I had a little time on my hands this weekend. Thought I might give the uniform that little extra… the way you do.”

Her eyes flicked pointedly to Pansy’s own uniform: skirt scandalously shortened, tie replaced with a black ribbon she always fussed with until it fell in that perfectly imperfect bow.

Arianna had borrowed the idea, but made it her own.

She’d shortened her skirt to mid-thigh, paired it with black over-knee socks. Her blouse was unbuttoned just at the collar, just enough to get away with it. The cardigan was oversized and slouchy, her version of comfort turned fashionable. A fusion of Pansy’s boldness and Arianna’s lazy-soft charm.

Pansy lowered her toothbrush, eyes sharpening.

“Which shoes?”

Arianna pulled a polished black pair of heels from under the bed and slipped them on, clicking one heel against the floor.

Pansy’s grin spread slowly, wickedly, proud as sin.

“Oh, I love it,” she announced, blowing Arianna a dramatic kiss. “It’s you… but hotter. You have my full approval.”

Pansy strutted out of the dorm first, hips swaying like she owned the entire corridor.

Milicent lingered, smiling up at Arianna with a bashful kind of admiration.

“I really like the style,” she whispered. “It looks… really good on you.”

Arianna bumped her shoulder lightly against Milicent’s.

“Well, thanks, Mills. If you approve, I know I got everything perfect.”

Milicent flushed pink, eyes darting from Arianna’s outfit to her own scuffed shoes as they walked.

“Mills?” she repeated softly, voice wobbling. “Is… is that a nickname?”

“Of course it is,” Arianna said. “If you don’t like it, we can find another—”

“No!” Milicent blurted, then caught herself and held up a hand. “No. I like it. It’s just… I never had one.”

Arianna slowed her steps. That hit somewhere deep.

Milicent was always almost part of the inner circle, always standing slightly outside it. Overlooked. Forgotten. The one they let tag along, but never really claimed.

Arianna made a silent promise right then: she wouldn’t let this girl fade into the background anymore.

“Then you have one now,” Arianna said, looping her arm through Milicent’s. “And Mills sounds pretty damn perfect.”

Milicent beamed as if someone had just handed her the world.

 

Arianna didn’t share all her classes with them, but she did share Potions.

When she rounded the corner toward the dungeon, Theo, Blaise, and Draco were standing in the hallway mid-conversation. They all paused.

“Damn, girl,” Blaise said, giving her a slow once-over and dipping his knees like he was proposing to her outfit. “You look hot.”

“She always does!” Theo barked, elbowing Blaise hard enough to shove him toward the door. “Try not to drool on her, mate.”

Arianna rolled her eyes and walked straight toward the classroom. Draco didn’t say a word. He just looked.

From her polished black heels, up her long legs wrapped in dark over-knees, to the shortened skirt that danced when she moved, to the unbuttoned collar framing her throat. His jaw tightened, just a fraction. His stare was a slow burn, locked on her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

He stepped aside, motioning for her to go in before him. As she passed, that now-familiar magnolia scent swept over him like a damn punch to the ribs. He inhaled before he could stop himself.

And she knew. Oh, she absolutely knew.

Her hips added the slightest sway, just enough to send the skirt fluttering. Draco’s breath hitched, so quietly no one else noticed, but he felt it like a slap.

He followed her into the classroom. And instead of taking his usual seat, he walked right up to her tabley shoving McLaggen sideways without even looking at him and sat down beside her.

As if that was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Snape waited for the class to settle before his eyes landed on Arianna.

“Ah,” he drawled, “I see Miss Parkinson’s provocative tendencies have finally rubbed off on you.”

Pansy beamed, blowing a bubble that popped far too loudly in the dungeon’s silence.

“And it looks damn hot,” she announced proudly.

“It is not the purpose of a school uniform to turn heads, Miss Parkinson,” Snape snapped, robes flaring as he stalked toward the chalkboard.

“Doesn’t hurt either,” Pansy muttered under her breath, dropping into her seat beside Theo and crossing her legs with exaggerated innocence.

Arianna said nothing. She didn’t need to.

She simply leaned back, crossed her legs, and felt Draco’s stare like a warm hand on her skin. His gaze dragged slowly from the black over-knees to where the skirt edged up her thigh, then to her collarbone, then her mouth.

He didn’t even try to hide it.

Not until Katie Bell walked past their table. The shift was immediate. His posture straightened. His stare snapped away from Arianna like he’d been burned.

Arianna blinked, a cold reminder settling in her chest.

Katie Bell. The cursed necklace. Next weekend.

Arianna’s jaw tightened. Draco looked away, back to his notebook, back to pretending he wasn’t seconds from sinning in a dungeon classroom.

She forced herself to focus on her parchment, but the thought gnawed through her like acid. She had one week to change the future. One week to stop that necklace from ever touching Katie’s hands.

And Draco Malfoy, oblivious and infuriatingly beautiful beside her, was running out of time.

Chapter 14: The blurred lines between darkness and light

Mid-lesson, while steam curled lazily off their cauldron, Arianna paused.

Draco worked with surgical precision, the recipe long abandoned, his fingers moving with an ease so natural it almost irritated her. He didn’t even notice her staring until she let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” he asked, turning his head just enough for the lantern light to kiss his cheekbones. He dropped a pinch of moonsprout into the cauldron and rubbed the residue between his fingers like salt.

“Nothing,” she said, smiling. “I just didn’t realise you were so passionate about brewing.”

He blinked, then smirked.

“I’m not passionate. If you want passion… all you have to do is ask.”

Heat shot up her neck. She turned away too late.

Draco’s chuckle was low and dangerous.

“Are you blushing, Avery? The girl who terrorises half the boys in this castle is blushing because of a single sentence.”

“I’m not blushing,” she snapped. “It’s the cauldron. You set it too close.”

He revelled in the lie. Slowly, under the cover of the desk, his hand slid to her thigh. Warm palm. Confident fingers. No hesitation.

“Your skin is cool,” he murmured. “So either you have a circulatory disorder… or you’re lying to me again.”

She kept her eyes forward, jaw tight. His touch scrambled her thoughts, her breath, her damn identity for a moment. She placed her hand over his to push him away, but he caught her wrist mid-motion and pressed her palm to her own thigh, his hand covering hers.

Soft skin. Warmth. Too intimate.

“I know a therapy for that,” he whispered, leaning in. “One word and I’ll have your blood pumping faster than it should.”

“Mister Malfoy!” Snape’s voice cracked through the dungeon like a whip. “Focus on your potion, not Miss Avery’s skirt.”

They snapped upright at once, hands flying to the table like two students who had absolutely not been touching each other under it.

Draco smirked. Arianna glared. The cauldron hissed. And the air between them simmered hotter than the potion could ever hope to be.

 

 

The days scraped past Arianna like sandpaper, every hour winding her nerves tighter. She paced her room, thumbnail between her teeth, replaying Draco’s execution over and over until she felt nauseous.

The official records said he died silent, grinning like a madman. But that wasn’t what she had seen. Her Draco. The Draco she’d interfered with. The Draco she’d changed. He had looked at her when he died. And he had spoken.

I never made any promises.

The line burned behind her eyes. A message. A warning. A connection she couldn’t yet see.

She dragged both hands through her hair. She’d been so stupid. So impossibly stupid. She hadn’t prevented his execution. She’d only altered it.

“Shit,” she whispered, panic flaring hot in her chest. “I didn’t think this through.”

Every conversation. Every interaction. Every stolen look. Each one a butterfly wing beating against the fabric of time.

Her mind spun to the next disaster: Katie Bell. The cursed necklace. Only days away.

She would interfere. She had to. And then she’d return home and check how much she had broken. And the thought terrified her.

If she succeeded…would she go back to her timeline and leave them behind?

Theo laughing. Blaise smirking. Milicent offering pastries. Pansy snapping and posing. Draco… existing.

She pressed her palms to her eyes. She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t leave. She was drowning in paradox before anything even truly began.

The door creaked open.

“Are you okay? You look pale.” Milicent padded inside, holding out a chocolate bar like some kind of sweet, softhearted guardian angel.

Arianna blinked, then took it.

“Thanks, Mills.” She smiled weakly as she broke off a piece. To her surprise, the chocolate actually soothed the ache in her chest. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Milicent grinned, cheeks rosier than usual as she settled beside her.

“Tell me about Vincent. Any news?”

And Arianna let herself breathe. Let herself listen as Milicent rambled about Crabbe sharing cupcakes and smiling at her across the Great Hall. Small things. Human things. Safe things.

After a while, Arianna gathered the candy wrappers and tossed them in the bin, then stood.

“I’ve got homework. See you at dinner.”

The library offered silence. Shelves sorted by subject. A system she could rely on, unlike her brain. She needed to research cursed objects, but she didn’t even know where to begin.

She stepped inside and immediately saw them. The Golden Trio, gathered around a table, absorbed in books and licorice sticks. Harry waved awkwardly when she passed. Ron choked on a sweet. Hermione didn’t look up.

But Cormac McLaggen sure as hell noticed her. He strode toward her like he owned the damn place.

“Arianna Avery. You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

She dropped her hand from the top shelf, exhaled slowly, and turned.

“Of course not.”

Cormac flashed the kind of smile that probably worked on girls who didn’t have galaxies of stress crushing them. He leaned against the shelf beside her. Tried to look suave. Fell short.

“So… about that date.”

Arianna blinked. Oh. Right. That.

“Yes,” she said vaguely. “The date.”

“Tomorrow,” he said proudly. “After class. I’ll show you the grounds.”

He batted his eyelashes like a hippogriff in mating season. She really had to resist rolling her eyes.

“Sure,” she said sweetly. “Why not?”

Cormac grinned like he’d just won a prize at a carnival, nodded, and strolled off. Arianna let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

He wasn’t terrible. Just… painfully naive. Trying so hard to play the charming rogue and ending up looking like an overeager puppy. And worst of all? He was exactly the type of boy Draco Malfoy despised.

She closed her eyes, cursed herself, cursed Draco, cursed her entire situation. Then she straightened her shoulders.

If Draco wanted to glare holes into the back of her head? If he wanted to play whatever game he thought he was playing?

Fine. She would absolutely go on that date. Out of spite.

 

 

Draco sat on a half-rotted sofa in the Room of Requirement, elbows on his knees, staring down at the wrapped gift on the floor.

If anyone else saw it, they’d think it was a harmless trinket nestled in velvet. It wasn’t.

Inside the black velvet box lay an old opal necklace, iridescent stones gleaming faintly as if breathing. He’d taken it from Borgin & Burkes at the start of term. It had hissed the first time he leaned in close, the kind of sound that made the hair on his arms rise. Even now, dormant and cushioned in velvet, something about it felt alive. Toxic. Ancient. Hungry. 

A curse like this killed fast, but not mercifully. Borgin had described the symptoms in vivid detail, pride in every syllable. A trance first. Levitation followed by Excruciating pain. And no trace back to the caster.

Exactly what Draco needed.

Tomorrow during the Hogsmeade weekend, he’d slip it into the hands of some clueless, naive idiot. A scapegoat. Someone forgettable. Someone who would unknowingly bring it straight to Dumbledore.

A small gift for all the years the old bastard had favored Potter and the Gryffindors. He grinned to himself.

The snake curled faintly beneath his sleeve, shifting under his skin. The Dark Mark. Always present. Always watching. He tugged his sleeve down and cast a glamour over it out of habit, then tucked the necklace into a velvet pouch. Curses this old didn’t need direct contact to bite. Better safe than writhing on the floor like a fool.

He stepped out of the room, ensuring the hallway was empty, and moved quickly down the corridor. Students instinctively stepped aside at the sight of him — quiet, cold, composed. His usual armor.

Snow dusted the castle grounds outside, thick flakes drifting past the arched windows. A white, silent world. Peaceful, almost.

And then he heard her laugh. Not the real one, the one she gave Theo or Blaise, the bright one she never meant to share. This was her polite laugh, the one she used like a shield.

Draco leaned toward the window. Arianna stood outside in her emerald trench coat, black scarf coiled around her throat. Snow caught in her dark hair like tiny stars. She lifted her gloved hands, catching flakes, smiling softly as they melted against her palm.

And then… then McLaggen appeared beside her like a fungus. Draco’s jaw flexed.

“Do you like the snow?” McLaggen asked, trying to sound suave and sounding instead like a broomstick creaking under too much weight.

“Yeah. It’s beautiful,” Arianna said. “Effortlessly calming.”

“Beautiful like you,” McLaggen crooned.

Draco nearly gagged. “Oh for Merlin’s sake,” he muttered. “That’s the cheapest line in existence.”

He watched them walk together through the snow-covered hedges, McLaggen pointing out landmarks as if he owned the grounds. Arianna walked beside him like a small emerald flame in a field of white.

McLaggen steered her toward the Quidditch pitch. Draco’s eye twitched.

“Unbelievable,” he snarled under his breath. “Fucking Avery. Never listens.”

His hand tightened around the velvet pouch. He turned sharply and strode away from the window, down the stairs, boots echoing with irritation through the stone corridors.

He needed his coat. And he needed to stop this shit before McLaggen started getting ideas he had absolutely no right to have.

 

 

Arianna had seen most of the castle grounds already. The Quidditch pitch, the reading spots under the willow, the stone benches facing the mountains. Cormac guided her through them anyway, proudly narrating things she already knew but pretending not to for his sake.

Eventually he led her down the sloping path toward the Black Lake.

“You shouldn’t swim in there,” Cormac said, kicking at a pile of snow. “But it’s brilliant to sit by. Looks even better with the snow, doesn’t it?”

He pointed toward the boathouse. The structure rose from the water like an old cathedral, dark timber softened by snowfall. The white dusting made the place look almost magical instead of vaguely haunted.

“Who uses those boats?” Arianna asked.

“The first years,” Cormac said. “Their first trip to Hogwarts is crossing the lake at night. Lanterns, stars, all that. Pretty dramatic for an eleven-year-old.”

Arianna nodded. She hated to admit it, but Cormac wasn’t as dreadful as she expected. The tour was ordinary, nothing she hadn’t walked past a hundred times already… but he kept the conversation light. And for a moment, she wasn’t drowning in thoughts of a blond Slytherin boy she definitely wasn’t supposed to care about.

She stepped onto the wooden planks of the boathouse, the floor groaning under her weight. Water sloshed against the beams.

The scent hit her immediately. Not the fishy lake-stench that lingered by the castle, but something older. Green, ancient, earthy. Like wet stone and forgotten relics. The lake surface stretched beneath her like a sheet of pure ink. No ripples, no reflection. Just depth. Just black.

She leaned over, squinting into the dark as if she could force magic to part like curtains. Obviously, it didn’t.

“Wanna go inside?” Cormac asked, drawing her back.

From the outside the boathouse resembled a church: pointed arches, carved stone, thin windows like stained glass without the colors. Inside, it was colder. Boats bobbed gently on the swells, tied there like sleeping creatures. She imagined summer sunlight spilling through the high windows. Warm wood, golden reflections dancing off the lake.

She wanted to see it like that someday.

“Come on,” Cormac said, already hopping into one of the boats, untying the rope with more confidence than skill.

Arianna hesitated. The Black Lake housed a squid the size of a building. Not the nice type, according to rumor. She’d read enough reports to know most “urban legends” in the wizarding world weren’t legends at all.

“What are you waiting for?” Cormac teased, that smug challenge in his voice she’d rather hex away.

Against her better judgment and perhaps out of curiosity she stepped into the boat. Cormac steadied her hand. She sat, bracing herself as he dropped the rope and snapped his wand at the oars.

They dipped into the water and began to move. Slowly, the little boat drifted out of the boathouse and into the open expanse of the Black Lake.

Arianna looked around with a soft smile, letting the world settle into her bones. Mountains rose beyond the Forbidden Forest, stretching pale and ghostly beneath a powder of fresh snow. The sky was a soft grey, the kind that swallowed sound as it rained down flakes in a slow, steady rhythm.

Hogwarts in her own timeline had been rebuilt after the war, shiny and sanitized. But this—this untouched, original version—breathed magic. Breathed history. She inhaled the cold air and felt something like awe unfurl in her chest.

Cormac, meanwhile, was staring at her with that familiar, idiotic glint boys get when their brain cells switch off and their ego takes the wheel. He leaned a little forward. Then a little more. That grin confirming exactly what his empty skull was plotting.

Before he reached her, Arianna jerked back so fast the boat rocked.

“What the fuck are you trying to do?” she snapped.

Cormac didn’t retreat. He hovered too close, licking his lips like a starving kneazle.

“I thought we could have some fun out here. No one would know,” he purred.

Disgust crawled through her. She realised how stupid she’d been, letting herself believe he was just harmless, sweet, vaguely charming. In reality he had dragged her out here like it was some sleazy invitation.

“Yeah. That’s not happening,” she said flatly.

Cormac crouched closer, hands tugging at her scarf.

“Come on, Arianna. Nobody’s watching. This could be our spot,” he murmured, trying for seductive but landing somewhere between pathetic and predatory.

“If you touch me again, I swear I’ll kick you into the lake and let the squid chew you up,” she hissed.

Cormac just smirked, not quite believing she meant it. He really should’ve.

He crawled even closer, the boat rocking dangerously. Arianna was nearly lying back now, retreating from his wet, needy mouth.

“Come on, beauty—”

“I said no.”

Her boot slammed into his chest. Hard. Cormac hit the bench behind him, eyes wide, breath punched out of him.

“Calm down! I wasn’t trying to drown you!” he barked, hands up.

“Then what were you trying to do, Cormac?” she bit out.

“I just wanted to—hell, I wanted to kiss you. That’s what a date is supposed to be,” he snapped, offended.

Arianna steadied herself, heart hammering.

“Get us back to the shore. The tour is over.”

Cormac grimaced, leaning forward again with that entitled pout.

“Please, sweetheart… I made an effort for you. You could at least give me a little—”

Before his hand reached her, the boat jolted. Hard. Then it began to move. Backward. Smoothly. As if pulled by invisible strings. Cormac froze and stared at her.

“Was that you?”

Arianna shook her head. Cormac turned toward the boathouse and went rigid. Three shadows stood waiting.

Theo, waving like the chaotic idiot he was. Blaise, giving a polite little nod of greeting. And between them Draco Malfoy. Hands in his coat pockets. Head tilted slightly back. Expression unreadable, except for the cold fury simmering beneath it. Watching. Silent. Possessive. And absolutely livid.

Cormac muttered, “Ah… fuck.”

Arianna didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her eyes were already glued to Draco.

The boat scraped against the stone as it drifted back into the boathouse, the impact barely settling before the Slytherins were already stepping forward. Draco inhaled sharply through his nose, as if this entire situation were nothing but an irritation. Then he moved.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. Just grabbed Cormac by the collar and yanked him out of the boat like he weighed nothing.

“You’ve got a death wish, Cormac? Cornering a Slytherin?” Draco said, voice low, dangerous in that way that made even shadows lean back.

Cormac’s face drained of color. He forced a pathetic smile.

“No—no, you’ve got this wrong. I was just showing her around. Right? Tell them, Arianna.”

He tried to look at her, but Theo was already at her side, pulling her out of the boat and onto the stone floor. Arianna wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t scared.

She was furious.

“Were you, Cormac?” she snapped. “Or did you try to kiss me? Hoping we could have a little bit of… what did you call it? Fun?”

A ripple went through all three boys. A very dark ripple. Draco’s jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes flicked from Arianna to Cormac.

“That doesn’t sound consensual to me,” he whispered, voice like ice cracking.

Cormac lifted both hands in surrender, panicking now.

“No—wait—I swear I didn’t touch her! I didn’t even—”

“Did he touch you, sweetheart?” Theo asked, tone far too amused for the situation.

Arianna’s storm-grey eyes stayed locked on Cormac.

“He would have, if I hadn’t kicked him in the chest,” she said coldly.

Blaise hissed through his teeth. “Ah. Well that sounds like a problem.”

“One I don't like,” Draco growled.

He shoved Cormac straight into Theo’s waiting arms.

McLaggen barely had time to squeak before Theo and Blaise dragged him out of the boathouse like a sack of dirty laundry. Arianna didn’t doubt they’d beat him senseless. Normally she would’ve intervened.

Not tonight. Not with adrenaline burning through her.

Suddenly the boathouse felt quiet. Just her. And Draco. And the soft knock of water against the boats.

She took her first breath. Draco stepped closer, lifting a hand to gently brush her hair back from her face.

“You’re okay?” he asked softly.

She didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

For a heartbeat he froze startled, confused, maybe both. Then his arms came around her, slow but deliberate, holding her like she mattered.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

She hadn’t needed him to save her. She would’ve cursed Cormac into the next lifetime. But gods, she was still grateful. Grateful that he’d cared enough to come.

When she pulled back and tilted her head up at him, she realized how tall he truly was. His eyes roamed her face restlessly, searching for bruises, cuts, any hint she'd been hurt. Then he cupped her face with warm fingers.

Outside, Cormac’s pained grunts echoed through the stone.

“You insufferable, stubborn, gorgeous woman should listen to me more often,” Draco said with a soft smile.

Arianna stepped back, heart hammering. She smirked.

“Only heard you calling me gorgeous.”

He huffed a laugh. “That’s what you take from everything I said?”

“Yep. That’s the one I liked most.”

She turned toward the exit. Cormac’s whines and frantic excuses echoed through the courtyard.

“You should stop them before they actually kill him,” she said, cheeks warming as Draco stared at her far too intensely.

“He brought it on himself. And they won’t kill him,” Draco replied.

Arianna hesitated, unsure whether to speak or run to intervene. Theo’s wild laughter rang out through the snow.

When she glanced back at Draco the gentleness in his smile, the softness in his eyes… It struck her.

He wasn’t a monster. Not here. Not with her.

Outside, Cormac lay sprawled in the snow, nose bleeding, one eye already ballooning shut. His bottom lip was split open, red trickling down his chin. He held his hands up in front of his face like a flimsy shield while Theo kicked him again, laughter wild and breathless.

“I think he got the message,” Arianna said, stepping in and catching Theo’s arm.

Theo stopped instantly. Like someone had flipped a switch. He gave her a bright, boyish smile, completely unbothered by the bruised mess beneath him.

“He better have.” Then he turned back, spit landing on the snow beside Cormac’s face. “Remember this, McLaggen. We don’t tolerate anyone touching a woman without consent. And especially not a Slytherin.” Theo hissed the last word like it was a threat carved in stone.

Blaise clapped Theo’s shoulder.

“Enough. Look at him. Another minute and he’ll piss himself.”

Cormac whimpered. Theo and Blaise both laughed, the sound echoing coldly across the lake as they walked off like nothing had happened. Because to them, it wasn’t anything. Just another day. Another warning delivered. Another line drawn in the snow.

Arianna stood there for a moment, breath catching. The darkness in those boys wasn’t subtle. It radiated. It flickered under their skin, waiting for the war, waiting for a purpose, waiting to be used.

This, she realized, was the beginning. The ruthless edges they would sharpen over the next year. The very shadows history would later blame them for.

And she didn’t know if she had slowed that descent…or accelerated it.

She looked down at Cormac, shaking and bleeding in the snow.

Her own darkness simmered under her ribs. The one her father had carved into her bones. The one she hid so carefully.

She didn’t curse Cormac. Not because she lacked the desire, but because she knew: if she unleashed even a flicker of what she carried, Draco would see it.

Truly see it.

And her entire story, every lie, every stitch holding her cover together, would unravel in a heartbeat.

Chapter 15: The cursed necklace

Draco didn’t come anywhere near her that night. He stayed in his usual chair by the fire, the picture of lazy indifference, trading easy conversation with Blaise while a bottle of something dark rested at his knee. Arianna didn’t approach him either. She didn’t even try. What was she supposed to say?

Thank you for dragging a boy off me? Thank you for stepping in when I could’ve handled myself? Thank you for looking at me like you were one second away from doing something reckless?

No. There were no words for that.

But every so often, when Blaise said something that forced Draco to tip his head back and laugh, his eyes flicked toward her—quick, sharp, and gone again. Not long enough to be obvious. Not short enough to be accidental. And Arianna knew he’d done it all evening.

He hadn’t bragged. He hadn’t gloated. He hadn’t even looked smug about saving her.

Draco Malfoy never bragged about the rare moments he was decent.

That would mean admitting he had been decent at all. 

And then he vanished. 

No announcement, no glance in her direction. Just stood from his chair, slipped past a few lingering students, and disappeared through the dungeon archway without a word. He didn’t come back for hours.

By the time Draco finally pushed back into the common room, the fire had burned low and everyone else had gone to bed. Arianna had been asleep for nearly two hours.

At least trying to sleep.

She had a suspicion where he had gone. She’d read the reports, the testimonies, the patterns. She knew better than anyone what a boy with a dark mark hidden under his sleeve did when the castle finally slept. She could have stopped him. Should have stopped him.

But after today—Cormac, the boathouse, the way Draco’s voice had gone soft when he touched her—she couldn’t even look at him without her mind spiraling.

Sleep didn’t help. It dragged her into memories she didn’t want: cold winter air, the wooden dais, the green flash. The way she had screamed even though no one else did. The way she had promised herself she would never let it happen again.

She woke gasping, fingers fisted in the sheets, heart trapped in her ribs.

“Are you okay?” Pansy asked, already standing in front of the mirror, combing her glossy curls as if the world depended on them.

Arianna blinked, disoriented. Morning sunlight spilled across the dorm floor in warm gold. Milicent sat cross-legged beneath the window, quietly folding Pansy’s shirts like a ritual she’d repeated a thousand times.

“Merlin—did I sleep that long?” Arianna rubbed her eyes and pushed herself upright.

“Yep,” Pansy said, snapping her comb shut. “You should get up and ready. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Arianna jolted like someone had hexed her. She scrambled to her wardrobe, fingers clumsy as she dragged hangers aside.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” she gasped, tossing a sweater onto the bed.

“Because you slept like absolute rubbish,” Pansy said simply. “I wasn’t about to ruin the first real peace you’ve had in days. I was going to wake you in a few minutes.”

Milicent carried the neatly folded shirts across the room and handed them to Pansy with both hands. Pansy took them without looking, shoving them into her wardrobe while Milicent hovered with that soft, eager-to-please smile.

“Fuck. I need to get ready ASAP,” Arianna muttered, wrestling her jeans on while simultaneously jamming her foot into a boot and trying to pull her sweater straight. It was a war, and she was losing.

“Relax,” Pansy sighed. “You’re hopeless. I’ll help.”

She flicked her wand. A warm sweep of magic washed over Arianna. Her clothes straightened and settled perfectly, the wrinkles vanished, the nightmare-sweat cleaned away. Another flick, and her hair curled softly around her shoulders, glossy and deliberate. A scarf floated from the wardrobe; Arianna caught it midair and looped it around her neck.

Pansy squinted at her, muttered a low incantation, and a subtle sweep of makeup settled onto Arianna’s skin. Warm cheeks, defined lashes, the barest tint of colour to her lips.

“See? Done.” Pansy smiled, satisfied. “I’ll be in the common room. Need to make sure Blaise and Theo aren’t dressing like homeless people.”

She left in a confident sweep of emerald and perfume. Milicent hesitated, then shuffled after her.

Arianna finally exhaled and stepped closer to the mirror.

Pansy had worked actual miracles. She didn’t look like a girl who’d woken three times from nightmares or suffocated under the memory of a green flash.

She looked steady. Ready. Even if she wasn’t.

 

Hogsmeade wasn’t anything special. Just a crooked little village with slanted chimneys, leaning houses and cats weaving through the snow-dusted streets, purring at strangers like they owned the place.

As promised, Milicent took her straight to Honeydukes. The girl practically vibrated with joy, stuffing her pockets with sweets until she looked like she was smuggling treasure. Arianna watched her grin like a Cheshire cat and let her enjoy every second of it.

The boys split off almost immediately, heading for the Three Broomsticks where they’d meet later. Pansy spotted a few familiar Slytherin lads and vanished with a hair flip and a promise of mischief. That left just Milicent and Arianna wandering the snowy lanes.

For her part, Milicent really tried. She proudly pointed out every little shop and path, even the ones Arianna had already passed half a dozen times. But Arianna couldn’t focus on the village or the people; she kept checking the time, pulse spiking, stomach tightening with every passing minute.

The cold didn’t help. It gnawed at her cheeks and fingers until she finally caved.

“Listen… Mills. Thanks for the tour, truly, but I’m freezing. Can we please go back to the boys?” Arianna asked, sounding like she was making a painful confession.

Milicent blinked fast, flustered.

“Oh—of course! I’m so sorry. You must be freezing. I don’t get cold that easily. Pansy says it’s because the more flesh you have, the slower you cool.”

Arianna scoffed.

Damn Pansy and her passive-aggressive wisdom.

“It’s my coat, not your… flesh,” Arianna muttered. “Come on. Let’s get warm.”

She linked her arm through Milicent’s and steered her toward the Three Broomsticks.

Warmth hit them the second they stepped inside. The place was packed, crowded with bodies, laughing voices, clinking glasses. The fire crackled fiercely in the corner, thawing Arianna’s fingers almost instantly.

“Oy! Over here, girls!” Theo called, waving exaggeratedly from a table. Blaise lounged beside him with a few other Slytherins Arianna didn’t know yet.

The girls squeezed through tables far too close together. Milicent brushed past a Ravenclaw and accidentally tipped his drink. The boy jerked back, swearing as pumpkin juice dripped off the edge of the table.

“Don’t you know the size of your body, girl?” he snapped. “You don’t fit through here. Look what you did to my cloak!”

Milicent flushed scarlet, stammering apologies.

Arianna stepped back to her side, took one look at the trembling girl, and the switch in her snapped.

“Watch your mouth,” Arianna growled, stepping in front of Milicent. “Or I’ll sew it shut. She didn’t do it on purpose.”

The boy gaped at her.

“What do you care?”

“I don’t care about you or your ugly coat,” Arianna said coldly. “I do care about how you talk to a girl.”

His lip curled.

“You and your fat friend can suck my—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. Arianna snapped her fingers. He folded with a gasp, clutching his stomach, groaning in pain. His friend lunged to help him up and glared at her with murderous hate.

“Fucking Slytherin,” he spat.

Everything went to hell instantly.

Theo and Blaise vaulted over the table like they’d been waiting for an excuse all afternoon. They tackled both boys with the kind of enthusiasm only Slytherins possessed when delivering a beating.

Chairs toppled. Glass shattered. Someone screamed.

And Arianna stood there, pulse steady, watching the chaos she’d just unleashed, because in that moment, she didn’t regret a damn thing.

“Out with you! Banned for the rest of the year!” Madame Rosmerta shouted after them as they stumbled out of the pub, the two Ravenclaws trailing behind like bruised puppies.

Thankfully, the boys were smart enough not to start Round Two. They only shoved each other down the narrow street, cursing as they disappeared around the corner.

Theo wiped a fleck of blood from his knuckles, grinning ear to ear.

“Did you see how he dropped after one well-placed punch?”

“He didn’t drop because of your ‘precision,’” Blaise drawled. “He dropped because he was already folded in half after little Arianna here kicked him in the balls.”

Arianna snorted. Theo looked personally attacked.

“You always have to talk it down. Just admit it. I hit him good.”

“If it makes you feel any better, mate… fine. You hit him good,” Blaise said, clapping his back.

They all laughed even Milicent, who unknowingly was the reason they’d been thrown out in the first place.

Then the door creaked, and Katie Bell stepped out of the Three Broomsticks. Her eyes were hollow. Her steps slow. A small wrapped package dangled limply from her hand.

Arianna froze. The laugh died in her throat.

“Katie! Katie!” she called, already moving. Katie didn’t turn. Didn’t react. She just walked, stiff as a wind-up toy.

“What’s wrong with her?” Theo whispered.

Arianna didn’t answer. She darted forward, heart pounding.

“Hey—Katie, wait!”

Still nothing. Arianna ran. She caught Katie’s wrist and yanked her around. The girl stopped. Completely. Her face was blank. Her eyes unfocused. A puppet. A doll.

Arianna circled her slowly, scanning her like she was some cursed artifact.

“Imperius,” she murmured. “A weak one.”

The others stood behind her in uneasy silence.

“Katie,” Arianna said gently, “what’s in your hand?”

Katie blinked as if surfacing from underwater. She looked down at the package, confusion twitching across her brow.

“I… I don’t know,” she whispered. “Someone gave it to me. I’m supposed to… bring it somewhere.”

Arianna stepped closer, reaching for the box. Katie jerked back violently.

“Don’t touch it!” Her voice was raw, desperate.

“What is it?” Arianna pressed.

Katie’s eyes fluttered. The Imperius wasn’t strong, definitely not Draco’s work.

“I… I don’t know,” Katie repeated.

Then she tore the wrapping off.

“Arianna—” Blaise warned.

"Don't-" Arianna called out.  But it was too late.

Katie flipped open the black box. And touched the opal necklace. The curse hit instantly

Her body snapped rigid. The package clattered to the snow. Katie rose—levitating—head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes rolling white until only the whites remained.

Arianna’s breath stopped. Katie hung in the air for a single terrible heartbeat. Then crashed to the ground.

Arianna dropped to her knees beside her, scarf already in her hands. She wrapped the necklace with trembling fingers, shoved it back into the box, slammed it shut… then pressed her hand to Katie’s skin. Cold. Too cold.

Behind her, Milicent whispered shakily, “Ri? Is she—she okay?”

Arianna didn’t lift her head. Her voice came out quiet. Destroyed.

“No. She’s dead.”

Chapter 16: Secrets unravel fast

Draco sat by the fireplace, jaw tight, fingers drumming absent patterns along the armrest. Two hours of detention with McGonagall. Two hours rewriting an essay he had intentionally “forgotten” to submit three times. She’d finally let him go, muttering something about wasted potential and wasted talent. He’d tuned her out.

Now he waited.

Students trickled back into the common room from Hogsmeade, flushed from the cold, buzzing with fear rather than excitement. Draco noticed immediately: they weren’t laughing. They weren’t bragging. They whispered. Whispered like the walls had ears.

And the important part?

Theo, Blaise, Arianna, Pansy, Milicent—his entire circle—were not with them.

Suspicion coiled low in his stomach.

He snapped his fingers.

“Valsey. Over here.”

Valsey dropped into the armchair opposite him, sprawling like he owned the place. Draco tolerated him only because he was useful. Sometimes.

“What happened?” Draco asked. His voice was casual by design. His grip on the chair was not.

Valsey shrugged, bored out of his mind. “Some Gryffindor girl got cursed. Thought you’d know. Your little circle got hauled in for questioning.”

Draco’s pulse stuttered. Katie Bell. It had to be Katie Bell. His plan. His necklace. His scapegoat.

“What girl?” Draco said, though he already knew.

“Bell,” Valsey said, picking at his nails. “The tall one. Laughs too much.”

Draco leaned forward. “Where is she?”

Valsey blinked at him like he was slow. “On her way to the graveyard, I suppose.”

Draco stilled.

“What?” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “She’s dead?”

Valsey lifted his eyebrows, unimpressed by Draco’s reaction.

“You expect me to cry about it?”

Draco didn’t respond. Because inside him, something sharp and cold snapped. She wasn’t supposed to die. The Imperius command had been precise. Worded flawlessly. She was supposed to walk it back. Give the necklace to Dumbledore. That was the point. That was the plan. That was the single thread keeping him alive in this fucking mess.

If she died… Someone interfered. Someone destroyed his instructions. Messed up his plan.

His heart gave one hard, hostile thud in his chest. And for the first time… Draco Malfoy felt fear crawl up his spine.

Draco waited.

Not patiently. Not really. He sat rigid in his armchair, pretending to read, pretending not to watch the entrance like a hawk. Pansy stumbled in first, an hour late, curls messy, cheeks flushed, smelling faintly of firewhiskey and ego. She had no idea what had happened. Her carefree grin made that obvious. So she hadn’t been with them.

Two more agonising hours passed before the others finally swept in. They looked wrecked.

Milicent was pale and puffy-eyed, clutching her coat like it was armour. Blaise and Theo tried to mimic nonchalance, but Draco saw the cracks. Their shoulders hung wrong. Their expressions too tight. And Arianna...  Arianna looked like death had brushed past her and whispered something personal. Her face was colourless. Empty. Haunted.

Draco shot to his feet, crossed the room in three long strides, and intercepted her mid-step.

“What did you do?” he hissed.

No greeting. No concern. No softness. 

Arianna froze. Lifted her face. Her stormy, shattered eyes met his.

“Nothing,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth. It was exhaustion.

“Leave us,” Draco said without looking away from her.

The others didn’t hesitate. They scattered like a terrified flock, relieved to escape whatever was about to erupt. Draco’s expression promised carnage.

He stepped closer.

“What did you do, Avery?” His voice was lower now, sharper, cutting between her ribs.

She swallowed. Guilt flickered across her face, and she pushed past him.

“Nothing. I tried to help her. Didn’t work, obviously.”

Help her? Draco’s stomach dropped.

How in Merlin’s name had she even known Katie needed help? No one had known. The Imperius wiped memory clean. The curse was invisible until triggered. This wasn’t coincidence. Arianna’s knowledge didn’t make sense. None of her made sense.

“Help her how?” he demanded.

Arianna stopped, spine stiff. Then she turned halfway, voice breaking on anger and something much softer.

“I wanted to break the Imperius and take the damn necklace before it cursed her,” she said. “But I messed up. She opened it. She touched it. And now she’s dead. So excuse me if I’m not in the mood for another interrogation tonight.”

She turned and walked away. Her steps shaky. Like each one carried too much weight.

Draco exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was an idiot.

Of course she was shaken. Any normal person would be. Even he, who had been raised in darkness, felt the echo of it. She thought this was her fault. That guilt clung to her like a second skin.

But it didn’t explain the question that now gnawed him from the inside out: How the hell did she know about the necklace at all? And why did it feel like she wasn’t just hiding something... But knowing way too much. 

Naturally, he followed her. Fast. Determined. A man already in too deep to stop.

Arianna slammed her dorm door so hard the hinges rattled. She barely made three steps before it sprang back open. Draco strode in like the place belonged to him.

“What—you’re not allowed in here!” she snapped, but he kicked the door shut again without blinking.

His eyes swept the room once. Pansy’s bed, a battlefield of torn tights and glittering hair clips. Milicent’s, covered in sweet wrappers. Arianna’s perfect. Sheets crisp, pillows aligned. Like she’d forced her chaos into the corners of her mind instead of the mattress.

He gave a sharp nod to Pansy. She snorted, rolled her eyes, and stood up.

“Come on, Mills. We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk? Where to? The kitchen?” Milicent asked, already brightening at the possibility.

“Sure. Whatever.” Pansy waved vaguely, grabbed Milicent by the sleeve, and both slipped out. No one dared question Draco’s presence. Not when he looked like that.

Arianna crossed her arms and tapped her foot on the stone floor, fury simmering.

“What do you want?”

“Tell me how you knew about the necklace,” Draco said. No hesitation. No softness. Just accusation wrapped in silk.

She blinked, startled for a heartbeat. She looked small today. Small but stubborn, chin tilted, eyes stormy.

“I... must’ve felt it. A curse that old has a signature. Like a vibration.” She fixed her stare on his throat, refusing to look him in the eye long enough to give herself away.

He waited. A few seconds passed. 

“You’re lying,” he murmured.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Your eyes betray you. So does your breathing. You focus too hard. People don’t stare like that unless they’re desperate.” He stepped closer. A predator scenting blood.

She swallowed. Her gaze slid to his hand. The gleam of the Malfoy signet ring reflecting candlelight like a threat.

“I don’t know what you want, Malfoy. I saw dark magic pulsing off her and I wanted to help. Anyone with half a brain would’ve noticed the Imperius after looking into those hollow eyes.”

She didn’t move. Not one step back. Not one step forward. She held her ground like she knew any motion at all would hand him the truth.

“So she’s dead?” Draco asked quietly. “Are you a suspect?”

“Yes. And no. I told them how it happened, and they believed me. Like they should.”

He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. His head tipped back, eyes closing for half a second, his hand dragging down his chin.

This was spiralling. Katie Bell wasn’t supposed to die. The Imperius wording had been precise. The necklace was supposed to reach Dumbledore, not kill a girl in the snow.

Arianna had blown the entire trajectory apart. And now the consequences were coming.

Draco felt it before it happened. The tremble deep in his arm where the Dark Mark slept. A cold tightening beneath his skin, like the magic was waking. Hungry. Summoning.

The Dark Lord did not reward failure.

The burn would come. The agony. The punishment meant to shatter grown men. And it would be because of her.

“Do you have any idea—any—how close you’ve been to dying today?” Draco snapped, hands slicing through the air. “If you had touched it, you’d be lying in the snow with her. You stupid, careless girl.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

Arianna tilted her chin up, refusing to cower, though the heat of his breath brushed her cheek.

“I didn’t think. I acted. And because of me, she unwrapped it and touched it.” Her voice cracked. “Because of me… she’s dead.”

That one hit him. Square in the chest. The fury in his eyes flickered, folded inwards, softened in a way only she ever managed to rip out of him.

“It’s not your fault,” he said quietly. “You didn’t curse that necklace.”

She blinked up at him, stunned. For a moment she almost told him everything. That she knew where his path would lead. That he wasn’t doomed unless he let himself be. That she could save him.

But fate didn’t bend that easily. Not for boys raised as soldiers. Not for boys marked before they were old enough to understand consequences.

“You should’ve left it alone.” His voice snapped back to cold iron, as if those gentle seconds had never existed.

Arianna pressed her lips together, then went for the push. Dangerous, risky, but necessary.

“It smelled like you,” she whispered. “The paper. It was you, wasn’t it?”

He froze. Then he laughed. A sharp, humorless sound. The kind he used to cover panic with arrogance.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Avery?” he said, eyebrows lifting in mock confusion. “Are you accusing me of something?”

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.

“I don’t need your confession. But I hope you know how this is going to end if you keep going down this path. You should stop now.”

For one heartbeat, something unreadable flashed across his face. Then the anger returned. Violent, defensive, almost frantic.

“What makes you think I’d listen to you?” he bit out. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I know you’re not a murderer.” Her voice trembled but held. “You’re not a monster.”

He flinched like she’d struck him. Then he stepped into her space entirely, shadow swallowing shadow.

“You know nothing,” he snarled. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. But your family chose the safe path. Mine didn’t. Don’t pretend you understand the cost.”

Her breath hitched. He was right, if her fake story were true. But it wasn’t.

She came from the same rot he did. A legacy soaked in dark promises and broken oaths. They were carved from the same doomed stone. Both raised to follow darkness. Both fighting it. Both failing.

And that was why they kept gravitating to each other… why they were two bruises drawn to the same touch…

“You don’t have to curse people—or worse—just because your father does it.” She stepped closer, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Or do you just enjoy being evil?”

The tick in Draco’s jaw was microscopic but unmistakable. Once. Twice.

“Avery,” he said, voice low, “in your world you might get a choice. But where I come from, you don’t. You follow… or you die.”

For the first time since she met him, she saw it. Fear. Barely-there, flickering, real. And his eyes shifted with it, that deep ocean blue that only surfaced when he cracked.

“You always have a choice,” Arianna said. It was a lie she’d been told all her life. One she didn’t fully believe. But he needed to.

He laughed—sharp, humorless, armor forged from habit.

“Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Let’s end this conversation.”

She planted her hands on her waist, refusing to give an inch.

“Why? Scared I might be right?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’re doubting yourself.”

“Definitely not. Stop.”

But she didn’t. The cracks were there. She pushed harder.

“Maybe you like the darkness. Maybe it makes you feel powerful.”

Draco dragged a hand over his forehead, pacing agitation.

“No. I said stop.”

“Are you scared to die?” she pressed. “Or are you scared to live?”

“For Merlin’s sake, Avery—stop. This is going nowhere.”

But she saw it. The flicker in his eyes. Anger. Recognition. Hurt. She had hit something buried deep.

“Maybe the infamous Draco Malfoy isn’t as cruel as he pretends,” she whispered. “Maybe you’re just a boy repeating your father’s mistakes.”

“Avery—” His voice frayed.

“Is your father proud of you? Does he even—”

“For fuck’s sake, Avery. Shut the fuck up.”

The words ripped out of him and then he was moving. His hands caught her cheeks so fast her breath stalled.

And then his mouth crashed onto hers. Heat shot through her. Her heart stuttered, then roared.

She’d imagined this. Worst mistake of her life. But nothing prepared her for the reality.

His lips soft and harsh at once, his control absolute, his urgency unmistakable.

And she kissed him back. Idiot. She kissed the dead boy. The boy she’d sworn she wouldn’t fall for.

But his mouth made promises she wasn’t ready for.

Made her forget the job. The war. The consequences.

When he finally slowed, pulling back just a breath, he didn’t let her go. His forehead brushed hers lightly, lips still grazing her skin.

Arianna stood frozen. Those merciless blue eyes held hers like a spell.

“You talk too damn much,” he murmured. “At least now you’re quiet.”

His nose skimmed her cheek. Barely a touch, but enough to burn. Then his thumb dragged softly along her jaw, the cold metal of his ring sending a shiver through her.

“Next time something cursed is being passed around,” he whispered, “make sure you’re nowhere near it.”

Then he stepped back. Hands falling. Mask back on. A smirk cutting through the leftover heat.

He turned and left her standing there. Breathless, trembling, alive in a way she hadn’t expected.

Arianna touched her lips, stunned. Her fingers warm.

Just as he had promised in Potions.

 

 

Draco paced the corridor like something feral, fingertips ghosting over his lips.

What the hell had he been thinking?

He should stay away from her. Far, far away.

Too many lies buried under that pretty face. Too many questions in those storm-grey eyes.

He slipped into his room and shut the door behind him. The perks of being Slytherin’s golden prince: his own space, his own bed, his own fire, his own goddamn silence.

Tonight, the silence felt suffocating.

He walked across the green-and-black carpet toward his four-poster. Emerald drapes. Silver embroidery. The Slytherin crest carved into the headboard. The Malfoy crest stitched into the duvet like a brand.

A room built for a boy raised to be a weapon.

The fire crackled, but he felt nothing. No warmth. No comfort.

He stepped to the window, catching his own reflection in the glass. Pale. Sharp. Arrogant. A ghost of Lucius Malfoy staring back. His stomach twisted.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through his hair until it fell messily over his forehead.

The collar of his shirt strangled him. He ripped it open, gasping like he’d been underwater too long. But his lungs refused to fill. The walls closed in. His skin felt wrong.

Katie Bell was dead. Dead because of him. He had placed that necklace into motion. He had set the curse loose. He had failed.

And the Dark Lord...  Merlin. The Dark Lord would not forgive failure. And if he wouldn't kill him, someone else could find out.

Azkaban flashed in his mind like a nightmare. Cold cells. Damp stone. Madness in the walls. He was sixteen. Too young to die and nowhere to run. 

And then her. Arianna Avery. The girl made of secrets and storms. The girl who pushed him, argued with him, stood toe-to-toe with him. The girl who had kissed him back like she forgot her own name.

He told himself it meant nothing. That he’d only done it to shut her up. That she got under his skin like an infection.

He told himself Malfoys didn’t feel. Didn’t want. Didn’t need.

His heart hammered anyway. He clenched his fists. Told himself it was fear. For the Dark Lord. For the consequences. For the future already closing in around his throat.

Not her. It couldn’t be her.

His eyes stung with frustration as he ripped a book from the shelf and slammed it onto his bed.

The Sacred Twenty-Eight: A Summary of Pure-Blood Lines.

He flipped through the brittle pages, ink smudging against his fingertips. The Blacks. The Malfoys. Rowle. Rosier.

He turned and turned until he hit the page he wanted.

The Averys.

He scanned down the tree. Generations of pure-blood arrogance. Names. Dates.

His finger slid down the final branch.

Draco’s breath stalled.

There was no Arianna Avery. Not now, not ever. 

He whispered the word under his breath like a curse.

“Impossible.”

Because Everett Avery was an only child. 

 

Pansy and Milicent returned two hours later.

One beaming like she’d just discovered Heaven in the form of chocolate frogs, hands overflowing with sweets. The other looking irritated enough to hex a tree.

Pansy collapsed onto her bed with a theatrical groan.

“So? How did it go?”

Arianna didn’t move. She lay curled beneath her blanket, pulled up to her chin, face turned toward the window where the moon hung cold and silver. She watched the light shimmer on the frost-bitten glass instead of facing either girl.

“All good,” she said softly. Nothing more.

Pansy, for once, didn’t pry.

The room settled. Milicent sorted her loot. Pansy brushed her hair. And Arianna stared at the moon like she was trying to stitch herself back together with its light.

Her head throbbed from too much thinking, too many what-ifs crushing her ribs from the inside.

He had kissed her. To silence her. That’s what he’d said. Sort of. In true Draco fashion.

And she—idiot, reckless, unguarded—she had kissed him back. As if she didn’t know better. As if she didn’t remember every page of that execution report burned into her memory.

It must’ve been the adrenaline. Or the obsession she’d had since day one. Or the disorientation of time jumping. That had to be it.

Whatever it was, it couldn’t happen again.

She needed distance. She needed steel walls. Tara had been right: Draco Malfoy was already dead. And the way things were spiralling, Arianna wasn’t sure she could change that in time.

She couldn’t get attached. Not to someone whose fate was sealed. Not to a ghost she hadn’t saved yet. She wasn’t attached. Of course not.

She’d just been… stunned. Caught off-guard. Surprised.

A perfectly normal reaction. Nothing more.

Definitely nothing more.

Chapter 17: Repercussions

Monday morning in the dungeons, Arianna slipped into Potions and took her usual seat: fourth row to the left, the only place she could stomach routine.

Cormac McLaggen passed her desk.

His bruises had faded. His ego hadn’t. He didn’t even glance at her.

Then Draco Malfoy walked in.

He dropped into the chair beside her without a word, without a flicker of acknowledgment. Just stared straight ahead at the blank chalkboard like the world didn’t exist.

Arianna inhaled. She hadn’t seen him since the accidental kiss. He’d vanished all Sunday… and now sat like nothing had happened.

It should've comforted her. It annoyed the shit out of her instead.

She scoffed under her breath and pulled out her quill, writing the date neatly at the top of her parchment.

When she wrote 1996, her hand froze.

Only a few months left. Only a few to undo his fate.

The door creaked open and in waddled… Horace Slughorn.

Arianna straightened, eyebrows knitting.

“I’m terribly sorry to be late,” Slughorn beamed, rosy-cheeked, hair sticking out like he’d rolled through a hedge. “I’m Horace Slughorn, and from today onward I’ll be teaching you Potions. Professor Snape will see you for Defence later.”

He smiled at the class. Nodded at Harry. Then his eyes slid to Arianna. His smile faltered. Just for a fraction of a second.

Even Draco glanced sideways at her, brow tightening.

Arianna looked back down at her parchment, pulse spiking.

No. No, no, no.

Slughorn was supposed to be here from the beginning of term. Why hadn't she remembered that earlier on? He was already on staff in this year.

His late arrival meant the timeline shifted.

And shifts meant anomalies.

And anomalies meant her department back home would track them. Which meant she was officially, utterly, royally fucked.

Slughorn went back to scribbling his name on the board, blissfully unaware he had just lit her entire future on fire.

Arianna’s chest tightened. She needed to go back. She needed to fix this. She needed—

A soft clink.

Draco was silently lining up ingredients beside her. In precise rows. Perfect spacing. Perfect order.

Her hands stilled. He'd noticed her panic even if she’d said nothing. He’d seen her neat bed. Her perfect notes. Her obsession with structure. This was his version of comfort.

A carefully arranged row of vials.

Arianna exhaled shakily and nudged one vial aside to make the sizes flow better.

Draco’s lip twitched.

“Sorting them by size now?” he murmured, amused.

“Looks better,” she replied, forcing a grin.

Control. Even if it was only in the order of glass bottles. Because she had none anywhere else.

Her hands trembled anyway.

She needed to get back.

As fast as she possibly could.

 

 

After class, Slughorn didn’t dismiss them so much as stare at her.

Not discreetly. Not politely. He stared like a man trying to place a ghost. His rosy cheeks had drained of colour. His quill hovered above his notes. His eyes kept drifting back to Arianna Avery.

He remembered her face. He just didn’t know from where. And that was the part that scared him. Because something about her felt… wrong.

Arianna felt his gaze like a physical weight between her shoulder blades as she packed her things. She walked out without looking back once, pulse pounding at her throat.

She barely made it back through the dungeon corridor before her breath turned shaky.

Milicent stopped beside her, worry already blooming.

“You okay?”

“Tell them I’m sick. I’m going back to bed.”

Her tone left no room for argument.

Milicent nodded quickly, watched her for another heartbeat, then hurried off to class.

Arianna pushed into the Slytherin common room—emerald light, crackling fire, murmured conversations—and walked straight through it without hearing a word anyone said.

Then she reached her dorm. The door clicked shut behind her and everything inside her snapped.

She dropped to her knees, shoved her hand under the bed and dragged out her bag. Books, clothes, parchment spilled everywhere as she tore through it like a woman drowning.

Her breath hitched.

“Come on…” she whispered.

Then her fingers closed around cold metal. The time-turner.

She pulled it out, dust clinging to the thin chain, the glass orb pulsing faintly with stored magic. It hummed against her palm, familiar, dangerous, inevitable.

Slughorn’s stare. The shift in time. Her failure with Katie Bell. The clock running out on Draco.

She had no more room for error.

Arianna clicked the dial.

Light exploded. And she was gone.

 

The world snapped back into place.

Her tiny flat stood exactly as she’d left it:

The wine glasses from her last night with Tara still on the counter, the red liquid dried in a neat ring around the rim. Her jacket slung over the chair. The stupid plant still dying in the corner.

Nothing burned.

Nothing shifted.

No sign of an change.

Arianna let out a shaky breath. Still seventeen on the inside. Still aged on the outside. Still alive.

She tore off the Hogwarts uniform, dropped it onto the floor without a second thought, and dragged on jeans and a black hoodie. Hood up, wand shoved into her pocket, she bolted down the stairwell and straight into the nearest bus.

Her knee bounced through the entire ride. Every streetlight looked too bright. Every shadow felt too loud. Every heartbeat too fucking fast.

When she finally stepped off the bus, Tara’s apartment building loomed up like a sanctuary and a warning sign all at once. The middle window—curtains half drawn—looked exactly the same.

Good. Or bad. She didn’t know anymore.

Arianna sprinted up the three flights of stairs and slammed her fist against Tara’s door.

“Tara—open—please—”

The door swung open.

Tara stood there with hair in a messy bun, wearing mismatched pyjamas, eyes wide with the exact kind of panic reserved for best friends who know their idiot soulmate has done something catastrophically stupid.

“Merlin’s saggy left—Arianna. What did you do?”

Arianna didn’t answer. She just grabbed Tara and hugged her so tight the air left her lungs. Tara froze. Then she hugged her back, harder.

“You remember,” Arianna whispered into her shoulder.

“Of course I bloody remember you jumping back to 1996 for a dead boy.” Tara pulled back, squinting at her. “I’ve been waiting to see if the sky ripped open or I stopped existing.”

Arianna scanned the flat. Everything exactly as it had been.

The ripple hadn’t hit yet. Thank Merlin.

Tara crossed her arms. “Sit. You’re vibrating like a first-year spell gone wrong. And tell me if this is a wine problem or a whiskey problem.”

Arianna dropped onto the sofa like gravity gave up.

“Whiskey. Definitely whiskey.”

Tara’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh sweet holy mother of magic… you really did something stupid.”

She walked to the cupboard, shoved aside teacups, and yanked out a hidden firewhiskey box, because Tara was prepared for Arianna-related disasters the way other people kept first aid kits.

She plopped onto the armchair, popped the bottle, took a swig, handed it over, then leaned back.

“Alright,” she said, voice braced like she expected to hear a confession to murder.

“Spill.”

Arianna inhaled deeply. And she did.

 

 

Tara stared at her like she was trying to solve a murder case using only three braincells and half a bottle of whiskey.

She shook the bottle again, frowned at the pathetic slosh left inside, then pointed it at Arianna like a wand.

“What. The actual. Fuck. Ri?”

Arianna let herself collapse further into the cushions, arms flopped uselessly at her sides, the very image of a woman who had single-handedly punted the universe in the teeth.

“I know,” she groaned.

“No, you don’t know,” Tara snapped, sitting forward. “You changed the timeline. The timeline, Ri. That’s not spilling tea on a textbook. That’s not accidentally sexting your ex. You caused a goddamn rupture. A ripple. A whole cosmic bitch-slap is coming.”

Arianna closed her eyes. “I know.”

“No, you don’t know,” Tara repeated, louder now, waving the bottle like she was about to baptize her in firewhiskey. “Do you understand what happens now? Do you understand what you triggered?”

Arianna let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I understand. I’m the idiot who killed Katie Bell eight years too early. Trust me, I get it.”

Tara threw her free hand into the air.

“Oh brilliant. Great. Excellent. So we’re all going to implode because you decided to time-travel with your feelings. And not just feelings—no—feelings for a boy who is both dead and ALREADY DESTINED TO DIE.”

Arianna’s voice softened. “I didn’t do it for him.”

Tara’s gaze sharpened instantly.

“Don’t lie to me, Ri.” She leaned forward, eyes blazing with concern that hurt more than any lecture. “You don’t chase random students into boathouses or sniff out cursed objects because you’re bored.”

Arianna swallowed hard.

“I had to try,” she whispered.

Tara fell back in her chair, rubbing her face.

“Whyyy are you like this,” she groaned into her palms, then peeked at Arianna through her fingers. “Okay. Fine. Next question. How bad is it?”

Arianna hesitated. Tara’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“How. Bad.”

Arianna stared up at the ceiling, throat tightening.

“Slughorn didn’t show up on time.”

Tara froze.

“Slughorn,” she repeated, as if testing the word for poison. “Slughorn the important-linchnpin-of-half-the-war Slughorn.”

“Yes.”

“And he arrived late.”

“Yes.”

“You… you timeline-thrown-chaos-goblin… that’s a major shift.”

Arianna covered her face with both hands.

“I know.”

Tara exhaled through her nose like a kettle.

“Ri,” she said, voice suddenly soft, “when the ripple hits… you might lose everything. Memories. Me. Entire people might shift. Events might reorder. And you—”

“I know,” Arianna whispered again, voice cracking.

Tara sighed, slid from her chair, and sat beside her on the sofa. She didn’t touch her. She just sat close, shoulder to shoulder, like she always did whenever the world was about to collapse.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t have tried to save him,” Tara murmured. “I’m just saying… you really might have doomed us all.”

Arianna let out a choked laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Tara kicked her calf weakly. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Silence.

Then Tara nudged her.

“So… round two,” she sighed. “What’s the plan, genius? Because I'd say, the next major change would be Dumbledore then.”

Tara said it calmly. The kind of calm that meant the universe was on fire and she had simply accepted her role as the woman holding the extinguisher shaped like a spoon.

Arianna stared at her.

“Tara,” she said slowly, “you did not just say Dumbledore is next.”

Tara blinked at her. “Ri… he dies this schoolyear. He’s literally the next big death scheduled on the timeline. You didn’t check the damn calendar when you jumped?”

Arianna threw her hands up. “Sorry, I was too busy preventing the war and making out with a time-sensitive corpse!”

“Not corpse yet,” Tara mumbled into her whiskey bottle. “Just… corpse-adjacent.”

“Tara,” Arianna hissed.

“Right. Sorry.” Tara sat upright, tugging her sleeves to her elbows as if the extra skin airflow might suddenly help her think faster. “Okay. Let me walk through this before either of us has a breakdown.”

Arianna lifted a finger. “Too late.”

“Same,” Tara said. “Anyway. Listen.”

She leaned forward, fingers steepled like she was about to explain why the universe was grounded.

“First: Slughorn. In the original timeline, he’s dragged back to Hogwarts early, because Harry has to charm the pants off him for that Horcrux memory. If Slughorn enters late, Harry gets the memory late, which means Voldemort gets defeated late, which means thousands more people die, which means the entire war shifts.”

Arianna rubbed her forehead. “Right. So I need to make sure Harry still gets that memory.”

“Correct.” Tara pointed at her like a teacher at a particularly disappointing student. “You need to force the original connection between Harry and Slughorn. No matter what.”

Arianna groaned. “I’m going to have to be nice to Harry Potter, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Tara said deadpan. “Congratulations, this is your punishment.”

Arianna flipped her off. Tara ignored it. She was in apocalypse-calculation-mode.

“Second,” Tara went on, “Katie Bell. She wasn’t supposed to die. She was supposed to nearly die. Big difference.”

Arianna’s voice cracked. “Yeah. I know.”

Tara reached over, grabbed her wrist gently, grounding her.

“Ri. You didn’t kill her on purpose. But yes, the timeline sees that as a debt.”

“Life for a life,” Arianna whispered.

“Exactly. So fate needs to balance the books. A soul removed too early means a soul previously destined to die will now live.”

Arianna’s eyes widened. “Wait. That means—”

“Dumbledore,” Tara confirmed. Her eyes were full and bright and far too honest. “If you killed Katie early, the universe would save someone who was supposed to die soon. Someone big. And Dumbledore is the next major death.”

Arianna buried her face in her hands. “Merlin. I broke the universe.”

“Yup.”

“And saved Dumbledore.”

“Yup.”

“And probably doomed Draco.”

Tara inhaled sharply. “That… is my fear, yes.”

Silence.

Heavy. Crushing. Terrifying.

Arianna finally looked up.

“So what do I do?”

And Tara, exhausted, terrified, still wearing pajama bottoms with dancing pineapples, said: “You go back. You fix Slughorn. You push Harry toward him. You make sure the Horcrux timeline stays on track. And you pray the balance doesn’t take Draco when it comes collecting.”

Arianna’s breath hitched. Tara leaned back, eyes soft for once.

“And Ri… this time, don’t try to save everybody.” She swallowed hard. “Just save the timeline. Then we figure out Draco later.”

Arianna nodded slowly, chest tight. She tipped the bottle back and drained the last burning mouthful. The whiskey hit her system like a punch, and for a moment she just sat there, staring at nothing, letting the disaster settle over her like an avalanche she had personally triggered with a toothpick.

Tara watched her with that tight-lipped expression she got whenever she was calculating doom in real time.

Arianna finally spoke, voice rough. “If Dumbledore doesn’t die,” she said slowly, “the whole war reroutes. He’d still be headmaster. He’d still be protecting Hogwarts. He’d still be in Voldemort’s way. The Dark Lord wouldn’t wait. He’d send someone else. Someone bigger. And Draco…” She let out a broken laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all. “Draco was supposed to kill Dumbledore. If Dumbledore lives, Draco dies sooner. So, congratulations to me, Tara. I have officially made everything worse.”

Tara took a long, exhausted sip from her own bottle.

Arianna rubbed her temples, exhaled hard, and lifted her gaze again.

“And just—just for the record?” she said, voice hoarse but gaining fire. “I didn’t sext my ex accidentally. It was fully on purpose. And I’d do it again.”

Tara blinked. Then she barked out a laugh so sharp it cracked the tension like glass.

“Oh thank Merlin,” she said, dropping her head back. “If you can still brag about that, you’re not completely lost.”

Arianna smirked weakly. But the fear didn’t fade. It only settled deeper, in the hollow between her ribs where Draco’s fate seemed to live now too.

Chapter 18: A time loop and the silence she brings

Notes:

Took me a while longer than usual, but let's get the fire started....

Arianna sat hunched on Tara’s sofa, hoodie sleeves shoved up to her elbows as she scribbled the message onto a scrap of parchment with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Back in time. Would like to speak. A.A.”

Short. Sharp. Cowardly, maybe. But Narcissa Malfoy didn’t strike her as the type to appreciate pointless niceties.

She flicked her wrist, activating the spell. The parchment dissolved into dust and vanished.

Only then did she slump back against the cushions, exhaling shakily. Tara’s living room was its usual brand of borderline chaos: textbooks stacked like unstable towers, coffee mugs with half-dead tea bags, and Tara’s newest scribbles spread across the coffee table.

Not time-department reports. Those were safe in Arianna’s own flat. No, these were Tara’s frantic notes. Arrows. Timelines. A multiplication of dates and names that made Arianna’s head spin. One corner diagrammed Death Eaters as dots. Another mapped out what-if outcomes like some kind of mathematical prophecy.

Tara looked at her over the rim of her whiskey bottle, her eyebrows somewhere between murderous and maternal.

“You know,” Tara said, voice painfully dry, “I usually enjoy drawing doomsday charts. But doing it because you screwed the timeline? That’s a special new flavor of stress.”

Arianna wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or crawl into the sofa cushions and disappear. Before she could pick which one to do, the air above the coffee table snapped. A sharp, silver crack. Like reality hiccuping.

A ribbon of smoke spiraled down. 

Tara froze mid-sip. “Oh, hell.”

The smoke curled once, shimmered, and dropped a folded card onto Tara’s notes. Heavy parchment. Malfoy seal pressed in deep emerald wax. Arianna’s heart practically stopped.

Slowly she reached out and unfolded it. Only one word stared back at her, written in Narcissa’s perfect, blade-sharp handwriting:

“Come.”

Tara let out a strangled breath. “You know… I expected threats. Maybe an invitation spelled incorrectly from shock. Not the aristocratic equivalent of ‘get here now or I’ll haunt you.’”

Arianna swallowed, throat tight. She stood. Pulled her coat on. Pulled the hood up. Tried not to notice how her fingers trembled.

Tara rose too, arms crossed in that way that made her look like a very unimpressed guardian angel. “If she yells at you, you deserve it.”

“Yeah,” Arianna said quietly. “Probably.”

Tara nodded toward the parchment. “Go on then. Fix whatever the hell you broke. And for once in your life, try not to cause another cosmic catastrophe on the way.”

Arianna grabbed the card. “Thanks,” she muttered.

Then she stepped into the hallway, heart pounding like a countdown clock, heading toward the one woman who might finally tell her how to save the boy fate had already buried.

 

 

Arianna stood at the edge of the gravel drive, breath misting in the cold as Malfoy Manor rose out of the fog like something carved from moonlight and nightmares. It was just as massive, just as regal, just as unwelcoming as the first time she’d stepped onto its land.

But tonight it felt heavier. Older. Hollow. Because she was too late.

She checked the date again etched on her watch face. Saturday.

Lucius Malfoy was already gone.

She exhaled shakily. “Shit.”

The front doors creaked open before she even reached the first marble step. Narcissa Malfoy stood framed in the entryway, one hand on the door, the other hanging at her side like a blade waiting to be lifted.

She was dressed in ink-black mourning. A gown so dark it swallowed the light, so smooth and immaculate it looked poured onto her slim frame. A single strand of pearls sat at her throat, elegant and suffocating at the same time.

Her hair was pinned back, silver and black strands gleaming like frost. Her face was carved calm, composed, unreadable.

But her eyes… Her eyes looked like someone had reached in and scraped out the sun.

Arianna’s stomach twisted. She’d seen grief in textbooks. She’d read about Narcissa Malfoy’s life, her losses, her loyalty. Nothing had prepared her for the real thing.

Nothing prepared her for Narcissa staring directly at her as if Arianna walking up her steps was already part of the prophecy.

“Arianna Avery,” Narcissa said softly, voice like velvet that had burned at the edges.

Arianna froze at the foot of the stairs. “Mrs. Malfoy… I’m… late.”

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened—cold and cutting. “Yes. You are.”

A pause. Long enough that Arianna felt flayed open.

Then Narcissa stepped aside. “Come in, my dear.”

Not warm. Not kind. But intentional. As if Arianna being here was a piece finally falling into place.

Arianna swallowed and walked past her into the marble foyer. Narcissa closed the doors behind them with a soft click that sounded far too much like the sealing of fate.

Lucius Malfoy was dead. Draco Malfoy was running out of time. And Narcissa Malfoy—grieving, elegant, terrifying—looked at Arianna like she was the only solution left in a world that had already taken everything from her.

“Take a seat,” Narcissa said, guiding Arianna into the drawing room.

It looked exactly as it had during their last meeting, only this time the firewhiskey bottle stood already open on the coffee table, half-empty, a crystal tumbler beside it filled halfway and crowded with melting ice. Another tumbler sat waiting beside it.

“You may excuse me,” Narcissa murmured, voice hushed and brittle. “I am drinking today. It has been… a hard week.”

Her blue eyes shimmered glassy as she sniffed and reached for the second tumbler. She filled it with a few trembling cubes of ice, splashed a generous portion of firewhiskey into it, and set it in front of Arianna.

“And I suspect we both need this for the conversation we are about to have.”

Arianna nodded, took the glass, and sipped. The burn hit instantly. Sharp and smoky, almost steadying.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Malfoy,” Arianna said quietly. Her hoodie suddenly felt wrong in a room like this. Wrong against the velvet cushions, the carved wood, the immaculate marble floors polished to a mirror.

“Thank you,” Narcissa said, finishing her own whiskey in one elegant swallow. “But we all knew this was coming.”

She set her empty glass down. Her fingers curled lightly on her knee. She looked older than she had days ago. Paler. Softer around the eyes. The grief clung to her like a veil.

“So,” Arianna began cautiously, “I met your son. And he’s… not what I expected him to be.”

Narcissa smiled gently, heartbreakingly.

“He was special from the start. I can only guess, my dear… but I suspect you don’t view him as a monster.”

Arianna shook her head. “I do not.”

Narcissa nodded, refilled her glass with hands that still trembled faintly, then set it aside and folded her fingers neatly in her lap like she was preparing to tell the truth behind an ancient family secret.

“You want to know why I chose you,” Narcissa said.

Arianna blinked, startled. “Yeah. I do.”

Narcissa inhaled slowly. An elegant, deliberate breath and when she spoke, her voice was softer than the crackle of the fire.

“I chose you,” she murmured, “because when I saw you back in December 2000, I knew you'd be my only chance.”

Arianna’s heart stuttered. “You… what?”

Narcissa’s smile was small and devastated.

“I saw you,” she continued. “Twenty years ago.”

Arianna went still. Completely, utterly still.

Narcissa’s gaze drifted toward the fire as memory overtook her.

“I stood in a crowd that demanded my son’s execution. The cold was unbearable. The hatred was worse.” Her voice cracked for the first time. “And there, in the front row… stood a girl who did not belong.” Arianna’s breath hitched. “A girl with fierce grey eyes. A girl crying for him when no one else did.”

A soft, brittle laugh escaped her. “Seventeen years old. Just as you sit in front of me now.”

Arianna felt dizzy. The floor tilted.

“You watched him die,” Narcissa whispered. “And Draco looked at you.The way he held your gaze even as he fell. I could never forget that.”

Arianna swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the glass.

Narcissa’s voice steadied.

“I never forgot your face. Not once. Not in twenty years. And when I later saw your photograph in the Prophet—‘Arianna Avery, youngest time-department agent in history’—and you looked exactly the same…” Arianna closed her eyes. “…I knew,” Narcissa finished.

Arianna forced herself to speak. “You think I can save him.”

“No.” Narcissa’s voice was almost tender. “I think you already have. Time is simply slow to accept it.”

Arianna stared, breath trembling.

Narcissa reached forward. Not aristocratic, not distant and brushed a single strand of hair behind Arianna’s ear, as gentle as a mother touching a daughter she desperately wished she had known.

“I chose you because fate marked you long before I ever did,” she whispered. “And because I am a mother who has already buried my loved ones. I will not bury him again.”

Arianna’s voice came thin. “If I save him… someone else will die.”

Narcissa’s lashes lowered. “Yes. Time always demands balance. I understand the price.”

“Then why ask me?”

Finally Narcissa Malfoy let her composure split open, grief carving itself down her porcelain cheeks in silent streaks.

“Because if someone must pay it,” she whispered, “let it be anyone… anyone… but my son.”

Arianna’s chest tightened painfully.

And in that moment she understood: Narcissa hadn’t just chosen her. Narcissa had believed in her. Trusted her. Bet the last piece of her shattered heart on her.

She wasn’t sent as a soldier. She wasn’t sent as a tool of time. She was sent as a mother’s last hope.

Narcissa leaned back into her chair, exhaling shakily as she swirled the amber whiskey in her glass. The firelight broke over its surface like molten gold.

“The thing about a time loop is,” she began softly, “if you interfere and change the outcome… you cannot break the loop.”

Arianna’s throat constricted. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, head tilted, dark hair sliding over her shoulder like a curtain.

“What do you mean by that?”

Narcissa inhaled deeply, bracing herself. She set her glass down with a soft click. An execution bell ringing.

“I’m so sorry to burden you with this, my dear,” she said. “But if you change anything… and Draco still dies… then you must be there every time it happens.”

Arianna froze. Completely. The breath punched out of her lungs.

“You must watch it,” Narcissa continued. “Every time. Because that is how the loop sustains itself. That is how I first saw you twenty years ago. That is why I reached out to you in this future. If you are not at the execution, I never see you. And if I never see you… I never contact you. You never go back. The loop collapses.”

Arianna shook her head instantly, violently, her palms pressed to her knees.

“No. No, I can’t. Watching him die once already... Merlin. And that was when he wasn’t even… when he didn’t even matter.”

Her voice cracked.

“If I stay in 1996 longer... if I become his friend, or worse, I can’t stand there and watch him die again. I won’t. I can’t.”

Narcissa leaned forward sharply, blue eyes cutting like blades.

“You have to.”

The words struck like a curse.

“It is the only way to keep the loop intact,” she said firmly. “If I do not see you in that crowd, I never remember you. And if I never remember you, I never send for you. And none of this will ever happen. Not your warning. Not your help. Not even the chance—however small—to save him.”

Arianna’s heartbeat thundered, loud enough she felt it in her fingertips.

“So yes,” Narcissa whispered. “If you change something… and Draco still dies… you must stand there and watch him go. Again and again. Until the loop closes.”

Arianna swallowed hard, nausea curling in her stomach.

Narcissa’s voice softened, but remained unyielding.

“It is cruel,” she admitted. “It is unfair. But time is merciless, and fate demands its pattern. If you intervene… you must pay the price of the loop.”

She reached out and curled one hand around Arianna’s frozen knuckles.

“And if you succeed in saving him…” Her voice broke. “…then I promise you, my dear, you will never have to watch him die again.”

 

Draco did not lower his gaze when he stepped into the ruined hall where the Dark Lord waited.

The place looked half-devoured by time: cracked stone pillars, a sagging ceiling, moss creeping up every surface. And in the center of it all, like a king on a throne made of rot and fear, sat Voldemort in an old wooden chair that groaned under even the slightest movement. Nagini curled in a lazy coil at his feet, her tongue flicking as she tasted the air.

She hissed slowly.

Draco’s attention flicked to her only for a heartbeat. Then he forced his eyes up again. Directly at Voldemort.

His parents stood to the side, silent. Lucius looked carved from grief. Narcissa looked carved from ice. And Bellatrix looked thrilled, her chin lifted, eyes glittering with eager anticipation of Draco’s pain.

“Draco,” Voldemort said, holding out one thin, deathly pale hand. “Come closer.”

His voice was gentle. That was always worse.

Draco glanced at his father. Lucius gave the smallest nod. Draco stepped forward, refusing to tremble.

Voldemort’s fingers brushed Draco’s wrist, cold as grave water, as he lifted his arm and pushed back the sleeve. The Dark Mark gleamed sickly under the dim light. Voldemort tilted his wand, examining the mark as if it were a piece of jewelry he’d lost interest in.

“You failed to complete your task,” the Dark Lord murmured.

His tone was soft. Almost bored. More terrifying than a scream.

“The cursed necklace,” Voldemort continued, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It did not reach Dumbledore. Did it?”

Draco’s throat tightened. He forced his voice to stay steady.

“No. My Lord. The girl meant to deliver it opened the box.” A pause. “And the curse killed her instantly.”

He kept his face blank. Empty. Controlled. He did not mention Arianna. 

For a long, horrible moment, Voldemort said nothing. He only stared. The kind of stare that stripped skin from bone.

Nagini slithered forward, tongue flicking near Draco’s boot. Bellatrix giggled softly.

Then Voldemort stroked the Dark Mark with one bone-white finger.

“Such a waste,” he whispered. “Such a disappointment.”

Draco swallowed. Loud. But he didn't break eye contact. Not once.

 

 

Arianna was curled up in Draco’s armchair like some exhausted little forest creature, half-asleep in her ridiculous pyjamas. White buttons, tiny black skulls everywhere, her too-big T-shirt hanging off her like a cape. Her hair was in the kind of bun girls made when they were too tired to care if they looked feral.

The common room door creaked. Arianna flinched, squinting through the dim light.

A figure stumbled in—slow, dragging, wrong. A flash of pale hair caught the dying firelight.

She froze. Draco.

He clutched his left arm tight against his chest, fingers trembling like they might snap. He was sheet-white, breaths shallow, jaw clenched so hard the muscle twitched uncontrollably.

Arianna launched from the chair, bare feet slapping stone.

“Draco—” she hissed, already reaching him.

He looked at her, tried to lift his chin like he still owned the place. A faint smirk edged onto his lips, cracking like broken porcelain.

“You look ridiculous, Avery,” he whispered.

Then his entire body buckled. She caught him with both hands to his chest, bracing herself to keep him upright. He was heavy, too heavy, his breath hitching in sharp, painful bursts.

“Fuck—Draco—what happened?” she snarled, shoving him upright again.

His eyes met hers. Deep blue and unfocused, pupils too wide. Something raw hid under the arrogant mask he kept trying and failing to drag back into place.

“Say that again.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“My name.”

She stared at him, half-annoyed, half-worried out of her damn mind.

“Are you—are you drunk?”

He let out a strangled, humourless laugh and dragged a shaky hand through his hair.

“Have you ever seen me drunk?”

No. He drank like water but never once lost control. That alone terrified her.

Arianna’s gaze dropped to his trembling hand. His left one.

Then it clicked. The tremor. The way he kept the mark covered. The way he looked like he’d been hollowed out and stitched together wrong.

“He punished you?” she whispered.

Draco gave a tiny shrug, flinching as the motion sent pain through his body.

“Told you,” he managed, voice shaking. “Not everyone gets a choice.”

He suddenly folded over, hand on the wall, gasping like his lungs were made of glass shards.

She grabbed him, no hesitation.

“Where’s your room?”

He didn’t fight her. Just nodded toward the boys’ corridor like he was half-conscious.

Arianna shoved her shoulder under his, guiding him down the narrow hallway. He gripped the railing so hard his knuckles went bone-white. They reached the last door, and when she pushed it open, she stopped dead.

“You’ve got a whole room to yourself?” she snapped. “For real—how stupidly rich are you?”

Despite the agony twisting up his arm, Draco let out a broken little laugh, stumbling onto the edge of his bed and catching himself with one trembling hand on the duvet.

“Pretty rich,” he groaned, voice cracking in a way she had never heard before.

Arianna stepped in after him, heart hammering, because for the first time since she’d jumped back in time… Draco Malfoy looked breakable.

Arianna snapped out of her awe and pushed Draco to sit on the edge of his bed. He didn’t resist; he simply sagged there, breathing like each inhale hurt.

“What did he do?” she asked, already reaching for his sleeve.

He didn’t stop her. She rolled the fabric up and her stomach dropped.

The Dark Mark wasn’t just ink or scar. It was alive.

Burning an angry, vicious red beneath his skin, veins spiraling outward like cracks in molten stone. Blood seeped from the lines of the skull and serpent, thin rivers weaving down his forearm, soaking into the cuff of his black jumper.

The tremor started there, at the mark. His fingers twitched uncontrollably, jerking like he was being electrocuted. The spasm crawled upward, tightening the muscles of his forearm, seizing his elbow, climbing his bicep until his entire shoulder jolted with each wave.

Arianna swallowed, breath hitching. It didn’t stop. The tremor kept climbing, slithering over his collarbone, gripping his chest. Draco’s jaw clenched as another violent shudder barreled through him. He sucked in a hissed breath, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before forcing them open again.

“It’s the aftershock,” he muttered, voice strained. “It… lingers.”

His fingers twitched again, spasming open and closed like he had no control left.

Arianna reached out before she could think, steadying his forearm with both hands. It felt like holding a live wire.

“Fuck,” she whispered, eyes locked on the bleeding mark. “He did this to you?”

Draco laughed under his breath. A hollow, broken sound.

“This?” he rasped. “This is nothing.”

Another tremor hit him so hard he hunched forward, gasping, one hand braced on the bed just to stay upright.

Arianna dragged in a breath that tasted like smoke and fear.

No. Not a monster. Just a boy being torn apart from the inside.

She knelt between his knees, catching his spasming hand in both of hers. Her fingers wrapped around his trembling knuckles, trying to anchor him, to hold the tremor still by sheer will.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice thin. “This is because of me.”

He would’ve been punished anyway. She knew that. Even without her interference, the necklace never would’ve reached Dumbledore. But guilt didn’t care for logic. It hollowed her out just the same.

Draco’s right hand shot forward, grabbing her chin and forcing her face up to his. His grip wasn’t cruel, just decisive, commanding her attention.

“This is not your fault,” he said fiercely. “It’s mine. I let this happen.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Her hands stayed wrapped around his, thumbs brushing his skin, warming the cold, trembling flesh inch by inch.

“You need to take your mind off it,” she murmured. “The tremor eases if you don’t focus on it too much.”

He blinked once. Slowly. As if her words confused him. As if she knew something she shouldn’t. But he didn’t question it.

He just looked at her. Really looked at her.

At her storm-grey eyes lifted to him. At the way her breath shook from worry. At the way her hands held his like she was afraid he’d break apart.

Another tremor ripped through his muscles. His jaw clenched. His fingers spasmed violently and she squeezed harder, grounding him, dragging the tremor into her palms as though she could steal it.

And in that fractured second, he stopped thinking. His body moved before his mind could interfere. He leaned down and kissed her.

The instant their lips touched, a vicious thought sprang through his mind—

Idiot. Bloody idiot.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t do this again. He couldn’t afford to feel anything. Not now. Not ever.

But the moment he kissed her, everything went silent.

The tremor vanished. The pain dulled. The memory of Voldemort’s voice faded. His parents’ screams, the agony burning through his veins, the dread twisting deep in his gut—

All of it disappeared behind the warmth of her mouth.

Behind her.

Draco’s kiss had turned hungry, almost frantic, until something in him jolted awake. He tore his hand from hers as if burned and dragged her up with him, pulling her flush to his chest.

Arianna jerked back instantly.

“Okay,” she said, palms up, breath unsteady. “I think we should stop this right here.”

And he actually did.

He leaned back on his hands, that crooked, infuriating smile tugging at his mouth. He looked wrecked. Tempted. Dangerous.

“You told me to take my mind off it,” he murmured. “I just assumed you’d be setting it on something else.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it was a physical weapon.

“That isn’t what I meant.”

He let out a soft laugh, low and smug.

“Sorry. It sounded like an invitation.”

“It wasn’t,” she snapped, hands dropping to his knees.

His gaze followed the gesture, amused and dark, and for a second they just stared at each other, suspended in something neither of them wanted to name.

Then his hand spasmed again. Draco cursed under his breath and shook his arm violently, as if he could rattle the tremor out of his bones. The pain hit him visibly, stiffening his jaw.

Arianna moved before she even thought. Still on her knees, she reached up and cupped his face, steady and firm.

“Look at me,” she whispered. “Don’t focus on the tremor. Focus on me.”

Her voice wrapped around him like a spell. He obeyed before he could stop himself. His eyes locked on hers, the tremor slowing, the pain retreating. Her fingers along his jaw made his heartbeat stumble. She was undoing him without even trying.

She looked like a drug he had stupidly taken twice. And Merlin help him, he wanted a third hit.

“Take my mind off it then, Avery,” he whispered, reckless, daring her.

And stupid as she was, she fell right into the invitation.

She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his again, this time with the heat of someone who had fought it too long. He caught her instantly, hands sliding around her waist, dragging her closer as he kissed her like he needed it to breathe.

She rose to her feet without breaking the kiss, small enough that he didn’t have to move to keep her close. His hands slipped down, exploring, pulling her into him with a quiet, desperate hunger.

And she knew, with a sick rush of clarity, that she was done for.

She kept repeating it in her head like a prayer.

Don’t get attached.

Don’t get close.

Don’t be stupid.

But Merlin, he was right there.

His fingertips slipped under the hem of her t-shirt, cold against her skin, leaving a burning trail up her ribs that made every promise she’d ever made turn into smoke.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She couldn’t think past it.

Draco stopped the kiss just long enough to look at her. Those impossibly blue eyes searched her face, storm-bright and hungry, but there was something else there too. Hesitation. His hand hovered at her waistband, fingertips brushing fabric like he was waiting on a signal, not taking, not assuming, just… asking without words.

Arianna’s breath hitched. All her rules, all her restraint, everything she swore she wouldn’t do... it all cracked the second she slid her fingers into his hair.

He drew in a sharp breath. Then she pulled him closer, kissing him again, harder this time, her other hand grabbing his shoulder for balance as he answered her with a low sound that vibrated between them.

Whatever line they weren’t supposed to cross?

It wasn’t a line anymore. It was a suggestion.

And she stepped over it like it wasn’t even there.

He hooked two fingers into the waistband of her ridiculous skull-printed pyjamas and tugged them down her hips.

Arianna sucked in a sharp breath as his hands skimmed over her thighs, palms warm, touch deliberate. Her pulse spiked so violently she almost swayed.

She didn’t even think. Her hands slid up his sides, fisting into the fabric of his jumper.

“Off,” she whispered, more command than request.

Draco didn’t resist. He lifted his arms, letting her pull the jumper over his head. It fell somewhere behind them, forgotten.

Her eyes widened when she saw him bare from the waist up, pale skin catching the firelight, the slight rise and fall of his chest betraying how fast he was breathing.

He noticed. Of course he did. A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth as he dipped his head and caught her lips again, this kiss deeper, hungrier.

Then he stood. Not breaking the kiss. Not breaking eye contact either when he had to pull back for a breath.

He was suddenly towering over her again, all height and heat and intention. His fingers made quick work of his dress trousers, pushing them down enough to step out of them, his movements smooth, confident, unhurried. As if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he’d ever admit.

Before she could even inhale properly, his hand slid to her jaw again, guiding her face back up to his.

“Avery,” he murmured against her mouth, voice low and rough, “you wanted me to focus on you, and damn I do.”

And then he kissed her again, deeper than before, a claim and a question and a warning all tangled into one.

She let out a startled shriek as Draco’s hands locked around her thighs and, in one effortless motion, lifted her clean off the ground.

Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, her laugh breaking against his mouth as he kissed her.

“Merlin,” he breathed, voice rough and unfiltered, “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. Didn’t give her the chance to overthink or fall back into caution.

With purposeful strides he carried her across the room, one arm holding her steady, the other braced on her back. When he reached his study desk, he swept everything off it with one decisive motion — quills, ink, parchment, all scattering to the floor in a messy halo.

Then he set her down on the cleared tabletop. The cold wood bit into her skin, a sharp shock she felt all the way up her spine, but she didn’t care. Not for a second.

Her mind was gone. Melted into heat and adrenaline and the feeling of him holding her as if she weighed nothing.

He stepped closer, hands braced on either side of her, caging her in with his body. His forehead dipped to hers, breath brushing her lips, eyes burning with something she had never once seen directed at her.

Want. Raw and unguarded.

And she didn’t think at all. Couldn’t. This wasn’t logic or strategy or time-travel calculations.

This was want answering want. Need answering need.

And Draco didn’t pause long enough for her to reconsider a damn thing.

His hand slipped between her legs, probing her. She gasped at his touch. And he smiled satisfied. 

"Just to be clear, Avery. No strings attached." He whispered against her jaw as she pressed herself against him. His thumb pressing against her center, circling slowly. 

"No strings," her voice broke as he dipped into her. Making her breath hitch. "Attached. Damit Draco, attached." She hissed. 

He let out a low laugh, pressing his nose into her cheek. 

"Say that again." 

"Attached." She repeated, smiling mischievously. She knew what he wanted to hear. She wasn't ready to give in that easily. 

Draco pulled back his hand, kissing slowly a trail down her throat. She didn't even notice him undressing fully, until she felt him lining up his erection to her center. 

"Say it again, Avery." He demanded. And again she did not. 

"Then I'll have to make you." He said, pushing into her. 

Arianna gasped for air, digging her nails into his shoulders. He began rocking against her hips, every movement precise. Hitting the perfect spot of hers. 

He kept kissing down her throat, biting softly into her shoulder, while pushing into her slow at first. 

Arianna moaned into his ear, the sound so perfect he almost paused to listen to it. Instead he quickened the pacing, wanting to hear her moan, calling out his name. Getting lost in Arianna Avery was the best feeling he ever had. And he had many girls before. But she silenced the world and reduced it to only her and nothing else. 

He felt the tremor coming back, fingers twitching against the tabletop. Arianna grabbed his hand and pressed it against her naked waist. 

"Focus, Draco, only on me." She whispered, biting her lips as he drove into her. The spasm vanishing as he pulled her closer at the waist, moving his stance for another angle. But what really undid the wicked tremor, wasn't the sex. It was her voice. His name falling from her lips, almost a moan. He was chasing this exact sound with every thrust. 

She clung to him like he was the very air she needed to breathe, her hair bouncing against her back with ever thrust of him. A moan vibrated in his mouth against her collarbone. Every inch of her skin so fucking perfect. Soft and unblemished. He could spent the whole night just watching her. 

He captured her mouth in a demanding kiss, hands gripping her hip tightly as he pounded into her. And she enjoyed every last bit of it. He could tell. 

He leaned his forehead against hers, watching her beautiful face in the dim moonlight as he moved inside her. Her fingernails digging half-moons into his shoulder and neck, her breath coming faster as she closed her eyes and bit her lips. 

"Merlin, don't do that." Draco panted, feeling her pleasure build as she moved against him in a perfect rythm. He wanted to see her come undone. Grabbing her legs, pulling them even higher, she dropped backwards onto her elbows. Hands clenching around the edges of the table. 

"Fuck, Draco." She moaned and he couldn't hold it back. This would forever be the most perfect sound for him. 

He pulled himself out completely, only to thrust in again. Arianna's head fell into her neck, eyes closed as she moaned his name. Her knuckles white as she digged them into the wood. 

His pupils dilated as he too dipped back his head, groaning as the release flooded them both. 

Arianna collapsed to the tabletop fully, panting, raking her hair as she realised what she'd done. 

Draco stayed inside her a minute longer, before he slowly removed himself. Looking down on the beautiful girl with that fierce grey eyes. 

Arianna slid off the desk in a rush, yanking down her crumpled shirt and scanning the floor like her life depended on finding her clothes before her sanity returned. Her heart was still hammering. Her pulse still roaring. Her thoughts still a disjointed mess.

Draco stood a few feet away, bare-chested, breathing unevenly, brushing a hand through his hair with that self-satisfied little grin that made her want to hit him… or kiss him again.

“Fuck, I need to go,” Arianna hissed, hopping into her pyjama bottoms. “So damn stupid,” she muttered to herself, cheeks burning.

Draco gave a low laugh and, before she could escape, his arm curled around her waist. He pulled her back into him, her spine colliding with warm skin and steady muscle. She sucked in a breath as his mouth brushed her throat, lingering, dragging slow kisses up to the shell of her ear.

“Do you think the tremor will come back again?” he murmured, all smug velvet.

That bastard. He was teasing. Testing. Enjoying every damn second of watching her come undone.

And traitorously, her lips curved into a smile as she leaned back against him, breathing in the cool mint scent lingering on his skin.

“I guess so,” she whispered.

He spun her around in one smooth movement, pulling her against his chest. Her palms landed on him instinctively, heat flaring where they touched.

“Then,” Draco said softly, eyes darker than she’d ever seen them, “I think I’ll need your help taking my mind off it a few more times.”

Arianna let out a startled laugh. Half disbelief, half helpless attraction.

“Okay, no. This was a one-time thing. And we are not doing it again.”

She tapped a finger against his collarbone like she could enforce the universe with one tiny poke.

Draco’s brows lifted slowly, challengingly.

“We’ll see about that.”

He kissed her, soft and deliberate,  the kind of kiss that made her forget every single reason she had to run.

But she pulled back, breath shaking, ducked out of his grasp, and slipped toward the door as fast as she could.

The moment she left the room, the silence collapsed.

All the warmth she’d brought with her disappeared like smoke, leaving Draco standing there, pulse still racing, surrounded by the sudden, crashing noise of his own thoughts.

And none of them made sense.

Not a single one.

Chapter 19: Focus, only on me

The following day, Arianna made avoiding Draco look like an Olympic sport.

At breakfast she sat as far from him as the table allowed. In class she always left before he could catch up and chose seats beside Milicent with laser-focused determination. Not once did she glance his way.

Not until lunch.

She’d just sat down, tray clattering a little too loudly, when she felt eyes on her. She looked up.

There he was — Draco Malfoy — grinning like he had invented sin.

He lifted a tomato on his fork, held her gaze, and slid it off the prongs almost provocatively slow. Still grinning. Still smug. Still very aware of everything they’d done last night.

Milicent didn’t notice. Theo absolutely did.

After lunch, he hooked his arm through Arianna’s and escorted her toward the library. He waited patiently until Blaise drifted off and Milicent skipped toward Transfiguration. Only then did he grab Arianna gently by the elbow.

“Okay, love,” Theo said, raising both brows. “What’s going on?”

Arianna blinked at him, wide-eyed, far too fast.

“Nothing.”

She pivoted sharply toward a shelf, pulled out a thick volume on antidotes, and opened it like she actually intended to read.

Theo sat beside her, folding himself into the chair, propping a knee up and resting his elbow on it as he watched her eyes dart over the page without taking in a single word.

“You don’t look like nothing, sweetheart,” he said with a grin.

Arianna snapped the book shut as if it had personally insulted her and shoved it across the table.

“Merlin, Theo. I’m fine. I’ve just got a lot in my head right now, that’s all.”

Theo’s expression softened immediately, worry seeping through his easy smile.

“Is it about your parents?”

Arianna went stiff. “Why would you think that?” she asked, voice too sharp.

“Because,” Theo shrugged, “you left that weekend saying something came up with your family.”

Arianna nearly groaned. Idiot. Get your lies straight.

She plastered on a casual smile.

“Right. That. It’s just… my dad’s concerned about me being here this long. He tends to be a little clingy.”

Theo gave a humorless laugh. One of those small, fractured ones that hid far too much.

“Yeah. Having parents that actually care about you sucks.”

She winced. Hard.

She hadn’t meant it like that. She hadn’t meant to hit a nerve. Theo’s mother was dead. His father was very likely beating loyalty into him at home. And she, who had grown up in a different timeline, with different shadows, had forgotten how careful she needed to be.

But he had stopped questioning her, so she let the lie stand.

Across the table, Theo watched her for just a second longer, something like concern lingering in his gaze.

Whatever Arianna thought she was hiding… she wasn’t hiding it very well.

In the afternoon Arianna nearly collided with Milicent, who was waddling out of the kitchen with chocolate smeared across her mouth like a toddler who’d escaped supervision.

“Mills, please clean your face before you walk around. You look like a baby,” Arianna muttered, flicking her wand. The smear vanished instantly.

Milicent giggled.

“Will do. And you shouldn’t wear an oversized sweater.”

Arianna froze mid-step, outrage flaring.

“Are you insulting my fashion taste, Mills?”

Milicent squeaked, horrified, and immediately backtracked.

“What? No! Merlin, you got that all wrong!”

She reached for Arianna’s sweater and tugged the loose collar down gently, her finger pointing to the edge of Arianna’s shoulder. Right where pale skin met wool.

“You’ve got a bite mark,” Milicent whispered. “And the only one who marks like that is Draco Malfoy. So unless you want the whole school knowing what you were doing last night, you should wear something that covers it.”

Arianna slapped her hand over the mark instantly. Her fingertips brushed a faint ridge of swollen skin. Heat shot straight up her neck.

“Fuck. That fucking bastard,” she hissed, yanking the sweater up on both sides and tucking her chin in defensively.

Milicent practically beamed. Her whole round face lit up like Christmas.

“I know I shouldn’t ask,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but Pansy never tells. So… how was it?”

Arianna stared at her.

“You… want to know how it was?”

Milicent nodded so fast her hair bounced.

“I’ve… never had any experience. So I just... wanted to know what it feels like?” she mumbled, voice thinning at the end.

Arianna sucked in a sharp breath. What it felt like? Salazar save her. She hadn’t let herself think about it. For good reason.

“It was… good,” she admitted, voice carefully even. “I suppose.”

Good was the understatement of the century. It had been precise. Consuming. He’d touched her like he knew her bones, like he’d orchestrated the entire thing in advance. Every move perfectly timed. Every breath in sync. A dancer in the dark.

But then the sick twist hit her gut. Of course he had practice. He had done this with half the pretty girls in the common room. Probably all the ones who weren’t pretty, too. She was just another name on the list.

“Fuck. That was so damn stupid,” she muttered under her breath, momentarily forgetting Milicent was still beside her.

Milicent hummed, oblivious to Arianna’s internal meltdown.

“Are you going to do it again? Pansy does. So does Kira.”

Arianna’s stomach flipped.

“No. Definitely not. It was a mistake. And… no.”

But she would.

If she stepped one foot back into that room, she absolutely would. Weak, reckless idiot that she was.

Milicent wiped her nose and grinned.

“Aha. Pansy once said if Draco Malfoy touches you, it’s like a drug you can’t shake.”

She burst into laughter.

“Guess she’s wrong about that.”

“Totally is,” Arianna lied, forcing a chuckle.

But the phrase stuck like a splinter. A drug you can’t shake.

Perfect description of the bastard. And she hated it.

 

 

Arianna needed time. Time to plan. Time to fix what she’d broken. And most importantly, time to shove Harry bloody Potter into Slughorn’s good graces so he could still get the memory.

So she sat curled into one of the Slytherin common room armchairs, stacks of notes spread across the table, flipping through every report, article and footnote she could dig up in the library.

Slughorn was brilliant at potions. But more than that, he was a collector. People. Names. Prestige.

And Harry Potter? He’d mount that boy on a pedestal faster than a niffler grabs gold. She just needed to nudge them into orbit of each other.

A hand suddenly snapped the corner of her parchment, jerking it down.

“Researching Slughorn? Really?” Draco leaned over her shoulder, lips curled into that infuriating half-smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re into him. I’d feel insulted.”

She gave him a slow, murderous stare.

“Don’t you have a whiskey to drink? Or a girl waiting around the corner?” she snapped.

His smirk faltered.

“A girl?” he repeated, genuinely confused.

“Kira maybe,” she muttered, covering her face with her hand.

Merlin, she sounded jealous. She wanted to fling herself into the Black Lake out of sheer shame.

Draco chuckled and hopped onto the table edge, taking a bite of a green apple like the arrogant little prince he was.

“I don’t see multiple girls at once,” he said. “Keeping my focus. As you told me.”

She rolled her eyes hard enough to see the inside of her skull.

“I didn’t mean— just— you’re insufferable. Focus on something else for once.”

“No thanks,” he grinned, waving her off with the apple. “I’m good right here.”

Her pulse betrayed her. That smug curve of his mouth could raise the dead.

"I did some research of my own." He said.  Then he slid off the table and took the seat beside her. Sideways. Elbow propped on the wood. Leaning toward her like a cat who’d found something to toy with.

“And guess what I found?” he murmured.

His breath brushed a strand of hair against her cheek. A shiver skidded down her spine.

“Didn’t know you were capable of doing research on your own,” she snapped. “Isn’t that what your lackeys do for you?”

“Usually, yes.” He grinned wider. “But this was… personal. So I looked at the Sacred Twenty-Eight again. Something I do from time to time.”

She turned to look at him—foolishly, stupidly—and his eyes were a stormy blend of grey and blue.

“And guess what?” he whispered. “Your name isn’t on the Avery family tree. Neither is the name of your supposed parents.”

Her heart stopped. Three full beats.

Her mind scrambled, pulling lies like weapons from a sheath.

“That’s because my parents turned their backs on Everett,” she said smoothly. “They were banished from the family tree. Not unheard of. You know that well enough… given your own family’s issues. I’m talking about the Blacks.”

The jab landed. He grunted.

“So that’s your story?” His voice dipped low, dangerous. “Did you study my family tree as well?”

Arianna groaned, leaning into her palm, avoiding the full force of his stare.

“No. I just know things.”

“So do I,” Draco murmured.

He leaned closer, just long enough to make her breath catch, and then stood, walking away without another word.

Leaving her cursing under her breath. And shaking.

 

Draco sauntered over to the fireplace with the effortless arrogance of someone who’d just won an argument no one else realised was happening. He passed Crabbe, shoved the half-eaten apple into his hands and said,

“Try it. Your body’s begging for vitamins.”

Crabbe blinked down at the apple like it had personally offended him. Goyle shrugged, as if to say don’t look at me, mate, and Crabbe chucked the fruit straight into the nearest bin.

They lumbered after Draco as he drifted toward his armchair. The throne.

Strategically placed so he could see directly into the study room… Directly at Arianna.

He sprawled into the seat like he’d paid taxes on the space.

And then he did it. That slow, lazy, arrogant lean of his head, chin tilted, eyes fixed on her like he was reading her thoughts from across the room.

Arianna stiffened. One second. Two.

Three minutes later, she lifted her hand without even looking up from her parchment and flipped him off with surgical precision.

Draco laughed under his breath, the sound low and smug.

Of course she saw. Of course she cared. And of course, she hated it.

He laced his fingers behind his head, stretching out even further, making a damn spectacle of himself.

“What the hell is so fascinating about Slughorn?” he muttered, amused. “Old man’s history can’t be that thrilling.”

But he didn’t look away.

 

 

After dinner, Arianna slipped out of the Great Hall and straight into the night, the cold snapping at her cheeks until they burned. She needed to go back. She needed to see if the ripple had finally caught up.

She sprinted toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, ducking behind the first line of trees where the shadows swallowed her whole. Only then did she pull out the time-turner, breath unsteady, fingers trembling as she twisted the dial.

She wasn’t prepared for what waited on the other side.

Arriving at the Avery manor shouldn’t have been possible.

Not like this. Not whole. Not breathing.

But as Arianna materialized on the marble floor, she realized instantly that something fundamental had snapped.

The manor wasn’t a ruin. The walls weren’t scorched. There was no rubble, no ash, no charred beams.

It stood pristine, just as it had on the last night she’d ever called it home.

Her heart stuttered. The dark wooden panels gleamed. Portraits whispered and sneered at her. The chandelier her mother adored sparkled above her, the same chandelier she’d watched collapse in flames years ago.

And then came the memory, sharp as broken glass.

Her father’s voice. Cold, urgent, cracking.

"Run, little wolf. And don’t ever look back."

Her small legs sprinting up the stairs. The window latch under her trembling fingers. Her father bursting into the room, wand blazing, lifting her by the waist and shoving her toward the sill.

“Jump.”

“But—”

“Jump, Arianna!”

She hit the snowbank below hard, breath knocked out of her lungs. And then she heard it.

Her mother’s scream. Her father shouting curses. Green light tearing through the night.

She looked back just once. Just enough to see the manor implode in on itself, a screaming inferno swallowing everything she’d ever loved. Then darkness.

She blinked the memory away before it drowned her.

“Arianna. My little wolf. Have you been out?”

She turned and her father stood there, smiling as though he hadn’t died seven years ago.

Her breath fractured.

“Yes,” she managed softly. “It’s… freezing.”

Everett Avery crossed to her, brushing a gloved hand over her cheek before kissing her forehead. Warm. Real.

“I’m sorry I'm missing dinner. Something urgent came up. I’ll be back soon,” he murmured. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Tara is in the library. Studying again. Keep her company, hm? Stay inside.”

Arianna nodded, numb, watching him walk away.

She could stay. Here. In this impossible sliver of time where her parents still lived, where the world still was a dark place. She could stay and let the past heal her.

But—

Draco.

Her pulse lurched violently in her throat.

She spun and ran, through the hall she remembered, through the corridors of a home that shouldn’t exist, straight to the library.

Tara was hunched at a table surrounded by mountains of books and parchment. She looked up with a scowl.

“Girl, you’re damn late.”

Arianna stepped closer and froze.

Tara’s sleeve had slid back. Ink-black burned into her skin. The Dark Mark.

Arianna’s stomach dropped through the floor.

“Oh fuck…” she whispered.

Tara immediately straightened.

“I don’t like that look. What did you do, Ri?”

Arianna stumbled forward, leaning heavily on the table, acting dizzy.

“I—I think someone spiked my drink,” she lied. “Everything feels wrong. I can’t remember the past.”

Tara grasped her shoulders immediately.

“What? Who did you drink with? Should I call your father? Ri, what—”

“It feels like a dream,” Arianna whispered. “I dreamt Dumbledore died. And the Dark Lord too.”

Tara laughed, shaking her head.

“If Dumbledore had died, we’d know. The Dark Lord would turn it into bloody Yule celebrations.”

Arianna’s pulse sharpened with fear.

“And… what about the Malfoys?” she asked. “Narcissa? Draco?”

Tara froze. “Draco? Sweetheart, you’re scaring me. He’s dead. Has been for years. His father too. Narcissa disappeared. No one’s seen her in a decade.”

Arianna’s vision trembled.

Dumbledore alive. Voldemort alive. Tara Marked. Draco dead.

The ripple had hit like a tidal wave.

"He died? When was that again?" Arianna asked, rubbing her forehead. 

"30th of July, 1997. Damn. Don't you ever go out drinking without me." 

“I need to go,” she whispered.

“Ri! Ri!” Tara called behind her, but Arianna was already bursting into the garden. Her mother’s roses still blooming in winter.

The air felt too thin to breathe. She had broken time. Broken fate. Broken everything she meant to fix.

And now she had to choose: Live in a world where her parents survived… but the darkness reigned.

Or return to save the boy who deserved to live more than any of them.

She closed her eyes, snapped her fingers to conjure a black cloak, pulled her hood over her head, and lifted the time turner.

One click. One impossible choice.

She vanished into a night colder than the one she fled.

 

She landed in the Forbidden Forest.

For a heartbeat she checked the time-turner again, fingers trembling over the dial. Had she made the right jump? Had she overshot? Undershot?

Then she heard it. Voices. Screams. The crackle of dark magic splitting the night.

Arianna ran toward the clearing. She broke through the treeline and stumbled to a halt.

The Dark Lord stood at the center, wand raised, his presence blotting out the moonlight. And at his feet, forced to their knees, were Draco and Lucius Malfoy. Both pale. Both trembling. Both already defeated before a single curse was cast.

Draco looked exactly as she’d left him in the common room. Seventeen. Too young. Too proud. Too breakable.

Around them stood the Death Eaters, masks discarded. Bellatrix Lestrange’s expression was unreadable. Yaxley scowled. Dolohov’s grin was sickening. And beside them, Everett Avery… her father. Narcissa Malfoy clung to his arm as if her bones couldn’t hold her upright.

Lucius stared straight ahead, jaw locked, eyes dead.

“Don’t flinch,” Lucius muttered to his son. A last piece of Malfoy pride. A last lesson.

Draco looked horrified. But then his eyes found hers and he relaxed. As if seeing her have him peace.

Through the crowd. Through the flickering curses. Through the veil of her hood. He saw her.

She stepped forward instinctively.

He shook his head once. Barely visible.

Don’t. He mouthed.

The Dark Lord’s voice cut through the cold like a blade.

“Once again, you disappoint me, Draco.” He dragged a ghostly hand across the air as though conducting an orchestra. “Tonight you and your father will serve as an example to ensure the loyalty of others.”

Arianna shoved past Yaxley, hood slipping just enough for Draco to see her face.

Narcissa’s sobs tore through the clearing.

Lucius looked skyward, refusing to look at his wife. Draco never looked away from Arianna. His lips curled, not in defiance, not in bravery, but in acknowledgment. As if he’d expected her. As if seeing her made him calmer.

“Crucio.”

The Dark Lord sang it, the way one might hum a lullaby.

Draco collapsed, the curse ripping through him like fire. His body jerked. Twisted. Spasmed. He didn’t scream. He didn’t beg. He clenched his jaw hard enough to crack bone and held Arianna’s stare.

Arianna’s throat burned. Her fingers crushed her wand. She wanted to throw herself into the curse. Wanted to tear Voldemort apart with her bare hands.

But she couldn’t. She had to let this happen.

“Focus,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Only on me.”

He read her lips. And he smiled. Even as the curse flayed him from the inside.

The spell lifted. Draco collapsed, panting, barely conscious.

“Let us end this,” Voldemort purred. “Once and for all.”

The flash of green lit up the clearing.

Lucius fell first, his body crumpling like parchment. Narcissa’s scream splintered the air. Raw and merciless. She lurched forward, only restrained by Everett Avery’s hand on her back, whispering useless comforts.

Then Draco. Arianna’s heart slammed against her ribs hard enough to bruise. She could barely breathe. Her vision blurred from tears she didn’t even feel fall.

“Focus,” she whispered again one last time.

Draco’s eyes found hers. And in his final second, he smiled at her.

The curse hit him. He fell. And the world fell with him.

Narcissa collapsed in a heap of grief, clawing the earth, screams tearing her throat raw. Yet even in her agony, she lifted her head and saw Arianna. Their gazes locked.

Recognition. Memory. Loop. Fate.

Arianna yanked her hood down and stepped back just as the world cracked around her and vanished.

Chapter 20: Do and don't

Back in 1996, the world hadn’t changed at all. As Arianna stumbled through the entrance of the Slytherin common room, it was well past curfew. She’d needed nearly an hour outside to breathe again. To wipe her face. To stop shaking. To remind herself she could still fix this—still save him—even if she doubted she could watch Draco die a third time.

The first had been horrifying.

The second had been brutal.

And each time made her more… attached.

When she finally stepped back into the dungeon’s dim light, she inhaled and exhaled slowly, as if the ground beneath her might shift again.

Draco sat in his armchair, alive and whole, the firelight turning his hair silver. He was smoking from a small metal pipe that vanished almost completely inside his hand.

Arianna’s jaw clenched. Idiot. Alive, infuriating, reckless idiot.

She stomped toward Draco and Blaise, both of them half-slouched in their chairs, laughing while inhaling the forbidden smoke.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Arianna snapped, planting her hands on her waist like she was about to kill someone.

Draco looked up, lowering the thin metal pipe from his lips. He smiled. Of course he did.

“What?” Blaise blinked, already giggling as he took another slow inhale.

Arianna slapped the pipe out of his hand. It clattered across the floor. Blaise stared after it, dazed.

“Why would you do that, Ri? That shit’s rare, expensive and impossible to get.”

“What is it?” she demanded.

“Nightshade resin. Best of the best,” Blaise said dreamily, like praising a lover.

Arianna turned to Draco, who casually exhaled another soft plume of smoke.

“Why are you taking this shit? Are you so bored you decided you needed a new addiction?”

“Needed a release,” he murmured, amused. “Something to focus on.”

His hand twitched. A tremor. She groaned, snatched the pipe from his fingers and shoved it into her pocket.

“To your rooms. Right fucking now. Idiots.”

Blaise shot up at once, hands raised.

“Yes ma’am.”

He stuffed his own pipe into his pocket and wandered off, laughing at the carpet.

Draco didn’t move.

“You’re such an idiot. This isn’t helping.” She hissed down at him. He leaned back, smirking up at her, enjoying every second of her fury.

She stepped forward and tried to slap him. He caught her wrist in mid-air.

“You left me,” he whispered, voice suddenly low, dark. “So I had to find something else to make it stop.”

“It doesn’t stop it,” she bit back, hair falling over her shoulder as she leaned closer.

He tugged her wrist just a little, just enough to pull her off balance and right into his lap.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

She scrambled upright, slapped his chest properly this time.

“Fucking idiot. That’s what you are.”

He threw his head back against the armchair, looking unbearably entertained. Which only made her blood boil hotter.

“Don’t you fucking smile at me, Malfoy.”

“Oh, it’s Malfoy again?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Merlin. You’ll be the death of me.”

He rose at that, closing the distance in one deliberate step.

“I think it’s the other way around,” he whispered, brushing her hair back with maddening gentleness.

“Go to bed.”

“Care to join?”

“Definitely not.”

He looked around the empty common room… then smirked.

Before she could react, he bent, grabbed her waist, and threw her over his shoulder.

“Put me down! You’re insane!” she yelled, kicking, punching, flailing. He kept walking.

He carried her down the boy’s corridor, into his room, and dropped her onto his bed like she weighed nothing. She bounced, cursed, threatened homicide. Draco laughed.

“Relax. I want you to look at my arm, Avery.”

She sat cross-legged and flipped him off.

“You could’ve said so. Idiot. Come here.”

He grinned as he sat.

“Now that’s something I like to hear.”

He rolled up his sleeve. The Mark wasn’t as violently red anymore, nearly back to black. Then another tremor hit. His hand spasmed into a fist, jaw locking so tightly she heard the grind of his teeth.

And she saw him dying all over again. The curse, his eyes locked fiercly onto her. And her brain stopped working again.

Arianna surged forward and kissed him. Stupid. Reckless. Inevitable.

He cupped the back of her head immediately, dragging her closer.

“For the record,” she whispered against his mouth as she climbed onto his lap, “this really is the last time.”

“Can’t make any promises,” he breathed.

And again, she let herself fall. The tremor eased under her touch. And just like that, the world went quiet.

 

 

Arianna eased open the dorm door, praying Pansy and Milicent were asleep. She slipped inside and froze.

Pansy Parkinson was very much awake, propped against her headboard with a book balanced on her knees, smirk already in place like she’d been waiting for sport.

“Sneaking around a lot lately,” Pansy drawled. “I’ve barely seen you the last days. What exactly have you been up to?”

Arianna shut the door quickly and glanced at Milicent. She was dead asleep, buried under a landslide of chocolate wrappers, snoring softly.

“I’m not sneaking around,” Arianna lied, kicking off her boots. “I’m just… studying a lot. Need to keep up.”

Pansy rolled her eyes so hard the air shifted. She watched Arianna change into the pyjamas she adored, the same pyjamas Pansy despised with the burning intensity of a thousand suns.

“No need to lie, Ri. I’m not the jealous type.”

“What?”

Pansy dropped her chin forward in her signature are-you-mentally-deficient expression.

“Those sweet little marks on your skin? You think I didn’t see them? Didn’t recognize them?”

She pointed at Arianna’s collar. Arianna tugged her sweater higher, cheeks warming.

“No worries,” Pansy said, sliding her book aside. “I don’t have any feelings for Draco. I just appreciate his… talents.” Her lips twitched. “Just be careful. He has a way of being addictive.”

“So I’ve heard,” Arianna muttered, climbing into her bed and refusing to admit a single damn thing.

Pansy sighed and pointed a manicured finger at Arianna’s pajama top.

“And for Merlin’s sake, burn those pyjamas. I’ll even buy you new ones if it means I never have to see those awful little pumpkins again.”

Arianna burst out laughing.

“No. You can rule fashion for parties and school days, but not my pyjamas. You’ll love them someday.”

Pansy groaned in despair.

“Doubtful.”

Arianna curled into her pillows, back turned toward the room, as she always did, eyes fixed on the moon soaking the stone floor in silver.

Sleep caught her quickly. A dreamless sleep. No haunting pictures of executions and dead faces staring back at her. 

 

 

Arianna slipped into her trimmed skirt, pulled on her over-knee black socks, and buttoned a crisp white blouse. The oversized cardigan went over it, soft and comforting, and she charmed loose waves into her dark hair. The mirror reflected a girl who looked nothing like someone juggling time ruptures, doomed boys, and a collapsing destiny.

Just a pretty girl in a pretty outfit.

Someone who could have been happy in this timeline, with a snarling Pansy and a chocolate-addicted Milicent.

She tapped a fingertip into rose-tinted powder and brushed it lightly over her lips. A soft glow. A little armour.

Behind her, Pansy cinched a black corset over her own white blouse, tightening the laces with wicked determination.

“Pushing limits today, are we?” Arianna muttered.

Pansy only winked.

Arianna had planned this potion lesson down to the detail. It had to work.

When they reached the dungeons, Horace Slughorn stood in the doorway, waving at students like an overexcited grandfather.

“Welcome, welcome, come all in!” he boomed.

Arianna made sure she ended up right beside Harry Potter. He blinked at her, baffled, as she fell into step.

“Wonderful morning for potions, isn’t it?” she asked sweetly.

“Uh… yeah. Probably,” he said, confused and deeply suspicious of this random kindness from a Slytherin.

As they passed Slughorn, Arianna caught Harry’s arm and paused, smiling at the professor with the warmth of melted honey.

“Professor,” she purred, “Harry was just telling me I must see your vial collection. He said you have the most beautiful vials he’s ever seen.”

Slughorn practically glowed. Harry looked like someone had stolen his brain and replaced it with mashed potatoes.

“Well! I… yes, I am proud of that little collection,” Slughorn beamed, cheeks blushing beneath his moustache. “Come along, both of you. I’ll show you.”

He ushered them behind his desk, gesturing at shelves full of delicate glass: twisted shapes, etched patterns, rare colours. Each one came with a story, and Slughorn told every single one with theatrical enthusiasm.

Harry, bless his confused little heart, played along brilliantly. He nodded, smiled, even complimented a few vials. The poor boy didn’t know why he was doing it, but he did it anyway.

Arianna grinned behind her polite mask.

Step one: complete.

The timeline edged back onto its tracks, just a little.

As she slid into her seat beside Draco, he lifted one eyebrow like he was judging her entire existence.

“Siding with the Golden Boy now?” he asked, voice dripping disgust.

Arianna grinned and leaned back.

“I thought you’re the golden boy.”

“No, love. I’m not golden.” He flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve. “That’s too ordinary for someone like me. And don’t get close to him.”

She turned, eyes bright with mischief.

“Jealous much?”

His jaw clenched so hard she swore she heard enamel crack.

“Not in the least. I’m just certain he could never make you moan—”

Arianna smacked him across the chest so hard his breath hitched.

“Don’t fucking end that sentence, Malfoy.”

He grinned wider, the bastard.

“Didn’t know you for the blushing type. Yet here you sit, pink as a sweet little girl.”

Mortified, she slapped a hand over her cheek. It was warm.

Damn him.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” she muttered, rubbing a palm over her forehead and pushing her hair back.

Instant regret.

His gaze dropped to her throat. To the faint bruise stretching toward her shoulder. The one he’d left.

She yanked her hair forward, covering it with a murderous scowl.

“Don’t smile, you asshole. I cannot believe I ever let you—” She bit the sentence off before it betrayed her.

He leaned in, grin sharp and intimate, eyes dark with memory.

“I’d do it again right fucking now,” he whispered, one hand slipping beneath the table toward the hem of her skirt.

Her skin lit up like he’d set it on fire. She kicked him under the table. Hard.

“Fuck you.”

Before he could retaliate, Slughorn’s voice boomed through the dungeon.

“Let’s begin! Open your books to page 346 and gather your supplies!”

Draco exhaled a lazy laugh.

“I’d rather fuck—”

She kicked him again and stood up so fast her chair screeched across the floor, marching to the supply shelves before she said something truly incriminating.

Behind her, Draco’s laugh followed like a wicked shadow.

 

At the end of the lesson, Professor Slughorn lifted his hands with a theatrical little flourish that made his velvet sleeves sway.

“Before you all run off,” he boomed, “a quick announcement. Those heading to Herbology next, please note: Professor Sprout has suspended today’s lesson.”

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room.

Except Neville Longbottom, who looked like someone had kicked his favorite puffapod. Poor boy practically deflated.

Arianna let out a breath of her own. An hour off. She’d take it.

She slipped out of the dungeon the moment Slughorn dismissed them. Storming up the stairs. The cold winter air slapped her cheeks as she hurried across the courtyard. She needed space. She needed air. She needed a second without him breathing down her neck and lighting her whole damn body on fire.

Of course she didn’t get one.

“Avery. Wait up.”

She considered ignoring him. Truly, deeply considered it. But curiosity, that traitorous little beast, tugged her head around. Draco Malfoy was already sauntering toward her with that infuriating, carved-from-arrogance walk of his.

She would regret this. She already knew.

“What do you want?” she asked as the last students trickled past them.

Draco didn’t answer. He simply caught her arm and steered her down the opposite corridor. Bold. Stupid. Typical.

“Wait,” she hissed. “Where are you taking me?”

“Just trust me for once,” he said, smiling like sin.

Trusting Draco Malfoy was like trusting a hungry chimera, but she followed him anyway. He shoved open a classroom door and nudged her inside. Transfiguration. Empty. Locked for the next half hour.

Her stomach dropped.

“You—” she began.

He was kissing her before she could even find the rest of the sentence.

Damn him. Damn her. Damn every star in the sky for aligning like this.

She kissed him back instantly, because she was weak and he was addictive and being pressed against the wall by Draco Malfoy was a problem she didn’t actually want solved. His hand slid down her waist, under her skirt, and she gasped as her back hit cold stone.

“No— no. No,” she said, but her arms had already hooked around his neck, her body arching into him like she belonged there.

“Yes, Avery,” he breathed against her throat. “Unless you’d rather sit down and talk about your secrets?”

“Merlin, no,” she said.

His fingers hooked into her waistband.

The door rattled. Then cracked open. Theo’s head popped inside.

“Oh fuck, mate. Thought this room was empty.”

“It’s not,” Draco snapped, stepping in front of her, shielding her from view when it was already far, far too late.

Theo’s grin could’ve lit the whole wing.

“Bloody mother of magic,” he said. “I knew something was going on.”

“Something is, if you’d just leave the fucking room,” Draco groaned. His hand was still on her thigh, still too warm, still too much.

Arianna shoved him back, yanked her skirt down and stormed past both boys.

“You came just in time, Theo,” she snapped. “Thanks for saving me from another idiotic mistake.”

She was gone before Draco could say another word.

Draco dragged a hand through his hair and let his head drop back in pure agony.

“You owe me,” he said, pointing at Theo like he was accusing him of murder. “A big one.”

Theo blinked.

“What? I didn’t even do anything.”

“You interrupted. Now I’ll have to chase her down for hours before she maybe gives in again. Brilliant. Thanks.”

Draco straightened his collar, still fuming, still breathless. Theo laughed, leaning back against the wall.

“Didn’t know you two were… whatever that was.”

“We’re nothing. Just physical,” Draco muttered, and stalked out of the room.

Theo’s grin widened as he slid down the wall into a seat, parchment dangling from his fingers.

“Yeah,” he said to the empty room. “The physical part I definitely saw.”

Chapter 21: Thomas Bowman

Notes:

Thanks to everyone who kept reading, and to all who always believed Draco deserved more attention.
For those who step into this story with me, I want to share my personal writing playlist—my little form of musical therapy. These are the songs I listen to while creating each scene. Maybe you’ll find the perfect song for the perfect chapter.
Music is memory. Music is emotion. And a story without emotion isn’t a story at all, just words standing in a row.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1QAeecq2MvoXcykMgw1I9h?si=ZKA2-B-YR_WiuK04ZXMM2w&pi=J33TRoXhQjWJP

Feel free to listen for a while...

Arianna was trying, and failing spectacularly, to keep her distance from Draco. Three days. Three whole days. For her, that was practically Olympic gold in emotional avoidance.

But on the third night, she found him tucked away in an alcove, pretending he wasn’t having another tremor. And that was it. She was done for. Again.

She didn’t even know how he did it. How he looked at her. How he said her name. How she went from I need space to fine, let’s go to your room in the time it took to blink.

Now she stood in front of his mirror, tugging her sweater back into place. Draco leaned by the window, cigarette in hand, bare chest rising and falling with each slow inhale. His hair was the mess she made, and he was watching her like she was something dangerous he still couldn’t stop touching.

She pulled her hair up, caught sight of the newest mark he’d left on her shoulder, and immediately let her ponytail collapse again.

“I saw you earlier,” Draco said suddenly, startling her as she searched for her jeans. “With Pansy’s little pet.”

He smiled openly at her bare legs, the sweater skimming just low enough to be indecent.

“She’s not a pet. She has a name. Mills. And she’s a friend of mine, you moron.”

Draco’s chuckle curled around her like smoke. He took another drag, exhaling lazily in her direction.

“Your friend? That one?”

Arianna rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something.

“Yeah. Sweet. Kind. A person. You should try acknowledging other humans sometime. Maybe then they wouldn’t loathe you so much.”

He snuffed out the cigarette with a flick and crossed the room, catching her by the waist.

“I’m sorry,” he said with exaggerated softness. “She’s a person. I get that.”

“I need to go.” The words came barely above a whisper, and she could already feel herself giving in as he pulled her closer. His eyes were that deep winter blue she had stupidly memorized.

“Already?” His voice dipped. “You sure you don’t want to… stay a little longer?”

“No strings attached,” she reminded him. “I should leave. Wouldn’t want you swooning every time you see me in the hallway. Let’s keep things balanced.”

Draco leaned down and kissed the side of her throat. It nearly shattered her resolve. She shut her eyes, breathed once, twice.

“Nope. Not doing this. I’m going.” She pushed him away gently. He groaned at the loss of her.

“Got a date with your little friend Mills?” he asked, all smug mischief.

“Yes. Actually,” Arianna said, running her fingers through her hair and checking quickly in the mirror. “She’s waiting for me. Midnight snack. It’s our thing.”

“I’d like a midnight snack,” he murmured.

She scoffed. “You just had one. Twice. Be satisfied and let me go.”

He looked at her, equal parts annoyed and enchanted, and it made her laugh despite herself.

Arianna stepped close, brushing her fingers along his jaw. Draco’s hands found her waist instantly, pulling her flush against him.

“I can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re so damn delicious. Even more when you’re annoyed.”

He kissed her soft and slow. Her mind lit up with warning signs. No attachments. No feelings. No future.

When he pulled back, she exhaled shakily.

“Thanks for the compliment,” she said, and slid out of his grasp. “I’ll see you around.”

She left his room with fast steps and a heartbeat she couldn’t calm, leaving behind her scent of magnolia and a boy who absolutely wasn’t supposed to crave it.

Of course Milicent was already waiting for her in the common room, perched stiffly on the stone bench, lips pursed as she watched the giant squid glide past the underwater windows.

“Sorry I’m late,” Arianna said, jogging up to her.

“No worries,” Milicent replied, like she always did. As if her time had no value. As if she’d learned to take whatever scraps people gave her and be grateful.

Arianna hated it. The way Milicent accepted being overlooked. Ignored. Dismissed.

“Come on, Mills,” Arianna said, waving a hand. “Let’s get you sugared up before you lose your bloody mind.”

Milicent brightened instantly, and together they slipped out of the common room, moving through the cold dungeon corridors toward the kitchens like they’d done countless times before.

Inside, the house-elves looked far from thrilled to see them. One looked particularly miserable.  An older elf with a wrinkled face, ears like battered parchment, and sharp, glittering eyes.

He shuffled toward them, waiting until Milicent plunged both hands into a jar of candied pineapple.

Then he looked straight at Arianna. “You not belong,” he rasped.

“Yeah, thanks, I know,” she said dryly. “We’re leaving in a minute.”

The elf shook his head slowly. “No. Not here. Not anywhere. You smell like…” He leaned close and sniffed. “Trouble.”

Arianna scoffed. “Well, thank you again. That’s very polite.”

She stalked back to Milicent, lowering her voice.

“Mills, are you done? The elf over there is glaring like he wants to peel my skin off.”

Milicent nodded, stuffing one last handful of sweets into her pocket.

“Don’t mind him. He’s always in a mood. Prophesying about you is his favourite thing to do.”

Arianna blinked. “He what?”

Milicent looked up from an alarming quantity of pastries she was fitting into her other pocket.

“He’s a weird one. He told me last week you smelled wrong. Said ‘trouble’ and ‘danger’ a bunch of times. The normal stuff.”

“The— the normal stuff?” Arianna spluttered.

Mills shrugged, utterly unfazed.

“Yes. As I said, don’t mind him. He’s pretty old.”

Arianna turned toward the old elf again. He was still staring. Still glaring daggers at her as if he could see all the fractures in her timeline. Every divergence, every lie she told, every death she was trying to undo.

“Damn, he hates me,” she muttered as they slipped out of the kitchens.

And for the first time… she wondered if the elf was right.

 

 

By the end of the week, Arianna placed a neat box of crystallised pineapple on Slughorn’s desk, the lid tied with a green ribbon.

A single note lay on top in a sloppy handwriting: “In admiration, H.P.”

Slughorn’s favourite sweets. A forged admirer. And a perfect nudge to shove Harry Potter even deeper into the professor’s good graces.

Exactly as she planned.

After nightfall, the Slytherins gathered in the common room the way they always did on weekends.

Pansy looked scandalous as ever, lounging like a queen about to cause trouble.

Milicent traded sweets with Vincent Crabbe — progress, honestly — and Draco sat at the fire with Blaise and Theo, nursing something amber in crystal glasses. Their laughter rolled low and lazy across the room.

Arianna dropped onto the seat beside Theo, wearing one of Pansy’s trimmed emerald skirts and one of Arianna’s own fluffy oversized sweaters specifically to piss Pansy off. She earned a murderous side-eye that made her grin.

She was in the middle of teasing Theo about his sloppy handiwork at Divination when the common room door swung open.

Someone unfamiliar walked in. Except... not unfamiliar at all.

Draco’s grin sharpened the moment he saw him. Blaise leaned back. Theo tilted his head with a knowing smirk.

“Bowman. Back already?” Blaise called.

Arianna’s head snapped toward the boy, her breath freezing in her throat.

Bowman?

No.

No, no, no— surely not that Bowman.

But it was.

Thomas Bowman — who, in the original timeline, would end up a skeevy mailman with a fixation on lonely witches — now stood there young, smug, and unsettlingly handsome. Wavy dark hair. Auburn eyes glowing like molten honey in the firelight. Not aristocratic like Draco or Theo, but charming in a sharp, dangerous way.

And definitely a spoiled Slytherin.

“Yeah,” Thomas said with a lazy grin. “They dropped my charges. My old man took the fall. Took ages to get me released. Confiscated the vaults from my father’s side too. But lucky for me, mother’s got plenty tucked away.”

Arianna studied him. Different face. Same rotten core.

“What a good father you have,” Theo said with a wicked smile.

Thomas didn’t even blink. Of course he didn’t. Like Theo, he’d grown up under a man who shouldn’t have fathered anything but nightmares.

Then Bowman’s eyes landed on Arianna, and that same predatory gleam she remembered from the future slid effortlessly over his features.

Only now… he had the face to weaponize it.

“A new face?” he purred. “Forgive me for not noticing you sooner. I’m Thomas Bowman. And Merlin, you’re a sight.”

Most girls would melt after three sentences from a boy who looked like that. Arianna was not one of them.

“Arianna Avery,” she answered with a polite, icy smile.

She didn’t take his outstretched hand. Draco chuckled behind him, low and pleased.

Bowman withdrew his hand with a sour twist of his mouth.

“If you ever need anything—”

“Nope. I’m good,” she cut in, waving him off.

The boys burst out laughing. Bowman joined them too, a humourless little sound.

But Arianna saw it...  the spark in his eyes. The beginning flicker of the obsession she already knew too well.

And she hated the way fate kept circling familiar monsters back into her path.

They sat in their closed circle with Bowman wedged among them, drinking, joking, and letting the fire cast lazy shadows over the dungeon walls. The evening stretched on in a haze of laughter and clinking glasses.

Eventually, Draco slid down onto the sofa. Something unusual enough that the boys exchanged glances. He never relaxed like that around people. Not publicly.

Arianna folded herself beside him, knees tucked to her chest, wrapped in Theo’s black blazer like it was armour. Bowman watched the edge of the fabric with predatory patience, eyes flicking down every time it shifted, just hoping it would slip high enough to give him a glimpse of her thighs.

It didn’t. Draco made sure of that.

Every time the blazer slid, he tugged it back into place. Casual. Effortless. Not even glancing at what he was doing as he spoke with Blaise or Theo. Just a lazy pull of fabric between her waist and his leg. Keeping her covered, keeping Bowman’s eyes away, keeping her close.

The gesture was so natural, so out-of-character for Draco Malfoy, that Pansy spent half an hour staring holes into the side of his head.

Bowman kept trying to draw Arianna into conversation.

“So, Arianna, where’d you grow up? Are you—”

“Please Bowman,” Draco cut in smoothly, eyes still on Blaise as if he were commenting on the weather. “She hates small talk. You’ll bore her to death.”

Bowman blinked, thrown off balance.

Arianna barely noticed. She gave a clipped reply, then returned to sipping her firewhiskey, curling deeper into the blazer. Every time Bowman tried again, Draco’s voice slid between them like a knife.

“So, Bowman— your mother lost half the family vaults? Shame, really.”

“Bowman, didn’t your last tutor quit? Heard the man fled the country.”

“Bowman, you’re talking too much.”

Arianna didn’t see the dance happening around her, didn’t see the silent war Draco was waging with nothing but interruptions, lazy comments, a hand on the blazer, and a body angled just slightly toward her.

But Pansy did. She watched it all with narrowed eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching up in a knowing smirk.

Because whatever Arianna told herself… however much she tried to keep distance… Draco Malfoy had just quietly declared his territory.

And he didn’t even need to look at her to do it.

 

Eventually Arianna stretched like a cat, arms overhead, a soft yawn slipping out.

“I think I’m off to bed, boys,” she said, giving Theo and Blaise a sleepy smile.

“Yeah, think we all might do that,” Blaise agreed. He stood and offered her a hand. Arianna took it, letting him pull her up as Draco lifted Theo’s blazer from her lap with a practiced flick. Bowman watched the motion as if it were a performance staged solely for him.

“I think I’ll stay a little longer,” Bowman said, smoothing his sweater, eyes flicking to Draco. “You stay with me, Malfoy? There are a few things I’d like to discuss.”

Draco sighed, glancing from Arianna to Bowman and back again.

“Sure. I’ll stay,” he said, kicking his feet up onto the table like he owned the place.

Arianna waved her goodnights and left. Milicent had already gone up hours ago, crunching sweets in her sleep by now.

She wasn’t five steps out before—

“Wait up, Ri. I’m coming!” Pansy launched herself over the back of the sofa like she was escaping a murderer.

Arianna stopped. Together they headed down the corridor, Pansy still brushing imaginary dust off her skirt.

“Thomas Bowman has an eye out for you,” Pansy said, nudging her with a grin.

“Please don’t.” Arianna laughed under her breath.

Pansy didn’t laugh back. She stiffened, shoulders tightening, eyes darting behind them as if expecting Draco himself to materialize from the shadows.

Right before they reached their dorm, she leaned in close.

“You know he’d murder Bowman for breathing wrong in your direction, right?” she whispered.

Arianna blinked, startled. “Who?”

Pansy’s face twisted into the most are you serious expression Arianna had ever seen.

“Draco, of course.”

Arianna shook her head instantly. Defensive.

“No. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t care.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Pansy spun her around by the shoulders, gentle but firm, forcing Arianna to face her fully.

“He hasn’t sat on that sofa in three years, Arianna. The only reason he sat there tonight… was you.”

Arianna froze. Breath hitching. Her heartbeat slipped out of rhythm.

“That’s ridiculous.”

She wanted to laugh. Wanted to argue. Wanted any reality except the one Pansy had just laid in her lap like a ticking curse.

But her mind replayed the night anyway. Draco’s constant interruptions, the casual tug of the blazer between her waist and his leg, the way he’d tracked Bowman with the bored patience of a predator.

Her stomach twisted. Pansy watched her face shift, and smirked like she’d just won a bet.

Arianna clenched her jaw. “I forgot something.”

“Mhm. Sure you have,” Pansy said, wiggling her brows as Arianna stormed back down the corridor in an entirely different direction, heart racing like hellfire.

She slipped past the common room, hidden behind the thick emerald drapes. The velvet swallowed her whole, turning her into a shadow against the wall. Voices drifted from the fireplace. Bowman’s cocky drawl and Draco’s colder, sharper tone.

“So. The new girl’s kind of special. Being pampered by all of you?” Bowman asked.

“She’s off limits. Everything else shouldn’t concern you.” Draco’s voice cut like ice.

Arianna couldn’t see his face from behind the curtains, but she didn’t need to. She could picture it perfectly: jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, the embodiment of Slytherin arrogance with a blade hidden underneath.

“Is she?” Bowman pressed, still testing boundaries he didn’t understand.

“Definitely is,” Draco said. Low. Dangerous. Final.

That was enough.

Arianna didn’t wait for anything else. She slipped away, heart pounding too loudly in her ears, tiptoeing through the corridor toward the boys’ dorm. Draco’s door wasn’t locked and she eased it open, slipping inside before closing it quietly behind her.

His room without him felt… wrong. Too empty. Too intimate. It smelled like him, mint, smoke, rain on stone. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, throwing shadows over the rolled-out parchment on his desk. A fresh set of clothes lay folded with meticulous care on a chair by the window.

She crossed her arms, tapping her foot against the rug. She wanted to wait for him. Needed to. She had to tell him this was getting out of hand. That he couldn’t say things like off limits when they had sworn there were no strings.

Five minutes passed. Ten. She got bored.

She drifted to his bookshelf, brushing her fingers over the spines. Tipped a few. Poked through the parchment on his desk. His potion notes were immaculate. Clean handwriting, tight structure, precise measurements. Brilliant. Infuriatingly brilliant.

Twenty minutes later he still hadn’t shown.

Arianna ended up cross-legged on his bed. At first she sat stiffly, determined not to get comfortable. Then she gave in. Her palm slid across his pillow, smoothing the soft fabric. It still held the smell of him, and for a stupid moment she imagined the way he must sleep on it. Quiet, finally unguarded, breath steady, lashes brushing his cheeks.

It made her chest ache.

She sighed, sank deeper into the blankets, and waited. Waited for Draco Malfoy.

Waited for the boy she had sworn she wouldn’t care about. The boy who had just told someone else she was untouchable.

Waited, even though she knew she shouldn’t.

And the fire kept crackling like it knew exactly what kind of disaster she was walking into.

 

Chapter 22: Kindness gets you killed

When Draco finally pushed open the door to his room, he froze.

There, in his bed, curled up like a cat, fists tangled in his blanket, lay Arianna. Fast asleep. Her dark hair spilled across his pillow, lashes resting softly against her cheeks. She looked peaceful. Breakable. Completely unaware that she was lying in the one place Draco Malfoy never let anyone stay.

He hated it. Not her—Merlin, not her. He hated what it did to him.

He didn’t let girls linger in his bed. He didn’t let them even even come here. Pansy was the only exception, and even she never stayed long. Yet here was Arianna Avery, curled up like she belonged there. As if she had been waiting for him and simply drifted off.

His lips betrayed him, curling into a smile before he could stop them.

Draco shut the door quietly behind him, shrugging off his jacket. His eyes never left her. He draped the jacket over the chair by the window, unbuttoning his shirt one slow button at a time.

Still asleep. Of course she was. She slept like someone who hadn’t rested in months. Chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, her cheek pressed against his pillow like it had been made for her.

He hung the shirt next to the jacket, stepped out of his trousers, pulled on his joggers. She didn’t stir. Didn’t even twitch. Just breathed softly, a little sigh escaping her lips every now and then.

He stood beside the bed for too long, unsure what the hell to do with her or with himself.

Wake her? She’d probably bite his head off. Let her sleep? That felt dangerous. Too close. Too intimate. But when he imagined her waking up, glaring at him with that feral little attitude of hers at this hour he grimaced. Absolutely not.

So Draco climbed into bed. Gently. As if she were made of glass.

The moment his body touched hers, something in his chest loosened. His mind, always loud, always spiraling, dimmed to a soft hum. He exhaled slowly and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her back into him.

And she moved. Not away. Not startled. She let out a soft, helpless moan and pressed herself closer, her back fitting against his chest like she’d been carved for it. Then—Merlin help him—her hand slid over his, resting atop his knuckles on her stomach.

Still asleep. Still smiling.

Draco buried his face in her hair, inhaling the faint scent of magnolia, and closed his eyes.

Trouble. That’s what she was. Beautiful, impossible trouble.

And for the first time in forever, he didn't mind a girl sleeping pressed against him. 

 

 

Arianna woke feeling… restored.

As if she hadn’t slept in months and finally someone had switched off the world long enough for her mind to stop screaming. Her body felt heavy, warm, blissfully still. She smiled before she even opened her eyes.

Then she inhaled. Mint. Smoke. Him.

Her smile died instantly. Her eyes snapped open. She was curled against Draco Malfoy. In his bed.

Fuck.

She lay cocooned in his arms, his body pressed flush to her back, his face buried in the crook of her neck. His breath ghosted over her skin in slow, steady intervals. His arms locked around her like she was something he refused to let go of.

Her heart slammed into her ribs with the force of a Bludger.

What the hell had she been thinking? She’d come here to set boundaries. To remind him of the deal. No strings. No attachment. No… this.

Not to fall asleep in his arms like some lovesick idiot. She cursed herself silently. 

You absolute moron. Get up—quietly—before he—

“Stop overthinking,” Draco groaned, voice rough with sleep.

Arianna went rigid. He pulled her closer. Not fully awake, not fully asleep, just instinctively claiming every inch of her.

“You didn’t wake me,” she whispered, throat tight.

“Nope.” His lips brushed the back of her neck, the gesture stupidly soft, unbearably intimate. She could feel the smirk against her skin.

“Don’t even start,” she warned under her breath.

He chuckled low, warm, infuriating. Then he shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could hover over her. His hair was a beautiful mess. His grin was criminal.

“Start what?” he asked, pretending innocence that fooled absolutely no one. “You sneaked into my bed, love. And now you’re blaming me?”

Her nostrils flared. She opened her mouth, probably to yell or curse or explode, but he didn’t give her the chance.

He dipped his head and kissed her collarbone. Soft. Slow. Lips already wandering downwards.

Arianna’s fingers curled into the sheets as her breath hitched.

“Draco,” she hissed.

He blinked up at her, grey-blue eyes all wicked amusement. Innocent expression. Devil’s intentions.

The worst combination imaginable. And he knew it.

His head disappeared beneath the sheets and Arianna jolted, her lips parting in a half-curse, half-moan she absolutely did not authorize. Every nerve in her body betrayed her. She needed to stop him before she turned into a puddle of incoherent need on his mattress.

“Draco!” she gasped, hands knotting the sheets. “I actually waited here for you for—Merlin, Draco!”

He lifted his head, hair a glorious mess, mouth glistening with trouble, and grinned like sin itself.

“You what? Didn’t catch that.”

She slapped his shoulder, laughing despite herself.

“No need to get physical like that, Miss Avery. Unless you’re into it—”

She slapped him again, harder. His skin reddened instantly.

“Get up here, mister Malfoy. Now,” she demanded, laughter tangled in every word.

He crawled up her body, sitting back on his heels between her legs, hands braced on her thighs.

“Don’t call me that,” he said quietly.

“Why?” She tilted her head, teasing. “It’s your name, isn’t it? Mister Malfoy.”

“No. It’s my father’s.”

Her breath stilled. She sat up, palms on his waist, face softening.

“And you’re nothing like him,” she whispered.

He scoffed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Except the attitude. And the nose.” Arianna blinked innocently. “Yeah. The nose. It’s kind of crooked if you stare long enough.”

His jaw dropped. Offended. Dramatic. Hilarious.

“Crooked?” he barked, grabbing her waist and yanking her onto him as he dropped sideways onto the mattress. She let out a surprised laugh, pushing at his chest as he buried his face in her neck, kissing and nipping until she giggled helplessly.

Mother of magic, that laugh. It did things to him. Broke something open. Softened edges he didn’t even realize he had.

He rolled her to face him, their bodies pressed close, his eyes drinking her in. Her laugh faded into a shy little smile. Those storm-grey eyes, bright, warm, alive... he would remember them till the end of the world. And even after that. She was so damn beautiful it stole his breath, everytime he looked at her in a moment like this. A stolen one. Unguarded and laughing at him. 

She exhaled, long and shaky.

“I think this is getting out of hand,” she whispered. The smile slipped. Her whole expression shifted to something much more serious. 

Draco propped his head on his hand, studying her carefully.

“What is?”

“This.” She motioned between them. “It’s getting out of hand. We said no strings attached, but after last night, I’m not sure—”

“Because of Bowman?” he cut in sharply. “Merlin, he needs to know his place. Are you catching feelings, Avery?”

“No. I don’t,” she lied.

“Neither do I,” he lied back.

They stared at each other.

Both knowing damn well this was already more than it should be.

Both pretending it wasn’t.

 

She stood before his mirror again, checking her hair, wiping at the corners of her eyes until no trace of sleep or sin remained.

“Maybe you should lock your room if you don’t want someone sneaking in,” she muttered, straightening her sweater with those quick, precise little hands.

“I do.”

She turned her head sharply, brows folding.

“It wasn’t locked when I came here.”

“Must’ve forgotten it yesterday,” Draco said, gaze shifting to the window like it offended him.

She had the distinct feeling this was a lie. A stupid, transparent lie. But she didn’t push it. Not now. Not after last night.

“Need to go,” she said, stepping up to him.

She meant to give him a quick, meaningless kiss. Something casual, something detached, something people with no strings did.

But she froze mid-motion. Because it didn’t feel casual at all.

And Draco didn’t let her pull away. He cupped her cheek with one warm hand and kissed her back with a reverence that made her pulse hammer. When he broke away, his lips still brushed hers, his smile soft and devastating.

“Go then,” he murmured. “Be gorgeous. Make them all drool in their wet dreams.”

She slapped him in the chest, right above his heart, laughing despite herself.

“Stop talking. It ruins the good looks with your bloody attitude.”

Still, the idiot in her leaned in and kissed him once more. A real one. A soft one.

Then she walked out, shutting the door before she could make another mistake.

Her face burned. No strings attached. Sure. And she was the Queen of England.

 

She rushed to her dorm, peeled off the sweater for jeans and a cloak. When she pulled the sweater up to her nose, her stomach flipped. The magnolia perfume she always wore was faint, barely there. But his scent—mint and smoke—clung to the fabric like a signature.

She smiled. Then cursed herself. Fool. Idiot.

Thankfully, both Pansy and Milicent were already out, sparing her from an interrogation she absolutely could not handle right now.

She slipped through the corridors, heart pounding for a whole different reason now. Because the next step was harder than any of this forbidden mess with Draco.

She had to go back. She had to check the timeline. She had to see if anything had changed or if she’d made everything worse.

 

At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, she ducked behind the first line of trees, cloak pulled tight around her, breath fogging in the morning air. She reached into her pocket, feeling the cool metal brush her fingertips.

The time turner. She clicked the dial. And vanished.

 

She stood once more before the Avery manor and exhaled, slow and shaky. Her heart clenched painfully.

She could go in.

She could see them. Her parents, alive, warm, breathing.

She could wrap her arms around them, tell them she loved them, pretend she hadn’t spent years grieving ashes and bones.

But it would only hurt worse afterward.

She blinked back a tear and took one last mental photograph of her childhood home. The dark timbers. The windows forever half-shadowed. The place where love and ruin had always walked hand in hand.

Then she turned on the spot and Disapparated.

 

Malfoy Manor rose out of the fog like a ghost. Silent. Waiting. Watching.

She walked the path between the hedges, eyes tracing the familiar windows, the way the mist curled around the stone like a warning.

The door creaked open before she touched it. A house elf glared up at her—the house elf. The one who had glared daggers at her in the Hogwarts kitchen.

Her breath hitched. How the hell did he keep recognizing her?

“Who’s there?” Narcissa’s voice drifted from the drawing room.

“Girl,” the elf rasped, never looking away. “Trouble girl.”

Narcissa Malfoy swept the door fully open. She looked less shattered than she had in the broken timeline. Lucius’s presence had taken some of the weight from her shoulders.

“Miss Avery, your father is not here.” Her tone was clipped, cool.

Arianna swallowed. She wasn’t sure if the loop worked here, if Narcissa would remember her. But she had to try.

“I didn’t come for my father. I came for Draco.”

Narcissa froze. Her breath stilled. Recognition flooded her features like a storm breaking.

“You’re the other one,” she whispered.

“Yes.” Arianna nodded. “I was wondering if you still—”

“I do.” One tear slipped down Narcissa’s cheek. She caught it delicately with a fingertip and smiled through the ache. “The loop is intact. Come inside, my dear.”

Arianna followed her into the drawing room, sinking into the same seat she’d used in every timeline.

“Tea?” Narcissa didn’t wait for an answer. She poured a cup, added sugar and milk. Exactly the way Arianna preferred. As if the memory lived in her bones.

“You need to update me,” Arianna said. “Dumbledore?”

“Alive.”

“The Dark Lord and Harry Potter?”

Narcissa’s lip curled faintly. “Also alive. Potter has been on the run for years, shielded by the Order. Dumbledore aids him.”

Arianna squinted, scanning the possibilities. Everything was unraveling.

“And… Draco?” she whispered.

Narcissa’s jaw tightened. Her eyes dropped.

“He died. March 26th, 1998.”

Arianna’s throat closed. “How?”

Narcissa twisted the napkin in her lap, knuckles white.

“He fought off Dolohov and Flint. They had snatched a girl... planned to sell her to… unspeakable people. Draco stepped in." She inhaled deeply. "He saved her. They killed him for it.”

Arianna’s voice scraped out, barely there.

“What girl?”

Narcissa blinked through tears.

“I believe it was Bulstrode. Mathilda? Or—”

“Milicent.”

“Yes. Milicent Bulstrode.”

Arianna’s heart clenched so hard she felt faint.

“Why?” Arianna whispered, asking the universe more than Narcissa.

Another voice answered, cold and venomous.

“Because you made him soft. And kindness gets you killed.”

Lucius Malfoy stepped into the room, his face carved from grief and fury. The words hit like a blade.

Arianna snapped to her feet, spine straightening like steel. She stared up at him. The man who had made Draco feel small his entire life.

“I don’t—” she began.

Lucius cut in, voice raw.

“It was you. He saved that girl because of you. He told her you would have wanted him to. It cost him his life.”

She stepped forward, fury lighting her veins.

“He made a choice,” she fired back. “The right one. Not because he was soft, but because he was better than you. Stronger than you. Braver than you ever were.”

Lucius stumbled a step, taken aback.

“How dare you talk to me like that in my own damn house,” he hissed.

Narcissa rose, stepping between them like a living shield.

“That’s enough.” She turned to Arianna, voice softening. “Go, my dear. You have somewhere to be, don’t you?”

The unspoken message hit her like a pulse.

Go find him.

Arianna nodded, Narcissa’s hand warm around hers.

“I will.”

And without a single look at Lucius Malfoy, Arianna strode out.

 

 

She dialed the date Narcissa had given her the moment she stepped off the manor grounds.

Focus, Tara had said.

So she did. She pinned every thought to him. His face, his voice, the way he’d smiled at her even while dying.

Time swallowed her whole.

Her foot slammed into mud. She blinked, breath frosting in the air, and found herself at the edge of a clearing. Heavy trees circled a small, decrepit chapel. Before it stood rows of cages. Cold iron bars, packed with whimpering girls. Tear-stained cheeks. Dirt-smeared faces. Hollow eyes.

Her instincts screamed to free them. But then she saw him.

Draco walked out of the chapel, and he looked… different. Sharper. Harder. Detached from humanity in a way that chilled her bones. One hand in his pocket, shoulders squared, jaw locked. The girls shrank back from him, terrified.

And then Dolohov stepped into the clearing. Flanked by Marcus Flint. Flint held a girl by the scruff of her coat like a piece of meat.

Arianna’s stomach dropped.

“Mills,” she breathed, slapping a hand over her mouth before she could cry out.

She ducked behind a tree, heart pounding.

“Found another one,” Dolohov said proudly as Flint shoved Milicent forward.

Draco’s gaze flicked to her. Recognition sharp as a knife.

“Where did you get that one?” he asked.

Flint sneered. “Caught her skulking around the woods. Some kind of scout. Though a scout ought to be more… delicate.” His eyes dragged over Milicent cruelly.

She whimpered. Crabbe staggered out of the chapel. His eyes widened when he saw her and hers widened back. Unspoken panic crackled between them. Crabbe looked at Draco, pleading silently.

Draco sighed, rolled his eyes like she was an inconvenience.

“Merlin, let her go. She’s not worth a single galleon,” he said coldly.

But his gaze softened. Just barely.

Milicent sobbed. Flint huffed. “Someone will buy her for something. Cleaning… or whatever.”

Dolohov licked his lips obscenely. “Never tried a fat one. Maybe I’ll like it.”

Crabbe flinched. His jaw locked with real fury.

Draco snorted. “Sorry to disappoint you. You can’t sell her.”

He flicked his wand. A flash of light. Flint froze mid-sneer and toppled backward like a felled tree.

Milicent stumbled free.

“Run, Mills,” Draco ordered, pointing toward the woods, the exact direction Arianna hid.

Arianna pressed herself against the bark, breathing through her teeth.

Dolohov’s hiss ripped the air. “Traitor.”

Spells detonated between him and Crabbe. Shields burst with violent light.

Milicent bolted, crashing through branches, past Arianna. She tripped, fell into the mud, scrambled up again. Crabbe kicked Flint hard buying her another precious second.

Arianna felt a smile threaten. Sweet, stupid Crabbe.

Draco sprinted after Milicent, yanking her to her feet.

“Why?” she sobbed.

He grit his teeth, glancing back at Dolohov and Flint’s recovering body.

“Because she’d want me to,” he said quietly. “Now run.”

Milicent nodded fiercely, mouthed thank you, and fled into the darkness.

Arianna wanted to go to him. Tell him how proud she was. How it mattered. How much she…

But she couldn’t.

Dolohov’s Cruciatus slammed into Draco’s back.

He collapsed in the mud, muscles seizing, hands clawing at the ground. Arianna covered her mouth, tears breaking.

Narcissa stormed out of the chapel. “Do not touch my son!”

“Your son is a traitor!” Dolohov barked, raising his wand. Draco writhed, face contorted with agony, but his eyes flicked toward the woods. Toward her.

He saw her. He always saw her. He stilled. The curse faltered.

Arianna stepped forward by instinct, a strangled sound leaving her throat. He shook his head.

Don’t.

“Draco…” she whispered, a tear spilling down her cheek.

“Focus on anything but me,” he breathed, barely audible over the chaos.

Her heart splintered.

“Avada kedavra!”

The green light cracked through the clearing.

She ran, despite everything, but she was too slow. It hit him square in the chest.

Draco Malfoy collapsed.

Dead. Again. And she was the last thing he saw. Again.

Narcissa’s scream tore the world apart. She whipped around to Arianna, eyes blown wide with grief and fury.

Run, Narcissa mouthed and threw herself at Dolohov.

Arianna obeyed. She vanished.

 

She landed in a heap of cold rain, collapsing into the mud as sobs racked her body. She didn’t look around. Didn’t care where she was. Every breath hurt.

She should have saved him. Something always held her back. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was fate.

Her lungs burned. Her ribs clenched. She rolled onto her back just like he had, staring into a storm-split sky. Rain hit her face mercilessly.

And in the corner of her vision, upside down through the sheets of rain, she saw dark spires rising.

Hogwarts.

Waiting. Watching.

She gasped for air, rolling onto her knees, palms sinking into freezing mud as she pushed herself upright.

There—through the blur of rain—stood Hogwarts. Intact. Untouched. Shielded in shimmering blue magic.

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t enter. Not like this. Not through that barrier.

On the far side of the main bridge, a figure hurried toward her, robes whipping in the storm wind. Pale blue. Silver embroidery. A flash of white beard catching the lightning.

Dumbledore.

Her heart cracked open.

She bowed her head, pressing her palms to her face as sobs ripped through her.

“Miss Avery,” his voice came soft, almost unbearably gentle beneath the thunder. “Breathe.”

She tried. She inhaled a single shaking breath, then another, but the world still felt tilted and wrong and too heavy to bear.

Dumbledore approached slowly, like he was afraid she might shatter if he moved too fast. He nudged her arm lightly. A silent question.

She reached for him.

He took her hand instantly, warm and steady, and she collapsed against him. Her forehead pressed to his chest, hands fisted in the soft wool of his robes as if she could anchor herself to him and stop time from tearing everything apart.

“I… I can’t do this…” she choked. “I… can’t do this again. I should’ve never— I should’ve never even—”

Her voice broke completely.

He patted her hair with the careful tenderness of a father comforting a child who’s been hurt far beyond their years.

“Breathe, my dear,” he murmured, lowering his chin to the crown of her head. “Come inside. Let us talk. I believe this is a conversation we should have had long, long ago.”

His hand settled between her trembling shoulders.

And for the first time since she’d started tearing through time, Arianna let someone else carry a single ounce of the weight.

 

Chapter 23: Truths spoken, silence found and peace given

Arianna needed more than half an hour before she could even think straight again.

Wrapped in a fluffy blanket patched with tiny owls, she sat curled on a red sofa in a warm, lamplit office. Fire crackled in the grate. Books and parchment rolls lay scattered across a cluttered desk. A glass display case held odd trinkets. Labeled, catalogued, lovingly preserved. The whole room smelled of sage and old books, of safety and something ancient.

Dumbledore sat across from her in an armchair, elbows on his knees, hands dangling as he turned a small pendant fastened around his wrist. He didn’t look much older than in 1996. Just tired. Frayed at the edges. The same kind of exhaustion she carried in her bones.

“I know what you’re doing, Miss Avery,” he said eventually, his voice low, steady, unbearably gentle. “And I must say… you should have come to me much earlier.”

She sniffed, red-rimmed eyes lifting to meet his.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, automatically backpedaling. He couldn’t know. Could he?

He leaned forward, gaze warm and sharp through the half-moon glasses. A presence like a fireplace in winter. Someone you trusted even when you shouldn’t.

“The time turner in your pocket,” he said, nodding toward her cloak. “It’s mine. I would recognize it anywhere.”

Her heart seized. Her fingers twitched toward the hidden weight she thought she’d concealed perfectly. But of course he knew. Of course he did.

“Tell me,” Dumbledore asked softly, “from what year do you originate?”

Arianna sat up straighter, fiddling with a loose thread in the blanket.

“2022,” she whispered. The first time she’d ever spoken the truth aloud. She didn’t even know why she said it now.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, as if the confirmation only filled in a blank he had already circled.

“Why did you travel to 1994?”

She blinked, surprised he knew the original date of her jump.

“I… actually, I think it was out of curiosity. I didn’t plan to unravel time itself.”

Another nod. “I see. And who sent you?”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t tell him that. Even a first-year knew you didn’t go around handing out spoilers to the future.

“I came back to save a boy,” she said instead. “Useless to say it didn’t work.”

The thread snapped between her fingers with a tiny sound. She stared at the broken ends, watching them curl.

“A boy,” he murmured. “I see.”

Her thoughts swarmed. Questions she’d swallowed for months fought to the surface.

“I saw him die,” she whispered. “And I was thinking… what would happen if, instead of trying to change his life, I saved him in that exact moment? If I stepped between him and the curse?”

Dumbledore raised his brows.

“You cannot,” he said simply. “You are inside a loop. A loop demands to be witnessed. Not interfered with. It is both the beginning and the end of itself. It repeats until the balance is restored.”

Arianna scoffed softly, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.

“My life story. Repeating, failing, over and over again.”

He studied her face with that impossible, unreadable look. Like he could see the fractures beneath her ribs.

“If you stepped between him and death,” he explained gently, “the loop would collapse. You only went back because you saw him die. If he does not die, you never go back. There is no loop. No intervention. Paradox unravels all.”

She swallowed hard. That made sense. Too much sense.

“But you can,” Dumbledore continued, “change the path that leads him there. And I believe that is what you have been attempting, isn’t it?”

She nodded, staring at the faint shadow of the thread she’d broken.

“That path,” Dumbledore said, voice barely above a whisper, “is not easy to alter. Its ripples can destroy the future. And the wrong step could erase you entirely.”

She knew that. She’d lived that. Still, hearing it aloud lifted something from her shoulders.

Then he leaned forward, eyes bright with something like hope.

“To save him,” he said, “you must give him something he has never had. Something worth fighting for. Or… worth dying for.”

Her tired gaze met his. Storm-gray eyes dimmed by grief but not extinguished. Dumbledore smiled softly.

“Go. And remember: Hogwarts will always aid you. If you ask it to.”

 

 

Arianna slipped back into the Slytherin common room Saturday night, moving like a ghost.

The others lounged by the fire, laughing as always. She waved in passing, careful to angle her face away so they wouldn’t see the exhaustion dragged across it.

Draco saw it anyway. His jaw twitched, just a flicker,  but he didn’t move. Didn’t call after her, didn’t follow. He only watched her disappear down the corridor, one finger tapping thoughtfully at his lips. She looked worn down to the bone.

Draco pushed off the sofa, ignoring Theo’s raised brow.

“Oy, mate, where’re you going?” Theo called.

“Checking on something,” Draco said, already walking.

Theo smirked. He knew exactly what that something was.

A moment later, a small flame curled into existence in Arianna’s hands, dropping a note into her palms.

“Tremor. Care to help?”

His handwriting. Precise, delicate.

Arianna leaned against her dorm door, chest tight.

“For Merlin’s sake. Stop, you stupid soft heart,” she muttered at herself, wiping her face with both hands. She still went.

The door to Draco’s room clicked open beneath her fingers. He stood in the center of the room, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on her with a concern so naked she almost flinched.

“You said you’re having a tremor,” she said. “Did you bait me?”

His smirk answered before he did.

“Might have.”

The door closed behind her.

Her dark hair hung in careless waves down her back; her fierce grey eyes were dimmed, lids faintly red. She sniffed and looked away. She couldn’t look at him, not with the images of his death still clawing at her mind.

Draco stepped toward her, slow and deliberate.

“Listen,” he said quietly, “I don’t know why you’re lying about your heritage or where you go when you vanish. I don’t know shit about you, honestly.” He waved a hand in the air, dismissive. “But I do know you look drained.”

No accusation. Just truth. Soft, steady truth. The kind he never used with anyone.

Arianna’s breath shuddered.

“I can’t tell you,” she whispered, a sob breaking through her chest.

“Then I won’t ask.”

He cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You need to pause whatever the hell you’re doing. You hear me? If only for the night. Stop it.”

Her throat tightened. She leaned into his touch, exhausted, unraveling.

“I don’t know how,” she breathed.

“But I do,” he murmured. “Just trust me.”

A promise. Too intimate. Too dangerous.

A promise neither of them should’ve made.

He slipped her cloak from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Then he lifted the hem of her sweater and pulled it gently over her head.

No greed.

No hunger.

Just… relief.

As if removing her armor piece by piece.

He took her hand and guided her to his bed.

“Don’t get handsy, Miss Avery. You need to sleep,” he said with a crooked smile.

She actually laughed — tired, small, helpless — as she crawled under the blankets.

And Draco Malfoy, poster boy for detachment, lay down beside her. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in like she belonged there. She rolled onto her side and rested her head on his chest. His scent. His warmth. His heartbeat beneath her cheek.

He held her.

Just held her.

And she fell asleep instantly, one hand fisting the fabric of his shirt like she was anchoring herself to the world.

Draco watched her soften. The tension leaving her face, the weight slipping off her shoulders at last. His breath steadied with hers.

If she was his silence, he was her peace. Safety.

This impossible, tiny girl curled against him as if she had been made for his arms.

And he knew — even if he couldn’t give her promises or futures — he could give her this.

A piece of peace in a world tearing her apart.

 

 

Silently, without anyone noticing, the timeline shifted.

With every word, every touch, Arianna unknowingly nudged fate, changing tiny things that would one day reshape everything.

Narcissa Malfoy sat alone in her drawing room, her tea gone cold.

She had been surprised and quietly relieved to see Draco home on Friday night. He never came home without reason. She didn’t know he’d come to tell her something that would alter the future itself.

He had stepped into the room with a soft smile, shaking the cold from his coat. He sat, drank tea with her, talked about school.

Ordinary. Familiar. Safe.

Then he mentioned the new girl. And Narcissa watched her son’s eyes soften into a winter blue she had only ever seen in his rarest, happiest moments.

“Who is that mysterious girl? Is she your girlfriend?” Narcissa had asked gently.

Draco laughed, shaking his head.

“Merlin, no. I don’t do girlfriends, Mother.”

He paused, gaze drifting to the window, to memories she couldn’t see.

“Her name is Arianna. And she’s… just different.”

“You like her?” Narcissa asked, hopeful in spite of herself.

Another small shake of his head.

“I don’t have time for girls and feelings. You know that.”

The softness drained from his eyes, replaced by that rigid, disciplined frost she had learned to hate.

“You have more time than you think,” she said softly. “You just need to take it.”

But Draco jolted up, pacing.

“No. I can’t make promises to anyone. I can’t commit. By the end of the year, I’m either dead… or beyond saving.”

Narcissa swallowed the ache in her throat. He wasn’t wrong. Everything would be decided soon. All she could do was pray he survived the storm.

Then Draco cleared his throat. A secret balancing on his lips.

“She’s… Merlin,” he said, irritated at himself. “Every time the world gets too loud. Every time my mind spirals. When the weight gets too heavy… she walks in and it’s just… gone.”

A confession. One Narcissa never thought she’d hear from her son.

“Gone?” she repeated softly.

“She’s my silence,” he whispered. “Everything tunes out when she’s close.”

A glint in his eyes, something raw, unguarded, dangerous.

And that was it. The moment the loop locked into place.

A boy preparing for his own death… speaking a truth he’d never dared before.

A mother listening.

A secret she would carry like a prayer.

 

Months later, Narcissa would see that same girl again — small, fierce, eyes wild with grief — crying over Draco’s dying body.

And her son would look at Arianna the way dying men look at their only salvation.

After Draco’s death, Narcissa would hold the image of her, knowing some girl had given her boy a moment of peace in a world far too loud for his soft soul.

And twenty years later, when she saw the name Arianna Avery in the Daily Prophet — youngest agent in the Time Division — Narcissa knew.

She knew that face, those eyes.

She knew exactly what that girl was doing.

She would save him.... Or die trying.

And the loop began again.

Chapter 24: The painful secret of Pansy Parkinson

Professor Slughorn was hosting a Christmas party a week early, inviting only his favourites.

Arianna stared at the small envelope with her name on it. She saw Potter receiving the same one and exhaled in relief.

Since that Saturday night Draco had forced her to sleep, things had changed.

And at the same time, nothing had changed at all.

She had realised every word she spoke to Draco altered the way and the moment he died. She had watched him die forty-six times by mid-December.

Always different. Always worse.

Sometimes earlier. Sometimes later. Sometimes brutally. Sometimes quietly. Always him. Always because of her.

After every death, she crawled into his bed at night, curled against the boy doomed to die. The boy she was somehow always the reason for. She began to suspect the loop would never allow her to see the day she succeeded. Maybe she would die alongside him before she ever managed to save him.

And if that day ever came, if time finally cornered her, she already knew her answer. She’d step between him and death anyway.

Consequences be damned.

The god of death be damned.

She would defy him one last time.

Every night he held her as she fell asleep in his arms. His face nuzzled into the crook of her neck. Soft kisses brushed to her skin. His breathing warm against her shoulder.

This wasn’t no-strings-attached anymore. This wasn’t even close. This was every string tangled and knotted between them… and neither of them said a word.

Time jumps had taken their toll. She had lost weight. Her skin was pale. She blamed stress and winter. Everyone believed it, except him. And true to his quiet, impossible promise, he never asked about her secrets.

So when she stood before the mirror, charming fresh waves into her dark hair,  waves that now nearly reached her hip, she forced a smile.

Slughorn’s party mattered. The timeline mattered. She needed Tara desperately. The real Tara. Not some altered version in a wrong future. 

“Want me to lend you something?” Pansy asked from her bed, polishing her nails like a Muggle. The smell of polish filled the room, drowning even Milicent’s pastry stash.

“Something not too revealing?” Arianna asked, turning.

Pansy flicked her wrist to dry the polish, then crossed to her wardrobe. The doors groaned under the weight,  obviously, as she shoved aside hanger after hanger until her hand found what she wanted.

She pulled out a dress.

“I wore this when I dated  Adrian Pucey once,” she said with a smirk.

It was beautiful. Loose sheer sleeves dusted with silver, a fitted waist falling into soft folds at mid-thigh, a plunging neckline tied at the throat with a black ribbon.

“I like it,” Arianna said, stunned. Most of Pansy’s wardrobe screamed scandal; this one whispered elegance.

“Put it on.”

Arianna slipped into it and turned to the mirror. The fabric was such a dark blue it could be mistaken for black.

“Fits you perfectly,” Pansy said honestly. She adjusted the sleeves, tied the bow at Arianna’s throat, and patted her shoulders proudly.

“All done.”

Arianna smiled gratefully.

“Now go. Have fun. Eat too much ice cream,” Pansy ordered, herding her to the door.

Arianna slipped into her black heels and disappeared down the stairway.

Pansy stood in the doorway a moment longer, watching the empty frame.

She had seen the shift. In Draco. In Arianna. She knew Arianna had been sleeping in his room most nights. She knew the way Draco’s eyes followed her. She knew that tiny flicker of contentment that lit his face when he looked at her.

And Merlin… Pansy hoped Arianna would stay. Because Draco needed someone to hold him together. Someone to pull him back from the darkness creeping closer every day.

Maybe Arianna would keep him sane. Maybe she could keep the darkness from swallowing him whole. Arianna walked into the common room with a sweet smile plastered on.

Thomas Bowman materialised in front of her. Smug, sleek, and annoyingly self-assured.

“I’m invited as well. Thought we might go together?”

He offered his hand like he was doing her a favour.

“Sorry, mate. She’s already going with me.”

Blaise appeared, slung an arm around her, and smoothly dragged her away.

Bowman grimaced. He’d been circling her for weeks, ignoring every one of Draco’s warnings. Now he slunk toward the Carrow twins, Hestia and Flora — the two most unsettling girls in Slytherin — looking irritated and thwarted.

Draco stood in the centre of the common room, snow still dusted over his coat. He’d been out most of the day, cold still clinging to him. Arianna stopped at his side.

“Have fun,” Draco said, eyes fixed on Bowman. “Don’t get drunk.”

They were standing far too close. Their shoulders brushed. Arianna turned toward him with a smile she rarely gave anyone. The kind she saved for him.

Bowman noticed. And hated it.

Draco smiled back, gaze sweeping slowly down the dress. He leaned in close enough his breath warmed her ear.

“I’d like to see that dress on my floor later.”

Arianna shot him a scolding look, but still smiled.

“See you later,” she murmured before heading off, arm hooked through Blaise’s.

 

Slughorn’s party was buzzing. Students mingled with ex-students, potion masters, minor politicians, and various people Slughorn wanted to brag about knowing. He sailed around the room, pink-faced and proud.

Arianna scanned the crowd. Harry entered with Ginny Weasley. Hermione followed in a peach dress with… Cormac McLaggen. Arianna audibly gagged.

Students had been drafted as waiters, dressed in blinding white jackets, carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres. She ignored them and went straight for the champagne Blaise handed her.

“Stay close, troublemaker.” Blaise leaned down. “Bowman’s staring at you like you’re his dessert.”

She scoffed. “Not happening.”

Blaise drifted into a deep conversation about rare illegal potions with a elderly wizard. Arianna used the moment to slip away, eyes searching for Potter.

Instead Bowman cornered her.

“All alone? Zabini’s not taking his assignment seriously.”

He stood too close. Breathing her air.

“It’s not like someone’s dragging me into the woods,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

She stepped aside. He stepped with her.

“Are you… committed to Malfoy?” he asked bluntly.

Her stomach turned. No one had ever asked her out loud.

“I… no. I don’t think so.”

Bowman smiled like he had already won.

“Then consider going on a date with me.”

She inhaled slowly. “I’m not interested.”

She sidestepped again. He followed again.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Do I need to?” she asked, bored.

His jaw tightened. He set his glass aside and grabbed her wrist.

“Come with me.”

He dragged her. She looked for Blaise, too far, back turned.

“Let go of me,” she warned.

“Don’t be shy. I just want to talk.”

He shoved her behind a curtain, into an alcove. Cormac vomited onto Snape’s shoes somewhere nearby. Perfect distraction.

“Thomas, move,” she snapped. “Or I swear to Merlin—”

Bowman didn’t listen. He never had. Not now. Not in the future.

He leaned down and forced his mouth to hers. Shock exploded white-hot behind her eyes. She slammed her palms into his chest, shoving him off.

“Come on, Arianna,” he muttered against her jaw. “I’m sure Draco won’t mind.”

“I’ll scream,” she said, voice trembling with fury. “Get off me.”

“I do very much mind,” a voice cut in, ice-sharp.

Bowman was ripped backwards. A fist connected with his jaw. He staggered, clutching his face.

“Draco!” Arianna gasped from behind him.

“Damn right,” Draco said, eyes burning. “Didn’t trust him the second he tried holding your hand earlier.”

“You’re not even invited to this party,” Bowman spit, breathless.

“And you weren’t invited to touch her,” Draco snarled.

Bowman straightened, smirking like the devil.

“What if she wanted me to?”

“I certainly did not, you creep!” Arianna yelled, hand gripping Draco’s waist. A silent claim.

Bowman shrugged.

“Maybe she should. I’m sure she’d enjoy it.”

“Nah, mate… you didn’t just say that.” Draco laughed once — low, dangerous — lifting his wand. Something vicious flickered in his eyes.

He was about to cast.

“Don’t you dare, Malfoy.”

Snape swept between them, robes billowing, expression thunderous. He seized Bowman by the collar and shoved him violently back into the party.

“Keep your hands and lips to yourself, Mr. Bowman,” Snape hissed.

Then he turned to Draco.

“You. With me.”

Draco chuckled, turned back to Arianna, and brushed a hand softly against her cheek.

“Stay with Blaise,” he whispered.

For a heartbeat she thought he might kiss her. He didn’t. He followed Snape out, nodding at Blaise as he passed.

Blaise dropped his conversation instantly and crossed the room.

“Damn it, Ri,” he muttered, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you almost burning the school down.”

She didn’t answer.

“Come on. Ice cream fixes trauma,” he said and dragged her toward the long oval table.

Everyone sat with bowls of ice cream drowning in sprinkles and chocolate sauce. Conversations flowed around them.

Arianna stared at hers, stirring the melted mess in silence.

She could still feel Bowman’s unwanted kiss. She scrubbed at her lips with a napkin until they tingled.

She should have hexed him. She could have.

Blaise nudged her.

“You alright, love?”

“Yeah,” she said flatly. “Just bored.”

Blaise nodded and rose.

“We’re leaving.”

He gave Slughorn some excuse she didn’t hear.

Arianna murmured polite thanks and slipped out behind Blaise, heading back to the common room.

Back in the common room, Arianna found Draco pacing in front of the fireplace, hands slicing through the air as he ranted at Pansy, who lay sprawled on the sofa like a statue in some cursed garden.

“I told him the night he forced himself onto you, Pans,” Draco snapped. “Apparently he’s forgotten what happens when you ignore the rules.”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Calm down before you start breathing fire. He’s a bastard. We knew that from the beginning. She didn’t. He caught her off guard.”

“He’s pulling the same shit he pulled the last three times,” Draco hissed. “I swear to the Mother of Magic, if he doesn’t stop, I’ll put him down permanently.”

Arianna slowed her steps. Last three times? Her stomach twisted.

As soon as Draco saw her, the conversation stopped cold. Pansy sighed. Draco just stared at Arianna,  jaw clenched, muscle ticking, anger simmering beneath the surface.

“What’s the story with Bowman?” Arianna asked quietly.

Draco exhaled sharply. Pansy dropped her gaze. Blaise rubbed a hand down his face.

“You might ask Pansy,” Blaise said. “In private.”

Draco nodded once and walked off with Blaise, both of them disappearing toward the corridor, leaving Arianna and Pansy alone.

Pansy fidgeted with the ribbon on her wrist. The first sign Arianna had ever seen that she was genuinely rattled. Arianna sat beside her slowly.

“Do you want to tell me?” she asked, gently. She had the sinking feeling this wasn’t a story that came easily.

Pansy drew in a long breath and let it out shaky. When she lifted her head, her smirk was gone. Her eyes were glossy. Vulnerability sat where iron usually lived.

Arianna touched her leg lightly.

“It’s okay. You can tell me.”

Pansy licked her lips, voice soft in a way Arianna had never heard.

“A few years ago, when Bowman first came to Hogwarts, I wasn’t… this.”

She gestured weakly at herself.

“I was shy. Quiet. Always trying to be what people wanted. Living under Draco’s wing helped. They stopped calling me too thin, too small, too pathetic. But I wasn’t strong. Not then.”

Arianna swallowed.

Pansy Parkinson... shy? The thought felt wrong.

Pansy twisted the ribbon in her trembling fingers.

“When Bowman came, he was handsome. All the girls swooned. So did I. But he didn’t even see me. I was background noise.” Her voice cracked. “I was desperate for someone to see me.”

A sick feeling crawled up Arianna’s spine.

“Until one night… he came back from Hogsmeade drunk. And I was sitting right here.” She pointed to the opposite sofa. “He talked to me. Complimented me. And stupid as I was, I believed him.”

The ribbon broke between her fingers.

“He told me I was special.” Pansy gave a humourless laugh. “Special. Merlin, I wanted that so badly.”

Arianna’s breath hitched. She knew where this was going. And she hated it.

“What did he do, Pans?” she whispered.

Pansy’s throat bobbed. A tear slipped down her cheek and Arianna realised she had never, not once, seen Pansy cry.

“He said he wanted to show me something that would take my breath away.” Arianna felt her stomach turn. “And it did,” Pansy whispered.

Arianna slid closer, brushing the hair from Pansy’s face.

“What… did he do?”

Pansy clutched her throat, voice breaking.

“He choked me.”

Arianna froze.

“And he raped me.”

Arianna’s breath caught painfully. Pansy shattered then. Sobbing quietly, shaking. Arianna wrapped her arms around her, rubbing her back, whispering something soft and useless because nothing could fix this.

“He said he liked it rough,” Pansy choked out. “I was thirteen.”

Arianna closed her eyes, fury boiling under her ribs.

“He had no right to touch you,” she whispered, holding her tighter.

Pansy eventually steadied, pulling back with tear-streaked cheeks.

“Didn’t anyone punish him?” Arianna asked.

Pansy shook her head.

“I didn’t tell. Only Theo, Blaise and Draco know. They’re my family. And they punished him quietly. Severely.”

The thought made Arianna’s blood hum.

“Afterwards,” Pansy continued, voice strengthening, “he told everyone I threw myself at him. That I was obsessed. That I tried to trap him. He called me a slut. And they believed him.”

Arianna’s jaw clenched.

“So I became exactly what he said I was,” Pansy whispered. “Cold. Sharp. Untouchable. A bitch. At least that way I had armour.”

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. The crack in her composure sealed. The mask slid back into place.

Arianna stared at her, heart thudding, anger rising like wildfire.

“But we can’t let him walk around here,” Arianna said through her teeth. “Not after what he did.”

Pansy sighed heavily.

“If you’re important to the Dark Lord — if your family serves him — you’re untouchable,” she said quietly.

“Bowman’s father has been at Voldemort’s side for years. That gives him immunity. Even Draco can’t touch him without the Dark Lord’s approval.”

And the Dark Lord didn’t care about women. Or victims. Or justice.

Arianna sat there, shock and rage twisting inside her.

Bowman wasn’t just a creep. Wasn’t just a predator. He’d always been this.

And her instincts — her future memories — had never been wrong.

Pansy sniffed once, regaining control, chin lifting a fraction.

“And that’s why Draco hates him. Why Blaise hates him. Why Theo would put him in the ground if he thought he could get away with it.”

Arianna exhaled shakily.

This changed everything.

Arianna sat there speechless, shock sitting like ice in her chest. And Pansy — Merlin bless that girl — reached over and laid her hand on top of Arianna’s, thumb rubbing once, gently, like she was the one trying to comfort her.

“Draco is my best friend,” Pansy whispered. Her voice was steady now, the tears gone but the truth lingering in her eyes like a bruise. “He has a pure soul. I hope you can see that.”

Arianna swallowed hard. Her throat felt too tight to speak.

“And he won’t ever let something happen to you.”

It wasn’t a threat. Wasn’t a warning. Just a quiet, absolute fact.

Pansy stood then. Shoulders back, expression rebuilt brick by brick and left Arianna alone on the sofa.

Arianna stared after her, mind spinning, heart pounding, her entire world cracked open by truths she hadn’t known she needed.

Her thoughts shattered.

Maybe she had read it all wrong. Maybe Draco telling Bowman she was “off limits” had nothing to do with attachment at all and everything to do with protection. Maybe the only idiot catching feelings here… was her.

She wanted to march straight to him and ask. Demand an answer. Corner him until he said something she could cling to. But then again… he wasn’t supposed to have feelings for her. And she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to have any for him.

The peace she’d felt every night she fell asleep in his arms was completely shredded now. Torn apart by thoughts of Bowman’s hands, Pansy’s trembling voice, Draco’s rage.

Until she realized she was standing right in front of his bedroom door.

She stared at the handle. Turned to leave. Turned back. Left again. Came back.

By the fourth hesitation she nearly growled at herself, grabbed the handle, clicked it open and slipped inside.

His room was empty. Except… not really.

She heard water. Soft, steady, running. Steam curled under the closed bathroom door, drifting across the polished floorboards like fog.

Her eyes slid over the uniform draped on the chair and she froze at the tiny pin gleaming silver in the candlelight.

Head Prefect.

She blinked, annoyed at herself. Of course. Of fucking course he was head prefect. Of course he got the only room with a private shower. Of course he was rich, spoiled, privileged… and apparently soaking wet right this moment.

She paced three steps. Stopped. Turned. Bit her knuckles. Turned again.

Then she couldn’t wait anymore.

She pushed the door open.

Chapter 25: The end of his sanity

Steam billowed out, thick and hot, the clean mint scent hitting her like a punch. Her clothes clung instantly to her skin and Draco Malfoy looked over his shoulder at her, water streaming down his back, eyes going wide.

“Arianna—what—”

She didn’t let him finish.

She stepped into the shower fully clothed, crossed the small space in two strides, and wrapped her arms around his bare torso from behind. Curled against his spine like something small and wounded. Pressed her face against him, letting the water soak through her hair and clothes.

He turned slowly, shock melting into concern as he pulled her tight against his chest.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice low, steady, hands gripping her waist as if he thought she might collapse.

“What he did to Pansy…” Her voice cracked. “Merlin, Draco… he would’ve done the same to me.”

His jaw locked, sharp enough to cut. Water ran down his face like silver threads.

“No,” he said, firm, certain. “I would never let him.”

She let out a shaky breath and pressed her forehead to his sternum, clinging to him as if he were the only fixed point in a collapsing world.

“Merlin… he kissed me,” she whispered. “And now I can’t shake it from my head.”

Draco went still. Completely still. She felt the tension coil under his skin. Not anger at her, but at the thought itself. At Bowman. At what could’ve happened. At what did happen.

She looked so small. Too small for everything she carried.

Her lashes were wet, drops from the shower clinging to them like tears he knew weren’t entirely from the water.

“Hey.” His voice was rougher now. He took her face in both hands, tilting it up. “Look at me.”

Her grey eyes lifted, trembling.

“Focus on me,” he whispered. “Only me. Erase him.”

And Draco didn’t give her time to argue.

He kissed her hard. Fierce. As if he could rip every trace of Bowman’s touch out of her memory and replace it with his own. As if he could overwrite the fear, the doubt, the disgust, with something solid and real and safe.

Water poured down around them. His hands fisted in her hair. His thumb stroked her cheeks.

And the world finally, finally went quiet.

He cupped the back of her neck, their foreheads almost touching, the rush of water drowning out every other sound. Then, with a steadying breath, his fingers found the soaked fabric clinging to her shoulders.

He didn’t yank. Didn’t tear. Didn’t rush.

He peeled the drenched dress from her skin slowly. Carefully. As if she were made of glass and one wrong move might shatter her. The wet fabric slid down her arms, clinging stubbornly to her waist before he eased it lower, every motion gentle enough to make her chest tighten.

She didn’t flinch. Didn't say a word.

When the dress pooled at her feet, she stepped out of it, slipped off her underwear, and walked straight under the waterfall of hot water, letting it drench her hair and wash along her spine. She closed her eyes, tilting her face upward, breathing in the scent of mint and steam.

Washing away Bowman. Washing away the fear. Washing away every unwanted touch that had crawled onto her skin.

Leaving only him.

Draco stepped behind her, hands sliding up her arms, anchoring her to something steady while the water thundered around them. And for the first time that night, she felt her lungs truly expand.

Clean. Safe.

He trailed soft kisses over her shoulder, each one slow and deliberate. No bite marks this time. No hurried heat. Just the faint brush of his lips against her wet skin, warm even under the steaming cascade. His hands rested on her waist, steady and present, until she reached down and pulled them forward, guiding them to rest over her stomach. She leaned back against his chest, fitting there as if it had always been meant for her.

She turned in his arms, water slipping down her temples, and kissed him. Gentle. Measured. A reclaiming, not a surrender.

The only sounds were their breaths and the relentless drum of water around them.

She needed control. She needed the choice to be hers. And Draco — who had learned her patterns, her silences, her storms — didn’t push, didn’t lead, didn’t take. He waited.

Hands loose on her hips. Eyes steady in the soft mist. Breathing quiet, as if afraid to break whatever fragile thing she was piecing back together inside herself.

Usually he was fire and pressure, a guiding hand and a wicked grin.

Tonight he gave her something else entirely.

The reins. The pace. The permission to decide what came next.

And she felt it. Every bit of it.

He kissed her temple as she let her head fall forward, his arms locking around her as if he could hold her together by sheer force of will. Her hands rested over his, trembling faintly. He couldn’t possibly know what was tearing through her mind. The endless reel of his deaths. The screams. The green light. The way he always left her in every timeline.

And the truth she had been running from.

She loved him.

In this moment, she loved him entirely.

The boy meant to die. The monster he would become. And she loved him not despite those things… but because she had seen past them. Past the mask. Past the name.

He was the product of a world that had carved him into something sharp, and still she found gentleness in him. Still she found peace in his arms.

She turned suddenly, wrapping her arms around his neck, looking up at him with a soft, ruined smile.

“You are killing every voice of reason I ever had,” she whispered.

A low laugh rumbled from him, warm and amused. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“That's good to know. Because you’re the end of my sanity,” he breathed, words slipping over her skin like a spell. “And I’m afraid I’m starting to like it.”

A kiss pressed to her temple. Then another. His jaw lingered there deliberately. She closed her eyes, letting the moment soak into her bones. The sweetness and the cruelty of loving someone she was doomed to lose.

They stayed under the water far too long, until it ran cold and raised goosebumps across her skin. She didn’t care. She reached up, kissed him with sudden fierce urgency. A kiss full of every timeline and every failure and every second she had left.

He lifted her easily, her legs instinctively tightening around his waist, her laughter mixing with his breath as he carried her out of the shower. Water dripped from both their bodies, leaving scattered droplets across the floor.

He sat down with her still wrapped around him, his hands steady on her back.

“Do you want to sleep?” he asked quietly. “You decide, love. Whatever you want.”

She looked at him, her damp hair falling over her shoulders, her smile small but devastating.

“No,” she whispered.

The word trembled between them, heavier than anything else she’d ever said. She rested her forehead against his, breath mingling with his, her fingers curling at the nape of his neck.

He tried to speak, to steady her, to ask again, but she touched his jaw gently, stopping him.

Then she sank down onto him. He let out a gasp as he slid into her achingly slow. 

"Arianna.." he breathed, trying to stop her. 

“Say that again” she whispered.

His lips curved soft and reverent.

“Arianna,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes.

“Arianna,” he said again, voice lower, closer. “I’d say your name with my last breath if I had to.”

And she believed him. Because she had watched him do exactly that. Again and again. In every death she had witnessed.

She sank down onto him, breath unsteady, eyes fluttering shut as she let herself feel him. The warmth of his skin, the steadiness of his arms, the safety he never admitted he offered. Every fear, every timeline, every splinter inside her… quieted.

Draco’s breath hitched, a sound low and involuntary, one that snapped a faint smile across her lips. He’d given her control and she took it without hesitation. Her hands slid up his shoulders, drawing him in closer, guiding the pace, the pressure, the entire rhythm between them with quiet confidence.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer against him, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as if he couldn’t bear even a breath of distance. A soft curse left him, the kind that sounded nothing like arrogance. Nothing like aloofness. Just raw, undone honesty.

“Merlin… Arianna…” he whispered, voice roughened, reverent.

She held his face in her hands, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone, swallowing the ache rising in her chest.

This wasn’t about possession. Or lust. Or the way he looked at her like she’d stolen the world right out from under him.

This was her loving him. With every peace of herself.

As her movements became faster, frantic even, she moaned his name. His fingers digged into her skin, pushing her further down. Letting him slide into her deeper.  

His breath broke against her skin, head tipped back, throat exposed, a sound escaping him that wasn’t arrogance or control or bravado. Just need, bare and unguarded.

“Stay with me, Arianna,” he breathed, voice rough, almost pleading. His hands trembled faintly where they held her. “Every night. Stay here.”

The words hit her harder than any spell.

Not a command. Not a joke. A confession wrapped in desperation.

Her breath caught. A sting pricked behind her eyes, a single tear forming before she could stop it. She pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes because looking at him felt like stepping into a fire she couldn’t survive.

“I will,” she whispered, the words barely air. A vow. A stolen truth slipping past her defenses.

She would stay. She would take every hour the world gave her. Every morning she woke beside him. Every night she stole from the gods and the loop and the cruel, collapsing timelines.

Because eventually she would lose him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

But not tonight.

Tonight she clung to him as if time couldn’t touch them. And he held her like he had been waiting his entire life for her.

She pressed her hands to his back, nails pressing half moons into it as she moved faster. Every time he slid back into her, her heart skipped. She felt the pleasure build. Felt him tense. His breath hitched. 

"Fuck.." he breathed slowly, pressing his face to her collarbone as he came undone beneath her. He shuddered, let out a groan. She followed right after. One last push and the release she was chasing came blissfully. 

His hands slipped from her back as if every last bit of strength had been wrung out of him. He fell back into the pillows, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls while he tried to get control of his breath again.

She folded against him with a quiet exhale, her hair spilling across his chest like ink brushed over marble. For a long, suspended moment she just listened. The frantic thrum of his heartbeat easing beneath her cheek, syncing with her own.

Then he caught her hand. Lifted it. Pressed a kiss to her knuckles with a softness she had never expected from him.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, smiling like he couldn’t believe she was real.

She looked up at him, eyes warm, and kissed him back. Slow, painfully gentle, as if she was afraid the moment would shatter if she pushed too hard. His hand slid through her damp hair, resting at her spine, holding her close like she was something precious.

Bowman didn’t exist. The party didn’t exist. Pansy’s confession didn’t exist. Not in this moment. Not when he was breathing against her temple like she was the only thing in his world worth holding onto.

She drifted off on his chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

And for once… her dreams were kind.

She dreamed of sunlight. Of quiet. Of a place suspended between worlds. Where he was alive, unburdened, and entirely hers.

Chapter 26: A shrine made of memories

Winter holidays crept up faster than Arianna expected. Mostly because she hadn’t expected anything at all. Everyone was packing, swapping plans, arranging meetups outside Hogwarts. She had none. How could she? Her home didn’t exist in this decade. So she said what she had to: I’ll go home a few days later. My parents are traveling.

No one questioned it. Except him.

Draco watched her stalk through his room, hair wild, wearing nothing but one of his black t–shirts that hung to mid-thigh. She was muttering curses under her breath as she searched the floor.

He grinned like he’d been waiting for this.

“You know,” he said lazily, “I always said I wanted to see you like that. Didn’t expect it’d be because you’re accusing me of kidnapping your hairband.”

She answered by launching a boot at his head.

He caught it with a laugh.

“You did this on purpose!” she barked.

“Absolutely. I devised the entire scheme like a tragic villain in the shadows.” He lay back against the headboard, blanket resting low on his waist, expression smug. “Truly diabolical.”

Another boot flew.

“Stop enjoying this!”

“Stop throwing your shoes, you menace.”

“Stop being annoying!”

He clicked his tongue at her like she was amusingly slow.

“Love… how could I not enjoy this? Have you seen yourself? I could watch you hunt for that thing for hours.” He lifted a finger. “Especially when it’s literally on your wrist.”

Arianna froze. Looked down. There. Digging into her skin. She groaned so loudly he actually snorted.

“You could’ve told me sooner!”

“And ruin the entertainment?”

“You’re going to make me late!”

“Late for what?” Draco stretched like a satisfied cat. “Another kitchen raid with Mills? A passionate rendezvous with pastries?”

She yanked on her sweater. “You make my blood boil.”

“And you make mine—”

“Shut up.”

He smirked, utterly unbothered.

“Just cancel your plans and come back to bed. I promise to misbehave.”

“No.” She held up a finger like a warning charm. “Stay. There.”

He didn’t stay.

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her off the floor like she weighed nothing. She shrieked and kicked while he carried her back to the bed.

“Draco! Put me— Draco—!”

He tossed her onto the mattress, climbing over her and caging her in with his arms, breath warm against her cheek.

“Would it help if I say please?” he murmured, lips brushing her throat.

She laughed helplessly, hands gripping his shoulders in an attempt to push him away but absolutely pulling him closer.

“I didn’t know you knew that word,” she teased.

“I didn’t,” he whispered against her collarbone. “But I learned it for you.”

His fingers brushed beneath the hem of his t–shirt clinging to her thighs.

“Draco,” she warned, breathless, “I don’t have time for this. Seriously.”

He lifted himself just enough to look down at her, eyes warm and heavy.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I— stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like the goddamn prince of Slytherin.”

His lips parted—just barely—and that was all it took.

She grabbed his face and kissed him fiercely, hungrily, like she’d finally snapped.

 

 

When Arianna finally stumbled into the Slytherin common room, Milicent sat on the sofa staring at the ceiling as if she were counting cracks in the stones. Pansy lounged beside her, aggressively peeling off her nail polish like it had personally offended her.

“Merlin, you’re late,” Pansy drawled as Arianna stepped in front of them.

Milicent smiled… then squinted at her.

“You’re wearing your sweater inside out.”

Arianna froze. Looked down. Saw the seams and swore silently.

“Right. Yeah. I, uh… spilled coffee and—”

“Why didn’t you just use a cleaning charm?” Milicent asked, genuinely confused.

“I… forgot my wand.”

Pansy gave her the unimpressed, soul-crushing stare she reserved exclusively for idiots.

“We know you can do wandless magic,” she said.

“Why is that so fucking important?” Arianna snapped.

Pansy giggled behind her hand.

“We know you just fucked Draco. No need to lie.”

Milicent blinked. “We do?”

“Goddammit, no!” Arianna hissed.

Theo sauntered over, gnawing on a liquorice stick like it was a cigar.

“Why is your sweater inside out?”

“She just fucked Draco and rushed,” Pansy answered, bored.

Theo grinned. Proud.

“Ah. Couple goals.”

“We’re not a couple,” Arianna shot back.

Theo tilted his head like he was diagnosing a medical condition.

“Well. He’s kind of your boyfriend.”

“No!”

Blaise vaulted over the back of the sofa and landed beside Pansy with all the grace of a smug, overpaid cat.

“What’s happening?”

“We’re just putting a label on things,” Pansy said sweetly.

“Oh. Like Draco being her boyfriend.” Blaise pointed at Arianna as if this were a classroom lecture.

Arianna threw her hands in the air.

“For Merlin’s sake. Fuck off, all of you.”

They all burst into laughter at once. The worst chorus in history.

Arianna leaned her elbows on the mantle, muttering a charm to flip her damn sweater the right way round again. Pansy padded her shoulder lightly, the picture of smug assurance.

“Sweetheart,” Pansy said with a soft smirk, “you’ve been sleeping in his room for weeks. Do you honestly think we’re such idiots? That we’d believe for even a second you and Draco Malfoy lie back-to-back like siblings?”

Arianna snorted under her breath, heat rising to her cheeks.

Pansy flicked her wrist. “Please. If I didn’t know you, I’d still know him. And he’s not built for that.”

Arianna inhaled, exhaled, then laughed despite herself.

“Sometimes we do,” she admitted. “Sleep, I mean.”

Pansy clapped her shoulder again, firmer this time.

“Good girl. Don’t let him slip through your fingers.”

She turned on her heel and sashayed back toward the boys, eyebrows raised like she had just dropped a royal decree.

Arianna stayed where she was, staring at the fire for a moment.

I’m trying, she thought, the smile fading.

But it felt like he was slipping through her fingers more every day.

 

On Saturday morning most students vanished through the gates in flurries of scarves and luggage. The castle thinned. Voices faded. Laughter shrank into distant echoes.

Except Arianna stayed.

Blaise and Theo were off to visit the Zabini relatives somewhere warm and outrageously expensive. Milicent went home. Pansy left for some winter gala in the mountains. And Draco… Draco stood in the entrance hall with a single black travel bag at his feet, his cloak immaculate, his posture annoyingly perfect.

Arianna walked straight toward him, ignoring the other students milling around.

“Time to go?” she asked. Her voice snagged in her throat.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he said softly.

She hated that softness. It made everything worse. Because she knew exactly where he’d be. Knew he’d stand before the Dark Lord again. Knew every hour he was away from her was stolen time.

“I know. I’ll be home for the weekend,” she murmured. “But I’ll be here when you come back.”

She didn’t dare kiss him in public. They weren’t official, not by any definition except the painful one inside her ribs.

Draco’s lips twitched in a smile too gentle for him.

“Then I’ll see you soon. Try not to get into trouble without me, Avery.”

Her fingers curled behind her back to stop themselves from reaching for him.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “See you in a bit.”

She watched him walk away until his silhouette melted into the winter light. Her heart felt like it was being wrung out. Then she turned back to the dungeons to retrieve the time turner.

She crossed the courtyard alone, cloak pulled tight against the wind. She didn’t get far.

A soft click echoed behind her.

Arianna turned.

Dumbledore stood there in pale yellow robes, hands clasped behind him, eyes glinting through his half-moons. He looked like a man who knew far too much.

“Going somewhere, Miss Avery?” he asked pleasantly.

She nodded, forcing a smile. “Home. For a few days.”

Dumbledore dipped his chin, but the movement felt weighty, as though he was acknowledging something she hadn’t said.

“Home,” he echoed. “The safest place on earth. Or at least… that is what it ought to be.”

Her pulse skipped. She didn’t know what game he was playing. She kept smiling.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Do give your friend my regards. And remember… sometimes we must sacrifice more than we anticipated at the start.”

Arianna blinked. The words danced in circles, maddening.

“I’m sorry, professor, I— I don’t think I can follow.”

He smiled, that maddeningly patient smile that suggested he followed quite everything.

“Have a merry Christmas, Miss Avery,” he said gently. “And keep in mind… things are never quite the same as we leave them behind.”

Then he turned, robes whispering across the stone, and vanished through the great doors. They thudded shut, echoing through her bones.

Arianna stared after him, unsettled to her core.

Then she exhaled, stepped off the grounds, and pulled the time turner from her cloak.

The dial clicked. She closed her eyes. And let the world fall away.

 

The world she landed in was wrong.

Not catastrophically wrong—no fire, no broken sky—but off, like someone had nudged everything one inch to the left.

Arianna stood in her apartment again. Same walls. Same creaky floorboard under the third step. Same cold air humming through the vents.

And there on the counter, mocking her just like the last time, stood the two glasses she and Tara had abandoned during their midnight brainstorming.

She spun around fast, heart hammering.

The stack of time-rupture reports she’d dumped into the corner before her last jump was still there. Unchanged. Unshifted.

It looked like her original timeline. Or close enough to fool someone who hadn’t been crawling through the guts of time for months.

Arianna quickly shot off a message to Tara:

I’m home. Get here. Now.

While she waited, heart beating like a warning drum, she checked every room. Every drawer. Every shadow. At first glance, nothing had changed. Except for the mint scent in the bathroom. Or the winter blue sheets on her bed, against midnight blue walls. Everything screamed Draco Malfoy at her. 

She slumped onto her sofa and lifted her eyes to the wall above her desk. That shelf… the one with all her framed pictures.

Her gaze snagged.

One photo showed her and Tara at the university gates, the day Tara aced her exam on Time Rupture Law. It looked the same.

But the picture next to it… Arianna at seven years old, standing in front of Avery Manor.

This time, only her mother stood behind her. Her father was gone. Completely erased from the frame.

Arianna’s eyebrows knitted, breath thinning.

What did I do? What the hell shifted now?

Someone knocked.

She jolted so violently she squeaked, hand flying to her chest. The door swung open before she could even breathe.

Tara barreled in like a storm barely contained in human form.

“You better explain yourself, young lady.”

She pointed a pale, razor-sharp finger at her.

Her dark hair was chopped shorter now, ending jagged at her collarbone. That hadn’t been the case before. But her fierce ice-blue eyes were the same. Narrowed, slicing right through Arianna.

Tara slammed the door shut, stalked straight in, and tossed a stack of papers onto the table with a slap that echoed.

“You messed with time. Again. And I don’t know what you changed, but something shifted, and we are going to find out. Right now.” She jabbed the papers. “And while we do, you’re going to tell me everything. Every jump. Every ripple. Every idiotic decision—”

Arianna didn’t wait. She launched forward and threw herself into Tara’s arms, hugging her so hard Tara made a muffled choking noise.

“Whoa—what the— Arianna!” Tara sputtered, patting her back with the grace of a drowning cat.

Arianna’s throat tightened. God, she had missed her.

Missed someone who knew every law she was breaking. Missed someone who still chose to stay anyway.

“How do you even remember?” Arianna asked, already drifting toward the fridge because her throat felt like sandpaper.

She pulled the door open, cold air brushing her face, then froze.

Dozens of sticky notes were plastered across the metal like a crime board in miniature. All in Tara’s sharp, impatient handwriting.

“Anomaly detected in 1994.”

“WRITE A DIARY! Arianna’s been absent—where the fuck are you??”

“I remember her saying goodbye… and I remember her not??? What the actual hell?”

Arianna’s breath stalled. She peeled one note off slowly, as if it might burn her fingers.

“What is this?” she asked, flipping the little yellow square back and forth.

Tara crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows with that infuriating I-told-you-so-but-you-didn’t-listen-and-now-I-get-to-enjoy-it smile.

“When I realised something was off, I did some digging,” Tara said, sauntering closer and tapping the side of her jaw. “And no, I can’t remember what I’m supposed to remember. But I pieced it together.”

Arianna blinked.

“You… pieced it together?”

“Oh, please.” Tara scoffed. “Who else would be reckless enough to time-travel backward just to watch a bloody Quidditch match ruined by deatheaters? You.” She pointed at her. “Because you’re obsessed with the past. And—” Tara narrowed her eyes, “—with Draco Malfoy.”

Arianna’s stomach dropped.

This wasn’t meant to happen. Tara shouldn’t feel the ripple. Not consciously, not subconsciously, not at all.

If Tara was noticing gaps… If Tara was remembering two different versions of events… It meant Arianna had anchored herself to her somehow.

That was dangerous.

Arianna shut the fridge without taking anything. The sound echoed like a slammed door in a cathedral.

She wandered back to the sofa and let herself fall into it, elbows on her knees, forehead sinking into her palms. Her voice came out small.

“Okay… fine… I’ll tell you everything.”

Tara sat opposite her, legs crossed, spine straight, hands folded like she was preparing for a war.

Arianna brushed her hair back, inhaled deep, and began at the beginning.

1994. The Quidditch match. The first mistake. The loop. Dumbledore. The deaths. All forty-six of them. And the boy she kept trying to save.

Tara didn’t interrupt. Not once.

Her expressions did the talking. Eyebrows shooting up, lips thinning, a horrified grimace here, an impressed stare there.

When Arianna finally reached the Slug Club party… and Bowman… and the shower… Tara leaned back and let out a groan loud enough to rattle the windows.

She dragged both hands down her face.

“Sweet merciful hell, Arianna.”

Arianna sank deeper into the cushions, elbows on her knees, face in her hands, exhaustion crashing over her like a wave.

“I know,” she muttered, voice muffled. “Merlin, I know. And you already yelled at me for most of it.”

Tara hopped onto the sofa beside her with the exact same dramatic little bounce she’d had the last time Arianna was home. Then—smack—a sharp slap landed on Arianna’s thigh.

“Then I won’t yell, but I will slap the shit out of you, if you don't stop making it worse.” Tara announced, folding her legs under herself, posture crisp as a judge pronouncing a sentence. “I’ll tell you my honest opinion.”

Arianna groaned like someone about to be executed.

“Do that.”

Tara inhaled, the kind of inhale that meant brace for impact.

“You fucked up,” Tara said calmly. Too calmly. “Multiple times, to be precise.”

Arianna winced.

“So the anomaly is already detected. It’s not theoretical anymore. It’s not subtle. It’s not ‘maybe if we ignore it, it will fix itself.’” Tara flicked her hair over her shoulder, eyes blazing. “It’s just a matter of time until the Time Division sends someone after you. Someone who won’t bring snacks or forgive your stupid emotional decisions.”

Arianna swallowed, throat tight.

“That’s… fair,” she whispered.

“No,” Tara snapped. “It’s true. Which is worse.”

She stood, pacing toward the window, hands slicing through the air as she talked.

“Here’s what we do: we work our way through history and pinpoint exactly what you changed. One by one. Ripple by ripple. Then we track the consequences. And then, if we’re very, very lucky, we fix the biggest breaks before someone much scarier than me shows up.”

Arianna nodded.

“Yeah. That’s—yeah. That’s a solid plan.”

She rubbed her palms over her face, willing her pulse to calm down. Then she blinked, eyes shifting toward the window.

The curtains. The curtains weren’t right.

They were supposed to be creamy white, soft and airy. She had picked them herself because Tara said they looked “like the background of a boring influencer video.”

But the ones hanging now…

Deep emerald. Heavy fabric. Dark sheen. Not hers.

She hadn’t changed them. She knew she hadn’t changed them.

Her chest tightened.

“Tara,” she said quietly, staring at the fabric. “Did you… change the curtains?”

Tara turned her head. Her expression faltered. Just a breath. Just a flicker.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

Arianna stood. Took a step closer. Reached out trembling fingers and brushed the emerald fabric.

Cold. Smooth. Expensive. A Slytherin shade of green.

A shiver slid down her spine.

“So time must have,” she whispered.

Tara blinked at her like she’d just confessed to murder.

“I remember you bringing them back from a shopping trip, saying they reminded you of someone,” she said.

Arianna exhaled sharply. Yeah. They did.

“Good lord,” she muttered under her breath.

She practically threw herself into the pile of documents on the floor. Her hands shook as she flipped through reports, records, timelines, incident logs. Tara sat beside her, jotting down every discrepancy.

Finally Arianna dropped the last page and slumped, burying her face in her palms.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she groaned. “I caused Katie Bell’s death. Dumbledore should’ve lived. But here he died. The war lasted years longer. And Draco…” She swallowed. “Draco still dies.”

“Forty-seven times,” Tara corrected quietly. “Must be hell.”

Arianna shut her eyes tight.

“It is. And I don’t know how many more times I can watch him die before I do something really stupid.”

Tara slipped her fingers over Arianna’s and squeezed.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall in love with the dead boy,” Tara whispered. “And don’t get cute, Ri. I know I told you in a different timeline to go sleep with him, but love? Falling in love with someone destined to die is actual masochism.”

Arianna’s jaw clenched. Her voice barely held together.

“Yeah… that ship has already sailed.”

Tara froze. Her hand stopped squeezing. Her eyebrows slowly rose like two furious little ravens lifting off in disbelief.

“You’re kidding.”

Arianna didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Tara let out a low, horrified groan and dragged both hands over her face.

“Arianna,” she said, voice cracking. “You absolute, catastrophic, cosmos-crossing idiot.”

Arianna let out a choked laugh. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious,” Tara said, pointing at the emerald curtains, the winter-blue bedroom door, the damn mint-scented bathroom. “Look at this place. You built a shrine. If he’d worn orange for one day you’d have redecorated like a construction site.”

Arianna covered her face again. “I didn’t do it consciously.”

“That makes it worse.”

Arianna didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Tara grabbed her shoulders.

“You have one option left, Ari. One. Either you break the loop… or it’ll break you first.”

Arianna’s voice came out small.

“I know.”

Tara nodded once. Hard.

“Then let’s get to work. Because I am not letting you destroy an entire timeline for a boy with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.”

Arianna smiled weakly.

“Too late,” she whispered. “I already did.”

Chapter 27: Thomas Bowman

Thomas Bowman had never been anyone’s favourite.

Not the teachers.

Not his classmates.

Not even his own parents.

He’d grown used to it, but he’d never stopped hating it.

Returning to Hogwarts after the long, humiliating trial — his father taking the fall, Azkaban swallowing the man whole while Thomas walked free — he thought perhaps this year he could rebuild something. Maybe even reinvent himself. Maybe be… someone.

But the moment he stepped into the Slytherin common room, his hope curdled.

The throne was still taken. Draco Malfoy still ruled the room without needing to be in it.

Thomas didn’t hate Draco for who he was.

He hated him for everything he embodied: the heir, the beauty, the effortless authority. The prince everyone followed.

Thomas had wanted that his entire life.

Hell, that was why he’d gone after Pansy years ago, because Draco kept her close, safe, chosen. Thomas thought Draco might love her. So Thomas wanted her too.

And now, standing before Draco’s armchair, he stared down at the empty seat with a hunger bordering on reverence.

Slowly — almost tenderly — he brushed his fingers over the armrest.

Smooth. Warm. Power in carved wood.

A smile curled his lips.

He turned, lowered himself into the chair, and let his hands grip the armrests.

Exhilaration rushed through him.

Yes.

This was it.

This was what it felt like to be the bloody prince of Slytherin.

With Draco gone for the holidays, no one was here to challenge him. No one to laugh. No one to remind him he wasn’t worthy.

He tilted his head back, looking toward the windows where the Black Lake lay iced over, bubbles drifting lazily beneath the frozen surface.

For a moment, he let himself believe the fantasy.

And then a cruel smile tugged at his mouth as Arianna Avery stepped into the common room.

At first she didn’t notice him. She strode forward, flipping back her dark hair, full lips tinted a soft peach.

Her storm-grey eyes looked exhausted,  as they often had lately, until they finally landed on him. And narrowed.

Disdain sharpened her expression. She stopped dead, staring at him like he’d crossed a line carved into the marrow of the room. Sitting in Draco’s armchair. Of course it annoyed her.

Her pretty mouth pressed into a thin line, lashes lowering.

“Making yourself comfy?” she asked, venom threading through every syllable as she crossed her arms.

The lapels of her black leather jacket shifted, revealing a sliver of deep red crop top, wine-coloured against her pale skin. A glimpse of her navel, small and soft, nearly broke his focus.

She didn’t move closer. Smart girl. But Thomas Bowman didn’t want her to move away. He wanted to look at her.

The tight black jeans hugging her legs. The slender hands. The delicate jawline that was somehow both soft and dangerous.

No wonder Draco kept her close.

“Just getting warmed up,” Thomas said, patting his lap. “Wanna join?”

She rolled her eyes so hard it nearly cracked the lake.

“I’d rather freeze to death.”

He chuckled. Gods, he adored her sharp tongue.

“Suit yourself. But since we’re the only ones back early, we might as well talk. I think you’ve got an awfully wrong impression of me.”

“I think I have absolutely the right impression,” Arianna snapped. “And I don’t like it one bit.”

He laughed and leaned his head back. He imagined his name falling from her lips in a moan. She wrinkled her nose, catching the thought on his face.

 

“You’re disgusting. I can read your dirty mind on your face.”

“A pretty face, though… isn’t it?” he teased.

“You know what? I’m not wasting my time on you.”

She dropped her arms and stormed toward her dorm. He hesitated between staying in Draco’s throne or following her. The throne could wait. He followed.

She was about to step into her room when he caught up.

“Wait — I wanted to apologise,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. “For kissing you at the party. I was overwhelmed. I really like you, Arianna. I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him small, deceptively delicate. He could lift her with one arm if he wanted.

“I don’t need your apology. I need distance. So step back.”

Her voice was a blade. Merlin, she was beautiful when she was angry.

“Come on, Arianna. We’re all friends here.”

“We’re not friends.”

He dropped his hands, frustrated. Arianna Avery would never forgive him. Never trust him.

“We could be,” he said softly, reaching out to play with a strand of her hair.

She didn’t move. She watched him take it. He leaned in. Sniffed it.

“Mhhmmn... Magnolia,” he whispered. “You smell like paradise.”

Her smile sharpened like a knife. Without warning, she snapped his wrist. Her fingers glowed white-hot. His skin blistered beneath her touch.

He buckled silently, because she’d pinched her other hand into a silencing charm before he could scream.

Her smile widened. Dark. Deadly.

“I told you not to touch me. Next time, I’ll take the whole hand. Hope you got the impression.”

She shoved him back with far more strength than he expected. He stumbled, staring at the burned imprint of her fingers seared into his skin.

She could use wandless magic. Of course she could. She was an Avery.

The door slammed in his face. Thomas Bowman stood in the corridor, burnt, shaking, and furious.

Being shoved back by Arianna didn’t break Thomas Bowman.

It deepened him.

Her strength. Her defiance. The way she hurt him without hesitation.

It sparked something rotten and hungry inside him.

A darkness he’d spent years pretending he didn’t have.

A whisper curling through his ribs:

Break her.

Make her yield.

Make her look at you the way she looks at him.

His pulse hammered against the burned imprint on his wrist, pain twisting into something intoxicating.

He leaned against the cold stone beside her dorm door, breath uneven, eyes half-closed as he replayed the moment she touched him, plunging one hand beneath his waistband. 

He wanted her. Not to own, but to ruin her. 

Oh, how perfect it would be to see those full lips tremble, those grey eyes flicker with fear. He liked the power. The control. 

He groaned, rubbing his erection faster, with her face hovering right in front of him like a dream. 

His shoulders shuddered as the pleasure swept over him. He pinched his eyes shut.

Replaying her voice in his mind.

Not the sharp, venom-laced tone she threw at him. That he could handle. That he could answer back with a smirk and a careless shrug.

No. It was the other voice that shredded him. The one she used on Draco. Soft. Low. Steady. The kind of tone she saved for someone she trusted. Someone she cared about.

He sucked in his lip, groaning as he came undone. Pressing himself back against the wall and pretending it was her hand stroking him. 

Thomas swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

Why him?

Why did he get that version of her?

Why did Malfoy get her quiet?

Why did he get her kindness, her attention, her calm?

Why did Draco Malfoy get all of her while Thomas Bowman only got her fire?

The jealousy twisted inside him, sharp and poisonous.

He pressed the back of his head against the wall, inhaling slowly, willing the image of her gentle voice to vanish.

It didn’t. It clung to him. It taunted him.

And the darkness inside him whispered again:

Take what he has. Take what she denies you. Take the softness. Make it yours. And ruin it.

He opened his eyes, pulse thrumming, burned wrist throbbing in time with his thoughts.

Arianna Avery had no idea what she’d just awakened in him.

And Thomas Bowman was far from finished.

Chapter 28: Boundaries

Draco arrived back at Hogwarts late that night.

He felt wrung out.

Standing before the Dark Lord always stripped something from him, but tonight had been worse. The way those pale fingers had curled around Draco’s shoulder… he could still feel the cold imprint of them. He shuddered, rolling the sensation off as he walked down the corridor.

Snowfall hadn’t chilled him. Voldemort had.

He pushed open the door to his room, dropping his bag just inside and froze. His heart stuttered in his chest.

Curled up in his bed, wrapped in one of his shirts, lay Arianna. One leg thrown over the blanket, her skin catching the moonlight, her small hands fisted around his pillow.

A soft smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. He slipped out of his jacket, stepping closer. He hadn’t expected her here. And yet here she was. In his clothes. In his bed. Like she belonged there.

She was devastatingly beautiful. The long curve of her waist beneath the black fabric of his shirt, her nose scrunching slightly in sleep, lips parted in that soft, peach-tinted shape that always ruined him.

He undressed quietly and slipped beneath the blankets, leaning in to brush his nose along her cheek. He pushed back a strand of hair, the scent of magnolia rising warmly between them.

A low, sleepy sound left her throat. Without opening her eyes, she turned toward him, meeting his mouth instinctively.

He kissed her greedily. Four days away from her had been… unbearable. He’d missed the warmth of her body, her scent, the way she made tiny sounds when she dreamed.

He’d missed her. Desperately.

She rolled onto her back, blinking up at him in a daze.

“You’re back,” she whispered, voice husky with sleep.

“And you’re sleeping in my bed, princess.” He grinned.

She wrapped her arms around him, the pillow dropping away as she pulled him close.

“My room can’t be locked,” she mumbled, half-asleep and unfiltered. “So I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Draco stilled. Pushed himself up slightly, studying her expression.

“Why would you need to lock your door?” he asked.

Arianna touched his jaw with her fingertips light, slow, leaving warmth in their wake.

“Because Thomas Bowman is a creep. He was playing prince while you were gone. I’m not taking chances.”

Draco tensed. His jaw clenched. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead. Bowman was a nuisance, yes, but a dangerous one.

“Fuck… Did he touch you?” His voice lost every drop of softness.

“He tried.” Arianna smirked faintly. “I burned the skin off his wrist.”

Draco exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair.

“He’s overstepping again. I should remind him—”

“No. Not now.” She tugged him down before he could rise. “You just got back.”

He swallowed whatever curse he’d been about to throw at Bowman.

Her pulling him in dissolved everything. Anger, intentions, even the memory of that bastard’s name.

He brushed his nose against hers, his hair falling into her face.

“Missed me much?” he murmured.

He wasn’t prepared for her answer.

“Disturbingly much.”

She lifted her head and kissed him slow and certain, hungry.

And that was it. Whatever plans he had vanished.

There was nowhere he wanted to be except under those blankets, with her.

 

On the other side of Draco’s door, Thomas Bowman stood motionless, one ear pressed flat against the wood.

He couldn’t make out the words, just the murmur of low voices, soft and private. Intimate in the way that made his stomach twist.

He stayed there longer than he should have. Long enough for the sound he’d been chasing to drift through the cracks.

Arianna’s voice. Not sharp. Not venomous. Not aimed at him.

Soft. Breathless. Lit with a warmth he’d never earned from her.

And it wasn’t his name she moaned. It was Draco’s.

Thomas’ jaw tightened until it hurt. He reached for the doorknob out of instinct and felt the magic pulse against his hand. A silvery ripple of air shimmered over the lock.

Malfoy had warded it. Of course he had. Only two people were allowed through that door.

Him. And her.

A cold envy curled through Thomas’ gut. Jealousy. Hunger. Insecurity sharpened into something mean.

Disturbingly, a part of him wished he could see them.

Not out of desire but out of obsession. To witness the thing Draco had that he did not. To watch the softness she gave freely to someone else.

A twisted curiosity. A rot in his mind he didn’t bother denying.

He memorised the cadence of her voice, not the words, just the tone, the quiet vulnerability of it and pushed himself away from the door.

His burned wrist throbbed as he walked back toward his own room. He barely noticed. His thoughts were too loud. Too focused. Too fixed on her.

Arianna Avery had chosen Draco’s bed tonight.

But Thomas Bowman was already planning how to get to her soon.

 

Draco righted his collar as he climbed the stairs toward the Great Hall, the echo of his own footsteps the only sound in the corridor. He’d left Arianna asleep. Peaceful. Curled into his damn pillow like she belonged there. Waking her wasn’t an option.

Besides, he needed the freedom to do something she’d try to talk him out of.

Bowman sat at the Slytherin table with all the arrogance of a man who had never once paid consequences. Only a handful of students dotted the benches; most had already gone home for the holidays.

When Bowman spotted him, he smirked and lifted his hand in a lazy wave.

Draco smirked back. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

He sat directly across from him, jaw tight enough to bruise. He forced a slow, bored tilt to his head.

“How was home?” Bowman asked lightly, still chewing on his food like an animal.

“We had visitors,” Draco replied. He slid the fork between his fingers, tapping the prongs against the wood. “They were quite impressed with… the new décor.”

Bowman’s smugness faltered. He understood the code. The Dark Lord had been there and had been pleased with Draco. That sucked. 

“I see,” Bowman said carefully. “That’s good to hear.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to Bowman’s right hand. Bandaged, swollen, lying flat on the table like a wounded animal trying not to attract predators.

Too late for that.

“You met Arianna yesterday,” Draco said, voice deceptively flat as he “sorted” the food on his plate.

“Oh, yes.” Bowman leaned back, playing nonchalant. “I apologized. She’s a delight, really.”

“She is,” Draco murmured. “She also told me about that apology.”

Bowman froze. It was subtle, but Draco saw it. Saw the guilt. The calculation. The fear.

And then Draco moved. Fast, silent, precise. The fork plunged straight into the back of Bowman’s injured hand.

Bowman’s whole body jerked, but Draco’s voice cut clean through the pain: “Don’t scream, Bowman. That would be rude.”

His tone was soft. Softer than it should’ve been. That’s what made it terrifying.

Bowman’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. He shook from the effort of swallowing the scream clawing up his throat.

Draco leaned closer, eyes as pale and cold as a winter storm.

“Let’s get this straight,” he whispered. “If you go near Arianna again… I won’t ask questions. I won’t listen to apologies. I will dig her name out of your skull until you don’t even know your own.”

A beat of silence. Bowman’s breath hitched. He gave a single, trembling nod.

Draco yanked the fork free. Bowman bit down on a cry as a fresh rush of dark blood soaked through the ruined bandages.

Draco tossed the bloodied fork onto the table with a clatter.

“I don’t think I’m in the mood for chicken today,” he murmured, flashing a grin far too bright for someone who’d just maimed a classmate.

Then he walked off, cloak sweeping behind him like a promise.

Bowman didn’t move for a long moment. Only when Draco’s footsteps faded did he dare breathe. His fingers curled, testing if they still worked, pain radiating up his arm. The blood kept dripping.

And he knew, with a sickening certainty: Draco Malfoy had only just begun.

 

 

Late that evening, Theo and Blaise burst through the entrance like two hurricanes with bad decision-making skills. Their pockets bulged with contraband, their arms full of firewhiskey boxes teetering dangerously.

“We brought the supplies for New Year’s,” Theo declared, raising two bottles like they were trophies of war.

Blaise, immaculate in a fitted cream sweater that made his skin glow like he’d been dipped in honey, flopped onto the sofa.

“Couldn’t let you two lovebirds slip into the new year without us,” he said, pointing lazily at Arianna and Draco.

“Lovebirds” was generous.

Draco sat in his armchair like an exiled prince reading the Daily Prophet.

Arianna was sprawled across the opposite sofa, a history tome resting against her stomach like a makeshift shield.

Both of them looked up at Blaise with the identical deadpan expression of people who were seconds away from hexing him.

“Tough crowd tonight, mate,” Theo whispered, elbowing Blaise.

“So… did you miss us?” Blaise tried, this time targeting Arianna.

She closed her book with a slap and stretched her arms over her head, spine arching.

“It was so quiet around here. But yes, I missed both of you idiots,” she said, smiling for real.

Theo grinned, lifted her legs, and plopped down so her calves rested across his lap. He patted her thigh dramatically.

“Knew you would. It’s boring as hell with the brooding prince of Slytherin anywhere outside your bedroom.”

“Theo!” she yelped, kicking him in the ribs.

“Alright, enough of the flirting,” Blaise cut in, clapping his hands. “We need to plan. Tomorrow we drink ourselves into 1997.”

Arianna watched them argue over whether their little celebration should take place inside or by the Black Lake.

Theo protested loudly about the cold.

“Aww, scared your tiny dick will freeze off before you get your shot with Kira?” Blaise teased.

Theo dropped Arianna’s legs, lunged at Blaise, and the two dissolved into childish violence.

Arianna smiled. God, she loved these idiots.

Their noise, their warmth, the illusion that life was simple.

Then Bowman walked past.

He kept his head down, shoulders stiff, and his bandaged hand… was soaked through. The white wraps were blooming red, drop by drop.

Arianna blinked. A flash of guilt. Had she... No. She hadn’t touched him.

Her gaze slid instinctively to Draco. He hadn’t moved from his throne-like armchair. But his eyes tracked Bowman with a frozen, merciless precision. Face carved from stone. Jaw tight. Aura cold as the dungeons themselves.

The kind of look that promised: This is only the beginning.

Arianna swallowed.

Bowman didn’t bleed because of her. He bled because Draco Malfoy had made a point. But she didn't know anything about that. She only had the distinct feeling that something was going on. 

Chapter 29: Where obsession ends and love begins

Arianna sat curled in the chair by Draco’s window, knees pulled up under her chin, staring out into the snowy sprawl of Hogwarts grounds. The white world beyond the glass blurred softly, but her thoughts were louder than any blizzard.

She didn’t notice Draco waking. Not until he shuffled across the room, warm and sleep-heavy, and bent down to press a kiss into that small, tender spot behind her ear.

A smile slipped onto her lips without permission.

“Awake already?” she murmured.

“Kind of,” he replied, voice rough with sleep. He scratched the back of his neck and wandered into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.

She watched him from her seat.

His hair was an absolute disaster, a storm of pale strands sticking up in every direction. He cast cleansing charms lazily, wand flicking with the bored elegance of someone who’d grown up believing he was too pureblood for mundane routines like brushing teeth. She found it ridiculous. And charming. And annoyingly Draco.

As he smoothed his hair back, she saw it again. Not a boy. Not the sneering brat from 1994.

A young man. Sharper. Quieter. Carrying shadows he never let anyone else see. Except her.

And he handled her with a softness she wasn’t sure she deserved. A softness she had never seen him offer the world.

Her chest tightened painfully. She loved him. God, she loved him.

Not in the dramatic way she feared she would. Not in some prophecy-laced, knight-and-maiden way.

In the small things.

The way he whispered that little kiss to her skin. The way he glanced back at her every few moments as if checking she was still there. The way he smiled in this room, soft, genuine, utterly unguarded. In here, he was hers. Completely.

Outside this room, he slipped his cold mask back on. The arrogant, untouchable prince. Wand always ready. Jaw always tense. A Malfoy.

And she liked that. That she was the only one who got this version. The version that let warmth leak through the cracks.

Tonight, they’d celebrate the new year. 1997. A year she didn’t belong in.

The thought hit her with a quiet, crushing force. She didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to leave him. Not now. Not when every death she’d watched carved her deeper into him. Not when she’d built a life here. One that felt more real than the future she was born into.

If she had to choose… She knew what she’d do.

Stay. Stay in the wrong year, in the wrong life, with the boy fate kept trying to take from her. Stay with him. Always with him.

She slipped into the bathroom behind him, silent as snowfall, and slid her arms around his torso. Her chin pressed to the warm space between his shoulder blades.

“As much as I enjoy having you plastered to me half-naked,” he said, cupping water in his hands and splashing it over his face, “I actually have to take care of a few things, love.”

He combed his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back into that arrogant, perfect shape he liked so much.

Arianna pressed her lips to his spine. Warm. Soft. Unscarred. Something in her chest tightened.

“Mhmmm… shame,” she murmured, letting her hands fall away. “Guess I’ll have to go ask Theo if he has time to spare.”

He froze mid-movement, head dropping forward, lips pressed into a murderous line. She fought a smile.

“I should probably give you back your shirt then,” she added innocently, fingers curling around the hem. “And be on my way.”

She started to tug it up. Draco spun so fast her hair fluttered in the air. He jabbed an accusatory finger at her.

“Don’t you dare take that off, Arianna.”

She lifted the hem to her stomach, just enough to tease, to provoke, eyes gleaming.

His jaw clenched.

“Merlin, woman… I’ll get nothing done with you around,” he muttered, grabbing her waist and hauling her clean off the ground.

She laughed, wrapping her legs around him as he caught her effortlessly. His hands dug into the backs of her thighs. Her lips found his cheek, his jaw, his mouth.

“You’ll have time afterward,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his. “I’ll behave then.”

“Liar,” he breathed, but the grin tugging at his mouth made it soft.

He kissed her then firm, claiming, like her teasing had snapped whatever thin thread of restraint he had left. Something flickered in his eyes, something he almost said. But the words died in his throat.

He carried her back to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress. Followed her down without hesitation, bracing himself with his palms on either side of her head.

And like every single time before, he stopped. Just stared at her. At her flushed cheeks. At her wild hair. At the softness in her gaze that was his alone. She was breathtaking, and it infuriated him.

He leaned closer, breath ghosting her lips. If the Dark Lord summoned him right now, Draco wasn’t sure he’d even bother answering.

Not when she looked at him like that. Not when she made him forget the world that was so damn determined to take him from her.

To forget the world with Arianna was the easiest thing he knew. The silence she gave him wasn’t just quiet. It was complete. A place where he wasn’t the Dark Lord’s pawn, wasn’t a weapon, wasn’t a Malfoy. Just a boy who finally, finally breathed.

His hand drifted up her thigh, slow and reverent. He knew every inch of her skin by now. The warmth, the softness, the way she reacted to the slightest graze of his fingers.

Her dark hair spilled over the pillow in a wild halo, framing her face as she looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. Open. Waiting. Wanting.

And Merlin, she undid him every time.

A lazy smile curved his mouth as he hooked two fingers into the waistband of her underwear, tugging just enough to make her breath hitch. Teasing. Testing. Knowing exactly what she wanted.

And exactly how long he could make her wait for it.

Slowly, he slid his hand beneath the fabric, eyes fixed on her as her muscles tightened with impatience. He could practically feel the frantic thrum of her heartbeat under his palm. Her spine arched toward him—an unspoken command, a plea disguised as instinct.

“So impatient, Miss Avery,” he murmured with a smirk that dripped arrogance and hunger in equal measure.

“You're the one saying you need to go. So let’s make this quick,” she whispered back, wearing that wicked little smile she reserved only for him. The one that said come closer, ruin me.

He hummed, fingertips hovering just shy of where she needed him most.

“Draco!” she snapped, sharp and breathless. Impatient. Desperate.

He drank in the sound, the tension, the way she trembled for him and just for him.

And then, finally, he gave her exactly what she asked for.

Slipping one finger into her, he felt her entire body tense in an instant. Those perfect, full lips parted on a sharp, helpless breath, her chin tilting up as if the pleasure had caught her off guard. Merlin… she was breathtaking. A vision carved out of heat and want, trembling beautifully around him.

He curled his finger just right, hitting that sweet little spot that made her squeeze her eyes shut, lashes fluttering like she was fighting the pleasure and losing miserably. He grinned, wicked and hungry. And then another thought slammed into him with the force of a curse: he didn’t want anyone else making her sound like that, feel like that, come apart like that. She should be his. Every damn day until he breathed her name with the last scrap of air in his lungs.

The thought alone made something dark and desperate twist through him. With a low groan, he pulled his hand back, slick and trembling with restraint.

“Sorry, love. You asked for quick.” His voice was rough as gravel as he sank between her legs.

She lifted her head, watching him with those storm-grey eyes, stormy and unguarded, tracking every move he made as if he was the only thing in her universe.

With a slow, deliberate push, he slid into her. She gasped, fingers fisting the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring her to the world. Draco Malfoy smiled, a soft, sinful curl of lips. She was his. And he made a silent promise to himself, to the universe, to whatever gods bothered watching: nothing would ever take her from him. Not time. Not destiny. Not death.

He began to move, each thrust controlled but hungry, drinking in every reaction she gave him. The soft moan of his name. The way her head tilted back like she was offering herself to him. Those full lips parting, waiting for him, begging for him without a single word spoken.

Another sharp thrust tore a ragged breath from his throat. He leaned down, catching her mouth in a kiss that wasn’t gentle or restrained. It was claiming, dark, absolute. A kiss that said she belonged to him in every universe, in every timeline, in every version of their doomed story.

He kissed her like he was carving himself into her soul.

His T-shirt dragged up her stomach, dark fabric against a girl who should’ve been all light. It didn’t matter. Not to him. Not when she clung to him like this.

When he sped up, breath breaking unevenly, she reached for his shoulders and lifted herself into him. He caught her immediately, one arm tight around her waist as he rocked back onto his knees. She fit against him like she’d been carved for this exact moment, settling onto him with a broken little gasp that nearly sent him spiraling.

Her hair spilled down her back in dark, wet waves, his hands splayed beneath it, guiding her, steadying her. Every breath she let out hit the shell of his ear and shuddered straight through him. She kept moving, rocking against him in torturous perfection, building that unbearable heat in both of them.

And he couldn’t fucking stop watching her.

Her head tipped back, grey eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. When she came, her whole body tightened and broke apart on top of him, a soft cry leaving her throat. Draco didn’t stand a chance. He followed her over the edge with a sharp exhale, his mouth pressed to her collarbone, kisses barely formed and desperate.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead she stayed there, still wrapped around him, her fingers sliding into his hair at the nape of his neck, her other arm looped around him like she wasn’t planning to let go. She kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and sweet, then tucked her face into the curve of his neck.

He held her. For long minutes. Silent. Breathing her in. Letting her weight settle against him like something sacred.

But the way she held on… it wasn’t hunger, not lust. It was something quieter. Something that shook him.

It felt like she was saying goodbye without saying a word.

And he’d be damned before he’d ever allow that.

 

 

Draco had left before her, the door clicking shut with that soft, final sound she hated. Arianna sat on the edge of his bed for a few seconds, breathing through the remnants of warmth he’d left behind. The sheets still smelled like mint and smoke. Like him. It made her chest tighten in a way that felt far too close to grief.

She pulled herself together, shoved her feet into her boots, and tied the laces with trembling fingers. She didn’t have the luxury of staying here and pretending the world wasn’t collapsing around him. Around them.

She had somewhere to be. And before the night ran out, she needed answers.

Hidden in the shadow of the treeline, she pulled the time-turner from her pocket and clicked the dial. The world spun, folded, snapped until she stumbled into her apartment again.

Except it wasn’t hers anymore. It looked like him. Blue walls, darker sheets, mint soap in the bathroom. The whole place felt repainted by a ghost she wasn’t ready to admit she loved.

Arianna’s stomach knotted. Some version of her had done this. Some version of her had changed her life to keep a dead boy close. She feared what else that version had done.

She didn’t waste time. Kneeling beside the stack of report files in the corner, she tore through them until her fingers found the date. The one she needed. The one she dreaded.

And there it was. Still dying. Still inevitable. Still breaking her every single time.

She didn’t even cry anymore. She just exhaled, long and tired. Of course he was still dying. Of course she hadn’t changed anything. The loop kept taking him, no matter what she did.

So she went. Again. She watched him die again. Watched the light leave him. Watched the boy she loved collapse into the same darkness fate had carved for him.

Something inside her cracked. Cleaner, louder, more final than before. She couldn’t do another one of these deaths. She couldn’t keep giving him scraps and expecting destiny to shift.

Dumbledore’s words flared in her mind: “Give him something he has never had. Something worth living for.”

Arianna wiped her face with shaking hands. Fine. Then she would. She would tell him. She would tell him she loved him. Even if it ruined everything. Even if it doomed her. Even if it made losing him a thousand times worse.

Maybe love would be enough to change a thing. Maybe it wouldn’t. But she hoped. She had to hope. Because hope was the only weapon she had left.

 

Arianna returned to Hogwarts composed.

After watching him die forty-eight times, she’d learned to lock her emotions behind a wall. Push them down. Freeze them. Occlude her mind out of sheer survival. If this kept going, she’d probably master occlumency by accident.

She slipped into the girls’ dormitory, ready to collapse onto her bed for a second—only to stop dead in her tracks.

Her bed was empty. Completely empty.

Blank mattress. Stripped sheets. No trunk, no books, no boots, not even the ugly little plant Milicent had forced on her in October.

Arianna blinked, throat tightening. Merlin. What did I do now? Did I accidentally erase myself from the castle this time?

But then she saw it: a small parchment placed neatly on the pillow, folded twice, edges precise. His kind of precise.

She picked it up with numb fingers and unfolded it slowly, bracing herself for another disaster, another shift, another horrible revelation, but instead she found this:

“Moved your belongings to my room.

Since you don’t use this dorm anymore.

Get your sweet ass back and have a look at your dress for tonight.

—D.”

Arianna pressed her hand to her mouth, muffling the laugh that bubbled up despite the emptiness gnawing in her chest. It was ridiculous. It was controlling. It was so him she wanted to scream and cry and kiss him all at once.

She glanced around again.

He’d taken everything. Her books. Her coat. Her ridiculous pyjamas he always made fun of. Even the quill she chewed on when she was stressed.

Every trace of her life in this room was gone.

Because in his mind, she didn’t live here anymore. She lived with him.

 

Draco’s room looked almost exactly the same. Almost.

Her breath hitched when she stepped inside. The space was still tidy, still smelling faintly of mint and cold air… but now there were small boxes stacked under his desk. His wardrobe hung wide open, one half of it noticeably emptied out, dark shirts pushed aside to make room.

A cardboard box sat on the floor in front of it, filled with her clothes. Folded. Neat. Organized in a way she definitely would praise him for.

He had moved her in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Arianna swallowed, toes curling in her boots. Her chest tightened, that stupid fluttering feeling she hated and craved rising all at once.

And then she saw it. On his freshly made bed, spread out like he was presenting an offering to a queen, lay a dress.

Deep emerald silk. Of course he would.

The colour of Slytherin pride. The colour he always preferred before any other. The colour of him. 

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the fabric. Soft. Expensive. The neckline daring. The waist cinched in a way that told her he’d actually thought about her shape, her size, the curve of her body he knew too well.

A note lay beside it, her name written in his sharp, elegant script.

“For tonight.”

She pressed her lips together as a shaky laugh escaped her. The idiot. The perfect, impossible idiot.

He really expected her to walk into the new year wearing his colours.

And worse? She wanted to.

 

 

When Draco pushed the door open, he stopped dead in the doorway.

Arianna stood before the window, the dying winter light running over her bare legs and the green silk that brushed just above her knees. The dress fitted her like it had been conjured to her skin. His guess had been right about the waistline, the neckline, the way the sleeves should fall off her shoulders.

She turned at the sound of the door and smiled, almost shyly.

“Found your dress.”

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, letting his eyes travel down her. “It might be my best work to date.”

“Cocky,” she muttered, smoothing the skirt as if she needed something to do with her hands.

“Accurate,” he said, walking closer. “You actually put it on.”

“You left me very few options,” she answered. “Half my wardrobe’s in that box.”

He stopped in front of her. The emerald fabric caught the light, and for a moment he just watched it move with her breath. “It looks better on you than I imagined.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment or a confession?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Both.” His voice had gone quieter. “You’re bloody beautiful, Arianna.”

Something softened in her expression. Relief maybe, or the faint disbelief of someone who’d forgotten what tenderness sounded like.

She looked down, plucked at the hem of the dress. “It’s only knee-length.”

“I know.” He smiled, the corner of his mouth crooked. “If I made it any shorter, I’d have hexed every boy who looked at you. This way, you can walk into that party without causing a duel.”

She laughed then, that small, genuine sound that always broke through his carefully built armour.

Draco reached for her hand, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist. “You’ll stay close tonight?”

“Depends,” she said, eyes flicking up to his. “Are you going to behave?”

“Not likely.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. For a long moment they stood like that, his thumb tracing circles against her skin, the snow outside catching the candlelight in the window. Then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Don’t thank me yet. The night’s still young.”

“Where did you get it?” she asked, brushing her fingers over the emerald fabric once more.

“The designer is a friend of my mother,” Draco said, straightening the cuff of his sleeve as if it were nothing. “She made this one specifically for you. It’s a unique piece.”

Arianna let out a slow breath, stunned despite herself. Then curiosity flickered across her face.

“And how,” she asked, narrowing her eyes, “did you know my size?”

Draco snorted, tilting his head with all the arrogant amusement in the world.

“Size? Don’t insult me, Avery. This dress was handmade to your exact measurements.”

Arianna planted her hands on her hips. “So what? You measured my body while I was asleep?”

Draco’s smirk deepened into something wicked. “Well, that was actually the funny part. The seamstress measured my arms, my hands, my body.”

Arianna burst out laughing. “I’m not sure we’re the same damn size, Draco.”

“Stupid,” he said affectionately. “I told her your breasts fit perfectly in one hand, and your ass might take two.”

She shoved him with a scandalised laugh, cheeks warming.

“And then,” he continued, absolutely delighted with himself, “I told her that when I hold you like this” he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her flush to his chest “I can feel the hollow of your navel under the tip of my finger. And that you’re awfully small. Tiny, even.”

Arianna ducked her head, laughing into his shoulder. “You’re a bloody idiot. You know that?”

“A brilliant one,” he murmured, brushing a soft kiss against her temple before stepping back. His eyes swept over her again, slow, possessive, appreciative.

“Now get ready,” he said, turning toward the door. “We’re leaving in twenty.”

 

 

In the common room, the handful of students who had stayed for the holidays were gathered around the fireplace. Theo and Blaise had clearly decided subtlety was for peasants. Floating lights drifted overhead like drunken stars, loud music thumped against the ancient stone walls, and silver-and-gold confetti rained down in lazy spirals. Both boys were dancing on the newly repaired table, waving bottles triumphantly, wearing tiny New Year’s Eve hats and ridiculous glowing glasses.

Arianna laughed the moment she stepped inside. Draco, beside her, smirked with that long-suffering amusement he reserved specifically for his friends.

Theo spotted her and erupted into a whistle so shrill it startled even the enchanted lights. He vaulted off the table, landed on the sofa, and kicked the backrest until it tipped forward. He strolled off it as if it were a staircase built solely for his dramatic entrance, arms spread like a ringmaster.

“Welcome, princess,” he proclaimed, bowing with a flourish, “to the glorious night of glitter and whiskey. Step right up into the New Year’s Eve extravaganza! We have secured only the finest firewhiskey known to wizarding kind—courtesy of my very own distillery—and a mountain of sugary delights courtesy of Mills.”

Right on cue, Milicent emerged from behind the crowd with her arms spread in perfect imitation of Theo, glitter clinging to her hair like frost on branches. Her grin was so wide it could have melted the entire Forbidden Forest.

 

Arianna mingled with the others, laughing, drinking, letting the chaos wrap around her like a warm cloak. For a moment, unbelievably, the pressure in her chest loosened. It felt almost… normal. Almost like she wasn’t carrying the weight of timelines and death on her spine.

“How did you celebrate New Year’s Eve before you came here?” Blaise asked as he poured firewhiskey with the finesse of a bartender who’d absolutely been banned from multiple establishments. He handed Arianna a glass with a lazy flourish.

“Wasn’t much different from this, I guess,” she said, shrugging. “I went out with my friend Tara. We got drunk, hooked up with boys, and the rest…” She raised her brows, letting implication finish the sentence.

Blaise froze, his grin stretching slow and wicked.

“Woah. I knew you were a wild one the moment you walked in. But don’t let Draco hear that. He gets… twitchy. Say ‘man’ and ‘Arianna’ in the same breath and he might spontaneously combust.”

Right on cue, Theo slammed a shoulder into Blaise and stepped forward like he was about to knight her.

“My future queen,” Theo declared with an extravagant bow, “where is your crown? And your gloves? We can’t have the peasants mistaking you for one of their own.”

Blaise rolled his eyes so hard they practically clicked.

“He saw a bunch of Muggles playing Dungeons & Dragons recently, and he’s been living in the Middle Ages ever since.”

Before Arianna could respond, Draco appeared at her side, slapping Theo’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

“I did consider gloves,” Draco mused, “I even told Miss Delacroix that her hands could be measured quite easily if she’d examine my—”

Arianna smacked her hand against his chest so sharply he sucked in a breath. Theo and Blaise burst into loud, delighted cackles.

“You promised to behave,” she snapped.

“I have never made such a promise,” Draco replied, entirely unrepentant. “And even if I had… I wouldn’t keep it.”

“Alright, lovebirds,” Theo cut in, shoving two glasses into their hands. “You’ve got one hour until the fireworks start. Unless you’re planning to make your own fireworks before then, I suggest you drink up and meet us outside before midnight.”

 

Arianna wasn’t blind to the stares.

This was the first night Draco didn’t bother hiding the fact that she was, undeniably, with him. He didn’t announce it, didn’t boast or preen, but his body language screamed it loudly enough. A hand resting on her waist. His shoulder brushing hers every time he leaned in to speak. The casual kiss he pressed to her jaw when she lifted more floating lights into the air.

The girls in the common room noticed. Some glared, some looked wounded, some clearly wished it were them. She tried not to think about it.

Across the room, Thomas Bowman hovered with his little entourage, arm wrapped around a girl who batted her lashes like she’d been born for it. She smiled up at him, completely unaware of the rot she adored. Meanwhile Bowman watched Arianna and Draco relentlessly. Every touch. Every shared smile. Every time Draco slowed his pace to match hers.

As Theo gathered everyone to head outside for fireworks at the Black Lake, Bowman quickened his steps to trail behind Draco and Arianna. Not close enough to be noticed, but close enough to study. Draco’s hand on her waist. The way Arianna tilted her head when she smiled at him. The way Draco offered his hand as she descended the steps outside like some old-world gentleman.

Bowman hissed under his breath.

She had to be very special for Draco Malfoy to acknowledge someone openly. Publicly.

It made Bowman’s obsession curdle into something darker.

Down at the lake, the boathouse glowed with Theo and Blaise’s enchanted lights. A makeshift bar stood in the snow, Blaise handing out champagne flutes like a proud host. Theo crouched near the pier, perfecting the spellwork that would launch the fireworks.

Draco and Arianna stood behind him, watching his fingers move with a surprising precision.

“All done,” Theo declared, hopping to his feet. “Someone needs to tap the first vial. The rest will follow. Draco?”

Draco nodded once.

“Brilliant,” Theo said, already drifting toward the firewhiskey. “I need to refill my bloodstream with liquor.”

Arianna laughed softly and looked toward the lake. The moonlight spilled over the surface, turning it into a ribbon of silver stretching toward the mountains.

Behind them, the countdown began.

Ten… nine… eight…

Draco stepped behind her. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Pulled her close.

Three… two…

He gently tipped the vial over with one hand.

One.

The sky erupted. Green, silver, blue, red. Hearts bursting into glittering sparks. Spells unraveling into flowers, dragons, phoenix wings.

Arianna turned in his arms, hands sliding up his sleeves to his neck. The world beyond them vanished. Just a lake, a moon, fireworks painting them in shifting colours.

“Happy New Year, Miss Avery,” Draco whispered.

“Happy New Year, Mr Malfoy,” she breathed, and kissed him softly.

Then, heart hammering like it might punch through her ribs, she whispered,

“Draco…”

He hummed low in his throat. “Mm?”

“I… I love you, Draco Malfoy. And I need you to hear it.”

Fear stung the words as they left her. He only grinned wicked, startled, alive.

“Say that again.”

Arianna let out a shaky laugh, dipped her head, then looked back up at him.

“I love you.”

He didn’t say it back. He didn’t need to. He lifted her clear off the ground, spinning her in a circle as fireworks burst above them. Her laughter mingled with the crackle of magic in the air.

“Keep saying that,” he murmured against her ear as he lowered her, “and I might believe it.”

She cupped his face, pulling him down into another kiss.

Not soft. Not shy. A claim.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “And I don’t fucking care whether you believe it, you stupid prick. I love you anyway.”

She kissed him again. In front of everyone. For the whole world to see. 

Arianna Avery was his. Officially. Publicly. Entirely.

Chapter 30: A Battle on Different Fronts

The new year was supposed to be better.

At least that’s what Arianna told herself as she walked down to the treeline, fingers trembling around the time turner. She clicked the dial. And vanished.

She slammed into the floor of her apartment, breath knocked from her lungs. Same flat. Same shadows. Same safe scent of mint and parchment. Thank Merlin.

She didn’t waste a second. She grabbed the files, flipped through pages with frantic hands, searched for the death roll.

Found it. Read it. And once again Draco died.

She didn’t even gasp anymore. Just let out a long, exhausted sigh. The same kind that felt stolen directly from her bones.

It never changed. Nothing she did ever saved him. Nothing she confessed. Not even I love you.

During the first week of the year she travelled almost daily, ping-ponging between decades, clawing at fate with bare hands. She watched him die over and over. Decapitated, cursed to ash, beaten until bones cracked, once even carved open by the Dark Lord like he was nothing but a sacrifice.

The blood soaked through her boots. Sometimes it followed her back into 1997 like a memory she couldn’t peel off her skin.

And every single time, when she reappeared in his room and found him sleeping soundly, alive and warm and impossibly unaware… she crawled into his bed and curled against him. Pressed her face into his throat. Inhaled the scent of him, the living version, the one she hadn’t lost yet.

She thanked every god she knew that he was still there.

 

 

One day before classes resumed, Pansy finally returned from whatever glamorous chaos she’d been causing. She sauntered up to Arianna with a lollipop between her lips, sucking it obscenely before popping it out and pointing it at her like a wand.

“You moved out?” she asked, dark braid over her shoulder, skin sun-kissed in a way that made Arianna wonder where the hell she’d been.

“I was moved out,” Arianna said with a smile.

“So it’s official then? You’re his girlfriend.”

Pansy winked, proud as a mother hen with a criminal record.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Pansy snorted, pure disdain.

“Merlin girl. What has to happen for you to admit it? You want him to propose first?”

Arianna laughed. “No. It’s just… we never talked about it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Pansy flicked her hand. “You take good care of him, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I do my best.”

“Good girl. Otherwise I’d have to slap your cute little ass.”

She slung an arm around Arianna’s shoulders, dragging her along, still sucking the lollipop in a way that made half the boys in the room lose basic motor function.

Arianna’s smile vanished the moment she spotted the girl Bowman had dragged to the New Year’s party. The blonde was tugging her hair forward, trying to hide the bruises on her throat, and fumbling with a scarf too warm for the castle’s draught.

Arianna’s stomach knotted. Those were fresh. And they were Bowman.

“Excuse me,” Arianna muttered, pulling away from Pansy.

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. She marched straight up to the girl, flicked the scarf aside, and froze at the sight of dark, angry violet marks blooming across her pale skin.

“Did Bowman do this to you?” she demanded.

The girl shoved the scarf back up, offended. “Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Did he?” Arianna repeated, gaze razor-sharp.

The girl’s eyes flickered to her wrist covered in similar bruises before she tugged her sleeve down.

“He got angry with me. It’s nothing.” Her voice was low, ashamed.

Arianna caught her hand again before she could hide it.

“This is not nothing. This is violence.”

The girl yanked her hand back, rubbing her wrist.

“He can be rough sometimes. But he loves me. He said so.”

Arianna rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw the veil between timelines.

“Violence is not a love language.”

The girl bristled, eyes cutting past Arianna toward Draco on his throne.

“Does he never hurt you? I heard he can be rough as well.”

Arianna followed her gaze, then snapped her head back, horrified.

“God, no. Draco’s not like that. No one should hurt you. That’s not love.”

“Well maybe you don’t know a lot about love,” the girl spat, squaring her shoulders. “Love has many faces. And I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Arianna exhaled through her nose, patience thinning thread-bare.

“Yeah? Well if your ‘love’ likes smashing your face in, I’d say that’s not love, that’s sickness.”

“What do you care?” the girl hissed, every word a shard of glass, before brushing past Arianna and disappearing.

Bowman’s smile was a blade. One of those thin, cruel ones that didn’t cut skin… just dignity.

Arianna turned slowly, pulse thudding in her ears. The blonde girl was already hurrying away, scarf clutched to her throat. And there, leaning in the doorway like he owned every breath in the room, stood Thomas Bowman.

He looked delighted. Like her anger was the sweetest dessert he’d ever tasted.

Arianna lifted her middle finger with all the elegance of a queen giving a death sentence.

Bowman blew her a kiss.

“Fucking bastard,” she snapped under her breath, storming back toward the sofas. “I should curse his goddamn mind to break.”

She meant it. Every syllable pulsed with promise.

Across the room, Draco’s head tilted just slightly, eyes narrowing sharp and quiet. He didn’t react, didn’t speak, didn’t drag attention. He simply watched that tiny exchange like it was a puzzle he intended to solve with blood and precision.

He memorized the smile Bowman gave her. He memorized the bruises. And he memorized the way Arianna walked back angry, trembling, dangerously close to combust.

When she dropped into the sofa beside Theo, shoulders tight, Draco didn’t say a single word.

He just folded the newspaper, set it aside, and kept his gaze trained on Bowman with an expression so calm it bordered on lethal.

Bowman didn’t even know yet. But Draco Malfoy had just decided something. And once Draco decided something, the world tended to burn for it.

 

 

Arianna absolutely loathed potion class today. Not because of the assignment, not because of Slughorn’s grandfatherly wheezing, and not because half the classroom smelled like rotting sopophorous beans.

No. Because Felix felicis was basically liquid cocaine for wizards, and everyone around her was behaving like a pack of addicts waiting for their fix.

Slughorn waddled between the cauldrons, booming with cheer,

“Only the finest draught wins. One little vial of luck!”

Arianna rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained them.

If people wanted to chug twelve hours of artificially induced confidence and perform idiotic life–threatening stunts, fine. Let natural selection run its course. She vividly remembered the boy who’d gotten eaten by an acromantula after using Felix to “befriend” it. Idiot.

She wasn’t touching the stuff.

Draco, naturally, sat up straight like someone had just offered him the Malfoy estate on a silver platter. Competitive little shit. His posture alone screamed I will crush you all and look beautiful while doing it as he organized ingredients with surgical precision.

Across the room, Harry Potter hovered over his cauldron with that clueless, accidental-genius energy Arianna had learned to expect.

He’s meant to win this, she thought.

Even with her repeated timeline carnage, Potter always stumbled into his destined victories.

But today, her glare kept drifting.

Two rows ahead sat Thomas Bowman, hunched over his cauldron, stirring as if he were some tender, delicate craftsman instead of the violent, manipulative bastard he truly was.

Slughorn might have mistaken the careful movement for skill. Arianna saw something else entirely. The same hands that trembled gently over the potion had left bruises blooming like violets on a girl’s throat.

The sight of him “stirring gently” made her want to hex his arms off.

She used to think Marcus Flint was the worst of them, until Flint was expelled over winter break. Caught trying to tie up a girl in Hogsmeade and deliver her to “certain people.” She’d hated him for it.

But Bowman? Bowman was worse.

Because unlike Flint, Bowman smiled while he broke you.

Arianna’s jaw tightened as she crushed the sopophorous bean with more force than necessary. The juice squirted onto her glove. She didn’t care. Let Slughorn fret over technique; she had bigger wars to fight.

Draco turned his head slightly, catching her expression. That unreadable Malfoy calm settled across his face. He followed her gaze. Then, very slowly, he smirked. A plan already forming in his head. 

Like predicted, Harry Potter won the little drug.

He stood at the front of the class beaming like an idiot while Draco nearly gagged. His potion was a close second, which made it a personal insult.

The vials of Draught of Living Death glimmered neatly on Slughorn’s desk, the liquid inside turning crystal clear until it looked like plain tap water.

Arianna didn’t miss Thomas Bowman pausing at the desk and slipping a vial into his pocket with the ease of practiced deceit.

Draco didn’t miss it either. He brushed past the desk and mirrored the act without a flicker of guilt. Arianna narrowed her eyes as she followed him up the dungeon stairs.

They waited until they were out of earshot.

“You stole a vial?” she asked.

Draco smirked, sliding his hands into his pockets like a sinful smug prince.

“Precaution. Might be useful someday.”

He guided her with a palm at her lower back toward the Defense classroom, as if she were something that needed shielding.

Snape already stood inside, spine rod-straight, robes drifting like funeral shrouds in the sunlight.

“We will practice deflection today,” he said, voice like crushed ice. “How about a duel? Bowman.”

Bowman stood, smiling that vile gentleman smile he always weaponized.

“Of course, professor.”

Snape’s eyes swept the room for a second opponent.

“I’d like a try,” Arianna said, stepping forward.

Draco’s hand snapped to her sleeve instantly.

“Arianna, don’t,” he hissed under his breath, voice low and sharp. She shook him off without looking at him.

Snape nodded once. “Very well, Miss Avery.”

A flick of his wand, and desks scraped across the floor, forming a makeshift dueling platform. Arianna climbed up smoothly, shrugging off her robes and tossing them back to her seat.

Draco’s jaw clenched so tight she heard his teeth grind. Her skirt was too short for his sanity or anyone else’s survival. One wrong angle and Draco Malfoy would commit homicide.

“Everyone step back,” Snape commanded, stalking around the table like a silent executioner preparing the stage.

“Miss Avery,” he continued, voice low. “Only harmless jinxes. This is about deflection, not injury.”

Arianna grinned like a girl who collected sins for sport.

“Of course, professor. I’d never want anyone to get truly hurt.”

Bowman vaulted onto the platform opposite her, peeling off his robe with the theatrics of someone preparing to seduce, not duel.

“Ready, Avery?” he asked, soft as a serpent, soft as the hands that left bruises.

“Always,” she answered.

He looked at her with a grin, lifting his wand half way.  She didn't even bother. 

Snape stepped back.

The room held its breath.

And Draco Malfoy’s hand twitched toward his wand, his expression already promising murder if Bowman so much as breathed wrong in Arianna’s direction.

Bowman lifted his wand first. Showy. Predictable. Overconfident.

Arianna only tilted her head, wand poised loosely at her side as if she were bored.

Snape gave a curt nod.

“Begin.”

Bowman struck instantly.

“Expelliarmus!”

A childish move. Arianna flicked her wrist, deflecting the spell so lazily it curved off and shattered a lantern in the back of the room. Sparks rained down; students gasped and retreated farther.

Arianna smiled sweet as poison.

“Cute.”

Bowman’s jaw twitched.

“Stupefy!”

She stepped aside. No wand movement, barely a shift of weight. The red beam missed her shoulder by an inch.

And then she moved. Fluid, precise, almost elegant.

“Relashio.”

Bowman’s wand flew back so violently his wrist cracked. He hissed, shaking out the pain.

Draco, from the sidelines, allowed himself the smallest smirk.

“Focus, Mr. Bowman,” Snape drawled, circling like a hungry vulture. “Miss Avery is not your usual… pastime.”

Students snickered. Bowman flushed, anger rising to cover fear.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Arianna’s eyes sharpened. Her wand cut the air faster than he could blink.

“Protego.”

The spell ricocheted off her shield and slammed into the table behind Draco, splitting the wood in half with a deafening crack.

Draco didn’t flinch. His eyes were on her. Only her.

Bowman’s confidence wavered. Arianna walked a small circle around him, wand twirling between her fingers.

“Is this really your best, Thomas? I expected at least a challenge. Maybe a bruise.”

Her voice dripped with disdain. Bowman snarled.

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?”

“No,” she said, “I just know you can’t touch me.”

He lunged, not with magic, but physically, stepping forward as if he could intimidate her.

Draco straightened, wand halfway drawn. Arianna didn’t retreat.

She lifted her wand delicately.

“Incarcerous.”

The binding charm hit him square in the ribs, collapsing him to the ground. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, as robes tied themselves around him. 

Students roared. Bowman’s face darkened with humiliation, eyes narrowed on Arianna with hate. 

“Stand up,” Arianna said coldly. He couldn’t.

She leaned down slightly, voice soft enough only he would hear.

“You don’t get to hurt girls here, Thomas. Not under my watch.”

He growled at her, clenching his teeth visibly as if he was about to bite her.

She flicked her wand again.

“Finite.”

He collapsed on his knees, panting, face wet, hands trembling.

Arianna straightened.

“You’re done.”

Before Bowman could regain his breath, Snape lifted a hand.

“That will do,” he said smoothly. His black eyes gleamed, not with disapproval, but with quiet satisfaction. “Miss Avery wins.”

Bowman staggered off the platform, humiliated, avoiding everyone’s eyes as he limped to his seat.

Arianna slid her wand back into her sleeve. Draco approached her slowly, expression unreadable. But when he reached her, he dipped his head, lips ghosting her ear.

“You took him apart without even touching him,” he murmured. “Good.”

She turned to him with a smirk. “Didn’t want to steal your hobby.”

His grin was wicked. And Bowman, watching them through watery eyes, realized with sickening clarity that he had just declared war on the one girl he couldn't have. And he wanted her even more. 

 

 

Arianna trudged through the snow-dusted grounds, shoving her hands deeper into her coat pockets. With Draco at Quidditch practice, Blaise tagging along, Pansy off on whatever date she had secured, and Millicent curled up in her dorm… she’d been left with her own thoughts.

Never a good thing.

She considered heading toward the stands to watch Draco fly. The cold didn’t bother her much anymore. Her mind did.

She rounded a hedge and nearly collided with a tall blue silhouette.

“Miss Avery,” Dumbledore greeted, as if he had been expecting her. His smile was warm, but the kind that made your bones feel seen. “What brings you wandering alone in such weather?”

Her throat tightened. Dumbledore always unsettled her, not because he was unkind, but because he noticed.

“I was going to watch the boys train,” she said.

“Ah.” His eyes twinkled faintly, unreadable. “Will you join me for a short walk?”

She wanted to refuse. She said yes anyway.

They walked to the covered courtyard, snow drifting in thin spirals between the arches. Dumbledore rested both hands on the stone railing and looked toward the mountains.

“It is… an adventurous time to be at Hogwarts,” he mused.

“How so?” Arianna asked cautiously.

He didn’t face her. “Darkness spreads again. And your House, as you know, has always been fertile ground for such things. I wonder what direction our young witches and wizards will take, when obsession is dressed as ambition.”

Arianna frowned. That didn’t sound like a general musing. That sounded like he was talking about her. Or about Draco. Or about both.

“I suppose I’ll find out with everyone else,” she said carefully.

Dumbledore finally turned his head, looking down at her over the rim of his slipping glasses.

“Do you? Or do you already know what comes next?”

A ripple of cold ran up her spine. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t. She forced a laugh.

“I’m not a prophet.”

“No,” Dumbledore said softly. “You are not. And yet… you arrived without introduction. An Avery in Slytherin, yes, but not one that should exist.” His gaze sharpened. “I know the Sacred Twenty-Eight by heart, Miss Avery. There has never been a Reginald Avery in your line.”

Her heart stuttered. Dumbledore turned back to the horizon as though he hadn’t just torn open the floor beneath her.

“Tell me,” he said gently, “are you familiar with the God of Fate?”

Arianna swallowed, searching her mind for scraps of dusty textbook passages. “An entity that weaves destiny. A myth.”

“A myth?” His eyes glinted with something ancient, something old enough to make her breath catch. “I assure you, he is quite real. And he is… easily offended.”

Her hands curled into fists inside her pockets. So he did know. And he didn’t sound angry. He sounded like a man delivering a warning late in the game.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” she said, voice thin.

“Perhaps not.” He pushed off the railing and began to walk past her, robes whispering across the stones. “But you are doing something dangerous. Fate tolerates no interference. And once angered, he punishes severely.”

She whipped around. “Punishes how?”

Dumbledore paused, looking at her over his shoulder.

“Time snaps back into its intended path, Miss Avery. No matter what you do. And some things… cannot be unwritten.”

He vanished into the drifting snow, leaving her standing alone, heart pounding, every word ringing like an omen she wished she didn’t understand.

Shaken to her core, Arianna pushed back through the castle doors and didn’t stop walking until she reached the library. The warmth inside hit her like a wave, but it didn’t touch the cold sitting deep beneath her ribs.

She needed answers. Real ones. Not Dumbledore’s riddles.

She stalked through the aisles, dragging fingers along the spines of ancient tomes, pulling out books only to shove them back in frustration. Nothing. Nothing.  Until she saw it.

The Fates.

A cracked leather cover. Dust so thick it looked undisturbed for decades. Her stomach dropped. Perfect.

She took it to a lonely armchair tucked into a shadowed corner. Only one small lamp burned there, a soft golden halo breaking the darkness. She curled into the seat, pulled her knees up, and opened the book.

Her inhale hitched. The first page greeted her with a sketch. A faceless figure, tall and skeletal, thread wrapped around his fingers like veins. She swallowed and kept reading.

The God of Fate. The one who weaves destiny for every living creature. Not just witches and wizards. Muggles too. A presence older than magic itself. A shadow that could unravel a life with a flick of his hand, erase a soul with a sigh.

Arianna’s pulse hammered as she turned the pages. Accounts of witches who claimed to have seen him. None ended well. Collapse into madness. Sudden death. Entire timelines breaking apart because a single mortal had brushed too close to the threads he wove.

Her fingers trembled.

If she truly offended him… he would have come already, wouldn’t he?

Surely he would. Someone like him wouldn’t tolerate defiance for long.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t appeared. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t dragged her out of time by her hair.

So maybe...  Maybe he didn’t care.

Her breath stuttered as her eyes skimmed a final line:

“The God of Fate observes in silence.

And when he intervenes, it is already too late.”

Arianna snapped the book shut. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing.

If Dumbledore was right…

If Fate was real…

Then the Ministry’s time division wasn’t her biggest problem.

The universe itself might be.

Chapter 31: The Time Division Department

Tara clutched the parchment in her trembling hands as she crossed the marble threshold of the Ministry of Magic. An invitation. No, a summons with manners.

“The Time Division has detected several anomalies in the timeline and kindly requests your expertise. Your research into ruptures and the Law of Time may assist in identifying the source.”

Kindly. As if the bastards didn’t already suspect something.

The golden lifts hummed in the distance, but Tara barely heard them over the pounding of her own pulse. She knew exactly who had caused those anomalies. She’d pieced together enough notes, enough missing memories, enough deviations to see Arianna’s fingerprints carved into the centuries.

And now she had to walk in here, pretend to be surprised, pretend she wasn’t covering for the one person the Time Division would tear apart if they ever learned the truth.

She adjusted her collar, straightened her spine, and marched toward the Department of Mysteries, clutching the invitation like the noose it was.

Keep her name out of it, she told herself. Lie if you have to.  Because Arianna Avery was her best friend. And Tara would rather rewrite history itself before she let them take her.

The glass walls of the Time Division’s conference room gave Tara a perfect, horrifying preview of what waited inside.

Flipcharts. Timelines. Scatterings of red strings and glowing runes.

“Oh boy,” she muttered under her breath. “That looks really bad.”

She forced her shoulders back, pushed the door open, and stepped inside with the most painfully polite smile she could fake. Her fingers kept trembling anyway. One glance at the evidence boards and she felt sick. It wasn’t evidence; it was a damn obituary for Arianna’s freedom.

“Miss Zabini, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat. Tea?”

A short woman in a gray skirt suit bustled toward her, already gesturing at a chair.

Tara nodded, slid into the seat, and kept her hands hidden beneath the table. Where she could fold and unfold the parchment she’d brought until it nearly tore.

The tea clinked against the table. Tara didn’t touch it.

“My name is Mathilda Sweets,” the woman continued with a prim smile, “and this is my partner, Darren Corban.”

Corban looked up from a stack of files. He wore a black sweater, combat trousers, and the exhausted expression of someone who slept on office floors and tracked criminals for fun. He didn’t look like a Time Division analyst. He looked like the kind of man who kicked down doors.

Perfect. As if Tara wasn’t terrified enough.

“Tara,” she said simply. Her voice was steady. Her pulse was not.

Miss Sweets settled across from her, folded her hands neatly, and exhaled as if preparing to diagnose a terminal illness.

“As you can see,” she said, sweeping a hand toward the boards, “we’ve collected a… disturbing number of reports on time ruptures. All traced to a single anomaly moving through the timeline between 1994 and 1997. We were hoping your expertise might help us identify what we’ve missed.”

She slid a thick file across the table. Tara opened it.

Runic charts. Ripple diagrams. Date clusters. Each one a bruise in the fabric of history. Each one stamped with the aftermath of Arianna Avery meddling with fate.

The necklace. The forest. The chapel. Every moment Arianna had died a little inside while trying to save a boy who never should’ve mattered to her.

They didn’t know the details, of course. They didn’t know that Katie Bell wasn’t supposed to die. They didn’t know Draco Malfoy had bled out forty-eight times already. They didn’t know Arianna had rewoven half the bloody war just by loving the wrong boy.

But they knew something was wrong. And they were close. Too close.

Tara swallowed, trying not to choke on dread.

What the fuck am I supposed to tell them?

Because one wrong word, one wrong look, and she wouldn’t just lose Arianna. But her own freedom. 

Tara stared down at the reports, flipping page after page, pretending her pulse wasn’t hammering in her ears.

“Seems to me,” she said slowly, “like the anomaly is trying to change the outcome of the war. Could be an old follower. Or a descendant of one.”

Her eyes caught on a particularly violent ripple pattern. Someone had jumped back and forth through years like they were stepping stones.

She didn’t even need to guess. It was Arianna’s signature everywhere.

Miss Sweets gave a little scoff. Leaned back. Folded her hands. That knowing look hit Tara like a punch.

Shit. Shit, this was a trap.

“Miss Zabini,” Sweets said sweetly, “since you mentioned descendants… wouldn’t you be a suspect as well?”

Tara’s head snapped up.

“Me? No. Why would—”

“Your uncle, Blaise Zabini,” Sweets cut in, “was a known follower of the Dark Lord. Executed for it. And someone with your expertise in time ruptures could… undo that, couldn’t they?”

The implication was a knife. Tara forced a breath through clenched teeth.

“I never even met Blaise. I didn’t care for his crimes, I don’t care now. And unlike half the idiots in here, I actually respect the laws of time.”

Corban leaned forward, elbows sinking into the table, expression carved from stone. Up close she saw the scar above his brow. He’d been in the field. He’d hunted people.

Wonderful.

“But your friend,” he said softly, “isn’t exactly known for respecting anything.”

Sweets hissed under her breath. “Corban. We talked about this.”

He shrugged her off.

“I’m done playing nice.”

He slammed another file on the table, flipping it open with a practiced violence. A photo slid out.

Arianna Avery. In 1994. Standing beside Draco Malfoy at the Quidditch World Cup. The moment everything had started.

Corban shoved it closer.

“She left a temporal signature. The same one we’ve found dozens of times since. What do you know about that?”

Tara pushed the photo back with steady fingers she absolutely did not feel steady in.

“I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen her in ages. Maybe she simply wanted to enjoy a sports event.”

Corban tilted his head, studying her like he was measuring how fast she’d bleed.

“Her name appears in multiple years. In places she shouldn’t exist. So tell me... does she come back? What’s her goal? Did she go back with you? Are you two trying to save your uncle?”

“No,” Tara snapped. “And for Merlin’s sake stop circling back to Blaise. Nobody wants him saved.”

Corban dragged a hand through his hair, irritation simmering under his skin. Sweets, however, looked delighted to twist the knife.

“Because,” she said lightly, “your friend Arianna was seen with him repeatedly in the past. Which leads us to believe she went back for him. If that’s true, the ripple effect would be… inconvenient.”

Tara laughed. A harsh, incredulous sound. Inconvenient. They had no idea how close they were.

If they knew Arianna hadn’t gone back to save Blaise, but Draco Malfoy—history’s favorite villain—they’d drag Tara out of here in chains.

“I can’t tell you anything,” Tara said finally. “But if she’s traveling… you won’t stop her. Arianna does what she wants. Always has. And she’s smarter than all of you put together.”

Mistake. She knew it the moment Corban’s mouth twitched in something like triumph.

“She’ll come back,” he said, hands sliding into his pockets the way executioners slid hands into gloves. “She’ll check the timeline to see if her meddling worked. And when she does… I’ll be waiting.”

A cold dread drained the blood from Tara’s face. He wasn’t threatening her. He was hunting Arianna.

Miss Sweets rose from her chair.

“Miss Zabini, you’re placed under house arrest until further investigation. Please follow me.”

House arrest. In the Ministry’s underbelly. Time Division cells.

“Bloody hell,” Tara breathed, her throat tight.

She stood anyway. Followed anyway. Let the doors close behind her anyway.

And as she walked into the bowels of the Ministry, she realized the truth:

She should’ve stopped Arianna. But some selfish part of her still hoped, still prayed, that the girl would succeed. Even if it ended the world.

 

Tara sat curled on the metal slab the Ministry called a “bed,” though it had all the warmth of a morgue table. Dark green tiles climbed the walls, slick and cold; the overhead lamp buzzed faintly, as if even the electricity was losing hope. She wrapped her arms around her knees, chin balanced on folded wrists.

Arianna was going to be hunted. And Tara had no way to warn her.

The door creaked open. Corban stepped inside, dragging a chair across the floor with a long metallic scrape before setting it down opposite her. He sat. Studied her.

“Are you alright, Miss Zabini?” he asked, all polite poison.

She snorted into her sleeve. “How long have I been down here?”

Corban leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Two days. I was hoping you’d had time to reconsider and might… help us. Before your friend tears the timeline apart.”

Tara didn’t lift her head.

“I told you. I can’t help you. And even if I could, you couldn’t stop her.”

Corban sighed, raking a hand through his unruly dark hair.

“Impressive loyalty. Truly. Taking punishment for something that isn’t yours. Meanwhile your friend is a selfish little savage. I said it the day she arrived here. Could smell trouble on her.”

Tara’s head snapped up. “She’s not selfish.”

Corban’s smirk was slow and venomous.

“Isn’t she? I recall a certain little girl who traveled back in time to resurrect her parents. Sounds selfish to me.”

Tara’s feet hit the floor with a crack as she sat upright, fury snapping through her.

“She was a child. She wanted her parents back. That’s not selfish. That’s grief. And she wouldn’t have needed a time turner if your division hadn’t killed them in the first place.”

His eyebrows rose, surprised she’d bite back.

“You do know,” he said calmly, “that the Averys were loyal supporters of the Dark Lord? Even after his fall, they pursued dark magic. Pure-blood supremacy. Power. Everett Avery hunted war relics because he wanted Voldemort’s ideology immortalised. He was nearly as twisted as the Dark Lord himself.”

Tara inhaled sharply. She knew all of it. And yet she couldn’t align that version of the Averys with the ones who raised her. The ones who bought her birthday cakes and taught her spells and treated her like family when she had none.

“Arianna is no selfish person,” Tara said quietly, firmly. “Whatever she’s chasing, whatever she’s trying to undo… I truly hope she gets it.”

Corban let out a disappointed breath.

“I see. Then a few more days down here might give you time to rethink your loyalties. Because your friend is trying to save very dangerous people from the deaths they earned. I don’t know if she’s rescuing them all, or just one in particular…” He paused. Voice dropped colder. “But I will find out. And when I do? I’ll chase her through time and space until I end this disaster she’s creating.”

He stood, lifted the chair, and walked out. The cell door slammed, sealing the threat in with her.

Tara closed her eyes. She would not break. She would not talk.

And gods help the Ministry, she hoped Arianna succeeded. She hoped she saved Draco. She hoped she undid the monster the world forced him to become.

Because the alternative… was unbearable.

Chapter 32: Home is where your heart is

Arianna turned over in the bed, instinctively reaching for Draco. Her hand met nothing but cold sheets.

He’d been gone for three days. She didn’t know where precisely, but if she had to guess and she always guessed right, it involved the Dark Lord. The thought alone made her shiver.

She slid out of bed and stepped into the ensuite, the air still holding the faintest trace of him. Salazar’s aching black heart, she missed him so violently it hurt. She kept telling herself there was nothing to fear, that Draco would always come back because his death was still in the future. It wasn’t his return that frightened her. It was the state he returned in.

Quiet. Withdrawn. His mind spiraling with thoughts he never voiced.

The tremor in his hand, sometimes an old one, sometimes a new punishment, always gutted her. Each time she saw it, another image of him dying carved itself into her memory. Sixty-eight deaths now. Sixty-eight ways she had watched him fall. And still she returned to Hogwarts, crawled into his arms, and pretended she could outrun inevitability.

She dressed slowly: black jeans, Draco’s emerald Slytherin sweater that still smelled like him, her black boots laced with steady fingers. Wrapped in her coat, she slipped through the quiet corridors and out into the freezing night.

Another hopeful jump. Another desperate attempt to change the unchangeable.

She shouldn’t have hoped.

The moment she slammed into her apartment, the air snapped. A metallic click echoed through the room like the jaws of a trap closing. Magic rippled through the walls in a pulse that made her skin prickle.

“Bloody hell. Fuck me,” she hissed, instinct kicking in. She lunged for the stack of reports and snatched the death roll, shoving it into her pocket just as—

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

Three figures apparated in the hallway outside her door.

Time Division. They’d finally come for her.

She had always known this moment would arrive… just not now. Not like this. Not while her heart was still raw from missing him.

The door blew off its hinges with a thunderous crack, slamming against the wall as a figure strode through the splintered frame.

“ARIANNA AVERY. BY ORDER OF THE TEMPORAL STATUTE, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR TIMELINE TAMPERING!”

The shout shook the room. His eyes locked on her instantly.

Corban. Bloody. Darren. Corban. The one man she never wanted to see step through that door.

Arianna whipped around, hair flying like a shadow behind her, meeting his gaze with a razor-edged smirk.

“Well, hate to ruin your favourite day, sweetheart… but I can’t let you take me.”

Before his wand even lifted, she vanished in a violent twist of magic, leaving behind a swirl of black smoke.

Corban snarled, pointing at the empty space where she’d stood.

“Did you SEE that? She’s already corrupted.”

The other agents tensed. They knew the chase had begun.

Arianna’s feet slammed onto asphalt. A car blared its horn, swerving hard to avoid her, tires screaming against wet pavement. Dark clouds rolled overhead, swallowing the sun whole.

Her breath came fast, sharp. “Fuck!”

The street split with three sharp cracks. The agents apparated behind her.

“Avery!” Corban barked, already charging forward.

She gave him a wicked, taunting grin over her shoulder and bolted.

Pedestrians scattered as she shoved past them, sprinting between tables of a street café. A chair toppled; a tray crashed to the ground. She vaulted over a row of metal chairs, hit the pavement in a roll, and kept running, coat snapping behind her.

Behind her:

Corban. Relentless. Angry. Fast. The best damn agent the Time Division had. Chasing her through the heart of the city like a predator that finally caught the scent.

She didn’t think, she reacted. Apparating in short, frantic bursts, feet slamming onto pavement every few meters just long enough to propel herself forward again. Her heart punched against her ribs, breath tearing from her chest in ragged gasps.

Rain came down in sheets, sudden and violent, soaking her hair to her skull. People stared as she blurred past them. Cars screeched, horns blaring when she sprinted across the street without looking. She vanished mid-jump and reappeared at the next corner, boots skidding across slick concrete.

Still behind her—

CRACK.

Corban apparated, breathless, furious.

“Avery! STOP!”

She did not.

She tore down the next street, legs burning, lungs screaming, her magic pulsing erratically with the panic pounding in her blood. She ducked into a stairwell leading into the underground, nearly slipping as she took the steps three at a time. People shrieked, flattening themselves to the handrails as she barreled past.

Corban’s footsteps thundered behind her.

She burst through the underground tunnels, sprinting for the opposite stairs. She didn’t slow. Didn’t even try. She shoved a man aside in her blind rush. He toppled backwards and took five others with him, a human domino crash that echoed through the station. Someone screamed.

Arianna didn’t look back. She didn’t have the luxury. Not with the Time Division’s best hunter tearing after her like a hound on blood.

Corban apparated forward, fury scraping his voice raw as he caught sight of Arianna’s dark hair snapping behind her like a war-banner. She darted around a corner too quick, too small, too easy to lose in a crowd that thickened by the second.

He pushed harder, boots slamming against wet pavement as he cut after her.

But when he rounded the corner... He didn’t even see the hit coming.

A blast of force struck him square in the throat. His body lifted off the ground and crashed backward, skull cracking against concrete with a nauseating thud. His vision blurred. Blood roared in his ears. He coughed, hand instinctively flying to his neck.

Above him stood Arianna Avery. Dripping rain. Hair wild. Eyes bright with adrenaline and defiance. Her arm was still extended from the strike, precise, calculated, deadly.

She had hit his jugular with perfect accuracy.

“Sorry,” she said, breathless, almost cheerful. “Have to go.”

And with a wicked grin, she vanished again. Nothing left but a curl of black smoke and the echo of her escape.

The other two agents skidded to a halt behind Corban as he dragged himself upright, one hand pressed to the bruising column of his throat.

“Trace her jumps,” he rasped, voice shredded from the hit. “I want every location she apparated to.”

“Yes, sir,” one of them answered, already scanning the dissipating magic.

Corban stared at the last tendrils of black smoke curling into nothingness. Rain streaked across his face, but the grimace carved there had nothing to do with the weather.

Damn Avery. He wouldn’t stop. Not this time. Not until she was in chains.

 

Arianna apparated three more times. Short jumps, quick bursts, just far enough to break the rhythm of pursuit. Only when her lungs burned did she stop, dropping into a narrow alley between two apartment buildings.

She braced a hand against a brick wall, catching a sharp breath. They were tracking her. She could feel it. She couldn’t apparate again without leaving another breadcrumb behind.

She needed to disappear the mundane way.

A parked car on the street below ticked under the cold. Arianna snapped her fingers. The locks clicked open.

She slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and muttered a string of enchantments under her breath. The vehicle shuddered to life, headlights cutting through the rain.

The car pulled away from the curb on its own, guided by her spellwork into the snarl of night traffic.

Arianna leaned back, chest rising and falling fast. The heater hummed to life. Warmth crept into her trembling fingers as the city blurred past.

Where could she go? Where in the entire world was safe now? They would trace her. Follow her. Hunt her. She shut her eyes just for a moment.

Home, a voice whispered. Home.

Arianna let out a breathless, humorless laugh.

“That’s a pretty bad idea,” she muttered.

But the charm-driven car rolled on anyway, turning corners she hadn’t commanded, following a path she didn't consciously choose.

Her pulse slowed. Her breathing steadied. Her eyes fluttered open.

Rain streaked across the windshield as the black car carried her deeper into the night. Toward the one place she feared, and the one place she longed for.

Malfoy Manor.

 

Arianna almost stumbled out of the car. She slammed the door shut and sent it whisking down the road with a flick of her fingers before she faced the towering gates of Malfoy Manor.

They recognized her. Iron groaned. They swung open in one smooth, obedient arc.

She walked the long path slowly, boots dragging in the gravel, breath fogging the cold air. By the time she reached the marble steps, the front door snapped open.

Narcissa Malfoy stood there in mourning black, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Arianna whispered.

“Come in, my dear. Quickly. You’re freezing.” Narcissa clasped her elbow and pulled her inside.

The manor smelled exactly the same. Clean stone. Vanilla polish. A faint trace of mint she’d never quite shaken off. On the hall table, the vase of pale peonies still bloomed, impossibly fresh even during winter.

Narcissa guided her up the stairs before Arianna could catch her breath.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, voice thin, body shaking with cold and adrenaline.

“To his room. He wouldn't mind. And first,” Narcissa said, pushing open a door at the end of the corridor, “his bathroom. You need heat, not questions.”

The bedroom swallowed Arianna whole.

Black furniture. The four-poster bed with emerald drapes. Silver embroidery catching the firelight as Narcissa flicked her wand and brought the room to life again. Flames roared. Curtains swept open. Moonlight spilled over a space that looked painfully untouched.

As if Draco Malfoy had stepped out only minutes ago.

Arianna’s throat closed. The study door stood ajar. Papers lay on his desk, one scroll half-unrolled as if he'd been reading it. A quill rested where he’d last set it down.

His world. Frozen in the moment he died.

Narcissa opened the bathroom door. Mint flooded Arianna’s senses with such force she nearly choked.

“Shower. Warm up. I’ll be back with tea,” Narcissa said gently, then vanished from the room.

Arianna stood alone.

Slowly, she pulled the death roll from her pocket. Her hands trembled so badly the parchment rattled. She laid it beside the fire to dry, her pulse echoing painfully in her ears.

Then she stepped into Draco’s bathroom.

His ring still lay on the basin. The silver crest cold as ice. She picked it up, rolled it into her palm, and set it back down before the grief could crush her.

Clothes dropped to the tiled floor. She stepped under the hot water and let it pound the past hour off her skin.

When she returned to the bedroom, she ran her fingers along the sheets. Cold. Dead. Empty.

She dried her clothes with a charm, pulled them back on, then curled into the armchair by the fire and finally looked at the death roll.

Her stomach lurched.

“Zabini, Blaise — executed 2001

Nott, Theodore — executed 2001

Malfoy, Draco — executed 2001.”

All of them. Still dead. Still doomed. Still slaughtered.

And now she wasn’t just watching Draco die. She’d have to watch Theo. And Blaise. Her vision swam.

The door opened softly. Narcissa reentered with a tray of tea and paused when she saw Arianna’s face.

“What happened?” Narcissa asked quietly.

Arianna didn’t look up. Her eyes stayed fixed on the fire, burning through her.

“The Time Division is hunting me,” she said, voice cracking. “And Draco… still dies. I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know if I even can. He’s dying again and again and again.”

Her voice broke entirely. Narcissa set the tray aside and knelt beside her.

“How many times?” she whispered.

Arianna wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. Her breath trembled.

“Sixty-eight.”

Narcissa’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Good lord… You watched him die every single time?”

Arianna nodded, tears slipping down her jaw as she stared into the flames.

Narcissa touched her arm, gentle as silk. “Salazar have mercy… I should never have asked any of this from you. My dear girl… how do you even keep breathing through that?”

Arianna swallowed, throat raw, heart splintered.

“I have to,” she whispered. “Because I love him.”

Chapter 33: A softness he was never meant to have

The first few times watching Draco die had been horrible but bearable. Because she didn’t truly care for him then. Later, when she started to like him, it grew worse. And when she started to love him, every death cracked her open like glass struck with a hammer. Each execution splintered her. Each scream carved her. Each final breath felt like someone tearing at her ribs from the inside.

She didn’t know how many more she could bear. This one was the worst yet, because she'd have to watch them all die. 

She stood on a cobbled street, packed shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Rain clung to the air. The crowd smelled of sweat and fear. A man in Ministry black recited the crimes the three of them had allegedly committed.

Blaise stood motionless, stern-faced, expression carved from stone.

Theo laughed. Loud, unhinged, a man who had already lost everything worth saving.

And Draco… Draco swept his gaze over the masses, frantic at first, searching until he found her. The moment their eyes met, something inside him settled. His shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. Acceptance washed over him like a tide.

Then he smirked. A final act of defiance. A goodbye he didn’t voice.

Above them, the dementors circled, restless and starving. When they descended, Blaise closed his eyes. Theo spread his arms as if welcoming chaos. But Draco never looked away from her. Not once.

She watched his soul get torn from his body. Watched the light drain from his eyes. Watched him become hollow, empty, a shell.

She had failed. Again.

But as the dementors fed, something caught her breath: Draco’s soul was bright.

White. Clear. Untainted.

Not the darkness she feared he’d become. Not the monster history promised. Just Draco.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t lost. Maybe she could still save him.

 

Valentine's Day at Hogwarts was annoyingly joyous.

Flowers floated through the air with little charms clipped to their stems, weaving through corridors in search of their intended owners. Girls giggled. Boys smirked. Professors pretended not to care.

Arianna didn’t think twice about it. She never cared for these things. Until she saw Vincent Crabbe of all people… holding a rose. A red one.

He rolled it between his thick fingers, sniffed it reverently, then pinned a tiny parchment to the stem. Arianna blinked, stunned, as he whispered a charm and let it go. The rose floated upward, hummed softly, and drifted down the corridor like a shy little bird.

Curiosity won. Arianna followed. Through the dungeons. Into the Slytherin common room. The rose dipped lower, lower, and finally landed in Millicent Bulstrode’s lap.

Millicent stared at it as if it might vanish if she breathed too hard.

Arianna’s heart squeezed. She walked over, smiling.

“Uhh, Mills. Got a rose? Who’s the generous boy?”

Millicent clutched it to her chest.

“Vincent.” Barely a whisper. A prayer.

Arianna dropped onto the sofa beside her.

“Then you should thank him properly,” she murmured, nudging Millicent’s shoulder.

And right on cue, the dungeon door opened.

Draco walked in first. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him like mismatched bookends. Millicent shot to her feet, face crimson, still clutching the rose like a lifeline. She waddled toward them, stopping just shy of Draco. He gave her a tiny nod. Permission. Encouragement. Maybe even pride.

Crabbe went red, bright as a Gryffindor banner. He swallowed, then stepped closer to Millicent. Draco flicked his chin at him in silent order. Crabbe obeyed. He tipped Millicent’s face up gently and murmured something Arianna couldn’t hear, but whatever it was made her blush even harder.

Arianna smiled. Draco rolled one icy eye and kept walking.

“That was rather nice of you,” she said as he dropped onto the sofa beside her, pulling her leg over his without asking.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I had nothing to do with that.”

He nodded once toward Crabbe and Millicent.

“Of course not,” Arianna said, resting her hand on his arm, lips twitching. “You’d never be that romantic.”

Draco scoffed. “Romantic? Oh, but I am. Just in a very different way.”

She raised an eyebrow, pure mockery.

“The prince of Slytherin has a romantic side? I doubt that.”

He leaned in until she felt the dangerous edge of his smirk. “Careful, princess. You might want to apologise for that.”

Then he stood, took her hand, and dragged her down the hallway with zero explanation.

He stopped at his door, flicked his fingers.

“Go on. See for yourself.”

Arianna opened it and forgot how to breathe.

His room was drowning in roses. Deep crimson. Ink black. Scattered across the bed, the floor, the furniture. Charm-lit petals floated in the air like falling embers.

It was breathtaking. It was obsessive. It was him.

She spun in a slow circle, eyes wide, heart pounding. Draco leaned back against the closed door, arms crossed, pleased as sin.

“Romantic enough, Miss Avery?” he drawled.

She walked toward him, fingers hooking around his arms as she rose on her toes.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” she whispered, kissing him softly.

His hands slid to her waist.

“I deserve more than just an apology.”

She smiled against his mouth.

“Guess you do.”

He peeled off her sweater and let it fall where it landed, his mouth never leaving hers. Arianna stepped back; Draco followed, matching her breath for breath, refusing to let even an inch of air slip between them.

She tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, dropping it onto the sea of roses. Buttons, fabric, logic, all forgotten. He stripped her in return, slow only in the places where he wanted to feel her tremble.

Her calves hit the bedframe. She gasped. He didn’t stop.

Draco reached up, brushed her hair over her shoulder with deliberate care, and let his fingers trail down her spine. The touch was reverent, almost disbelieving. His jaw clenched as if the feeling alone overwhelmed him.

He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t tender. Not for anyone. But for her… For her, he was a man who held wildness on a leash and handed it to her willingly.

“Don't expect me to be romantic everyday,” he murmured against her throat, the words so low she barely heard them.

She shivered, letting him lower her onto the bed of roses, petals clinging to her back, to her hair, to his hands as he followed her down.

He kissed her again, slower this time. Purposeful. Possessive.

Every movement said what he refused to say out loud: You’re mine. You’re the only softness I’ll ever allow.

She rolled them both with effortless grace, pressing her elbow into the mattress so she hovered above him. Her hair fell in dark waves around his face, a curtain of warmth and shadow. Draco looked up at her, breath caught, pupils blown wide.

“I love you, Draco Malfoy,” she whispered.

He smirked,  that wicked, arrogant curve of lips that had ruined her life and saved it all at once.

“You better do,” he murmured. “Because from where I stand, there’s no way out for you anyway.”

She laughed softly, a sound that melted right into his chest, and pressed a lingering kiss to his mouth. Then she pulled him up with her, guiding him until he sat upright and she settled onto his lap like she was made for that exact place.

He exhaled shakily. His hands traced down her spine, slow, reverent, mapping her as if he’d forgotten there was a world outside this room. His fingertips pressed into her skin, not possessive, not gentle. Something in between, something rawer, something that said he needed her closer than breath.

He held her. Not loosely. Not protectively. He gripped her like a man terrified she might vanish if he loosened even a fraction.

Her cheek brushed his as she leaned in, feeling the barely-there tremor in him. The one he only ever showed her, and only in moments like this.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither moved. They simply held on to each other, as if the universe might try to pry them apart.

And Draco… gods, Draco clung first.

 

 

They never talked about her secrets. Or his.

He never asked where she vanished to, so she never asked where he went either. It was a silent pact between them: don’t look too closely at the darkness under the other’s fingernails.

By early March, the castle was buzzing. Ron Weasley had been poisoned. Twice.

First with a love potion that made him delirious, and then again, hours later, with a bottle of mead Slughorn had gifted him. Arianna watched Granger and Potter bolt up the stairs to the infirmary after class, frantic but relieved he’d survive.

Arianna remembered this incident. The poisoned mead wasn’t meant for Ron. It had been prepared by Madam Rosmerta… and Draco.

Every time he tried to fulfill the Dark Lord’s order, fate yanked the target away. Again and again and again. Cruel, deliberate. As if fate wanted Draco backed into a corner until killing Dumbledore was the only door left.

It was always the beginning of the monster. It was always written that way. And each time, the punishments worsened.

So when Draco vanished for another “errand,” she paced the room, wringing her hands raw. When the door finally burst open, she almost crumpled.

Blaise and Theo half-dragged him inside.

Draco was ghost-pale, tremors ripping through him like something had hollowed him out from the inside. Arianna’s breath punched out of her chest. She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing.

“It’s bad this time,” Theo said quietly as they lowered him onto the bed. His body jerked violently, eyes unfocused, breath thin.

“Fuck,” she whispered, scrambling to his side.

She cupped his cheek with both hands, leaning over him.

“Draco… calm down. It’s me. It’s Arianna.”

He didn’t hear her. His mind was trapped somewhere dark, unreachable.

So she bent down and kissed him.

Theo and Blaise froze, eyes wide, breath caught, as Draco jolted back into himself. His hand shot up to the back of her head, gripping her fiercely as he kissed her back. The tremor started to weaken, then fade entirely.

“Merlin’s balls… how did she do that?” Theo whispered.

Blaise didn’t blink.

“I’d say this might be love,” he muttered, smacking Theo’s shoulder and dragging him out of the room.

Arianna stroked Draco’s jaw as tears streamed down her face. He lifted his fingers to wipe them away.

“Don’t cry, Avery. It’s messing with your makeup,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I don’t even wear any,” she breathed out with a broken laugh.

“I mean it.” He coughed, wincing. “Stop crying. I don’t like the sound of it.”

She wiped her cheeks, trying to steady herself. He rolled onto his side, exhausted, eyes half-lidded, but still Draco enough to narrow his gaze at her pyjamas.

“For Merlin’s sake, those have to go,” he declared. “They’re ridiculous. The look of them is hurting my eyes. I mean it. Lose them.”

“Shut up,” she sniffed. “Or I’ll get you matching ones.”

“I’ll burn them.”

“You’ll wear them,” she said, poking his chest. “And you’ll like them.”

He let out a breathy laugh and held out his arm.

“Come here. I’m fine, love. It’s all going to be okay.”

She curled into him, pressing her ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat as he stroked her hair again and again soothing her when he was the one in agony.

And for that, she loved him even more.

Brutally. Hopelessly. Completely.

 

Chapter 34: The Limbo

Arianna sat in Draco’s bedroom in the future.

His bedroom. His scent still trapped in the sheets. His books still sitting half-open on the desk. His mother quietly pretending not to notice the girl who appeared here night after night, shaking, breaking, dying a little.

Her hands trembled around the edge of the mattress.

Seventy-eight.

She was about to watch him die for the seventy-eighth time.

She couldn’t take another one. She knew it. But the loop demanded it. If she didn’t confirm the death, the timeline wouldn’t stabilise. And the past she was clinging to would collapse.

So she forced herself up. Straightened her black leather jacket. Pulled out the time turner.

A click. A wrench in her stomach. And the world tore itself open again.

She landed in a forest clearing. Cold air, damp earth, torchlight flickering against masks.

Death Eaters stood in a semicircle.

And on a wooden dais in the middle, kneeling, beaten bloody… Draco.

His lip was split. His cheek was bruised. His hands tied behind his back so tightly his shoulders trembled with the strain.

Bellatrix Lestrange crouched beside him, whispering into his ear with her snake-sweet voice, stroking his shoulder as if she’d birthed him herself.

Arianna’s jaw locked so hard it ached.

She scanned the circle and caught Blaise’s stare. His eyes widened. He pushed through the ranks, grabbed her by the arm and yanked her back behind a tree.

“What the fuck, Arianna? You’re not meant to be here.” His voice was razor-thin panic.

“I have to,” she hissed, pulling free.

“No. You don’t want to see this.”

He was right. She didn’t want to. But she had to.

The loop demanded she witness it. Confirm it. Keep him alive in the past by letting him die in the future.

Bellatrix stepped away from Draco. Barty Crouch Jr. stepped forward.

That damned tongue flick. A long knife glinted in torchlight.

“I’ve waited years for this,” Barty whispered, delighted.

Draco scoffed, breath shaking.

“If that’s your life goal, mate, I don’t envy you.”

Barty snarled and shoved Draco hard, forcing him forward onto his knees.

“Draco Malfoy,” he declared, pacing. “For disobeying the Dark Lord’s orders and assisting a wanted fugitive, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Arianna froze.

“What?” she whispered. “No. That’s not—this isn’t the right scene—”

“You idiot,” Blaise growled, fingers digging into her coat sleeve. “He helped you escape. If they notice you, all of us are dead.”

And then like he always did  Draco’s eyes found hers.

Even bound, bleeding, shaking… he found her.

He jolted upright, tried to stand, tried to get to her, fought against restraints with feral strength.

Barty forced him back down with brutal force. Blaise tightened his grip on her arm.

“Arianna, we need to go. Now.”

“No,” she breathed. “Not this time. I won’t let this—”

But then air cracked.

Magic ruptured.

Five figures burst into existence in the middle of the clearing.

The Time Division.

The crowd recoiled. Masks twisted. Wands lifted.

And Darren Corban stepped forward.

“Arianna! Enough!” he shouted.

Every face swung toward her. The girl at the edge of the crowd. The anomaly. The reason for the execution order.

Her heart beat so violently she thought she might vomit.

“No. No, this isn’t right,” she whispered, horrified.

Draco fought the restraints again. Tried to reach her. Was dragged down and still looked at her.

Death Eaters raised their wands. Agents raised theirs. Spells exploded in every direction—red, blue, green—lighting the forest like a madhouse.

And Corban walked straight through the chaos toward her, wand steady.

“Arianna,” he said, voice low and lethal. “Surrender yourself.”

She shook her head wildly.

Then she saw it.

Behind Corban, Barty struggled to keep Draco down. He lifted the knife.

“NO—”

The blade slashed across Draco’s throat. A wet, tearing sound. A gasp. Blood pouring in a torrent down his chest.

Draco’s eyes went huge. Fear. Real fear.

“Draco!” she screamed, reaching for him.

But Blaise wrapped his arms around her like steel, yanked her backwards, pressed her face to his shoulder as the world shattered.

“Don’t look,” he whispered fiercely. “Arianna—don’t.”

His grip tightened. And then they vanished.

 

She didn’t feel the landing. Only the tearing.

The world ripped, twisted, and slammed her and Blaise into a clearing she’d never seen before.

A cliffside. Waves roaring below. Wind warm and wrong for the season. The first spring flowers pushing through the earth like they had no idea Arianna's  universe had just collapsed. Again. 

Arianna dropped to her knees. Her breath hitched, stuttered, refused to come. It felt like her lungs were barricaded shut.

Blaise knelt beside her, hands gentle on her shaking back.

“This is wrong,” she choked out. “It shouldn’t be like this.”

Her voice was a shredded whisper.

Blaise didn’t try to lie. Didn’t feed her illusions. He just rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, grief tightening his jaw.

“I’m so sorry, Arianna,” he murmured. “He’s gone.”

She let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh but tried to be. A horrible, broken huff. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“No. He’s not,” she whispered, eyes wild. “I’m going to fix this.”

Her fingers dove into her pocket, desperate, clawing for the one thing she still believed in.

Blaise’s face fell the moment she pulled out the time turner.

“Arianna…” His voice was quiet, almost reverent with fear. “Don’t tell me this is what I think it is.”

She rolled the device in her palm, the gold catching the early spring sun.

“It is,” she said, voice steady in that terrifying Avery way. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

“Arianna—”

“And I’ll save you and Theo as well.”

That was the last thing she said before she clicked the dial.

Blaise lunged, grabbing at nothing but the imprint of where she’d been.

“Arianna! Don’t—”

But she was gone. Ripped out of the clearing. Out of the cliffs. Out of Blaise’s reach entirely.

Back to 1997. Back to the boy still breathing. Back to the love she refused to let fate have.

Arianna exhaled as time peeled open around her. The familiar pull yanked her forward.

And then… nothing.

She didn’t land.

She didn’t step out.

She simply… hung there, suspended in nothingness.

Total darkness swallowed her whole.

No sky. No ground, except the faint white glow blooming under her feet whenever she shifted.

“Fuck me,” she muttered. She snapped her fingers, tried to conjure a flame.

Nothing sparked. No magic answered. Perfect.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Oh brilliant. The bloody limbo. The in-between no one ever bloody leaves.”

She stood, turning in a slow circle. No doors. No cracks in reality. No timeline to slip into.

Just a hollow, endless void humming with something ancient.

She tapped her chin, running through possibilities. And came up with one.

That was when she heard them. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, echoing like someone walking through the ribcage of a ruined glass castle.

She looked up and froze.

A man approached her, emerging from the dark as though it parted for him.

Black coat. Black shirt. Black trousers. Hair a dark, unruly mess that somehow looked like intentional perfection. Skin sun-warmed, glowing faintly in the white ripples under his boots.

But his eyes... Sweet Salazar. His eyes were molten gold. Alive. Shifting like liquid metal. Watching her as if he’d been waiting a very, very long time.

He toyed lazily with a golden coin, rolling it over his knuckles with idle grace.

One hand in his pocket. Not a threat, not nervous. 

Just… amused.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly, almost fondly.

“Arianna Avery,” he purred. His voice was warm, amused, terrifying.

“The girl who refuses to let the monster die.”

Where his feet touched the ground, the white glow flared, rippling outward like disturbed water before fading behind him.

Arianna crossed her arms. Great. A cosmic stalker.

“Pleasure,” she deadpanned. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He simply looked at her like she was a very interesting error in his perfect design.

“I’m the god of fate,” he said softly, as if it were the only answer she should have expected. His golden eyes brightened.

“And we really need to have a conversation.”

Chapter 35: The God of Fate

The god of fate should not exist.

Arianna had always believed him to be myth, a whispered warning tucked into old textbooks.

Yet here he stood. Human-shaped. Solid. Casually amused.

And she was trapped in Limbo,  the place no one escaped without his permission.

He circled her slowly, hands behind his back, studying her the way one might inspect a damaged artifact.

“Finally found you,” he said lightly. “You have been… busy.”

He tapped the air beside her cheek. The time-freeze rippled like disturbed water.

“You weren’t supposed to be this interesting, really. One task. Save him. Leave. Live your life. Simple instructions.”

A grin lifted one corner of his mouth, the kind of grin only a being who has seen millennia of bad decisions could wear.

“But you, Arianna Avery… oh, you rewrote the assignment.”

She shifted upright, refusing to cower.

“You created the loop?” she asked, ignoring his playful cruelty.

Fate rolled a coin over his knuckles, the metal clicking softly as it traveled between his fingers.

“I did. And I must say, I did not expect you to be so… defiant.”

He glanced upward as if remembering something delightful, his smirk sharpening.

“I wanted you to save him from certain death. Which you, as we’ve both witnessed, have not succeeded in.”

Arianna clenched her teeth, pacing in sync with him as he circled.

“Why wouldn’t you just save him yourself?” she demanded.

Fate chuckled. A low, amused sound that made the suspended air tremble.

“If it were that easy, sweetheart, I’d have done it ages ago. But he needed something. Someone. To push him off his path.” He pointed his coin at her. “Which is where you came in. But you didn’t.”

Her hands balled into fists.

“Don’t you dare blame me. I’ve watched him die seventy-nine times. I can’t change what you created.”

She should have been afraid. Should have bowed. Should have held her tongue. But standing before a god who orchestrated death like a conductor made her angrier than it made her fearful.

Fate flipped the coin in the air, caught it effortlessly, and pointed at her again.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. You could have changed it. But instead of preventing his death, you decided to tamper with the past. Threads you were never meant to touch.”

Arianna felt her stomach drop as the pieces began clicking into place.

“Is that why you sabotaged him? Every time he tried to kill Dumbledore, you pushed it off course.”

Fate swept into a theatrical bow, arms outstretched.

“That was me.” He straightened, expression flattening. “He needs to kill Dumbledore personally. Dumbledore must die for everything else to unfold. What wasn’t supposed to happen was the boy’s death. He was meant to walk away before the war ended. But he didn’t. He defied me... just as you do.”

He dismissed the thought with a flick of his hand, as if shooing away an annoying insect.

“Anyway,” he went on, strolling sideways with one hand in his pocket, the other still playing with the coin, “I assumed since you were willing to risk everything to alter the fate of your parents, you’d be just as willing to risk everything for him. Even before knowing him. And you were.” He wiggled a finger at her. “But here’s the catch. You started tampering with other lives. Interfering with events that weren’t yours. Changing not only his course but everyone’s.”

His gaze darkened, though his smile remained.

“And I certainly never intended for you to fall in love.”

Arianna lifted her chin, refusing to flinch. “How is that relevant?”

Fate sighed dramatically, as though explaining basic arithmetic to a stubborn child.

“Because in loving him, you changed the one outcome that should never have shifted. Draco Malfoy still kills Dumbledore. He still teeters into darkness. He still dies a monster.” He paused, letting the silence sink its claws in. “But now, thanks to you, he becomes a monster because he loves you. You created exactly what you were trying to prevent.”

Her eyes widened. Her arms dropped. Her breath stuttered.

“What kind of sick plan is that?” she whispered, tears threatening.

Fate didn’t soften, he simply nodded, as if he agreed that yes, it was sick, and no, he didn’t mind.

“Tell you what,” he said gently. “You go back. Convince him to leave the path he’s on. Let him kill Dumbledore, then force him to walk away. That’s the only way he lives. The only way this ends well.”

He stepped forward, lowering his voice into something colder.

“But if you interfere again… if you touch another thread that wasn’t yours…” His smile vanished. “I will come back for you. And I won’t be kind next time.”

Arianna stepped forward, the beginnings of a protest rising in her throat.

But before the words could form, before she could even breathe the world snapped.

Limbo spat her out like it was done with her.

She hit the ground hard, dirt grinding into her palms. A groan slipped from her lips as she pushed herself upright, rubbing the side of her head where the impact vibrated through her skull.

Cold air. Damp earth. Shadows stretching like claws. When her vision cleared, she realized where she was.

The Forbidden Forest. 1997. Exactly where she had wanted to land in the first place. 

She swallowed, tasting iron and panic. Her heart pounded too loudly for the silence around her.

Fate’s words spun in her mind like a wheel she couldn’t stop:

Save him. Let him kill Dumbledore. Force him away from darkness. One more mistake, and I’ll end you.

The worst part? It made sense. Painfully. Terrifyingly.

He had made the loop for her. Made it deliberately. So she would keep coming back. So she would drag Draco off the path that led to his death. But the murder? Dumbledore’s death? That was fixed. Untouchable. A pillar in history she was forbidden to move.

And afterward… Draco still became the monster. Not because of Voldemort. Not because of Lucius. Not because of duty. But because of her.

She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, breath hitching. How was she supposed to stop that? How was she supposed to save him from a future she had already ruined? How do you unmake damage that you are?

For the first time in all her jumps, Arianna Avery stood alone among the trees and realized:

She had no idea how to save the boy she loved. No idea how to obey Fate’s command without destroying Draco in a new way. No idea how to walk a path that led to murder and salvation at the same time.

And worst of all. She wasn’t sure which version of him she would meet next.

Arianna stayed outside for hours, pacing the treeline until her steps carved a path into the frost. Every thought she chased spiraled back to the same, unbearable truth:

If her love was pushing Draco toward the death she was trying to save him from, then she needed to unlove him.

Or at least pretend to. And the first step was leaving his room.

She crept inside well past midnight. Draco was already asleep, breathing slow and even, one arm stretched across the empty half of the bed as if expecting her. As if waiting. As if needing her weight beside him to sleep at all.

Her chest caved in on itself.

She didn’t dare climb into the bed. If she would, she wouldn't have the strength to ever leave him. 

She went to his desk instead, pulled the storage box from beneath it, and began slipping her belongings inside, charming the space to swallow everything at once. She moved quietly, methodically, until only the bathroom remained.

But as she crossed the threshold, he stirred.

The first thing he noticed when he woke was the cold beside him. Then the quiet. Then the box on the floor.

He shoved the sheets aside and stood, sleep-rumpled and barefoot, joggers hanging low on his hips, that sharp V of his abdomen framed by moonlight.

“Arianna?” His voice was thick with confusion. “What’s going on?”

She froze in the bathroom doorway, clutching handfuls of her things.

She hadn’t planned for him to wake. She hadn’t planned for… conversation. When she said nothing, he stepped toward the box, nudged it sharply with his foot.

“What’s going on?” he repeated, lower now, the warning coiled beneath it unmistakable.

She walked past him, dropped her things into the box, refusing to look at him.

“I… I think I’m moving back in with the girls.”

“What? Why?”

He followed her to the nightstand where she was already shoving folded underwear into the box like it might burn her hands.

“I just think we—this is going too fast. We should slow down. Take a breath. Rethink.”

“Rethink?” Draco threw his hands up. “Rethink what?”

She kept her back to him because she knew if she saw his face, she’d shatter.

He didn’t accept that. He crossed the space, grabbed her waist, turned her gently but firmly to face him. His hands came up to cradle her jaw, almost desperate.

“You told me you loved me,” he said, voice cracking. “And now it’s ‘too fast’ for you?”

His eyes searched hers, frantic, terrified, as if looking for any sign this was a joke, a mistake, anything but what it was. And the guilt nearly ripped her open.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I might have rushed things.”

He let go. Not harshly—just… dropped his hands. Defeated.

His face changed. Softness turning to something colder, sharper, cut from old wounds and new betrayals.

“You want to go?” he asked quietly. “Then go, Avery. But if you walk out that door, there’s no coming back.”

Her throat tightened painfully.

She bent, picked up the box. When she stepped past him, their shoulders brushed. Neither looked at the other.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed.

Then she walked away. He didn’t follow. Didn’t call her name.

The moment the hallway swallowed her, the door behind her slammed so violently the hinges rattled.

And as she made her way back to the girls’ dormitory, her chest ached so fiercely she wondered if hearts could tear without magic.

When Arianna stumbled into the dorm, the room was dim and quiet.

Millicent snored softly from her corner, one arm hanging over the mattress.

Pansy was curled on her side, hair spilling over her pillow like ink.

Arianna set her box down beside her bed with a dull thud, rubbing both hands over her face. Her chest felt too tight. Her lungs too small. Fate whispered its cruel little I-told-you-so in the back of her mind, and she wanted to scream.

Instead she dressed in silence, pulling on pyjamas with shaky fingers, every movement heavier than the last. By the time she crawled beneath her blanket, she felt hollow.

Sleep didn’t come.

She lay on her side, facing the window, watching moonlight drag across the glass. Minutes bled into an hour. Her throat burned. Her eyes stung. And finally silent tears slipped down her cheek and onto her pillow.

Draco wasn’t a forgiving person. Not when he was hurt. And tonight, she had hurt him in the one place he’d dared to be soft.

Maybe he’d hate her for it. Maybe he was hating her already. Her breath hitched.

Across the room, Pansy shifted. Arianna froze, tried to muffle the next sob. Too late.

Soft feet touched the floor. A rustle of blankets. Then Pansy, pale and sleepy-eyed, slipped into Arianna’s bed without a word. She wrapped her arms around her from behind, warm and steady, tucking her chin into the crook of Arianna’s neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Whatever it is,” Pansy whispered, voice hushed and sure, “it’s going to be fine.”

Arianna didn’t answer.

She just cried—quiet, shaking, exhausted—until her body finally gave out and sleep dragged her under.

Pansy held her through all of it. No questions. No judgment. Just silent loyalty.

 

The first days were the worst.

Watching Draco avoid her with that rigid posture and clenched jaw—always close enough to see, never close enough to touch—felt like something inside her was being peeled apart. But she needed the distance. She needed to think. To breathe. To keep him alive.

Didn’t make any of it hurt less.

In Potions, he dropped into the seat beside her like he always had. Same chair, same proximity, same scent of smoke and cold winter air. But he didn’t look at her. Not once. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

She sighed, barely audible. She had expected this. Draco Malfoy was all pride and armor, a fortress made of ego and fear. And she’d seen that fortress crumble for her. She’d seen him soft. Open. Human.

And then she left.

She deserved the cold shoulder. Didn’t make it easier to endure.

“Can you pass me the wolfsbane?” she asked quietly, stirring the cauldron.

He shoved the vial toward her without a word, leaned back, arms crossed. His eyes normally that stormy, sharp blue, looked muted, greyed out.

Indifference. Occlumency. A wall so solid she could almost feel the temperature drop.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me. Just brew the damn potion.”

His voice was sharp, brittle. He didn’t look at her. And that hurt more than the bite of his words.

For Draco, the days had been worse.

Hellish, even.

He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.

With her gone, the tremors had returned with a vengeance. Violent spasms that tore through his hands and up his arms, waking him in the dead of night.

The first three nights he had jolted awake reaching for her.

For her warmth. For her scent. For anything that might quiet the storm in his veins. Every time his hands closed on nothing but cold sheets, he cursed her. Cursed himself. Cursed how badly he needed her. On the fourth night, he snapped.

He found Theo. Took what he needed without explanation. A whole stash of Nightshade.

The drug burned his lungs, numbed his thoughts, pulled the world into a muffled blur. It drowned out pain. It drowned out longing. It drowned out everything that made him feel too human.

When he woke the next morning, he felt nothing.

No softness. No ache. Just hollow quiet. And a slow, simmering resentment.

 

On Saturday morning, after breakfast, Arianna slipped out of the Great Hall alone. Draco hadn’t even bothered to show up. Typical. He was probably locked in his dorm, hiding behind Occlumency.

She rubbed her arms as the corridor swallowed her, trying to hold herself together.

“Miss Avery… a word?”

Dumbledore’s voice drifted from behind her, gentle but unmistakably firm. Arianna froze mid-step. She turned slowly, schooling her face into something resembling a smile.

“Of course, Professor.”

He approached with that familiar, grandfatherly warmth, robes trailing softly behind him. But his eyes, those ancient, star-bright eyes, held something else entirely.

Knowledge. Worry. Recognition. Secrets she never told him, yet he somehow knew.

He gestured toward a quieter alcove near the stairwell. She followed, pulse stuttering.

When the shadows closed around them, Dumbledore folded his hands, studying her with unnerving calm.

“You look very tired, my dear.”

Arianna swallowed. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“I imagine,” he said softly. “Time becomes quite heavy when one carries too much of it.”

Her breath hitched. He knew way to much. Not everything, not the details but enough. Enough to see the truth bleeding through the cracks she tried to hide.

“Professor, I—”

He lifted a hand gently, stopping her.

“There is no need for explanation. Only honesty.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with sympathy and something sharper... certainty.

“You have been traveling… quite a long while, haven’t you?”

Her fingers curled into fists. She tried for denial, but the words wouldn’t form. She nodded instead, small and broken.

Dumbledore sighed softly, as though he’d expected as much.

“Time,” he said, “does not enjoy being changed. And it resists those who try.”

Arianna stared at the stone floor. “I know. I’m trying to fix things.”

“Are you?” His voice was gentle, but it cut through her like a blade. “Or are you trying to fix one person, no matter the cost?”

She flinched. Dumbledore’s gaze softened, though the weight of it did not.

“Mister Malfoy is… unraveling, I fear. Faster than before.”

Her breath trembled.

“I stepped back. I thought distance might help him.”

“Ah.” He nodded sadly. “A necessary choice. But one that wounds you both.”

She blinked hard, fighting the sting in her eyes.

He lowered his voice.

“Arianna… every path you touch seems to return to the same destination. The outcome does not change. Only the suffering does.”

Her throat burned.

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“There are still things that must happen,” Dumbledore said. “Harry must find what Tom Riddle left behind. The war cannot be won otherwise.”

She frowned. “Horcruxes.”

His eyes flickered in confirmation. And in that moment, something clicked inside her. A spark of panic. A spark of possibility.

If a soul anchored Voldemort to life... If a horcrux kept him from dying... Then… Her breathing stuttered.

Dumbledore watched her carefully.

“Dangerous thoughts, Miss Avery,” he murmured. “A horcrux is not a salvation. It is a curse.”

She looked up at him, eyes sharp now, wet but blazing.

“But it keeps someone alive,” she whispered. “Doesn’t it?”

His expression hardened for the first time since she’d met him.

“Arianna,” he warned.

Her voice cracked. “I just need to keep him alive.”

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, as if letting go of hope.

“My dear girl… there are fates far worse than death.”

Chapter 36: The triplets of Destiny

Confusion didn’t even begin to cover it.

Arianna felt split open, pulled in opposing directions by powers she couldn’t hope to comprehend.

Fate commanded her to keep Draco alive. Dumbledore warned her time itself would refuse it.

And now she sat hunched over another ancient book, fingers digging into the brittle pages until the words blurred.

The triplets of destiny — the divine triad.

The God of Fate.

His brother — the God of Time.

And their sister — the Goddess of Deviation.

“Great. One holy trinity of nightmares,” she muttered.

But it was the sister she kept circling back to. The one who wasn’t inevitable or archival… but absolute.

Fate was the author.

Time was the archivist.

Deviation was the unraveler.

She didn’t guide events. She didn’t record them. She corrected them. Erased them. Removed the errors.

A cold slice of dread crawled down Arianna’s spine.

She wasn’t bending rules, she was breaking structures designed by gods. She wasn’t nudging a path, she was twisting a tapestry that was never meant to move.

And Deviation?

If she came for Arianna, she wouldn’t warn her. She wouldn’t scold her. She would unmake her.

Arianna stared at the page, pulse thundering, realization tightening around her ribs.

She wasn’t dancing on thin ice. She was trespassing where gods walked.

She slapped the book shut, groaning as she rubbed her temples. Silver letters gleamed on the bottom of the cover:

Written by Professor Aelius Corwyn.

Arianna blinked. Then frowned.

She shoved the book aside, diving into the shelves like a woman possessed. If he’d been a professor, there had to be a record somewhere.

So she dragged Hogwarts: A History onto the nearest table and flipped frantically until she found it. 

Professor Aelius Corwyn — Divination, 1656. Turned insane due to his abilities. Predicted the deaths of students daily. His portrait remains within the castle.

Arianna straightened so quickly her chair squeaked. If his portrait was still here, she could talk to him. And if anyone knew how the triplets operated, it would be a seer who’d touched their threads.

She left the book splayed open and sprinted out of the library, racing up staircase after staircase, scanning every portrait she passed. None of them were Corwyn.

Finally she slipped into Trelawney’s perfumed classroom.

The witch sat cross-legged on cushions, her hair an exploding halo, her glasses fogged from staring into a fortune orb.

“Miss Avery,” she chimed, setting the orb aside. “What brings you up here?”

Arianna approached, disguising her urgency under a sweet smile.

“I’m writing an essay, professor. About Aelius Corwyn. I was hoping to interview his portrait. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is?”

Trelawney brightened instantly.

“Oh, a marvellous choice! Corwyn was a genius… and wonderfully unstable.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “His portrait was removed years ago. Too many death predictions. Quite traumatizing for first-years.”

Arianna narrowed her eyes. Removed. Not destroyed. Which meant only one thing.

“Thank you, professor,” Arianna said, already backing toward the door.

“I look forward to your essay, Miss Avery!”

“So do I,” she whispered, slipping out.

Because only one place in Hogwarts held forgotten things. Lost things. Things too troublesome to throw away.

The Room of Requirement.

 

She paced along the blank wall three times, concentrating so hard she feared she’d wrinkle her own forehead permanently.

Then the door materialized with a low groan, its iron wings parting like ancient lungs exhaling. She stepped inside.

Mountains of mismatched chairs rose like pyramids. Broken cabinets gaped like wounded animals. Books flapped past her head like startled birds. Keys with silver wings zipped through rafters. Crates, tables, portraits stacked like skeletal remains of centuries.

She wove through the labyrinth, her mind locked on Corwyn’s face, on golden letters, on whispered prophecies.

Until she found it.

Arianna stepped forward hesitantly. She needed answers. She needed breath. She needed something to drown out Fate’s warning, Dumbledore’s warning, the spiraling dread clawing at her ribs.

The portrait leaned against old mirrors, half-buried beneath cobwebs and collapsed star charts. Dust drifted like smoke in the moonlight. The air carried that heavy, forgotten stillness of a tomb.

She almost walked past it. Until the eyes moved. Arianna froze.

The painted figure leaned out of shadow, emerging from what had once been a richly furnished study. The colors were bleached, the corners frayed, candle wax dripped in frozen rivers. But the man’s eyes… Silver. Sharp. Unblinking. Horrifyingly alive.

“Avery,” he rasped, as though he’d been waiting centuries for her to arrive.

Her throat tightened.

“You… know who I am?”

A faint smile tugged the edges of the Seer’s cracked mouth.

“I know what you are.”

Her pulse hammered.

“Professor Corwyn?” she whispered.

“Once.” His voice creaked like old wood. “Names matter little to the dead. Come closer, child. Let me look at the damage.”

She stepped forward despite the chill seizing her spine. The portrait inhaled sharply, as if scenting the air around her.

“Time has touched you,” he whispered. “Fate has marked you. And…” His voice dipped into something cold. “She watches.”

Arianna swallowed.

“Who?”

The painted man tilted his head, silver eyes gleaming with both terror and reverence.

“Their sister,” he murmured. “The one neither of them can guide. The break in the pattern. The unmaker. The Goddess of Deviation.”

Arianna’s breath snagged.

“I read about her.”

“Reading is not knowing,” he said softly. “Deviation is the end of knowing. She is memory undone. Choice rewritten. A dissolving.”

Arianna’s fingers curled into fists.

“What happens if she comes for me?”

The portrait laughed. A brittle, papery sound that skittered beneath her skin.

“My dear girl… if Deviation comes for you, there will be no you left to ask the question.”

Arianna’s stomach dropped. The Seer leaned nearer. Shadows behind him stretched like skeletal fingers.

“You have torn lines that were meant to remain straight,” he murmured. “Bent time until it groaned. Irritated the Archivist. Annoyed the Author.” His lips twitched. “And she adores you for it.”

Arianna blinked. “Ad- Adores?”

“Oh yes.” His smile was terrible. “Deviation loves a variable. Loves a heart that chooses the wrong answer. Loves the one soul she cannot predict.”

Silence tightened around them like a rope.

“You are her favorite, Arianna Avery,” he said gently. “And her favorites seldom survive.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

“I don't want to be part of this game,” she whispered.

“Then you should not have loved the boy,” the portrait said simply. “Love is the greatest deviation of all. It makes fate stutter. It makes time shiver.”

Arianna flinched as if struck.

“Tell me how to survive.”

The portrait’s expression softened into tragic, pitying.

“You don’t.”

Her breath trembled.

“But…” his voice gentled, “you may choose how you end. And that choice, child, is more power than even Fate can bear.”

Arianna staggered back, chest constricting.

The Seer straightened within the canvas, and his voice echoed as though the whole room spoke with him: “Run while you can, Arianna Avery. For when she comes… neither time, nor fate, nor love will follow you into the unmaking.”

“Well, that did sound reassuring as hell,” Arianna muttered under her breath as she slipped back into the twisting labyrinth of the Room of Requirement. Her pulse still raced, the echo of Corwyn’s warning scraping at her ribs.

She froze. Footsteps. Slow. Familiar.

Her stomach dropped. She ducked behind a stack of old parchment crates, peering through a sliver between warped wooden boards. Draco Malfoy stepped into the room. Black suit. Crisp. Perfect. Immaculate.

One hand in his pocket, the other idly rolling a button between his fingers. His jaw was tight; his eyes colder than the frost outside. He walked with the kind of purpose that twisted Arianna’s insides into knots.

She followed silently, weaving behind mountains of discarded chairs and toppled desks, keeping to the shadows. He didn’t notice her. His mind was elsewhere. Buried under dread, pressure, orders from a master she wished she could rip out of existence.

He stopped at the cabinet.

A towering thing of dark lacquer and intricate carved patterns, elegant and ominous. The Vanishing Cabinet. The one that would open the castle to hell. The one that rewrote everything.

Arianna’s breath snagged. Draco opened the door. A tiny bird fluttered inside, chirping weakly.

He closed it. Tapped the wood. Waited. The cabinet rattled like something haunted.

When he opened it again, the little bird lay collapsed on its side. Unmoving. Dead.

Arianna pressed a hand to her mouth. Draco exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion, frustration, fear. She saw all of it in that single gesture.

He murmured incantations under his breath, flicking his wand, repeating the motions he had practiced for weeks. Months. Time was squeezing him like a noose.

And time, she now knew, wasn’t just running out for him. It was hunting her.

Her heart cracked at the sight. This boy—this man—pressed beneath the crushing weight of a destiny she had been desperately trying, failing, bleeding to change.

Soon, he would stand on a tower with a wand pointed at a dying headmaster. Soon, he would give in. Or refuse. Or die. Or be executed in a forest while staring at her, throat open, bleeding out.

Arianna blinked hard. She stepped forward without meaning to. Drawn to him. To his pain. To the threads of fate she kept trying to unravel.

A floorboard creaked under her foot. Draco’s head snapped toward the sound. His wand rose.

“I can fucking smell you, Avery.”

Draco’s voice sliced through the shadows, low and venom-smooth.

Arianna exhaled defeated, exhausted, already bleeding before he even turned. She stepped out from behind the stacked chairs and faced him.

For the first time in days, he really looked at her. And if he hadn’t been shielding behind occlumency so aggressively it washed the silver from his irises, she would’ve seen it... the hurt. Now there was only disdain.

“Following me?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced cruelty. His wand stayed raised.

“No.” She shoved her trembling hands deeper into her coat pockets. “Just needed air. Was on my way out.”

He grunted, dropped the wand, and turned his back to her. Dismissing her like she was a problem he’d finally solved.

She took one breath, one step. Then he turned again.

“You know what?” Draco said, voice like a cracked blade. “You moving out was the best bloody decision you ever made. I was getting soft on you. And really… it was just about the fun.”

It landed. Exactly where he wanted. Her chest caved around the impact. Arianna bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper and nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Guess so. Thanks for the fun, after all.”

Something in his throat clicked. He inhaled sharply and rolled his eyes like he could shake off whatever slipped through.

“You said you loved me,” Draco whispered.

Not venom now. Not arrogance. Just raw, so raw it scraped the inside of her ribs. She looked up. His eyes weren’t grey anymore. They had cracked open into that soft, impossible blue she loved too much.

“I did,” she breathed. Her voice almost didn’t make it out. “And you told me you wouldn’t let me go. Ever.”

Draco tipped his head back, locking himself behind that defiant mask. The one he used when he couldn’t afford to feel.

“Guess we’re both liars,” he said. “Do me a favour, Avery. Keep away from Bowman at least. He’s been staring you down all damn day.”

There it was. The crack in the armour he didn’t want her to hear. The care he was choking on.

Arianna nodded. Every part of her wanted to ask why it mattered. Why he cared. Why he looked like he might break if she stepped one inch closer. But distance was safer. Distance might keep her from falling into his arms and unraveling everything she had left.

She turned away.

“Good luck with that,” she threw over her shoulder, pointing at the cabinet and walked off into the labyrinth.

Swallowing the tremor. Swallowing the ache. Swallowing the part of her that wanted to run back and tell him she hadn't lied. And that she broke his heart because she loved him. But she did not. 

Chapter 37: Curses and cuts

Tara Zabini had stopped counting the days two breakdowns ago.

Down here, time wasn’t real. Only the damp walls, the metallic taste of fear, and the slow decay of hope kept her company.

Thirteen days. Maybe fourteen. Maybe fifty. Who cared.

The door rattled. She didn’t bother straightening her hair, her clothes, her dignity. She only lifted her head, glare loaded and ready.

Corban strolled in like a man who enjoyed the smell of rot. The door clanged shut behind him.

“What the fuck do you want?” Tara rasped, voice sandpaper-raw.

Corban’s smile was rotten fruit. Sweet at first glance, sour underneath.

“Thought you’d appreciate an update,” he said. “Maybe it’ll help you… come to your senses.”

Tara pulled one knee up, resting her elbow on it like a shield.

“Not very likely.”

He laughed. A dry, humourless exhale. Then he stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back like a self-righteous professor.

“Well. We recently found your little friend.”

Tara’s chest tightened before he even finished the sentence.

“In the past. At a very interesting moment.”

Corban crouched slightly, meeting her eye like a predator indulging prey.

“She was watching the execution of Draco Malfoy.”

Tara’s pulse spiked so violently she almost flinched. Almost. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Corban’s smile sharpened.

“Oh yes. She was right there. And from what I saw?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a poisonous purr. “She was about to save him.”

Tara forced her jaw to stay locked.

“If you say so,” she snapped inwardly, but she wouldn’t give Corban even a scrap. “How the hell should I know?” she said aloud, tone as empty as she could muster.

Corban hummed. Pleased.

“Predictable,” he murmured. “But interesting, isn’t it? Everything she does… circles back to him.”

He began pacing the cramped cell, boots echoing off cold stone.

“The Dark Lord’s little monster,” he continued. “A shell of a boy. Rot and corruption in human form. And still… Arianna Avery tries to save him.”

Tara’s nails dug crescent moons into her palms.

“Poor girl. Must be traumatized. Or insane.” He cocked his head. “Why else spare a creature like Draco Malfoy?”

Tara inhaled sharply, lungs burning.

Do not react. Do not give him anything. Corban’s lips curled.

“Maybe she’s like him,” he said softly. “Dark. Poisoned by her lineage. Maybe the Avery sickness finally caught up with her.”

Tara tasted copper again. She’d bitten her cheek hard enough to bleed. Corban watched it with mild amusement.

“Well. Still not talking.”

His voice dropped to something quieter, more dangerous.

“But hear this, Miss Zabini.” He leaned in until his breath ghosted her cheek. “If your little friend succeeds… if she saves that vicious boy…”

A slow smile.

“…I won’t be your worst problem anymore.”

He turned and walked out, the door slamming shut, leaving Tara with nothing but her heartbeat pounding in her skull and one scorching truth:

Arianna wasn’t just playing with time anymore. She was playing with gods, monsters, and men who feared both.

And Tara — helpless and locked away — could only hope her friend survived them.

 

 

Harry Potter had been tailing Draco Malfoy for days, convinced he was up to something far darker than snide insults and empty threats. And today… something was off.

Draco moved strangely. Unsteady. Like his limbs belonged to someone else.

Harry followed him up the stairs toward the sixth-floor bathroom, unnoticed only because Draco didn’t turn around once. Not even to sneer, which was practically a Malfoy reflex.

Draco slipped inside. Harry waited a beat. Then pushed the door open.

Draco stood hunched over the sinks, water dripping from his face. His fingers were white-knuckled on the porcelain.

“Bloody hell… Salazar help me…” he whispered.

He lifted his head. The reflection staring back at him looked half-dead: skin bone-white, shadows under his eyes, irises foggy with exhaustion and Nightshade haze. His Malfoy ring clinked against the sink as he braced himself.

Harry’s stomach twisted. That was when Draco rolled up his sleeve. The Dark Mark stared back at Harry like a brand announcing guilt.

Harry inhaled sharply. Draco froze. His gaze snapped up in the mirror and straight at Harry.

“Potter.” He said the name like a curse.

“Knew you were working for Voldemort,” Harry said, wand rising in his hand.

Draco barked a humorless laugh and turned fully, one hand gripping the basin again as though it was anchoring him to the earth.

“And now what?” Draco asked, voice low and sharp. “You going to curse me? Kill me? Go on then. Try your luck.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“Maybe I will.”

Draco slid his own wand free. His movements were a fraction too slow.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Potter.”

Harry struck first.

“Expelliarmus!”

Draco raised a shield—barely—laughing under his breath, the sound loose and unhinged.

“Don’t insult me. Is that really your best?”

Harry fired again. The spell shattered a basin, shards exploding outward. Draco was gone. Hidden behind the stalls.

“Hiding now, Malfoy?” Harry called.

A curse shot from under the partitions, sparks skittering across the tiles. Harry threw himself aside, rolled, fired back. Draco staggered sideways behind another stall, breath ragged and uneven.

The Nightshade dragged at Draco’s limbs, distorting his timing. His vision blurred around the edges. Harry’s movements left streaks in his sight.

Perfect, Draco thought viciously. Let Potter take all of it for once.

He crouched, wand aimed low, and shot another curse along the floor. Harry dove, sprinting to flank him.

He rounded the corner fast heart pounding, rage boiling over.

Draco already had another curse on his lips: "cruc-"

Harry didn’t think. Didn’t aim. Didn’t hesitate.

“Sectumsempra!”

The spell slammed into Draco’s chest with sickening force. Draco’s body arched, then crumpled backward into the broken water pouring from the shattered sinks. Harry froze.

Draco lay in the spreading water, blood blooming around him like ink. His shirt split open in brutal slashes. His breaths came wet and shallow. He lifted his head barely, eyes unfocused, and... smiled.

Harry’s wand dropped. He hadn’t meant this. Not this. Before he could move, the door burst open.

Snape tore in, sweeping Harry aside with a violent shove. His cloak billowed as he knelt beside Draco without a single wasted breath.

Snape’s voice was a razor.

“What have you done?”

Harry backed against the wall, horrified, unable to answer as Snape muttered dark, rapid incantations. Flesh knitting, blood pulling back, wounds closing in trembling lines. Draco went limp.

Snape gathered him into his arms like something precious, robes staining red instantly. He shot Harry one last look—a promise of hell—then swept from the room, leaving a trail of crimson behind him.

Harry stood there, shaking. He had wanted the truth. Instead, he’d nearly killed him.

 

 

Arianna stood outside the infirmary door like a ghost with nowhere else to haunt. She couldn’t sit. She couldn’t breathe. So she paced.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Fingers twitching, nails digging into her palms, breath shallow, brain clawing at the image of him bleeding out on that bathroom floor.

Inside, she heard voices. Snape, low and furious. Dumbledore, colder than she had ever heard him.

“—both boys used Dark magic.”

“—they must be punished accordingly.”

“—an Unforgivable was seconds from being cast.”

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stop the sound that threatened to escape her.

Draco was hurting. Injured. Bleeding. And she had been part of every step that led him here.

The door creaked. She spun so fast she nearly tripped.

Theo stepped out first, face ashen. Blaise followed, jaw tight. Arianna rushed them before they could take a full step.

“How is he? Can I see him? Please—just tell me—”

Theo raised a hand, not unkindly.

“He’s going to be fine,” he said quietly. “Madam Pomfrey’s stitching him. The spell damage wasn’t… permanent.”

Arianna’s breath stuttered with relief. Then Blaise cut in, gentler than usual but still blunt: “He doesn’t want to see you.”

The world seemed to tilt.

Arianna blinked hard, but the hallway blurred around the edges.

“Oh,” she whispered. It was barely sound at all.

“He’s pissed,” Blaise continued carefully. “And hurt. And he’s not thinking clearly. Just… give him space.”

She nodded because it was the only thing she could do without falling apart. She backed up until her shoulders hit the wall, slid down a few inches, and wrapped her arms around herself. She stared at the closed door as if she could force it to open with sheer will.

Theo hesitated.

“You can stay,” he said quietly. “Just… don’t expect him to call for you.”

Arianna pressed her lips together, nodding again, numb.

“I’m not leaving.”

And she didn’t. She stayed rooted to the spot, spine rigid, throat tight, staring at the door that didn’t open.

Inside, Draco lay on a hospital bed, stitched and shaking, awake but unmoving. He didn’t ask for her.

Outside, Arianna stood like a shadow carved into stone. She didn’t go in. He didn’t call her. And the distance between them felt like a knife twisting slowly, deliberately, right under her ribs.

 

Arianna didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there.

Minutes. Hours. Time had no meaning when her heart was lodged in her throat.

The corridor was too quiet. Too cold. The infirmary door too still.

Footsteps cut through the silence. Snape emerged, black robes trailing like smoke.

He paused when he saw her hunched on the stone floor, arms wrapped around herself, face pale from worry and something deeper.

His expression tightened. Not annoyed. Not cruel. Something almost… tired.

“Avery,” he said, voice lower than usual. “Mr. Malfoy is asleep.”

Arianna swallowed.

“Did he… ask to see me?”

Snape’s jaw twitched.

“No. He asked to leave. Repeatedly. Loudly.” A faint, humorless huff. “So we put him under.”

Arianna closed her eyes. That hurt more than she expected.

Snape studied her for a long moment then said, very quietly: “If you wish to see him, now would be the time. He won’t know.”

She looked up at him sharply. Snape’s gaze was unreadable, but it wasn’t unkind.

“Five minutes,” he added. “Don’t wake him.”

Arianna nodded, almost trembling, and slipped past him into the infirmary.

Inside, the world felt different. Muted. Fragile.

Draco lay on the bed nearest the window, moonlight spilling across his skin. His hair was damp against his forehead. His breathing shallow. The sight of him hit her like a blow.

He looked… broken. Not the proud, sharp-edged boy everyone feared...  but something wounded, fragile, hurting beneath layers of anger and ego.

She stepped closer, barely daring to make a sound. The sheets were pulled high over his torso. Her heart hammered. She reached out with shaking fingers and folded the blanket down. The breath left her entirely.

Scars — pale, still healing — carved across his chest, ribcage, and stomach, Sectumsempra’s signature blooming like cruel silver flowers.

Stitches traced the deepest wounds. Bruises spread like ink beneath his skin.

Arianna’s hand rose on instinct. She touched him. Just with her fingertips. Barely a whisper of contact. She traced one long scar, reverent, gentle, as if apologizing with every breath.

Her lips parted. A single tear slipped down her cheek and fell onto his skin. He didn’t stir.

She took a step back, chest shaking, unable to breathe through the ache clawing inside her. Then she slipped out as quietly as she’d entered.

Snape was gone. The corridor was empty. Her decision was already made. She needed to go. She needed to check the future. She needed to know if this — if any of this — had saved or condemned him.

And so, without another glance at the closed infirmary door, Arianna Avery prepared once more to tear herself out of her own timeline.

Chapter 38: The God of Time

Arianna didn’t knock. She didn’t pause.

She jumped straight into the future, into Malfoy Manor, sprinted to the deathroll, and found his name still carved there in merciless ink.

Draco Malfoy. Deceased. Again.

She didn’t dare speak to Narcissa. What would she even say to a woman doomed to grieve her son over and over? So Arianna slipped out of the manor like a ghost and jumped back to his death.

Again. And again.

Jump to future. Still dead. Jump to past. Drop a book on repairing vanishing cabinets.

Wait. Watch. Jump. Still dead.

Weeks blurred together. Her will frayed like old parchment.

Finally she ripped the deathroll apart, paper snowing down around her, and screamed into the empty room.

Nothing worked. Nothing shifted. Nothing mattered.

Unless....  Tell him. Tell Draco everything. The time-travel. The deaths. The loop. The truth.

Maybe honesty could break what desperation never had.

She jumped back... only she didn’t land in 1997.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

The Limbo. Again.

“Oh hell no,” she muttered. “Not again.”

But it wasn’t Fate who materialized.

A pale light bloomed, revealing an older man seated in a light-grey suit. Hair white and wild. Skin papery. Eyes white as frost. Sitting in an armchair. Legs crossed.

A hiss of disapproval, like she’d inconvenienced him personally.

“Miss Avery,” he rumbled.

She sighed.

“Let me guess. Time?”

The god of time chuckled low.

“My brother warned me about you. Said you were… entertaining.” His mouth twitched. “I can see why my sister adores you.”

The moment of fond amusement vanished. He leaned back, hands steepled.

“I imagine you’ve realized,” he said pleasantly, “that I will not allow you to alter my brother’s work. He predicted you’d try. So I ensured the outcome… remains intact.”

Arianna’s temper snapped.

“If you mean I realized distancing myself made everything worse—Potter cursed him, he spiraled harder, you kept the timeline on rails while blaming me—then yes, I noticed.”

Time laughed. Actually laughed. Clapping once like she was his favorite circus act.

“Brilliant. Truly.”

She rolled her eyes at him. Hard.

“Tell your brother I’m done. I’m done with the loop. I’m done watching him die. Tell me how to end this.”

Time leaned forward, fascinated.

“You can’t end the loop. Only fulfill it… or fail.”

“And if I fail?” Her voice was flat.

A shadow crossed his face. Not sorrow, not empathy, just inevitability.

“Then my sister comes for you,” he said. “And she doesn’t simply punish. She erases. Skin, memory, soul—poof. Gone. Picked clean from every thread.”

Arianna shook her head, disgust rising.

“So you two make the story, decide you don’t like the ending, order me to fix it… and then forbid me from fixing it? Do you hear yourselves? This is deranged.”

Time’s smile sharpened like a blade.

“It’s a game, Miss Avery. Our game. We were bored. Your precious boy was never meant to die. He chose that fate himself. Just as you keep choosing rebellion. Changing the fates of everyone you touch. Like your friend Tara.”

Her breath caught.

“What about Tara?” she whispered.

Time’s smirk widened.

“Ah. In the original timeline, your dear friend was imprisoned for suspicion of aiding a little time-tampering menace.” A beat. “That menace being you.”

Arianna’s jaw tightened. Rage surged.

“This is you. You and your brother. You caused this. I was trying to do what Fate asked. But you two... your eyes break things. One look at someone and the whole timeline shifts. So how the fuck am I supposed to fix anything when you keep moving the pieces?”

Time rose to his feet, sliding his hands into his pockets like a bored professor ending a lecture.

“It’s simple. Do what you were made to do. Save him. Then leave.”

“And if I don’t?”

His smile was ice.

“Then your time runs out. And my sister will  gladly collect what remains.”

The limbo cracked around her like shattering glass and she was thrown out of eternity once more.

Arianna hit the dirt hard.

The impact split the air from her lungs, leaving her choking, gasping, clawing at the earth as the world spun. Every jump left a crack in her now. A fracture only she could feel. Once, she bounced back in seconds.

Now?

It took minutes. Then longer than minutes.Like parts of her weren’t returning with her.

The weight was crushing. The guilt. The exhaustion. The gods.

Tara, locked away because of her. The Time Division hunting her across decades. The god of Fate playing puppet-master. The god of Time rewriting the rules as he pleased. Draco dying again and again and again, no matter how she tore herself apart to stop it.

A loop built to fail. A punishment disguised as purpose.

Her vision blurred with rage. With grief. With something darker.

“I hate you!” she screamed into the night, voice ripping raw.

“Fuck you, Time! Fuck you, Fate! You sick twisted, bastards!”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.

“I fucking hate you!”

The trees didn’t move. The sky didn’t answer. The cold didn’t care.

But something inside her shifted. Something that had been bending too long.

Her mind spiraled, fast and vicious.

There was no winning. They’d designed the board that way. Either she saved Draco and lost herself… or saved herself and lost Draco.

Checkmate no matter what she did.

Unless...

Her breath steadied. A terrible calm slid over her, the kind that comes after screaming yourself empty.

They cheated. They bent timelines. They nudged destinies. They interfered whenever it amused them.

So why the hell should she play fair?

Her fingers curled into the dirt. Fine.

If the gods wanted a game… She’d stop being their pawn.

And she’d start cheating back.

 

 

Somewhere far beyond time, past the threads of destiny and the echo of mortal souls, three figures lounged around a circular glass table.

Fate reclined lazily, one leg tossed over the armrest of his chair, swirling golden liquid in a crystal glass as if this were all a casual evening diversion.

Time sat straighter, legs crossed, tapping a single finger against the tabletop in a slow, rhythmic beat. A heartbeat, if gods had one.

And Deviation…

Deviation was a vision carved from moonlight and madness.

Long, liquid-silver hair slid like water through her fingers as she combed it absently. Her eyes shifted through colors with each pulse of her mood — violet, blue, gold, then back to cold silver. Her gown shimmered like diamonds suspended in glass, every facet catching invisible starlight.

Fate smirked into his drink.

“That girl does not know how to listen.”

Time didn’t look up, still tapping.

“I’m afraid that if she’s pushed any further, she may alter the game entirely.”

Deviation’s smile bloomed slow and dangerous.

“She’s extraordinary,” she murmured. “And I, for one, am enjoying watching her unravel your pathetic little strategies. You underestimate what she’s willing to do for that boy.”

Fate barked a laugh. Time snorted softly.

“Love,” Fate scoffed, lifting his glass. “What an overrated, wasteful emotion. I should have known you would champion her, sister. You always did have a weakness for soft mortals who feel too much.”

Deviation didn’t return his grin. Instead, she leaned forward, eyes sharp as fractured glass.

“She is many things, dear brother,” she said. “But soft is not one of them. And that emotion you dismiss so easily? It is the only weapon she has that you cannot predict.”

The mirror in the center of the table rippled like disturbed water.

Arianna appeared in it. On her knees in the mud, hair wild, face streaked with tears and fury as she cursed the gods.

Something inside Deviation brightened. Something wicked and delighted.

“Oh,” she whispered, leaning back with a satisfied smile.

“Bless me, this is going to be spectacular.”

She wiped her lips with two elegant fingers, smudging what looked like remnants of stardust.

“Perhaps,” she continued lightly, “you two will finally learn the value of love. If the hundreds of mortals before her taught you nothing… she certainly will.”

Fate and Time exchanged a look.

For the first time, neither of them laughed.

Chapter 39: Defying the Gods

Thomas Bowman had watched them crumble.

Draco and Arianna, once glued together like they breathed the same air, were now orbiting each other like two dying stars. Avoiding. Ignoring. Pretending.

But Thomas saw what Arianna didn’t.

Draco’s eyes following her whenever she crossed a room. The way he’d lose the thread of a conversation the moment she appeared. The twitch in his left hand — slight, shaky, painful — that he tried to hide beneath sleeves and arrogance.

Whatever had happened between them, Draco Malfoy was hurting.

And Thomas absolutely delighted in it.

He leaned against a bookshelf, arms folded, watching the silent collapse from the shadows. Watching Draco watch her. The prince of Slytherin undone by a girl.

How poetic.

But Thomas’s obsession with Arianna hadn’t dimmed. If anything, distance had refined it. Intensified it. She was a beauty, obvious. But more than that, she was the girl Draco Malfoy wanted.

Maybe even loved.

And that made Thomas want her twice as much.

So when she walked past him in the library, he didn’t hesitate. He followed. She turned the corner with her arms crossed, already waiting.

“Don’t you have a girl to strangle?” she snarled.

Thomas chuckled. She was exhausting, but gods, she was addictive.

“No, not tonight,” he said lightly. “I just wanted to ask if you’re doing okay. Since your… breakup with the prince. I thought—”

“I’m fine,” she cut in sharply. “And no, I don’t need a shoulder to cry on, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

He rolled his eyes with exaggerated patience.

“You’re always so rude. I apologized for my behaviour, didn’t I? And I am very sorry if I offended you in any other way.”

Arianna stared at him, unimpressed. She didn’t buy a single fucking word.

“Is that all?” she asked, one brow raised.

He shouldn’t have looked. But he did. His gaze dragged from her sharp eyebrows down to her full lips, lingering at her throat a fraction too long before sliding to the neckline of her top, the curve of her waist, her legs. 

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” she hissed.

“Yeah, wouldn’t dare,” he lied, lifting his hands in surrender as he stepped back.

She brushed past him without touching him, without granting him even a molecule of warmth.

He watched her go. The sharp sway of her skirt, the confident swing of her hips, her dark hair bouncing like a spill of ink down her back.

Merlin, she was infuriatingly beautiful.

And Thomas Bowman wanted her with an ache he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

 

Arianna jumped back into the future, lungs burning from the landing.

The vanishing cabinet was nearly fixed. Draco was so close. Maybe this time would be different.

Malfoy Manor was silent when she apparated in.

She still held the shredded remains of the deathroll in her trembling hands, the pieces she had torn apart in fury days ago. Even in fragments, the ink felt like a weight around her neck.

Arianna shoved her chair back and forced herself downstairs.

Narcissa sat in the drawing room, porcelain cup in hand, gently blowing the steam away. She looked up the moment Arianna stepped in. Her gaze softened. A mother’s gaze.

“Good girl,” Narcissa murmured. “You look exhausted.”

Arianna swallowed, voice rough.

“Just tell me. When and where. And I’ll go.”

Narcissa didn’t need clarification. She never did.

She set her teacup down with trembling fingers, exhaled through her nose, and said with quiet finality: “Thirtieth of June, 1997. Near Hagrid’s hut. On the school grounds.”

Arianna’s heart stuttered. Three weeks away. The timeline was accelerating. Fate was tightening its grip.

“How?” she whispered, though she already dreaded the answer.

Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin, shaking line. Her chin lifted, but her eyes glistened.

“Harry Potter,” she said. “He cast a killing curse into Draco’s back as my son tried to run.”

The words hit Arianna like a blow. Her fists curled at her sides. Her throat burned.

She nodded anyway, voice barely a breath.

“Okay. Thank you.”

She turned to leave, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, anything to keep her hands from shaking.

But Narcissa rose sharply from her chair.

“Arianna.” Her voice broke on the name. Arianna froze.

“Whatever happens…” Narcissa’s breath trembled, “…would you tell him… that his mother was sorry? And that I should have protected him when he was still just a boy?”

Arianna turned slowly, swallowing hard. Narcissa Malfoy — graceful, controlled, impossibly strong — stood before her with tears shining in her pale eyes. A shift in the loop. Another wound carved by fate.

Arianna stepped closer, voice steady despite the storm inside her.

“I’ll make sure he knows,” she said softly. “I promise.”

And then she left, feeling the world crumble a little more beneath her feet.

 

Moonlight spilled across the grounds as Arianna sprinted down the hill toward Hagrid’s hut.

She saw them. Death Eaters fleeing, Snape dragging Draco, Potter chasing them in a reckless blaze of curses.

“No.” Her voice cracked like a promise.

She dug her feet into the earth and launched herself at Harry, slamming into his back just as he cast another spell. They tumbled, tangled limbs rolling down the slope until she hit the dirt hard enough to see stars.

She pushed up to her knees, lungs burning. Harry stared at her like she was a demon sent to drag him under.

“Don’t,” Arianna hissed, chest heaving.

Potter’s gaze flicked over her shoulder.

To Draco. Standing frozen mid-step. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Horror carved into every perfect line of his face.

“Arianna!” he shouted, already running back toward her.

She turned — heart in her throat — only to see Fate standing in the castle archway, smiling lazily, lifting his hand in a mocking little wave.

“Arianna, don’t!” Draco’s voice tore.

Harry got to his feet, wand snapping up. A flash of green lit the night. It tore past her shoulder. Straight into Draco.

“No—” Her voice just a whisper. 

Draco’s face changed in an instant — shock, realization, heartbreak — before the light devoured him.

He collapsed soundlessly, body folding into the grass like a marionette with its strings cut.

“DRACO!”

The world didn’t move at first.

It stopped.

The green light faded from the air, dissolving into the night as Draco Malfoy fell. Not like a villain, not like a warrior, but like a boy who had run out of time.

His knees buckled. His eyes stayed on her until the last fraction of a second. Then he hit the ground.

Arianna didn’t breathe. She couldn’t. Her legs moved on instinct, carrying her down the hill as if the world beneath her had tilted, pulling her toward him.

Her knees hit the earth so hard she didn’t feel it. She gathered him into her lap with shaking hands. His hair fell over his forehead, pale strands matted from sweat and dirt. His skin was cooling too quickly. His lashes rested against his cheeks like he was only sleeping.

But his chest didn’t rise.

“Draco,” she whispered.

The word broke her. She brushed her trembling fingers along his cheek, then his jaw, then the curve of his mouth. None of it brought him back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, voice splintering, collapsing.

“I’m so sorry. I did this to you. Every time. I did this…”

Her tears fell onto his skin, warm drops against cold flesh.

She tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming, faster, harder, until she couldn’t see him through them anymore.

She bent over him, forehead pressed to his, a broken sound ripping from her chest. Not a sob, not a cry.

Something deeper. Animal. Ancient. A scream so raw it cut through worlds. And somewhere, in the in-between, Deviation looked up with a tear rolling down her cheeks and a knowing smile. 

Arianna clutched him tighter, rocking slightly, as if motion alone could coax breath back into his lungs. Her hands shook violently where they framed his face.

For the first time in all the timelines she had witnessed, all the deaths she had watched, she felt something snap inside her. Something small and vital, like the last thread of her own soul giving way.

The wind seemed to still. The grass bent toward her. Even the stars dimmed.

It was as if the world bowed its head.

Arianna kissed Draco’s brow — gently, reverently — the way she never got to in life, the way she should have a thousand times.

Then she laid him down with a softness that hurt more than any violence, smoothing his hair back one last time.

Silence wrapped around her like a shroud.

Her tears stopped. Not because she was done crying, but because she had gone past the point where tears could reach.

She stood slowly, her grief settling like ash. And something darker moved inside her.

She turned to Harry Potter, her face empty, hollowed out.

Harry didn’t raise his wand. He didn’t speak. He just stared, pale and trembling, at the girl who had death clinging to her like a second skin.

Arianna lifted her hand. With a flick of her wrist, his neck snapped sharply to the side. He dropped instantly.

No spell. No hesitation. No mercy.

The night recoiled. Arianna didn’t.

She walked — no, stalked — up the hill toward Fate, who stood waiting, smiling like a man watching his favorite tragedy unfold.

She didn’t scream this time. Her voice came out low, deadly, shaking the air with its steadiness: “You did this.”

Then her rage finally broke free.

“You sick bastard. I have had enough!”

Fate lifted a brow.

“Enough? My dear girl, you just killed Harry Potter. He’s the main character. Once again, you pulled threads you weren’t meant to.”

“Do not lecture me!” she snarled, jabbing a finger at him.

Fate blinked. A mortal had never made him take half a step back.

“You know,” he drawled, “he died because of you. Again. If you hadn’t interfered, he wouldn’t have turned around. Potter wouldn’t have hit him.”

“Lies!” Arianna roared. Her voice shook the damn hill.

“Lies,” she repeated, quieter, more terrified, because she finally understood. “You blamed me for every death. You made me believe I caused them. But he died anyway. With or without me.”

Fate’s smirk faltered.

“And I’m done with your games. You’ll regret making me part of them, you god of nothing.”

She clicked the dial. Vanished. Leaving the god of Fate staring at the space she’d occupied — genuinely, utterly speechless — as she tore herself back to 5 June 1997. Draco’s birthday.

Chapter 40: Loosing control

Arianna hit the ground hard.

Warm air rushed over her face, tousling her dark hair, scattering strands across her cheeks like a banner caught in wind. Sunlight filtered through the trees above her in fractured streaks, too bright, too soft for the storm inside her.

She gasped.

Not breathing — gasping — like someone tearing free from water after nearly drowning.

It was getting worse. Every jump took more from her. Every return felt heavier. She didn’t know how many timelines she could jump through before she splintered herself.

She forced her breathing steady. One breath. Then another. Then another.

She wiped her own tears from her face.

The god of Fate had played her. Manipulated her. Twisted her grief until she believed she was the architect of every one of Draco’s deaths.

But tonight proved something else entirely: He would have died anyway. With her. Without her. Despite her.

Her presence changed the color of the tragedy, not its inevitability.

This was never her fault. It was never her burden to bear alone. It was all a sick, cosmic game.

And the distance she'd created to “save” him? It hadn’t protected him. It had only made him easier to destroy.

Arianna tilted her head back and screamed into the sky: “I will not break! I will not bend! And you will NOT have him!”

The air itself shuddered at the promise. The gods heard her. All three of them.

A dangerous vow for a mortal. A fatal one for a girl who had already defied death a hundred times.

She rose to her feet with a steadiness she hadn’t felt in weeks.

Enough.

Enough dying.

Enough grieving.

Enough carrying the timeline on her back.

Enough letting gods play chess with her heart.

She would defy them. On her terms. With her rules.

She marched toward the castle. Students called after her, she ignored them. 

Snape reached out, blocking her path. She brushed past him without slowing. She was no longer part of their world. She was an arrow aimed at one destination.

When she stormed into the Slytherin common room, the fire guttered. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The air shifted.

Draco’s head jerked up. He shot out of his armchair as if something had grabbed him by the spine. Theo’s words died on his tongue.

Arianna crossed the room without hesitation, without breath.

When she reached Draco, she grabbed the back of his neck, pulled him down, and crushed her mouth to his.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was survival. It was a claim. It was the soundless scream of a girl who had died with him too many times.

Draco froze for half a heartbeat — stunned — then his hands locked around her waist, dragging her against him as he kissed her back like someone who’d been starved for weeks.

Time didn’t slow. It stopped. Just for them.

No gods. No curses. No deaths. Just two souls in rebellion, holding each other like their world depended on it.

When she finally pulled away, she pressed her thumb along his jaw, the touch feather-light, reverent, trembling with everything she wasn’t allowed to say.

Draco searched her face, voice low, rough.

“…Do I want to know?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

And that was enough. Draco didn’t ask. He never did. Arianna Avery was the one riddle he refused to solve. The only variable he welcomed into the chaos of his life.

Her kiss burned away the anger. Burned away the resentment. Burned away every bruise she'd left on his pride.

And he knew, with certainty, he would never let her leave again.

 

Arianna led Draco back to his room while Theo and Blaise murmured plans for his birthday behind them.

Draco watched her the whole way. Cautious and measured, as if any sudden movement might shatter her. She looked exhausted again, the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from a weight on her shoulders she never shared. 

The door shut with a dull thud behind them. His room was a disaster.

She had never seen it like this. Draco Malfoy did not live in chaos. He curated his space. But now clothes were strewn across the floor, shirts draped over a chair, textbooks open and facedown like he’d abandoned every attempt at order.

On the windowsill lay a pipe. Beside it, a pouch of nightshade.

Her breath hitched.

Draco snapped his fingers sharply. Everything lifted. Clothes folded themselves midair, drifting into drawers; books righted; the pipe vanished. The room reset itself into the pristine, immaculate sanctuary it used to be.

Arianna turned toward him, lips parted, a question trembling on the tip of her tongue.

“Don’t ask,” Draco said quietly. “I didn’t either.”

She shut her mouth and nodded once. A firm, accepting nod. No judgment. No pity. Just understanding.

Draco looked at her then as if seeing her for the first time in months. His eyes sweeping over her small, worn-down frame. Something in his chest clenched.

“Salazar,” he whispered, stepping closer, “I’ve missed you.”

He kissed her before she could breathe a reply. All the words he would never say poured into it, every fear, every apology, every moment of loneliness.

Arianna swayed in his arms, the aftershocks of time-travel rippling through her body. Draco caught her instantly, holding her up, concern tightening his features for half a second before he forced it down.

“Come on, love,” he murmured, slipping off her jacket with careful fingers.

He guided her backward toward the bed. Gentle but sure and tossed his own jacket aside before climbing in after her. The moment his arms wrapped around her, she melted into him, pressing her hand over his heart, feeling for the beat.

Reassurance. Proof. He was alive. He was still there. 

She exhaled... then broke. Her body trembled. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

Draco froze. Then, slowly, he lifted her chin with one fingertip, his touch impossibly tender for someone built of sharp edges.

“Whatever makes you cry,” he whispered, “forget about it. And never tell me. Or I’ll tear through worlds to make it stop.”

He kissed her forehead soft, reverent, almost fearful.

Arianna’s eyes closed. He had never said the words. He might never say them. But she knew.

She felt it in the gentle way he touched her, in the worry he tried to hide, in the way his voice softened only for her. She wondered whether his love — unspoken, guarded — burned as fiercely as hers.

Because she would burn worlds to ash to keep him alive.

And she would make sure he stayed that way.

 

Around the glass table, Deviation lounged with a smile that didn’t belong on any sane being. Her brothers argued like storm and stone, and she savored every moment. They had never looked so rattled. All because of one mortal girl, small and breakable in a universe ruled by gods.

“I warned you,” she murmured, delighted.

Fate shot her a venomous glare. Time went still, the air tightening around him.

“That… girl is defying us,” Fate hissed. “She’s tearing through boundaries mortals were never meant to touch, and you sit there grinning like it’s amusing.”

Deviation folded her hands, serene and impossible.

“I smile because it is amusing.”

Time’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped to something low and uneasy.

“There’s a darkness in her. I felt it. She could overturn everything, tear the timeline apart entirely.”

Deviation’s eyes shimmered in approval.

“I hope she does. You two have played at divinity like spoiled heirs for centuries. Whether the chessboard topples for her or for you hardly matters to me. I suspect she’s preparing something… exquisite.”

Time pressed a fist to his temple, frustration pulsing off him.

“She cannot win. Not against both of us.”

Deviation only tilted her head, the diamonds of her gown chiming softly.

“She doesn’t need to win,” she whispered. “She only needs to break your rules. And she’s already begun.”

Her smile sharpened.

Arianna Avery was no longer just a variable. She was a threat. A beautiful, furious, unhinged threat.

And Deviation couldn’t wait to see what she would destroy next.

Chapter 41: Darkness that consumes

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNINGS — PLEASE READ

This chapter includes themes and scenes that may be distressing to some readers.

Content Warnings:

Attempted sexual assault

Physical violence and injury

Restraint, non-consensual touching

Drugging / magical suppression without consent

Psychological terror and panic

Graphic emotional distress

Violent retaliation

Character death

Mutilation

Blood and gore

Murder

 

READER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED.

Arianna slept through the whole day. When she finally stirred, the sun was already sinking behind the castle walls, drowning the room in molten gold. Draco stood in the bathroom doorway, freshly showered, water still clinging to the ends of his hair as he buttoned a crisp white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the serpent curling lazily along his forearm.

Her eyes lingered there a moment too long. That mark always made her stomach twist.

She slipped out of bed quietly and crossed to his wardrobe. Fingertips grazing the fabrics, she pulled out another one of his white shirts.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked, somehow knowing without even turning.

“Getting ready for your birthday,” she said, holding the shirt against her chest with a little lift of her brows. “You always liked me in your clothes. Thought I should honour tradition.”

Draco paused mid-button, letting out a soft, warm exhale.

“Fine. But let me get out first,” he muttered, smirking as he crossed the room to her. “Otherwise I won’t make it to my own party.”

His hands found her waist; hers curled automatically against his chest. He kissed her, gentle, grounding. A promise and an apology all in one.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispered against her lips, kissing her again before he pulled away and slipped out the door.

As it clicked shut behind him, she let herself grin.

How effortless it felt, falling back into place with him. Like she hadn’t ever left.

She showered, charmed her hair into soft waves, darkened her makeup until her eyes looked like smoky storms, then slid into his shirt. A black belt cinched it at her waist, turning it into something both borrowed and unmistakably hers. Being small had its perks: Draco Malfoy’s shirt became a dress that stopped scandalously high on her thighs. Heels. Perfume. Composure.

Then she headed down.

The common room was already alive. Firewhisky glowed in raised glasses, laughter echoed off the stone walls.

Pansy in all black leather and plunging neckline, stood at the mantle teasing Blaise, who tossed his curls back with a lazy grin. Millicent leaned against the wall, pretending not to notice Vincent gently twisting a strand of her hair around his finger.

Theo was in rare form, pouring drinks like a demented bartender, shouting half-songs, half-chaos. The magnetic centre of it all.

And on his throne, as if the world bent around him without him ever asking, Draco sat with a small, private smile as Pansy said something that made him roll his eyes.

Her heart stuttered. This was his world. And despite everything... fate, time, death, doom... she had found her way back into it.

Arianna crossed the room toward Draco, leaned down, and brushed her lips over his. His hand slid instinctively to her backside, fingers splayed protectively so no wandering eyes caught a glimpse beneath her borrowed shirt.

She chuckled against his mouth.

“Ever the gentleman.”

“Not even close,” he murmured. “I just don’t share.”

She hummed. “I need to grab a few things. Back in twenty.”

Another fleeting kiss. Then she slipped away, long legs and midnight hair making half the room stare.

Theo elbowed Draco.

“She wearing your shirt?”

“Sure is,” Draco said, pride wrapped in a smirk.

Theo barked a laugh and smacked his shoulder.

“Damn. That girl doesn’t just make an entrance, she makes a statement. A sexy one at that.”

Draco’s glare cut sideways. Theo raised both hands.

“Relax. Compliment. Not a challenge.”

Meanwhile Arianna descended into the dungeons with the purposeful silence of a shadow. Between rows of shelves stacked with potions ingredients, she rummaged with clinical precision. Vials, powders, pouches. One by one they vanished into her little bag.

“Fuck you, Fate,” she whispered, slipping another vial inside. “Time to change the game.”

She ghosted back out, bag enchanted to shrink to the size of a coin and tied neatly to her belt. Returning to the common room, her gaze locked onto her target.

Thomas Bowman.

He lounged on a table with a few of the Quidditch boys, laughing too loudly, trying too hard. Arianna grabbed herself a drink and slid gracefully into the seat across from him, wearing a smirk sharp enough to cut.

Bowman blinked as if stunned, then recovered with a slow smile.

“Arianna… you look absolutely stunning.”

His eyes dragged across her neckline. She didn’t bother hiding her disgust.

“Thanks. Enjoying the party?” she asked, sweetness dripping like poison from her tone. Her gaze flicked to the blonde girl he’d been stringing along. The girl was chatting animatedly with Hestia Carrow, blissfully unaware of what lurked behind Bowman’s smiles.

“Yeah. Big night.” Bowman lifted his chin. “The prince’s birthday. Really special occasion.”

There was something off in his tone. An edge beneath the charm.

“Arianna! Picture!” Pansy called from the fireplace.

“Be right back,” she said coolly, abandoning her glass on the table.

Pansy shoved her into Draco’s lap before Arianna could protest.

“Sit.”

Draco didn’t complain; his arm curled around her waist, anchoring her to him as Theo and Blaise crowded close. Millicent and Vincent joined on the right; Pansy and Crabbe on the left. The camera flashed white, freezing them all in a moment that looked far too perfect for the chaos brewing underneath.

Arianna leaned down, lips brushing Draco’s ear.

“Happy birthday, Draco.”

His hand tightened around her waist. “Best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

She kissed him once more, soft and lingering, then slipped out of his lap and returned to the table where Bowman waited.

She lifted her glass. “To Draco’s birthday.”

Bowman clinked his drink against hers, watching with a hungry smile as she knocked back the entire thing.

He didn’t know it yet, but the girl across from him was no longer just a Slytherin in a borrowed white shirt. She was his undoing.

 

Arianna had lasted barely twenty minutes before the world started tilting. She stumbled to the bathrooms. 

Her vision smeared at the edges. She blinked hard, once, twice, the shadows refusing to settle.

Heat crawled up her spine. Her knees buckled.

“What the hell…” she whispered, fingers clutching the wall as she forced herself toward the sinks. Her pulse thundered in her throat. Magic stuttered under her skin like a dying flame.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

She reached the basin and gripped it, knuckles bone-white, just as the floor lurched again.

“Not feeling well, sweetheart?”

The voice slithered behind her. The door slammed. Echoes rattled inside her skull.

Arianna turned slowly, disoriented and found Thomas Bowman leaning casually against the door, shrugging out of his jacket with theatrical ease. He flicked it onto a stall door, rolled up one sleeve, then the other, humming to himself.

Pleased. Prepared. Her stomach dropped.

“What… did you do to me?” she muttered, breath shuddering. “Did you—did you drug me?”

Bowman smiled like someone unwrapping a gift.

“Yep. Exactly that.” He dusted his palms, delighted with himself. “And not just any drug. A suppressant. Strong stuff. Dampens the spark right out of witches like you.”

He tapped her forehead lightly from across the room without touching her. A mockery of magic. A threat.

“With you? Wandless? Deadly? I needed an edge.” His tone was painfully casual. “You were sweet enough to leave your drink unattended. Thought I’d help myself.”

Arianna clenched her teeth, vision shimmering again.

“Bastard.”

“Probably.” He stepped forward. “But the heart wants what it wants, right?”

She pushed back until the cold tiles pressed against her spine. Her limbs trembled from the drug heavy, magic smothered, instincts screaming.

Bowman kept approaching, slow, savoring, like a predator enjoying her helplessness.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said softly, eyes dragging over her. “You might even enjoy—”

“Doubt it,” she snapped, though her voice was barely a whisper.

He grinned wider, as if her defiance fed him.

Arianna tried to sidestep, but her balance faltered. Bowman matched her movement, closing in, breath ghosting her cheek.

“Don’t even try.”

He lifted a strand of her hair, dragged it across his nose, inhaled deeply with something close to reverence.

“Magnolia,” he murmured. “Same as that night.”

Revulsion spiked through her. Pain shot behind her eyes. She needed distance, any distance.

So she kicked. Not fast. Not strong. But desperate.

Bowman dodged easily, annoyance flashing.

She swung at him next, fists clumsy and dizzy, fueled by panic more than aim. He ducked, leaned, avoided each strike with infuriating ease.

“Arianna,” he warned, tone flattening. “Stop. It’s annoying.”

She hit him again anyway, barely a graze. His expression cooled.

“I said stop.”

His hand moved in her Peripherie. The slap cracked through the tiled room. Her head snapped sideways, hair whipping, a metallic taste flooding her mouth. Blood slipped from the corner of her lip.

She turned back to him slowly, eyes unfocused but alight with something dangerous. She laughed. A small, raw sound.

“Fuck you, Bowman.”

His smile returned, ugly, triumphant.

“Still stubborn,” he said.

And she knew, with cold clarity, that this would not end well for her.

Bowman’s tongue swept across his lower lip, slow and obscene. His gaze locked onto her neckline, and he lifted a hand, one hooked finger sliding beneath the collar of Draco’s white shirt.

Arianna’s breath hitched. She pressed back against the wall so hard the tiles bit into her spine.

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” Bowman murmured, thrilled by his own cruelty. “On his bloody birthday, no less.”

He jerked the collar. The fabric tore. Buttons ricocheted across the stone floor in tiny, traitorous echoes.

Arianna flinched, rage flooding her system even as her limbs trembled under the suppressant.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she hissed through clenched teeth, shifting sideways.

Her balance faltered; he let her move only because watching her try amused him.

“Enough,” he sighed, almost bored.

He moved in a blur. His hand clamped around her wrist. He yanked her forward, slamming her chest-first into him. Pain shot up her arm. Her hair whipped across her face.

His other hand slid along her ribs, up her side, stopping at her throat. Not squeezing, not yet, but claiming the space as if it belonged to him.

He tilted her head back with his fingertips. Lowered his face until his breath was against her skin. He inhaled her scent like he had every right to it. Arianna’s stomach turned.

He brushed his nose along her temple. Not soft but possessive. A mockery of tenderness.

Her voice came out rough. “I’ll kill you.”

He laughed against her cheek, delighted. “You can try.”

Then he spun her, shoving her chest-first toward the wall. Her palms slapped the cold tile. His hand stayed at her throat, pressing her there. Not cutting off her air, but making the message clear: you will not move unless I let you.

His body pinned her in place. She could feel his intent in the way he leaned into her, the way he kept her trapped between him and the wall, her magic still deadened beneath the suppressant. His erection digging into her lower back. 

Tears of fury and fear burned behind her eyes. Her mind raced. She needed distance. She needed time. She needed anything but this.

But the room was small. Her limbs were weak. And Bowman’s breathing behind her was growing heavier, uglier, more determined.

She blinked hard. She did not cry. She did not plead. She hunted for an opening. For a mistake. For anything she could turn into a weapon.

Because if she didn’t find one soon...  She wouldn’t escape.

Bowman shoved her harder into the tiles, his hand tightening around her throat. Her head twisted to the side, cheek scraping against a shard of broken ceramic as she tasted blood from her split lip. The wall felt cold enough to burn.

His breath hit the back of her neck, shaking with the kind of hunger that made her stomach twist.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, fingers skimming down her torso with purpose, not lingering, but invading her space, testing how helpless she was beneath the suppressant. He ripped off the last buttons and the belt. Hands wandering, exploring her skin. He pressed his palm to her breast, fingers digging into the pale skin. 

Arianna’s pulse hammered so violently she thought her body might shake itself apart.

“Let me go,” she snapped, voice hoarse, trying to twist free.

Bowman slammed her head back again. White exploded behind her eyes. More tiles cracked under the impact, raining to the floor in dust and jagged splinters.

“Stop fighting,” he growled into her ear. “It’s happening whether you like it or not.”

His hand ghosted toward the his own belt, tugging at the leather in a way that made the room tilt with panic. The buckle clattered to the floor.

Her breath hitched. Her vision swam. The air felt too thin to breathe.

And his hand was returning, sliding down her stomach to the waistband of her underwear. 

Arianna’s panic ignited into something else. A spark of pure, murderous instinct. A single tear slipping free, knowing she couldn't outrun him.

He leaned in, lips brushing the curve of her jaw without touching it. Biting down on her neck with a pleasures moan.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, breath shaking with anticipation.

Arianna closed her eyes. Hoping this would end soon. 

Bowman kicked her feet apart, spreading her legs. Stepping closer. In a hurry, he pulled up the hem of the shirt, looking down in admiration. He gasped, pulling his erection free. 

"Don't you dare," she whispered. But the words came out weak, begging. 

He didn't listen. She hadn't expected him to. He scratched his nails over her stomach, leaving angry red streaks on her skin. Grabbing her thighs, bruising them, then her hips. He wanted to leave marks. Wanted her to remember. 

"Be a good girl and take it. For your fucking prince." Bowman hushed, his voice uneven from anticipation. His eyes fluttered as he pushed a hand beneath her waistband. 

Arianna's whole body tensed. Her heart fighting against her ribcage to spring free. Silent tears streaming down her cheeks now. She couldn't hold them back. 

"Let's see if you are worth the trouble." Bowman whispered, biting into her shoulder. A mark Draco used to leave. A lunatic. Insane. 

Before his finger could reach deeper, the door burst open behind them. 

Arianna’s cry tore out of her as Bowman yanked her backward, his fingers locking around her throat. The pressure crushed her windpipe, every breath a ragged scrape. Her vision pulsed in and out, the room warping at the edges.

Then the pressure faltered. Not because he loosened his grip, but because Bowman froze.

A shadow filled the doorway. Draco.

His expression wasn’t shock. It was annihilation.

His eyes took in everything. Arianna pinned, the blood on her lip, the shirt hanging open, Bowman’s hand around her throat and something inside him snapped.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Draco said, voice low and shaking with a rage so sharp it felt like metal.

He didn’t shout the spell. He whispered it. A flash. A crack like tearing bone.

Bowman screamed a shrill, animal sound as his grip on her vanished. Warmth splattered across Arianna’s chest. She stumbled forward, gasping as air clawed its way back into her lungs.

Something hit the floor with a dull, wet thud.

Bowman’s severed hand. Twitching.

Arianna’s stomach lurched. Her knees gave out, sliding down the tile as she clutched her throat, coughing violently. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The room tilted. Blood dripped from her temple. She barely registered Draco stepping between her and Bowman, wand raised in a killing stance she had never seen him use before.

Bowman was cradling the stump of his wrist, shrieking, scrambling backward across the broken tiles.

Draco stalked toward him. Predator. Executioner. Her monster. Her savior.

Arianna pressed a trembling hand to the floor, breath hitching. Everything hurt, even the air.

And Draco… Draco looked ready to end a life.

When Arianna made her plan, she had never expected the moment to arrive this fast.

She knew she should intervene. Stop Draco, stop the violence, save the pathetic creature on the floor who had drugged her and meant to rape her... but she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Draco’s fury swallowed the room whole.

His wand sliced through the air like a whip, every violent arc followed by a raw, agonized scream from Bowman. The boy stumbled backward, slipping on shattered tile, collapsing in a heap as crimson spread beneath him. Deep gashes cutting him open. Draco advanced without hesitation, face carved from something cold and ancient.

“You’ll pay for this,” Draco snarled, voice low and shaking with rage. “For ever touching her.”

Magic cracked through the room, each curse heavier than the last, until Bowman’s body went limp. His severed hands both, lying on the floor, pale against the stone. Whatever life had been in him guttered out like a candle.

But Draco didn’t stop.

He struck again and again until even his breathing sounded foreign, like he had stepped fully into the dark path Fate had always promised him.

Arianna didn’t intervene. She didn’t even flinch.

She crawled instead toward the belt on the floor, fingers trembling as she tore open the tiny enchanted bag she had smuggled in. The contents spilled into her lap. Her blood dripped freely down her temple, mixing with the symbols she traced on the cold stone.

Foreign words spilled from her like a fever, her voice hoarse, rhythmic, ritualistic.

Draco didn’t notice. He was somewhere far beyond noticing anything. 

Only when the body on the floor stopped responding entirely, when the room fell into a deafening stillness, did Draco seem to come back to himself. With a last blast of rage, he severed Bowman's head. It rolled over the floor, eyes wide and hollow, lips parted in a silenced scream. His wand arm sagged. He blinked, confused, as if waking from a nightmare.

His gaze snapped sideways.

Arianna sat on her heels, shirt torn open, skin scraped raw, hair tangled, markings smeared across the floor in her own blood. She was chanting something. Bloodied, bruised, barely holding herself together. 

“Arianna!” Draco gasped, stumbling toward her.

He fell to his knees in front of her, hands hovering over her shoulders, terrified even to touch her.

She grabbed him first.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking with something far deeper than fear. “I’m so, so sorry… but it’s the only way.”

Before he could question her, she surged forward and kissed him desperate, consuming, final.

He felt it immediately. A tearing inside him. A pull, violent and unnatural.

Outside, Snape’s voice bellowed through the common room walls, booming like thunder: “STOP! END THIS NOW!”

But Draco heard nothing except Arianna. Her eyes on him. Her hands anchoring him. Her breath trembling against his lips.

Draco convulsed, choking on something that clawed its way up his throat. He doubled over, gasping, as a small orb of shimmering light bright, horrifyingly alive tore free of him.

A fragment. A soul-piece.

Arianna’s hand shot out, snatching it from the air with impossible precision. With a final, resolute breath, she pressed it into her own chest. The magic swallowed her whole.

And Draco’s scream — raw, broken — shook the room.

Chapter 42: Checkmate

Notes:

This chapter contains trauma. The aftermath if violence.

 

This chapter entrance was written to the song Renaissance by Paolo Buonvino ft. Skin

Arianna stayed on her knees, trembling, eyes locked on Draco.

“Arianna…” he breathed, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving as if every breath hurt. “What did you do?”

She looked at Dumbledore. At Snape. At the cluster of horrified Slytherins frozen in the doorway.

“What I had to,” she said quietly. Her storm–grey eyes shimmered like something already half broken.

Snape stepped forward in a rare, stunned silence. He unfastened his cloak and draped it gently over her shoulders. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Dumbledore pushed past him and crouched in front of her, gripping her shoulders with frantic urgency.

“What. Did. You. Do?” he demanded. His voice shook in a way that made even Draco flinch. “Foolish girl!”

But Arianna only smiled. A hollow, exhausted curve of her lips.

She looked at Draco again, tears finally spilling.

“I have watched you die a hundred times,” she whispered. “One hundred and eight, to be exact. And I decided… no more.”

Draco frowned, bewildered.

“What? Arianna, what do you mean?”

“I would do it all again,” Arianna whispered, voice splintering. “I would walk through time a thousand times. I would defy the gods a thousand more. I regret nothing. Not one choice. And now… you will live.”

“I don't understand a single fucking word.”

She didn’t get to answer.

Dumbledore shook her harder, desperation cracking through his tone.

“You angered the gods of destiny. They will come for you.”

Arianna laughed. Low. Dark. Fractured.

“Let them,” she whispered. “I outplayed them. They wanted Draco alive. They threatened me. Well… now he stays alive. And so will I.”

Draco stared, lost, his breath catching. None of this made sense. None of it sounded like the girl he knew.

The air shuddered.

A violent ripple tore through the walls as a portal opened in a blaze of gold and shadow. The god of fate stepped through, fury etched into every divine line of his face.

Draco stumbled backward, instinctively pressing himself between Arianna and the impossible figure.

Dumbledore stiffened.

Arianna… laughed again.

“You did not just do this, Arianna Avery,” Fate hissed.

She raised a shaking hand and flipped him off.

“Checkmate, Fate.”

His jaw clenched so hard the ground trembled.

“You will not go unpunished,” he spat. “Either of you.”

Arianna spread her arms wide, cloak slipping off her shoulders, revealing bruises, blood, and the remnants of symbols smeared across her skin.

“Come on then,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Do your worst.”

“No.” Draco stepped in front of her fully, shielding her with his entire body. “What is going on?”

Arianna’s fingers trembled as she reached for him. 

“Let me suffer the consequences,” she whispered. “I’ve done it a hundred times already.”

The portal flickered.

Time stepped through next. Older, white-haired, eyes like frozen lightning.

“The girl who never listens,” he rasped. "What did you do?" 

Arianna tilted her chin at him, almost amused.

“I simply changed the game.”

Time lifted two pale fingers.

The pain hit instantly. A divine Crucio that obliterated thought, breath, sanity. Arianna collapsed sideways with a raw, tearing scream, body contorting as if breaking from the inside out.

Draco lunged toward her.

“STOP! STOP IT!” he shouted, voice hitting something close to madness.

Time didn’t even look at him. But someone else did.

A cold hand landed on his shoulder.

The goddess of Deviation stepped through. Pale, glittering, a gown of fractured glass cascading around her like a storm.

“Enough,” she commanded, voice slicing the room in half. “You lost. Take your pride and go.”

Time lowered his hand.

Arianna curled into the floor, shaking, sobbing, barely conscious. The pain still echoed under her skin like fire in her bones.

“This isn’t over,” Fate snarled, pointing one shaking finger at her.

The three gods stepped back through the portal. It snapped shut with a hiss that made the walls groan.

Dumbledore gathered her into his arms as he brushed her hair back with shaking hands.

“You stupid, foolish girl,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Draco hovered behind him, face ghost-white, staring at Arianna’s trembling body like he was looking at a stranger.

“What just happened?” he croaked. “What did she do?”

Dumbledore looked up at him. His expression was grief. And terror.

“She has done the unthinkable,” he said softly. “She was meant to prevent your death. She failed. So she broke the rules instead.”

Draco swallowed hard.

“What… rules?”

Dumbledore exhaled, the weight of it almost too much.

“She made herself a vessel,” he said. “For your soul.”

Draco staggered backward.

“No. No—what does that mean?”

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “She made herself… your horcrux.”

 

The situation was… complicated. To say the least.

Arianna had collapsed the moment the gods vanished. Whether from exhaustion, trauma, or whatever ritual she’d forced through her body Draco had no idea. He didn’t know anything anymore. His mind was a tangle of fear and disbelief and rage he couldn’t even name.

But he picked her up anyway.

She was frighteningly light in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder, breath shallow. Snape flicked his wand with a sharp, controlled gesture; the bathroom sealed itself shut, the scene inside vanishing beneath layers of cleansing wards.

Whether he could erase the consequences… that was another question entirely.

Dumbledore stood in the doorway, shaken to the core, robes stained, hands trembling. His wand slipped slightly in his grip as he spoke.

“Take her back to your room, Draco. And wait for our verdict.”

Verdict. Like they were already preparing the gallows. If the Ministry was alerted, Draco was finished. Azkaban. Or worse. A life sentence for slaughtering a classmate in a way that no legal system could pretend was anything but a gruesome murder.

But strangely… he felt no fear. None.

She had taken the consequences onto herself. She had carried the punishment. She had broken herself for him.

He saw her in a different light now. Terrible and brilliant and utterly beyond anything he had imagined.

In his room, Draco laid her carefully on the bed. She didn’t stir. Her lashes rested against bruised skin; the streak of dried blood at her temple looked obscene against the curve of her cheek. His chest tightened.

With a gentle flick of his wand, he lifted the blood and grime from her skin. The spell glowed faintly as it worked, revealing the raw edge of the damage she’d endured.

When he was finished, he set the wand aside and pulled the chair to her bedside. He sat. And sat. And didn’t move.

He couldn’t bear to leave her. Couldn’t bear to touch her. Couldn’t bear the thought of what it had cost her to keep him alive.

So he stayed there. Silent, rigid, trembling in places he didn’t want to acknowledge, watching her breathe. Waiting for her to wake. Waiting for judgment. Waiting for a future he could no longer see.

 

When Arianna woke, Draco was still in the chair beside the bed. His head had fallen forward onto his chest, one hand hanging limp at his side. Exhausted. Keeping vigil. She stared at him for a moment chest rising and falling, hair shadowing his face.

He was alive. He would stay alive. For that, she would do it all again.

Arianna slid carefully off the bed, every muscle protesting. Her body felt heavy, bruised, scraped from the inside out. She padded into the bathroom and stopped cold when she met her reflection.

The aftermath stared back.

She lifted her chin with trembling fingers. His handprint bloomed across her throat in deep violet bruises. A perfect imprint of fear she couldn’t undo. Her lower lip was swollen, split, crusted over with dried blood. The left side of her face bore a jagged scrape, and at her temple another cut glowed angrily.

She peeled off her clothes, ones she didn’t remember putting on and found more damage beneath.

Dark patches on her hip. Finger-shaped bruises on her thigh. Scratches across her stomach. Her wrist rubbed raw. She looked… ruined.

Not weak. Not lesser. Just a girl who’d been forced to survive too much, too quickly.

Her breath broke. She stepped into the shower on shaking legs, turned the water hot, and let it hit her skin until the mirror blurred into fog.

And then she slid down. Onto the tiles. Knees pulled to her chest. Forehead pressed into her arms.

The water beat down, drowning the sound of her sobbing. Her magic tingled weakly at her fingertips, flickering like a flame in a storm. Present, but shaken.

Through the crack in the door she could still see Draco sleeping in the chair, unaware of how close the world had come to losing him. Unaware of the price she had paid to keep him breathing.

At the end of the day, she had insulted gods. Made herself a vessel for his soul. Watched a boy die in front of her. Nearly lost her own body to violence. And forced the universe to bend to her will.

But she was still seventeen. And the memory of his hands on her... the terror, the helplessness, the shame she didn’t deserve would never leave her.

 

Draco woke to the sound of water. He jerked upright in the chair, disoriented, reaching for the bed that was empty. Cold. His heart kicked against his ribs. Then he saw the thin stripe of light beneath the bathroom door and the faint silhouette through the cracked opening.

Arianna. Sitting in the corner of the shower. Crying.

Not just crying but shaking. Small. Folded in on herself like she was trying to disappear. Something inside Draco cracked open.

He rose slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter her entirely, and stepped into the bathroom. The steam curled around him, dampening his clothes.

“Arianna?” he whispered.

Her head snapped up. And for the first time in his life he saw fear in her eyes. Not fear of gods. Not fear of death. Fear of touch. His touch.

“Don’t… please don’t…” she choked, one hand flying up as if she needed a shield between them.

Draco dropped into a crouch in front of her, not caring that the water soaked him to the bone.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice roughened by something he didn’t want to name. “You know I would never hurt you.”

“I know,” she sobbed, clutching herself like armour. “Merlin, I know. But please… I can’t—”

She broke. Her voice dissolved into violent, wracking sobs. Her bruises dark, raw, blooming across her throat and legs and ribs, looked almost black against her skin under the harsh bathroom light.

“I can’t take it,” she whispered, collapsing inward again.

Draco sucked in a breath, helpless. Everything in him screamed to gather her into his arms and swear he would burn the world down before letting anyone touch her again, but he couldn’t. She couldn’t bear being touched.

So he did the only thing he could. He reached past her and turned off the water. The sudden silence made her flinch. Then he grabbed a towel from the rack and held it toward her, keeping his hand steady, his distance painfully deliberate.

“Here,” he said softly. “Dry off. I’ll get you clothes.”

She took the towel with trembling fingers, careful not to brush his skin. That tiny avoidance cut deeper than any curse could have.

Draco stood slowly, swallowing the burn in his throat, and stepped out.

He brought back a pair of joggers and an old shirt. Soft, worn, safe, and set them gently on the basin beside her. When she startled at the sound of his movement, he froze, then forced himself to step away.

“Just… get dressed,” he said quietly. “I’ll be outside.”

He ran a shaking hand through his hair as he left the bathroom.

He had seen her furious. He had seen her powerful. He had seen her unhinged enough to challenge gods. But this? This trembling, waterlogged, terrified girl, tore something out of him. And he had no idea how to give her back the part of herself Bowman had tried to steal.

Chapter 43: A verdict and spilled secrets

They were summoned to Dumbledore’s office two days later.

Arianna hadn’t stepped outside Draco’s room once. She barely stepped outside his bed.

Most of the time, she lay curled in the blankets, motionless except for the slow, uneven rise of her breath. His scent was the only thing that grounded her; the only touch she could bear was the soft press of the sheets against her cheek.

Draco stayed with her. Always awake. Always watching. He didn’t sleep unless she did; he didn’t move unless she stirred.

Theo brought food three times a day. Draco barely looked at it. Arianna didn’t look at all.

Pansy came, quiet as snowfall. She never forced Arianna to speak; she simply sat beside the bed and brushed her hair with steady, gentle strokes until the tension left her shoulders. She braided it loosely, fingers trembling when they brushed the bruises. Draco had never seen Pansy so soft. So furious. So maternal.

When she finished tending Arianna’s wounds, Pansy would always glance at Draco with an expression that cracked him open: heartbreak and helpless rage tangled together.

No one else touched her. No one else tried. Draco didn’t leave her alone for even a minute.

And now… now he walked beside her up the spiraling stairs to Dumbledore’s office, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

He wasn’t afraid of punishment. He wasn’t afraid of Azkaban. He wasn’t afraid of execution. He was afraid of who would hold her together if he wasn’t there.

The wooden door groaned open. Arianna flinched. Draco moved closer without touching her, a living shield.

Inside, the office was too bright. The golden trinkets too loud. The portraits too awake. Arianna’s breath stuttered. She scanned the room as if searching for threats.

Snape stood on Dumbledore’s left, his robes pristine, face carved from stone but his eyes… his eyes were dark with something dangerously close to pity.

McGonagall stood on the right, rigid as iron, lips pressed thin. She looked at Arianna as though someone had carved a wound straight through her.

And Dumbledore… The old wizard’s hands were clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles white. His silver robes seemed to weigh him down.

All three of them looked at Arianna the same way. Sad. Knowing. Silent. As if they understood something she hadn’t yet let herself say aloud.

Draco’s jaw clenched. His fingers twitched like he wanted to tear Fate and Time apart again, even without a wand.

Arianna stood still beside him, her bruises fading but her eyes — those storm-grey eyes — still hollowed by the memory of hands that were not hers.

When Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Older than usual.

“Miss Avery. Mr. Malfoy. Please… sit.”

Arianna didn’t move. Draco didn’t either. And the silent, aching distance between the two of them and the rest of the world felt like the beginning of a verdict that could break them both.

Arianna lifted her chin. The girl who had trembled in the shower. The girl Draco had found curled against tile like something hunted. She was gone.

What stood in her place now was composed. Cold. Unshakeable. She stepped forward, spine straight as a blade, and looked directly at Dumbledore.

"Let's make this very clear. I do not care for politics. Nor for Ministry law. I offer you my memories. Parts of them. You can judge for yourself."

Her voice didn't waver. Dumbledore nodded once, solemn.

"That would be appreciated."

Arianna pulled her wand. Her fingers were steady. She withdrew the silver thread from her mind, let it fall into the pensieve, and stepped back.

She gave them only what she chose to:

Her stumbling into the bathroom. Bowman’s trap. His hands. Her fear. Not Draco’s brutality. Not her ritual. 

They dove in and back out in under a minute. McGonagall emerged first. She staggered back, bracing herself on the nearest table. One hand flew to her mouth, eyes bright with horrified, maternal grief.

"My dear child… no woman should ever have to endure this."

Arianna didn’t blink. Snape stepped away from the swirling memory, his expression unreadable except for a tightening around the eyes.

"The boy had a reputation for violence," he said quietly. "He deserved the end he met."

Draco stared at Snape, startled by the rare, almost feral defense.

Then Dumbledore surfaced. He stood in front of the pensieve for a long moment, his face shadowed by something ancient and infinitely tired. When he turned, the room held its breath.

Dumbledore exhaled, weary but unyielding.

"Violence cannot be met with violence, Miss Avery. That path only leads to darker—"

Arianna cut in, voice steady as a blade.

"I didn’t see you punish Harry Potter for nearly killing Draco with a dark curse."

The words cracked across the office like a whip. McGonagall stiffened. Snape’s eyes flicked toward Dumbledore with something like approval. And Dumbledore… froze. Only for a heartbeat, but she saw it.

Arianna stepped forward, chin lifted.

"Funny how justice seems to work differently depending on who lies bleeding on the floor."

Draco inhaled sharply behind her. He had never heard anyone speak to the headmaster like that. Dumbledore folded his hands slowly, as though steadying himself.

"Miss Avery," he said quietly, "you are not wrong. But neither does that absolve—"

"It absolves me of nothing," she snapped. "But don’t pretend he was the only boy in this castle who threw a curse meant to kill."

Silence fell like snowfall. Heavy. Cold. Unavoidable.

Arianna stepped in front of Draco. As if she were protecting him. As if she were daring Dumbledore to try her.

"I spent nearly a year traveling through time," she hissed. "I watched him die one hundred and eight times. I defied the god of Fate and the god of Time. Why on earth would you assume I won’t defy you as well?"

Dumbledore blinked slowly. Tilted his head. Studied her.

"Miss Avery… the darkness around this act, the missing student... these cannot be brushed aside. The Ministry will demand answers. What do you propose we tell them?"

Draco inhaled sharply. Bracing himself. Ready to be shackled. Ready to be dragged away. Arianna didn’t move an inch.

"I don’t care what you tell them," she said. “Say it was an accident. Say he ran away. Say he evaporated. The gods require Draco alive. He is a fixed point in this war. If you’re prepared to anger them and risk catastrophe, go ahead. Otherwise—leave him be.”

Draco turned his head sharply toward her. A warning—don’t push them. Her jaw only tightened.

"I don’t regret what I did," Draco said. His voice was cold iron. "He deserved worse. There are more girls he violated."

Silence fell. Heavy and suffocating. Finally, McGonagall spoke, voice trembling with fury: "He absolutely deserved it."

Dumbledore ignored her. He exhaled slowly, fingers pressing into the rim of his glasses.

"Miss Avery… much as I hate to admit it, I find myself agreeing. Thomas Bowman was no innocent." His voice lowered. “And we do not trifle with the anger of gods.”

Arianna shifted her weight, hip cocked, eyes ablaze with challenge.

"I angered them already. They’ll live. Tell the Ministry Thomas Bowman fled the castle. Leave it at that. I’ll handle the witnesses and the bathroom. You handle the paperwork."

For a moment, Dumbledore simply looked at her. A silent conversation. A test of wills. Then he nodded.

"So be it. Let us hope and pray you are correct about Mister Malfoy’s role in the outcome of this war."

Draco let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Arianna had just saved his life. Not with softness. Not with tears. But with fire.

And Draco Malfoy found himself wondering, again, what else she had done, and what else she would do, for him.

"Leave us. I think Miss Avery and I have need of a little conversation," Dumbledore said quietly.

Snape and McGonagall moved without protest. Draco didn’t.

"I’m not leaving her side," he said, jaw locked.

"It’s fine," Arianna murmured, still staring at Dumbledore. "Wait outside. I’ll be down in a few minutes."

Draco didn’t like it. Not at all. But he backed out slowly, eyes never leaving her until the door clicked shut.

Silence folded into the room like a shroud. Dumbledore settled himself on the edge of his desk, hands folded neatly over his robes. His gaze was piercing. Old, heavy, unbearably knowing.

"Tell me, Miss Avery," he said. "What exactly makes him so necessary?"

Arianna pulled a long breath into her lungs. Let it out. Crossed her arms, because she needed to hold something together while she broke the rules of gods and time yet again.

Her eyes dropped, not to the floor, but to the patterned collar of his robes. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes for this.

"There will come a night," she said softly, "when Draco has to… kill you." The words hit the air like a curse. "It is absolutely necessary that he does it," she continued. "And you…" Her voice caught for the first time. "I’m sorry, Professor. Truly. But you have to die. It’s the only way the war ends the way it must. The only way Harry Potter will be pushed far enough to destroy Voldemort."

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t show fear. He only closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as though greeting a familiar pain.

"I see," he murmured.

Arianna swallowed hard.

"I can’t tell you much more. If I do, the gods will interfere. Worse than they already have."

Dumbledore opened his eyes again and looked at her. Not as a student, but as someone carrying an unbearable truth entirely alone.

"And has Fate truly revealed this to you?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Not really. But I lived it. Over and over. Until I understood what couldn’t be changed."

For the first time, something in Dumbledore’s expression cracked.  A flicker of sorrow, a flicker of acceptance, and a flicker of gratitude that someone else finally understood the cost of his path.

"Thank you, Miss Avery," he said, voice quiet and unbearably gentle. "For telling me what you should never have had to carry."

Arianna blinked hard.

"It’s not over," she whispered. "None of this is over. But… Draco must live. You must die. Those are the fixed points. Everything else is chaos."

Dumbledore nodded once.

"Then let us walk toward our fate with open eyes."

Dumbledore rose from his desk and walked her toward the door, moving slowly, deliberately. His hand hovered near her back, not touching, but close enough to guide her like a breath of wind.

"A word of caution, Miss Avery," he murmured, voice softer than she had ever heard it.

His eyes, old and unbearably kind, searched her face as though memorising it.

"Your path will not grow lighter from here. You walk into a night few souls could endure."

Arianna swallowed, her throat tight, the bruises beneath her collar burning with the memory of hands that were no longer alive. Dumbledore’s hand drifted an inch closer, still never making contact.

"But even the darkest nights," he continued, "have stars that burn brighter for their suffering. Do not lose yours. Not to fear. Not to guilt. And not to the gods who think themselves above all things."

Her breath trembled. She nodded once, small, aching, but resolute.

"I won't," she whispered.

He offered her the faintest, saddest smile. It felt like a farewell neither of them dared speak aloud.

"Then off you go, Miss Avery," he said quietly. "You have changed far too much to ever walk an ordinary path again."

And he opened the door for her. As a man who understood that she had stepped into a fate even he could not protect her from.

 

Draco leaned against the corridor wall when she finally stepped out. He straightened at once. She looked… composed. More herself than she had in days. But her eyes were still rimmed in shadows.

"I think it’s time to spill your secrets, Arianna."

His voice was low, controlled in the way that meant he was anything but calm. His hands stayed shoved in his pockets as he pushed off the wall.

Arianna bit her lip. She knew she couldn’t keep the charade alive anymore. Not after everything. 

"Yes," she breathed. "I think I should."

They walked out into the sunlit courtyard, where the air was crisp and mercifully empty of students. She told him everything.

From Narcissa’s invitation. To the time division hunting her. To the loop. To the one hundred and eight deaths. To the gods. To the limbo. To the curse.

Draco listened in complete silence. No interruptions, no sharp remarks. Just a slow paling of his already pale face.

When she finished, he stopped walking. Dead still. He turned to her sharply.

"I don’t even know what to say to that," he hissed, voice tight. A violent mix of hurt, furiousity, stunned.

Arianna braced. She knew what came next. Rage. Rejection. The accusation she deserved.

But Draco stepped closer instead, leaning down so his breath brushed her ear, his tone quiet enough that only she could hear.

"I don’t care what you’ve done. Or who’s after you."

He paused, jaw grinding as if choosing his words like weapons.

"Arianna… you belong with me."

Her breath hitched.

"And I killed a boy for you," he whispered, not ashamed, not apologetic, just stating a truth carved into him now.

"I’d gladly do it again."

Arianna swallowed. Hard.

Draco exhaled shakily and looked at her, really looked at her. At the bruises she hid under the collar of her borrowed shirt, the tremor in her hands, the way she flinched at sudden movements.

"And I won’t touch you until you’re ready," he added, voice soft in a way it almost never was.

"I’ll wait. I’ll earn it. Every inch of trust you lost."

Her eyes burned.

"But don’t you ever lie to me again," Draco finished, stepping back just enough to meet her gaze fully. "No more secrets. Not between us."

Chapter 44: Like calls to Like

Pansy sat cross-legged on Draco’s bed, Arianna lying sideways beside her as she polished her nails, much to Draco’s profound dismay. But he’d learned not to argue with Pansy Parkinson when she’d declared “girl time,” so he had left them alone.

“You still don’t let him touch you?” Pansy asked, blowing lightly across her freshly painted nails, examining the shine in the afternoon sun.

Arianna shook her head.

“It’s been two weeks. This… will take time.”

She pushed herself upright, legs folded under her.

“How long did it take for you?” she asked, the question careful, hesitant, afraid of the answer but needing it.

Pansy inhaled, then let the breath slip out through her nose.

“A week,” she said. “Then I decided I wouldn’t let that bastard own a single part of me afterward. It’s not about pretending it didn’t happen. It’s about choosing not to let it define every touch that comes after.”

Arianna swallowed. Pansy continued, eyes on the deep plum polish she had just applied.

“And don’t romanticize it. The first time someone touches you, you’ll flinch. You might cry. You’ll hate yourself for reacting to the wrong hands instead of the right ones. But endure it. For yourself.” Her voice softened. “Focus on the difference. Not every touch is cruel. Not every hand is meant to hurt.”

Arianna rose and drifted toward the window. On the sill, half-hidden behind a glass and scattered cigarette butts, lay Draco’s nightshade pipe. He still used it sometimes—quietly, ashamedly—because he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t reach her, and the silence clawed at him.

Pansy watched her carefully.

“Maybe,” she murmured, “it’s not about him touching you. Maybe it starts with you touching him.”

When Pansy left, the room felt hollow. Empty in a way Arianna hadn’t allowed it to feel since the bathroom.

She paced. Her heart aching, her fingers twitching. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to let him touch her. She wanted to stop seeing Bowman’s shadow in every corner of her mind.

Pansy’s words looped like a spell.

Focus on the difference.

When Draco finally returned, he moved with the cautious stillness he’d perfected over the last two weeks. Slow, deliberate, silent, as if any wrong step would shatter her.

“Pans gone already?” he asked, scanning the room, nose wrinkling at the lingering nail-polish fumes.

Arianna stepped toward him before she could lose her nerve. He froze. Not in fear, but in reverence. Waiting. She drew in a breath.

“I’d like to… can I…?” The words tangled, useless.

But he nodded. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just offered himself.

She lifted her hand slowly. So slowly it felt like pushing through water and reached for him. Her fingers trembled violently, but she touched him anyway.

The pad of her fingertips brushed his cheek. Draco didn’t lean in. Didn’t guide her. He let her decide. Let her have every inch of control she had been robbed of.

The touch sent shivers through her body, violent, involuntary. Flashes hit her like shards: Bowman’s breath, the tiles, the blood. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Focus on the difference.

This was Draco. Warm skin. Soft breath. No hunger. No violence. No force. Just love she could feel even without him saying a word of it.

When she finally withdrew her hand, she exhaled shakily, mouth falling open just to breathe again.

Draco’s voice was low, steady.

“We’ll get there someday,” he murmured. “No need to push it.”

Her throat tightened. Because she didn’t know how she had ever deserved this. This softness, this patience... from a boy the world called a monster. A murderer. A child shaped by darkness. Yet for her, he held nothing but gentleness. All the softness he didn’t know he had. All the light he believed he lacked.

And she felt, for the first time since the bathroom, that she might survive this after all.

 

Draco watched her sleep. If one could call it that. Sleep for Arianna had become a battlefield. Her body flinched, tremored, fought demons only she could see. Sometimes she whimpered. Other times she kicked—wildly, blindly—crying out against ghosts her mind refused to release. And on the worst nights, she screamed.

Tonight was one of those.

She twisted violently, breath shuddering. A broken whimper slipped from her throat. Then a sob.

“Draco—”

His heart split clean in two. She thrashed, fists striking the air, tears already streaming. Her voice cracked around his name again. That was all it took.

He jolted upright, climbed onto the bed and reached for her without hesitation, cupping her face as gently as if she were made of glass.

“Arianna… shhh. Wake up. It’s me. You’re safe. Arianna—look at me.”

She gasped a breath, eyes flying open. Wild, drowning, terrified. Then she saw him.

“Draco… Draco…” she choked out, each syllable a wound.

“Yes. I’m here.” His voice broke on the reassurance. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Her body pressed back into the mattress, trembling.

And then—slowly, shakily—she reached for him. Her fingers wrapped around his wrists. Not to push him away. Not to stop him. To hold him there.

Draco froze, breath stuck in his throat. She wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t bracing. Wasn’t recoiling from his touch for the first time in twenty-three days.

“He broke me,” she sobbed, tears spilling hot and relentless. “I can’t get his face out of my head—he’s everywhere—I can't—”

“No,” Draco whispered fiercely, leaning closer. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, wiping tears that wouldn’t stop. “No, love. He didn’t break you. He doesn’t get that power. Don’t give him space in your mind. Look at me.”

She tried. Merlin, she tried but her breath stuttered. So he said it again, firmer, grounding her:

“Focus on me.”

Slowly, painfully, she did. She focused on the blue of his eyes. On the shape of his cheekbones. On the pale, familiar skin. On the platinum hair falling messily across his brow.

Her breathing slowed, then eased... then settled. Her trembling softened under his hands.

And Draco Malfoy held her. Touched her. Without her fear swallowing her whole. He silently thanked whatever gods he used to curse.

“It’s fine,” he whispered, brushing her damp hair away from her forehead. “You’re fine. I’m right here.”

Arianna gave a tiny, broken nod. Then suddenly she surged forward, throwing herself against him. She buried her face in his neck, sobbing openly, clutching at him like he was the last solid thing left in the world. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her body shook with the force of her grief.

And she didn’t back away. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. She pulled him closer.

Draco wrapped his arms around her with desperate tenderness, holding her through every shudder, every ragged breath, every tear.

She would be okay.

She would.

Not because time healed all wounds. Time never had. But because she was strong. And fierce. And impossible.

Because now she held a piece of his soul inside her chest—literally, irrevocably—and maybe, just maybe, that tiny shard of him had been the final push she needed.

Like calls to like. And she had answered.

 

 

That night, Arianna slept in his arms. Not rigid. Not trembling. Not fighting unseen terrors. Just… asleep.

Warm and trusting. Curled against him the way she used to, before the world cracked open.

Draco didn’t sleep for a long time. He lay awake, watching the rise and fall of her breath, watching the way her fingers stayed tangled in the fabric of his shirt as if she feared losing her anchor. He memorised every small, peaceful detail, because he knew how hard-won this peace was.

When exhaustion finally dragged him under, it was the first calm sleep he’d had since the Incident. And when he woke, the bed beside him was empty.

For a split second, panic clawed up his throat. Then he heard the faint charm-hum of glamour and followed it.

Arianna stood in the bathroom doorway, uniform crisp, hair charmed into soft waves that framed her face. She was staring at the bruises. They were still there, deep yellow shadows, slowly vanishing under a glamour she placed. She was reclaiming herself. 

A choice. A declaration. She would not let a tragedy script her life. She would not let a dead boy hold any power. Today, Arianna Avery had decided to live.

Draco sat up slowly, staring. Because she wasn’t pretending strength. She was choosing it. She caught him watching. And she smiled.

It nearly stopped his heart.

“Hurry up,” she said lightly, as if she hadn’t spent weeks afraid to be touched. “We’re going to be late for class.”

He didn’t argue. He just stood, walked past her into the bathroom and froze when her fingers brushed his jaw.

Soft. Intentionally. A touch she initiated. A promise that she wasn’t afraid of him.

He swallowed hard and kept his hands at his sides, afraid to break whatever fragile step forward this was.

She stepped out into the bedroom again, tucking books into her bag, humming under her breath. A habit he’d missed without ever acknowledging it.

And then she stopped. Her gaze slid to the windowsill. There, behind the glasses and hidden with cigarettes, Draco had put down his pipe. She stared at the spot, looking back at Draco who was busy with getting ready. She sighed, plastered on a smile.

The pipe was gone.

Chapter 45: Welcoming darkness

Though Arianna seemed almost like herself again, the truth lingered in every movement.

She still didn’t let anyone touch her except Pansy and Draco. And even Draco kept every touch brief, careful, like she was spun from glass.

Theo and Blaise watched her cross the courtyard toward class, their eyes tracking her the way wolves guard one of their own.

“She’ll get through this,” Theo murmured, arms folded tight.

“Yeah,” Blaise said. “She’ll be back to spitting venom at us in no time.”

The joke was soft, meant to reassure Draco more than anything. Draco nodded, though his eyes stayed glued to the faint tremor in his fingers.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She will.”

Maybe it was just a lingering tremor. Or maybe it was because of what he was about to do tonight.

When he walked back into the Slytherin common room later that day, Arianna shot to her feet the second she saw him.

“You’re not going without me tonight,” she said.

No hesitation. No wavering. His heart staggered. He hadn’t expected her strength to surge this fast, but of course she knew. With all the time-fractured memories in her skull, she always knew before he said a word.

She stepped into him, gently catching the collar of his shirt between her fingers and tugging him down until their foreheads touched.

Her breath warmed his lips. Her nose brushed his. Her eyes stayed closed, like she was grounding herself in the one place she still felt safe.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

Later that night, they stood before the Room of Requirement, his hand stiff with nerves, hers steady despite the storm she had endured.

She slid her fingers into his. Tight. Certain. She looked at him once, long enough to brand the moment into memory.

This was it. He would walk into the darkness. And she would walk with him.

Draco strode straight toward the Vanishing Cabinet, the black sheet draped over it like a shroud.

With a single sharp tug he ripped it off. Dust spiraled. The old wood hummed—low, eerie, alive—as if it recognized the one who had been coaxing it back to life for months.

He lifted a hand, fingers tracing the carved patterns with something close to reverence. Then he glanced back at Arianna.

“When I open this cabinet,” he said quietly, “there’s no turning back.”

He didn’t know if he was warning her… or himself.

Arianna stepped forward with a smile so soft, so heartbreakingly brave, it nearly carved him open.

“I know. It’s going to be fine.”

A lie. And they both felt it. The tiny flicker in her eyes. The swallow she couldn’t hide. The slight tension pinching her shoulders. But Draco wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.

He couldn’t die, not while she lived. Not with his soul locked safely in her chest.

He turned back to the cabinet, inhaling once more. 

“Wait.”

Arianna rushed forward, arms around his neck, dragging him down into a kiss he’d ached for every single night she refused touch. A kiss that promised something neither of them dared speak aloud. He pulled her in, devouring the moment, imprinting it. She broke the kiss slowly, breath trembling, and pressed her forehead against his.

“We stick together,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, smiling against her lips.

Then he opened the cabinet.

Darkness billowed out immediately, swirling like smoke, like a serpent tasting the air. A heavy click echoed through the room.

And then Bellatrix Lestrange stepped through. Wild black curls. Eyes too bright. Smile unhinged and triumphant. She spread her hands as if greeting a court.

“Well done, Draco,” she purred.

More Death Eaters spilled out behind her. A ripple of cold dread seeped into the room.

Arianna’s fingers tightened at Draco’s sleeve. And Draco Malfoy—his soul bound to her heartbeat—stood between her and the darkness he had just unleashed.

Bellatrix’s gaze slid over Arianna like a blade being drawn. Slow. Delighted. Predatory.

“My, my…” she purred, grin stretching wide. “Draco… isn’t she a sight to behold? And what’s your name again, little star?”

“Arianna.” Flat. Controlled. Offering nothing else. But Bellatrix never needed much.

She tilted her head, curls spilling over her shoulder as those mad, gleaming eyes narrowed with recognition.

“An Avery, then. Of course.” Her grin sharpened to a knife’s edge. “You’ve got those eyes.”

Before Arianna could respond, Amycus Carrow barked from behind Bellatrix: “No time for your theatrics, Bella.”

His sister Alecto shoved forward right behind him, the Carrows emerging like shadows peeling from the cabinet. Yaxley stepped out next, then Rowle, Gibbon and finally Fenrir Greyback.

Greyback inhaled deeply, animalistic, nostrils flaring as though he were scenting prey. His lupine gaze snapped to Arianna.

“You smell like venom,” he growled.

Arianna lifted her chin, unbothered.

“Then you’d better keep your distance.”

A low rumble crawled from Fenrir’s throat.

Draco immediately shifted, almost imperceptibly, one step angling himself between Arianna and the wolf-man’s hungry stare. Not enough to draw comment. Enough for Arianna to feel the protection in her bones.

Bellatrix cackled, delighted.

“Oh, she’s dangerous. I like her, Draco.”

Arianna didn’t blink.

“I wasn’t asking for your approval.”

Bellatrix’s smile widened. Draco didn’t breathe. And the darkness rolling through the room tasted like the beginning of war.

 

Draco guided them through the silent corridors like a condemned man leading his own procession. Bellatrix practically vibrated at his back, the Carrows whispering, Greyback padding along with feral excitement. Arianna walked beside Draco, pulse a steady drum. She knew this night. Knew the shape of it. The outcome. The cost.

The astronomy tower loomed above them like a gallows.

Draco didn’t hesitate. Not once. He stepped onto the platform, lifted his wand, and sent the Dark Mark blazing into the sky. Sickly green and silver light unfurled above the castle, the serpent coiling lazily, a herald of death.

And right on cue Dumbledore appeared.

Arianna’s heart stuttered. A fixed point in time. A moment that could not, would not, bend. She had made sure it would come to pass. 

Dumbledore didn’t even look surprised. If anything, a small, weary smile tugged at his lips.

“Bellatrix,” he greeted softly. “You found your way back after all.”

Bellatrix circled him like a vulture, eyes wild.

“Only to watch your downfall.” Her head snapped toward Draco. “Do it.”

Draco raised his wand. Arianna stepped forward instinctively, but Snape’s silhouette rose from the shadows at the edge of the platform, wand drawn.

“No,” Snape warned sharply.

Arianna caught his arm before he could intervene, fingers tight, voice low.

“He has to do this alone.”

Draco didn’t even hear them. His eyes were on Dumbledore. Sad, conflicted, determined. The boy and the man inside him were tearing in half.

“I have to do this,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Dumbledore nodded. Arms open. Offering himself to fate.

“I know,” he said gently.

Draco exhaled. Darkness swallowed the breath.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The flash cracked the night. Green shot straight into Dumbledore’s chest. Shock flickered over his face, then he toppled backwards, falling into the endless dark below.

Draco staggered. Horror, relief, nausea, everything hit him in a tidal wave. He turned toward Arianna, but she was gone. Only a whisper of black smoke remained where she’d stood.

She had slipped through the wards, apparating down to the base of the tower long before anyone could blink. She knelt beside Dumbledore’s broken body, brushing silver hair from his brow.

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” she whispered. A single tear struck his robe. “I won’t let it be in vain.”

Then she was gone again running to join the others tearing across the grounds.

Behind her, Harry Potter burst into view, firing curse after curse down the hill. Snape batted them aside like sparks. Harry’s voice tore through the night:

“You killed him—Malfoy!”

Draco faltered, turning, grief twisting his features. Arianna didn’t allow it. She grabbed his wrist, yanked him forward. Into the trees. Into darkness. Into whatever future she had carved open for him.

She wrapped her arms around him, held tight, and with a sharp crack apparated them both away.

 

Standing before Malfoy Manor in 1997 felt wrong. Too alive. Too untouched by the ruin she knew it would become. Arianna kept her distance, the night air cold against her skin. She couldn’t cross that threshold with him. Not with Death Eaters prowling the halls. Not with her father inside. Not with the ghosts of timelines already collapsed behind her.

Draco tugged gently at her hand near the wrought-iron gate.

“Come on. My mother will welcome you. Don’t worry.”

But Arianna didn’t move. He turned back to her, confusion faltering into dread.

“Arianna… you’re not coming, are you?”

She shook her head, slow, apologetic. She couldn’t set foot in that house. Not without unraveling everything.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’ll stay with Blaise for now. Just… promise me you’ll come find me. Whenever it’s safe.”

Draco inhaled sharply, realization slicing through him. Of course she couldn’t follow. Of course she’d be hunted the second she crossed the threshold.

His expression crumpled for a breath before he moved—swift, desperate—cupping her face and crushing his mouth to hers. No restraint. No fear. No softness. Just the raw need of a boy who had just killed a legend and was terrified of losing the one good thing left to him.

She held his wrists tightly, kissing him back with the same fierce certainty.

“I’ll come for you,” he murmured against her lips. “When everything’s settled. I swear it.”

Right on cue, two silhouettes materialized behind them.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Blaise said, clapping Draco’s shoulder with a steadiness Draco sorely lacked. His dark skin was swallowed by shadow, eyes steady, grounded.

“And I’ll keep her entertained,” Theo added, peering over Blaise’s shoulder with a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Draco looked between them, his chosen family, and then to Arianna. He looked young, haunted. But he was hers. 

“I’ll come for you,” he repeated, voice barely above a breath.

“I know you will,” she said, forcing a smile she didn’t feel, stepping back until she stood beside Theo.

Her throat ached as she watched him walk away. Down the long stone path toward the lit doorway, toward his mother, toward the Dark Lord, toward the destiny she had spent a year trying to keep from killing him.

She stayed there until the door swallowed him whole. And silently prayed the darkness wouldn’t do the same.

Chapter 46: The darkness that loves him Part I

Arianna had never felt more uneasy.

She paced the guest room Blaise had offered her, back and forth, hands twisting in front of her chest, breath coming too fast. Three days. Only three days and she already couldn’t bear being separated from him. After months of clinging to him across worlds, timelines, deaths... this distance felt like someone had carved a hollow into her ribs.

She also feared the darkness he was walking into. Alone.

The door finally opened. Blaise entered first, Theo behind him, both wearing the same grim expression. She stopped mid-stride.

“Any news?” Her voice was thin. Too hopeful. Too afraid.

Blaise exhaled, looking like he wanted to soften what he was about to say but couldn't.

“Yesterday… the Ministry fell. The Dark Lord’s taken over. There was a skirmish in Diagon Alley.”

He held out a copy of the Daily Prophet.

She snatched it from him, her fingers shaking, and froze. The photograph was ash and smoke and ruin. Deatheaters looted the street, masks gleaming under shattered signs. And in the front, stepping out of Ollivanders with wand boxes under his arm… She didn’t need to look twice. That walk. That tilt of his head. That sharp, aristocratic posture. That entitled roll of his shoulders.

“Draco,” she breathed.

Blaise nodded, lips pressed thin.

“He apparently killed Scrimgeour. With the Dark Lord beside him. Didn’t even flinch.”

Arianna stumbled back a step, gripping the paper so hard it crumpled. Theo crossed his arms tightly.

“Blood status is law now. Muggle-borns will be hunted. And guess who’s doing the honours?”

Arianna inhaled sharply, vision tunneling.

“He wouldn’t,” she whispered. “This doesn’t prove anything. You saw him days ago—he was… he’s not…” She swallowed hard, shaking her head. “That isn’t him.”

But even as she said it, the truth twisted beneath her ribs.

It was him. Just not the version she’d held in her arms.

This was the Draco molded by fear and survival and the weight of a prophecy she had rewritten with her own hands. And now he was slipping into darkness faster than Fate ever planned. And this time? It might be because she wasn’t there.

While Arianna trembled under the weight of the news, Draco Malfoy sat in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor as though the world outside hadn’t cracked open and spilled hell into the streets.

He lounged in a velvet armchair, boots propped carelessly on the carved coffee table, the dark silver glow of nightshade curling from the pipe between his fingers. He dragged it slow, lazy, until the smoke filled his lungs and his spine loosened against the cushions.

Then he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

Nightshade didn’t just blur emotions. It drowned them. Dragged every feeling down to the ocean floor and held it there until the world became mercifully flat. No dread. No guilt. No echoing memory of the Minister’s scream. No trace of Arianna’s absence clawing under his ribs.

Just… quiet. Quiet and nothing.

It wasn’t the warm, silencing stillness she gave him. The kind that wrapped around the chaos in his head like a balm. No. This was harsher. A hollowing. A withdrawal from himself. But he welcomed it anyway.

What remained of his mind still spun with calculations, contingencies, tasks the Dark Lord had laid before him. But none of it mattered. The nightshade saw to that. He simply didn’t care enough to feel.

He took another drag, watching the smoke uncurl from his mouth in a ghostly ribbon. He had enjoyed the Diagon Alley raid. More than he should have.

Breaking wards. Listening to people scream before they surrendered their wands. The sickening snap of power. Not his, not really, but enough to make his pulse thrum. Enough to bury fear beneath adrenaline and numbness.

He shouldn’t have enjoyed any of it. He didn’t care. The pipe dangled loosely from his fingers. In his other hand, the firewhiskey glinted amber, burning sharp trails down his throat every time he drank. It mixed strangely with the nightshade. Heat and cold, clarity and haze, but it kept him afloat in the grey space he craved.

He felt perfectly fine. Perfectly empty.

And beneath all of that quiet?

Something else was crawling in. Something cold. Something patient. Something that slipped under his skin while he floated in smoke and silence.

Darkness.

Draco—unaware, unbothered, unfeeling—let it in.

 

 

The mass breakout at Azkaban hadn’t even made the front page when Lucius Malfoy stepped into his home.

He looked like a man carved from chalk: hollow eyes, skin leeched of colour, cheekbones no longer sharp but collapsed inward like a structure left in the rain too long.

He wasn’t prepared for what waited for him.

In the drawing room, seated in his armchair by his fire, lounged Voldemort.

At the Dark Lord’s side, leaning a hand lazily against the backrest, stood Draco.

Draco didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. A mask of perfect emptiness.

“Lucius,” Voldemort drawled, “so good to have you back. I must praise you.”

Lucius, desperate for validation after months of humiliation, allowed himself a small, eager smile. It didn’t survive long.

“Your son,” Voldemort continued with a thin, amused curl of his lip, “has proven to be most valuable. A prodigy in occlumency. Efficient. Precise. Unflinching. One of my favourites, in fact.”

Lucius’s smile faltered. His gaze shifted to Draco.

The boy gave him a slow, cold smirk. Something crueler than Lucius had ever taught him, something that looked learned from another master entirely.

Lucius cleared his throat.

“Of course, my Lord. I’m pleased to know he has… risen to the task in my absence. But now that I have returned, perhaps he should go back to school and finish his education until he is—”

Voldemort laughed. Actually laughed. A sharp, brittle thing that scraped along Lucius’s nerves.

“Lucius… Draco does not ‘replace’ you.” He paused, eyes glittering with dark amusement. “He surpasses you.”

Lucius went rigid. Draco watched, expression unreadable, as Voldemort continued: “I see tremendous potential in him. We’ve discussed his future. And Draco, as it turns out, does not wish to return to school. He will serve in my inner circle. Isn’t that right, Draco?”

Draco’s voice was steady, deadened, obedient.

“Yes, my Lord. That is what I intend.”

The perfect little soldier. Lucius felt something cold slip beneath his ribs. Pride. Fear. Jealousy. He couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

For all the darkness he had wrought in his own life, he had never wished for his son to become this. A hollow-eyed weapon.

But he was no longer Lucius’s boy. He belonged to someone else now.

“Draco will bring honour to the House of Malfoy,” Lucius forced out, hating himself for the words even as he bowed his head.

Hating that his son had already eclipsed him. Hating how small it made him feel.

Voldemort lifted a casual, dismissive hand.

“You should rest, Lucius. There is much to do in the coming weeks.”

Dismissed. In his own home. Lucius bowed stiffly and left, humiliation burning his spine.

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even watch his father go. His eyes — once bright blue — had gone a washed-out, indifferent grey.

Fate’s perfect blade.

 

Arianna sat at the dining table with Theo, both pretending to read while neither of them actually absorbed a single word, when Blaise walked in holding the newspaper like it weighed a ton.

“Mass break-out in Azkaban,” he muttered, tossing it onto the table.

Theo paled. Arianna’s fingers tightened around her teacup. Blaise flipped the page.

“Registration law for half-bloods and muggleborns,” he read flatly. “Snatchers forming new squads. The Ministry’s gone. And—” He hesitated.

Arianna snatched the paper out of his hand. And there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

A hollow-eyed ghost in perfect black suit, standing tall and unfazed. 

The caption: Head of the Inquisitorial Squad.

Which meant: Hunting muggleborns. Hunting half-bloods. Enforcing Voldemort’s new world.

Her stomach dropped like a stone.

The weeks dragged on, each headline worse than the last:

Raids. Tortures. Disappearances. The new Hogwarts staff — monsters in robes. Names of missing students. And through all of it, Draco didn’t come.

Arianna waited by the front window every morning. Every night. Watching the gate, waiting for that pale shape to appear, for him to keep the promise he made when he kissed her goodbye.

But he didn’t.

By late August, Blaise was summoned repeatedly to hunt, to raid, to “assist Draco.”

He hid things at first. Arianna could tell. Until she snapped.

She slammed the dining room door shut and stood in front of it like a guard dog.

“You’re not leaving until you tell me.”

Her voice shook from something deeper than anger. Blaise dragged a hand over his face, exhausted.

“You won’t like it.”

“Tell me.”

He swallowed.

“He’s occluding constantly. Smoking nightshade like air. He’s… dark. Reckless. He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Doesn’t question orders. He just—” Blaise flicked his fingers like throwing away ash. “Does whatever they tell him.”

Arianna shook her head immediately, violently.

“No. No, that’s— that’s not possible. He… he promised. He wouldn’t—”

Then a thought slashed through her. She spun around, bolted out the door, down the steps, and into the garden as rain hammered the earth.

Blaise followed to the doorway helplessly as she ran out into the storm.

Arianna lifted her hands to the sky, rain streaking down her face like tears she refused to shed.

“If this is you again,” she screamed into the clouds, “if this is you playing your sick little game—” Her voice cracked into a roar. “I swear to every god alive or dead, I will tear your fucking empire apart. Piece by fucking piece.”

Thunder cracked overhead.

“You hear me, Fate? YOU DO NOT GET TO HAVE HIM!”

Blaise stood frozen under the doorway, watching her scream at the heavens as if they truly listened.

And from the look on her face — the rage, the grief, the fire — he wasn’t sure she was wrong.

Not sure at all.

Chapter 47: The darkness that loves him Part II

Arianna was slipping.

Not metaphorically — not poetically — actually slipping off the edge of her own sanity.

Ever since June 30th, the night she tore herself away from Draco after Dumbledore’s death, she hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t heard a word. Hadn’t felt that pull in her chest that used to mean he was near.

The new Hogwarts term began that morning under the iron gaze of Snape and the Carrow siblings, and she wouldn’t be there. Neither would Draco. Neither would Blaise or Theo.

For the first time in her life, Arianna Avery was unmoored.

Pansy visited twice over the summer, trying to coax her out of her spiraling panic, but it never lasted. The moment she left, the nightmares returned full force. Bowman’s hands, the gods’ voices, and worst of all… Draco. Emotionless. Occluded. Unreachable.

A Draco she didn’t recognize. A Draco who no longer remembered he loved her.

One night, she paused in the hallway outside Blaise’s study when she heard their voices.

Blaise sounded exhausted. More than exhausted, worn raw.

“There’s a resistance forming,” he muttered. “The Dark Lord wants us to crush them before they become a threat.”

Theo caught an apple midair and rolled it between his palms.

“So another mission.”

“He wants us to… select half-bloods from Hampstead. Snatchers have already rounded them up.” Blaise rubbed his temple like the words themselves were poison. “It’ll be a massacre. Just like the others.”

Theo’s face twisted.

“What time are you leaving?”

“Around midnight. Draco prefers the night now.” Blaise’s voice lowered. “I don’t think he sleeps anymore.”

The apple dropped to the desk with a dull thud.

Theo murmured, “You want me to keep an eye on her?”

Blaise snorted, hollow.

“I want you to tie her up and lock her in the cellar so she doesn’t run straight into the Dark Lord’s arms. But you wouldn’t stand a chance, and you know it.”

Theo huffed a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“I’ll try to keep her sane.”

“Drinking with her until sunrise isn’t keeping her sane,” Blaise shot back.

“Maybe not,” Theo said. “I'd call it self-medication.”

Arianna backed away from the door, heart hammering. She felt sick.

She couldn’t not see Draco. Not when he was out there becoming a weapon. Not when Fate had promised darkness would swallow him.

She went straight to her room, ripping her clothes off as she stepped into the shower. The water hit her skin like needles, and she braced her palms against the tile, letting her forehead rest there.

She rehearsed a hundred things she might say to him when she finally stood in front of him again.

This isn't you. 

I still feel you, even when you’re gone.

Please come back to me.

I didn’t do all of this just to lose you now.

She dismissed every sentence as fast as it formed. Because what words could possibly reach him now?

She didn’t know. She only knew one thing with absolute clarity: She had to see him. 

 

Draco apparated into Hampstead with Blaise in a swirl of black smoke. The night wind tugged at his robes, the silvery mask dangling from his fingers like an afterthought.

At the ruins of an old chapel, Death Eaters waited in a loose formation. Yaxley stepped forward, mouth twisted into something that pretended to be a smile.

“We kept them inside. Nicely tied up,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Snatchers separated them. Watched them. Maybe you two can get them to speak.”

Draco didn’t bother replying. He simply moved past him with that dead-eyed purpose he’d perfected.

Inside the chapel, twenty half-bloods sat bound in rows. Some faces familiar. Most not. None mattered.

A shiver went through the room as Draco flicked his hand and dissolved his mask into air. Everyone had heard the stories. Enough to make the older ones look sick and the younger ones go rigid with terror.

Draco shrugged off his heavy robe by the entrance. It slid to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten. Blaise followed behind him, silent and sharp.

Draco walked the aisles slowly, eyes sweeping their faces one by one like he was choosing ingredients rather than people. Someone always was ready to speak. He searched for weakness in their faces. 

There. A young man, barely older than him. Afraid, but trying to hide it.

Draco crouched before him, adjusting the front of his own robes with deliberate calm before leaning in.

“You look like someone who really wants to talk,” he murmured.

A cold, devastating smile curled on his lips. The man recoiled, breath hitching.

Draco’s tone softened into something mocking, almost kind.

“No need to tremble. I’m just here for a little chat.”

Blaise understood without a word. He hauled the man up by the collar and dragged him toward the back chamber. The moment the door shut, screams tore through the chapel walls.

Raw. Wet. Unmistakable.

Some prisoners cried. Some went rigid with terror. A few tried to swallow their sobs.

Draco returned a short while later, pale hands and cheeks freckled with fresh blood. He wiped them lazily on a cloth and tossed it aside as if the stains were nothing more than ink.

“Pointless,” he told Yaxley as he stepped back into the night. “Kill them. Sell them. Do whatever you want. They know nothing.”

“But— I thought you wanted—”

Draco didn’t even turn. He flicked a hand dismissively.

“Unnecessary.”

He took two more steps. Stopped. Because he felt it. A crack in the air.

Magic—raw, scorching, familiar—swept through the space behind him.

Bodies hit the ground. Every Death Eater collapsed at once, unconscious before they understood they’d been struck.

Draco’s spine went rigid. That magic was not random. He knew it down to the marrow.

He turned. And there she was.

Arianna stood only a few paces away, dark hair whipped by the night wind, dressed in black from throat to boot, eyes burning with something he wasn’t sure was rage or heartbreak or both. Her chest rose and fell with fury.

And he felt something—not regret. Not fear. Just impact.

“Arianna,” he breathed, voice low, stunned.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t run to him. She just stared at him like he’d become the nightmare the gods promised he would, and she wasn’t sure if she’d come to save him or stop him.

“You didn’t call. You never wrote.” Arianna’s voice cut through the night, smooth and lethal. “Having fun?”

Draco laughed into his fist low, lazy, bored. He didn’t even straighten from his slouch.

“Sorry, princess. I was busy.” His tone held no warmth. Just smoke and distance. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his pipe. Nightshade smoke curled around him like a lover. Arianna’s stomach twisted. The scent hit her and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it,” she said, striding toward him with steps sharp enough to cut stone.

Draco didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. He simply exhaled a slow cloud of smoke, tilting his head back with that mockingly elegant Malfoy posture.

Arianna ripped the pipe from his hand and flung it into the dirt. He blinked once. Then smirked.

“Love, that’s quite expensive stuff.”

She nearly slapped him. Her hand twitched with the impulse. But she knew it would accomplish nothing.

He recognized her. He just didn’t feel her. Not through the occlusion, the nightshade. Not through whatever void the gods had shoved him into.

“I think you need a little timeout,” she snapped.

He scoffed lightly. “No, thank you. I’m perfectly fine.”

Perfectly fine. Standing over twenty half-bloods he’d just condemned. Blood still drying on his cheek.

Her jaw clenched until it hurt. All the words she’d rehearsed for hours —pleading, angry, desperate—collapsed into ash.

So she did the one thing her soul ached for. She grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him.

Not sweet. Not gentle. Starved.

And Draco though drugged, occluded, drowning in darkness, kissed her back with equal hunger. His hands snapped around her waist, dragging her flush against him, mouth devouring hers like she was oxygen he’d forgotten he needed.

“Merlin, I missed you,” she gasped between kisses, tearing at his breath.

He pushed back against her, greedy, ravenous. And for one fleeting pulse of time, she felt him. Not the weapon. Not Voldemort’s favourite. Him.

His touch didn’t frighten her. Didn’t trigger the shadow of Bowman. It was only aching relief. A lifeline she clung to.

She broke the kiss, pressing her forehead to his. His breathing was jagged. His lips swollen. But his eyes… still too grey. Too cold.

“Come with me,” she whispered. “If only for the night.”

A tiny pause. A flicker of want. A crack in the void. He nodded.

She kissed him again, slow, claiming, desperate, and without looking back dragged him into the dark, apparating them straight into Blaise’s house.

Arianna kicked the door shut behind her. Her boots thudded against the wood, her breath coming fast, her pulse a frantic drum under her skin. She tore off her jacket and let it fall, eyes locked on him like she couldn’t look anywhere else.

Draco smirked, enjoying every drop of her need.

“Must’ve missed me badly, love.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbed his collar, and kissed him hard. He kissed her back immediately, greedy, hungry, hands snapping to her waist as if claiming her was instinct.

For one beautiful, reckless minute, they were the same as they used to be. And then Draco froze.

He stopped kissing her. Pulled back. Eyes flickering. The grey cracked open, and shards of blue bled through the void.

“Don’t.” His voice was rough. “Arianna, stop.”

She blinked, breathless. “What? Why?”

Draco shut his eyes, jaw tightening. His fingers trembled as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t believe I’m saying this… but you don’t throw yourself at me. Not after—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. When he looked at her again, his eyes were almost completely blue. And she understood, saw his eyes linger on the throat that had been bruised so violently not long ago. 

“Hear me out,” she said softly, stepping closer, one hand lifting to his collar like an anchor. “I waited ten weeks. Wondering why you didn’t come. Wondering if you forgot about me.”

He barked out a hollow laugh, tearing his hand through his hair.

“Forget you?” he snarled. “How the hell am I supposed to forget you? You’re the only good thing I ever had.”

Her breath caught. “Then why didn’t you come?”

Rightfully asked. Painfully asked.

Draco paced in front of her like a caged animal, hand braced at his hip, hair falling into his eyes.

“Because I didn’t want to see you,” he snapped. “That’s what you want to hear?”

She didn’t flinch. She’d seen him angry before. Resenting her. She could take it. 

“I want the truth.”

He laughed again sharp, defensive, brittle. His armour.

“The truth?” His eyes flared. “The truth is I gave in, Arianna. To the darkness. To the power. I don’t deserve you. And you sure as hell don’t deserve someone like me.”

She let her shoulders fall, her voice dropping to something heartbreakingly steady.

“Well, bloody shame. Because you have me anyway. You belong with me, remember? And I’m not letting you walk away. I’m not afraid of your darkness. Or you.”

Not entirely true. She feared for him, not of him. But she wasn’t giving him that out.

“You’re not leaving this room until tomorrow night,” she said, lifting her hand. “You decide what to do with the time. But I’m staying. And I will make damn sure you don’t drug yourself into oblivion.”

A sharp flick of her wrist. The lock clicked shut.

Draco laughed, unimpressed.

“You can’t hold me here, Arianna.”

“We’ll see about that.”

She folded her arms, unbothered by his bravado. She would not let him disappear into the void again. Not before he remembered the truth of them, the gravity of them. They were the same. Born from the same darkness, dragged toward the same impossible light.

Draco leaned back against the window, staring into the black beyond. The moon painted his profile in silver.

“If you knew the things I’ve done,” he whispered, rolling his signet ring around his finger. “You wouldn’t forgive them.”

Arianna let out a slow, weary breath.

“Maybe not,” she murmured. “If you were anyone else.”

But he wasn’t. He was the boy she’d crossed time for. The man she’d made a horcrux out of herself for.

And if he stabbed her through the heart right now, she knew—terrifyingly, stupidly—that she’d still forgive him.

 

Draco sat on the edge of the windowsill, arms crossed, head tipped back in that arrogant angle he always used when he was daring her to try him.

“So? What now, love?” A challenge. A provocation.

Arianna knew words wouldn’t pierce him. Not like this. Not when he’d smothered emotion under nightshade and numbness.

She needed to pull a feeling out of him. Any feeling. With a mischievous little smile, she wandered the room, fingertips gliding over Blaise’s desk as if tracing a memory.

“Do you remember the desk in your room at Hogwarts?”

Draco tilted his head, amused.

“That’s what you’re going for?” His smirk deepened. “Go on then. Try me.”

He watched her like a predator studies prey. Waiting for the attack.

Arianna only tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “Ah. You’re right. No point bringing up old memories.”

Stopping the game before it even began. That made him frown.

Arianna sat on the bed, elbows on her knees, hands dangling between them.

“If you don’t want to talk, fine. We can sit in silence for the next twenty hours.”

Her fingers brushed her throat. Lightly. Absentmindedly. But even that small touch summoned the ghost of Bowman’s grip.

Draco saw it. Saw her eyes fog with the memory. Saw the way she rubbed at her wrist, the spot he’d bruised violently.

And all his fake ease fell. His voice cut through the silence, quiet, too careful.

“How do you sleep?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Not if I can avoid it.”

His jaw clenched. One drag of nightshade had never been enough tonight. Not with her here. Not with the walls cracking the moment he saw her standing outside of that chapel.

“Nightmares?”

Arianna looked up, eyes stormy and hollow at once.

“Many of them.”

He took a slow breath. He could feel it. Her pain crawling under his skin, mixing with his own.

“And… the touch? Any better?”

She let out a shaky laugh. Not amusement. Something cracked and exhausted.

“Not really. I can’t bear anyone else’s hands on me. I think I need to rewrite those memories somehow.”

That caught his attention. Fully.

“Rewrite? How? Erase them?”

He’d do it. He’d rip the memories from her mind himself if she asked. But she shook her head.

“No. I need to keep them. To remind myself I didn’t break. That I survived him. That he didn’t win.” Her voice was steady. Fierce. A spark of her old fire. He loved that spark more than he’d ever admit out loud.

“So what do you mean by rewrite?”

Arianna rose slowly, walking toward him with a quiet determination that made something primal twist in his stomach. She stepped between his legs, close enough that her boots brushed his ankles.

“I thought maybe… a gentle touch on the places he bruised could replace that memory.” Her breath shook. “But the only person I’d let touch me… is you.”

A shiver slid down his spine. She was too close. Looking breakable and still way too important.

“You don’t want to be touched by me, Arianna,” he said gently. “You don’t want someone like me rewriting something like that.”

But she took his hand. Interlaced their fingers the way she always had, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Whatever you think you are… it’s not true. You’re not darkness. You’re not evil. I carry a piece of your soul. If anyone would know, it’s me.”

His breath hitched. Salazar, she had no idea what she did to him.

His free hand rose hesitant at first, almost trembling and cupped her jaw. Then slid down, hovering over the once bruised line on her throat.

He couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face what had been done to her. What he’d done to Bowman without a second thought.

His fingers grazed her skin. She held still. Waiting.

“You think a simple touch could rewrite that?” he whispered.

“No. Not a simple touch.” Her voice was barely there. “One given with care. With intention. One so different from his that it overwrites everything he left behind.”

A tear clung to her lashes, refusing to fall. He knew she alread had him wrapped around her finger again. That easy. Draco exhaled shakily.

“You say stop, and I stop. Immediately. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” Not even a word, just a breath.

He stood, slow and deliberate, and lowered his mouth to hers. A kiss soft as silk. Gentle in a way he’d never been with anyone but her.

Then he kissed her throat. Featherlight. Reverent. Erasing Bowman’s violence with tenderness so careful it hurt.

He lifted her wrists next, kissing each mark he remembered, even if they weren't visible anymore. He stripped her shirt off her shoulders, pausing long enough for her to stop him. She didn’t.

Pushing her gently back to the bed, he waited for her to lie down. Trusting him completely. 

He kissed every place Bowman had touched. Stomach. Hips. Waist.

Replacing every memory with one of safety, devotion, and absolute control. When he finally settled above her, he kissed her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.

Arianna closed her eyes and breathed—steady, calm, anchored by him. She could do this. She was safe.

And Draco Malfoy, for once in his haunted, cursed life, wasn’t darkness at all.

He was light.

He undressed her as if she were something sacred. Not claimed. Not possessed. Honoured.

Each movement slow, deliberate, his fingers barely grazing her skin unless she allowed it. He watched her face constantly, waiting for the slightest flinch, for the smallest shake of the head. She never stopped him.

Instead she watched him, and what he saw in her eyes broke him open: love, raw and unguarded, fragile and fierce all at once. Love for him. After everything.

When Draco finally hovered above her, braced on one elbow, she reached for his shirt with trembling hands. The buttons slipped under her fingers, undone one by one while he stayed perfectly still, letting her set the pace.

“Arianna,” he whispered, voice rough as gravel and soft as breath, “we don’t have to go all the way.”

“I know.” Her voice shook. “But I want to… try. At least.”

His heart clenched so sharply he nearly lost his breath altogether. She wasn’t doing this out of obligation. Not to erase trauma. Not to perform strength. She wanted him. The walls he had build crumbled. That's the affect Arianna Avery had on him. She was his silence. His peace. His sanity. 

When he finally shrugged out of the last layer, bare and lean and trembling just as much as she was, he leaned down over her again. His hand drifted into her hair, brushing it back from her face as if he’d been starved of that simple touch.

Her eyes met his. And they weren't grey anymore. Not cold. Not occluded. Not lost. His eyes were blue—his blue—clear and sharp and alive. The colour she loved so much. 

“Arianna…” he breathed, as if saying her name was a prayer.

She reached up, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, then his cheek, steadying him the way he had steadied her moments before.

“I'm not afraid,” she whispered. As if she were relieved. As if he’d come home to her.

His forehead dropped to hers. Her breath mingled with his.

He positioned himself slowly between her legs, every movement measured, reverent. Her breath hitched. Draco froze.

His whole ribcage tightened like a fist around his heart. That bastard had done this to her. Had carved fear into her body so deep she still flinched months later. Draco felt something dark coil inside him, but not for her. For the memory of the hands that had hurt her.

He swallowed hard. He would not be another thing she braced herself against. He would not be another shadow in her mind.

So he didn’t move. Not even a fraction. He waited.

Muscles shaking with restraint, forehead pressed to hers, his breath catching in his throat as he hovered above her.

Then she moved. Just the smallest lift of her hips, barely anything at all, but enough.

He slid into her slowly, careful as though she were made of spun glass, and her eyes flew wide. A sharp breath tore from her lips, her fingers grabbing at his shoulders.

He tried to pull back instantly, panic flashing across his face. But her hands tightened.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, voice trembling but certain as she pulled him closer.

Her legs curled around him. Her chest rose to meet his. Her fingers threaded into his hair, anchoring him there.

And Draco, merlin... he let out a breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding. His whole body softening, folding into her like she was the only place he’d ever belonged.

He pressed a kiss to her temple. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth.

“You stop me whenever you want. I mean it.” he murmured, the words breaking on their way out.

She nodded, brushing her nose along his jaw.

“I don't think I want to,” she breathed. 

And for the first time since that night, she believed it completely. For the first time since that night, she wasn’t afraid.

Not of him. Not of touch. Not of this.

Only of losing him again.

Even after she’d pulled him closer, even after she’d whispered it’s okay, Draco didn’t move right away. He held himself above her, muscles trembling with restraint, breath catching like he was terrified of breaking her.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

Arianna opened her eyes. What he saw there nearly undid him. Fear, yes, lingering like a bruise beneath the surface… but trust too. Trust so fierce it was almost painful.

He eased his hips forward a fraction. Barely anything. Testing. Her fingers clenched softly at his shoulders, not from panic this time, but grounding herself. Her breathing hitched, then steadied.

“Draco…”

His name, not cried, not pleading but reaching. Calling him back from the void he’d been drowning in. He lowered his forehead to hers.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice breaking. “I swear to Merlin, I’ve got you.”

He drew back, then moved again—slow, unbearably slow—enough that she could feel the weight of him, the warmth, the difference between this and the cruelty forced on her. She gasped softly, chest rising to meet his.

He stopped instantly. Eyes wide. Searching.

“Arianna—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. Her thumb brushed his cheek, a trembling glide. “Don’t stop.”

Her permission shattered him. He lowered himself fully, chest against hers, their legs tangled, their breaths mixing in short uneven bursts.

He moved again, gentle, controlled, as if mapping her wounds and rewriting every single one with care. Each shift of his hips was slow enough for her to absorb, to breathe through, to choose. Her hand slid up into his hair and held him there.

“Stay with me,” she breathed into his mouth, voice fragile, desperate.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. 

He kissed her. Soft at first, then deeper when she pulled him in. Her thighs tightened around his waist, drawing him closer, and Draco stilled, overwhelmed by the trust in that single motion.

He kept one hand tangled with hers, their fingers interlaced on the pillow above her head. The other stayed at her cheek, thumb brushing that exact spot he used to caress in the common room, back when life was simpler, before gods and curses and men with filthy intentions.

And then something inside her shifted. A small thing at first. Her fingers uncurling from his shoulders, sliding soft along the nape of his neck. Her legs loosened around his hips. Her breathing evened, syncing with his.

Draco felt it instantly.

He stilled, lifting his head just enough to see her face. Her eyes weren’t wide with fear anymore. They were half-lidded, warm, open.

“Arianna?” he whispered, afraid to believe it.

She exhaled, a long, trembling release. Like a knot unspooling that had been there since the night she bled on the tiles.

Her shoulders sank into the mattress. Her thighs softened around him. Her hand slid up his back, fingers spreading, not clutching, not bracing. Letting go.

“I’m okay,” she breathed. “I… I really am.”

Her voice was soft wonder. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. The relief that struck him was so sharp he nearly broke. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing as if in prayer.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered one last time.

She shook her head, brushing her lips against his.

“No more stopping.”

And then, she lifted her hips to him in a slow, deliberate motion.

Draco’s lungs stuttered. His hand trembled at her cheek as he whispered, raw and disbelieving:

“There you are…”

Arianna smiled—small, fragile, real.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Here I am.”

The moment she finally let herself relax fully...  Draco felt it like sunrise breaking through a battlefield.

He kissed her then, slow and deep, and she didn’t just take it. She kissed him back.

 

Arianna Avery was many things. The list changed depending on who whispered her name. But for him… for Draco… she was the one steady light in a world that kept trying to swallow him whole.

When she slept beside him, curled into his side like she remembered him, like she still trusted him, the darkness in his mind finally loosened its grip. He should have slept too. He wanted to. Instead he lay there, eyes open, drinking her in as if she might vanish the second he blinked.

Her face softened by sleep, lashes fanned across her cheeks. Her hair a spill of darkness over the white pillows, claiming the space like she claimed him.

His chest tightened. He didn’t deserve her. Salazar, he’d never deserved her.

He was corrupted now. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Literally, undeniably corrupted. His hands had done terrible things, and would keep doing them. The dark lord didn’t free his servants. He hollowed them out, reshaped them. Draco knew what he was becoming. Knew it every time he smelled smoke and blood on his own skin.

Arianna thought she could save him. She couldn’t.

That truth hit him like a blade each time he let himself think too long. It made his breath stutter, made his fingers twitch involuntarily against the sheets. She deserved a future. He wasn’t even sure he had one.

He would have to leave her again soon. Go back to Malfoy Manor. Back to Voldemort. Back to orders barked through cold hallways, to violence and fear and the endless list of names they were meant to break.

He couldn’t take her with him. He couldn’t leave her behind.

The contradiction cracked something in him. She didn’t understand what the darkness really did to a person. Or maybe she did and still believed he could claw his way out. Foolish girl. Or brave girl. Or the kind of girl who got herself killed loving a monster.

Between the nightshade and the occlumency walls, he hadn’t realised how much he missed her. Not the sex, though that too.But they could have had nothing but silence between them and he still would’ve felt this ache.

He missed her voice. Her clever, sharp laugh. Her warmth pressed into him like she was stitching him back together without even trying.

She was a damn angel in his mind, a celestial thing dragged into his hell.

And he? He was nothing but darkness now.

And darkness, he feared, eventually swallowed everything it loved.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. But he was about to find out soon.

In a few days, this little angel he foolishly thought he was corrupting would obliterate seven Death Eaters without so much as a tremor in her fingertips. No hesitation, no mercy, not even a flicker of doubt. Where he wielded darkness like a weapon, she wore it like a second skin.

In a few days, Draco Malfoy would finally understand that his darkness… was a shadow compared to hers.

Because the soul piece she stole to save him hadn’t been his sweetness, or his quiet, or whatever scraps of goodness he thought he still had.

It had been the blackest corner of him. The part he never showed anyone. The part he thought made him unlovable.

She had taken that piece, swallowed it whole, and claimed it as hers. And now it lived in her. Feeding her. Strengthening her. Darkening her in ways none of the gods had planned for.

He had imagined she needed protection. He had imagined she couldn’t survive his world. He had imagined his demons would devour her.

He couldn’t have been more spectacularly, catastrophically wrong.

Arianna Avery did not fear the dark. She became it.

And Draco would soon learn the most dangerous truth of all: A girl who had consumed the darkest part of his soul had no boundaries when it came to him.

None.

Chapter 48: The darkness that loves him Part III

Arianna stood at the window long after the smoke dissolved.  Long after the last traces of his warmth faded from her skin.

The house was silent. Even the air felt like it was holding its breath.

Blaise walked in, saw her still staring at the spot where Draco had been, and muttered,“Great. She’s gone feral again.”

She didn’t react. Not outwardly. Inside, something tugged at her sternum. A pulse. A thrum. A whisper of him. The soul piece she’d taken from Draco stirred every time he left. It recoiled now, restless, possessive, hungry.

Arianna placed a hand over her ribs and inhaled sharply.

“He’ll come back,” Blaise said, softer now. “He promised.”

She didn’t look at him.

“Promises he probably can't keep,” she murmured.

She turned away from the window. Her boots hit the floorboards with the purposeful rhythm of someone who had already made a decision.

Theo stepped out of the kitchen, toast in hand.

“You good?” he asked.

“No,” she said simply.

Theo blinked. Set down his toast.

“Should I prep a body bag or a travel bag?”

“Both.”

Blaise groaned into his hands.

“Here we go…”

Arianna flicked her wrist; her wand flew into her palm.

“Within the week,” she repeated, voice low. “If he doesn’t come back, I hunt him.”

“Sweet Salazar,” Theo muttered. “He’s doomed.”

 

Draco returned to Malfoy Manor as if nothing had happened, because that was the only way to survive here.

Masks, lies, indifference… he slipped into them like second skin.

No one questioned his absence. They rarely did anymore. He was the Dark Lord’s favourite little weapon; weapons weren’t asked where they disappeared to between missions.

But Narcissa watched him. Her eyes followed him from the moment he stepped into the hall. Always searching, suspicious. A mother’s instinct honed by years of loving a boy the world expected to become a monster.

She didn’t speak at first. Draco felt her scrutiny like a touch on his spine, and it grated on him. He moved past her without a word, shedding his cloak, ignoring the servants, ignoring the smears of dried blood on his shirt.  He went upstairs. Closed the door and locked it.

The silence of the manor settled around him like fog. A heavy, suffocating, familiar fog.

And still… nothing felt right.

He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twitching for the pipe he refused to reach for yet, and stared at the wall. At nothing. 

Because that’s what it all felt like now. Nothing.

The nightshade didn’t do this. The occlumency didn’t do this. This was her. The absence of her.

Arianna had left him with a thread pulled tight inside his ribs, and now everything felt distorted.

The torture. The hunts. The screaming. The smell of burning flesh. Even Voldemort’s praise. It all felt… muted. Washed out. Like he was watching through gauze, a spectator to his own cruelty.

But the worst part?

He didn’t know if the emptiness was because he’d left her behind or because she’d taken something from him he couldn’t name. A fragment. A pulse. A gravity.

Something in his chest ached in a strange, unfamiliar rhythm. His fingers pressed against the spot unconsciously. He swallowed.

“Oh, my boy…” Narcissa’s voice drifted from the doorway. Barely a whisper. Heavy with dread.

Draco didn’t look at her.

“Don’t,” he muttered. But she stepped inside anyway.

“You’re unraveling,” she said, voice trembling. “And I don’t know why.”

Draco clenched his jaw, the same dead grey dulling his eyes again.

“You’re imagining things, Mother.”

“No.” She shook her head once, brittle blonde hair falling around her face. “Something has changed.”

Draco exhaled slowly, closing his eyes, letting the darkness settle over him again. Something had changed.

And every time he shut his eyes, he swore he could still taste her breath on his lips. Still feel her fingers in his hair. Still hear her whisper: You belong with me. 

It was maddening. And yet the moment he opened his eyes to the cold emptiness of the Manor… He felt utterly nothing. Except the pull of her.

It had been easy to tell himself she wouldn’t want someone like him.

Pathetic, really, how comfortable that lie had become. He could hide behind the blood on his hands. Behind the things he’d done. Behind the darkness he’d willingly drowned in.

If he was a monster, then he didn’t have to face the softness he still carried for her. If he was undeserving, then he didn’t have to fight for her. If he was unworthy, then he didn’t have to hope.

But she ruined that excuse the moment she stood in front of him, eyes storm-grey, steady, unflinching and said she didn’t care.

She wasn’t afraid of him. She wanted him anyway.

And now the mask he’d worn so easily… didn’t fit anymore. He couldn’t hide behind cruelty or resignation or a self-made prophecy of being unlovable.

She’d seen everything he’d become. Everything he feared he was turning into. And she still whispered, I missed you. 

He hated how it gutted him. Hated how it warmed him. Hated how it stripped him bare. Because now he couldn’t pretend he didn’t want her. Couldn’t pretend he was too far gone. Couldn’t pretend the darkness was all he had left.

She had taken that lie from him with one look, one breath, one touch. And without it… he was exposed.

And the terrifying realization that without her, the darkness inside him was the only thing that made sense.

 

Tara wiped her face with the back of her wrist, mostly to hide the eyeroll she couldn’t quite smother. Corban stepped into her cell, sleeves rolled up, that slow, patronising smile plastered on like he thought it made him clever.

In his hands: a thin stack of papers. Trouble, undoubtedly. He dragged the chair across the floor and dropped into it, legs spread, leaning back like he owned the place.

"Miss Zabini," he began, voice sweet as acid. "How are we doing? Comfy?"

She didn’t bother answering. Silence was her hobby now.

"Right," he said, flipping through the papers until he plucked out one photograph. “We found something interesting. Thought you might like a peek.”

He held it out between two fingers. Tara hesitated, but damn curiousity won. She looked. Her breath caught.

Arianna sat in Draco Malfoy’s lap, smiling like the world had finally made sense. She looked safe. Loved. Whole. The Prince of Slytherin, celebrating his birthday. 5th of June 1997 was written below. Tara swallowed hard and fought the twitch of a smile traitorously tugging at her own mouth.

Corban leaned in, the scent of parchment and smugness filling the cell.

"Your little menace of a friend," he said, tapping the photograph, "showed up again and again during the months of escalation. Always with Draco Malfoy. The monster of the war."

He slid her a torn Daily Prophet clipping. The headline screamed violence. The picture beneath showed Hagrid’s hut, Potter shouting, Snape deflecting a curse and in the background, Arianna, half-turned toward the camera, hair wild in the wind as she grabbed Draco’s wrist and dragged him into the forest.

Tara clenched her jaw. Damn Ri. Leaving breadcrumbs for the whole world to follow.

Corban scooted his chair closer with a sharp wooden screech.

"I have a theory," he said, folding his hands. “Your friend, stupid as she is, fell in love with the boy. She keeps following him. So… if I can’t catch her in this timeline, I’ll go back."

Tara froze. Corban’s smile widened.

"There are multiple documented sightings of Draco Malfoy. He was a favourite of the Dark Lord, after all. I’ll intercept a moment in history, pluck your friend out of it, and drag her straight back here." He tilted his head. "Would you want to see her before we execute her? One last reunion?"

Tara bit down on the inside of her cheek until the metallic tang of blood rose on her tongue.

"You won’t get her," she said, voice ice-cold. "You underestimate her. Whatever her reasons were… she won’t come quietly."

Corban stood, pushing the chair back out of the cell. The sound echoed like a verdict.

"She’s just a girl," he said lazily. “I’m sure I can handle her. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

The door slammed shut. For a moment, Tara stared at the photograph still clutched in her hand. Arianna laughing softly in Draco’s lap. Alive. Free. Untouchable.

Tara pressed her forehead to her knees and breathed out one shaky sentence. "Whatever you do, Ri… don’t let that fucker get you. Fight him to your last breath."

 

 

 

It had been five days.

Five days of silence.

Five days of wondering if he was drowning himself in nightshade and murder assignments again. Five days of pacing the windows, listening for footsteps that never came.

She’d expected this. Didn’t make the hollow feeling any easier.

Arianna stood in front of the mirror, pulling her dark hair into place. Dark jeans, a black tank beneath the loose emerald sweater, boots laced tight. Her reflection looked calm enough, almost bored. Inside she was a fault line ready to split the earth.

Blaise had mentioned the factory. A converted holding place. Low-rank Death Eaters, Snatchers, terrified Muggleborns… And Draco, weaving through that nightmare like he was born from it.

She grabbed her wand, slipped it into her sleeve.

Behind her, Theo exhaled loudly.

"I still don’t think this is a good idea," he said, leaning in the doorframe with his arms folded like he was about to block the exit.

"Probably isn’t," she said, dragging her fingers through her hair one last time.

Theo tsked under his breath. "If they don’t know you, they’ll assume you’re freeing the prisoners. They’ll attack you, sweetheart. And if they do recognise you…" He lifted a brow. "Well. I’m not sure that’s any better. They’d run straight to the Dark Lord about the girl who makes Draco Malfoy blush."

Arianna slipped past her reflection, grabbing her jacket.

"I’ll be in and out in minutes. I just need to get to him again. Don't worry."

Theo stared at her like she was a particularly beautiful disaster.

"Every time you say ‘don’t worry’ you freak me out even more."

She smirked, brushing past him lightly.

"See you tonight."

Theo watched her march down the hallway, emerald sweater swaying, determined like a soldier going to war. Her leather jacket dangling from her hand. 

He rubbed his face. He had no idea whether to stop her. Or pray for the poor idiots standing between Arianna Avery and Draco Malfoy.

 

 

Arianna stepped from the treeline like she’d been carved out of the moonlight itself.

The meadow was a sheet of pale silver grass, knee-high and whispering around her legs. Ahead, the old factory squatted in the dark, its windows glowing sickly yellow. Death Eaters patrolled in pairs, wands drawn, bored faces lit by lantern glow.

And at the entrance, leaned like the smug bastard he was, stood Draco Malfoy.

Black suit fitted like sin. One hand buried in his pocket. The other lifting that cursed nightshade pipe to his lips as he inhaled, head tilting back with that lazy Malfoy elegance.

He laughed at something the nobody beside him said. A low, throaty sound that shot straight through her chest and pissed her off even more.

Five days. Five bloody days she’d waited like some abandoned housewife while he strutted around the country playing executioner.

She didn’t think. She moved.

Arianna crossed the meadow with long, purposeful strides, grass parting around her like a dark tide. The Death Eater beside Draco stiffened immediately, shoulders snapping straight.

“Stop right there! This is a Ministry holding site, you’re trespassing. Identify yourself!” he barked.

Draco’s head turned. He saw her. His Adam’s apple bobbed in one hard swallow.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered into his hand. “She looks pissed.”

“You know her?” the man asked.

“You could say she’s my sanity,” Draco replied lightly. “Though she’d definitely disagree right now. Little advice? Don’t piss her off further.”

Arianna stopped ten paces away, moonlight slicing across her cheekbones.

“Five days, Malfoy.”

He winced. “That’s never a good sign. She’s using my surname.”

The idiot beside him opened his mouth again. “Stop where you are, girl, or I’ll have to restrain you!”

Draco sighed, stepping backward with slow, respectful caution. The way someone steps away from a lit explosive.

“Love, I’m sorry,” he called, pipe disappearing into his pocket. “Work’s been insane. And honestly? I enjoy you hunting me down.”

Arianna didn’t blink. “Don’t flirt with me, asshole.”

He grinned. That slow, wicked curl that had once made her heart stutter.

Hersham’s wand trembled.

“Move again, girl, and I’ll curse you—”

"Oh. Please. " Arianna’s wrist flicked. So fast the air cracked.

A thin line of red opened across Hersham’s throat. He gurgled, staggered, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the wound. Then dropped to his knees, choking on his own blood before collapsing silent into the grass.

Draco exhaled through his nose, utterly unbothered.

“Love… was that really necessary?” he asked, smoothing his jacket sleeve with elegant disinterest.

His eyes glittered. Hungry. Dark.

Because her darkness called to his like a goddamn siren. She’d crossed a line and Draco Malfoy had never been more turned on in his life.

Chapter 49: The Dark that answers back

Arianna stepped closer, boots brushing the dead man’s sleeve, her eyes fixed on Draco like she was trying to pry open a door he’d welded shut.

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just smirked at her, lazy and drug-dulled, his pipe half-hanging from the pocket of his suit jacket.

“You think you’re undeserving because of your darkness,” she said, low and calm, as if she wasn’t standing in a field surrounded by killers. “You saw me as soft. Maybe even broken. But I’m not.”

His eyebrows twitched upward. A flicker of surprise. He’d expected fire. Not truth.

She kept walking until she was right in front of him. Close enough for her perfume to cut through the metallic scent of blood clinging to him.

“I was raised with the same darkness you were.” Her voice didn’t shake. Not once. “You and I? We’re the same. Undeserving or not.”

For the first time tonight, his smirk faltered. Just barely. Just enough for his greyed-out eyes to flicker blue for a split, startled heartbeat.

“Arianna…” he murmured, something raw bleeding through the haze.

“You want darkness?” she said softly. “Have it your way then.”

She turned. Feet planted. Shoulders squared. A stance ready for carnage.

And then the factory doors slammed open behind them.

A dozen Death Eaters flooded out, wands raised, shouting as they sprinted across the meadow.

“INTRUDER!”

“She killed Hersham!”

“Get the girl—”

Draco hissed under his breath, instinctively stepping half a pace toward her.

Arianna didn’t step back. She smiled. A small, terrible smile. The kind that promised violence.

“Oh, darling… look what you’ve done,” Draco muttered, drugged amusement curling his voice. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Let them try,” she whispered.

The first spell flew. Arianna flicked her wrist. The Death Eater exploded backward, slamming into the wall with a crack.

Draco blinked. Another charged. She snapped her fingers. His wand shattered, and so did he.

Draco exhaled slowly, almost reverently.

“Well,” he murmured, “that’s one way to keep my attention.”

He watched her tear through a handful of Death Eaters with merciless precision. Dark, elegant, unstoppable. But he didn’t get the chance to enjoy it.

Because from the treeline a ripple of foreign magic ripped open the night.

Robes snapped like shadows. Runes glowed along gloved hands. A formation of twenty stepped out as one.

The Time Division. Corban at the front. His gaze locked on her instantly.

“Arianna Avery!” he barked, voice amplified. “By order of the Time Division for your crimes against temporal law, you are to be brought in and—”

Draco went still. Arianna’s stomach dropped. And every Death Eater in the field heard her name.

They turned. Looked at her. Then at Draco. A whisper slithered through the chaos.

“Did he say Avery…?”

“A time criminal…?”

“Does the Dark Lord know—”

They didn’t get to finish. Because from the opposite side of the woods, rebels burst out, firing spells wildly, screaming battle cries.

Suddenly it was war. Three fronts. Three armies. One girl at the center.

Arianna lunged, grabbed Draco by the collar, and yanked him down just as a beam of white-hot magic sliced the air above them.

He stared at her like the universe had just rearranged itself. She was already moving. Already killing. 

And the curses she cast... he had never heard them. Never seen them. Dark, violent, devastating. Her face splattered with blood within minutes.

She slid behind him, grabbed his face, shoved her forehead to his.

“Undeserving or not,” she breathed, “you belong with me.”

And before another spell could touch them... She apparated them out.

A burst of screaming air. Collapsing time. The battlefield torn away. Straight to Blaise’s estate.

Arianna shoved the front door open, Draco right behind her, the two of them stumbling into the foyer like they’d walked straight out of a warzone. Because, well… they had.

She threw the door shut with a bang. Blaise and Theo materialized in the entry hall, wide-eyed, horrified, staring.

Blood streaked Arianna’s face. Dark splatters dotted her sweater. There were literal shards of something in her hair.

“What the actual fuck—” Blaise exhaled, voice cracking.

Theo choked on his breath. “Knew it. Knew it was a bad idea. I told you. Did I not tell you?”

Draco waved them off with the laziest flick of his hand. Like they were interrupting his evening tea.

“No. Not now.”

Then he grabbed Arianna’s waist, yanked her into him, and kissed her hard enough that Theo visibly flinched. He dragged his lips down her cheek to her ear.

“I don’t know if it’s the drugs or just you,” Draco muttered, voice wrecked with adrenaline, “but Merlin have mercy, that was so fucking hot.”

And before anyone could blink, he lifted her clean off the floor. Her legs wrapped around his waist like instinct. Like gravity.

“WAIT—” Theo shouted. “Are you two serious right now? There is blood on her face! Actual—human—blood! EXPLANATIONS?!”

“Not now, Theodore,” Draco snapped over his shoulder, already carrying her up the stairs like some unhinged newlywed.

Arianna tried to inject logic into the situation.

“We need to explain. To prepare, Draco. They saw me. They know my name. The Division knows you’re with me—”

“Yeah, yeah, and we will,” he cut in, breath hot against her neck, “after I rip every piece of clothing off your perfect little body. You can still be pissed at me afterward.”

She actually laughed cupping his face as he kicked open her bedroom door. Upstairs, the door slammed shut. A beat of silence. Then Arianna’s laugh echoed down the hall like something out of a fever dream.

Theo stared at the ceiling, defeated.

“Salazar help us. They’re lunatics. Absolute lunatics. Like rabbits in spring.”

Blaise shrugged, crossing his arms behind his head.

“I say let them. I’m not discussing strategy with Draco after denying him his… peace.” His eyebrows arched pointedly. “And believe me, you don’t want to be the one to try.”

Theo rubbed his temples.

“I need a drink.”

“Good,” Blaise said, walking toward the kitchen. “Make it a double. Pretty sure we just became accomplices in yet another war.”

Inside Arianna’s room, every fear she’d carried for months evaporated.

Just gone.

Eaten alive by adrenaline, by darkness, by the way Draco looked at her like she was the only real thing left in his collapsing universe.

She didn’t flinch when he grabbed her sweater and ripped it straight down the center, threads snapping, fabric sliding off her skin.

She didn’t choke on fear when he threw her onto the bed, climbing after her with that reckless, hungry grace that only Draco Malfoy possessed.

She laughed—actual, bright, wicked laughter—when he nearly tripped yanking her jeans off her ankle.

Draco froze, stared, then burst out: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Arianna propped herself on her elbows, brows raised.

“What?”

He lifted her foot like he was presenting evidence in a murder trial.

“Green watermelon socks, Arianna. Green. Watermelons.”

“They’re cute,” she protested, utterly unapologetic.

“They’re blindingly ugly,” he shot back, ripping them off and tossing them somewhere behind him, already lowering himself over her like he intended to swallow her whole.

She didn’t tense. She didn’t brace. She didn’t fall backward into memories that hurt. The moment his weight pressed her into the mattress, the last of Bowman’s ghost touch disintegrated like ash in fire.

Because Draco didn’t take—he claimed. And she met him for every inch of it.

His clothes hit the floor in a frenzy of buttons and black fabric. His mouth found hers. Her nails scraped his shoulders. There was nothing soft in either of them.

When he slid into her, she arched into him. Not from fear, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it.

The broken girl she had been was gone. Burned away. Replaced by a creature of shadows and devotion and hunger who kissed him like he was oxygen and ruin all at once.

And Draco?

Draco groaned into her throat like he’d finally come home. The darkness between them wasn’t a threat.

It was a fucking bonfire.

 

 

Theo and Blaise were already waiting in the drawing room, drinking like men preparing for a natural disaster.

When Arianna finally padded in wearing joggers and a sweater that could have doubled as a tent, Theo groaned.

“Did you steal those from my room again?”

Arianna blushed like a cherub with blood still under her nails.

“Maybe.”

Then Draco sauntered in behind her, smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

“Lovely of you to join us,” Blaise drawled from the sofa, cigarette dangling from his lips like he’d aged twenty years since breakfast.

“Had to clean her up first,” Draco said, completely shameless.

Theo snorted. “Bet you inspected every inch of her skin meticulously.”

“Sure did.”

Arianna smacked Draco’s chest. “Stop talking.”

“So,” Blaise said, sitting forward, “wanna tell us what the fuck happened?”

Arianna folded herself onto the sofa cushions, cross-legged like an innocent child in a murder scene.

“Well… I went looking for that bloody idiot. Found him. And things… escalated a little.”

“Escalated?” Blaise wheezed. “You had brain tissue in your hair.”

“Definitely brain tissue,” Draco agreed proudly.

Theo gagged. “Girl, that’s revolting.”

Arianna shrugged.

“The Death Eaters thought I came to break into their holding cells or something. They attacked me first.”

“Attacked you?” Blaise repeated, sitting upright like someone had kicked him.

Draco patted Arianna’s knee. “And she took them out beautifully.”

Theo threw both hands in the air.

“Why didn’t you stop them?! Why didn’t you tell them?!”

“In my defense,” Draco said, unfazed, “she gave me no time to act. And honestly? Thrilling to watch.”

“Merlin save me,” Theo muttered, pacing. “You’re both lunatics. Diseased lunatics.”

“So,” Blaise said, exhaling, “you killed the Death Eaters. Good. No one to report ba—”

Draco grimaced.

“Well… she didn’t kill all of them. Because then hell broke loose.”

Blaise froze. “What hell.”

Draco squinted, thinking.

“Death Eater patrols on one side, rebels on the other, and Time Division agents in front of us.”

Blaise went paper-white. Theo’s jaw clicked open like a broken toy.

“Time Division?” Theo croaked. “What does that mean?”

Arianna cleared her throat and smiled like a toddler confessing to stealing cookies.

“Sooo… yeah. I might have technically… accidentally manipulated time. And, you know… became a fugitive. Small detail.”

Theo stopped mid-sip. Blaise blinked loudly. Draco just stared at her like he was recalculating the entire mathematics of his life.

“They screamed her full name across the clearing,” Draco added. “In front of thirty Death Eaters. Calling her a time criminal.”

Theo choked. Blaise pressed a hand over his heart.

“You’re hunted by the people who control HISTORY,” Blaise barked, “and you didn’t think this was worth mentioning?!”

Arianna tilted her head sweetly.

“I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. These things are… awkward.”

Draco deadpanned: “This is not awkward. This is a full-scale existential crisis.”

“…so you’re not mad?” Arianna asked tentatively.

“Oh, I’m mad,” Draco said, “but mostly because fate apparently hates both of us equally.”

“I need a drink,” Theo muttered, pouring himself another and then refilling everyone’s glasses.

“So,” he said flatly, handing them out, “we’re hiding a time fugitive from Voldemort, the Ministry, and the Time Division. Fantastic. Grand. Love that for us.”

Arianna lifted a finger.

“Oh! And let’s not forget the gods of destiny. They’re probably very pissed with me again.”

Silence. Theo blinked at her. “Again?”

Arianna pursed her lips. “…yeah.”

Blaise dropped his head into his palm.

“Fucking hell, Arianna.”

“Okay,” Arianna said brightly, “before anyone judges me, I’d like to remind you that I did technically save all your lives.”

Theo and Blaise just stared. So she told them.

The whole dark truth. The time travel, the gods, the deals, the loop, the horcrux she made of herself.

And for the first time in their lives, Theo and Blaise Zabini were speechless.

 

 

Arianna sat cross-legged on the rug, a glass abandoned by her knee, Blaise and Theo opposite her in an uneasy triangle. Candlelight flickered over their faces, throwing everything into sharp angles.

“So basically,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Fate and Time decided Draco needs to stay alive. And then kept sabotaging me. It’s some… cosmic game they like to play when they’re bored. I don’t pretend to understand the rules. I just know they cheated.”

Theo stared at her as if she’d calmly confessed to murdering a country.

Blaise exhaled slowly. “You crossed gods.”

She lifted one shoulder. “They crossed me first.”

Theo dragged a hand through his hair. “That is not how that works.”

Blaise leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What about the third one? Deviation.”

Arianna’s fingers tightened around the glass until her knuckles blanched. Deviation. The last stop before erasure. The only one who could wipe her from existence like she’d never been written into the story at all. She kept her face carefully blank.

“Never saw her,” Arianna lied smoothly, staring into the amber liquid instead of at them. “Fate and Time were more than enough to deal with.”

Blaise and Theo exchanged a look, both of them silently trying to stack the information into something that made sense. They couldn’t. They had no idea that Professor Corwyn had already warned Arianna what would happen if she pushed too far. That the dread coiled under her ribs had a name and a face.

Good. Let that fear stay hers alone.

Their voices faded into a low murmur as they tried to summarise the threads between gods, time, loops and Draco’s survival. Arianna let them talk. Her attention drifted to the window. To him.

Draco stood there with his back half turned to them, one shoulder against the frame, cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the ward-lines like he was waiting for the world to kick the door in.

Then he flinched. His hand clamped around his left forearm.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, shoving the sleeve up. The snake on his skin writhed, the Mark burning red-hot. “I’m summoned.”

All three of them stilled. Arianna crossed the room in a few strides and caught his arm, staring down at the twisting ink. The skin around it was flushed, angry.

“Of course,” she muttered. “Perfect timing.”

He pulled in a tight breath, jaw clenched as the sensation climbed from pain to command. She could almost feel the tug herself, a cold hook yanking him away from her.

“You need to go,” she said, voice low. She lifted her gaze to his, grey like a storm about to break. “Don’t lie. Don’t twist anything to protect me. Voldemort already knows my name. I ruined that all on my own.”

Annoyance flickered across his face, but it couldn’t cover the worry.

“You honestly think I’d hand you over?” he murmured.

“I think he’ll rip it out of you whether you want to give it or not,” she replied, blunt as a knife. “So don’t make things worse by trying to be noble. Let me carry what’s mine.”

Blaise watched them tensely, arms folded.

Theo muttered, “I hate everything about this.”

The Mark pulsed again, stronger. Draco’s eyes glazed a little, blue fading to that detached grey she had grown to fear.

Arianna lifted her hand and slid her fingers into the back of his hair, tugging him closer. He leaned in, just a fraction, like it was instinct.

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he said, voice gone strangely soft. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, careful, reverent.

“Too late for that, isn’t it?” she tried to joke, but it came out thin. “Just… try to come back in one piece.”

He huffed a short, bitter laugh.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” she pressed, barely audible now.

He gazed down at her like it physically hurt.

“I can’t make any promises. You know that by now.”

Then he kissed her. Not rushed, not careless. Slow. Intent. Like he was memorising the shape of her mouth, how she tasted, how her fingers curled into his shirt as if she could anchor him here by sheer will. He pulled away only when the burn in his arm flared white-hot.

Theo cleared his throat loudly. “I swear, I’m going to need therapy after watching you two.”

“Shut up, Nott,” Draco snapped without looking at him.

For a last second he held Arianna’s gaze, pupils blown, something raw and unguarded surfacing beneath the nightshade and occlumency.

“Don’t let them take you,” he murmured. “Not the Time Division. Not the gods. Not him.”

“I won’t,” she lied. “Now go.”

The cigarette dropped to the floor. The Mark blazed. Smoke coiled around him, black and suffocating, dragging him away. His body dissolved into it, swallowed whole by the Summons, until there was nothing left in front of her but a drifting shadow and the echo of his last breath.

The room felt instantly colder.

Blaise sat back slowly. “Well,” he said hoarsely, “that’s horrifying.”

Theo stared at the spot where Draco had disappeared. “So,” he muttered, “Dark Lord, Time Police, and pissed-off gods. Anything else we should put on today’s agenda?”

Arianna didn’t answer. Her chest hurt. Her fingers still tingled from where she’d touched his hair. Somewhere, far away in Malfoy Manor, he’d be dropping to his knee in front of Voldemort.

And Deviation, wherever she was, was probably watching too.

Chapter 50: Malfoy Manor 1997

The thing about darkness was that it never arrived with thunder. It seeped. Soft. Slow. Patient.

A shadow slipping under the skin until the world dulled to ash and the only thing that felt real anymore was the pulse of power in your veins.

Draco knew it well. He carried it. Fed it. Let it hollow him.

But the darkness around the Dark Lord… That was something else entirely. It didn’t just seep. It devoured.

When Draco stepped into the manor’s drawing room, it hit him like smoke-thick air. A pressure. A taste. An old rot coiling at the back of his throat. The last drag of nightshade still clung to his lungs, not enough to mute the suffocation pressing down on him.

“Draco,” Voldemort murmured, pale fingers beckoning with polite cruelty. “Come closer.”

He obeyed without hesitation. Bowed. Straightened. Lifted his chin just enough to signal both respect and worth. Bellatrix lurked beside the throne like a rabid pet, her dark eyes tracking his every twitch.

“I’ve heard about a fight,” Voldemort continued. “About rebels… and a name whispered among the chaos.” A thin smile. Not kind. Never kind. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Draco inhaled through his nose, slow and steady. The lie was already shaped on his tongue.

“The rebels ambushed the factory, my lord. Tried to free their captured half-bloods. We fought them off.”

“And the girl?”

Draco let the smirk rise. Not too confident. Not too eager. Just enough for a Malfoy.

“She belongs to me.”

Bellatrix’s brows shot up. Voldemort leaned forward, intrigued the way a snake tastes new scent on the air.

“Does she now…?” His tone sharpened. “I would like to meet her. Bring her to me. A girl who draws the attention of time agents must be… useful.”

Draco bowed again, spine stiff, throat dry.

“Of course, my lord. I will bring her.”

A careless flick of Voldemort’s fingers dismissed him.

Draco backed out with perfect discipline. Only when the doors shut did the mask slip. His breath stuttered. He caught himself against the cold stone wall, fingers digging into it. Merlin help him. He had just handed Arianna Avery over to the Dark Lord. And there was no taking that back.

 

 

Arianna had expected the summoning. She walked back from the gardens just as Draco appeared in the doorway, the Mark on his arm still faintly burning.

“He wants you to come,” he said. No greeting. No softening. Just the truth.

“Thought so,” she murmured, brushing dirt off her palms. Her knees were smeared with soil. Her fingers stained green.

Draco blinked. “Where have you been?”

“Just got rid of something.” Her voice was too casual for his comfort. “Let’s go. Wouldn’t want the Dark Lord to wait.”

She cast a quick cleansing charm over herself, the dirt vanishing from her skin, the shadows in her eyes staying very much where they were. By the front door sat her packed bag.

Theo leaned against the frame, smoking like a soldier waiting for bad news.

“I truly don’t like this,” he said, waving the cigarette like a conductor’s baton. “If she’s there, we can’t protect her.”

“We won’t have to,” Draco answered. His voice cut clean. “I will.”

Theo took a drag, exhaled smoke directly into Draco’s face.

“If you get her handled. She’s a bloody menace. Wouldn’t surprise me if she peeled off your precious auntie’s skin if provoked.”

Arianna arched a brow, unimpressed.

Draco smirked. “Pretty sure I can handle the little wild one just fine.”

Arianna stared at both of them. “I’m standing right here. You know. With ears.”

“Sorry, love,” Theo said dramatically. “We’re only a little worried after you started a war with—oh I don’t know—every fucking side involved?”

“I didn’t start—”

“You definitely didn’t keep your head down either.”

Theo pushed off the frame and stepped toward her.

For a second Draco nearly lunged forward, thinking Theo would touch her without warning.

But Arianna moved first. She stepped in and wrapped Theo in a fierce, grounding hug. Theo froze like a startled cat… then grinned over her shoulder, giving Draco a triumphant thumbs-up.

“See? She loves me.”

Draco snarled. “She pities you, baby boy.”

“I’m not the baby!” Theo snapped, scandalized. “I am very mature.”

Arianna laughed. That soft, warm laugh Draco would gut the world to hear again. She brushed Theo’s cheek with her fingers. Gentle, affectionate, the kind of touch she had denied everyone for months.

“Of course you are, Theodore.”

It was the last laugh she would give him for a long while.

 

Malfoy Manor hadn’t changed. Except for the suffocating darkness crawling over its walls like something alive, something hungry. The old home she’d known in the future radiated decay; this one radiated evil.

Arianna straightened as she and Draco walked the long gravel path to the doors.

“If he asks, say nothing about emotions,” Draco murmured without looking at her. His voice was a low, steady warning. “Let him think it’s just physical. I told him you were mine. But if he thinks you feel something... he’ll use you.”

She nodded. She’d already counted on that. “Yeah. I know.” She stopped short, turned to him, and grabbed his lapels. “Before we go in, I just… you know I—”

The words stuck in her throat. Too big. Too heavy. Too close to doom.

He gave her a faint, sad smirk.

“I know. At least you’ll be with me. Now you can piss me off daily and make me scowl at your hideous pyjamas and socks.”

She let out a hollow laugh, pressing her forehead to his chest. Then she rose on her toes and kissed him softly.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he muttered. “It’s everyone else.”

And with that, Draco opened the doors and led her inside.

The Manor was darker than she had ever known it. Hallowed by silence. Stripped of warmth. The scent of peonies she remembered from her prior visits was gone. Replaced by rot. By death. By something that slithered along the edges of the walls like smoke with teeth.

Arianna took a breath and walked into the drawing room. The Dark Lord sat in front of the fire like a king on a broken throne, fingers stroking his great serpent. Nagini hissed the moment the door closed behind Arianna.

Voldemort looked up. Smiled. A horrible parody of warmth.

“There she is,” he purred. “The girl everyone’s talking about. Come closer, love. What’s your name?”

His voice was sweet. Rot hidden under sugar. Arianna stepped closer, hands clasped behind her back so tightly her nails dug crescents into her skin. She had imagined this moment a hundred times. None of them were enough to prepare her.

“Arianna…” Her eyes flicked to the snake. “Avery.”

Voldemort’s head tilted sharply.

“Avery? Impossible. The last Avery alive is Everett.”

“He’s my father,” Arianna said calmly. “To be. In the future.”

Realization lit the Dark Lord’s red eyes. Then came the laugh, awful and jagged, like bones splitting.

“Fascinating. He will be pleased.” His gaze crawled over her face, her posture, her wand arm. “A beauty. How did you manage to travel back in time?”

Arianna resisted the urge to swallow.

“I… found a device. When I activated it, it threw me back.” A lie. Smooth. Practiced.

“And where,” Voldemort asked, voice sharpening, “would that device be now?”

“I lost it during the factory battle. Must’ve dropped it in the meadow. Or one of the rebels found it. If they figure out how it works…”

She let her voice trail off meaningfully. Voldemort went very still.

“That would be… unfortunate,” he whispered. “If rebels gained the ability to change history, the consequences would be catastrophic. We cannot allow that.” Then he turned to Draco. “Send a search party to the factory grounds. I want that device found. Miss Avery will describe it for you.”

Arianna nodded quickly. “Of course, my lord.”

The Dark Lord smiled back, pleased with her fear.

“Very good. You will stay close to young Draco. I am sure we will find the right place for you.” His voice dipped lower. “We will continue our conversation at dinner tomorrow night. And perhaps Everett will be… delighted… to see you.”

If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought him gracious. But she did know better. Every word was a trap. Every syllable poisoned.

She bowed her head just enough to be respectful.

“Thank you, my lord. I look forward to it.”

Voldemort flicked his fingers in dismissal, and Draco immediately stepped behind her, guiding her out with a hand hovering near her back but never touching.

They walked the hallway in silence. Draco didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t breathe right. He only guided her up the stairs to his rooms like a man escorting a beloved prisoner.

She stepped into the room she had come to know too well and still paused, eyes drifting over the familiar angles, the windows, the bed. As if grounding herself.

“Well…” she began.

“Wait.”

Draco’s voice snapped sharp enough to cut. She fell silent instantly. He didn’t look at her again. He moved.

His wand carved the air in fast, precise motions. One charm layered over the next. Muffling wards slid into place like glass sealing over sound. The windows darkened, the doors locked themselves with a dull, final click. Additional wards crawled up the walls, humming faintly. Old magic. Paranoid magic. Malfoy magic. Only when he was done did he turn around.

His face was pale. Eyes bright. Too bright.

“We’re fucked,” he said flatly. Then, with a humourless huff, “Gloriously fucked, Arianna.”

She watched him closely now.

“You can’t stay here. Not like this. Not while he’s here.” His jaw clenched. “You don’t understand how quickly he notices things. Patterns. People. Weaknesses.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him.

“I have to,” she said calmly. “I’ll manage. Don’t worry.”

That did it. He laughed once, sharp and bitter, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Don’t worry?” he echoed. “You stood in front of him and lied to his face about time itself. You dangled the idea of power in front of a man who murdered his way into immortality. And you want me not to worry?”

She stepped closer. “He already knows I’m dangerous,” she said quietly. “That’s why I’m alive.”

Draco stopped pacing. His eyes snapped back to her.

“That’s why you’re in danger,” he shot back. “He doesn’t keep dangerous things around because he’s kind. He keeps them because he wants to own them. Break them. Use them until there’s nothing left.”

She didn’t flinch. “I won’t break.”

He stared at her like she’d just said something unforgivable.

“You don’t get it,” he said low. “You don’t break because you’re strong. You break because you care. And he will find that.”

Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something colder.

“Then I’ll make sure he never figures out what I care about.”

Draco stepped in front of her before he could stop himself, hands gripping her arms, not rough, but desperate.

“You already told too much. He will test you, provoke you. You’re not invisible, Arianna.”

“I don’t need to be invisible,” she replied evenly. “I just need to stay one step ahead.”

He searched her face, as if looking for a crack. For fear. For doubt.

He found none. A beat passed. Then he exhaled slowly, forehead dropping against hers.

“I should never have brought you here.”

She leaned into him just enough to be felt.

“You didn’t,” she whispered. “I walked in on my own.”

That scared him more than anything else she had said.

Chapter 51: Dining with the devil

Notes:

Sorry, that one took a while.
Thanks for those who waited ...

Draco couldn’t sleep that night. Arianna lay curled beside him, breathing slow and even, one hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt like an anchor. He stared at the ceiling until the shadows began to move in shapes he didn’t trust. The Manor felt awake. Listening.

By morning, the search party had returned from the factory empty-handed. Of course they had.

Draco didn’t question it aloud, but he knew. Whatever device she had used, it was gone. Arianna would have planned for this. She always did.

It also meant punishment.

He was sent out before noon. Countryside sweeps. Rebel cells flushed from barns and abandoned farmhouses. He took Blaise and Theo with him and didn’t look back at the Manor once. If he had, he might have turned around. Might have done something reckless.

Arianna stayed in his rooms at first. She counted footsteps in the corridor. Timed the way the house breathed. Learned which floorboards whispered and which screamed. By midday, the walls pressed too close. Voldemort had said stay. Not lock yourself away. So she left.

She didn’t mean to wander that far. The Manor was a labyrinth of shadow and silence, every corridor steeped in old magic and newer rot. She kept her steps light, wand tucked into her sleeve, senses flared. Curiosity was a weakness. She knew that. Still, she needed to feel the house. Know it.

She turned a corner and stopped dead.

Everett Avery stood by the window, hands folded behind his back, staring out at the grounds as if waiting for something to happen. He hadn’t heard her. Or he had, and simply didn’t care.

She straightened instinctively. The urge to hug him struck her like a blow. Her heart clenched. There he stood. Her father. So much younger.

But she couldn’t trust him. Not this version. This loyal one.

“So,” he said without turning, “you’re the girl.”

Her jaw tightened. “Am I supposed to know you?”

That made him turn. Up close, the resemblance was unsettling. The same eyes. The same posture. The same way of standing, as if the world were something to be solved rather than lived in. But where she burned, he calculated.

“Everett Avery,” he said calmly. “And you are… Arianna.”

Not a question. Her lips curved into a polite, empty smile. “Common enough name.”

He studied her openly now. The control. The restraint. The magic coiled beneath her skin like something awake.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“Funny,” she replied. “I was just thinking the same.”

That earned a flicker of interest.

“You’re close to Malfoy,” Everett continued. “Closer than most people are allowed to be.”

She shrugged. “He has questionable taste.”

A pause. Then a soft, almost amused huff of laughter.

“Deflecting,” Everett observed. “Smart. But unnecessary. I’m not here to interrogate you.”

“No?” Arianna asked coolly. “Then why are you?”

His eyes sharpened. Not offended. Intrigued.

“I wanted to see you in person,” he said simply. “I came as soon as I heard about you. I can see my blood running through you. You’re smart. You think. You adapt.”

She stepped closer, deliberately invading his space just enough to be unsettling.

“And you,” she said quietly, “are very used to people underestimating you. So let me be clear. I am not your experiment. I am not a source of information. And you are not my father. Not like that.”

Everett held her gaze for a long moment. Then he smiled.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That edge. Voldemort felt it too.”

“It’s good to see you…” she replied.

Silence stretched between them. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Servants. Movement. The Manor reasserting itself.

Everett stepped back, composure fully restored.

“So,” he asked lightly, “am I alive in your future?”

Arianna’s smile turned razor-thin.

“If you must know… no.”

Everett tensed. No one liked hearing about their death, vague as it was.

“You saw it?” he asked suddenly, the question too personal, too human.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“A few times. I’ve seen many deaths. Yours included. But you know I can’t tell you much.”

He nodded once.

“You shouldn’t,” he said quietly. “And you certainly shouldn’t tell the Dark Lord anything about that future. The gods would—”

“I’ve already pissed them off enough,” she cut in. “I’m not interested in pushing them further.”

Everett stepped back, watching her. Studying her. Nodding, as if to say: I knew you would. 

“Did I teach you how to fight?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Then let’s hope you never need it,” he said. “But if you do… never hold back.”

“I won’t.”

She turned and walked away without waiting for dismissal.

Everett watched her go, eyes narrowed in thought. The blood connection was undeniable now. Not sentimental. Not comforting.

Dangerous.

And for the first time since hearing her name, Everett Avery felt something dangerously close to concern.

 

 

When Draco returned that evening, he was late for dinner. He walked straight into the dining room.

Around the grand table, everyone was already seated. The Dark Lord occupied one end, pale fingers resting idly against the arm of his chair. At the opposite head sat Lucius Malfoy, rigid as a statue. Narcissa was beside him. And then—thank Merlin—Arianna.

The seat next to her stood empty.

Members of the inner circle filled the remaining places. Yaxley. The Carrows. Mulciber. To the Dark Lord’s right sat Bellatrix, preening like a child praised too often, eyes glittering with manic devotion.

“Apologies for being late,” Draco said. His voice was low. Flat. Emotionless.

His hands and face were still streaked crimson, blood drying along his knuckles and the sharp line of his jaw. Whoever he had hunted that day had not gone quietly.

The Dark Lord looked at him with unmistakable pleasure.

“Draco,” he murmured, almost fondly, “take a seat. There is no need to apologise for serving properly.”

A skeletal hand gestured toward the empty chair beside Arianna. Only then did Draco look at her.

And for the first time all day, something in him twisted. She sat perfectly still, composed, wrapped in a white dress.

White.

Like a lamb led to slaughter. Like something pure placed deliberately among wolves. Draco’s jaw clenched. Arianna never wore white. Never. This had Voldemort written all over it. A statement. A provocation.

Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder in loose waves, her pale skin made even paler by the fabric. She looked unreal. Untouchable. Offered.

His stomach turned. He sat anyway.

“Good gracious, Draco,” Narcissa hissed sharply, pushing her napkin across the table toward him. “At least wipe the blood from your hands and face.”

Without ceremony, Draco dragged the cloth across his knuckles and cheek, smearing red into the linen, then dropped the stained napkin onto the table like an afterthought.

Arianna flicked her gaze to him for half a second. Then just as quickly, she looked away.

Amycus Carrow sat across from her, watching closely. Too closely. As if waiting for her to flinch. For disgust. Fear. Anything he could use. She gave him nothing. Her spine remained straight. Her hands folded loosely in her lap. Her expression serene, unreadable.

Draco felt it then. Not relief. Dread.

Because Arianna Avery did not sit quietly in white unless she was planning something dangerous.

The Dark Lord raised his glass with skeletal fingers.

“To our newest… guest,” he said smoothly. “Arianna Avery. And all she may yet teach us.”

The words were praise wrapped around a threat.

Arianna inclined her head, lifting her glass in return. Her smile was polite. Measured. Perfect. She wouldn’t teach him a single thing worth having. But she would let him believe she could.

“I was wondering,” she said lightly, voice carrying just enough curiosity to sound innocent, “why my father isn’t joining us this evening.”

Voldemort’s lips curved.

“Everett Avery is always welcome,” he replied. “But he is… occupied. An inventor’s mind never rests. Always calculating. Testing. Creating.” His red eyes gleamed. “You may wish to join him.”

Arianna lifted her brows, interest flickering across her face like a spark catching flame.

“I’d love that,” she said.

Narcissa’s hand found Arianna’s with a gentle squeeze, nails cool against her skin.

“That’s a wonderful idea, love,” Narcissa said softly. “I’ll show you to his quarters tomorrow, if you like.”

Arianna nodded graciously.

“Tell us,” Voldemort said suddenly, cutting through the clink of cutlery. His attention snapped back to her, absolute and suffocating. “What is the future like?”

The table seemed to still. Arianna inhaled slowly through her nose and lifted her chin.

“Different,” she answered. One word. Carefully chosen. “It’s chaotic,” she continued, voice calm, almost conversational. “Unstable. I can’t say much. The laws of time are… unforgiving. Every word spoken out of turn can shift something important.”

Her gaze flicked to him, soft and deliberate.

“We wouldn’t want you to get lost in such a shift,” she added sweetly. “Would we?”

For a long moment, Voldemort only watched her. He felt it. The weight of what she wasn’t saying. Secrets layered so deeply that pulling at them carelessly could tear the world sideways.

Finally, he smiled.

“Indeed,” he murmured. “We would not.”

He turned back to his plate as if the matter were settled. Bellatrix leaned closer to him at once, hanging on his every word, every breath.

Across the table, Draco didn’t touch his food. And Arianna Avery sat in white, smiling like a girl who had just placed the first piece on the board and was already planning the endgame.

Voldemort did not stop there. He tilted his head slightly, fingers idly circling the rim of his goblet, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

“Did you attend school in your time?” he asked mildly. “Or were you… educated otherwise?”

A harmless question. The most dangerous kind.

Arianna didn’t hesitate.

“I didn’t,” she replied evenly. “I was homeschooled. By my father. Until I was thrown into Hogwarts after I crossed back in time.”

The table went quiet again. Voldemort’s eyes gleamed. Not surprise. Not disbelief. Calculation.

Draco felt it instantly. He knew that look too well. If she had been taught by Everett Avery himself—if her magic had been shaped outside institutions, outside rules—then she wasn’t just talented. She was dangerous.

Voldemort could smell it on her. The shadows clinging to her magic. Old, deliberate, disciplined darkness.

Draco’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly where this line of thinking led.

Everett Avery had never been a harmless scholar. He had been a creator. An inventor of curses. A man who didn’t follow magic as it was taught, but as it could be bent. If Arianna had been trained by him, then Voldemort wouldn’t see a girl at his table. He would see a weapon. A future asset.BOr something to break open and claim.

But Voldemort didn’t press. Not yet.

He only hummed thoughtfully, lips curving as he lifted his glass again, eyes never quite leaving Arianna.

“Most interesting,” he said softly.

Draco kept his face blank. Because he knew this wasn’t the end of the questions.

It was only the beginning.

 

Relief washed over Draco when dinner finally dissolved.

He didn’t speak until they were back in his rooms, Arianna following one step behind him like a shadow that chose him. He locked the door, then warded it. Layer after layer. Silencing charms. Detection wards. Enchantments that bit back. Only then did he turn to her.

He cupped her face and kissed her like he’d been starving. Like the Manor had tried to choke the life out of him and she was air. She could still smell the blood on his clothes. Iron and smoke and death. She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know how much darkness he’d let in today.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes dragged over her white dress. His jaw tightened.

“I’d rather see you walking around in your watermelon-and-owl pyjamas than this,” he snarled, knuckles brushing the fabric. “You look like a sacrificial virgin.”

She smiled, soft and dangerous.

“Well. I don’t think I’d make a very good virgin.”

“Take it off,” he said at once, pushing the straps from her shoulders.

She turned her back to him, gathering her hair to one side.

“Would you mind?”

He didn’t hesitate. His fingers found the zipper, pulled it down in one smooth motion, and peeled the dress from her body. It pooled at her feet, white and useless.

“Don’t ever wear white again,” he said quietly, fingertips tracing her shoulder blades. “That’s not your colour, love.”

He stepped closer, pressed a kiss into her neck. She tilted her head, offering herself without fear.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered mockingly.

His arms slid up her thighs, over her hips, settling on her stomach as he pulled her back against him.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “I need to get you out of here.”

She turned in his arms and looped hers around his neck.

“Then I wouldn’t be here with you every night.”

“Arianna,” he said sharply. “I’m serious. You need a way out.”

She buried her fingers in his hair, tugged his head down just enough to make him look at her.

“I will,” she promised softly. “I’ll find one. It’s going to be fine.”

Then she kissed him before he could argue.

She stepped away and went to her bag, pulling out the pyjamas that immediately made him scowl.

“No. No, please—” he groaned.

She laughed, unfolding the blue fabric with stars and owls.

“You just said—”

“I know what I said,” he cut in. “And I take it back. Put them away or I’ll burn them.”

She dropped them onto the chair, still laughing, then climbed onto the bed and bounced into the centre. Turning, she curled a finger at him.

“Come on. You need sleep.”

He arched a brow as he walked toward her.

“Sleep?”

“Yes. Sleep. Right now, Malfoy.”

He tipped his head back, grinning at the ceiling.

“And there it is. The surname. No chance you’ll reconsider, Avery?”

She’d already pulled back the covers, sliding her feet underneath.

“Not a chance.”

He sighed, kicked off his shoes and clothes, and climbed in beside her. She curled into him immediately, warm and solid and real, and let out a long, content breath.

And for a moment, despite the Manor, the Dark Lord, and the future pressing in from every side, Draco allowed himself to close his eyes.

Chapter 52: The monster that wears his face

Arianna walked with Narcissa the following day to the conservatory.

Once, it had been a place where Narcissa nurtured plants and delicate herbs. Now it was something else entirely. Neat chaos. Purposeful madness. Desks had been arranged in a loose circle, each one dedicated to a different obsession.

One overflowed with parchment. Notes layered over notes, diagrams scribbled in the margins, ink blotted where ideas had come too fast. Another was crowded with books, spines cracked, pages half-open and heavily marked. A third held vials and pouches of dried herbs, some labeled, others not. One station was devoted entirely to distillation, a small cauldron bubbling softly beside glass coils and metal instruments. And at the last desk, hunched forward with unnatural focus, Everett Avery sat surrounded by split wands and exposed cores, delicate fibers drawn out like nerves.

“Everett, darling,” Narcissa called, raising her voice deliberately. “Your… daughter would like to see some of your work.”

He startled, jerking upright, then turned. When his eyes landed on Arianna, his expression softened instantly.

“Come in,” he said, already shoving a stack of parchment off a chair and pulling it toward her. “Have a seat.”

Narcissa looked between them, momentarily bewildered. Then she smiled, patted Arianna’s shoulder gently, and leaned in.

“I’ll give you two some space,” she murmured, before turning and sweeping from the conservatory, her robes whispering behind her. Arianna watched her go.

Being alone with him felt strange. Disorienting. She didn’t know what version of herself she was supposed to be here. Daughter. Stranger. Ghost.

Everett, however, looked delighted. He rested a hand on the back of the chair and nodded encouragingly. She sat.

“I just wanted to see what you’re working on,” Arianna said carefully.

“Of course you would,” he replied, already pulling another chair closer and dropping into it beside her.

He leaned forward, enthusiasm sharpening his features. “I’m attempting to put wand cores to use without a wand. Wandless magic was common in the old days. If you’re ever disarmed, it could save your life.”

She knew this. Years later, he would perfect it. He would teach her. Still, she wanted to see that pride in his eyes again.

Arianna lifted her hand and conjured a flame in her palm. Everett leaned closer, eyes alight.

“So I did teach you,” he murmured. “And you have excellent control.”

She closed her fist and extinguished the flame, then rose and crossed to the desk of broken wands.

“I know this work,” she said quietly, fingers brushing the splintered wood. “You said the core amplifies magic. You wanted to find a way to make it useful without the wand itself.”

He joined her, standing close.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Did I ever succeed?”

Her throat tightened. “You did.”

She rolled back the sleeve on her right arm. The scar was small. Pale. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Everett reached for her wrist, lifting it carefully, studying the mark with reverence.

“Did I… embed something into your skin?” he asked.

She nodded, eyes glassy.

“Dragon heartstring.”

He traced the scar with the lightest touch, as if expecting to feel something beneath it. What he felt instead was the hum of power in her veins. Dark. Alive.

He dropped his hand and stepped back.

“So,” he whispered, voice heavy, “I made you a weapon.”

“No.” Arianna shook her head firmly. “You made me a survivor. You taught me dark magic, yes. But you also taught me restraint.”

Everett exhaled slowly, studying her face.

“I think I know who your mother will be,” he said quietly. “I see her in you. The strength. The softness. The balance between light and darkness.” Her chin lifted. “Moraine Nott,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

Arianna’s fingers curled around her wrist. She hadn’t heard her mother’s name spoken aloud in years.

The realization struck her all at once. Family strings were never an issue worth speaking of. Most of them were dead anyway. Moraine Nott. Younger sister to Thaddeus Nott. Theo.

Everett chuckled softly.

“You have her hair,” he said. “And her beauty.”

Something in Arianna cracked.

Her mother was alive. Somewhere. Unaware of the daughter she would one day have.

Seeing Everett had been difficult. Seeing Moraine would destroy her.

“I need to go,” Arianna said abruptly. “Thank you for your time.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

She turned and left the conservatory, heart pounding, leaving Everett Avery staring after her with something dangerously close to concern in his eyes.

 

 

Draco was gone for days.

Arianna filled the time the only way she could. She wandered the Manor with careful familiarity. Read in the library until the candles burned low. Drank tea with Narcissa beneath polite conversation and unspoken dread. Learned which corridors belonged to the Dark Lord and avoided them instinctively.

And then Everett knocked on her door. She startled when she opened it.

“May I come in?” he asked, already gesturing toward the room.

Arianna hesitated, then stepped aside, dipping her head slightly.

No one came to Draco’s rooms. No one entered them. Ever.

Everett crossed the threshold and looked around with quiet curiosity. His gaze swept over the bed, neatly made. Over her clothes folded into Draco’s wardrobe, the door still ajar as if she’d been about to her dressed.

Finally, he looked at her. A smirk tugged at his mouth.

Arianna stood there in one of Draco’s shirts and her pyjama bottoms. Green. Dancing elves stitched across the fabric.

“You’re quite comfortable with him, aren’t you?” Everett asked mildly.

Arianna closed the door behind him and waited for the familiar click of wards settling into place before answering.

“I am.”

She shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have admitted it so easily. But Everett didn’t feel like a man who could be bought or threatened. And Merlin help her, he was her father. Even like this.

“You love him?” he asked, folding his arms as he studied her.

“No.” She lied.

Everett chuckled softly.

“You’re a terrible liar. Just like your mother,” he said. “That flicker to the right. Moraine always does that.”

Arianna wasn’t sure whether to be amused or unsettled.

“Don’t worry,” he added gently. “I’m not planning on telling him. I just need you to be very careful, sweetheart.”

The softness in his voice made something twist painfully in her chest.

For a moment she saw him as he would be. The man who would pull leaves from her hair when she came home muddy and wild. The one who called her his little lone wolf.

She wanted to trust him.

“I told the Dark Lord you’d be working with me for a while,” Everett continued. “So starting tomorrow, you’ll come down to the conservatory and… pretend.”

Arianna frowned, mirroring his crossed arms.

“Why?”

Everett inhaled deeply.

“Because you’re my daughter. Maybe not yet. But you will be.” His voice was steady, controlled. “And I don’t want you harmed. The best way to stay off his radar is to appear useful.”

She exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes slightly.

“And how exactly am I supposed to trust you?”

“You can’t,” he replied honestly. “That’s the risk. Call it a leap of faith if you like. It keeps you off the field and out of his rooms.”

His eyes didn’t scream deception. But Arianna had learned early. Especially from him. Trust was never free.

“And what would you have me do?” she asked.

“Simple things. Take notes. Observe. Assist.” He glanced back toward the bed. “Maybe we could talk.” Then, quieter, “And for the record, I don’t like you sharing a room with the Malfoy boy. He’s… dangerous.”

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“I’m aware of who and what he is,” she said calmly. “And just so we’re clear? I don’t trust you. I don’t feel loyalty toward you. But I do toward him.”

Everett nodded slowly, something dimming behind his eyes.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” He paused. “Then I suppose I’ll have to earn your trust. You’re a lone wolf in a nest full of snakes. A few allies could mean the difference between survival and death.”

He turned back toward the door. The words struck harder than she expected.

Lone wolf.

That had been his name for her. When she was small. When she came back scraped and bleeding and laughing anyway. It hurt more than she wanted to admit.

Everett opened the door, then glanced back with a faint, almost fatherly smile.

“Let’s hope he keeps his hands to himself and behaves around you,” he said, winking.

Arianna snorted despite herself.

Behave. Draco.

She closed the door after him and leaned back against it for a moment before sinking onto the bed, biting at her nails.

She wanted to trust him. She wanted more time.

But wanting had never kept anyone safe.

 

 

With little better to do, Arianna walked into the conservatory the following day.

And the day after that. And many days after.

What had begun as caution turned into routine. Routine into comfort. And before she noticed, into something dangerously close to peace.

Everett was brilliant. Sharp-minded, endlessly curious, his thoughts leaping three steps ahead even when his hands were still buried in parchment and vials. He laughed easily. Made dry remarks while scribbling notes. Never once asked her about the future. Not directly, not even by accident.

Instead, he asked about trivial things. Her favourite colour. What she liked to eat. Whether she preferred rain or sun. She answered honestly.

And every time, without fail, he would smile and say,

“That’s just so like your mother.”

It became a refrain. One that made her laugh and ache at the same time.

The days blurred into weeks. Draco came and went like a storm.

He returned from raids and hunts drenched in blood, reeking of smoke and death. He never spoke of what he’d done. Never explained the bruises, the crimson on his hands, the way his eyes seemed a shade duller every time he crossed the threshold.

Sometimes he stayed a night. Sometimes a single day. And then he was gone again.

When he was there, he was… different.

The cocky prince who smirked and teased was mostly gone. Appearing only in flickers, like a ghost of himself. Most days, he was quiet. Withdrawn. Hollowed out.

She watched the change happen slowly. Carefully. Like observing rot creep beneath a beautiful surface.

Until one evening he came home drugged beyond subtlety, eyes glassed over, movements loose and distant.

He didn’t even really look at her. That was when she grew afraid.

And then Fate shifted the board again.

She was summoned to the Dark Lord. At first, he seemed pleased. Asked about her work with Everett, about their progress. She answered carefully, every word measured.

“My father is a brilliant mind,” she said with a bright, obedient smile. “I’m sure by the end of the year, he’ll impress you with a few new curses.”

Voldemort smiled thinly.

“I look forward to it.” Then he leaned back, fingers steepled. “I thought perhaps you might like to accompany young Draco on his next raid. Show us some of your talents.”

Arianna tilted her head.

“A test?” she asked lightly.

“If you prefer to call it that, Miss Avery.” His eyes gleamed. “So? What do you say?”

Another test, then. She inclined her head, feigning gratitude.

“It would be my honour, my lord. I’d be delighted to go into the field.”

Voldemort clapped once, sharp and pleased.

“Then it’s settled. You will accompany him. Starting tomorrow.”

Draco was anything but delighted.

The moment the door to his room clicked shut and the wards slid into place, he began pacing. Slow, measured strides. His movements dulled by whatever he’d smoked earlier.

“That’s a very bad idea,” he snapped. “Why would you agree to that?”

Arianna stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed, unmoving.

“And what exactly would you have had me say?” she shot back. “No thank you, I’d rather hide upstairs and pretend I don’t exist? I didn’t have a choice.”

Draco stopped. Turned slowly.

“Choice?” His voice was quiet now. Dangerous. “Funny. Didn’t you tell me once that you always have a choice?”

The words landed like a slap. Cruel. Detached.

And for the first time in weeks, she saw something worse than darkness in him.

She saw distance.

 

 

Draco hadn’t slept in the bed that night. He sat instead in the armchair by the fire, jaw set, the smoke from his half-burnt cigarette curling through the still air. He brooded until the flames died and sleep finally took him like an ambush.

Arianna lay curled in the bed, eyes closed, pretending to sleep while her mind refused to rest. She tried to sort through the snarl of thoughts. The Dark Lord’s test, Draco’s distance, the feeling that something was cracking between them. At some point, exhaustion won.

When she woke, it was to Draco’s hand at her waist. The pressure was rough, impersonal.

“Get up,” he said flatly. “We need to pack. There’s a meeting before the raid.”

His tone was ice. Detached. He could’ve been speaking to a stranger. But he wasn’t. He was speaking to her.

And that, somehow, hurt more than any insult could have.

Arianna pushed herself up, blinking against the daylight bleeding through the curtains. Draco was already half dressed, buckling his belt, his eyes fixed anywhere but her.

She studied him in silence. The way he avoided her gaze. The way the once-careless boy she’d fallen for was gone. Replaced by something harder, colder, carved by too many deaths and too many orders obeyed.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t even seem to see her. And that was what made it unbearable.

He had always come back to her. To laughter, to warmth, to something human. She had been his haven. Now, she wasn’t sure if there was anything left in him to come back to.

 

The meeting was held in a small coastal cottage, weather-beaten and crooked, its windows darkened from the inside. Salt hung heavy in the air, mixing unpleasantly with old magic and impatience.

The usual suspects were there. Yaxley, pacing like a restless hound. The Carrow siblings, whispering and smirking in equal measure. And Barty Crouch Jr., leaning against the wall with that unnerving, too-wide grin, eyes glittering with barely contained excitement.

Draco and Arianna stood side by side, close enough to feel each other’s presence, distant enough to feel the fracture between them.

A scout stood near the table, tapping a map with a blunt finger.

“Bed and breakfast. Center of town,” he reported. “Sheltering fugitive Muggle-borns. We’re estimating around twenty-five inside at the moment. They’re planning to move them by boat at sunset tomorrow.” He glanced up. “So we take them tonight.”

Draco nodded once, already reaching for his pipe. He brought it to his lips, inhaled deeply. The sickly-sweet scent of nightshade bled into the room, clinging to him like a second skin.

Arianna’s jaw tightened.

The scout finished, the others murmured their approval, chairs scraping as they began to disperse into the night.

That was when she moved. She stepped in, swift and deliberate, and ripped the pipe from Draco’s hand in one smooth motion. Before he could react, it vanished into her pocket.

Draco froze. Then he turned slowly toward her, eyes sharp, voice low.

“What was that, Avery?”

She didn’t flinch.

“I’m keeping that,” she said calmly. “No time to argue, Malfoy. We’re moving.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face. Surprise, irritation, something darker. His fingers curled, empty now.

He leaned closer, voice barely above a breath. “You don’t get to decide that.”

She met his gaze evenly. “Watch me.”

Then she turned and followed the others out into the night, boots crunching against gravel, coat snapping in the coastal wind.

Behind her, Draco sighed, long, annoyed, and tired in a way that went deeper than anger.

And then he followed.

 

The little town lay silent beneath the cover of night.

Lanterns swayed gently along the street, their weak glow barely touching the cobblestones. Arianna snapped her fingers, and one by one the lights died. Darkness rolled in thick and heavy, swallowing them whole.

They moved toward the bed and breakfast the scouts had marked. A modest place. Curtains drawn. Windows dark. Everyone inside was asleep. Or pretending to be. Taking their last full breaths of peace before sunset came with boats and desperation.

Barty Crouch Jr. slipped up beside her, close enough that she could smell the sharp tang of his excitement. His tongue flicked against his lips, quick and reptilian.

“Ready to have some fun?” he asked brightly.

If she hadn’t hated him before, she did now.

This was what the Dark Lord wanted his soldiers to be. Cruel without purpose. Violent without necessity. A sickness that enjoyed the act more than the outcome. He didn’t kill to win wars. He killed because he liked the sound people made when they broke. And he had killed Draco once. She never forgot that.

“What’s the plan?” she asked instead, forcing her voice into neutrality, swallowing the bile climbing her throat.

Barty grinned wider. “We walk in and kill them all.”

Arianna gave a sharp nod. Nothing more.

Draco moved ahead of them, his stride loose, almost lazy. The ease of it was unsettling. As if he were crossing the Hogwarts grounds after dinner instead of stepping into slaughter. Darkness clung to him like a living thing, tearing and rippling around his form, answering his presence.

He kicked the door open without hesitation. The first scream split the night. Spells flashed wildly from inside, panicked and unfocused. Draco deflected them with practiced ease, smiling as he stepped through the doorway.

Arianna followed. The room was full. Old men scrambling from chairs. Women clutching each other. Teenagers frozen in place. Children half-awake, blinking into terror they didn’t understand yet.

Her breath hitched. Draco didn’t.

He and Barty unleashed curses without pause, without mercy. Green and red light tore through the room, bodies dropping where they stood. Screams cut off mid-breath.

Arianna stood there, heart sinking, watching as the monster of the war walked the earth wearing the face of the boy she loved.

And for the first time, she understood something she hadn’t wanted to before.

This darkness wasn’t borrowed.

It was home.

Chapter 53: When love becomes a curse

In the frenzy, Arianna raised her wand and fired. Not at people. At walls. Curses tore into banisters, scorched through plaster, shattered chairs into splinters. The room filled with smoke and noise and chaos. Participation. Plausible violence. And between every blast, she moved.

One child at a time. A hand grabbed. A whispered word. A sharp twist of magic. Poof. Gone.

She didn’t look where they landed. Somewhere far. Somewhere loud. Somewhere with streets and crowds and a chance to disappear. She only hoped they would run. They were too young to understand what was happening. Too young to remember faces clearly. She would not let their deaths settle on his conscience.

Once Draco came back to himself, once the fog lifted and the drugs wore thin, he would break under that weight. She knew him too well.

A scream cut through the night.

“Resistance! Rebels incoming!”

Arianna closed her eyes for half a second.

“Ah. Fuck.”

Outside, spells lit up the shoreline.

Small boats scraped against the sand as figures leapt out, already firing. The resistance. Later they would give themselves a name. Right now they were just desperate people with wands and hope.

Barty Crouch Jr. laughed, delighted, flipping his wand with theatrical glee as someone dropped dead in front of him.

Draco didn’t laugh. He was worse.

His curses weren’t meant to kill cleanly. They tore. Sliced. Ripped bodies apart like meat under a blade. That was why they whispered his name. Why they called him the monster. Why he was always drenched in blood when he came home.

Arianna watched it all. Limbs skidded across the ground. Blood pooled in the sand. Screams broke and ended. Death stacked on death on death. And Draco stood at the center of it.

She fired again. Wide arcs. Destructive, unfocused. Enough to sell the role. Enough to keep eyes off her hands when they trembled.

When the last surviving rebels fled back into the boats and vanished into the dark water, silence crashed down all at once.

Arianna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Draco passed her without looking.

“It’s done,” he said flatly. “Time to go back.”

Back. Not home.

She wiped her face with both palms, smearing ash and sweat across her skin. She had read the reports. Studied the accounts. Knew what he would become. But reading about a monster and standing beside one were two very different things.

The horror in her chest made breathing difficult. Darkness was swallowing him piece by piece. And she didn’t know how to pull him out.

 

 

As always, Draco reported to the Dark Lord. Afterward, he took Arianna up to his room and stopped speaking altogether.

She watched him in silence, trying to understand which version of him she was standing beside now. She wondered if he felt the deaths he had been responsible for. If the quiet was guilt settling into his bones.

But he didn’t look guilty. He looked bored. Annoyed. Tired.

He stripped off his blood-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower without a word. She followed.

For a moment she only watched him. The way he stood beneath the spray, unmoving, as if the water was just another inconvenience. Blood and soot slid off his skin, spiraling down the drain in muddy red ribbons.

She needed to try. Anything.

She stepped out of her clothes and joined him, took a washcloth and began to wipe down his back.

He tensed instantly. Didn’t turn around. His head tilted slightly, eyes flicking toward her from the corner of his vision.

“Why are you doing this, Avery?” he asked quietly.

“What exactly?” she replied, continuing to wash his shoulders.

“Staying,” he said.

The word landed heavier than it should have.

There it was. The smallest crack. A flicker of something real beneath the drugs and the Occlumency. Not gone. Just buried deep.

She dropped the cloth. It hit the tile with a dull sound.

“Because I love you, Draco Malfoy,” she said simply. “And I won’t leave you.”

She wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades. He dropped his chin to his chest, staring down at her hands against his skin as if he didn’t recognize them.

“I don’t deserve your love,” he whispered. “Or anything you have to give.”

He’d been here before. That place where he convinced himself he was beyond saving. And maybe he was right. But Arianna had seen everything. The blood. The cruelty. The bodies.

And she still loved him.

“And I give it anyway,” she whispered, holding on like if she let go he would disappear entirely.

“Then you’re a lost cause too,” he muttered.

She pulled back, forced him to turn, caught his face in her hands. His eyes were still grey. Distant. She missed the blue. Missed him.

“In war, everyone is forced to look at their darkness,” she said quietly. “Giving in doesn’t make you evil. And I will never believe you are that monster.”

Draco exhaled slowly. She was light. The kind that hurt to look at when you’d lived too long in shadow. Bright. Alive. Everything he believed he didn’t deserve.

Because he was dark. Because he didn’t think he could be saved.

She hugged him anyway. Kissed him softly. And told him she loved him all the same.

 

 

Arianna went on many more missions with Draco. She watched him sink. There was nothing dramatic about it. No single moment where he crossed a line and shattered. Just a slow erosion. Each raid scraped something off him until there was less and less left to touch.

He stopped speaking to her. Stopped brushing past her in hallways. Stopped sharing a bed. Eventually, he stopped looking at her at all.

One morning she sat on the cold bathroom floor and cried. He woke to the sound of it.

For a heartbeat, he just stood there. She saw it in his face. Pain. Real and sharp, flashing through the fog like a dying spark. Then he dipped his head. And left.

Didn’t ask why. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t say a word. That was when she knew.

She was losing him.

No.

She already had.

 

 

The mission that followed was different. They weren’t the hunters this time. They were ambushed. Rebels poured in from the tree line, curses screaming through the air. And then reality tore itself open again.

Time cracked.

The Time Division snapped into existence in blinding arcs of magic, boots hitting the ground in perfect formation.

“Arianna Avery!” Corban’s voice rang out across the battlefield. “Enough. Surrender yourself. This ends now.”

She didn’t have time to look for Draco.

She fought on instinct, muscle memory taking over. A curse severed a man’s wand arm clean off. It hit the ground with a wet thud. His screams ripped through the chaos.

“I can’t,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Corban advanced, wand slicing a path through the fighting.

“I have authorization to kill you on sight, Arianna.”

Her blood went cold. Kill on sight. That was new. And bad.

Before Corban could raise his wand again, a body moved in front of her.

Draco.

“Don’t even try,” he hissed, magic flaring around him like a living thing.

Her heart slammed into her ribs. After weeks of absence, of silence, of loss, there he was. Shielding her with his body.

Corban laughed. “I suppose killing you as well wouldn’t be a tragedy. Monster of the war.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Draco replied, smirk sharp and dangerous.

Arianna didn’t wait. She sprinted forward, palm outstretched. Fire erupted.

Fiendfyre tore from her hand, wild and untamed, devouring the ground between them. A wall of living flame rose, screaming and snapping, forcing Corban back.

“You can’t run forever, Avery!” his voice echoed through the fire.

Draco grabbed her and Disapparated.

Malfoy Manor swallowed them whole.

In the entry hall, Draco released her and raised a finger.

“I’ll report,” he said flatly. “You go upstairs. Wait for me.”

Then he turned and walked away. She stood there, shaking, breath ragged, staring at the space he’d vanished from.

And then Narcissa stepped out of the shadows.

“Come,” she said gently, hands warm on Arianna’s shoulders. “You’ve had enough for today.”

Arianna didn’t resist. Narcissa guided her upstairs, into Draco’s room, sat her down on the edge of the bed.

Then the Lady of Malfoy Manor knelt in front of her. She took Arianna’s hands in hers, pressing them together as if anchoring her to the world.

“Listen to me,” Narcissa whispered. “My son was never meant for this darkness. You are different. You can withstand it. Your father taught you how.” Her voice broke. “But Draco…” she swallowed. “He is hollowed out by what he’s done. And darkness feeds on guilt until there is nothing left but emptiness.”

Arianna looked down at her. This woman of silk and steel. Reduced to a mother begging.

“I tried,” Arianna sobbed. “I really did. I don’t think I can reach him anymore. He’s too far gone.”

The truth hurt more than any curse. Narcissa’s fingers tightened around hers.

“Please,” she whispered. “Try one more time. If not you… then there is no one.”

She stood, smoothed her dress, wiped beneath her eyes. The softness vanished. Occlumency snapped into place like armor.

A Malfoy again.

Arianna sat alone on the bed, hands shaking.

And for the first time since she’d crossed time itself, she wondered if love was no longer enough to save him.

 

 

Arianna paced the room, fingers twisting together until they hurt.

When Draco finally entered, she stopped dead. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at her for more than a second. Just brushed past her and went straight to the window, pulling the nightshade pipe from his pocket.

Something in her snapped. She crossed the room in three strides, ripped the pipe from his hand, and flung it into the corner.

“No,” she shouted. “You do not get to drown yourself in drugs anymore. I’m done. I’ve had enough of this.”

He turned slowly, expression lazy, distant.

“I tried,” she went on, voice shaking with fury. “Merlin, I tried. I loved you through all of it. Through the blood, the monsters, everything you’ve done. And now you decide. Right now. You’re either with me… or you’re not.”

Draco tilted his head, lips curling into a faint, amused smirk.

“Then maybe,” he said calmly, “you should just stop.”

The words hit harder than a curse.

She sucked in a breath. “Stop?” Her voice cracked. “I did everything for you. I pulled you back again and again. I stayed. I listened. I fought. I bled for you.”

“I never asked you to,” he replied. No anger. No regret. Just bored honesty.

“Is this about you thinking you’re undeserving again?” she snapped.

He shook his head once.

“No, Avery. This is me not being the boy from school anymore. I’m not the prince of Slytherin. I’m the monster of the war.” His eyes were cold. “You knew what I would become and stayed anyway. Don’t blame me because you thought you could outplay fate.”

She staggered back like he’d struck her.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

“I do,” he said flatly. “I stayed away. I let you go with Blaise. You’re the one who kept chasing me. There’s nothing left to save. Accept it.”

Her chest tightened painfully.

“Maybe you’re right,” she cried, anger and grief tearing free at once. “Maybe I pushed too hard. Tried too much. Maybe I should’ve left the day I told you I loved you and you didn’t even bother to say it back.”

She knew he loved her. She knew it in her bones. Somewhere buried beneath all that darkness, he still did. He didn’t deny it.

“You should have,” he said.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

“This is your last chance,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Give me one reason to stay. Just one.”

He crossed his arms.

“There isn’t one.” Her breath stuttered. “I don’t care if you’re here or not.”

She turned away, hands in her hair, laughing hollowly through tears.

“I’ve watched you die over and over again,” she said quietly. “I thought that was the worst thing fate could do to me. I was wrong. This is.”

She faced him again. The distance between them felt final now.

“I never asked you for anything,” he said, voice sharp with cruelty. “I never made any promises. And I sure as fuck don’t need you crying over the things I’ve done. I don’t need your pity. Or your love.” He inhaled once. “I don’t need you.”

Something inside her finally collapsed.

“This is my fault,” she whispered. “I was never meant to have you. Only to keep you alive.”

He stepped closer, smiling faintly.

“And you did,” he said. “I’ll live. Broken. Dark. Exactly as I am. You’ve done your job. Maybe it’s time you leave.”

That was it. She couldn't take it anymore.

She grabbed her jacket and left without another word. She didn’t look back.

The gardens at Blaise’s estate were silent when she arrived. She fell to her knees at the base of the willow, hands shaking as she dug into the earth.

When her fingers closed around the metal, she sobbed.

This was the last time. She wiped her face with trembling hands. Clicked the dial.

And disappeared.

Chapter 54: A hope that refuses to die

Notes:

This chapter has been written with the song: three worlds by max Richter

Arianna stood in front of the Ministry, rain pouring down in cold, relentless sheets.

She felt hollow.

Not panicked. Not frantic. Just empty. Like something vital had already been taken from her and the rest of her hadn’t realized it yet.

Her lips parted as she exhaled slowly, breath fogging in the rain. She looked around exhausted. 

The doors burst open.

Time Division agents flooded the steps, boots splashing through puddles as they circled her with wands raised. Shouts echoed. Orders barked.

She didn’t move. Didn’t run. She sank to her knees and lifted her hands, palms open to the sky. Surrendering. 

Darren Corban stepped forward, confusion flickering across his sharp features.

“What trick of yours is this?” he demanded.

Arianna swallowed.

“I’ve had enough,” she said quietly. Her voice didn’t shake. Her heartbeat was steady. “I surrender to the authority of the Ministry.”

She expected triumph. A smile. A sneer. Vindication.

Instead, Corban looked at her like he was staring at something already broken.

He crossed the street slowly, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, and stopped in front of her. Then, to her surprise, he knelt. From his coat he drew a small syringe.

“I never liked you,” he murmured, not unkindly. “But I am sorry for what you’ve been through.” His voice softened just a fraction. “In the end… you’re just a girl of seventeen.”

She didn’t respond. There were no words left in her.

The rain washed down her face, mingling with the tear she didn’t bother to wipe away. The needle pierced the skin at her neck.

She gasped as the suppressant flooded her veins, magic dimming instantly. Not ripped away violently. Just… fading. Like a flame starved of oxygen.ahe closed her eyes, welcoming the silence. 

The world blurred.

The last thing she saw was Draco. Not as he was now. But as he had been once. Smiling at her.

Her chest ached. Her heart shattered. Her will followed.

She sagged sideways as sleep dragged her under. Corban caught her before she hit the ground. He removed the wand from her pocket, tossed it to another agent without ceremony, then lifted her carefully into his arms.

She didn’t go to Azkaban. She was taken somewhere else.

A prison built for time criminals. Rows of cells filled with people who had tried to rewrite history. Some for power. Some for wealth. Some for glory.

Only a few for love.

Corban laid her down on a cold metal slab, pulled a threadbare blanket over her shoulders, and tucked it around her like she was a child.

A small kindness. One she would never remember.

But he had watched her across timelines. Through fractures and collapses of history. He understood what love could make someone do. The lengths she had gone to save him.

And the brutal truth that, in the end… She hadn’t.

 

 

Arianna sat against the cold stone wall, one knee drawn to her chest, her elbow resting on it as her fingers pressed to her temple. After a while she let her head fall back, the stone biting into her skull.

She hadn’t spoken in days.

They had tried. Repeatedly. Corban came sometimes, always with the same measured voice, explaining that her actions were being reviewed. That every deviation, every interference, every fixed point she had touched would be catalogued and judged. A full report. A proper punishment.

She already knew the verdict. Execution.

Not because they hated her, but because what she had done was unforgivable by design. Time did not tolerate sentiment. Love did not count as mitigation.

She didn’t care. She had lived more than one lifetime in fourteen months of stolen time. She had watched people die again and again. Had loved those long dead and lost those who were still breathing. She had burned herself hollow keeping one boy alive. There was nothing left to save.

When Corban came to her cell that day, he stopped short.

The girl who once spat venom and defied gods was gone. What remained was fragile in a way that made even him hesitate. Her cheeks were raw and scratched where she clawed at herself in sleep. Her hair hung dull and tangled around her face, stripped of all former softness.

But it was her eyes that unsettled him.

The stormy blue was gone. In its place sat something dark, emptied out, as if the world had already ended behind them.

“Avery,” Corban said quietly, “you need to tell me where you hid the Time Turner. It has to be returned to the Ministry and secured.”

He had asked her this many times. She had never answered. This time, she smiled. Not gently. Not bitterly. Like a lunatic.

“The Time Turner?” she asked, her voice hoarse, scraped raw from disuse.

“Yes,” Corban said. “The device you used.”

She laughed. It was hollow, emotionless, and carried no humor at all. Then she tipped her head back, staring at the bare stone ceiling, at the slow drip of water hanging there like suspended seconds.

“I broke it,” she croaked. “Crushed it into a million pieces and scattered them in the limbo.” Her smile widened. “Have it back, you fuckers. And be satisfied.”

Corban followed her gaze instinctively, looking for something that wasn’t there.

That was when he realized she wasn’t talking to him.

“I think you’ve lost your mind, girl,” he murmured, not unkindly. “Somewhere between the jumps.”

She looked back at him then. Straight. Cold.

“I lost everything on the way,” she said evenly. “There’s nothing left you could do to me that I would care about.”

As she spoke, Corban noticed it again. The darkness. Even with her magic suppressed daily, even drained to the edge of nothing, something still curled at her fingertips. Not power. Not spellwork. Residue.

It made his skin prickle.

“So you’re saying the device is destroyed,” he said carefully.

She nodded, lips curling.

“No going back,” she sang softly, as if it amused her.

Then the smile vanished. Her face went slack, empty, and her gaze slid past him to the bars behind his shoulder.

“You can go now, Corban,” she said.

Dismissive. Final.

He stood there for a moment longer, searching her face for something he could no longer find. Then he sighed and turned away, the cell door sealing behind him with a dull, metallic thud.

Arianna didn’t move. Time, at last, had her exactly where it wanted her.

 

 

A few days later, the cell door opened again.

Tara stood in the doorway with a tray of food clutched in her hands. She was shaking so badly the glass rattled against the metal, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

“Ri?” she whispered.

Arianna didn’t look up. Tara stepped inside, set the tray down with trembling fingers, and dropped to her knees in front of her. She reached out, taking Arianna’s cold hands in hers.

“Arianna,” she begged softly. “Please. Look at me.”

Slowly, Arianna lifted her gaze. She smiled. It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t relief. It was the kind of smile people wore when they were already gone.

“So that’s what they’re doing now?” she murmured, voice cracked and thin. “Sending you in here to punish me? Break me? Tell them it won’t work.”

Her lips were pale and split, cracked from dehydration. Her face looked sharper than Tara remembered, like hunger had carved her down to bone and shadow.

Tara broke. Tears spilled freely as she squeezed Arianna’s hands harder.

“Arianna, please. This isn’t the end. We can still fight.”

That, finally, made Arianna tilt her head.

“Fight what?” she asked, flat and empty.

Tara leaned closer, desperate.

“You had fourteen months with him,” she said, voice shaking. “Fourteen months with a boy who should be dead long ago. Isn’t that… isn’t that enough to keep going? We can find a way. I don’t know how yet, but—there has to be something. Life has more to offer than this.”

Arianna exhaled through her nose, a hollow breath that held no bitterness. Just truth.

“Life never offered me much,” she said quietly. “It took everything from me again and again. Until I found him. And he became the air I breathed.”

Her eyes flickered, just once.

“I failed,” she continued. “There’s nothing left for me. And even if there were, they’d never let me walk free.”

Tara sat down beside her, heart pounding.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered fiercely. “You’re stronger than this. Smarter. I can testify. I can look for similar cases. Maybe—maybe I can convince them you’re not a threat.”

Arianna lifted a shaky hand.

“Stop,” she said. Tara fell silent. “I don’t want to be saved,” Arianna whispered. “I deserve this.”

That was when Tara knew.

This wasn’t Arianna anymore. Not really. It was like she had left herself behind in 1997 and never made it back. What sat beside her now was only the shell. Quiet. Hollow. Done.

There was nothing left to fight.

Still, Tara reached for the tray, hands shaking as she held out a piece of dry bread.

“Please,” she begged. “At least eat something.”

Arianna shook her head, barely perceptible, eyes fixed on the bars ahead of her.

Tara stood slowly. She wiped her face, straightened her spine, and looked down at her best friend one last time.

“I love you, Arianna,” she said, voice steady despite the tears. “And I will not stand by and let them take you.”

A promise. Arianna didn’t turn.  She lifted her brows slightly, a faint, familiar smirk touching her lips. A ghost of Draco, borrowed and empty.

“Love isn’t enough,” she said softly. “And never make promises you can’t keep.”

Tara left the cell shaking, heart splintering with every step.

Arianna Avery was finally broken. No rage. No defiance. Just silence.

And she didn’t care anymore.

 

 

Another day passed. Or two. In those cells, time didn’t move. It dissolved. There was only darkness and the slow ache of existing inside it.

When Corban entered, Arianna didn’t react.

She sat exactly as she had before. One knee drawn up, spine straight against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might eventually answer her.

“How are we today, Avery?” Corban asked.

No response.

He sighed, then stepped closer, unfolding a single sheet of paper.

“Thought this might make you talk,” he said quietly. “Or at least brighten your day.”

He pressed the paper into her fingers. She looked at it only because her hand was already there.

No picture. Just text. Official. Final.

Draco Malfoy has testified that he was acting under threat to his life and the lives of his parents. He reports extended exposure to the Imperius Curse and prolonged drug-induced compliance. He does not retain full memory of his actions during the war.

Malfoy assisted Harry Potter in the defeat of the Dark Lord and has been granted a full pardon.

He remains confined to Malfoy Manor indefinitely. He is barred from employment, public office, and social contact with former Death Eaters. He will remain under supervision until death.

Arianna’s breath caught sharply. Alive. Of course he was alive. Because she was.

And then the weight of it landed. Heavy. Merciless.

If she died, whatever protection bound them together would break. He would be alone again. Vulnerable. Hated. A symbol people would gladly tear apart if given the chance.

“He’s alive,” she whispered.

“He is,” Corban said. “I assume that’s thanks to you.”

He couldn’t know. Not really. He couldn’t know how many times Draco had died before this. How many endings she had watched unravel.

Arianna smiled. It wasn’t joy. It was relief so deep it hurt.

In the end, she hadn’t failed. Leaving him had saved him.

“Does he…” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “Does he have a wife? A life?”

Corban shook his head.

“No. He never married. Never even tried. He’ll die the last Malfoy.” He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “And likely sooner than expected. He's very sick.”

Her heart skipped.

“Sick?” she asked.

Corban nodded.

“Yes. Years of nightshade use destroyed his body. He can no longer walk unassisted. His magic is unstable. His hands shake too badly to cast.” A beat. “I believe that’s why they spared him,” Corban continued. “They decided this life would be crueler than execution.”

He took the paper back from her numb fingers and stepped away.

“So,” he said, watching her closely, “you ensured he lived. And now you’ll die for it. Do you think that’s fair?”

Arianna pressed her cracked lips together. She didn’t answer.

Corban left. And for the first time since she had surrendered, her mind broke its stillness.

Spiraling. Because Draco was alive. Because he was suffering. Because she wasn’t there.

And because love, apparently, had done exactly what it always did.

It saved one person. And destroyed the other.

Chapter 55: What remains when she's gone

Draco watched Arianna leave through the window.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t call her name. Didn’t stop her.

He stepped back instead and let her go, convincing himself it was necessary. That it was safer. 

As the days passed, her absence began to press in on him. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just there. In the quiet moments. In the spaces she used to fill without trying.

The Dark Lord noticed.

“Your little prodigy seems to have vanished,” Voldemort said mildly, fingers stroking Nagini’s scales. “Care to explain?”

“She ran off,” Draco replied easily. Too easily. “Just a girl throwing a tantrum. We’ll find her again.”

She had been his responsibility. So he was punished.

Hours of Crucio left him on the stone floor, gasping, vision swimming. When it finally stopped, his hand shook so violently he couldn’t even curl his fingers around his wand. The tremor was worse than anything before. Uncontrollable. Relentless.

With her gone, there was nothing to steady him.

So he smoked. Nightshade burned his lungs raw as he dragged it in again and again, chasing numbness. The tremor dulled, returned, dulled again. His chest seized. He coughed, blood speckling his lips, his palm, the sleeve of his shirt.

This was bad. So he smoked more.

Anything to make it stop. Anything to forget the way the room felt emptier without her in it.

After a week, he joined the hunt. He searched fields he knew were empty. Questioned people who knew nothing. Went through the motions because standing still meant thinking, and thinking meant admitting she wasn’t coming back.

After two weeks, he slipped away from the others and went where he hadn’t wanted to go.

Blaise’s estate.

Theo was already outside, arms crossed tight over his chest, face pale and drawn. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“Is she here?” Draco asked.

Theo’s mouth twisted.

“Why?” he shot back. “Didn’t you send her away?”

Draco inhaled through his nose, forcing composure.

“I did.”

Theo’s restraint snapped.

“Then why are you looking for her now?” he snapped, stepping down onto the gravel. “You wanted her gone. Now she is. And you will never find her.”

Draco didn’t argue. He deserved every word.

“Where did she go?” he asked quietly.

Theo straightened, eyes burning.

“Somewhere you can't follow, Draco. The Time Turner she buried under the willow?” His voice shook with barely restrained fury. “She dug it up. It’s gone. She’s gone. What do you think that means?”

The world tilted.

“She took it,” Draco whispered.

“Yes,” Theo spat. “She did. That’s on you.”

He stepped closer, voice low and lethal.

“She was the only light in your darkness. And you crushed it. Now live with that.”

Theo turned and slammed the door behind him. Once, he had been Draco’s best friend. But loyalties shifted. Theo had chosen Arianna. Every time.

Draco stood alone on the path, hands clenched at his sides, chest burning. He threw his head back and screamed into the empty sky.

“FUCK!”

He had done this. He had pushed her until she left, and now she was beyond his reach. Beyond this time. Beyond him.

At least she would be safe, he told himself. Unburdened by his darkness. Unharmed by what he was becoming.

 

Draco returned to the Manor and told himself everything was fine.

They would give up the chase eventually. They always did. He would take the punishment. He always had. And she would be safe.

Wouldn’t she?

Arianna was clever. Smarter than most of them. She had outrun the Time Division before. More than once. If anyone could vanish completely, it was her.

She hadn’t taken any of her things. He gathered them all anyway. Shirts. Books. Little objects that didn’t belong in Malfoy Manor. He shoved them into a box and kicked it under his bed with unnecessary force.

But the pillows still smelled like her. Magnolia. Roses. Something warm that didn’t belong to him or this house.

So he threw them out and demanded new ones.

The next morning, steam from the shower fogged the bathroom mirror. As the glass clouded over, letters emerged like a cruel trick of memory.

See you tonight, xoxo.

His jaw tightened. She’d written it on one of those days she went to the conservatory to work with her father. Casual. Affectionate. Certain she would come back.

He wiped the words away with his palm. It wasn’t enough. He slammed his fist into the mirror.

Glass shattered, raining into the basin in glittering fragments. He leaned forward, gripping the porcelain edge until his knuckles blanched, until blood welled where the skin split.

He exhaled slowly. Forced the tremor down.

Back in his room, he yanked open drawers, searching for a cloth.

“Damn woman,” he muttered, irritation spiking. “Always turning everything upside down.”

Arianna had made a habit of rearranging his things. At first, just to irritate him. Later, because she’d grown bored. Because she’d felt at home.

He opened another drawer. Something fell. Green socks. Watermelons stitched across the fabric. The ones he hated. He picked them up, fisting them hard.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he snarled.

He dragged the box out from under the bed and threw the socks inside. Then he froze, staring down at the contents.

Remnants. That was all that was left of the girl who had once been his silence. Now there was only noise. Thoughts that wouldn’t settle. Voices that never stopped.

“Fuck you, Arianna,” he whispered, dropping onto the edge of the bed.

She was everywhere. In the air. In the room. In the spaces between his thoughts. A ghost that refused to leave a house already haunted.

And he hated her for it.

 

 

Blaise walked into Draco’s room and stopped short. Draco was sprawled across the bed, one arm dangling uselessly over the edge, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The nightshade pipe trembled in his fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He looked awful. Not dramatic-awful. Not brooding-prince awful. Half-dead awful.

Dark hollows carved deep beneath his eyes, skin pallid to the point of translucence. He looked emptied out. Like something had taken everything worth keeping and left the body behind out of spite.

An addict waiting for the next hit.

Blaise slid his hands into his pockets and moved closer, surveying the damage.

Draco groaned when he noticed him.

“Fuck,” Blaise muttered. “This is a bit dramatic. Even for you.” He nudged Draco’s leg with his boot. Hard. “Get the fuck up. Accept it. And continue.”

Draco dragged a hand over his face. His reactions were slow. Too slow. Breathing heavy, vision blurred, every movement delayed by obscene amounts of nightshade coursing through his system. No one should have smoked that much in such a short time.

He had anyway. He’d hoped it would kill him. Then he’d remembered. He couldn’t die.

A lesser man would have been dead hours ago. Anyone else would have overdosed, lungs collapsed, heart given out quietly in the dark.

But Draco Malfoy was bound by soul magic to a girl he had pushed away.

So he lived. The realization made him furious.

“She took the choice from me,” he muttered hoarsely.

Blaise tilted his head. “You trying to die?”

Draco laughed once. It sounded wrong. Empty.

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to.” He forced himself upright, immediately swaying as the room lurched. “Pointless. All of it.”

“Christ,” Blaise said flatly. “You’re pathetic.”

He walked to the nightstand, picking up one of the splintered, overused pipes and turning it between his fingers.

“Never took you for the type to rot over a girl you dumped.”

“I didn’t dump her,” Draco snapped, wiping at his mouth.

Blaise raised a brow. “You absolutely did. From what I hear, you were a real bastard about it.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “Who told you that?”

“She did. Not to me.” Blaise set the pipe down with a sharp clink. “She told Theo. They kind of bonded. He told me.” He looked back at Draco, unimpressed. “So yes. You played the monster. She left. And now you’re sulking.”

Draco stood too fast.

The world tilted violently. He grabbed the bedpost to keep from collapsing, pinching the bridge of his nose as nausea rolled through him. His hand began to shake again. Not a tremor. A spasm. Sharp and uncontrollable. He clenched it into a fist, barely managing.

“Fuck off, Blaise,” he spat. “Why are you even here?”

Blaise didn’t rise to it. He just watched him. Really watched.

“You’re spiraling,” he said quietly. “I know you can’t die. But you keep trying anyway. That’s not dramatic. That’s sick.”

Draco said nothing. Because Blaise was right. He couldn’t stop.

Death would have been mercy. But mercy had been taken from him.

Now all that was left was living. As a weapon. A pawn. A nightmare that wouldn’t end.

With no exit. And no Arianna.

Not for a very long time. 

Chapter 56: All we do is wait

Arianna rolled a fragment of stone between her fingers. A cracked shard of tile from the wall she had kicked and cursed too many times to count. The edges were sharp. She welcomed it.

A rush of air lifted her sticky hair from her neck. And then she was no longer alone.

A woman sat before her. Ethereal. Familiar. Impossible. Long white hair cascaded over a gown that looked as if it were made from shattered glass and diamonds, catching light that did not exist. Her eyes shifted color in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Silver. Blue. Gold. Shadow.

“Deviation?” Arianna croaked, her voice rough from disuse.

The goddess nodded, sorrow softening her expression. She leaned forward and brushed Arianna’s hair back with reverent fingers.

“My poor child,” Deviation whispered. “Life has not been kind to you.”

Arianna let out a dry chuckle.

“You mean your brothers haven’t.”

Deviation did not deny it. Strangely, fear never came. No awe either. Only a quiet calm, the kind Arianna hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“Why me?” Arianna asked, her brow knitting. “Why not anyone else?”

Deviation smiled then, and it was not cruel. It was almost… proud. Her fingers traced Arianna’s jaw, gentle as a benediction.

“Because you can bear it,” she said softly. “The pain. The loss. The repetition of failure. Your love is fierce, unrelenting. It made even me hesitate.” She leaned back, studying her. “I have watched countless humans love and break and fade. Some burned brightly. Some quietly. A few defied us for a time.” Her eyes gleamed. “But you, Arianna Avery… you surpassed them all. You defied my brothers again and again.”

Arianna straightened, dropping her foot to the stone floor with a dull thud.

“So what is this?” she asked sharply. “Are you here to erase me?”

Deviation laughed softly, covering her mouth with pale fingers.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

The words settled heavy.

“I cannot allow you to die,” Deviation continued. “Your death would place him at risk. And that… my brothers will not tolerate.”

Arianna frowned. “So you’re saving me?”

Deviation shook her head, slow and deliberate.

“No. You do not need saving.” Her gaze softened. “You need hope. Just enough to endure.”

Arianna barked out a hollow laugh and dragged a hand through her hair.

“Hope?” she scoffed. “Hope is gone. I left it behind decades ago.”

Deviation’s smile did not waver. She reached out and pressed two fingers lightly over Arianna’s heart.

“There is fire here,” she said quietly. “It sleeps now, but it cannot be extinguished. You will forgive the cruelest things for love again. You always do.”

Then her expression sharpened. Just a fraction.

“But remember,” Deviation warned, rising to her feet, her gown chiming softly. “There are fates worse than death. If you fracture time so carelessly again, I will come for you myself.”

Her gaze lingered, almost regretful.

“I truly hope that day never comes.”

The wind surged once more. And she was gone.

Arianna wasn’t sure if the goddess had ever truly been there. She leaned back against the cold stone and drew in a slow, steady breath. Peace came gently. Not joy. Not happiness. Just quiet.

Sunlight. Wide meadows. Endless skies. A mercy. Arianna closed her eyes and let it wash over her, accepting this small kindness from a goddess who should have erased her long ago.

 

31.12.1997

Draco Malfoy wasn’t coping very well since Arianna went missing.

Everyone noticed. Even the Dark Lord. But he still functioned. Still fulfilled his duties. Still smoked himself into numb obedience and sealed his mind shut with ruthless occlumency. Darkness fed on him gladly. He didn’t resist it anymore.

On New Year’s Eve, Blaise watched him from the terrace as fireworks ignited the sky.

“You look dead, my friend,” Blaise murmured, stepping closer.

Draco tilted his head back, eyes following the explosions of colour tearing through the night.

Something was wrong. No. Someone. Arianna should have been here. With him.

A year ago, on this exact night, she had told him she loved him. The memory was sharp. Untouched by time. Her voice, her eyes, the way she had said it like it terrified her and thrilled her all at once.

His fingers trembled. He missed everything. Her scent. The warmth of her skin. The softness he pretended not to need. Her laugh. Even the ridiculous pyjamas he still kept hidden under his bed like a secret he refused to bury.

“Still missing her?” Blaise asked quietly. He already knew the answer.

Draco didn’t look at him.

“It’s like a madness that can’t be cured,” he said flatly. “Like a curse that keeps tightening.”

Blaise exhaled slowly. “You shouldn’t have let her go.”

Draco’s jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he snapped. “I’m aware. Thank you for the revelation.”

The fireworks reflected in his pale eyes as another thought settled in, slow and deliberate.

“But I will find her again.”

Blaise frowned. “How? She’s not even in this time. She could be anywhere.”

Draco smiled. Not softly. Not hopefully. With patience.

“I don’t care where she jumped to,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

The sky burned above them. Years could pass. Decades. He would still be waiting.

 

 

12.02.2023

It must have been late at night when the bars began to rattle.

Arianna woke to noise echoing through the corridor. Shouts. Whispers. Someone screaming two cells down. The air vibrated with it. Magic crackled faintly, a low hum that crawled along her skin and raised every instinct she had left.

She rose slowly, joints stiff, and stepped to the bars.

Her fingers curled around the cold iron as she strained to see through the darkness. The corridor beyond was drowned in shadow, lit only by brief flashes of magic that flared and vanished too quickly to make sense of.

“Take me with you,” voices overlapping, fear thick and contagious.

Then the sound changed. Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. A shape emerged from the dark.

A figure draped entirely in black, the fabric swallowing what little light existed. A hood was pulled low, obscuring the face completely. No insignia. No identifying marks. Just void given form.

Arianna stumbled back a step, heart slamming against her ribs.

The figure stopped in front of her cell.

For a long, unbearable second, they simply stood there. Watching. Then gloved hands lifted, and magic unfurled from their fingers with frightening precision.

The wards on her cell lock began to unravel. One click. Another. Each enchantment peeled away like skin, collapsing silently into nothing. Arianna’s breath hitched as the final seal broke.

The bars groaned. Slowly, deliberately, they swung open. No alarm sounded. No guards came running.

The figure stepped aside, leaving the doorway clear.

An invitation. Or a threat.

Arianna stared at the open cell, pulse roaring in her ears. Whatever this was, it wasn’t rescue the way people liked to imagine it. It felt surgical. Intentional.

She lifted her gaze back to the hooded figure.

“…Who are you?” she asked, her voice rough, barely louder than a whisper.

The figure tilted their head.

And finally spoke.

“A debt,” they said softly. “Long overdue.”

Arianna was yanked out of her cell.

Her knees buckled instantly. She hadn’t walked in weeks. The world lurched, stone and iron blurring as her body failed her, but the figure beside her didn’t let her fall. A firm grip locked around her arm, hauling her upright, forcing her legs to remember what they were meant to do.

She was dragged down the corridor.

Hands slammed against bars as they passed. Voices rose. Screams. Begging. Promises shouted into the dark.

“Take me too!” “Please!” “I won’t tell anyone—”

Arianna barely heard them. Her heart was pounding too loud, a violent, unfamiliar sound after so long spent hollow and still.

Execution. That was the word echoing through her skull. Is this it?

Her breath came shallow as she fought to steady herself, fought to reclaim control of a body that felt like it belonged to someone else.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, voice hoarse but sharp enough to surprise even herself.

“Shhh,” the figure hissed back, tightening their grip as they shoved her through a heavy metal door.

The room beyond was wreckage. Bodies littered the floor, sprawled in unnatural angles. Not dead. Still breathing. Unconscious. Wands lay scattered like discarded bones. Glass crunched beneath her feet. Doors hung from broken hinges. Papers drifted through the air in slow spirals, settling like ash.

Other hooded figures moved through the chaos with grim precision, clearing a path for her without ever looking at her.

Extraction. The word came unbidden, cold and clear.

They didn’t slow. She was hauled through the final threshold, out into open air. Arianna twisted once, just once, looking back at the cold stone walls that had held her, broken her, erased time itself.

Then strong arms caught her. And the world tore.

Space ripped apart with a violent crack, pressure crushing her lungs as the prison vanished and something else snapped into place around her.

Arianna screamed or maybe she didn’t.

The sound was swallowed by the dark.

 

Chapter 57: And he waited...

Arianna found herself surrounded by hooded figures, and dread settled deep in her chest.

This wasn’t the Ministry. This wasn’t the Time Division. The place was wrong. Too raw. Too improvised.

An old factory, maybe. Or a storage hall stripped down to concrete and steel, repurposed into something that only barely passed as an infirmary. Harsh lights glared down from the ceiling, too white, too bright, burning straight through her skull. Hands gripped her arms and pulled her forward.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice hoarse, fraying at the edges.

No answer.

She had no magic. She could feel the absence like a missing limb. No wand. No strength. Just the cold awareness that she was completely at their mercy.

They dragged her through double doors, past more figures dressed in black, their faces hidden, their movements efficient and silent. The light intensified. Her vision swam.

She raised a shaking hand, slamming it over her eyes as pain speared behind them.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, panic finally breaking through her control.

Still nothing. Her legs buckled.

She stumbled every few steps, knees giving out beneath her, her body too weak to carry even its own weight anymore. Someone cursed under their breath. Another grip tightened, hauling her upright again.

A door was kicked open. More light. Blinding. White swallowed everything.

She caught a glimpse of someone in a pale coat—white, maybe—before her vision blurred completely. The hands at her sides lifted her, dumped her onto a narrow bed with little ceremony.

“Okay,” she rasped, breath hitching. “Wait. Whatever this is… I’m sure we can talk this out.”

Her eyes refused to stay open, squeezing shut on their own, rebelling against the light.

“Lie down,” a woman’s voice said. Calm. Detached.

Arianna didn’t. Hands pressed down on her shoulders, forcing her back. Something inside her snapped.

“No,” she screamed, thrashing violently, kicking, clawing at anything she could reach. “No—don’t you fucking touch me!”

Her voice echoed off concrete and steel, raw and desperate.

“Sedate her,” the woman said, indifferent.

She felt the sharp prick of a needle sliding into her arm. Cold rushed through her veins. The room tilted. The lights smeared into white streaks.

The last thing Arianna felt was the bed beneath her and the sickening certainty that she was powerless again.

Then everything went black.

 

 

The first thing Arianna noticed when she woke was the hum. Neon lights. Steady. Relentless.

The second was the smell. Clinical. Antiseptic. Sterile enough to sting the back of her throat.

She didn’t open her eyes right away. Panic would be easy. Panic would also be useless.

She breathed. Slow. Measured. Letting her body catch up to consciousness before her mind did. When she finally opened her eyes, the world came back in a blur of white and shadow.

She waited. The blur sharpened. A white bed. Clean sheets pulled high, tucked neatly to her throat. A black shirt on her body. Not hers. Soft. Warm. Someone had dressed her. That realization landed quietly. Heavily.

She pushed the blanket down and swallowed. Her lips weren’t split anymore. The familiar sting was gone. When she ran her tongue over them, they were soft. Healed.

Her hands came next. Colour had returned to her skin. The grey pallor of the cell was gone. Her knuckles were still split, still sore, but no longer bleeding. She touched her face, fingertips grazing over scratches that were already fading.

Healing magic. Medical. Controlled.

She snapped her fingers out of instinct.

Nothing.

Her magic was still muted. Not gone. She could feel it, coiled deep inside her, stirring like something waking from a long, ugly sleep. It would return. Eventually. Suppression always left scars like this.

The room itself gave nothing away.

Stone walls. A small basin in the corner. No windows. No mirrors. No furniture beyond the bed. To her left, several fluid bags hung from a metal stand, feeding an IV line into her arm. Unlabeled.

She stared at them for a long moment. Could be nutrients. Could be sedatives. Could be something far worse.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Her muscles screamed in protest, trembling under her weight, unused to movement after weeks of stillness.

She scanned the room automatically. Nothing she could weaponize. Nothing she could break into something useful. The only sharp thing was the needle in her arm and even that wouldn’t do much more than annoy someone.

Outside the room, she heard movement. Footsteps. Low voices. None of them familiar. None of them speaking anything she recognized.

Her pulse ticked faster. She slid off the bed, nearly stumbling as her knees threatened to fold. Arms spread slightly, she steadied herself and crossed the room in careful steps.

Then she ripped the IV line out of her arm. Blood spattered across the floor in bright droplets. She didn’t flinch. She reached the door and wrapped her fingers around the handle. Locked.

A quiet exhale left her as she leaned her forehead against the cold metal. No windows. No exits. No answers. Just a room designed to keep her contained.

And someone, somewhere, watching to see what she would do next.

 

 

A while later, the lock rattled. Arianna moved instantly.

She took the needle she had ripped from her arm and pressed herself flat against the wall beside the door. Heart steady. Breathing controlled. She angled her body just enough to strike cleanly.

Carotid artery. One thrust. She wouldn’t miss.

She inhaled and held it.

The door slid open gently. A muddy boot crossed the threshold. Her grip tightened. Dark jeans. A body followed. White T-shirt.

She lunged.

“Woah—stop that, you menace.”

The world stalled.

Arianna froze mid-motion, stumbled back, and the needle slipped from her fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor. She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, breath caught painfully in her chest.

That voice.

She knew that voice. It hadn’t changed much. Neither had he.

Theodore Nott stood there with his hands raised, a grin already tugging at his mouth. Age had touched him. Fine lines carved by laughter creased his eyes and mouth, and his shoulders carried the quiet weight of years lived hard. But his dark hair was still unruly. His presence still unmistakably Theo. Older. Very much so. But undeniably him.

“Theodore,” she breathed.

“Yes, love,” he said dryly. “Who were you expecting? Another god to spit at?”

Something inside her broke open. She launched herself into his arms, clutching him fiercely, like if she let go he might vanish again. He was solid. Warm. Real.

Alive.

Her heart, which had been pounding like a war drum moments before, now stumbled and leapt with something dangerously close to joy.

“You made it,” she whispered, tears spilling freely now.

“Yes, dear,” Theo murmured, arms closing around her, pulling her flush against him. “I made it.”

She buried her face against his shoulder, breathing him in. Though she had leapt through time, through years and decades in violent skips, in that moment it felt like she had missed him every single day she’d been gone.

As if some part of her had lived all those years in between. And missed him anyway.

Theo pushed the door closed behind him and guided Arianna back to the bed. She sat down slowly, disbelief still clouding her eyes, but beneath it something steadier had taken hold. Contentment. Fragile. Real.

“You broke me out?” she asked quietly.

Theo smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets. Still the same infuriatingly charming bastard he had always been, just older. Sharper at the edges.

“You’re my cousin, after all,” he said lightly. “And you didn’t really think he’d let you rot in there, did you?”

Her breath caught. Her heart skipped so hard it hurt.

“He…”

The word slipped out unfinished, barely a sound. Theo’s expression shifted. Not softer. Just honest.

“He waited,” he said. “For a very long time.”

The room felt suddenly too small.

“How long?” Arianna whispered, afraid of the answer. Afraid to hope.

Theo leaned back against the wall, eyes lifting to the ceiling for a moment, like he was counting years he’d rather not name.

“Long enough for the world to end and rebuild itself badly,” he said. “Long enough for him to ruin himself properly. Long enough that most people would’ve stopped believing.” He looked back at her then, gaze sharp and steady. “But Draco Malfoy never did.”

Arianna’s hands curled into the blanket. Her magic stirred faintly in her chest, like something waking from a long, painful sleep.

“He’s alive,” she said. Not a question.

Theo snorted quietly. “Barely. Stubborn bastard’s still breathing out of pure spite and something that looks a lot like love.”

Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, swallowing around the ache rising in her throat.

“He knows I’m here,” she asked.

Theo tilted his head, a slow, knowing smile pulling at his mouth.

“He knows everything,” he said. “He just doesn’t know if you’ll want to see him.”

Silence fell between them. Hope didn’t bloom gently. It came back like a wound tearing open.

And for the first time since the Ministry steps, Arianna Avery let herself believe one dangerous thing.

He hadn’t let her go.

Chapter 58: Three more days

Draco sat in the chair beside the window, fingers tapping against the stone sill.

The pain was manageable today. The tremor in his hand had quieted, as if his body somehow knew she was close. It never stopped entirely. It never would. But today it was softer. Almost polite.

He didn’t look up when Theo entered. Theo took his time crossing the room, boots dragging just enough to be annoying. He inhaled loudly. Exhaled louder. Waiting.

Draco rolled his tired blue eyes.

“Is she awake?” he asked.

Theo snorted.

“Tried to stab me with an IV needle.”

A corner of Draco’s mouth twitched.

“Sounds like her.”

His gaze dropped to his hand. The fingers trembled, disobedient. A reminder of everything he’d done to himself. Everything he’d become.

“She wants to see you,” Theo said, quieter now.

Draco didn’t answer. Theo knew why. Arianna would see everything at once. The shaking. The weakness. The way Draco no longer stood without effort, no longer held himself like a prince or a weapon. Just a man held together by habit and spite.

“Not yet,” Draco said finally.

Theo sighed and rubbed his temple, pacing a loose circle as his eyes drifted upward to the chandelier. Once Narcissa’s pride. Crystal dulled by dust. Untouched. Forgotten.

A shadow of its former glory. Like the room. Like Draco.

“Still scared?” Theo asked lightly.

Draco’s head snapped up.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Theo grinned. He always did when he’d struck something true.

“You know her,” Theo said. “She won’t wait. If she wants to see you, she will. You can’t keep dodging this.”

He turned for the door, pausing only long enough to add, “And if you think she came all this way to be gentle about it, you’ve clearly forgotten who you fell in love with.”

The door shut softly behind him. Draco exhaled, long and unsteady. Of course he wanted to see her. He just needed one more moment. One moment to steady himself. To pretend, briefly, that he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

His gaze returned to the grounds outside. The hedges moved in the wind. Malfoy Manor stood exactly as it always had. But without his mother, nothing was tended anymore.

Not the house. Not the legacy. Not him. 

 

 

Arianna felt more like herself once Theo brought her clothes.

She pulled them on slowly, fingertips lingering on the fabric of the shirt. Hers. Things she had left behind when she walked out in 1997. Draco had kept them. All those years.

Her gaze dropped to her feet. Green socks. Watermelons. She snorted quietly and shook her head, smiling despite herself.

When the door creaked open and Theo slipped inside with that too-bright smile, she pushed her feet into her boots and combed her fingers through her hair.

“I’ll never get used to this,” Theo said softly. “You look exactly the same as the last day I saw you.”

Her smile faded. She lowered her head. She wished he looked the same too. But he had lived the years she had skipped so carelessly. There was a gap between them now. A quiet one. Heavy with time.

She hugged him anyway, pressing her cheek to his collarbone and closing her eyes. For a moment, she let herself remember the boy he had been.

“Can I see him now?” she whispered.

Theo stepped back, his mouth pulling sideways.

“Yeah… about that.”

Her brows drew together.

“Don’t tell me he’s refusing.”

Theo rolled his eyes and lifted his hands.

“You know him. He’ll come around. Eventually. But he’s not ready.”

Arianna let out a sharp breath.

“Ready for what? Seeing me alive?”

Theo circled her like he expected her to explode, snapping his fingers absently at the IV bag hanging nearby.

“He’s not himself anymore, Ri,” he said quietly. “And I don’t think you are ready for that, either.”

She spun and stepped into his space, forcing him to look at her.

“Tell me,” she said. “What is he like?”

Theo grimaced.

“Sit down before you decide to burn the manor to the ground.”

She smiled despite herself. Because she absolutely would. She sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling. Theo leaned back against the wall, pale eyes shadowed.

“He’s broken,” he said simply. “Sick. He can barely walk some days. Most days he doesn’t leave his bed.” Her jaw tightened. “He should have died,” Theo continued, voice rough. “And he knows it. I think… I think he wanted to.”

The words landed like stones.

“This isn’t the Draco Malfoy you remember,” Theo finished. “And seeing him like this might break you.”

Arianna swallowed. It already was.

“Then I need to see him,” she said quietly. “Even if it’s just once. And if you don’t take me to him—”

“I know,” Theo cut in with a tired sigh. “You’ll find your own way.”

She nodded.

“Exactly.”

He studied her for a moment, then rubbed his face.

“Give him three days,” he said. “Just three.”

She considered it. Every instinct screamed at her to run. To demand him. To claw through walls if she had to.

“Fine,” she said. “Three days.” Then she lifted her chin. “After that, I storm the manor. Tell him.”

Theo laughed under his breath and stepped closer, brushing her hair back from her face.

“You’ve always been unhinged where he’s concerned.”

She smiled, sharp and bright.

“Three days, Theodore.”

In her mind, she was already counting the hours.

He could hide. He could tremble. He could pretend he wasn’t ready.

She would see him anyway

 

 

Three days felt unbearably long.

Arianna was slowly nursed back to health in the makeshift infirmary. She ate again. Slept. Her strength returned in careful increments. And on the third day, she finally felt it. A faint spark in her fingertips. Weak, hesitant, but undeniably there. Enough to remind her she was still herself.

Theo walked into the clinical dining hall with his usual careless stride. Rows of metal tables and benches stretched beneath harsh white lights, the walls bare and sterile.

Arianna sat alone, turning a black shirt over in her hands. The fabric was soft from wear, warm from her body. She rubbed it between her fingers, inhaling before she could stop herself.

Mint. Her jaw tightened.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, lifting the shirt, “you dressed me when I came here.”

Theo barked a laugh.

“I did, actually. And I enjoyed it, you little savage. Finally got to see what you’ve been hiding under those awful oversized sweaters. Draco was furious.”

She slapped his arm as he dropped into the seat across from her, elbows braced on the table.

“You built a whole infirmary,” she muttered, “but couldn’t find proper hospital shirts?”

Theo smirked, a familiar dimple creasing one cheek.

“Oh, we have them. Those hideous white things. Draco just wouldn’t allow it. Said, and I quote, ‘Don’t put her in white.’”

Arianna stilled.

“No white,” she whispered.

The words lodged somewhere deep in her chest. A memory stirred. She swallowed hard. Lately, it felt like all she did was grieve. For a past she’d abandoned. For a boy who had pushed her away.

Theo stood and snapped his fingers in front of her face.

“Up, pumpkin. I’m taking you to the Manor. Can’t promise he’ll see you, though.”

She was on her feet instantly.

They moved through the corridors, through double doors and into sunlight. Arianna stopped short, the warmth hitting her skin like a benediction. She lifted her chin, eyes closing as she let it soak into her bones.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

“You were locked in a cell for three months,” Theo said softly. “I’m honestly impressed you didn’t lose your sanity.”

“I almost did,” she admitted. “More times than I can count. For a while… I think I actually gave up.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” she said, opening her eyes. Her stormy grey gaze had returned, alive again. “Because of him.”

Theo nodded. He understood. Too well.

“We’ll make this right,” he said quietly. “Come on.”

He opened his arms. Arianna stepped into them, wrapping herself around his waist and breathing him in. Familiar. Solid. Real.

Then the world tore.

They apparated to Malfoy Manor.

Chapter 59: Nine Thousand Two Hundred and Fourteen Days

Draco sat by the window, watching. Waiting.

He wasn’t sure he could bear to see her. He had told himself that for years. That if she ever stood there again, it would break whatever fragile balance he’d managed to keep.

Then the air cracked. At the gates stood Arianna Avery.

He forgot how to breathe. She looked exactly the same as she had that cursed day. Untouched by time. Untouched by everything that had destroyed him. Her gaze swept over the Manor, recognition flickering through her eyes, and then she skipped down half the gravel path, light and reckless as ever.

Draco let out a breathless, broken laugh and lifted his brows. She never would grow up. Never.

Outside, Arianna smiled softly.

The Manor loomed before her. Still magnificent. Still imposing. And utterly hollow.

“What happened to Narcissa?” she asked.

Theo’s gaze dropped. His hands slid deeper into his pockets, shoulders stiffening.

“Last year,” he said quietly, “Draco had another… episode. He wasn’t coping well. He hadn’t been for a long time.” He paused. “She was used to it. He’d lash out every few days. Rage, despair, silence. But this time… she couldn’t take it anymore. The pain. The sickness. Watching him fade.” Theo swallowed. “She collapsed. Dead within a minute.”

The words landed heavy.

Arianna held her breath. The grief was everywhere now that she knew where to look. In the untended rosebushes. In the dirt-streaked statue by the fountain. In the silence clinging to the walls.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “She was an extraordinary woman. A wonderful mother.”

Theo nodded once.

“She was a mother to all of us. And when she was gone… everything worsened. But we endured. We knew you’d come back eventually.”

He pushed open the front doors. Arianna stepped inside like she was dreaming.

The Manor was the same. And it wasn’t.

The peonies Narcissa used to keep alive were gone. The vase sat empty. The lights were off. Dust softened the edges of everything. No servants. No warmth. No life.

“You remember the way?” Theo asked, nodding toward the staircase.

“Of course,” Arianna replied.

“Then go,” he said gently. “And Ri… take it slow.”

He didn’t follow.

She climbed the stairs alone.

Her fingers brushed the banister. Cold. Familiar. Each step stirred ghosts. She could almost see Narcissa in the hall, immaculate as ever. The chandelier gleaming above. The scent of peonies and mint lingering in the air, always calling for Draco.

She moved reverently, as though time itself might shatter if she rushed.

At the corridor, she stopped. Draco’s door right ahead.

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. Her hands trembled. She clenched them into fists. Drew in a steadying breath.

One step. Then another.

Her hand hovered above the handle. Hesitation.

“Don’t come in.”

Her heart stopped.

His voice was older now. Sharper. Colder. But she would know his voice in any timeline. At any age. 

She exhaled shakily and snorted despite herself.

“Well, you know me. I don’t listen. So I’m coming in anyway and slapping your sorry ass for letting masked lunatics kidnap me from prison.”

She pushed the door open, still talking.

“I think it’s time you—”

The words died in her throat. Theo had been right.

She wasn’t ready. Nothing could have prepared her for this.

The cocky prince of Slytherin was gone.

Draco stood by the window, hunched, gripping Lucius’s old cane to keep himself upright. His hands trembled uncontrollably. His once-proud posture was broken. His face lined with age and exhaustion. Platinum hair dulled to a washed-out blond.

He wasn’t fierce anymore. He wasn’t strong. Arianna slapped a hand over her mouth as tears spilled freely.

“Draco,” she whispered.

“Arianna,” he replied.

Her heart shattered.

He tried to take a step. His knees buckled. She was there instantly, catching him before he fell. He groaned softly.

And the moment she touched him... everything went still.

His trembling ceased. His breath evened. His shoulders loosened. He smiled. Small. Wrecked. Grateful.

“There it is,” he murmured. “My silence. My peace.”

Arianna helped him back to his bed.

She guided him carefully, easing him down onto the edge of the mattress before letting go. As she looked at him, disbelief washed over her again. This couldn’t be Draco. And yet—when he lifted his gaze—those eyes met hers. Depthless winter blue. Endless. Still him.

“I did this to you,” she sobbed, dropping to her knees in front of him.

He leaned heavily on the cane, the serpent’s head biting into his palm as he drew a slow breath.

“No,” he said quietly. “I did this. To myself. To you. I drove you away… and I couldn’t survive it.”

Her hands came to rest on his knees, trembling as memories surged.

“I should never have left,” she cried. “I should have stayed. I should have stopped this. Prevented it.”

He lifted a hand and brushed her cheek with aching gentleness. His touch was cold. Icy. Nothing like the warmth she remembered.

“It was already happening,” he said softly. “And I should have told you I loved you when I knew I did. I’m sorry for that too.”

She leaned into his touch, eyes shining as she looked up at him.

“You knew,” he murmured when she didn’t answer. “All along.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I think I did.”

For a moment they only looked at each other. Her heart clenched painfully, her hands slick with nerves, the ache inside her unbearable.

“Why didn’t you ever say it?” she asked.

Draco frowned, lowering his hand to his lap, exhaustion etched into every line of him. He leaned forward, resting his weight on his thighs. Merlin, he wanted to kiss her. Desperately. But this Arianna didn’t belong to him. She belonged to the boy he had been. The boy who had loved her fiercely and pushed her away just as hard.

“People say ‘I love you’ too easily,” he said. “It’s light to them. Just words.” His gaze locked onto hers. “Nothing about what I felt for you was light. It was confusing. Consuming. Endless. Still is. ‘Love’ is far too simple a word for what I felt, Arianna.”

She broke, sobbing as she pressed her forehead to his knee. His fingers threaded gently through her hair, soothing, protective.

After a while, she drew back, breathing shakily.

“What happened after I left?” she asked.

Draco looked away. His fingers trembled faintly as his gaze fixed on nothing, as though staring back through time.

“At first, I thought you’d gone to Blaise and Theo. Somewhere safe. I told myself I’d come get you once things settled.” A bitter breath left him. “But I couldn’t wait. I was angry. I was lost. I missed you more than I could bear. And then… I raged.”

His eyes were glassy now. She had never seen him like this. So open. So unguarded.

“When I finally went looking for you,” he continued, “you were gone.”

Arianna’s gaze dropped to his hand. She took it between hers, steadying the tremor with a simple touch. Draco smiled faintly. Ache had become his constant companion. Seeing her now—young, alive, real—was another kind of devastation entirely.

“Did he punish you?” she asked, dreading the answer.

He nodded. “Severely.”

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t thought of that when she ran. Hadn’t thought of anything.

“He punished me for an hour the first day you vanished,” Draco said quietly. “And every day after that. For weeks. The tremors became unbearable. So I drugged myself into oblivion… and pretended I didn’t care.”

She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw how tired he was.

“You need to rest,” she whispered. “You’re exhausted.”

She tried to stand, but his hand closed around hers, firm despite the tremor.

“I can’t waste the time I have with you,” he said. “The Time Division is searching for you. And there’s still so much I need to tell you.”

So she did what she had always done. She nodded. She eased him back onto the bed and crawled in beside him, guiding him down carefully before curling against his side. Old or not, broken or not. He was still her Draco.

“Then I’ll stay,” she whispered. And she did.

For the first time in twenty-five years, Draco felt peace.

He pulled her closer, breathing in the scent of magnolia, and the weight on his chest eased.

“I waited a very long time for you, Arianna Avery,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “And I'm here now.”

His eyes drifted closed, thumb tracing slow circles on her arm.

“Nine thousand two hundred and fourteen days,” he said softly. “I waited twenty-five years to see you again.”

And then he slept—exhausted, finally at rest—with her in his arms, silence cradling him at last.

 

Arianna didn’t sleep.

She lay in his familiar arms, listening to his breathing, watching his chest rise and fall. In sleep, his face softened. He looked younger then. More like himself. More like the boy she remembered laughing with her, mocking her pyjamas, pretending he didn’t care while caring far too much.

She cried silently.

For him. For the time she hadn’t lived, but he had.

Twenty-five years.

He had waited. Patiently. Relentlessly. Until he found her again.

She imagined him breaking. Raging. Sitting by the window with nightshade smoke curling around him, staring out at the grounds, waiting for her to come back. Waiting for a girl who wasn’t there.

Twenty-five years.

Her heart felt crushed beneath the weight of that number.

Nine thousand two hundred and fourteen days.

And he had counted them all. 

He deserved this peace. He deserved to choose his end, if he wished. And still, the thought of Draco dying hurt so violently she could barely breathe. She had watched him die one hundred and eight times before, and none of those deaths had hurt like this one would.

Because this one would be permanent. Gone.

She straightened his shirt with careful fingers. He smelled the same. Mint. Smoke. Draco.

She had loved him then.

And she loved him now.

Chapter 60: Back to me

Theo sat halfway up the staircase, elbows on his knees, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He hadn’t moved in a while. The house was too quiet for comfort.

The front door opened.

Blaise Zabini stepped inside, coat still on, the night clinging to him.

“I’m back, my love,” he announced lightly, arms spreading as if expecting applause.

Theo let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been something else.

“Right on time, brother.”

Blaise’s smile faltered when he followed Theo’s gaze up the stairs. He closed the door more carefully this time.

“So,” he said, softer now. “She came?”

Theo nodded, smoke curling from his mouth in a slow exhale.

“Couldn’t stop her if I tried. She threatened to burn the manor down. I believed her.”

That earned a quiet huff from Blaise. He crossed the room and sat down beside Theo, close enough their shoulders brushed.

“Knew she would,” Blaise murmured.

“She’s been up there since yesterday,” Theo went on. “Hasn’t left him for a second. I brought food. She waved me off like I was a house-elf.”

Blaise smiled faintly at that.

“Still her, then.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. He flicked ash to the floor without looking.

“Yeah. That’s the thing. She didn’t change. She just… jumped.” He swallowed. “We lived it, mate. Every damn year of it.”

Blaise reached over, plucked the cigarette from Theo’s fingers, and took a drag himself. The ember flared. Ash drifted down onto his sleeve. He cursed under his breath and brushed it away.

“Did you tell her?” he asked quietly.

Theo shook his head immediately. Too fast. Like the answer had been waiting.

“No. Not yet. It’s already too much.”

Blaise nodded. His eyes stayed on the upper floor, where the light under one door never went out.

A stretch of silence settled between them. Thick. Intentional.

Then Blaise spoke again, carefully.

“And the… other things?”

Theo turned his head sharply.

“Absolutely not.”

Blaise didn’t argue.

“That’s his choice,” Theo continued, voice low and final. “If he ever tells her, it’ll be him. Not us. She doesn’t need that weight on her. Not now.”

Blaise leaned back against the banister, staring at nothing.

“Fair.”

They sat there a while longer. Listening to the house breathe. Listening for footsteps that didn’t come.

Upstairs, someone shifted. A bed creaked softly.

Neither of them looked up.

 

 

Arianna sat beside Draco’s bed, the tray balanced on her lap. She fed him slowly, careful not to spill a single crumb, lifting the fork to his lips as if any sudden movement might break him.

He didn’t argue. Not anymore. Not after she had screamed at him to stop being fucking stubborn and let her help.

He leaned back against the headboard, blankets pulled high around his thin frame. His fingers strayed to his collar, fumbling with the button. Too tight. He tried once, twice. His hand wouldn’t still long enough.

Arianna set the tray aside at once.

She stood, leaned over him, and undid the button herself. Her fingers brushed his throat, feather-light. He flinched, then relaxed when the fabric loosened.

“There,” she murmured, like she was soothing something fragile.

She sat again and continued feeding him. Her eyes shone, glassy, but she didn’t let the tears fall. She knew what this helplessness did to him. She refused to make it heavier by crying over it.

When the food was gone, she poured tea. Milk. Sugar. Just the way Narcissa had, once upon a lifetime ago.

Draco coughed. Blood stained his lips. Arianna was already moving, cloth in hand, wiping his mouth with aching care. He caught her wrist, fingers cold and shaking, holding her there. His gaze locked onto hers.

“So what now?” she asked, offering a hollow smile. “Do we run for the hills?”

She already knew the answer. He couldn’t follow her. Silence stretched. Thick. Pressing.

“Arianna,” he whispered at last, “I didn’t live through this to run away with you.”

The words landed wrong.

Her breath stalled. The cup rattled softly against the tray as she set it down. She stared at him, trying to understand, trying not to.

“You… lived through it?” she asked carefully. “What does that mean?”

He looked away. Just for a second. Long enough.

“I wanted to die,” he said quietly. The room tilted. “I wanted it a thousand times.”

She felt it before she understood it. A hollow opening beneath her ribs. Her hand tightened around the cloth until the seams bit into her skin.

“I tried,” he continued, voice steady, almost distant. “Never worked. I knew it wouldn’t. Not while you were alive.”

She shook her head once, sharply, as if that could undo the sentence.

“But trying,” he went on, “meant you were somewhere. Breathing. Existing. It meant time hadn’t taken you from me completely.”

Her knees buckled. She sat hard on the edge of the bed, the air knocked from her lungs.

“You did this,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Because of me.”

“No,” he said immediately. Too quickly. “Because of hope. And to deliver a message.”

She laughed once. A sound with no humor in it. Hope. There it was again, that cursed word.

“And the message?” she asked, afraid now. Truly afraid.

His eyes softened. That familiar, devastating curve of his mouth appeared. The one she hadn’t seen in decades.

“A message from me,” he said. “From the boy you left behind.”

Her fingers trembled. She clenched them together, uselessly.

“That he’s sorry,” Draco said. “For everything. That he knows he was cruel. That he loves you.” The word hit harder than any curse ever had. “And that he’ll be waiting,” he finished. “On the fourteenth of February. Nineteen ninety-eight. If you still want him.”

She stood abruptly, pacing once, twice, dragging a hand through her hair.

“I can’t,” she said, breathless. “I broke it. I destroyed the time turner. I broke it so no one could ever use it again.” Her panic spiraled, sharp and dizzying. “I can’t go back. I can’t—”

“Arianna,” Draco interrupted softly. She froze. “Go get Theo,” he said. “Tell him it’s time.”

She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

His mouth twitched, just barely.

“Did you really think,” he said gently, “that I’d leave this to chance?”

She didn’t remember crossing the room. Didn’t remember opening the door. She was suddenly running.

“Theo!” she shouted. “Theo!”

He appeared at the foot of the stairs, cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Did he—”

“He said it’s time,” she gasped.

Theo’s expression shifted. That dangerous, delighted glint she remembered so well lit his eyes.

“About bloody time,” he said.

He disappeared and returned moments later with a small bundle wrapped in black velvet. He opened it carefully, reverently.

Gold gleamed in the light. Arianna’s hands shook as she took it.

“You built this,” she whispered.

Theo shrugged, grinning. “Took me twenty years. And a fair bit of insanity. Worth it.”

She looked down at the time turner, then back at him.

“You planned this,” she breathed.

“We all did,” Theo said quietly. “He just wants you to come back to him.”

 

Arianna and Theo stood beside the bed. Draco, pale but strangely at peace, watched her. Watched the time turner resting in her hand.

She held it up so he could see it properly.

“You planned all of this?” she asked, stunned. “The extraction. The time turner. Everything.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, the familiar muscle ticking in his cheek. She had watched that muscle betray him a thousand times before.

“We did,” he said quietly. “I just had to wait long enough for you to resurface. And when I read about your imprisonment in the papers…” He exhaled slowly. “We needed more time. But we found a way. So you could come back to me.”

His gaze never left her face.

“But it’s your choice,” he added. “I shouldn’t even ask this of you. You know the risks. You know what’s waiting for you back there.”

For the first time since she’d woken in this century, he sounded like himself.

Arianna turned the time turner over in her palm. Theo had built this. Twenty years of work. Of study. Of trial and failure. All of it for her. One last chance.

“Are you sure it works?” she asked, looking to Theo.

He grinned, unapologetic. “Hey. A little more faith in my genius would be nice. And no. I’m not sure. But I’m confident.”

She snorted softly. “That’s… deeply reassuring.”

Silence settled between them. Then Arianna leaned over the bed, close enough that her lips brushed Draco’s ear.

“I love you, Draco Malfoy,” she whispered. “Always have. Always will.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. He smiled. Peaceful. Real.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Theo said lightly. “And don’t go easy either. And do me a favour. Wear something worth remembering next time. I’d hate to forget what you look like without those tragic sweaters.”

She grabbed a cloth from the nightstand and threw it at him. Theo laughed and dodged.

“See you back there,” she said.

Theo’s expression softened. All the years lived without her flickered briefly in his eyes.

“Yeah, cousin,” he said. “See you back there.”

Arianna turned to Draco one last time, committing every line of him to memory. This version. This ending. So she would never allow it to happen again.

“I’ll make this right,” she promised.

“I know,” he said simply.

She clicked the dial for the last time. 

And Draco watched her disappear in a soft pop of displaced air—his grief and relief colliding in his chest—as she vanished back to 1998.

Back to him.

Chapter 61: Still yours

14.02.1998

Draco stood before the mountain house, built from the stone of the range itself, as if it had been carved out of the land rather than placed upon it. Warm light spilled from the windows, gilding the edge of the blackened lake beside it. Snow lay thick across the earth, fresh flakes drifting down in slow, crystalline spirals. Smoke curled from the chimney, dissolving into the cold air, the house cradled by towering firs.

It was quiet. Painfully so.

He had chosen this place with care. Ward by ward, supply by supply, he had prepared it for weeks. Hidden. Neutral. Safe. A sanctuary that belonged to no one and nothing but the moment.

He didn’t know if she would come. He didn’t know when.

The path was already disappearing beneath the snow, no road leading here, no sign of life for miles in any direction. Heavy wards rippled faintly around the clearing, barely visible in the dimming light as the sun slipped behind the treeline.

Still, he waited.

Until—

A crack split the silence.

And then she stood there.

Arianna Avery.

As if she had never left.

Wrapped in a cream-white scarf, a black cloak hanging open, her loose emerald sweater flashing through the dark like a promise. Black jeans. Boots. Exactly how he remembered her. Her hair lifted in soft waves by the breeze, strands drifting across her face. She didn’t push them away.

Her eyes were locked on him.

Draco Malfoy. Seventeen. Strong. Sharp. Untouched by the years that had broken him elsewhere. A version of himself that still knew how to stand tall without effort.

He slid his hands into his coat pockets, shifting the fabric aside, black suit immaculate. Then he tipped his head back in that unmistakably Malfoy way and smirked.

“Took you long enough, Avery.”

She smiled. And it stole the air from his lungs in a single, ruthless second.

“You should work on your wards,” she called, still twenty steps away. “For someone who pretends to lock every door and ward every place he owns, it was surprisingly easy to slip through.”

He chuckled, low and warm.

“Love, I always lock my doors and ward my places.” His gaze never left her. “I just never did it for you.”

Her breath caught. She remembered then. Hogwarts. The Manor. His room. Every door that had always opened for her. Every threshold she had never once been barred from. She had never questioned it.

“Missed me much?” she called, not moving yet.

“Unbearably much,” he said, without hesitation.

And that was all it took.  She ran.

Boots struck snow and frozen ground, the sound sharp and real, and then she was crashing into him hard enough to knock him a step back. He caught her without thinking, arms spreading instinctively as she leapt into them, hands sliding up around his neck, her face pressed into the warm hollow beneath his jaw.

She breathed him in.

There was no place in the world, no moment in time, where she had ever felt more at home than right here.

He held her tightly, smiling into her hair as she rose onto her toes to stay there, as if gravity itself might try to pull her away again.

And for the first time in a very long time, fate let them have the moment.

Arianna held onto him for long, uncounted minutes, as if letting go might undo everything. As if the world might snap back and steal him away again if she loosened her grip.

When she finally pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his hands to her face the way he had a thousand times before. Familiar. Reverent. But this time his fingers were warm. Alive. Soft against her skin. Only the signet ring was cold where it pressed to her cheek.

She caught his wrists, holding him there, afraid he might vanish if she didn’t.

“You’re a bloody prick,” she said, laughing through the tears burning her eyes.

His mouth curved. “I know. And don’t pretend that isn’t what you like most about me.”

Then the smirk faded.

Something real stepped forward. His expression softened, sharpened all at once. His blue eyes burned now. Clear. Undrugged. Unhidden. Just Draco.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For everything I said. Everything I did. I know it will never be enough, that words can’t possibly cover it.” His thumb brushed beneath her eye. “But I love you, Arianna Avery. In every damn timeline. In every bloody world. No matter how it breaks or burns, I would still love you.”

Her smile trembled, bright and aching and full of everything she’d carried back through time.

“I love you, Draco Malfoy,” she said softly. “And you won’t get rid of me anytime soon.”

He rolled his eyes, exhaling like a man resigned to his fate. “Merlin have mercy on me.”

Then he pulled her in and kissed her.

And in that moment, he knew. This time, he would keep his promise. He would never let her go again. He would find her in every timeline, in every darkness, in every ending that tried to steal her from him.

Because loving her had never been the problem.

Losing her was.

 

Draco slowly pulled away from her, though one arm stayed firm around her waist. He stepped aside and made a small, almost theatrical gesture with his free hand, presenting the house.

Arianna followed the motion, her gaze lifting to the ivy crawling up the stone walls, to the moss slick with frost, to the windows glowing softly with warm, golden light.

“What is this place?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“It’s your safe place,” he said. “I couldn’t bring you back to Malfoy Manor. Not now. So I prepared this instead.”

He watched her as she took it in. The way her eyes traced the lines of the building, the lake beside it, the quiet beauty folded into the snow.

“I put it under a Fidelius,” he continued. “Only you, me, Theo, and Blaise know where this is. You’re safe here.”

Arianna swallowed, her brows lifting slowly.

“This,” she said, disbelief threading her voice, “is for me? All of it?”

Draco laughed beside her. Warm. Unrestrained. That familiar sound she hadn’t heard in far too long. Not since before everything broke. Not since September 1997, when he had still been just Draco.

“All yours.”

She stepped closer to the house, staring at the black-framed windows, the frozen lake beside it, the quiet certainty of it all. It felt unreal. Like something she might wake up from.

“I always knew you were stupidly rich,” she muttered, tilting her head at the place.

“And you were never poor by any definition, Avery,” he replied easily.

She knew that. The Avery vaults were overflowing in this time. But she couldn’t touch them. Not yet. She wasn’t supposed to exist.

Her smile faltered.

“And what about you?” she asked softly. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?”

His fingers tightened around hers, and he led her toward the front door. Snow crunched beneath their boots as the last of the daylight vanished behind the trees.

“You know I have to,” he said. “But I’ll come back. Whenever I can. Theo will stay with you. He’ll arrive in two days.”

She dropped her head, nudging a small pebble into the snow with the toe of her boot.

“You said that before.”

Draco drew a slow breath through his nose.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But this time, I will come back to you. There’s nothing in this world, or the in-between, that can keep me from you, Arianna.”

Then he opened the door and gently pushed her inside, as if sealing her into something precious.

Safe.

For now.