Emerson Wilmore was an exemplary Ravenclaw student, known for her unwavering dedication to academics and an unyielding moral compass. However, things took a twisted and deviated turn in her life after her boyfriend, Cedric Diggory, was murdered by L...
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Emerson's mornings became predictable, maddeningly so. Every day, without fail, a fresh bouquet of peonies appeared on her bedside table that Emerson woke up to.
The soft blush of the petals and the gentle fragrance filled her dormitory, making it impossible to ignore. She had no idea how Mattheo managed to sneak them in, whether it was magic, bribery, or some other infuriating method, but they were always there when she woke up, waiting for her like an unspoken challenge.
Each bouquet came with a note, written in that same familiar, sharp handwriting she could recognise anywhere. The words weren't grand declarations, but they were insistent.
"I'm not giving up, Emie."
"You'll have to talk to me eventually."
"Hate me if you want. Just don't ignore me."
They were always perfectly prepared. They weren't intrusive: no dramatic displays or enchanted arrangements that danced or sang. They were simple and quiet—almost thoughtful in their presence. That only made her hate them more.
The first ten or so she burned in the common room fireplace, watching with satisfaction as the flames devoured the soft petals and crisp parchment. The ashes felt symbolic, her heart pounding with frustration. It was a way to remind herself she was stronger than his games, impervious to his charms.
But afterwards, something shifted. The peonies weren't offensive. They didn't carry the sickly sweetness of roses that made her sneeze because she was allergic. They smelled... Beautiful, because she loved peonies. Emerson hated that she noticed them, but the reality of her liking them meant she stopped igniting them.
Instead, she would shove them into the bin reluctantly, leaving the faint scent lingering in her space. She tried to convince herself she was only doing so because she didn't want to seem affected. But she knew. Deep down, she knew.
Then there were the notes.
They appeared like clockwork, as if Mattheo mastered some silent, invisible routine. During Transfiguration, she would find a folded piece of parchment under her inkpot somehow. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, one would slide onto her desk with a flick of magic while Snape's back was turned. And in Potions and Charms, a small square of paper would be tucked neatly inside her textbook.
