Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
~𖥔☾𖤓☽𖥔~
The library is quiet except for the scratch of quills and the occasional cough. You're supposed to be working on an essay for Potions, but your eyes keep drifting toward Percy. He sits ramrod-straight beside you, red hair falling across his forehead as he writes with maddening precision. His parchment is already twice as long as yours, and he doesn't even look tired.
You nudge his knee under the table. He flinches but doesn't look up.
"Percy," you whisper, leaning closer. "If you write any harder, you'll etch straight through the table."
His lips twitch, but he doesn't lift his quill. "Some of us take academics seriously."
"Some of us know how to relax," you counter, grinning when his ears turn red. You reach under the table, threading your fingers through his. He stiffens for a second-- he always does, even after all this time— before letting out a long breath and squeezing back.
That's how it started, two years ago: library corners, study sessions that turned into whispered arguments and long stares, your sly teasing against his relentless discipline until, one day, he broke and kissed you behind the stacks. You'd never admit it to anyone else, but the way he blushed down to his collarbones had made your heart stutter.
Now, you're nearly inseparable. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor, green and gold. People still whisper sometimes, but Percy has grown bolder in the face of it. He walks you to class, sits with you when he can, lets his hand brush yours in the corridor like he's daring the world to notice.
Your family notices, too.
During the last winter holiday, Percy spent a week at your house. Your mother had fussed over him like he was already one of her own, pressing second helpings onto his plate, asking f he had enough blankets on the guest bed, and not taking no for an answer when he said he had enough. Your father quizzed him about the Ministry, and Percy had gone pink with pleasure at the chance to talk about policy without someone rolling their eyes. Even your little brother— who normally torments you for sport— had leaned across the table later and muttered, "He's good for you. I can tell."
The memory warms you every time you think of it. Which is why, one rainy evening in the Astronomy Tower, you're stunned when Percy admits he hasn't told his family about you at all.
You look up from your chessboard, half a grin still lingering from beating him three moves ago. "You haven't told them?"
Percy shifts uncomfortably in the conjured chair, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. His posture is rigid, like he's bracing for impact. "No."
