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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The group left the Slytherin common room together.
It should have been impossible, the five of them moving through the dungeons and up toward the main corridors like there was anything ordinary about it. Mattheo, Theo, Enzo, Emerson, and Olivia, all shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the greenish morning light, breakfast half-eaten and laughter still clinging faintly to the edges of them.
For a few minutes, it almost felt like a normal morning.
Enzo was still complaining that Olivia "starved him on purpose" despite the fact that he ate three pastries, half a roll, and most of Theo's toast. Olivia informed him, with impressive patience, that if he died before lunch, she would say something flattering at his funeral, provided he stopped speaking immediately. Theo walked beside them with Melo tucked under one arm, looking like a father escorting an especially disobedient prince. Melo made several determined attempts to twist out of his grip and return to Olivia's bag, but Theo was ready every time.
Mattheo would have made some comment. Usually, he would have called the cat pathetic, Enzo unbearable, Olivia a menace, and Theo embarrassing for speaking to an animal like it was a difficult child.
But, Emerson was close enough that he could smell her, which was where the problem began.
It was not perfume. He knew it was not perfume because she once told Olivia she hated wearing too much of anything scented when she had long classes, and because Mattheo had become, apparently, the kind of pathetic person who stored every irrelevant fact about her like scripture.
Her scent was something that seemed to belong to her skin and hair rather than anything she had chosen from a bottle. Peonies, faint and floral, impossible not to associate with every Valentine's regret and every apology he tried to make with flowers because words once failed him so badly. Vanilla beneath it, clean and gentle, clinging to the loose fall of her hair.
His Amortentia did not ever lie.
He thought, after breakfast, that he would survive it better once they were moving. Once they were no longer standing in the intimacy of the common room, with her fingers fixing his shirt and her ring catching the light. He thought corridors would help. Classes would help. Distance would help.
He was so fucking wrong.
The whole morning became an exercise in not looking at her. Which meant, of course, that he noticed everything.
The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear during Transfiguration, only for it to fall loose again moments later. The way she frowned at her notes when she was concentrating, a little crease appearing between her eyebrows. The way she absentmindedly turned his ring whenever McGonagall asked a question. The way she smiled at him fleetingly across the classroom and Mattheo nearly forgot how to breathe.
