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novelizt · 3 months

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PEERING EYES OVER WROUGHT-IRON FENCES ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

GENRE ➺ childhood friends (to estranged friends) to lovers. angst w/ a happy ending.

WC ➺ 12.2k

SYNOPSIS ➺ to uncover the mystery of iris griffith's murder, it's time to face the music, cross the fence, and talk to a friend you never expected to become a stranger to.

WARNINGS ➺ mentions of the lockwood family tragedies, strained family dynamics, discussions and descriptions of murder

DISCLAIMER ➺ fem! reader. lockwood & co. are aged up to about 18-years-old, I try to shoe-horn forensic science into psychical investigations (I am not a professional so... it's unrealistic, sorry.), and Lockwood calls reader cherry/cherry cheeks

NOTE ➺ I can't remember if Portland Row has wrought-iron fences. In case it doesn't, it does now — this is fan fiction. Also, this is the first time I've finished a story this lengthy and I feel really proud of myself. I hope you enjoy!

The first time Lockwood had laid eyes on you, you were a set of peering eyes over a wrought-iron fence. He could barely see over it, but he could remember how round and shiny your eyes were. All doll-like and unrealistic. Honestly, it scared him. You couldn't blame little Lockwood for scuttling back to his sister.

That same day, your parents had brought you over and formally introduced themselves. Between your parents's statuesque figures, stood you.

Contrary to your encyclopaedic eyes, your mannerisms were timid. You looked miniscule in your Sunday dress. You looked like a breeze could knock you over. Anthony couldn't help but feel bad for running from you earlier.

Following introductions, a terse dinner ensued. Your parents were doctors, the kind who would scamper about in hospitals in scrubs and white coats — people who believed in science. His were researchers who dabbled in spiritual devices of different cultures — people who preferred to find the emotional aspect in the supernatural. Suffice it to say, the conversation was very one-sided.

Even then, Anthony was determined to be your friend. He thought having pretentious parents, like yours, would spoil the fun in things like spinning tops or fencing or enjoying pie with ice cream after supper. (Your parents had insisted the sugar would make it difficult for you to sleep.)

Anthony had made up his mind before you even uttered a word to him.

The instant the adults had dismissed you to the living room with Anthony and Jessica, he had snuck you a pie with extra ice cream on top. He and Jessica had their backs to the door so in the unlikely event that your parents came in, they wouldn't see you breaking their rules.

You weren't much younger than Anthony back then, but with cherry smeared across your cheek and ice cream clinging to your lip, he thought you were as cute as a button. He wasn't aware that he had been smiling at you so widely.

He missed the knowing glint in Jessica's eyes.

Across the peaceful months you'd spent as friends, Anthony and Jessica would tell you about their parents' most recent findings and you'd tell them the most bizarre concepts you learned at the academy.

At night, Anthony would sit by the window in his attic room, flagging out written messages on a sketch pad. Across the way, you would poke your head out to read it.

lots of apples are falling these days. want some?

my parents won't let me

that's because an apple a day keeps the doctors away. i think they're scared

no way... papa says he cuts people open. how could he be scared of apples?

ew... and I dunno, cherry. do you want apples or not?

stop calling me that

apples?

sure...

come down

ARE YOU MENTAL??

He was, indeed, crazy. He had tiptoed all the way downstairs and grabbed his mother and father's favorite jackets on the way out.

In the bite of night and the glow of ghost-lamps, he looked up at your house to see your head poking out of of a different window, a crazed expression on your face. 'What are you doing?' you mouthed.

"Hurry!" He yelled back. He chuckled when you'd flinched and checked behind you. He held up the jackets and took a breath, watching in amazement as fog formed from it.

All while you tapped the window sill in thought. You took one more contemplative glance behind you, then shut the window.

You were vaulting over the fence in no time. He caught you, cushioning your fall with the jackets he'd taken and greeted you with an incandescent smile. Even in greenlight, your little heart skipped a beat.

"Here. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold. We'd both be in trouble if you did."

He threw his mother's coat over your head. It was so big, it enveloped you like a gown. You tried to slip your arms through the sleeves but you only got halfway before you wiggled the limp fabric in his face. He swatted you away but folded them up enough so your palms could come through.

His father's jacket was huge on him, too, but he had the kind of air that made him look natural in it.

In his efforts to help you, his own hands had turned red from the cold. You seized them and stuffed them in your pockets, since your—his mother's—jacket had the lined pockets.

After huddling for warmth, you two grew warm enough to walk further into the backyard and pick up handfuls of apples. You found that you could only fit three apples in each pocket, so you held more by tucking your shirt into your pants and shooting them into your shirt. Anthony had done the same. You didn't realize how ridiculous your actions were until you saw how puffed his figure looked with that many apples stuffed down his shirt.

You snorted so loud it hurt, slapping your hand over your mouth to kill any more laughs that could alert the sleeping adults.

He turned his head to you, like an owl. It made more apples fall from your shirt as your shoulders shook. He shushed you, frantically glancing at the house. "What's wrong with you?"

You shook your head, riding the wave of maturity before it crashed. Little laughs and apples spilled from you. "You look like a pufferfish!"

He looked down and examined himself then, indignantly, he pointed at you. "You're literally spewing apples, you're just as bad!"

Restraint crumbled. Your hand came away and your laughs filled the silent night air. Anthony's laughs began to dance with yours until the pair of you were reduced to shaking stumps surrounded by fallen apples.

"Don't look at me! You're making me laugh!"

"Your face is funnier!"

"Stop it!"

"Cherry— You're only making me laugh more!"

It was no surprise that his parents had woken up and scolded you two accordingly. While they tutted at you, you two sat under the same blanket. Elbowing each other when they began to question who'd initated it.

You weren't a snitch. You did not tell, and they never found out who caused the trouble.

Jessica later rewarded you both with a cookie under their noses. You cracked your cookie in half to share with her. Anthony did the same to his, giving his other half to you.

—

Those memories were a far cry from the present. On some days, they felt like dreams. Now, all you are to him is a pair of peering eyes over wrought-iron fences.

Lockwood would catch glimpses of you on the way back from a case. He would nod, you would nod. Then both of you would continue on with your lives like the era of cherry pies and fallen apples had never happened.

Some days, he would turn the newspapers, checking to see if student doctor you had earned any new accolades in your scholastic journey to saving lives, but he never had it in him to say hello to you.

That morning's issue had you on the front page. You with your resplendent eyes and smile finally sporting a white coat at the ripe of eighteen, the first one of your age to earn 'Doctor' as a suffix to your name. Apparently, you'd applied your studies on forensic science to aid psychical investigations involving mummified body parts.

Seems you were doing well.

He placed the paper face down on the thinking cloth, ignoring Lucy's questioning gaze as he took a sip of tea.

"What's happened now?" Lucy asked, stretching her neck to see what made him so upset. She settled back into her seat after she set her eyes on the crossword puzzle, unable to glimpse the front page. "Kipps's crew?" she guessed.

"No, he would have his brow furrowed like this–" George turned to show his brows knitted together so hard they looked like they were drawn on with marker. "–if it was Kipps. It's got to be something else."

"Oh, right," Lucy said with bite, smacking her head like that made sense. "How could I forget?"

George shrugged, grinning like he had a secret on the tip of his tongue. "I don't know, Luce. Maybe it's the letters you've been receiving from one; Norrie White."

Lucy's chair scraped as she stood, gaping at George with anger tightening her mouth. "You went through my mail!"

"She wrote her name in marker. Red. Marker. I would have to be blind to miss it."

Lockwood kicked back and watched the drama ensue, a smile easing itself back on his face. Lucy and George's petty squabble was always a shot of espresso on a rather depressing morning. They made an excellent stopper to all his wonderings about the past.

"That was none of your business!" Lucy shrieked. In her fury, her hands itched to do something... to throw something.

Lockwood realized too late. He vaulted forward to pry the newspaper from her fingers, but Lucy's rage made her a savage. She chucked the newspaper at George with the velocity of a racing car.

The headlines collided with George's face with a resounding thud.

His glasses fell and landed with a unceremonious noise. Thankfully, unscathed from the impact.

The same could not be said for his nose.

George's face pulsed like he had been stung by the world's largest be. He splayed his hand over his nose to check for bleeding and groaned.

"That hurt..."

"Of course it did. I intended it to," Lucy huffed. She scooped up George's glasses and the paper. "That ought to teach you about looking at my correspondence."

"Didn't have to thump me that hard though," George grumbled, snatching his glasses back.

He looked like a dartboard bullseye wearing glasses. Lockwood couldn't focus on it though. His eyes were honed in on the newspaper Lucy was currently unraveling.

He bit his cheek and decided to finish his tea in one gulp. "Well," Lockwood started, fixing his collar as he stood. "I'd better see what we're taking on tonight. I'll be—"

"Hey, this is that girl next door." Lucy pushed her face closer to the paper to reassure herself that she wasn't seeing wrong. She'd seen that blouse and trouser combo on you a few days ago. "Yeah! That's her!"

George showed a rare kind of expression. A raised brow aimed at Lockwood. "She's a doctor now. How could that be upsetting?"

"Don't tell me you have a rivalry with her because she poked you in the bum when you were little," Lucy joked.

Lockwood's face flushed. He looked at the kitchen door, contemplating escape, then back to his friends. He leaned on the doorframe, attempting to look lax but coming off as stiff as a board. "Who said I was upset?"

"You were quiet over tea," George said.

"What of it?" Lockwood pushed.

George gave him an are you kidding me kind of look. "You never shut up when you can help it."

"And you did this." Lucy copied his pondering face, and Lockwood grimaced—reminding himself to school his expressions better.

"Please. For all things good, never do that again, and I am not upset at her—"

"Defensive now? You so are," George chuckled.

Lockwood's jaw ticked. "I am not—"

Saved by the bell. All three heads turned to the door with interest. It was still early in the day, so a new client was unexpected.

"I'll get it," Lockwood said. He left a prattling Lucy and George in the winds of his coat.

The doorbell rang again before he got to it. "Keep your shirt on—"

George and Lucy idled at the foot of the stairs as the door swung open. George let out a gasp, Lucy elbowed him to keep quiet.

Speak of the devil and he will appear. Though, you were more seraphic in that white dress, innocently festooned with embroidered cherries. Your smile was as disarming as ever. It was even brighter than the light haloing your hair.

"Hello."

Lucy tripped over air at the sweetness of your voice, now understanding how the word 'mellifluous' came to be.

Lockwood was indifferent.

Just staring at the back of his head, Lucy knew he was sporting an expression reserved just for Kipps and his crew. It made her want to kick his shin and tell him to get himself together.

"Hi," Lockwood finally greeted, tone bleak. "What are you doing here?"

"Lockwood," George finally intervened. Seems he was taken by how you carried yourself, too.

Both your and Lockwood's heads turned to him.

"Oh, you must be George Karim." Your smile widened, outshining the light above the door. "And Lucy Carlyle. Pleasure to finally meet you."

Lucy and George rarely agreed on things, but they spoke like they were on the same wavelength then. "Pleasure is ours."

A little laugh escaped you, just as graceful as the swish of your skirt. You introduced yourself, discounting your new title. "My parents asked me to invite friends to my celebratory dinner tonight but I don't have people I'd really consider friends." Your honeyed eyes drifted back to Lockwood, trying not to wilt under his blasé gaze. "I was thinking you three could drop by. No need to bring anything but yourselves. We have pie and ice cream for dessert."

Hope was alight in your eyes. The insider statement flew over George and Lucy's heads, and apparently, Lockwood's too. Your expression dampened as it struck you.

"That sounds nice," George said pleasantly.

Lucy nodded in agreement. "And it's not every day we get invited to a free meal."

"With pie." George was already dreaming about it.

Lockwood let out a breath. "Sorry. We have a case tonight."

"No, that's for Friday night," George interrupted. "Isn't that right, Lucy?"

"That's right," Lucy doubled down.

Both of Lockwood & Co.'s best simply blinked and grinned at Lockwood's taut form.

"Great," you quipped. Your eyes lingered on Lockwood but moved to George and Lucy when he showed no interest in being civil. "I'll see you tonight, then. Have a nice day!"

"You too!"

Lockwood gave you a sufficient nod and lipped smile as he closed the door. The moment you were out of sight, the room turned sepia.

Silence for a moment, then George.

"There is definitely something going on here."

—

Despite Lucy and George's joint efforts to pry answers from him, Lockwood did not bend. When the light began to die outside, they retired to their own rooms to prepare. Finally leaving him in silence.

Lockwood chose to wear his usual get-up. The only difference was his waistcoat. It sported a thin, stylish red stripe down it's right side; George had worn an unstained shirt for once, so he did put a bit more effort into his looks that evening; and Lucy wore her best skirt and sweater to put her best foot forward.

"Now," Lockwood said as they all spiraled down the steps. "You have to remember a few things about our neighbors."

"And that would be?" George rolled his eyes.

"They're doctors," Lockwood answered like it was a sin.

"All of them?" Lucy asked with interest.

"Yes, the entire family," Lockwood confirmed. "You have to remember that when they start getting weird about our work."

"Why?" Lucy flicked a crumb left on George's shoulder once they reached the last step. "We get help from hospitals when we need to examine post-mortem documents. It's not like our professions are worlds apart."

"You mean I get help," George corrected firmly. "Not like either of you do the grisly work when it comes to research."

"Well, you're the best at it," Lucy said placatingly.

"'Course I am," George nipped.

Lockwood shushed them. "Regardless of what they say, do not loose your cool. They think getting you worked up means they win.

"They can't be that bad. Your girl was nice enough," Lucy said.

Lockwood's brows furrowed then unfurrowed. "She's not my girl," he said, opening the door with zeal.

"Sure," Lucy grinned as she slipped past.

—

34 Portland Row looked the same as 35 from the outside. The interior decor made it clear that the home was made up of doctors. Successful ones, by the looks of it.

You greeted them at the door with the same radiatant smile from the papers. Your dress was marvelous but Lucy and George could not help but look over your shoulder, into the opulence of 34 Portland Row.

Like always, Lockwood greeted you with a nod and addressed you by name. It wasn't much but you accepted it with cheeks strained from practicing your smile.

As you lead them to the dining room, their eyes wandered at their own volition. Lockwood couldn't help but do the same.

The crystal chandelier in the living room was as decadent as ever; the doorknobs had been changed to be made of glass and silver; the bookshelves were packed with newer books—likely yours; the wall next to the stairs still held your height measurements from years ago. He caught your eye as he did so, trying not to flinch at the waves of melancholy that crashed over him. He chose to look at the back of your head as the light of the dining room enveloped them.

Like every room in this house, a chandelier sat in the middle. Everything was gleaming. Not a speck was out of place, except maybe him. Perfect, just like the family that lived here.

The table was already set with steaming meals of steak, veggies, and mashed potatoes. There was a pitcher of juice in the middle but Lockwood noticed that he, Lucy, and George's glasses were already filled with water. Your mother had just finished filling the last one when she offered her most deceitful smile.

"Anthony Lockwood and friends..." your mother greeted. Her tone was eloquent but the drawl in it sent an unwelcomed pang of anxiety through Lockwood, he tensed then forced himself to relax. "Haven't seen you around lately, Tony."

"Running a business does eat time, unfortunately." He spared her a terse smile and sat at the chair you directed him to — just across from you. Lucy sat beside you, and George had the misfortune of sitting next to your father. Lockwood cleared his throat to break the silence. "You haven't aged a day, Mrs.—"

"Doctor, actually. We've had this conversation before," she chortled with a furled smile you would only expect from the devil's mistresses.

Lucy and George found sudden interest in their food. Your shoulders sunk, but like times before, you didn't say anything. Lockwood tried not to look surprised.

"Right... Doctor. My apologies." He straightened himself in his seat. "You two look swell. How has the winter been treating you?"

"Oh, it's absolutely tiring," your father said. He had the kind of tone that suggested that he was always pouting. At least he wasn't spitting venom while he was talking about himself. "Patients coming in but rarely being able to make it out. Terrible thing, really."

"Sorrows to those who have passed because of the upstart," your mother chipped in. "Our little darling saved some lives in lieu of her recent graduation, and she's only been a doctor for a few days!"

Your mother smiled at you. You refused to look up from your dinner. "All I did was administer CPR. The hospital was understaffed that day. I work in a different department, mama."

Her smile faded before her eyes snapped to Lockwood, her grin sharpening.

"Can you imagine that? Not even a day as a doctor and she's already on the papers. Real talent gets recognized straight away, everyone knows."

Your father did not finish chewing his steak before he joined in. "Kids these days run around wasting their time on things other than their academics. What do they expect to do after their talents fade, huh? Our girl has no worries in that department."

George pushed his plate away after a blob of spit landed on his potatoes. He thought it was best to put down his utensils as well. His grip was turning his knuckles white. Lucy had resorted to pushing her asparagus to calm the anger beginning to stoke in her mind. They were beginning to see why Lockwood did not want to come. The aforementioned remained with a practiced smile on his face.

Your eyes conveyed your apologies yet Lockwood refused to look at you. You were as meek as the girl Lockwood first saw over the fence. Your voice was weaker when you used it in this house. "Mama, papa. Those kids risk their lives to make living easier for everyone. Bravery like that can't be learned from textbooks."

"No, but keeping your nose out of that business altogether will keep you alive." Your mother's expression changed, a beguiling woman turning into medusa before their very eyes.

You sunk under the weight of her stare. You might as well have turned to stone.

"Knowledge keeps you alive," your father added. "Perusing supernatural business will only end with dead kids or orphans who have to resort to psychical work to get by. Some of them work up the nerve to call it a real profession."

A resounding ring resounded from Lockwood's side of the table. He had dropped his knife. His smile had gone. His lips twitched, like he wasn't sure what to do or say. Ultimately saying nothing.

Your eyes glossed over, anger and sadness swirling together in your belly. You were ready to let loose, to set your parents straight. Yet, one look at your father's face was enough to have you curling in on yourself.

The temperature dropped like the conversation had. No one said a thing when smoke began to choke the room.

"Well," your mother cheered. "Seems like the pie is ruined. I'm afraid we'll have to end supper here."

—

Lucy rushed the door open, just itching to unload the tangle of colorful words she'd thought up in that stuffy house of yours.

"They were horrendous," George said, throwing his flannel aside. "I thought that junior doctor was nice but now I know she's Medusa's spawn."

"She is. And have you seen her dad?" Lucy doubled down. She considered going downstairs to release her pent-up emotions but thought better of it. "Terrible, the lot of them."

Lockwood had thought the same cruel thoughts but hearing it from them made him defensive. You weren't bad. You were just a bystander. Your lack of responses hurt as bad as your parents's passive-aggressive jabs, but you weren't even close to being half the evil your parents were. He felt his stomach churning as they began to drag your name through the dirt.

"We are never going back there," George declared. "You were right, Lockwood."

"I need 24 hours of sleep to recover from it. I've never felt so murderous before." That was Lucy's way of saying goodnight. She started for the steps right after.

"I think we should go back. So you can finish the job," George said, following Lucy up the stairs.

Lockwood stumbled ahead, throwing his coat on the newel and collapsing at the foot of the steps. From where he lazed, he continued to hear Lucy and George bicker.

"Maybe you could call up that Norrie White to help you get away with murder," George said encouragingly.

"Don't even start on that, George," Lucy warned.

Her door closed.

"Fine," George said despondenty. "It was just a suggestion, geez."

His door closed, too.

Lockwood let out a breath. It felt like his soul had left his body for a moment of reprieve. He didn't have even five minutes of silence before he heard urgent taps reverberating through his ears. He sat up, alarmed, trying to assess where the noise could have come from.

After a quick sweep, he swung the kitchen door open and discovered you on the other side of the garden door, knuckles raping against the glass with a pained look on your face.

He contemplated leaving you out in the cold but decided that he wasn't that kind of person. He opened the door and wasn't all that surprised that your habit of forgetting a jacket stayed true. You were shivering.

"Anthony—"

"Give me a moment," he interrupted. He turned, walked back to the steps to retrieve his coat, then returned to drape it over your shoulders. "Come in. Sit. You never remember to bring a coat at night, stubborn girl."

You smile despite the frost on your face. Your face turns pink as the warmth of 35 Portland Row thaws you. He sits you on his usual seat and takes George's cushioned seat instead.

"Old habits die hard," you chuckle, holding his coat tighter. If you bent your head enough, you would get a whiff of him on it. You could have tried to do it inconspicuously but he was sitting right there, he would know. "I'm sorry... for everything. I thought they wouldn't– I really should have known they would say things like that. I apologize for them. I really do feel bad. If Mr. Karim and Ms. Carlyle are still up, I'd like to tell them as well."

"They've retired for the night," he reports. He redacts the part that they were discussing the demise of your family. "but thank you for coming to say that."

"And I'm sorry I didn't say anything," you add.

Lockwood doesn't say anything to that. In his mind, you would have stopped them if you were really sorry. "Why did you come here? And please don't say you're inviting us to another dinner."

"Goodness, no." You snort. "I... have a case. I don't know who else to surrender the evidence to."

His brows jump. "You're asking for psychical service? From me? Us, I mean."

You nod. "I hear that Ms. Carlyle is particularly gifted. What I think we're facing is something special. Something no regular agent can feel out."

"Why hasn't Fittes or Rotwell been put up to this if it's that important?"

"Because it's a personal study of mine." You drop a manila folder on the thinking cloth. Lockwood didn't even notice you were holding it earlier. "It's a closed case. An unsolved one. The autopsy is gruesome and justice was never brought to the victim. I searched her property myself and found the source. I tried to communicate with her but I can't do it."

"And you think Lucy is the Listener for the job?"

"Yes. I don't just want to get rid of a ghost, Anthony, I want to lay her to rest. To give her peace."

He leans back in his chair, drinking in the information while he raked a hand through his hair. "You investigated the area of the haunting alone?"

"In daylight," you said in your defense. "My sense of touch is useful enough for me to know if something is a source. Problem is, I can't get any psychical resonance to find out who had killed her."

"Amazing..." he breathed. He didn't know you had that level of sensitivity. Still, he had to think of this as an official case. He righted his posture immediately. "I'll ask George and Lucy in the morning. Can you come by at nine?"

"Yeah. My parents are at work before then. No worries about them."

"Good."

You nod, not knowing what else to do. "Good."

You stared at each other. Possibly taking in how much time had changed you; The scars he'd earned through the years, the callouses on your hands from studying, blemishes, changed mannerisms—and then the unspoken reminder that you had drifted apart after the Lockwood family turned from four to one. You were completely different people to the children who used to laugh through these halls.

"I better get going," you said. You couldn't handle Lockwood and his expressive eyes. You don't know if he was doing it consciously, but it was like you could see his sadness bleeding into the world just by glancing at them.

He nodded like a puppet on a string, pulling himself up and leading you to the garden door once more.

"Goodnight," you said, mustering a friendly smile that was, thankfully, returned.

"Night... Cherry," he replied.

You smiled for a moment more before you snuck back home. Neither of you remembered that you had his coat until morning.

—

You were knocking at 35 Portland Row at 8:55. You stood stiffly, not knowing how to conduct yourself after last night's catastrophe. Lockwood's coat was folded over your arm when George answered the door.

Opposite of the day before, his face was flat. If you turned around and left, you'd be doing him a favor. Unfortunately for him, you were there with intention.

"I need the help of Lockwood & Co."

George opened his mouth, probably thinking of some creative way to say 'shove off'. Lockwood's voice from the kitchen bellowed over his train of thought. "It that her? Let her in, Georgie."

George was mumbling something but he stepped aside and didn't stab you with a nearby rapier. You believed that meant there was a chance to redeem yourself.

You were lead to the receiving room where you were shortly joined by Lockwood and an either groggy or bloodthirsty Lucy. George had retired to the kitchen to bring in biscuits. You hadn't earned the respect to have cake in the vicinity.

Lockwood lead the conversation, eyes trained on you. It made you conscious enough to shuffle and pick at the frayed seams of his coat.

"You only gave us a few details about this case. Evidently it was murder but it was closed and unsolved for two decades."

"I have the rest here," you said, revealing another manila folder. This one was thicker, packed with all you knew about it. It was the real deal. As you passed it across the table, the three of them ogled at the vivid red 'confidential' stamp slanted across the front. "Her name was Iris Griffiths. She was a forensic scientist who cracked several unsolved cases in her time. She had sensitive hearing, from what her colleagues said. She wasn't working on any new cases before her housemate reported her dead on a random night."

"Was it during winter? She could have been ghost-touched." Lucy suggested with a clipped tone. She just wanted to close the case and never see you again.

You shook your head, reaching across and guiding Lockwood's hand to another page in the folder. "Her autopsy shows several lacerations and bruises but no remnants of ghost touch. Her body was already decomposing when she was found."

"And her flatmate? They could be a suspect." George pitched.

You shook your head again. "Celia Rodney was out of town with her fiancé. Several colleagues were interviewed and confirmed it."

Lockwood looked up. "Then we have to assume that it's someone from Griffith's personal life. Did she have a lover?"

"This is like the Annie Ward case all over again," Lucy groaned.

You continued nonetheless. "She did have a lover, actually. Howard Gasley was her co-worker and boyfriend. They had a good relationship, according to the interviews, so I don't suspect any foul play between them."

George leaned against the right side of his chair. There was a creak from the old thing but he ignored it. "What if their relationship was rocky behind the scenes?"

You looked down at the evidence file and sighed. "I guess we will find out when Ms. Carlyle's able to speak with her. All our suspects have solid alibis. To obtain justice for Iris Griffith, we'll have to be her witnesses."

George turns stiff. "We? Lockwood."

Lucy does the same. "You're asking me to communicate with a ghost?"

Lockwood tries to settle them down with a relaxed smile. "It's high time I stop scolding you for being good at what you do, Luce. Our client is explicitly asking you to exploit your talent and find us a killer. The client is always right. Isn't that right, George?"

George grumbles a reply you don't hear, and Lucy nods limply, like she can't comprehend the fact that Lockwood was being so lax about this. What happened to the dangers of communicating with ghosts?

Regardless, they realize that arguing with him was going to be a losing battle. He has that look in his eye—one akin to an adrenaline junkie who's about about to jump from a cliff, and his eyes are set on you.

Lucy and George watched as you returned his coat before they shot each other looks.

What happened to hating you and your white-coat family? Lockwood marched to the beat of his own drum, apparently.

They had their kits ready before dark and met you on the street you'd told them about. Lockwood saw your peering eyes over the run-down house's picket fence and quickened his pace.

"Lovely place," Lucy drawled, eyeing the chipping paint with faint curiosity. Two decades could do so much to a nice house.

"Very lively," George seconded with bite, side-stepping the corpse of a rat.

"I have the source inside, under a chain net," you inform them. You push open the door, wincing as the hinges break and send the wood slamming to the floor. "I hope the house holds long enough to finish this investigation."

"Finally," cheered Lucy. "something we can agree on."

Lockwood was contemplating over how to behave himself. One second, he was keeping pace with you, then walking ahead the next, then falling behind you. He cycled between all three, ignoring George's rolling eyes and Lucy's sighs until all four of you reach the second-floor's lavatory. Luckily, no one had fallen through the floor.

"Do tell me we're not dealing with supernatural turd," George begged.

Lucy wrinkled her nose. "I'll be the one doing the Listening so you can take your complaints outside, George."

"This might be worse," you answer them when you pull off the chain net from an odd looking thing. It looked like a starfish wrapped in ripped and yellowed tissue paper. Lucy gagged when she took a second look.

"Mummified hand," Lockwood said aloud, trying to keep a placid smile on his face. "I always tell you to never mess with mummified body parts but we'll have to make an exception."

"Mummified parts bridge the forensic and psychical field, unfortunately." You cover the source back up as a mercy to Lucy. "They couldn't find her hand before they autopsied her body. Found this under a plank in her bedroom."

"Handy," George said dryly.

Lucy glared at him. "Not the time."

"I'm not sorry," he replied.

"You could have mentioned this sooner," Lockwood interjected, turning his head to you.

You gave a smile in response. "I think it's just another piece of evidence that proves someone had been very angry with her."

"Did the academy teach you to smile so morbidly?" George questioned.

"No, that's just her face." Lockwood said gravely.

George spared you a look that resembled concern. "Pity."

You dropped your smile and walked passed a chuckling Lockwood.

—

Lucy couldn't hear a thing while there was light out. Even with the chain net off, all she could hear was George's heavy breathing.

Lockwood had everyone sat in the disparaging kitchen to have tea and some biscuits before night fell. All the courtresy of Lockwood & Co., of course. Papers spread across the table, rehashing the details in hopes that it would help Lucy discern which questions to prioritize once she made contact with Griffith.

George squinted his eyes at the court transcripts. "There's an awful lot of witnesses."

"It was a big case. Griffith did wonders to connect the world of science and the psychic." You dipped a biscuit into your overly sweetened tea; it was not so coincidentally your favorite brand, and took a bite. "She inspired me to study. It's been a dream of mine to solve her case."

George nodded with the most plastic smile on his face. "Wonderful. We're fulfilling childhood wishes while Lucy experiences rediscovered trauma."

You sighed and sunk into the rotting seat. There was no salvaging an acquaintanceship with George at this rate. You lulled your head to look at Lockwood. He spared you a smile but looked away just as quick.

"Don't interrupt me, that's all I ask," Lucy said as the clock struck six.

Papers were put away, circles were drawn, several more candles were lit, and Lucy hunkered down in the lavatory. The door was closed to give her room to work, leaving you to stand between Lockwood and George. You hobbled from heel to heel as you eyed their rapiers and their weary wandering.

The silence reminded you too much of home. Words poured out of you to chase away your parents's images in your mind. "How strong are Ms. Carlyle's talents? I've only heard heresay about her abilities."

"None of your business—"

"She's the best Listener in the field," Lockwood answered. Even in the dim light, you could see his smile pull higher. It made your heart do funny things while your stomach dropped. "I ought to think she'd be on parr with Marissa Fittes, given enough time. Maybe even better."

George nodded in agreement, turning his head as the ghost-lamps outside flickered to life. The green hue bled into the room, dimming the atmosphere even more.

You leaned against the wall as a chill crept out from under the lavatory door. "I have no doubt that we'll be able to get our answer then."

"Oh! Ow!" George exclaimed.

You didn't have a rapier or any form of weapon but you turned to him like you could help, just to find he was simply hugging himself.

"Got really cold all of a sudden. Felt like something passed through me," he said. He looked down at his thermometer. "Temp's dropped significantly. This visitor is a force."

"That's why she got the best of the best to do it," Lockwood boasted, winking your way and changing his stance as a spectral glow began to flicker under the door.

"Do we have a guess on what we could be facing?" you asked, backing away.

Lockwood didn't miss the tremoring in your hands. "No, but where where is a lack of knowledge, there is faith. We'll make it out this alive."

"Oh," you laughed unhumorously. "how reassuring."

"He's good at that," George added flatly.

Lockwood held out an arm, guiding you to stand between him and George. Their backs turned to you, their rapiers raised and at the ready.

"Here," Lockwood didn't look away from the dark as he unclasped a salt-bomb and a flask of lavender water. He held them out and you took them with shaking hands.

Malaise stalked in on you three, making the hairs on your arm stand. You gripped the salt-bomb and lavender water for dear life. Pressure squeezed down on your chest and your heart raced for a danger unseen.

"This much activity before ten? Griffith must have had qualms about dying." George said.

Lockwood chuckled, nodding along. "Wonder how nobody reported this much activity if the source was hidden all this time."

"Nobody wanted to visit this place when the killer was still at large," you answered, struggling to keep your tone even. "Some kids started some rumors during the court proceedings. They said someone just wanted the house badly enough to kill for it."

"That would be unfortunate," George said. "Imagine all that commotion over a killer who simply wanted real estate."

You tried to stiffle a laugh but failed. "It does sound ridiculous."

Lockwood chanced a glance at you, catching your faulty smile before a scream shook the Earth.

"Lucy?"

"Lucy!"

"Ms. Carlyle?"

She came bursting out of the lavatory, two fingers pinching the mummified hand, and looking quite disgruntled before she stood in the boy's protective circle.

"We might need Little Miss Doctor to stand in the iron circle," Lucy said, fumbling for her rapier and holding the source a ways from her body. Frost was gripping at her gloves.

The plan was scraped with one glance to the circle. It had been thrashed by Griffith from the time Lucy came tumbling out of the lavatory.

"Type two," all three of them agreed.

"What happened?" asked George. His eyes darted down the hallway with more apprehension than before.

"She got angrier and angrier the more names I mentioned," she answered. "I felt like she was about to drown me."

You took the mummified hand from her grasp. The sigh she let out was laughable. "Did she say who killed her?"

Lucy shook her head as she readied herself. Miasma was building. Fear gripped you like nothing you'd experienced before. When you touched the hand, that feeling multiplied. You heard murmurs but nothing substantial.

Shell...

Kill me...

Secret...

You couldn't stitch those words together to come to any conclusion. You were crossing your fingers that Lucy could. The possibilities kept you up at night. If you weren't thinking about your estranged friendship with Lockwood, you were thinking of getting justice for this woman you didn't even know. The cold pinching your skin from the source was a reminder that it wasn't over.

Like a light in the dark, Lucy looked at you and said, "She kept nodding her head whenever I asked if some person killed her; She said yes to Rodney. She said yes to Gasley—"

"So even she doesn't know who killed her?" George laughed emptily. "Brilliant."

"We might have to investigate more on our own to find more details." Lockwood nudged your side. You thought it was to shield you from the cold but that would be too presumptuous. He had bumped into you to swipe away the apparition of Iris Griffith.

She came and went like a zap of electricity. Frantic and unpredictable. Every time you caught sight of her mauled face, your heart picked up. How these three hadn't double over from heart failure was a mystery. Your knees gave up when she'd appeared beside you.

Your eyes watched her in slow motion. The rippling gashes in her plasma, her sneering face, her slashed dress... She was a hairsbreadth away from you before your instincts kicked in.

Your blood fell to your feet but your hand reached into your pocket in a panic, saving yourself as you pulled out a silver button. You threw it at her face and, fortunately, it was enough to disperse her ghost.

Lockwood let out a loud breath of relief but jumped back into the rhythm when her apparition reappeared. "Was that my mother's button? Nevermind. Time to make our exit! Luce, where's the chain net?"

She clicked her tongue. "Dropped it. Her manifestation appeared right in front of me."

"Go get it then!" George rushed, swiping at the air and setting off the first salt-bomb of the night.

"I would if I could," Lucy replied with a bite in her tone. She grimaced at the hand in your vice. "It's in the toilet."

"Pick it up! You've held worse." George backed into Lucy. They switched places.

"It's best if you don't," you advised. "This place has been deserted for years. Who knows what kind of bacteria's been growing in the bowl."

"Oh, you have to know everything, don't you?" George hissed.

Lucy didn't snap at you this time. "Listen to the doctor, George! Did we bring any more chain nets?"

Lockwood reached for your shirt, tugging you towards him as Griffith bit the air where your head would have been. He held you between his arms as blood rushed to your ears and cheeks. Lockwood's breath tickled your ear. The warmth of your face was a juxtaposition to the cold encasing your hands. "My bag! It's a bit away. We'll have to split up."

"Try not to die," George said with false sweetness. He and Lucy ran the opposite way you and Lockwood had.

Griffith chased them. The farther she got, the more you remembered how to breath.

"Calm down, cherry cheeks, ghosts can feed off of your fear," he tried to pacify you. The rasp of his voice evened your heart rate enough for you to get your brain turning again.

"Right. You're right..." You looked ahead, through the darkness and could barely make out the lumps on the ground. "Chain, we have to get the chain net."

"I've got you," he assured.

Even if your pivotal functions had returned to normal, your legs hadn't gotten the memo. Getting up made your knees buckle and legs feel like cooked pasta. As if the cold eating your fingers weren't bad enough.

Lockwood caught you around the waist, holding your weight while he held his rapier at the ready. "Hold on to the source and remember the salt-bomb."

You nodded firmly, clutching both to your chest as you two made a joint effort to get to the bags.

You were almost there, just passed the iron circle that Griffith had broken through, when she appeared above you like an unwanted mistletoe.

You screamed, Lockwood said something to console you, you threw the salt-bomb without taking off the clip, and Lockwood quickly sliced off the top to set it off. Salt sprayed over you two. His body folded over yours as it showered down.

Griffith's yells faded for a moment, a moment long enough for you to slide forward and grab the chain net that clung onto the side pocket of Lockwood's kit. Your hand wrapped around it, Iris's spectral glow kissed your skin, you felt the chill of it — she was colder than her source.

Suddenly, Lockwood had tugged you back towards him. His pull was strong enough to knock you onto your side. It would bruise but at least you weren't ghost-touched.

You wrapped the mummified hand in the net and sighed as the glow faded away and the screaming ceased. The frostbite on your fingers were worth the pain. You were alive.

Silence and heavy breathing ensued.

You rolled the rest of the way on your back, heaving for breath you won't get back. Not while Lockwood remained hovering over you.

The candles had been blown out in the earlier attack. The only light came from the ghost-lamps that sifted through the broken windows. Everything was in that ugly shade of bottle green... but that didn't make him any less magnificent.

Sweat collected on his brow, his mouth was agape—chasing for breath, and his lips were curled in that kind of smirk you could only dream about. Holding your breath did little for your racing heart.

"You okay, cherry cheeks?" His lips moved like their one purpose was to enrapture you.

You nodded dumbly, unable to find your words.

—

Portland Row was cloaked by the night when you four made your escape.

The three of them headed for the 35th while you bound up the steps to your parents' place. George and Lucy gained enough respect for you to wish you a good night before heading in, successfully tuckered out. Lockwood remained, staring at you with his hands in his trouser pockets.

He raised his brows at you then motioned to your front door. "Head on in. It would weigh on my conscience if I don't see you home safe. Your parents would have my head."

"You..." you paused at the fog before you. It was colder out than you thought. "You called me cherry cheeks earlier."

His stance turned tense. He rocked on his heels before he mustered a smile. "Old habits die hard... Sorry if it made you uncomfortable."

"It's okay," you reassured, returning the smile. "I missed it."

"You don't mind then?"

You shook your head. "Never did."

His smile broadened, teasing a glimpse of his pearly whites before he looked at his shoes to hide it. "See you tomorrow then, cherry."

You bit the inside of your cheek as you stared at him. These days, both of you were tall enough to see each other clearly over the wrought-iron fencing. You missed the days you had to tiptoe to show him a smile.

You had no problems shooting him a smile from over the fence. You had no problems coming home to your perfectionist parents. You had no problems imagining your world without Lockwood in it... but you missed him.

Now that the events kept replaying in your head, all you could think while you looked at him was I miss you, I'm sorry. I miss you, I'm sorry. I miss you, I'm sorry.

Lockwood had the talent of knowing when you wanted to say something but couldn't bring yourself to. He forgot how when you had grown apart. Now, in the quiet of the night and the privacy of the stars, it came back to him like the memories he tamped down by closing his window.

"What's wrong?" He asked, setting his hands on the freezing iron fence.

You feel the knot in your throat and the tears in your eyes. It hurts to hold back. Your lungs are lined with spikes as you take a breath. It feels like you're cracking your ribs open as you cave and admit to him, "I don't want to go home to them."

It may have been a trick of the light, but you swear there were tears in his eyes, too. His smile had changed. It was the same one you were accustomed to—the one he used to welcome you into his parents's house all those years ago. Like no time had passed at all, he beckons you. "Come on in then. 35 Portland Row is always open for you. It's your home, too."

—

One night's sleep on 35 Portland Row's most uncomfortable couch was worlds better than the comfy bed in your own cold home. You stretch like a cat to work out all the kinks in your joints, smiling at the air for no reason other than the happiness that filled you the moment you realized you were at the Lockwoods'. Your frosted hands had been wrapped up over a very sleepy catch-up the night before.

Ambient music was playing in your head as you took in your surroundings. The browned books and the disarray of trinkets left all around you were more home than anything you were used to.

It felt like you were wading through the most pleasant dream.

It all screeched to a halt the moment you swung your foot down and stepped on something squishy and loud—it groaned like a beast.

Terror clawed out of your throat in the form of a scream. Juttery legs hopped onto the back of the couch to gain height, and weary eyes looked down at the monster under the bed— er, sofa.

The lump inflated, made of patchwork quilt... until that fell away to reveal a very disheveled and very grumpy Anthony Lockwood.

"Ow," he simply said.

Your soul returned to your body. You offered a little laugh as you eased back down on the couch. "Sorry, Anthony."

"Don't worry yourself," he assured, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I was the one who snuck down here."

You were a kid when you admitted to being afraid of being alone. It was thoughtful of him to come down here to keep you company when he had a perfectly good bed upstairs.

With a fluttering belly and a sheepish smile, you reached out and patted his sleepy head. "You've always been good to me. I should be more grateful."

He opened one eye to look at you while he rubbed the sleep out of the other. A corner of his lip tipped up into a lazy smile. "You can start with a 'thank you', darling."

"Thank you," you said all too quickly. The deeper octave and the rasp in his voice had finally hit home. It made your cheeks warm.

Judging by the growing smile on his face, he had accomplished what he was intending to.

Your shoulders jumped. A knock broke through the calmness of the air. You turned and saw George in an apron and kitchen mitts. "Are you two going to give each other goo-goo eyes all morning or are you joining us for breakfast?"

—

The investigation resumed as soon as the breakfast plates had been cleaned.

You split into two groups. George and Lucy were off to the archives to work out all of Griffith's social connections, and you and Lockwood were off to the hospital to look for documents that contained the same M.O. or similar timeline to Griffith's case.

"I thought police were the only ones allowed to hold information like this," Lockwood admitted as you two shuffled through files upon files in the hospital archives.

"Most of it, they do. I just hope there's something here relevant to our case," you reply. "If we have to hand this off to detectives, DEPRAC will get involved. They'll just close the case and leave it be."

He nudges up to you after a good three hours of finding absolutely nothing. "Let's look at the last few cases she solved. Could have a clue."

"All of those are solved though," you respond. You were biting your nails at this point. You had to find something before questioning Griffith's ghost again—for Lucy's sanity and for the group's safety.

Lockwood took you by the shoulders just as you began to imagine the worst. "Cherry," he said to snap your attention to him. "If we can't find anything, I don't want you joining us on this one."

"What?" You back away from him in your incredulity. "I helped last night, didn't I? This is my investigation as much as it is yours, Anthony."

"This visitor is a type two, cher. It's not as simple as solving a case. This means lives are in the balance—"

"I'm aware." You put your foot down. You slapped his hands away and shimmy a thick stack from under the desk. "I'm aware of the risks and I consent to them." You pick up the one at the top of the stack and shove it into his chest. He had always liked the curiosity in your eyes, so he was taken aback by the void in them as you looked at him. "I have enough people treating me like I belong at home or behind the safety of iron fences—I do not need you to coddle me like that. My parents do it enough."

He watched your back as you look through the second file in the stack. "You know I don't mean to coddle you..."

"You're doing it right now." Your tone carries a point. "You're telling me to sit this one out because it's too dangerous."

"It's risk assessment—"

"You're underestimating me—"

He slams his hand down on the paper you're idly reading. Bringing your attention to him. "I do this because I don't want to lose you."

Your anger falls away.

The reminder of how how much he'd lost occurs to you. It makes your arms grow limp and your heart to shrink. You can only stare at him with those same eyes he can't unsee even when his are closed. He hates the way he's made sadness swim in them. "Anthony..."

He said your name with the same caution. "You want to know why I became distant?"

"People grow apart when they grow up, Anthony. It's not your fault—"

He knelt beside you, laying his heart out right then and there. "I couldn't stand watching you with your perfect family. They always said any field tampering with the supernatural was a death sentence. I hated how they were right. I hated how they made you so small. I couldn't watch you like that. I hated that you turned into a doctor, just like them. I hated how they were so bad and so cruel, but they were always right."

You were quelled into silence. Biting your lip to keep the tears in. He held your hands delicately, careful of your injury. His touch was light but you knew you would feel it for hours. You held his hands with as much strength as you could muster, even as your skin burned and screeched for reprieve, you did not let go. "They are wrong about you..." you whisper to him.

He went on, plastering on a smile you knew was fake. It sheared your heart to know that. "I knew they were right when they said you would do great things... But they said so many other things that hurt. I couldn't stand being around. It just made me remember that no one was around to defend me anymore. I'm sorry that I had to leave you out, too. Seeing you reminded me of everything they said and I... I couldn't shake it."

Your eyes hurt so much. You gave up somewhere along the way and let the tears fall. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to fight them. I wanted to say so many things but they've always been so- so..."

"Scary?" he supplied with a pathetic laugh. "I know. Don't blame yourself."

You bobbed your head, sniffing as tears went. "You don't have to apologize for all that, Anthony. I'm so sorry, I didn't stand by you when you needed me. But I am going to see this case through to the end, I've dedicated my life to it."

Even when you were hiccuping and heaving for air, you wiped away the tear that tracked down his cheek. His heart surrendered to you then.

"Okay... And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have ignored you like I did," he said again, just because he felt like you needed to hear it.

"No. I'm sorry," you reply. Vehemently wiping his eyes. "Anthony, come on. Don't cry. I'm not worth crying for."

"Oh, don't say that," he said lightly. "You're worth everything, cher."

Both of you manage a smile but neither of you are well enough to hold it. You laugh at each other's attempts.

You came clean to him too: How your parents had made you the sun of their solar system; How they poured their knowledge into you like you were a cup meant to hold their images in vivid color; How they moulded you into being the projection of a golden girl—their magnum opus. You carried the weight of their world. Most days, they acted more like teachers than parents. It got worse the older you got. Trophies and medals took the places of photographs until all you became was your achievements.

"They were so hard on you..." he said slowly. It was just sinking I just how trapped you were. You were cornered in a place that was supposed to covet you.

"Still, I should have defended you. I hate that I didn't," you said, wiping your nose with the back of your sleeve. It was the most ungraceful thing he'd seen you do but it brought him back to the cherry pie incident, and he found that he couldn't even think of you in a bad light.

"It's water under the bridge. I hate your parents, but there is one thing we can agree on," Lockwood said, cracking a semblance of a smile.

You cocked your brow at him. Teary eyes and all, he still found you as cute as a button.

"I would make you the sun of my solar system, too. They got that right."

With a snort, you said, "You're good at buttering people up, you know that?" You shoved his shoulder to shut him up but he caught the red on your ears and the smile you hid with a tilt of your head.

—

When you rendezvoused with George and Lucy, it was around 5:40 in the afternoon. The sun was dipping and the ghoulish were about to walk the earth. If George or Lucy noticed the redness in your eyes, they said nothing of it. You hurried along inside the stranded house and relayed newfound information.

"The last case Griffith reviewed involved a woman named Shelly Carson. She immigrated from America and died at 17 while she was interning for Hayes Inc." You flipped the file open on the kitchen table over tea. "They profiled the case to be a suicide but I don't think Griffith agreed." Your finger pointed to the lower left corner where Griffith would put her stamp of approval. The line was void of it. "She wrote 'Garrote not rope??' on the unofficial report. Carson's case could have been a murder."

The information set off a spark in George. He was rubbing invisible dirt from his glasses and finished doing so as you concluded your assessment. "We found a Shelly Carson in our search too," he said. Everyone lent their ears. "She was friends with Griffith in childhood. Alongside Rodney and Gasley. The four of them were close friends from well-off families."

"Ah, they're rich. Explains a lot," Lucy snorted. George ignored her quip.

"Turns out Rodney and Carson were both interested in Gasley. Rodney moved on with some bloke named Jerome Holt, but she suspected him of having an affair with Carson. Holt proposed to prove her wrong."

Lockwood tilted his head. "Sounds like gossip, Georgie."

George brandished an old leather diary. "We tracked down Howard Gasley. He gave us this."

Lockwood lit up. Sitting up with renewed energy. "How did you manage that?"

Lucy grinned. "The death of his girlfriend weighed on his conscience. All I had to do was tell him that her ghost can't be put to rest. Spilled like a waterfall after that."

"So, he did kill her?" You asked.

"Well, that's the difficult bit... The rest of the pages were ripped out and he didn't explicitly say he did. Maybe he did do it, he likes ripping things." George revealed, pointing the diary at the mummified hand in the net. "I think he's involved, one way or another."

Lockwood looked at it, then looked at Lucy. "What do you think, Luce?"

She looked at all three of you with a gleam in her eye. "I think we're about to find our killer."

—

The set-up was same as last night, except the iron circle had been extra fortified to fit all four of you in case things get out of hand. Lockwood stuffed lavenders into your pockets as Lucy lit the the candles.

"If you die tonight, I will not forgive you," Lockwood said as he put a salt-bomb in your hand.

"Same goes for you," you retort with a smile.

He returns your grin, tapping your sides and making your heart flutter before he sets off to help George with inventory.

You cross the chains to help Lucy in the lucky room chosen to host the seance in. With all the furniture pushed to the walls, the sitting room was the epitome of morbid. The carpet was patterned in a way that made it perfect for summoning and the cobwebs embellishing the place contributed to the unsettling ambiance. Lucy herself was lighting candles around the source. You took a pack of matches and helped light the rest of them.

"How are you feeling?" you asked as you lit the last candle and killed the match.

"Confident," she replied. She even spared you a smile. "And you?"

"Scared. Excited, mostly."

She bobs her head. She had a far-away look in her eye before she asked, "Your room is an attic room, correct?"

The nature of the question surprised you. "Yes. Why?"

A smile teased her lips. "I knew it." She looked at you like she saw right through you. "Lockwood was loitering near the window this morning. Just thought it was odd."

You hear him in your mind then — cherry cheeks. Warmth crawled up your neck as Lockwood and George entered the room.

"What are you two blabbering about?" George questioned, off-put by Lucy's smile and your flushed face.

"Nothing," you said together, one more pitched than the other.

George didn't look convinced.

Lockwood spoke up. " You ladies ready? Let's catch ourselves a killer."

The door was left open with an heavy stopper, giving you ample room to run to the iron circle in case things took a turn for the worst. Though, you doubted it would. The other three shared the sentiment. Some kind of energy buzzed between you four and livened the room, something that wasn't there the night before.

Lucy looked between you and Lockwood with a knowing expression you only ever saw from Jessica Lockwood. It was gone as quick as it came but the brief blast from the past made you dizzy. The resemblance must have been what made Lockwood so comfortable with her.

Lockwood had crossed the room and stood by you. Close enough to catch you if you stumbled forward in your daze.

He glanced at his wrist to check the time. "7:30's a good time. Ready, Lucy?"

"Ready," she confirmed. With a tug, the iron net came off of Griffith's mummified hand.

George and Lockwood reconsidered their stances with their rapiers as warmth was immediately sapped from the room. It was akin to jumping into a lake without testing the waters. Blood rushed to your ears. The whispering began again.

"We're here to help you," Lucy said calmly.

Wind began to pick up despite the windows being closed. Lucy persevered. "Iris Griffith, I know that you're experiencing a great injustice. Let me help you. Talk to me."

Lucy closed her eyes. You trust that she was establishing a connection with Griffith. The chill subsided by a fraction, her eyes were moving rapidly like you do when you're in the middle of a dream.

"There's a spectral glow behind you, George." Lockwood caught that faster than you. He was glaring down at the opposite corner of the room.

George's face remained impassive. "You'll tell me if she gets too close."

"Shush!" Lucy threw a hand up in the air. "Shell... Shelly? Yes, what about Shelly Carson? She died before you. You saw her case. They got the autopsy wrong, didn't they?"

A faraway scream interrupted the silence. You fumbled forward. Lockwood caught your arm. "Careful there, cherry cheeks." You lived up to your nickname.

"They all kept... Secret...?" Lucy murmured. "They all killed you to keep a secret?"

If this were a cartoon, you imagine everyone to have exclamation marks above their heads. Finally, some of the mystery began to come into focus. Who are 'they' and what secret were they so desperate to keep?

"Secret... Shelly Carson?" Lucy's expression lightened and the room grew slightly warmer. "Yes! Their secret is Shelly Carson. No? Oh, then what— They killed her to keep the secret... then paid people to say they were innocent."

"Rich people," George tutted.

The anticipation was killing you. All those nights of research, pouring over case files and autopsies were boiling down to this. You gripped Lockwood's sleeve to ground yourself. He glanced at your hand, worried you were seeing something he wasn't, but felt a smile twitching on his lips when he noticed the elation on yours.

Lucy'a voice pierced the air. "They killed her to keep what secret?"

The silence, the anticipation, and the chill in the room melded.

"Rodney pregnant? With Gasley's—" Lucy shut herself up. It was like a bad episode of a telenovela, but this was real, and someone had died because of it. "And when you were about to uncover the truth about Shelly... Rodney and Gasley they got you, too? I'm sorry to hear that. Gasley must have regrets. He had left a diary and... your, ah, hand so we could uncover your story."

It wasn't the most peaceful way to end a talk with a ghost. As soon as Lucy finished the conversation, the apparition of Iris Griffith had appeared once more. Contrary to your hypothesis, finding out the motive and her killers did not put her to rest at all.

She wailed louder than the previous night and zipped about even faster than before. Nothing Lockwood & Co. couldn't handle though. You showered the room with lavender and salt as Lockwood & Co. danced with a ghost.

—

You all appreciated a bit of silence after getting your ears blown off by a visitor. The world clearly didn't like you enough to grant the request, judging by the hunched and fuming figures of your parents blocking the door to 35 Portland Row. They sported crossed arms and crossed expressions. Your mother, specifically, was blowing steam from her ears.

Seeing your sweaty and worn form only confirmed their suspicions: You'd been running around with ghost hunters.

"You ungrateful brat..." your mother muttered.

Lucy stepped forward, blocking her way to you. She was hardened by her own experiences and least expected the horrid woman to turn on her own daughter for simply doing something outside of white-tiled establishments. You were grateful for it.

That only stirred the pot for your parents.

"We sheltered you, spoiled you, and educated you to be the lady you are today. You are our legacy." Your father harumphs forward. "We made you what you are and you would throw that all away by risking your stupid little life for some miniscule ghost adventure!"

George is the next to block their way. He wasn't that protective type, but he did look the part when he wanted to. "It was her childhood dream. Let her live." Leave it to George to be forward.

Your mother stamped her feet. The display was so awfully childish you had to look away. "You are children who don't know a single thing about building a foundation for a good life! You are going to run my daughter to ruin!"

Because of her display, Lockwood & Co. weren't so intimidated by her anymore.

Lockwood had stepped ahead, completing the wall that prevented your iron-fisted parents from getting to you ever again. "We're the best psychical agents in London. We expect a little more respect, doctor."

You could hear the smile in his voice. You couldn't help but smile, too.

With a last burst of anger, your father yelled to you. "You either come home or you find your own way. I'd rather live without a daughter than live with a disappointing one."

It shouldn't hurt as much as it did, but you had given your whole life to live up to the version of you they were dreaming of. Even if you had achieved all that, all it took was having a moment of autonomy for them to turn against you and disregard your sacrifices.

Lockwood had turned to you with a face so full of hope, it brought you back to the other night at the horrid dinner party and the night you snuck out to pick apples. After all that's happened, you found it in yourself to steel your resolve and face your father with bravery that felt unnatural but oh-so addicting.

"I'm going home," you told them.

You walked passed a stunned George and a speechless Lucy. Lockwood was far bluer than the two, but you shot him a smile that put all his worries to rest.

When you were kids, he was the one to take you by the hand and drag you off on a new adventure. This time, it was you so took his hand and pulled him passed your parents's skyscraping figures and into the comforts of 35 Portland Row.

Home, at last.

The first thing you saw as you pulled Lockwood through the threshold was his smile, radiant as ever. He didn't give you much time to admire it. He swooped down and stole your first kiss before you could even blink.

You could hear Lucy and George laugh over your parents plights. You were tired, sweaty, and covered in salt but all you could think of was; you should have done this sooner.

The next morning, you submitted the evidence and psychical report to the relevant authorities, convicting Celia Rodney and Howard Gasley for their crimes. Griffith's source was relinquished from your possession and burned at the Fittes Furnaces, marking the end of Griffith's case. It was the best thing you could do to bring her peace.

Shortly after, Lockwood and Co. welcomed you as the company's official forensic consultant, and in 35 Portland Row, you were finally comfortable in your own skin.

You and Lockwood now stand on the same side of the fence. There is no need shyly avoid your peering eyes when he could have the satisfaction of seeing them flutter close as he kisses you.

Thought, it is nice to remember that all this started with those peering eyes over wrought-iron fences. You and Lockwood reminisce those days over a cherry pie with extra ice cream or an afternoon picking apples from the backyard.

Every now and again, Lockwood would toss an apple over to your parents's side of the fence to scare them.

⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

LOVELOCKED (PEOWIF BONUS CHAPTER)

NOTE ➺ Thank you to everyone who made it through to the end! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. It's the first time I completed a project this big so I hope it brings you some joy. To everyone mourning the seasons we'll never get, I'm with you. To my fellow writers, I'd appreciate a tip or two to improve my stories. To everyone in general, may you continue finding fics that comfort you 💙

#thank you lovely 💙

269 notes · View notes

novelizt · 3 months

Text

I'M SO GLAD YOU LIKED IT

IT WAS THE AMALGAMATION BORN FROM ALL MY LOCKWOOD BRAINROT AHAHAHHA

EXPECTO PATRONUM II ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

GENRE ➺ HOGWARTS AU [slytherin! lockwood x fem! ravenclaw! reader]. rivals to lovers (and a dash of 'everyone knows but them'). fluff and angst.

WC ➺ 17.4k

SYNOPSIS ➺ after a six year rivalry with lockwood, your patronus suddenly matches his when it didn't before.

DISCLAIMER ➺ reader is implied to be shorter than lockwood. appearance of harry potter next gen characters and a few ocs. lockwood calls reader 'sweetheart' and 'dearest vexation', (+'my girl). prefect! lockwood. jessica lockwood lives!! (i also headcanon him being a cunning-flirt, so lockwood might read slightly ooc.)

WARNINGS ➺ strained family dynamics (for reader). boggarts, and a lot of unpolished dialogue. QUILL KIPPS. blood and injuries (tending to wounds). mentions of kids and marriage at the end.

⚜ PART 1 | SERIES MASTERLIST

In true Slytherin and Gryffindor fashion, neither of the boys hesitated. Lockwood swung a hex at you. You deflected with a basic protego. He advanced, closing the distance to aim better.

On the other side, Daria flung offensive spells at James. She managed to cast levicorpus on him. He hung upside down, chained in the air. That didn't dampen the flames of his spirit. He threw more charms and jinxes at her. She responded just as quickly.

You almost lost sight of Lockwood before he casted an impressive disillusionment charm on himself. He melted into the background as your blood rushed. You opened your senses and spun revelios in attempt to unveil him.

James's feet found the floor thanks to Lockwood, and the Potter striked a petrificus totalus back at Daria. Instead of turning his attention on you, James nodded to the air and sat like his part was done. He was heaving but smirking.

The hairs on your neck rose and you turned to dodge a stupefy the still disillusioned Lockwood slung at you. You could only hear your breathing and your shoes tapping.

Every hair on your body stood as paranoia sunk in. You're tempted to give up, but you remembered who you were up against and regained your resolve.

You backed against one side of the cage, leaving three directions he could come at you from. In that position, he couldn't catch you from behind.

You'd obviously underestimated Lockwood's growth. The last time you saw him cast a spell as impressive as his disillusionment was the sleeping trance charm he used on the dragon. He used your lack of knowledge against you and you were both impressed and frightened by it.

You remind yourself that you were a Ravenclaw, one of the most highly acclaimed students under Professor Flitwick and the brightest witch of your age.

Everytime you won against Lockwood, it was because you were using your head. Then, it finally clicked for you.

You held out your wand and went on a limb as you spoke, "Accio Prefect Badge."

You heard a gasp to your left and spun your wand to cast revelio. Lockwood's face appeared, speeding towards you, left hand trying to remove the badge he often boasted about. You couldn't help but smile, raising your wand, ready to cast.

His wand rose to rival yours. You heard the beginnings of an explosion spell before adjusting yourself.

Your hand was furious and your lips moved at a speed you didn't know was possible. The beginnings of his firework charm surged towards you before the sound was cut off by the crippling noise akin to metal meeting metal.

The explosion was engulfed by silvery light. It swallowed the flames until all that remained was your patronus.

They say the devil's in the details, and you forgot about one in particular detail. Your smile faded as a silence befell the room.

Your patronus had stayed a crane. Its wings, pearlescent and broad as it hovered, a carbon copy of Lockwood's.

There was static in your ears. Your face drained of colour and your heart plummeted to your stomach.

The patronus's glow casted a faint veil between you and Lockwood. He looked back at you with a shocked but not surprised expression. Neither of you expected James to raise his wand and stupefy you.

—

Everything was all black for a while. You had no dreams. Yet, somewhere in the void, you began to hear giggles, familiar and chilling.

"Come on now," one spoke.

"Stumped by a stupefy!" another added, this one more energetic.

"And by Jamesie, no less."

"Potters are trouble," the other tutted.

The first gasped. "I saw her lids twitch!"

"We know you're awake already."

You cracked your eyes open, and, sure enough, you're greeted by two golden-haired rascals; Lorcan and Lysander Scamander.

Three years your juniors, they were Ravenclaw's notorious twins who were known to be as caring as they were mischievous.

Your throat dried, your neck stiffened, and you wished the duel was all a dream. You tried to sit up, to no avail.

Lorcan jumped into action, helping you up by propping a pillow behind you whilst Lysander passed you a cup of water. It wasn't spiked with anything, you pleasantly discovered. You finished the whole glass in one fell swoop.

When you shifted to return the glass to the bedside table, you felt a tug on your opposite arm and nearly jumped when you spotted curls of brown crushing your hand. He was slouched but there was no mistaking that resting sad face.

No wonder the twins were so smiley.

You turned to them. "How long has he been here?"

"Asking about him first?" Lorcan grinned.

Lysander cupped his chin. "That's awfully un-rival-like of you."

"Hush. Just tell me."

"Since you asked," Lorcan said with an attitude.

"Tony's been here since lunch," Lysander answered. You laxed. That wasn't so bad, it couldn't have been too long.

"Lunchtime yesterday," Lorcan corrected.

Your soul departed from your body.

"He would have come sooner if Madame Pomfrey didn't keep you under intensive care," Lysander continued, as if that was any better. "No visitors until she deemed you stable enough."

"He's very stubborn, you know."

"I think she knows, Lorcan."

"And you let him?" You kept your voice down but your tone was a borderline shriek.

"He wouldn't let up." Lorcan shrugged.

"Professor Flitwick said the best we could do is bring you two food and drink," Lysander backed up.

Your jaw loosened at the news. "The professors allowed this?"

The pressure on your hand lightened. Your lips smacked shut as Lockwood said, "I'm their best student, they let me do anything."

Say something smart, you told yourself. It's the only right reaction to an egoistic comment like that, but your mental function ceased at the rasp in his voice. His very, very groggy voice that made you feel like you've been hit by lightning.

One hand rested on yours while his other arm lazily held up his head. He looked like he was about to fall asleep again, yet, he looked like he hadn't slept at the same time. Gray swooped under his eyes, he turned more gaunt than the last time you saw him...

Goodness, the last time you saw him. Heat crawled up your neck.

The patronus. The crane, his crane. Now yours, too.

He knows.

The Scamander twins were on the same wavelength because Lorcan hopped onto an empty square of your bed and asked, "So... is it true?"

Lysander crossed his arms and placed them on the bed. "Did your patronus really change?"

"Did it?" Lockwood asked, just to drive the fact home. Though tired, he did that smirk-smile that you've committed to memory.

You blamed your near internal decapitation for your unaligned state of mind. You answered quietly, "It did."

Lorcan and Lysander exchanged looks. Bright-eyed, like they had just discovered a Fantastic Beast of their own. They both leaned toward you, forcing you to lean toward Lockwood to retain some of your personal bubble. He didn't mind, he even squeezed your hand to reassure you.

"How did it happen?"

"What was it before?"

"Did it happen consciously?"

"Did someone cause it to change?"

You didn't know which twin was speaking, their lips were moving at the same time. You processed their words before answering. "It just did. It was a giraffe. No, I didn't expect it to change at all. And I don't know."

The last answer wasn't really a lie. Lockwood didn't do anything special, but your patronus was now miraculously connected to his. He was involved somehow. You would be grasping at straws if you didn't consider your earlier adventures to be the catalyst.

Lorcan and Lysander had a whispery discussion while you drowned in your reverie. When they decided that they were sated with your answers, they waved you goodbye. You faintly hear a muttering of George's name and it all made sense.

George had sent the twins to gather intel because he knew you could never say no to them. That, or he was still upset at you over being dragged into the anti-Amortentia scheme. The bugger.

You sat up despite your aching head, but surrendered the moment Lockwood brushed a finger over your knuckles. It's odd to give in so quickly, but it was too late to go back on it.

Your eyes shifted to him and, just like before, his were already on you. A smile formed on his lips but it wasn't your favourite one. He gave you a tight-lipped grin that matched the ashen grey under his eyes.

"You were stupefied," he said.

You rolled your eyes and pretended not to see his smile grow. The weirdo missed seeing it.

"Unfortunately," he continued. "You had backed yourself too close to Professor's cage. The stupefy basically bludgeoned your skull against the cage and the protective spells sent you in the opposite direction."

Just hearing the technicalities made you grimace. You remained grateful he didn't mention Madam Pomfrey's methods of fixing you up. If you had broken your skull, you wanted to be ignorant of it. Lockwood understood your dread and kept the rest of the details to himself.

That still didn't answer the question that's been at the forefront of your mind. "Why are you here?"

He sucked in an audible breath, eyes wandering. Classic evasive Lockwood move. You already knew he was going to respond with a lie.

"Because I owe you one," he said.

You mastered the art of stoicism, but that didn't take away from the fact that it was harder to practise that time around.

"You don't owe me a thing," you replied, coughing away the dejection that bled into your voice. "We're even. The Romanian Longhorn incident, remember?"

"How could I forget?" He smiled at the floor. Another swipe over your knuckles that sent you into orbit. "But I would have been spell-bound for the rest of my life if you hadn't intervened."

Years—That's how long you'd been avoiding his eyes and how his emotions swam in them, but now, you couldn't convince your angel and devil to look away. Honey in a bottle eyes pried open so raw you physically felt the weight of his words, and then the shackles of your own guilt.

It clawed at your throat, coiling its gangly fingers around your windpipe and choking you until your fears were forced out. "You were spell-bound because of me."

He responded with a frigid laugh. "Are you kidding me?"

Your brows furrowed. "No? Why would I kid about something like this? You were under the influence of Amortentia. It's not the first time a tragedy had come from its misuse. Have we not learned from the story of Vol—"

The cold bit at you as he disentangled his hand from yours, pushing himself back to see you in full. "This is not about the moral of the story or what could've happened. Why are you blaming yourself?" He scoffed. "Sweetheart, you're not the one who tricked me. Some nutter did."

"Listen here," you gave a despondent sigh, crossing your arms and distancing yourself by pressing your back into the pillow. "She wouldn't have done that if you hadn't... been so fixed on me."

"Sorry, is that a sin?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Fancying someone that isn't her isn't a crime. You didn't do anything to hurt me. What she did was the making of her own evils."

"Fancying? Lockwood– Nevermind that. She said—"

"You value her word over mine?"

"No!" Your heart clenched, your mind raced. "Merlin, no. I just mean that you would be better off without me."

Lockwood never looked so frustrated before. Not at you, at least. He pressed his lips together, fists on his hips as he paced.

Your eyes followed in wait. There's not much else you could say. You'd let the biggest resident of your mind go in that one exchange. You didn't take into account how anxious it would make you to see him react.

He stopped, as did your heart. You sat up straighter when he let his arms fall to his sides.

"You are the most despicable woman I have ever met," he said in one breath.

You had a lot to say about that. You were offended, humiliated, and humbled all at once. Yet, he didn't let you say a thing until he finished.

"And I could easily choose some other lovely lady who doesn't give me a migraine every time I speak to them, but I can't. Because I've been taken by you the moment you called me a twat for mistaking a llama and camel even though I am the raised as a muggle between us." He stole a breath to replenish his air. "And I try to make you understand that there is no getting rid of me, but your lack of awareness is equivalent of my lack of failure—"

You rolled your eyes at that and he cracked a smile.

"And if I had to guess, it would take about a million years and triple that of worshipping before I get you to understand that I am hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you; But I'm already aware, and I'm going to spend all of my mortal years trying, and then spend the rest of our reincarnations doing that over and over just so I can be yours. Don't even try to stop me, sweetheart. You know I never give up."

Your cheeks hurt from trying to repress a smile.

"Come on," Lockwood coaxed. "No need to be shy. You can smile, sweetheart."

And so, you did. But you didn't expect the waterworks to begin.

Salty tears slid down your cheeks and into your mouth. You tried to wipe them away to preserve the rest of your dignity in the face of Anthony Lockwood but it was for naught.

Your breath hitched as your chest constricted, but it's the first time you cried tears of joy. You couldn't help but laugh amidst the pain.

Years of trying to prove yourself to your family. Years trying to meet ungodly expectations just to earn your place at their table—they return to you at the same moment. You cried for every minute you fought for a modicum of love from people who preferred pride, all while Lockwood was right there. You didn't see it until he spelled it out for you.

Lockwood washed away the shattering memories with every swipe that dried your tears, then quelled the rest of your fears as his arms came around you.

He held you fast against him. "I hate to say it, but I love the way you keep my feet on the ground. Snarky attitude and all," he said.

Your head hurt from both the injury and the crying, but you'd never felt so seen, so loved.

It was pure instinct to try and hit him. That time, he let you. Your fist met his chest with a dull thud.

"Would you look at that," he chuckled against your hair. "You got me."

He earned a soft laugh from you, and you didn't see it, but he smiled your favourite smile.

You got him in more ways than one.

—

If you admonished one thing, it was whispering behind your back. The likelihood for people to do just that tripled since the patronus business got out.

You and Lockwood, renowned for butting heads at any given opportunity, had the same patronus. They were studying magic. Of course they knew what that meant.

In the recent days, you'd taken to hiding in the confines of the library. If not, you'd be tucking yourself in your room behind a good novel.

Lockwood had taken up the same hobbies.

You pulled a book out of its space to examine the cover, just to double take and peer between the space it left behind. You'd recognise that smirk anywhere. Only Lockwood would pose all suave against a shelf like that.

He smirked. "Like what you see?"

"I don't know. An ogre is covering a pretty, rebound version of Hogwarts, A History."

He laughed all dashingly then closed the book he pretended to read. He came closer, setting his forearm on the shelf.

"I open my heart to you and you wound me. You are a cruel, cruel woman."

"If you didn't like that about me, you would have handed your heart to someone else."

"Have I told you how much I love your feistiness?"

You cheeks strained from holding back a smile. "Bugger off."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then duly decided to drop the act. "I don't feel like being obedient today. Come with me?"

You squinted at him. "Where?"

"It's a secret. Why, you scared, smart girl?"

You pursed your lips, miffed. "Please. You're the bigger pansy between the two of us."

His smile stretched. "Prove it."

"I will."

You returned the book to its place, locking Lockwood out of view. You heard his laugh and stifled yours as he was reprimanded by Madam Pince.

—

Calling Lockwood a danger magnet was putting it lightly. The man actively sought out danger like it was weaved into his state of being.

Somebody had to keep him in check, and some Higher Being had chosen you to be his keeper. So, there you found yourself, at the margins of the Forbidden Forest in the belly of the night.

"If I die, I want a special coffin in the likely event that my corpse leaps out and strangles yours."

"Sweetheart," Lockwood set his hand between your shoulders, easing you forward. "I'd be torn to bits before I ever let anything touch a hair on your head."

"Very reassuring."

He poked his head over your shoulder just to flash you a smile. "I know."

He chuckled as you shoved his face away.

Even if you were braced in your warmest cloak, the chill of being at the thresh of such a foreboding precinct of Hogwarts was overwhelming. It was like being face to face with a Roman Longhorn, except there were more than two eyes on you. You could already see their glowing irises peering at you behind the foliage.

They scrambled for the dark when Lockwood had casted lumos, lighting up the dirt path ahead. He eased his arm over your shoulder, squeezing you to him, before trudging on.

"What are we looking for?" you whispered. In your mind, the less creatures that knew you were ever in the Forbidden Forest, the better.

Students were punished to walk through the very path you were on, and here you and Lockwood stood, walking it on your own volition. Your reason for being there was to prove an arrogant Slytherin wrong, but you were walking the path regardless.

It took a moment for Lockwood to answer. He was already looking between the branches. "Promise you won't behead me if I tell you."

"I would behead you even if I did promise."

His lip quirked. "A spitfire as always."

You feigned politeness. "May I know now, please?"

"Since I'm doomed either way, I won't tell you that we're on the hunt for a unicorn."

Your feet dug into the dirt, halting Lockwood in his path. Disbelief written on your face. "A unicorn?!"

"Well, 'hunt' is an abrasive word. I suppose 'find' is a more apt verb—"

You slapped his chest, and he turned to you with a grin so blinding it outdid the lumos.

You motioned to the vast forest ahead. "Spotting one is as likely as becoming friends with a centaur."

"It isn't impossible," he quipped, as if that would inspire you.

"Lockwood," You pinched the bridge of your nose and exhaled, expelling all your murder ideations in the same breath. "You are as reckless as a Gryffindor."

"I take full offence. Gryffindors rush in with no clear goal. I, on the contrary, have a remarkable one."

You gave him the benefit of the doubt. "What would this 'remarkable' goal be?"

He was the picture of youth as he smiled. "To fulfil a childhood dream."

The nuance was lost on you. You trusted him to not have done something so particularly stupid.

He tapped your chin. "Why the face? You're the one who drew them all over your notebook."

You reeled. "Me? When?"

He looked dumbfounded. "When we met. You threw the whole notebook at me, remember?"

It dawned on you slowly. The cogs finally clicked into place, and you shoved him, just for him to catch your hand and grin.

"You remember it now?" he mused.

He let your hands fall between you, refusing to let you go.

Your cheeks warmed. "That was six years ago. Rowena knows where that notebook is now! I haven't drawn a unicorn since third-year Care of Magical Creatures."

He reclaimed his spot by your side, throwing his arm around you once more. "It's a testament to my impeccable memory."

"Your memory won't help if we're torn apart by rogue beasts," you chastised.

You expected a response. A real, apologetic response. But you watched as his eyes fell over your shoulder and simply stared instead.

You scoffed at him. "You are terrible—"

He cupped a hand over your mouth. "Shh!"

"Woat aye you loofing at?" You shook your head, freeing your mouth. "What are you looking at?"

A smile teased at his lips as he pointed over your shoulder. The glow at the end of his wand died, making the presence of the very real, very majestic unicorn prominent. Its coat shined like it was made of moonlight. You almost forgot to breathe as you watched it with the intrigue of a tyke.

Lockwood was much closer than before. His whispers loud in your ears. "Breathe, sweetheart. Can't have you fainting on me now."

You breathed a laugh then snapped to cover your own mouth. The creature craned its head around, allowing you to glimpse midnight blue eyes before it galloped into the trees. A short but worthwhile encounter.

Lockwood tugged on your arm, bringing you back to the present and leading you out of the forest.

You're still at a loss of words when you glimpsed his triumphant smile. "Not impossible," he reiterated.

You're on the brink of a laugh as you agreed, "Not impossible."

As you broke into safer forest, you realised that night wasn't over. Not for Lockwood, at least. His hand slipped down your arm before he twined his fingers with yours.

His smile brightened when you adjusted your grip to hold him tighter.

"We have one more stop before we succumb to sleep," he told you, leading you through the clearing.

Your curiosity grew as you passed Hagrid's hut. "Somewhere within Hogwarts, I hope. At this point, I find it plausible that you're scheming to sneak out to Hogsmeade."

A metaphorical lightbulb blinked above him. "Not yet, but that is a brilliant idea."

"There isn't a moment of peace when you're involved."

His fingers ghosted over your knuckles. It affected you more than you cared to show.

"Sweetheart, we both know we're susceptible to boredom when it's too quiet."

"I suppose," you hummed.

You did enjoy the cracks in the silence being filled by intelligent squabble or nonsensical arguments. But only if they involved one audacious Slytherin.

Your thoughts turned to static as torchlight began to cast a golden glow in the grass. This clearing was the opposite of empty. Torches and cages inflated where the air should have been. What fit in the cages were what stole the air from your lungs.

Lockwood was absolutely joyed that your first reaction was the dropping of your jaw.

The cages were filled by dragons. Luckily, asleep. The same ones that were supposed to be there for educational purposes.

You heard that they were on the loom for being transported back to Romania, but you never thought that they were being kept this close to the castle.

Lockwood led you by the hand, further between the cages. They shrunk in size until you were at the end of the line, facing a chillingly familiar face.

You laid a hand against the grainy bars, close but not too close to admire the sleeping beast. "The juvenile Romanian..."

Lockwood stared down at the nameplate welded against the bars. "Her name's Gorgonzola."

"She's named after a cheese?"

Lockwood chuckled. You felt the shake of his shoulder through your linked hands. "We were almost wiped out by aged dairy."

"It's a good thing we quelled her then." You nudged his side, and he nudged you right back. "Now, we're able to admire her without the impending threat of death."

"If that incident hadn't occurred, you would still hate me," he chuckled. It came out soulless.

You were taken aback. You weren't his biggest fan, but it would be too dire to say you hated him.

"Lockwood, I wouldn't hate you."

"Well," he downplayed the frown in his tone. "we wouldn't be friends."

You turned to face him. The toes of your shoes bumping his. He looked up, surprise evident in his eyes. You were so close, he could see his own reflection in your eyes.

His eyes followed every movement of your mouth. "Sulking over a version of us that doesn't even exist, snake boy?"

The edges of his lips upturned. "Just considering the possibilities, sweetheart."

You recognised that spark of mischief anywhere. You only had yourself to blame when he'd closed the distance even more.

"Besides," He cupped your cheek, drawing you closer. His fingers tickled the underside of your ear while his thumb brushed your cheek. "I like this reality better."

I do, too, you intended to say, but the words died on your tongue. Your lips parted as he inched closer and closer. Honesty lulling you together.

You felt his lips land on the corner of yours, teasing. You hummed in dismay before he drew away, leaning in to finally—

"Hey! What are you two doing here?" The dragon's caretaker, most likely. By the sound of it, he wasn't happy to see two miscreant students skulking around.

Lockwood bit his tongue, holding back the urge to call out and tell them to shove off just so he had a moment to kiss you—but the look on your face sobered him quickly.

You didn't have the luxury of being involved in trouble as he did. Your family would know if you got into trouble. The dominos would fall, and a sad you was the kind of thing Lockwood casted spells to avoid.

He tightened his hold on your hand. "We'll get back to this," he promised.

You nodded firmly, holding onto him with the same intensity.

Though the moment was left behind, Lockwood clung to the vision of your eyes fluttering shut. Your lovelorn face seared into the back of his mind, keeping him up all night.

—

You didn't know where you and Lockwood stood at that moment in time. You were walking the line between more than friends, less than lovers. Wherever your feet were, you realised you had a lot to make up for.

If he caught you at the right time, you might just blurt out that you loved him, too. You'd been fortunate enough to have the restraint to keep your confession contained.

The thought of telling him felt like bearing your soul. You were unprepared for it. But there were new ambitions that stirred in your thawing heart. They all centred around one, Anthony Lockwood.

You tried to be subtle, but in Lockwood's eyes, you were as subtle as a gun.

You remained your verbally abrasive self (how he found it enamoring eluded you), but you picked up the habit of awarding him with a kiss on the cheek when he drapes an arm over your shoulders. He's yet to brace himself and melts every time.

In the same time frame, you magically found a way to duplicate your notes so he didn't have to hurt his hands to write them.

His hands were perfectly fine. Lockwood said you're insane for it, but you replied with, "have I ever been sane?"

To that he'd shake his head and smile a smile that encompasses a million confessions.

On another morning, a gaggle of first-years delivered a gift box of his favourite knacks from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes and Honeydukes sweets. They told him it was from an anonymous benefactor but one look up and his eagle eyes spotted your poorly done disillusionment charm.

He thanked the kids with a smile and sent them off just so he could tap your disillusioned arse as he passed, then had the gall to chuckle at your yelp.

The rest of Hogwarts progressively became aware of the development. Professor McGonagall purposely seated you apart. Professor Flitwick did the opposite. Professor Longbottom occasionally tipped off ideas like hiding spots and locations with a view.

Even Peeves seemed to be aware that you were unofficially an item. To your utmost surprise, the poltergeist took it easy on you.

Your shenanigans began to pay back Lockwood's six years of unnoticed pining. The man of the hour appreciated them but his heart could not take that much affection. Realistically, it could, but he never passed up an opportunity to be dramatic about it. Especially when he caught sight of you in his colours.

It was the last Quidditch match of the year—his final match as a student of Hogwarts; Gryffindor versus Slytherin.

He wholly expected to see you among your housemates, sporting the deep blue you looked so good in or even in red, just to spite him, but his heart stalled when he spotted you in steal-his-heart green.

He knew it was you even from miles away because you were sporting his number and wearing his jersey. The very jersey you said you'd never wear, you wore with a smile so bright it makes the cloudy skies part just for you.

He was just about ready to abandon his broom when you blew a cheeky kiss his way.

"Lockwood!" his teammate called urgently.

Lockwood begrudgingly looked away. He leaned into his broom to chase the Snitch, but he couldn't pry his eyes away from you for too long.

At the tail end of the game, the Snitch hovered right in front of you. You stared at it while Lockwood lunged for it, catching it in his palm and (un)covertly planting a kiss on your cheek.

It sent the stands into uproar and secured another win for Slytherin. He pointed to you as his team threw him up on their shoulders.

—

"You–" He snatched you from your path, beguiling you behind a fluted column. "–are unbelievable."

You smirked when you whirled to face him, resting an arm over his shoulder. The other against his forearm—and you chuckled when you felt him flex his arm to impress you. He couldn't help but smile.

His nose bumped yours, taunting. Judging by the way you raised your head to follow, you wanted the same thing he did.

Unfortunately for you, he was still Lockwood. He pulled his head back to coax that scowl from you. It sent him back to the first time he'd seen that look on your face. The weight of the world lightened every time he saw it.

You're not one to sulk, or beg, or admit you want something. Of course, you changed the topic. "Congratulations on the win, Captain."

"Captain? I like the sound of that." He did his best to remain chivalrous, but the thought of slipping his hands under your—his—jersey to caress your bare waist was meddlesome. It was tempting, and he barely fought the urge by drawing circles over the shirt instead. "Call me captain again, sweetheart."

You must be getting back at him. He had no other explanation for the rapturous grin on your face. "You're being too kind . . . I'm never going to call you that again."

"You are cruel, have I told you that before?"

You laughed, and he felt your breath on his neck. He found it reasonable to assume you're experienced in torturing boys who are in love with you. He clamped his lips when you graced him with a kiss on his chin. So close yet so far. "You love that about me though."

His fingers dug into your sides, keeping you to him even when you tried to pull away. Your fox grin only grew, confirming that you were torturing him on purpose.

He was immediately pardoned from guilt. He slid his hands down, and then up; touching your skin with chilled fingers. His smile reached his eyes as your mouth parted for a gasp.

"I do," he said, playing along and kissing the corner of your lip. "I'm forever harrowed by the very thought of you."

His form of play is quickly dispatched once his eyes meet yours. The mischief died away, leaving something deeper. More amorous. Yearning.

"Anthony..." It's but a whisper, but his fingers grappled to feel more of your skin. You felt them at the curve of your ribs, holding you with the prudence reserved for a fragile thing.

He drew you closer, as if the proximity of your mouths weren't enough to sate his cravings. "Say my name like that again."

"Anthony," you mused.

You're flush to him. If you were any closer, you'd feel his smirk against you, on your lips or your skin. You weren't picky.

His voice dropped to a lower register. "Yes, sweetheart?"

You lifted yourself on your toes. You met his eyes, but they travelled to his lips with intent. His eyes fluttered shut, transfixed on your smell, your hand tangling into his hair, your breath fanning his lip—everything. You drew closer and closer. He almost tasted the satisfaction of finally kissing–

"You better not be snogging behind there!" Kat Godwin, the dementor in disguise. Now, the person you wished to throw into the Black Lake.

You groaned and rocked back. Lockwood held on to your waist, closing the distance and allowing himself the reprieve of pressing his forehead against yours.

"We'll come back to this."

"Third time's the charm," you hoped.

His pulse raced as you snaked your hands up his torso, bracing your hands on his chest. If he didn't love you so much, he would have felt betrayed for the way you shoved him into the open.

"Anthony Lockwood," Godwin tutted. "I should have known..."

He glanced back at you, glimpsed your smile, and decided that he liked you too much to be mad.

He turned back to Godwin with a smirk. "I'm positive I saw a roach run through here." His lip twitched when her eyes darted down the hall.

Lockwood watched you book it for the opposite hall, ducking out of sight and escaping trouble. You blew a kiss before you turned the corner and he found that he didn't mind being your scapegoat.

—

Lockwood was aware that your beauty and brains could charm even the deadest of hearts. Some days, he wished you didn't have the magnetism you did. He dreaded every second watching that Gryffindor boy scamper up to you, a rose in hand.

Lockwood wasn't one to be mean up close, but he found glaring from a distance to be fair game.

You looked up from your book, innocent and unknowing, with a smile made for a princess. You turned the lion boy away, of course. You didn't even glance at the Gryffindor boy's love offering. The sad chap went off to wallow on his own.

Your head turned at the sound of Lockwood's footsteps. A smile coming to you before he even reached you.

"Hello, snake boy."

Lockwood didn't dawdle. "He was chatting you up."

"You were watching?"

"It's hard to miss trollop."

Amusement danced in your eyes. He forgot how gracious you were when he was caught up in his own mind-matter.

You shifted to the side and patted the spot next to you. Like a puppet on a string, he sat. Leaving no space between you, his arm flushed against yours.

"You're jealous," you said, with a lot more merriment than he expected from you.

His brows furrowed. "He's a twat. I'm just glad you had the sense to turn him away."

You crossed your legs and set your hands on your lap, exuding confidence that made him forget his own name. "So, you are jealous."

"Indefinitely," he said mindlessly.

"My poor serpent boy," you cooed sympathetically.

Your hands found his cheeks, and he had no reason to complain. He even nuzzled into your hold.

"You're never this touchy in public," he muttered, appreciating the closeness. He dipped his head to plant a gracious kiss on your palm.

You spoke like the action didn't rile you up. "I know someone adores me enough to be jealous of a boy I don't even know."

You felt his smile against your hand. Yours grew.

He planted one more kiss on your other palm before he drew himself away. He fought the urge to lean down and steal your first kiss right then and there because he had something much more fitting planned for you.

"I know you hate breaking rules but this is the last time I'm coaxing you to, I promise."

"I don't believe that for a second, but if you're so convinced, I don't see why I shouldn't be involved."

He turned your hand, placing a kiss on your knuckle. "The Astronomy Tower, after hours."

"Are you mad? The Astronomy Tower has special protection charms on it's doors."

Lockwood was mischief personified with a grin like that. "Have you no faith in me? I swear by Merlin's name, by the time you sneak out, I'll have the door open for you. I am a gentleman, after all."

It was glaringly obvious that you lost your ability to say 'no' to him.

—

You'd become acquainted with the darkest halls in your recent trysts with Lockwood. You would be lying if you said you weren't sceptical this time around.

The Astronomy Tower, a heavily guarded place following the murder of the previous Headmaster, was Lockwood's idea of a good time.

It was no easy feat to get in, especially when it was dark out and the charms were upped for maximum protection.

You let the glow from your wand guide you through the halls. Once you made it to the base of the stairs, you're greeted by the sight of Lockwood. Suave and plucked from your dreams, he kicked off the wall and pushed the door open with ease. All while wearing your favourite smile. You could have kissed him senseless.

He bowed at the waist, flourishing a hand at the open walkway. "Ladies first."

"You are... unbelievable. You actually did it."

He held his palm out towards you, like an invitation to dance. "Did you ever have a doubt?"

"For a moment," you admitted, placing your hand in his.

"Anything is possible, if you have enough nerve." He punctuated his statement by kissing your knuckle, his eyes never leaving yours. He was luring you in, and it was working. "Shall we?"

You nodded, allowing him to guide you up the stairs, passed the landing before you set foot on the observation deck. The gold accents of the room shone, even in moonlight. The books that filled the shelves vibrated, like they were dying to open themselves and unleash the knowledge they held, and the skyline ceiling was so brilliant, you could reach up and feel it against your skin.

If you spoke the want to touch a star, you had no doubt Lockwood would take a shot in the dark just to make it happen.

"Don't look at the books, sweetheart. Look at me."

"But the books are so pretty."

He grinned, holding back the urge to say something cliché. You could guess what it was.

Instead, he said, "Plenty of time for them later. I have to show you something."

He guided you to the balcony, the night's chill amplifying the feel of his warm hands on yours. It was getting hard to act like your heart wasn't jumping for joy.

The wind tousled your hair, the stars dotted the sky, and Anthony Lockwood made everything look so much brighter.

He rounded until your back was against his chest, pulling you in until you felt the thrum of his heart against your shoulder. Arms wound around you to shield you from the bite of frost than rolled in now that winter was one step through the door.

You found that his pulse was just as eratic as yours. Fervent in every sense of the word.

You'd never been in this position with anyone. The proximity was jarring, but it was welcomed nonetheless. You laxed into him, and he eased into you.

You weren't paying attention to the view as you hummed. "This is nice."

"I know... I was waiting until you didn't want to decapitate me to bring you here."

You turned your body to rest your cheek on his shoulder. "It's not my fault you're insufferable."

"Is that truly your favourite word to describe me? I hear it plenty."

"You tell me, serpent boy. I don't remember every little thing about myself."

"Remembering the little things about you is my job, thank you very much."

You felt the rumble of his laugh through his chest, reminiscent of a cat's purr of contentment. It took everything in you not to bring it up.

All whilst Lockwood was trying to keep himself together. Anything that involved you took a lot of restraint on his part.

Unexpectedly, you broke the silence. Your voice, the song of a lark in the night. "Have I ever told you how much I appreciate you?"

"No, I don't think you have." He hated to put a distance between you but he wanted to see your lips make the words as you said it. "Go on and tell me."

He memorised the way your smile reached your eyes and the softness of your brightened cheeks as the stars reflected in your eyes. You'd always been beautiful, but you were vibrant now. He liked to think he had something to do with it.

"I don't hate the way you know me better than I know myself."

He cracked a smile, cupping your cheek with the tenderness one reserves for their most precious thing. "Come on, you're more eloquent than that, sweetheart."

Your smile widened, and you melted into his palm. "If the world allowed it, I'd like to go back and return every stolen glance, every missed confession, and every chance we lost to be friends sooner."

His cheeks hurt from withholding a smile. "We can move past our regrets. Besides, aspirations have changed. I don't just want to be friends anymore, sweetheart." His thumb swiped against your cheek, printing the image of you into his memory. "I want to be your life's confidant, your harbinger of hope, your worst nightmare, and the object of your dreams. I want to be everything to you, because you are already everything to me."

Of course, he had to outdo you in words.

“Cheesy...” you teased.

His thumb travelled down the curve of your cheek, flitting over the plush of your lips. It took everything not to steal you away as you pressed your delicate lips against the pad of his thumb, like his confession didn't have to be returned in words.

And you didn't seem to be looking for words at all. Your hands found his lapels. With a sharp tug, you finally connect your lips to his. Years fell away as he grasped your neck, holding you to him as your fingers slid into his hair.

You exchanged breaths. A mess of clashing teeth and rushing emotions. Judging by the fervency in his grappling for skin, you got an idea of how long he'd been waiting for this, for you.

Yet, he wasn't savage about it. His movements were eager but equally as careful, savouring every stolen second he had you all to himself.

Even as the air ran short, he couldn't fathom the idea of being too far from you. You broke the kiss, chasing oxygen. He rested his forehead against yours, heaving with a smile that could brave you through your worst times.

His thumb swiped over your lips once more, already missing you. "Would you find it pathetic if I said I've dreamt of doing that?"

"I'd be more flattered, really. What girl wouldn't want to be wanted like this?"

You disarmed him as you cupped his chin.

"Can't imagine," he replied. He bumped his nose to yours, and you leaned into him even more.

Should have known that the world wasn't kind enough to give you much time to yourselves. Both of you jumped into action the second you heard the clicking of shoes coming up the stairs.

Anthony refused to release your hand, even as you rushed for cover. Your whispered urgencies fell on deaf ears. You didn't get far enough to hide fully.

Your back was against the wall, hidden from sight. Anthony was not. You were whispering for him to just duck beside you when he clamped a hand over your mouth and posed for whoever appeared inside the Tower.

"Lockwood?" Lucy Carlyle.

You sighed in relief. You weren't in inescapable trouble after all.

"Hey, Luce! Fancy seeing you here."

"What are you doing?" A few more steps.

Anthony panicked. "No! Sorry–" He cleared his throat. "I... made a mess of a hex. It's a disaster."

You bit his palm, offended. The way he sputtered was victory enough.

"Really?" Lucy questioned, deep in disbelief. "You look completely fine... Except your hair."

"Terrible winds, really. The mess is off to the side." His smile was so unconvincing you could laugh.

Instead, you started a trail of pecks across his palm, travelling down to his wrist until he choked on air. Your heart swelled and mischief bubbled to the surface. You grew audacious enough to nip at his skin.

Lucy's voice rang out. "I can help—"

"Absolutely not!" Anthony winced at the crack in his voice. "I mean, I have it handled."

You heard a few more steps. Anthony laxed. You assumed Lucy was walking away. "If you say so..."

"Haha. I appreciate the concern, Luce. Let's keep this between us, hm?"

"Sure..." Her steps echoed as she toed down the steps. Before she shut the door, she added, "Say 'hi' to the Ravenclaw for me."

Anthony slumped himself against you, sulking as you laughed. "Not as sly as we thought, hm?"

"I've had better days..."

You ran your hands through his hair, attempting to right the mess you made of it earlier. "Then you're blaming the night?"

He raised his head from your shoulder. "Don't tell me you're about to side with the moon again. I'll start to think I'm competing with it."

"Well, the moon is beautiful."

"Oh, come off it. I'm so much better."

He took it upon himself to prove it, pressing your hips into the wall as he stole another ground-shattering kiss from. You surrendered, musing his hair to your heart's content.

—

Anthony thought that the perfect way to start off a relationship was to demonstrate how you two truly clicked in terms of cruelty. Not that you'd call it that outright. You'd crossed out Lockwood's 'revenge' and wrote 'comeuppance' in its place.

He eyed the plans from over your shoulder. "Does it make a difference?"

"Comeuppance is just karmic debt being repaid. Revenge sounds like it could be a crime."

"It's only a crime if we get caught."

That could very well be Anthony's life motto.

You rolled the scroll up and casted a hasty concealment charm on it, packing it away in the bag of supplies before you looked down the hallway.

"You go cause a distraction."

He guffawed, clutching his cloak like he'd been stabbed. "I came up with the plan. Why do I get distraction duty?"

"Because," you drawled, fixing his tie. "You're a sweet boyfriend who does anything to pacify his vengeful girlfriend."

"Defence is a pivotal subject in the field I'm aiming for. I could lose my career if this goes wrong."

"I can cover all our future living expenses, and we won't get caught. Swish away the pessimism, captain."

"I'm not being pessimistic. I just want to be the one flinging oobleck balloons."

You smiled faultlessly. "We'll miss our chance if we don't time this correctly."

His shoulders sunk, a grumble shaking his chest before he righted himself. "Do what you please. Just... don't turn me into a ferret. I heard a terrible rumour about some other Slytherin being turned into one."

"You have my word."

An enchantment here and a flick of a wand there, and a baby eagle stood in the place of your lover. You cupped him in your hands, cooing cordially as he nipped at your fingers.

If a bird could blush, you assumed he would have. You set him on the window sill.

A ways down, Professor Loathes-Your-Guts strolled by. Unassuming and grumpy as ever.

"As good as I am, it won't last forever. Off you go, Cinderbird."

Anthony squawked indignantly before you shoved him off the sill. He stretched his wings, working out the complexities of flight right before he hit the pavement.

His odd way of flying seized the Professor's attention right away. She caught him in her hands, stopping right where you wanted her.

Anthony freed himself as the first balloon careened down and splat against her head, drenching her in watered starch. You muffled a laugh as she screamed bloody murder. She had yet to get the sludge out of her hair before you dropped three more.

Blood pumping, Anthony flew right up, turning human right as he shot through the window.

"Save some for me!"

You kicked the box of balloons toward him, absolutely riveted by the scene you'd caused below. You looked far too good doing evil, and he was the Slytherin.

He dropped five balloons before Peeves uncovered the plot and took matters into his hands.

The poltergeist bombarded the Professor with the remaining ammunition and left the basket over her head as a consolation prize. While she shrieked at him, you and Anthony booked it—hands connected, boasting matching smiles.

Operation: DADA Comeuppance — Success!

And thanks to the spirit of mischief, you were never caught.

—

Anthony found it ironic that your favourite views were of crepuscular rays; those beams of light that slice through dense foliage or part the clouds to shine on dreary ground, because it's how he often described you—rarely letting the light in but always magnificent when you do.

You were standing under one of those rays as you bowed to a Hippogriff, once again setting an example for the class. It's to nobody's surprise, he's the first to burst into applause.

You glared at him. He mimicked your deep bow in response. The twitch of your lip was reward enough for him.

It wasn't long until the party was assigned to pairs. It was an easy guess as to who leeched to your side the second people broke off into their groups.

You waved your finger at him, as if that would keep him from you. "If you keep tailing me, we'll end up on the Bulletin'."

"I love a good word in. About us, specifically," he replied.

You shook your head, more endeared than disappointed. "Of course, you would."

"If I were you, I'd be showing off my new boyfriend."

"You say 'boyfriend' with so much conviction, you would think we've been going out for years."

"My apologies, m'lady. Would 'husband' suit your tastes more?"

"Lockwood!"

He withheld a smile. "You can call me Anthony, sweetheart. In fact, you can keep my last name for yourself."

Your mouth dropped into an 'o'. "I cannot believe what I'm hearing."

He took a more tentative step towards you, closing distance. "What are you hearing?"

"Nonsense. I hear nonsense," you replied. You were doomed the second your back hit a tree. Anthony wasted no time to trap you against it. "You are..."

He leaned down, bumping your nose with his. It was inertia that drew him close enough to touch lips. "I'm what– Oof!"

He clutched his chest after you pushed him away, smiling like you were faultless. "I'd like a ring if you are seriously talking about stealing surnames. A nice, awe-inspiring ring. Not a common one. Something privy to us."

He rubbed his shirt as he spoke, a smile teasing his lips. "How's about a house to start?"

Your visage changed. Genuine surprise marred your features. "You're serious?"

"It's a big house, and it could use a magical touch."

The way your lips quirked into a smile made him forget himself. A mistake he'll try not to make in the future.

Under the spell of your gaze, he hadn't seen your Hippogriff friend rush for him. He received a headbutt to the side and crashed into a tree. If that weren't bad enough, a fat fruit thumped him right on the head.

For a fleeting moment, everything went blurry. He saw you as a smudge in his vision. When he tried to talk, all that came out was gibberish.

"He's a friend," you explained to the Hippogriff. It gave a ninny and nudged its snout against Lockwood's side as a form of apology.

When he came to, he got a faceful of Hippogriff cheek. You waved the gentle beast out of the way before cradling Anthony's head.

His foul sentiments dissipated. Perhaps he should get bodied by a Hippogriff more often if that meant he got to see you this doting again.

"Merlin, Lockwood... I forgot she was protective."

"That's 'Anthony' to you, sweetheart, and 's alright," he slurred, blinking his vision back to clarity. He smacked his lips, luckily not tasting blood. "I get protective of you, too."

"Not the time to flirt, serpent boy."

"You're holding me. There is no better time to flirt."

"Alright, Casanova."

Your hands travelled to his wrist, assessing his pulse, then pressing into his side to check the extent of the damage. If this was a glimpse of how you'd be as a healer, he was already jealous of the patients you'd be caring for.

The second his brain fog cleared, he patted his pockets in search of his gifts.

You sat back on your calves, staring him down like the wind could blow him over. "Looks like minor damage."

"Excellent news," he rasped. He took your hand and placed a solid metal something in your palm. "This is for, if you choose to accept my invitation." He fished in his pocket for a second object. He placed that into your closed palm as well. "And this is for you in general."

The first object was a heavy silver key. The ornamental kind of key you loved to hold as a child. You stared at it with so much intensity, he was convinced you were trying to set it on fire with your eyes.

"You're just... giving this to me?"

Worry crossed his face. "Yes. If you'd like it, of course."

"I like it," you said urgently. "How could I not? I just... Don't I have to do something to earn this? Like, giving up a handful of galleons or marrying–"

He let go of the breath he was holding.

"Hold it there, sweetheart," he grasped your hands the second he saw your mind going in all different directions. "I want us to live together, no conditions. I want to be close to you." Of course, he had to add, “I know, I couldn't believe it myself.”

Your hands tightened around his. He'd let you squeeze his fingers bloodless if it quelled your worries.

He cracked a smile, relieved to see you giving the effort to return it. He carefully unravelled your hands to show you the second object.

You gasped. As would any girl when they're presented with a ring. It was the metal that complimented your skin best. A solid band detailed in engravings and decadent carvings. Your worry morphed into panic. With tense shoulders, your eyes flit to Anthony's.

"Relax," he mused, turning the ring in his hands and sliding it on your third finger. "It's not an engagement ring. It's a passion project of mine..."

Your shoulders laxed. "Thank Merlin... Hogwarts is not a place to propose."

"Agreed, and I'd never disrespect you by proposing so drably." He chuckled, examining the ring on your finger before brandishing his matching one. "They're a pair, loaded with protective charms and a trace. It functions as a handy portkey, too."

You raised your hand to the light, examining the engravings in full. "Why turn it into a portkey?"

"The trace tells me if you're in trouble. The portkey will take me to you the second you are."

Only a witch like you would fall in love with intricate spell work. It made you susceptible to melting for gestures as thoughtful as Anthony's.

He admired you as you admired the ring. His heart jumped as you quickly turned your head to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you," you whispered. The raw, unfiltered gratitude in your voice made him fall for you all over again.

His smile reached his eyes. "Anytime, sweetheart."

—

Waiting on the last train out of Hogwarts felt like some kind of catharsis. A journey that spanned seven years felt like a short car ride home. There was happiness doled by sadness, and sadness doled by happiness.

It was in Anthony's nature to look on the bright side, but it was difficult when he hadn't seen you since the awarding ceremony. You outdid him, of course. Bringing home one medal more than him.

His initial plan was to sulk, maybe play kicked puppy and finesse himself a kiss, but his anticipation blurred into worry as the train entered view, but you didn't.

He broke from the crowd, leaving his things with Lucy and George before going off to find you.

He didn't peg you as the type to take a last walk to your favourite spots, but he found you in the dingy Defence classroom. As much as you loathed the lingering stench, you exalted the memories in that very room. The only subject of concern was a boy toying with an empty cage on the far side of the room. Anthony turned a blind eye to the stranger, for how could he look away from you?

Your eyes, that were peering ruefully out the window, snapped to Anthony's. He felt the beginnings of a smile creep up.

Without warning, a wardrobe wove open, the hinges holding it together rasped as a black form ballooned out of it. Your gaze fell on it, and horror replaced the nostalgia instantaneously.

He'd never heard you scream so loud.

Blood rushed to his head. He found his wand.

You fell to the floor, clamping your hands over your ears with your eyes shut tight.

Vision in red, he turned his attention to the boggart that crushed the air in the room. It took the form of four figures; A horrific scene sampled from the many tormented stories plucked from the war...

He paused, finding his own tortured face staring back at him and your anguished one shackled, unable to help. The two remaining figures must have been members of your family, looming over you and watching you without compassion. They were your boggart.

He didn't hesitate to mutter the counter-charm.

The illusion burst. The boggart whirled back into the closet with the wardrobe doors crashing shut.

The boy Anthony hadn't paid attention to stood to reopen it but Anthony threw a stupefy right at him. The boy nearly dented the wall with how hard he rammed into it.

Anthony advanced, fury heavy in his steps. It only heightened as he realised who the boy was. It was the Gryffindor boy you'd rejected all those weeks ago.

"You have got to be kidding me." Anthony scoffed.

The lion boy's nose flared, turning him twice as ugly. Anthony might have felt bad if he wasn't furious.

He didn't give the Gryffindor time to recuperate before he drew him up by the collar and cracked his back against the wall. "You bastard. You couldn't take the 'L', could you?"

The boy's head lulled. Anthony had to give it to him, he thought he'd be out cold with how solid the spell hit him, but the tosser had the resolve to spit at him.

There was no guilt in the way Anthony threw him to the floor. He could have done worse if you hadn't called for him.

"Anthony."

He turned his head, relieved to find that you'd returned to normal. Save the red that rimmed your eyes, you were fine. You were the one thing that kept him from bludgeoning the roach on the floor.

No words were needed.

The Gryffindor laughed, repulsed. "So, you were with him this whole time? Godric... you're a bitch—"

"Quite the mouth for someone who'd stoop low enough to unleash a boggart on a lady," Lockwood said dismally. "I suggest you scat. Before I show you what each of my accolades mean."

Courageous as the Gryffindor was, he was brainless. "Did you hand a few to her for 'favours'? Hm?"

Oh, the number of jinxes the human body could handle before breaking. The boy was lucky you were there. Anthony was gentleman enough not to hex in front of a lady.

He sufficed with carving crescents into his own palms to restrain himself. "Serpents don't concern themselves with the opinions of sheep. I suggest you stitch your mouth. There is a lady present, if you aren't too blind to see her."

"Kiss up," the Gryffindor simpered.

Patient as Anthony was, you weren't. You hurled a spell at the Gryffindor. After a twitch, his head hit the ground.

You showed Anthony your palms when you were met with inquisition.

"What? Was I supposed to let him speak to you like that?"

Holding back a smile was futile. He was proud. "You're cute."

You stepped over the Gryffindor and returned his smile. "I know." You brushed the imaginary dust off Anthony's shoulders and righted the orientation of his medals before you took his hand. "As I remember, we have a train to catch."

He twined your fingers, bringing your hand to his lips to worship your knuckles. "Shall we, m'lady?"

"We shall."

You exited the classroom, hands intertwined, leaving behind an incapacitated moron. If the rest of your lives were going to be spent like that, you had no qualms with it.

"Have I told you how gorgeous you look today?"

"No." You looked at him expectantly. "Tell me."

He pressed a kiss to your temple and gave your hand a squeeze as he said, "My dearest vexation, you are a vision. Aphrodite herself would be green with envy."

Definitely no qualms there.

—

"Why is it that you travel by this rather than apparating?"

You were always a sponge for knowledge, but your eyes were particularly bright once the train had delivered you to Platform 9¾. It spat you right out into the muggle world.

Anthony realised that he had never seen you in all-muggle clothes, and he wasn't shy of staring. He was rightfully in a daze until you'd asked the question.

"Cabs take us directly to where we want without raising suspicion from muggles."

"So, they willingly spend their sickles on simply getting home? How impractical, and expensive."

He hid a laugh. "It is the way it is, sweetheart. Nothing we can do to change that. It's best you avoid saying 'sickles' though. It'll confuse them."

"Noted."

Anthony loathed the silence, but he made due with it. He had you for a view, after all. He recounted all of your details, down to the flutter of your lashes as the breeze caressed your face.

Weirdly enough, the ride to Portland Row was much shorter than he remembered.

He slipped out first, flattening a hand at the top of the cab's door and taking the brunt of the impact when you expectedly bumped your head on the way out.

"Sorry."

"Don't mention it. I did the same as a kid."

You kissed his cheek anyway, and he turned his head to the side to make the warmth of his cheeks discreet.

As he unloaded the trunks, you absorbed the Lockwood family estate as it stood: A tall, classical home with wrought-iron fencing leading to the bricked door arch and its charming knocker... the picture of a fine London home.

The only thing out of place was the irritating, freckled face of a neighbour Anthony hoped disappeared.

"Tony! Done with community service?"

You turned to Quill Kipps with a frown. Anthony withheld a laugh. You had never met the man but you obviously disliked him already.

Kipps straightened, realising that you were present. "You have a dame with you... Quite the looker, too."

"I have a name, if you had the mind to ask." You crossed your arms. Anthony found that to be a sign to look away. You had yourself handled. "I suppose the oaf with room temperature IQ has a name, too?"

Quill Kipps's smirk faltered. "He does." His eyes shifted to Anthony before he clicked his tongue. "Just trying to rile up Tony. Hope you stick around though, sweetheart. He could use a backbone."

Anthony soured at the nickname.

You didn't let up your glare until Kipps vanished from sight.

You shifted your heated gaze to Anthony. "Did you hear what he called me? How have you not jinxed him?"

"Trust me, I'm not a fan of him either, but he's a muggle. Trying to fight him would be bullying."

"The lack of justice!"

He snorted. "It's bearable. Now, come on. There's someone who's been dying to meet you."

"I can stupefy the freckled redhead double quick."

"Sweetheart, no."

He seized your hand to make sure you didn't run off and break a law, no matter how entertaining that would be for the both of you.

—

"I'm Jessica Lockwood! Jess is preferable. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Your arm almost fell off from the intensity of her handshake. The older girl was twice as energetic as Anthony and triple times as smiley.

Your boyfriend was the one who saved your hand by taking it into his. "Jess, I like my girl with both her hands intact, please."

"Don't kid. You'd still be smitten if she was cursed into a worm." She slapped her brother's shoulder. You kept in a laugh as he struggled to remain upright. She didn't forget you for a second. "Once Anthony starts talking about you, it never truly ends. I didn't believe he hated you for a second. When he 'complained' about you, he'd use phrases like *'annoyingly distracting'* and *'unfairly attractive'*."

"Jess..."

"The truth was bound to come out." She shot you a knowing look. "You can tell in the smile. He does it without knowing"

"He is terribly obvious," you doubled, holding his hand in both of yours in a pacifying manner.

His mouth fell open. "My word . . . It's been five minutes and the pair of you are already cornering me."

"This is the beginning of something beautiful," Jessica sang. She winked at you before meandering to the door next to the steps. "Now show her your room and unpack before dinner. We're having potato soup. Are you allergic, sweets?"

You smiled until both of your cheeks hurt. "Not at all. I like the sound of potato soup. Before that, I'd like to formally introduce myself–"

"There's no need for it, really. Anthony blabbed about you enough. I'll call you two down when it's ready."

Anthony lead you to the stairs by the shoulders. "Up we go, sweetheart. Before Jess says more than she should."

"I think she's a treat, Anthony. I wish I had a sister like her."

"She kicked me into a lake once. You wouldn't find her very nice if she did that to you, would you?"

"I would kick you into a lake, too, if you were my brother."

"Let's not open that can of worms, sweetheart. I want to be your husband. Obliviate this conversation from my memory."

You laughed, patting his knuckles sympathetically. "Torturing you is just as fun as laughing about it."

"You and Jess get along like a house on fire. That said, I'm not sure how long I'll stay sane."

"I'll save you a room at St. Mungo's." He fought a smile as you stalled on the taller steps. He was a goner the second you turned to wrap your arms around him. "You love it though. And you love me."

He sighed into your hair. "Unfortunately."

His arms wound around you, pulling you close enough for your heartbeats to sync. He nuzzled into your shoulder, and you did the worst thing you could possibly do: you played with his hair. He melted.

The prospect of you being in his forever home made a strange feeling bubble in his stomach. He figured it was what he had been looking for—a sense of fulfilment, or maybe he just needed someone to play with his hair the way you did.

Jessica's voice speared through the tranquillity. "No funny business, both of you!"

"Yes, ma'am," Anthony responded. He stole a chaste kiss from you before leading you to the first door on the second floor.

—

He should have known you'd go straight for the bed. You were always lounging or reclining if you weren't working. Anthony developed a disease that entailed observing you every time you did. He could probably paint a portrait of you, if he only had the artistic talent.

You stretched like a starfish, relishing the softness of the sheets that still smelt of him.

"I could die here, happily."

Anthony kneeled in the space next you to fix the blanket over you. "Sweet as that is, I like you better alive."

"I'll live and die here," you cooed, pulling him down beside you. "So much better than my room... well, my old room. My parents decorated the house like it was a prison. Seeing your mess can make any place feel like home."

"Should I be offended? You just called my interior decorating skills a mess."

"You're ugly enough to distract them from the mess."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Much appreciated."

"You're welcome."

He lowered his body next to yours, throwing an arm over your waist. The brush of his fingers on your stomach did not go unnoticed.

You took the liberty to rest your head on his shoulder, snuggling deeper into the blanket as you did. The perfect plot to hide your warming cheeks.

"Getting cosy, already? In my room?"

"We can share, can't we?" The way you looked at him made the temptation of a cosy cuddle difficult to resist.

"Jess would behead me, and I don't mean metaphorically. We have a collection of axes from pivotal historic events downstairs."

"Just a nap then. We have some time before dinner."

You made a good bargain. There was only so much saying 'no' Anthony could do to you before he bent.

"Just this once."

"Just this once," you confirm with an unconvincing smile.

"I am a gentleman, you understand that? We can't stay here for too long."

"I know."

"Then why are you smiling like that?"

Your smile only grew. "Cause I'll be the barbarian this time. I demand to stay here."

"Sweetheart—"

"My mind's already made up. Sleep, Anthony."

“My sister—"

"Sleep."

He tapped your side in surrender. He dragged the blanket higher to cover your shoulders. "If I am putting my neck out for a cuddle, might as well ask for your input. Though, the idea itself might be absurd."

"Anthony, 'absurd' means 'innovative' in your language. Spill."

"Is it possible to shrink a patronus? I was thinking about the practicality of a smaller patronus after I signed up for the auror training programme."

"It'd be more covert."

"My thought exactly." His expression turned pensive. "I might use it to get into the specialised auror squadron."

"Well," You sat up and wiggled your wand out of your pocket. "Only one way to find out."

He couldn't leave it alone. "First person to do it gets a tick on the Tally."

"You're just bitter I got one more medallion than you."

"What can I say?" He tapped your nose, bringing the smile back to your face. "I love the competition."

—

The spellcasting didn't cease, even after dinner had passed.

You found yourselves under the covers, using the space between you as an arena for your patronuses. So far, every cast came out a regular-sized patronus.

Anthony's eyes drifted to the glint of your ring every time it was your turn. The engravings came to life every time it came into contact with magic. He felt the pulse of it through his own ring. He shouldn't have felt as thrilled as he did, but he couldn't help it.

"Anthony. Are you sleeping with your eyes open?"

"No. Just looking at you."

Your lip curled. "Cheesy."

"You love it."

"No comment."

He laughed before picking up his wand. He concentrated as best as he could, but one glimpse at your face, and it slipped. His patronus emerged as it usually did.

Magnificent, iridescent, and face-slapping. Its silvery sands dissipated as Anthony received a well-placed smack to the cheek.

"That was worse than the last one," you snorted.

Anthony nudged your knee. "I'd like to see you do better."

Even if a million failed attempts already plagued you, you went through the motions. This time, the swishes of your wand were smaller and more slurred—like your wrist was limp as you cast.

Your patronus burst forth. Beautiful and respectable, and the size of a mouse.

"Aha!" You threw your hands up, sending the blanket flying and letting the cold air rush in. "I win! Get the Tally, give me my point."

"Merlin, sweetheart. Careful." Anthony chuckled, gathering the blanket and quickly chucking it over your head before getting up from the bed to fetch the notebook.

Your head poked out of the swaths of fabric, just to prop your chin on his shoulder and watch as he drew another line under your column. Two points more than his.

He leaned his head on yours. "Happy?"

"Very," you quipped.

The patronus trounced over his hand, soaring over your head like a halo before perching on his nose.

"Try it." You coaxed. "Smaller shapes, dramatic flicks."

"You're going to laugh if it fails, aren't you?"

"When do I not?"

The crane flew over to the nightstand, preening it's feathers before cocking its head at Anthony. Urging him to go on.

With a sigh, he gave in and gave it another go. The first attempt was as bad as the last. The second one worked like a charm.

His patronus skipped the usual fly around the room, preferring to head straight for yours, landing next to it and dancing around it before they took off like butterflies in the wind.

Your lips parted for a yawn. Anthony felt your weight press against his side, his arm instinctively finding home around your waist.

"How late is it?" Your eyes were too bleary to read the time.

Anthony found the clock. "A quarter to midnight." He hauled you closer, settling you against the pillows before dimming the lights. "I think we're due for some shut-eye."

"A Slytherin who values a proper sleep schedule . . . Boo!"

He didn't even try to fight you. You were already swaying.

You felt his chest rumble as he spoke. "We can stay up then."

"Your idea, not mine."

Your head rested against him, the steady lub-dub of his heart pounding against your cheek. He felt yours against your ribs as he rubbed circles under your shirt. Even then, he couldn't tear his eyes away from your miniature patronuses.

They lit up the room like restless twin flames. Your eyes followed them, too, but not for long.

The combination of the patronuses' light and Lockwood's gentle massaging proved to be an effective sleeping pill. It wasn't long 'till your earlier words were void and your breath evened out.

"Thought we were staying up," Anthony whispered, more endeared than anything. He couldn't help but place a kiss on your forehead.

The curious thing was... your patronus hadn't disappeared, even as you slept.

The pair of tiny cranes danced in flight. Nipping playfully before beautifully looping around one another.

He observed them for a while more before the drowse began to creep in. He dispelled his patronus, and only then did both of them disappear. Never leaving one without the other.

He cracked a smile as he slipped the blanket tighter around you, blessing your head with another kiss before he, himself, succumbed to the symphonies of sleep.

—

When life spun from essays and practicals to work and elbow grease, Anthony often found himself thinking of the future, of the past and where the two met in the middle.

He wondered if you ever missed the opulence of living in a pureblood home: The fluted columns, the glistening chandeliers, and the sunlight that streamed through ceiling-length windows.

He'd stare at the back of your head, feeling the doubt creep in. Then, you'd turn and chide him about some miscellaneous argument you refused to let rest, then all would be right in the world.

On a particularly gruelling day, he traipsed straight to bed without breakfast, too tuckered out to even lift a finger.

He heard you and Jessica chattering while you cleaned downstairs—moving furniture and kicking the ol' vacuum back to life. Sometime after dusting the bookshelves, you carefully opened the door to your (Lockwood's) room—mindful not to wake him with its creaking. He watched you through lidded eyes. You didn't notice his blinking.

Your hands glided a cloth over the nightstand pictures. When you'd reached the family portrait, you smiled. He found himself holding his breath.

"Your son is a dolt, you know," you snitched as if they'd be ready to gossip with you. You brought the picture to the light and rubbed away a stain on the glass. "Can't even take care of himself these days. He's lucky Jess and I are here to scold him . . . But he is a good man. A polite, romantic, and utterly chaotic one," You took a breath to calm yourself. "but I can't bring myself to hate him more than I... Well, I can't get the word out, but I will eventually. I've only been here for a while but living seems so much easier now. Not to alarm you, but it may have something to do with your son."

It was complete agony to continue feigning sleep after that. You cleaned the other night table, then adjusted the blanket so he was fully covered.

You left the room like you hadn't taken his heart with you.

—

On the dreaded eve of his parents' death, you approached him as he scrutinised the chipping paint and the stick-on stars on the ceiling.

Detached wasn't an apt word to describe how he had been acting all day. He was somewhere else mentally. Not even Jessica could break through to him.

"Jess told me to check on you," you said quietly, trying not to startle him.

All he did was hum in return.

You filled the empty space on the bed. "Anthony . . . Grief is just love with nowhere to go." You set your hand on his cheek, carefully swiping over his cheek, catching tears that have yet to fall. "No need to repress anything in front of me, serpent boy."

He took a shuddering breath. The first time he truly took a breath all day. It shattered you as his eyes glazed over. Even then, he refused to look at you. Refused to show you how torn up he was.

"I just... I miss them, but it's been so many years since they left. I thought–" He sucked in a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose just to cover his eyes. "I thought it would be easier. It's supposed to be easier."

You shifted closer, the bed dipping at your weight and bringing him closer to you. He thought he'd seen it all, but he'd never seen that kind of softness on your face. You pried his fingers away and wiped his tears yourself.

He was reduced to a little boy, and you were still sticking around. No barbs, no sharp sarcasm. Just your caring eyes and even more careful hands grasping his cheeks.

"Grief never really leaves, Anthony. They're your parents, of course you'd miss them." You mustered a smile, but it only revealed the tears gathering at your eyeline. "But you don't have to feel it alone. Jessica is here, and she loves you more than anything. It hurts her to see you so distant." He reached up to hold your hand in his. Your melancholic smile stretched. "And I'm here, too. You'd have to be pretty daft to forget your roommate."

He managed a smile, squeezing your hand in silent thanks — just before he had felt his façade fracture.

Anthony sat up, pulling you onto his thighs and wrapping you in a hug that was all-encompassing. He hid his face in your shoulder, and you rubbed his back as he finally let the tears free.

Sobs racked his body, his heart picked itself apart once more, but at least he could breath. Keeping all of the heartache to himself was like holding his breath. There was only so much he could hold before he needed air.

He didn't know how long Jessica had stood at the door before you beckoned her closer. Another pair of arms came around you two, washing away all the misplaced guilt he'd been stewing in since morning.

It didn't make him miss his parents less, but it reminded him that there were still people he got to hold hands with. And you were right, it was easier than doing it alone.

—

The conversation at dinner was a calm one. Less on banter and more on planning what to do in the morning.

The general consensus was to pick up flowers and bring some things to picnic with before visiting the Lockwoods' graves.

Jessica hugged Lockwood extra tight before letting him turn in for the night.

You glued yourself to his side the second he slid into bed. The responsibility of initiating skinship usually was on him, so, the change of pace was heavily appreciated.

He wrapped an arm around you and pressed a kiss to your head in unspoken gratitude.

You fought your nature to fall asleep first, just to stay up with him, but your resolve crumbled after your third yawn. You drifted off. Your arms didn't budge, and he was relishing the closeness for what it was.

Though, his mind wouldn't stop turning.

He never heard his parents' story, but he knew his mother had been a half-blood. He wanted to know how they met, if his mother's patronus ever changed, if his father had fashioned something from muggle magic to impress her.

So many questions that would remain unanswered forever.

He reached for his wand when insomnia had stolen enough hours of sleep from him. In the darkness, he whispered the enchantment.

His patronus burst forth, silvery and glorious... and not alone. Contrary to his previous casts, he summoned not just one crane, but two.

The pair of them remained quiet, for your sake. They perched on the armoire opposite of the bed and preened one another. He was entranced by their obvious affections, only breaking from focus when you shuffled in his arms.

The patronuses faded away, and you blinked into the darkness.

"What are you up to?" Your voice was heavy with drowse. Anthony fought the urge to pinch your cheek.

"Nothing, sweetheart." He glided a hand over your eyes, coaxing, "Go back to sleep."

You grumbled. "I saw something, you liar."

"Just a trick of the light."

You eyed him with sleepy uncertainty before your head went limp against his shoulder once more. "We'll come back to this," you swore.

Anthony pacified you by rubbing your back. "You bet, sweetheart. Now get your beauty sleep. I can't always be the prettier one."

He didn't have to tell you twice.

Not long after, his own eyes began to droop with the twin cranes still swimming in his mind.

—

The last time the sky had been this alive was the night Anthony had stolen you away to the Astronomy Tower. It felt like a lifetime ago.

You barely even noticed the extra luminescence of the moon or Anthony, who had been waiting for some form of acknowledgement all day.

Grunts were your definition of olive branches, and he wasn't having it. He stole the page from your hands and raised it above his head.

Your response was snap. "Anthony... I don't have time to dawdle."

"Why are you so worked up?"

You flailed your arms, gesturing wildly to the hulking stack of papers on your desk. "The warden at St. Mungo's wants to speak to me, personally. I need to be ready."

He read your scrawl on the paper, quickly giving up on trying to understand what it all meant.

What you dove into was far beyond the field of study in Hogwarts. Madame Pomfrey clearly took her role as your mentor seriously. You were advancing quickly.

"My girl," he said with a laugh. "You're the only witch who can commit a twelve-foot scroll to heart in the span of two hours. You'll be fine."

He loosened his grip on the paper as you leapt up to snatch it back from him, sitting back down on your chair with your lips pursed. Stress lines forming where your smile lines were supposed to. He hated seeing you so... consumed.

He wondered if you'd been hiding that face behind the four walls of your bedroom before things had changed between you, back when medals were currency in your home rather than achievements.

"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity... and it's being handed to me. I have to put my best foot forward." Your hold on the page turned sentimental. "I can't mess it up, Anthony."

He set his hands on your shoulders, and you surrendered to his touch. He took it as a good sign and cleared himself to kiss the top of your head.

"You are the best at what you do," he assured. "No one can compare. I'm not just saying that. You genuinely scare people with how much you know." He spun your chair to face him, tilting your chin to see you. "My dearest vexation... You've got this, and I've got you."

Your shoulders dropped with the intensity of your sigh. "I don't know what to do... I might forget something I'm supposed to know."

"You could never." He scrutinised your work desk before he made the decision. "What you need is a break. Dance with me?"

He drew you up by both hands, guiding one of your hands to rest on his shoulder. When your eyes drifted back to your stack of papers, he killed the lights so you wouldn't be able to see them.

You laxed as soon as the room plunged into the dark. That left you, Anthony, and the glow of the moon and streetlights.

Anthony returned his hand to yours and hummed a sentimental tune to lead the dance.

You leaned into the music, resting your head against his shoulder. He, in turn, rested his cheek against your head.

"This reminds me of our first dance," you mumbled.

"How could I forget?"

You concealed a smile in his shirt. "A lovely dance on the balcony after you kissed me senseless."

"It takes two to tango, sweetheart." He pulled closer, basking in the yelp you let out. "And my hair didn't stand a chance in your hands."

"In my defence, the tousled look suits you." You had the cheek to peck the juncture between his shoulder and neck. "Like the princes I used to read about."

"Charming."

"Don't be salty, captain. You'll always be my favourite." You rubbed his shoulder as a gesture of peace.

"As I should be."

You chuckled. "You're smirking. I feel it."

"You can't even see me."

"Don't have to," you chirped. "I know you."

"I've never met a woman so cumbersome."

Your head jerked back. Even in the limited lighting, he could see the scowl on your face. "You know other women?"

He couldn't hold back a grin. "Merlin, you are so jealous." He pressed a kiss to your temple, a gesture of truce. "You're my only and only vexation, spitfire. Everyone and everything pales in comparison."

You opened your mouth with the intent of giving a smart answer, but he shot you down before you even said it.

"Don't bring the moon into this."

You sealed your lips into a smile. Your worries slipped away, and you relished the few minutes you stole for a moonlight waltz with your lover.

—

In the two years you'd lived together, he'd picked up on your ticks. And you, his.

When you lightly bump your forehead against his cheek, Anthony knew it was your way of demanding a kiss. He never denied you one.

You learned to wear loose shirts to sleep because Anthony liked to slip his hand up your bare back and feel the up-and-down motions of your breathing as you slept.

He never forgot to bring home a little keepsake from work for you, accompanied by a single flower you got to add to a growing bouquet in the living room.

Anthony often got colds in the winter seasons, but he retains his reverent hate for the smell of Vix. So, you made your own impromptu mint remedy with lemongrass and ginger. To him, it was so much better.

Last but not least, a new chess board found home in the receiving room. The pieces only move when you and Anthony arrive home from your respective statutes of work.

Gist is, you had a routine, and you knew what to do for every boyfriend-shaped hurdle life had in store for you.

Imagine the panic that hit you the second your enchanted ring started to warm and shake.

The day was dark and ruthless. Rain pelting down like cats and dogs. Electricity had gone out as well.

You were wary to answer the door, since you were home alone, but you did so anyway because your ring had only grown more restless.

Your heart ceased in your chest as you took in the sight of Anthony. He couldn't even hold himself up. Lucy and James were doing that for him.

You choked on nothing. "Merlin..."

You reached out. Like a moth to a flame, Anthony gravitated to you. Falling into your arms and sighing into your shoulder like your presence alone could suture the injuries that marred his figure from head to toe.

"We took him to St. Mungo's," Lucy elaborated, clutching her own side. She was less beat, but she was still slouched in pain.

James had taken over when she wheezed for breath. "He fought every medi-witch that approached. Said he just wanted to come home and see you."

"You twat," you scolded in a whisper. It took most of your energy to keep Anthony upright. You schooled your expression, offering a mustered smile to his companions. "Thank you for bringing him home. See yourselves to St. Mungo's. I'll cover your tab when my shift rolls by."

James hooked his arm around a limping Lucy, offering you a grateful smile before producing his wand and apparating in the guise of the rain.

Anthony was tracking blood and mud wherever he walked. It was useless trying to get farther than the living room. You'd rather have a tarnished sofa than a bloodless boyfriend.

"What happened, Anthony?" Your tone was firm, but quiet—careful of a headache that could be blooming behind his ears.

You tore off his coat to get to the scratches on his arms. Repairing him one injury at a time. Even if the injuries were gone, his skin was still drenched in his own sweat and blood. It was a mess, and you'd be damned than leave him looking so trodden.

You accioed a basin of water and a handful of washcloths to your side. Swiping away grime as you healed him.

Only when you began to unbutton his shirt did he find his voice.

"We're moving a bit too fast, sweetheart. Where's your decorum?"

Your gaze held bite. He chuckled like his smile would save him.

"Where's your mind? You've been unresponsive for five minutes! I thought you were stewing in the after-effects of a psychological curse—" You drowned a blood-stained cloth in the basin of water, watching scarlet swirl into the clear water before moving back to his shirt. "—and I'd have to give you a permanent room at the ward, and then break the news to Jess—"

"I'm fine—"

"But I'm not!"

You sat back on your calves, taken aback by your own tone. The backs of your fists pressed into your eyes, forcing your tears back in before returning to assessing his wounds.

He was quiet as you examined the deeper gashes slashed across his torso. Your hands swiped at your cheeks before your lips moved, muttering cures and charms that stitched him up like new.

You wiped the blood away, but you wrung the cloth like you still saw blood. On the fabric, on your hands, on his skin.

Your voice was devoid of life as you asked, "May I see your back?"

He winced as he sat forward. At least the pain wasn't as unbearable as earlier. He saw some herbs swirling in the basin, so it was safe to assume you'd taken extra precautions to make things as painless for him as possible. His heart wrenched as you repaired him and dirtied the water with even more blood.

"I didn't mean things to get messy," Anthony told you slowly. He felt your hand pause on his back, then continue with more careful intent. "The suspect had an accomplice we didn't account for. Had us outnumbered... and they had a spell book full of vulgar spells. Nasty ones."

"So, you took the brunt of them?"

He chanced a smirk. "You know me too well."

"You're reckless."

"I couldn't let my subordinates get hurt," he rasped, sucking in a breath when you purposely pressed down on an open wound.

You magicked it away and cleaned the blood, but you refused to meet his eyes the whole time.

Finally, the insistent shaking of the linked rings faded. It calmed your pulse by a fraction, but nothing could cease the trembling of your hands.

Anthony took the liberty to take them in his, your matching rings clinking against one another.

"I'm here... I'm okay."

You hung your head, forehead meeting your twined hands. "I almost lost you... I couldn't find your pulse right away, and there was so much blood—all I could see was red. Anthony—"

"Shh." He closed the space, flattening himself against your side and drawing you into his chest so you could feel the familiar thrum of his heart. "We're okay. I'm so sorry, sweetheart... I didn't mean to scare you."

You sniffed, hiding your face in his neck. "Why didn't you accept help from St. Mungo's? They have blood banks to replenish what you lost, I can't do much about that here."

He held you tighter, rubbing your arm as he racked his mind. "I thought it was too late for me... I just wanted to see you. I wanted to come home."

You hit his chest once, seething as you sobbed. Your tears wet his shoulder, but he didn't stop you. He took your rage until you went boneless in his arms—clinging to him like it would calm the racing of your heart.

Eventually, you picked yourself up to gather another cloth to wipe away the bloodstains on his face. Hands still shaking but determined to restore him to full health.

As low as it was, he still heard you. "I love you, you know that? It's impossible for me to remember a time where you weren't around."

He searched your eyes, finding nothing but morose truth in them. It was the first time you'd said those three words to him. Explicitly, without sarcastic connotation.

He caught your wrist, lowering your hands so he could look at you. "I know... and I love you, too. I'm sorry."

"Then why put your neck out like that? You promised me a ring, Anthony Lockwood. You gave me your word. You can't do that if you're gone."

"I'd never forget," he promised, kissing apologies across your palms and wrists. "How could I when it comes to you?"

"Then tell me why you put yourself in so much danger— in so much pain."

He licked his chapped lips. Your eyes pleaded for explanation, and he'd be cruel not to suffice you with an answer.

Reluctantly, he retrieved the box in his pocket. It was the only thing untouched by blood. Your eyes snagged on it immediately.

Anthony chuckled, nervous, before popping the case open. Inside sat an ornate ring, embellished with your birthstones put together. An eagle held yours in its talons, and a snake held his in its mouth. Your identities intertwined.

Whatever words you wanted to get out died in your throat, mouth hinging but never uttering a word.

Anthony tried his best not to stutter. "They tried to take it from me... I didn't let them. You can imagine that they weren't happy with being deprived of such a beaut."

You sunk into yourself. "You almost died... to save a ring."

"Your ring," he said carefully. "If you still want to have me as your husband, of course."

"I have half a mind to say 'no'." You laughed bitterly, swiping at your cheeks. "Merlin, Anthony... You have terrible timing when it comes to presenting things like this."

"A lot of realisations happen when you walk the line with Death."

He readjusted his hold on the box, refusing to let go of your hand. You admired the craftsmanship of the ring before you leaned on his shoulder.

"Promise me you'll never do that again. I'd rather have a husband than some hunk of metal."

He let out a breath of relief, hugging you to him as you smiled into his shoulder. "Rude. I learned how to craft a ring just for you."

"You crafted this?"

He felt the world hold its breath as he slid the ring onto your finger. A perfect fit for his perfect match. He kissed your knuckle to further cement the notion.

"From scratch," he boasted. "I made a killing from the pen business. I used the money to take some lessons from a smith in Hatton Garden."

"I cannot believe you..."

"You didn't believe me when I said I cleaned your desks before you'd arrive to class."

"That's different," you said promptly. "You almost got yourself killed to preserve a ring."

"That ring brings me one step closer to marrying you," he tutted. He even leaned down to steal a kiss. "It was worth it."

"I would have brought you back from the dead just to strangle you if you did die on our new sofa."

"Good thing I didn't."

You cracked a smile. "Good thing you didn't," you agreed. "But I'm not forgiving you so easily. You gave me a scare, Mr. Lockwood. I hope you know that you're not allowed to hug me tonight."

"I thought near-death would warrant me extra hugs."

"I can give you everything else, just not hugs."

"How cruel..."

You waved your hand dismissively. "Take it or leave it. What do you want while you're not allowed to hug me?"

Anthony wanted a lot of things. The cheesy dynamics in the books you read, the happily ever after where the couple ends up married and in love with a kid or two. He wants your kids to look like him but act like you, so you two wouldn't spend half the time greying from stress. He wanted to be part of your story forevermore.

But holding your hand would do for now.

He tangled your fingers together and kissed your knuckles. "This is enough for me."

Disbelief was written all over your face. "Really? I thought you'd be more combative."

"We have all the time in the world, sweetheart. We can live in the moment."

"I can only hope you don't jump into some other death-defying scheme again. I'll be all grey before you."

"I think you'd look like the snarkiest grandmother ever."

"Thank you, my love."

His brows furrowed. "My love?"

"What's with that reaction?" Your arms crossed. "Fine. I won't call you that."

"No! I was playing. Say it again, please."

"You lost your chance, snake boy." You shook his hand off, standing from the couch.

You didn't get far. Anthony latched to your waist, smiling into your shirt. "I pledge to never approach a renowned criminal ever again. Just say it again. Please, Sweetheart? Spitfire? My dearest vexation? M'lady?"

You didn't even get close to picking up the basin before Anthony snatched it from you.

"When I get back," he said sternly. "I want to hear you say 'my love' again. Even just a whisper. Thank you."

If you were subject to his clownery for the rest of your life, it wasn't that bad of a price to pay. He was thoughtful when he used his brain.

Every Slytherin boy needed their Ravenclaw girl to keep their ambitions from getting them into trouble, after all.

It wasn't long 'till Lockwood crashed back into your arms. Spinning you in the air like he hadn't been on the verge of death minutes prior. His eyes were wide with expectation, and you didn't want to torture the boy for too long. Not after the lengths he went to to keep your ring safe.

You exaggerated the sweetness in your tone as you said, "My love."

Anthony was more than ready to hear those words for the rest of his life.

Neither of you noticed the pair of cranes that soared past the window, announcing the end of the rain and welcoming the beginnings of a wonderful season.

BONUS ANGST ➺ If I didn't include Jessica, Anthony would be able to see Thestrals. You would do some absurd things to distract him when you pass the carriages—even when you were rivals.

⚜ PART 1 | SERIES MASTERLIST

SWEETHEARTS ➺ @kiyasoup @toddandersondupe @locknco @onecojg @avdiobliss @mentallyillsodapop @mitskiswift99 @mischivana @bella-rose29 @wordsarelife

NOTE ➺ expecto patronus was the title because the initial idea was they always protect each other :>

i like to think mitski's 'my love mine all mine' was the song they danced to. so romantic~ i'm just baffled that i was able to write so many words XD all this was once just brain barf, crazy. it was a rollercoaster, but i hope you enjoyed 💙

as always, leave your thoughts in the comments or reblogs, i love hearing feedback <3

love always 💙 until next time, my dearest vexations 😘

⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

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