#Ceri Jones | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

danielfuckingricciardo · 2 years

Text

Baby It’s Cold Outside - Sebastian Vettel x Reader

Pairing - Sebastian Vettel x Reader

Word Count - 4.5k

Content Warnings - swearing, oral sex, vaginal sex

Synopsis - After a rather boozy Christmas party at Sebastian’s house, you’re not quite ready to say goodbye. Luckily the two of you are great and finding reasons as to why you should stay the night.

Author’s Note - It was supposed to be my super depressing Estie Bestie fic today, but I wasn’t feeling it so instead you get this! It’s my first Seb fic which I’m actually surprised at considering he is my ride-or-die, so I’m very excited for this one! Inspired of course by the song of the same name, which is such a bop. I personally prefer the Tom Jones and Cerys Matthews version because I’m a big Tom Jones fan, but any version can be enjoyed alongside this fic! So, without further ado, let’s get into it!

It was late, in fact it was almost Christmas Eve, 11:57pm on December 23rd, and you were still in Sebastian’s house.

Most people had left a lot earlier, having early flights to catch in the morning to return home to their families and begin the festive celebrations. But you remained well into the evening, following along as the drinks being poured progressed from red wine with dinner, to tequila shots and jäger bombs.

Those who were staying over in one of Sebastian’s many guest rooms were still gathered in the lounge, only the remainder of earlier beverages in their hands as Sebastian’s drinks cabinet had already been thoroughly emptied.

You step back into the room where everyone was gathered. You notice Lance in the corner, a familiar face amongst all the other men and women in the room, and take a seat beside him.

“Are you staying over too?” He asks you, and you shake your head.

“No, but I have a hotel room nearby. I’ll probably call a cab when everyone decides to go to bed.” You say, and Lance nods. His eyes are glassy from all the drinks he had thrown back that evening. He had been the one passing around the tequila, and you had only managed to talk your way out of half of the shots you were offered.

“Who knows, if you get your way, you might get to stay over after all, sharing a bed with a certain German racing driver?” Lance whispers in your ear, quiet enough so that no one else in the room could hear him.

“Shush!” You whisper yell, jabbing Lance in the side and causing him to collapse into fits of laughter.

Lance had almost immediately caught on to your infatuation with Sebastian. He teased you for it relentlessly, much like an annoying brother would. He always told you that you should make a move, tell Sebastian of how you felt, but you just couldn’t. Every time you saw him your legs turned to jelly, and you stumbled over each and every word you spoke. You would never be able to tell him just how you truly felt about him, and with his retirement looming, you knew you never would.

Besides, you did have a flight to catch in the morning. A flight home. You hadn’t seen your family in such a long time. The long racing season, followed by testing and work back at the factory meant you hadn’t been home since the summer break. You didn’t mind, it was your job, and you were used to it. But you couldn’t wait to see them again and tell them about all the amazing things you had seen.

“Right, I think I’m gonna call it a night, mate.” You hear Mark say from the sofa opposite you.

“Sounds like a good plan.” Another man you don’t quite recognise adds, and everyone else begins to prepare to make their way upstairs to their guest rooms.

“I’m not as young as I used to be, I need my beauty sleep.” Mark says, and Seb nods at him, standing to shake his hand before the Australian makes his way to the staircase.

Most of the other guests follow him, setting down their empty glasses on the coffee table to retire to their rooms.

“I’m gonna go too, I might be younger than Mark, but I have a long flight home tomorrow.” Lance says, standing from beside you with a slap of his thighs.

“It was good seeing you again, sweet dreams!” You say, and Lance gives you a smile and a nod, leaving the room and leaving just you and Sebastian alone in his living room.

Sebastian stands up and begins gathering the glasses from the table and taking them to the kitchen. Not wanting to leave a mess behind, you do the same, following him in with your arms filled with glasses.

“You don’t have to do that, you know?” Sebastian says, and you shake your head with a smile.

“You’ve been a great host, it’s the least I can do.” You say, sliding the glasses into the dishwasher.

“I’m glad you had a good time. It feels weird to think this will be the last time I host one of these for the people on my team.” Sebastian says.

“Well, it was a great party. And should there be any more parties like this next season, I’m sure you’ll be receiving an invite.” You say, and Sebastian chuckles.

“Maybe if I’m not hosting I won’t be the last one to go to bed. I enjoy hosting others but I don’t always enjoy the cleaning up part afterwards.” He says.

“Well, I’m always happy to help lighten the load.” You say, before disappearing into the lounge to grab another handful of empty shot glasses.

“I’m grateful, but you really don’t have to help. Besides, shouldn’t you be calling a cab, you probably want to get to bed soon.” Sebastian says, reaching out to take the glasses from your hands.

For a moment, his fingertips brush yours, and you have to try your best to act normal at the soft contact you shared. You became suddenly aware of the fact that it was only you and Sebastian still awake in the house. Everyone else had gone, and the two of you were alone. Suddenly, your legs were jelly again.

“I’ll finish what I started with clearing the room, then I’ll call a cab.” You say, before quickly darting back into the lounge, and opportunity for you to steady your breathing, and to collect more glasses.

“Those are the last ones.” You say, reaching to pass three wine glasses over to Sebastian, but as you do, one slips from your grip, shattering across the kitchen floor.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” You say, placing the other glass in your hand down on the counter to bend down and collect the larger shards of glass by your feet.

“It’s okay. Are you hurt?” Sebastian asks, bending down beside you to help in collecting the chunks of glass.

“No, no, I’m fine, I think. So fucking sorry, I have a chronic case of butterfingers.” You say, trying to laugh off the awkward incident.

“It’s really okay. It’s just a glass.” Sebastian says, before dropping the shards he had collected into the trash can beneath the sink.

You do the same, but wince as you feel one of the sharper shards slide across you skin, leaving behind a trail of red as it falls into the trash.

You push your finger into your mouth to swipe away the blood with your tongue, hoping it’s just a small cut that will cease its bleeding with the pressure you applied with your tongue.

As Sebastian’s back is turned, you remove your finger to inspect the damage. You breathe a sigh of relief as the cut appears to have closed, but it immediately begins weeping again, and you sigh.

“You’re bleeding.” Sebastian says, and your eyes jump up to look at him.

He takes a few steps towards you, before taking your hand in his to inspect the wound.

“It’s just a small cut, but it needs cleaning and covering.” Sebastian says, dropping your hand from his grasp and rifling through one of his kitchen drawers.

“It’s okay, I’ll sort it when I’m back at the hotel.” You say, trying to turn away but Sebastian grabs your hand, pulling you closer to inspect the wound once again.

“This is going to sting a little, okay?” He says, looking into your eyes as if asking for permission.

You nod at him as he runs the antiseptic wipe across the cut on your finger, and you fight back a wince as the alcohol seeps into the open flesh.

Sebastian wraps a plaster around your finger gently and smiles at you, before looking down at your finger again to admire his handiwork.

“There. All better, hm?” He says, his hands still holding your own.

You try and find words, but the contact between his hands and yours was almost too much. Your mouth opens and closes as your eyes glance up to meet Sebastian’s, and you can see his smile living within them.

“Thank you, honestly, you’re too kind to say I just broke one of your glasses and then proceeded to bleed all over your trash.” You finally manage to say, chuckling slightly to ease the tension in your head.

“This kitchen has seen more blood than you’d think. I’m not as handy with a knife as I’d like to think I am.” Sebastian chuckles, his hands still holding your own gently.

“I really should call a cab, before I damage any more of your property.” You say, pulling your hands away from Sebastian’s to reach for your phone that you had stashed away in the pocket of your dress.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like another drink? A whiskey perhaps to steady your nerves after your injury?” Sebastian asks, and you shake your head.

“I thought the guys had drank you dry already this evening?” You say, glancing up at him from the open Uber app on your phone.

“I keep a bottle stashed away for emergencies such as this. It’s the good stuff too.” Sebastian says, wandering over to his pantry to retrieve a half-filled decanter and two matching glasses.

“Do you have any plastic ones? I can’t drop and smash those.” You chuckle, and Sebastian laughs too as he pours out two shots, holding the glass out to you.

You take it with a smile, placing your phone down onto the counter to take a sip. The fiery whisky felt good as it ran down your throat, and you can’t help but hum in response at the smooth taste of the liquid.

“It’s good, huh? One of my favourites.” Sebastian says, and you nod.

“Mark said you were always more of a Jäegermeister fan.” You laugh, and Seb shakes his head with a smile.

“Maybe back when we were teammates. As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned to appreciate a good scotch.” Sebastian says, before taking a final swig from his glass and setting it down on the counter beside you.

Your phone beeps and you look down at the screen, letting out a sigh as you set down your beverage to pick up your phone.

“Fuck.” You say under your breath, tapping at the screen aggressively as if that would in any way change it’s mind.

“Are you okay?” Sebastian asks, and you hang your head in frustration.

“Apparently there are no cabs available. Probably because of that.” You say, pointing out of the window where snowflakes were gently fluttering past.

“Ah…” Sebastian says, and you grab your glass and finish off the warming beverage before placing it down next to Sebastian’s own empty glass.

“I could try another company, I’m sure there must be some local taxi firm willing to drive in the snow if I offer to pay double.” You say, and Sebastian shakes his head.

“Or, you could stay here? The rooms are all filled, but you can have my room, I’ll sleep on the sofa, I don’t mind.” Sebastian says, offering you a small smile.

“You’re honestly too kind, but I couldn’t do that, it’s your home, your room. I’ll sleep on the sofa, if you have a spare blanket that would be great.” You say, and Sebastian nods reluctantly.

“Okay, if you’re sure. The spare blankets are in my room, come with me.” He says, and you follow him out of the kitchen, into the lounge and up the stairs to the long corridor.

The sofa was comfortable, you wouldn’t mind sleeping on it, even though you were slightly angry at the fact that your hotel room you had paid for would be empty for the night. You didn’t even have any things with you, and while you hadn’t gone for the most uncomfortable of outfits, it wouldn’t make the best substitute for pyjamas.

You follow Sebastian into his room, and it’s so very him. Simplistic and functional, a few trophies stood on the shelves amongst other meaningful trinkets and books. Above the bed was a large framed image of a stag hidden amongst a bright green forest. Your eyes lingered on the image as Sebastian disappeared into his closet.

“Here, I have some old team gear you can wear. They’re not exactly your size but I’m sure they’ll be much better to sleep in than your current outfit, which you look beautiful in, but doesn’t look to be all that comfortable.” Sebastian says, and you can’t help but blush at the compliment he gave you. Did he really just call you beautiful?

You realise that in processing the compliment, you had left him standing there with his arms filled. You blink a few times to clear your mind, before taking the sweats from him gratefully.

“Thank you.” You say, nodding your head as you offer him a shy smile.

“You can use my bathroom to change, and there’s a spare toothbrush under the sink you can use.” Sebastian says as he takes a seat on the edge of his bed.

“Thank you. Again. I won’t be long.” You say, before disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

You change into the clothes that Sebastian had given you, a pair of grey sweatpants and an Aston Martin T-shirt from there previous season. They smelt just like Sebastian, and you couldn’t help but take in his scent, no matter how much of a weirdo you felt by doing it.

God, you felt like such an idiot. You had smashed one of his glasses, injured yourself and ended up forcing him to allow you to stay at his house for the night. He must think you stupid, as well as clumsy.

You couldn’t help but think back to Lance’s earlier words, how technically you could have ended up sleeping in Sebastian’s bed after all. Alone, of course, not exactly the way you would have liked.

You chuckle to yourself as you look in the mirror. Most of your makeup had worn off following the events of the evening, only a ghost remained of your shimmering eyeshadow and lipstick. You splash your face with warm water to remove the remainder of the product, really wishing you had your cleanser and moisturiser with you to save your skin from the inevitable hell it was due to suffer the next day.

You pat your face dry with your dress, not wanting to get makeup all over Sebastian’s crisp white towels that hung in his bathroom. After all, you didn’t want to cause him any more problems than you already had that evening, and foundation stains were notoriously hard to remove from white towels, as you had discovered in the years previous after staying at various fancy hotels.

Emerging from the bathroom, your eyes immediately meet Seb who was in the middle of changing into his own pyjamas. A pair of plaid pyjama pants hung from his waist, and he was yet to put on a shirt. Your eyes immediately moved to study the older man’s back. You noted how broad his shoulders were, and how soft his skin looked. God, you wanted nothing more than to run your hands across that skin and claim it as your own.

Stuck in your trance, you don’t quite realise that Seb had turned to face you, taking a few steps in your direction so that he was just a few inches away from you.

“See something you like?” He asks, and his voice snaps you out of your focus, your eyes travelling up to stare deeply into his.

“I’m sorry, I can go outside and wait until you’ve finished changing!” You say, beginning to move towards the bedroom door, only for your arm to be caught by Sebastian’s hand.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He says, and your mouth falls open, unsure of exactly what to say or how to respond. What do you say? Yes, as that’s the real answer, no, which would be a lie, and maybe? Well that would cover all the bases and keep you safe if he isn’t trying to do just what you think he is.

“Maybe?” You squeak out, exhaling a shaky breath as he steps towards you.

Sebastian’s hand travels up your arm, across your collar bones to find your cheek. His warm touch sends an electric feeling throughout your body as you attempt to regulate your breathing, which was becoming heavier as his hand guides your face closer to his own.

“You must be cold, allow me to warm you up.” Sebastian says, before closing the gap between the two of you and pressing his lips to yours. Your brain immediately becomes soup as all you can think about is how good it feels to have his lips on your own. Your arms somehow find their way to his neck, wrapping around his body tightly to pull yourself closer and further into him.

“Stay with me tonight.” He says as he pulls away for air, his lips ghosting yours with every word.

You whisper a quiet ‘yes’, nodding your head as he claims your lips once again, guiding you back towards the bed and pulling you down into his lap.

The kiss becomes more desperate as your hands roam his chest, just the way you had always wanted to. His hands find the seam of your shirt and he lifts it, momentarily breaking the kiss to discard it onto the floor.

The dress you had worn that night hadn’t allowed for a bra, and so you were now completely bare, exposed, and Sebastian’s hands immediately find your bare breasts, squeezing them gently with his warm hands.

Your hands tangle into his hair, gripping his curls tightly as his mouth leaves yours, only to find one of your nipples and begin sucking on it gently.

You let out a small moan at the contact, and Sebastian chuckles against your breast while his other hand continues to play with the other.

“I need you Sebastian.” You moan, and he looks up at you, his eyebrow raised, before he flips you over, throwing you down onto the bed and positioning himself above you.

“How much do you need me?” He asks, his voice deep. He pins your hands to the bed above you, leaving you utterly under his control.

“More than anything, more than air or food or water. I need you.” You say between shallow breaths, and he smirks, releasing your hands and allowing them to find the waistband of his pyjamas.

You pull them down and he discards them to the floor, revealing his growing erection. His lips once again find your nipple and he begins sucking once again, more aggressively this time, as his hands travel down to your own waistband. The waistband of the sweatpants that belonged to him, that you were now wearing.

He pulls them away, revealing your already soaked lacy black panties, and he grunts at the sight of them. Sebastian nuzzles his face into your covered pussy, licking a stripe up the damp fabric, making you squirm beneath him.

“Sebastian please.” You whine, now desperate to feel his touch. So desperate you were willing to beg, you didn’t even care.

“You want me to eat your pretty pussy, (y/n)? Is that what you want?” He speaks against the fabric, the vibrations of his voice driving you crazy.

“Yes, oh fuck yes, please.” You say, and Sebastian obliges, pulling down your panties and leaving you fully exposed, willing to let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Such a good girl, saying please like that. How could I possibly refuse?” He says, before taking your clit between his lips and sucking on it gently.

The sensation was like nothing you’d ever felt before. It made sense that a man like Sebastian knew what he was doing, he knew exactly how to please a woman. He probably had lots of experience over the years, and had oral sex down to a fine art.

You spread your legs wider for him, allowing him to kneel between them. One hand finds your inner thigh, gripping it tightly, while the other finds your dripping cunt, a single finger tracing your entrance delicately.

Sebastian continues to lick and suck at your clit as he teases your hole, pushing his finger tip in slightly and watching your face for your reaction.

“More, please, more.” You say on an exhale as you try and keep your moans to a lower volume, conscious that everyone else in the house would be able to hear you.

“You want my fingers? Or do you want my cock?” Sebastian asks, and a shiver runs through your body as he pushes his finger deeper inside you.

“Your cock, please Sebastian, I want your cock.” You say, attempting to control your volume but the sensation of him inside of you was making it harder and harder with every movement.

“Since you asked so nicely…” Sebastian begins, adjusting his position so that he was sitting against he headboard. He pulls you onto his lap so that you were knelt with a leg either side of him and grips your hips, pulling your body up so that your hole just grazed the tip of his cock. “…I’ll give you what you want.” He says, and you slowly sink down onto his length.

You stifle a moan as he slowly fills you up, his hips thrusting gently as he bottoms out within you.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bury your head in his chest as you find your rhythm, his thrusts matching your movements up and down on his cock.

The air is filled with quiet moans and grunts as they fall from your lips, a string of profanities leaving them as Sebastian hits the right spot.

“Fuck, right there.” You say, and Sebastian continues to hit it with each movement, pushing you closer and closer to your undoing.

Sebastian claims your lips in a filthy kiss as he picks up the pace, the springs of the bed below you creaking loudly as you fuck one another.

“I’m close.” You whisper against Sebastian’s lips, and he wraps his arms around your waist, squeezing your arse tightly between his fingertips. You assume there would probably be bruises left behind in the morning, but you didn’t care. You wanted Sebastian to claim you as his own, to leave his mark on you.

The sensation of his hands on your body, his lips on yours, and his cock deep within you brings you to your release, and you let out a pornographic moan as your vision goes blurry. It’s not often you’re fucked blind, but Sebastian Vettel was no ordinary shag.

The sensation of your walls tightening around him brings Sebastian to his own orgasm, and he cums inside of you, filling you up with his seed.

Your name falls from his lips as he does so, and your pace slows to a stop, settling down on his cock as your head rests gently on his shoulder.

“Fuck, Sebastian, that was…” you begin.

“I know.” He says, almost as if he could predict the ending of your sentence.

The next morning, you are well prepared to do the walk of shame out of Sebastian’s house, to take a cab back to the hotel, and then travel to the airport to catch your flight home for Christmas.

However, when you finally wake up, with the sun shining in through the blinds, you find Sebastian perched on the edge of the bed, his phone pressed to his ear as he speaks quietly into the receiver.

When he notices that you were awake, he hands up, dropping his phone against the sheets.

“Good morning.” He says with a smile.

“Good morning.” You echo back, returning a sleepy smile.

“I called your hotel, they’re sending your luggage directly to the airport. I’ll drive you there from here, it makes more sense. And now, you can stay for breakfast.” He says, and you nod enthusiastically.

“That’s great, Sebastian, thank you.” You say, standing from the bed to retrieve the shirt and sweats you had discarded the night previously. Considering you hadn’t been wearing them for long before Sebastian had removed them, it felt only right for you to wear them for breakfast. After all, you would be able to pass them off as your own, and they would look much less suspicious than last night’s makeup-stained dress.

You weren’t entirely sure why you were trying to concoct a cover story to tell the others to explain just why you had stayed. They probably heard you, despite your extended efforts to remain quiet.

Sebastian accompanies you down the stairs, where Mark is already sat at the breakfast bar, a cup of coffee in hand, while Lance was sat on the sofa, his eyes fixated on his phone as he crunched on a piece of toast.

You separate from Sebastian, taking a seat beside Lance who looks up at you, his eyebrow raised.

“So, it sounded like you had a good night last night.” He teases, and you slap him on the arm.

“Oh, shut up.” You say, stealing the second triangle of toast from Lance’s plate on the coffee table. “Was I really that loud?”

“Well, Mark heard you two and he was on the other side of the house. I was next door.” Lance says, and you bury your head in a throw pillow.

“I want the ground to swallow me up.” You say into the pillow.

“Look, while that was something I never ever wanted to hear, I’m happy you finally got some.” Lance laughs, and you slap him again.

“Now, was he good? It sounded like he was good.” Lance asks, and you shake your head, standing from the sofa to head into the kitchen.

“I’m not answering that, Lance, fuck off, I need some coffee.” You say, offering him a middle finger as you disappear into the kitchen to find yourself some breakfast.

“Tell lover boy to make me some more toast since you ate mine.” Lance shouts, and you roll your eyes at Sebastian who was pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

“Suck a dick, Stroll.” You shout back, and Sebastian laughs, taking two slices of bread and placing them in the toaster. After all, he was nothing if not a good host.

#Sebastian Vettel x reader #Sebastian Vettel x you #Sebastian Vettel imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x You

230 notes · View notes

training4theapocalypse · 1 year

Text

Finders Keepers Ch 11. (Cormac McLaggen x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+ (no smut)

Word Count: 5.9k

Warnings: Violence, injury detail

Summary: The new friend you made at the Holyhead Harpies tryouts is more than meets the eye.

A/N: If there's one thing I'm always gonna do it's announce a chapter will be posted on Sunday and post Friday instead. Sorry this took a hot minute - it's been through several drafts. McLaggen briefly channels Marc Darcy from Bridget Jones's Diary 2 and it made me swoon.

Tag list: @pretendfan, @countlambula, @ratsys, @aweidlich, @navs-bhat, @stainedpomegranatelips, @chiaraanatra, @xxvelvetxxxx, @ohnoitsrosie, @dracosisteer, @daisydark, @intense-sneezing, (let me know if you want removed at any point btw!)

Chapter 11: Blood Traitor

“Right then, here’s to the Holyhead Harpies’ two newest signings,” says McLaggen, grinning and raising his pint glass.

You beam at him, still giddy with excitement and hardly able to take it all in. You’ve done it. You’ve actually done it. And what’s more, you think you’ve made a friend in your new teammate. The only prospect at tryouts who had managed to get a goal past you was the other newest Holyhead Harpy signing and chaser, Cerys Thicknesse, who had taken McLaggen up on his offer to join you at the wizarding pub a few miles outside of Surrey to celebrate.

“And you’re sure you don’t mind a third wheel while I wait on my friend?”

And with that, the three of you apparated to The Black Dragon which was, from the way McLaggen and Cerys told it, the only decent wizarding pub in the south outside of London. When you arrived, you found it was as packed as you’d expect any pub to be on a Saturday evening. And now as the three of you sit around a small, beer-soaked table, you feel like you can finally relax and enjoy your moment.

“Here, here!” Cerys cheers, clinking her glass against yours and McLaggen’s. She twists the ends of her long, black hair, looking at him. “I’m so sure I know you from somewhere. I recognise your face.”

“Probably from Hogwarts,” he suggests.

She laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he says.

“Both of you? You’re just babies! I would have been in my sixth year when you started. And no offense but I didn’t pay much attention to the ickle firsties.” She pauses, drinking thoughtfully.

“Does your family live around here?” You ask. “McLaggen, your house isn’t far from here, right?”

Cerys clicks her fingers in realisation.

“McLaggen! That’s it. Crickey, you’re the spitting image of your dad. He’s the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement, right?”

“You know my dad?” McLaggen looks baffled.

“He works with my dad, Pius Thicknesse, you know him? I did a bit of work experience with them at the Ministry a few years ago.”

“Oh, right! Of course… yeah. How is he?” He asks tentatively.

She hesitates. “Always at work. Yours?”

McLaggen laughs a little awkwardly. “Yeah, he’s the same. Your dad is keeping him busy.”

Wow. So Cerys’s dad was McLaggen’s dad’s boss.

There’s a bit of a grim silence when neither of them says anything. You haven’t read a copy of the Daily Prophet all summer but you know from what McLaggen’s told you that everyone at the Ministry is under a lot of pressure in the wake of You-Know-Who’s return.

“God, it’s like half of Hogwarts is here,” you say, just to break the stony silence. There are a few faces from other houses and years that you sort of recognise from Hogwarts. You suppose it’s a small world when every witch and wizard in the country goes to the same school.

“Oh yeah, all the really old wizarding families live around here. Makes sense really, they all moved out to the country hundreds of years ago when the Muggles in London started multiplying.”

“Right, yeah…” You’re pretty sure that was a note of disdain in her voice. Normally, you’d question it but you’ve only just made the team. The last thing you want to do is make assumptions about your teammate and jeopardise your position before you’ve even picked up your uniform.

McLaggen senses it too. He gives your thigh a comforting squeeze under the table in acknowledgement. Silent reassurance that he not only heard it but understands your predicament.

“So, how long have you two been going out then?” Cerys asks.

You’re glad of another change of subject but you’re not sure when to start counting from.

“Since December,” says McLaggen, looking at you adoringly and not concerning Cerys with the finer on-and-off details. His warm smile and his hand on your leg make your stomach flip.

“And you both live down here?”

“McLaggen does. I’m about to stay with his family for a couple of weeks until we decide where to live.”

She groans. “You’re so lucky. It’s so hard to find a boyfriend from a decent family these days.” Well. Now you know what she means by that. You’re wondering why you’ve flown under her radar as a Muggle-born. Your performance at trials? Your being here with McLaggen?

Before either of you can reply, Cerys excuses herself to the bathroom. As soon as she’s out of earshot you turn to McLaggen. “What the fuck?” you half-laugh, half-exhale in disbelief.

He looks at her figure darkly as she disappears through the bathroom door. “I had a bad feeling as soon as she said who her dad was. You’ve heard of Amelia Bones, right?” he asks in a hushed voice.

The name sounds vaguely familiar. “Someone at the Ministry?”

“Amelia Bones was the Head of my dad’s department. But she was murdered - by You-Know-Who himself apparently.”

Your eyes widen. “Murdered?”

“And then everyone assumed Scrimgeour would put my dad in charge. But for some reason, he gave Thicknesse the job.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “He and my dad are good friends… he must have had his reasons. But now Thicknesse is making everyone work on a ‘top secret’ piece of legislation.”

You frown. “How can legislation be top secret? Doesn’t it need to go through the Wizengamot? Anyone can turn up to watch those meetings.”

McLaggen shrugs. “None of it makes sense. I guess I’ll find out more when I start working there.” He puts down his pint glass glumly.

“You alright, McLaggen?”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally fine,” he says a bit too quickly, rearranging his face into a smile.

“Are you worried about your dad?”

“We’ll talk later. I don’t want to make things about me. Not when we’re celebrating.”

“Well, I think someone’s already put a bit of a dampener on that.” You give an edgy look at the ladies’ to make sure Cerys isn’t coming back. “Tell me. Please.”

He puts down his drink and takes both of your hands in his. “I am so incredibly, unbelievably proud of you. You know that, right?” You stare into his green eyes. He means it. “And seeing your dreams come true today makes me so happy. You’re so sure of what you want and so determined to get it - and today you did. But it also made me realise… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You mean working at the Ministry?”

“The more I find out about the office politics the less I want to work there.”

You twist your mouth, thinking about Amelia Bones. “It sounds really dangerous. I’m surprised your dad still wants you to join.”

“Yeah… I mean, I don’t think I’d be great at keeping secrets the way my dad does. Or working in an office with all those Ministry-types.”

“You’re starting to sound like my dad.” You allow yourself a small smirk but he doesn’t say anything, he just looks at your hands in his. “Cormac,” you add quietly. “You should take him up on his offer. It would mean you could at least lie low for a bit”

He lets out a tiny exhale of a laugh. “Yeah, right. My dad would kill me. He’d say it’d bring our whole family into shame if I ditched the Ministry to play a Muggle sport.”

“Well… you don’t need to tell him. Not right away,” you suggest. “Keep it vague - you could say you’re taking a gap year in Scotland. Hunting Nogtails or whatever it is you used to do with your Uncle Tiberius.”

McLaggen pauses, considering this. “Yeah… that might work.”

“We’ve still got a few weeks for you to decide.”

“What about us, though? I thought we were going to start looking at places to live near The Harpies’ training ground?”

“I’d move back to Scotland in a second. We could always get a flat, and connect it to the Floo Network so I can travel to Wales. I mean, we’d probably spend a fortune on Floo powder. But it would be worth it if we were both happy.”

He nods, looking considerably more cheerful than he had been a second ago. “Let’s talk about it back at mine. Here comes Cerys - we’ll make our excuses and get out of here after this drink.”

Cerys stops in the middle of the pub, talking to a tall, hulking boy with black hair who has his back to you.

“We might be in for a lucky escape,” you say. “Looks like her mate has finally arrived.”

Cerys waves brightly and starts walking over to your table. Her new companion turns around to follow her and with a sinking feeling, you recognise him. And from the way his eyes narrow when he spots you and McLaggen, he recognises you too.

Marcus Flint. He was the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team when you first started playing in your second year. He and your predecessor Rodger Davies hated each other with a passion. And for good reason. It was no secret that Marcus was highly selective when it came to the Slytherin team - only allowing purebloods to even try out whereas Davies was Muggle-born just like you. You frown, remembering how Flint would make a spectacle of wiping his hand on his robes after their Captain’s handshake.

Cerys sits back down. Her new companion doesn’t follow suit. “This is Marcus. Marcus this-”

“I didn’t expect to see you keeping company like this, Cerys,” Flint snorts.

She looks up from Marcus and back to the two of you, confused.

“You’re having drinks with an up-jumped daddy’s boy and a mudbl-”

“Careful,” McLaggen cuts across him warningly. “Say that word and we’re going to have a problem.”

“Careful?” laughs Flint. “You’re the one who should be careful, McLaggen.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“What is this?” asks Cerys, her nostrils flaring as she glares at you accusatorily. She looks at McLaggen. “Have you been confunded? Or maybe your dad just hasn’t told you.”

“Won’t be long til they’ve got them all rounded up, McLaggen. You should ditch her before they throw you in Azakaban too for being a blood traitor.”

Rounded up? Azkaban?

“I’m not going to tell you twice -” starts McLaggen, getting to his feet. You remember when you first started playing Quidditch you thought the then-sixth-year Flint was the biggest person you’d ever seen. But as McLaggen draws himself to his full height, you see the tiniest flicker of surprise in Flint’s eyes when McLaggen’s become level with his.

“Cormac, what’s going on?” you ask, panic making your heart pump wildly in your chest, all your senses telling you that something dangerous is about to happen.

“Nothing. It’s nonsense.”

“Didn’t you read this morning’s Prophet?” Flint sneers. “Times are changing. S’perfectly fine to call her what she is.” He takes a step towards McLaggen. “Mudblood.”

McLaggen takes a deep breath. “Flint, will you step outside, please?”

Marcus Flint sneers. “What? You gonna duel me, McLaggen?”

Absurdly McLaggen laughs. So loudly it attracts the attention of several other pub-goers. He looks at you as he laughs as if he simply can’t believe the punchline of a hilarious joke Flint has just told.

He straightens his face. “No.” He turns back to face Flint and looks at him seriously. “I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

Before Flint can even twitch his fingers for his wand, McLaggen punches him square in the face. The witches and wizards in the pub reel away from the commotion in panic. Cerys screams and Flint grabs McLaggen’s shoulders, dragging him out of the front doors onto the gravel path outside.

You abandon your bags and brooms, almost knocking the table over to push Cerys out of the way and get through the door before her.

You burst outside in time to see Flint elbow McLaggen in the face as McLaggen drags him to the floor. They scramble on the ground, sending dust and pebbles flying. McLaggen gets up first, pushing down hard on Flint’s face against the gravel. Flint tries to lift himself up but McLaggen punches down, hitting him once, twice, three times. The sound of his fists make sickening, dull thuds as they sink into Flint’s face while he splutters on the ground raggedly.

You’d always joked you’d like to see McLaggen hit someone.

But this is brutal.

“Cormac!”

Your cry rips through the evening air, making McLaggen look up at you for a split second, his bloody fist raised above Flint’s head.

“Petrificus totalus!” screams a voice behind you.

You turn to see Cerys with her wand pointed at McLaggen.

His body goes rigid and you barely have time to register her using such an unfair, underhanded tactic before Flint kicks out from under him, getting to his feet. Using all his might, he kicks McLaggen’s constricted body right in the stomach and you hear the distinct crack of ribs breaking.

A horror-stricken sob escapes your lips as Flint walks around to his head, and it’s like you see the scene before you unfolding in slow motion as Flint raises a foot, getting ready to stamp on McLaggen’s face.

You don’t have time to think. You just react.

“Impedimenta!” you cry, brandishing your wand and sending Flint flying backwards. Before Cerys can open her mouth again, you dive on top of McLaggen and extend your wand.

“Protego!”

The shield charm forms an invisible barrier between you and McLaggen’s frozen body, and Cerys and Flint who’s getting to his feet. Flint limps over towards you but you hold fast, concentrating on your shield charm with all your might - exactly how McLaggen showed you.

“You dithgusting-” starts Flint but he stops, raising a hand to his mouth. Cerys looks at his face in shock. In the dim light coming from the pub windows, you can see that several of Flint’s front teeth are missing.

“Let’s go, Marcus,” she says, scowling at the two of you on the floor. “My father will hear about this.”

She links her arm through his and with a crack they disappear into the night.

With a shuddering gasp, you lower your wand and the shield charm breaks. You bring yourself to look at McLaggen. His eye is bloodshot and starting to bruise, and blood trickles from his nose into his mouth through parted lips.

“F-f-f-finite. Fuck! Finite incantatem,” you whisper shakily and he sits bolt upright, choking and coughing as your spell releases him from the body-bind curse. He pants, trying to catch his breath and spits out a significant amount of blood onto the dusty ground.

“Oh, Cormac,” you sob, looking at his broken nose and red welt on his eye.

“I’b alright…” he says thickly, pinching the bridge of his nose then thinking better of it with a wince.

“Do you want me to fix it?” you ask.

“Cab you?” he asks.

“You think I’ve never taken a bludger to the face?” You give his hand a soft squeeze and touch the tip of your wand to his nose. “Episkey.”

McLaggen scrunches up his face, feeling his nose resume its usual shape.

“I’ve never done ribs before. I think you need Skele-Gro.”

Every time you blink your mind switches from Flint kicking McLaggen to McLaggen pummelling Flint’s bloody face.

“I’m still handsome, right?” McLaggen’s voice snaps you out of it. You look seriously at his blood-strewn face, dripping down the front of his T-shirt. Flint came off worse, sure, but there’s no two ways about it - even in the moonlight you can see he’s taken a severe beating.

“Cormac, it’s not funny.”

You hear the noise of the pub revellers as the door opens and with a clatter and thud, the barmaid throws both of your brooms and rucksacks out onto the ground.

“Can you fly?” you ask, getting to your feet and extending a hand.

“I don’t think so.” He groans, accepting your hand and with a heave, you pull him up. McLaggen clutches his side and stumbles when he tries to put one foot in front of another. “It’s not far but we should probably just apparate.”

You quickly pick up all of your things and McLaggen shakes his head like a dog shaking water from his ears and nearly falls again.

“Christ, don’t do that Cormac. You might have a concussion.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

You put his arm around your shoulders, taking as much of his weight as you can manage. It’s not easy given his size. Then when he shuffles forward everything goes dark as the familiar feeling of all-consuming pressure encapsulates your bodies and you disapparate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You materialise outside a gate looking onto a sprawling lawn, spilling out in front of a historic country house a few miles deeper into the Surrey countryside.

“Wow,” you look at your surroundings as the moon streaks down, casting a pearlescent glow over the gates. “How far is the walk to yours? Not that I’m complaining,” you add, feeling his weight on your shoulders.

McLaggen gives you a confused look and points his wand at the gate tentatively. “About thirty seconds?”

Maybe he is concussed.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” You ask gently.

“I’m pretty confident I know where I live. Flint doesn’t have that good a right hook.”

You almost drop your brooms. You knew McLaggen was well off but this can’t be where he lives. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Yeah, it’s just there. Woah - are you okay?”

You feel your knees buckle and it’s not to do with your strength faltering under his weight - although it doesn’t help - his house is bigger than your entire block of flats.

“This is your house?”

His wand emits a soft golden glow and the gate unlocks. He tries to push it open but lets out a wince of pain and grips his side.

“Here, let me,” you say. McLaggen holds onto the wall so you can shove the wrought iron gate. When you jam it open, you hook his arm over your shoulder so you can help him through.

You feel a trickle of embarrassment creeping through your body as you half-carry him through the open gate and up the path towards the manor thinking about your parents' little flat. Your bedroom so small that your bed is pushed up against the wall. It makes you want to retreat to the safety of your own home.

Home. With your Muggle parents.

You have a million more questions about what Cerys and Flint meant but now isn’t the time. McLaggen is in no fit state to answer them. Instead, you concentrate on helping McLaggen up the old stone steps leading to a pair of giant oak front doors.

“My dad will probably still be at the Ministry but let me do the talking if my mum is still awake.” You help him push the heavy double doors open with difficulty.

When you step inside and your eyes widen. Until now, the only place you’ve ever been before with an entrance hall like this is Hogwarts. This house is dark at this late hour but there’s enough light that your eyes can make out objects you’ve come to associate with the wizarding world.

There are moving portraits on the walls who peer out at you as you pass through the foyer. McLaggen’s family of times gone by - a few of them look aghast at his appearance as you half-carry him in.

In the centre of the ceiling is a giant, levitating armillary sphere, depicting the constellations around the earth. Tiny glowing stars light up the bronze ball, casting speckles of light throughout the entryway.

“You’re home!” Comes Mrs McLaggen’s voice, her heeled slippers clicking on the grand wooden staircase as she comes downstairs wearing a beautiful satin robe.

You feel McLaggen bracing himself for her reaction.

“So? Can I assume we have a famous Quidditch player staying with us?” She asks. “What are you doing down there in the dark? Lumos,” she says and a dozen gas lamps light up the hall.

She claps her hands to her chest when she reaches the bottom landing and lets out a whimper of shock when she sees you both.

“Mum, I can explain-“

“Cormac, darling, what on earth happened?!”

“We ran into some trouble. Just… let me get cleaned up before Dad comes home and sees.”

“Before I see what?” Comes a voice from upstairs.

Uh-oh. You and McLaggen glance at each other before looking up to see Mr McLaggen leaning over the balcony.

“What in the blazes have you two been doing, Cormac?” he sighs, coming downstairs.

“It’s my fault - not hers. I got into a fight.”

“You’ve been duelling?”

“Not exactly.”

Mr McLaggen reaches the bottom of the stairs and gets a better look at McLaggen’s bloody appearance.

“Merlin’s beard - don’t tell me you were Muggle brawling. And for goodness sake, stop using your girlfriend like a coat rack. I thought we raised you to behave like a gentleman.”

“I can manage-“ you start but your slightly strained voice gives you away.

“I think I’ve broken something,” says McLaggen.

Mr McLaggen positions himself under McLaggen’s other arm and you’re relieved when he takes the brunt of the load as the two of you help Cormac to the end of the hall and into a large, opulent dining room while Mrs McLaggen busies herself with picking up your things and lighting the chandelier with her wand. Mr McLaggen pulls out a chair so Cormac can sit down gingerly.

“I think he might need Skele-Gro. I’ve never mended ribs before,” you say. Mrs McLaggen puts your brooms, bags and wands on the dining room table before summoning some potions and fabric.

In the bright light of the room, you can see his lip is burst too. Mr McLaggen draws a chair in front of him while Mrs McLaggen dabs some potion on his face. Cormac winces when it stings his face, healing the skin almost immediately.

“Nose looks good. Did you fix that for him?” Mr McLaggen asks you and you nod, stunned silent by how awful he looks now you can see him properly.

“Hold this on your eye, sweetheart.” Mrs McLaggen hands him a piece of potion-soaked fabric.

“Did you win at least?” asks Mr McLaggen and Cormac hesitates.

“It was pretty even.” You answer for him. “I had to break it up with a shield charm.”

“That’s a tactful way of saying he lost,” says Mr McLaggen. “But at least one of you can use magic.”

This isn’t the reaction you’d expected at all. And judging by the confused look on Cormac’s face, he too had expected his dad to be furious.

“Cormac actually taught me how to do them this summer,” you admit.

“Well, it’s lucky he did,” says Mrs McLaggen, wiping blood from his face. “What a dreadful mess. Who did this to you, Cormac?”

“Dad…” says McLaggen in a strangled voice, looking past his mother warily. “It’s really bad. I’m sorry. It was a fight with Cerys Thicknesse’s friend. And she was there too. She’s going to tell her dad.”

Mr McLaggen freezes. For a moment, you think someone might have hit him with a body bind curse. “Cerys…? You can’t be serious.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. Her friend was someone we went to school with and he -” he hesitates.

“He called me a mudblood,” you finish for him. Mrs McLaggen lets out a shocked shudder but Mr McLaggen just clenches his jaw.

“Cormac,” he says seriously, glancing at you. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

He still doesn’t sound angry - just worried.

McLaggen removes the piece of fabric from his eye to look at his dad properly.

“Dad, I’m... I know I’ve made things difficult for you at work- ”

“Tell me everything - it’s imperative that I know all the details.”

McLaggen launches into the story, explaining what happened at the pub while his parents listen intently. When he gets to the part about Flint calling you ‘mudblood’, Mr McLaggen’s knuckles turn white. You fill in the gaps where Cormac’s memory is slightly hazy and Mrs McLaggen looks faint when you tell them about Cerys putting him in a body bind curse so Flint could hit him unarmed.

“And then we apparated here,” McLaggen finishes eventually. “But I still don’t know what they meant about Azkaban.”

“That’s where I come in,” says Mr McLaggen, taking off his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief from his pyjama pocket. “I’ve been trying my damndest for months to prevent something called the ‘Muggle-born Registration Commission’ coming to pass. You might have read in the Prophet this morning that it’s all but confirmed. And Rufus Scrimgeour didn’t come to work today. I fear the worst - it’s only a matter of time until they announce the Ministry has fallen.”

“Fallen? Dad, you mean-“

“Scrimgeour is either missing or dead. But the outcome will be the same.”

He says it matter-of-factly but you can see the pain in his green eyes, so strikingly similar to his son’s when he puts his glasses back on. They were good friends. Such good friends they spent Christmas together. And now he was gone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your father came home from work early to tell you. And when the two of you didn’t come back right away from tryouts, we assumed it had gone well and you’d be down the road at the pub,” says Mrs McLaggen. “We wanted to let you both have one last day of…” she trails off. You understand. Those precious couple of hours when all your dreams had come true were almost perfect. They wanted you to have that moment.

“And the Muggle-born registration commission?” asks McLaggen, extending his hand to take yours and gripping it tightly. “What does it mean?”

“All Muggle-borns will soon be asked to register officially with the Ministry so the source of their magic can be investigated.”

“The source?” Your face screws up in confusion.

“Unless you can prove that you have at least one close wizarding relative, the commission deems that you must have obtained your magical power illegally and you’ll be put on trial. But these will be sham trials - any Muggle-borns who present themselves will be arrested.”

“Well, we’ll just say you’re my sister or something,” says McLaggen defiantly.

“Cormac, there’s no way- ” you start but Mr McLaggen beats you to it.

“You and I both know that everyone at the Ministry knows our family. And therein lies our problem with your altercation with Cerys,” Mr McLaggen looks at you. “I had made sure your name was erased from the record of recent Hogwarts graduates. But if Cerys knows, I’m sure she’ll make sure her dad adds your name to the list again.”

Mr McLaggen had erased your name. Now you understand why he couldn’t look you in the eyes when you met - he was putting his career and his entire family at risk to keep you safe. Your heart sinks realising that it was all for nought. McLaggen groans and rests his head in his hands. “Shit.”

Mrs McLaggen makes a disapproving noise at his language but she touches his shoulder gently.

“It’s not your fault, Cormac,” you say. “Flint knew I was Muggle-born.”

“Realistically, it was only a matter of time,” says Mr McLaggen. “But I thought you’d be safe here for a while. Now we’ll need to move swiftly and carefully so as not to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Dad, can’t you stop it from the inside? When I start working at the Ministry we could do it together,” says McLaggen bracingly, trying to sit upright in his chair.

“I’ve tried to do everything I can to stop it already. And with Scrimgeour gone, we need to be seen to be cooperating. I have a feeling Dolores Umbridge will be keeping a close eye on me after your involvement with Dumbledore’s Army last year. She knows I have a son who’s sympathetic to the resistance.”

Cormac groans again. Between his actions and your presence, the two of you have put McLaggen’s family at risk.

“I should go,” you decide out loud. “You heard Flint, Cormac. It’s not safe for any of you if I’m staying here.”

The three of them protest immediately but Mr McLaggen protests the loudest and everyone turns to listen to him.

“No. The two of you can go to your Uncle Tiberius’s first thing tomorrow. When things settle, we’ll join you. But who knows how long that will take.”

“I need to be with my parents.”

“They’re only in danger if you’re with them. The Ministry doesn’t care about Muggles who have produced magical children - only the witches and wizards themselves,” says Mr McLaggen solemnly. “The best thing you can do to protect them is to keep your distance, write to them and pretend everything is as it should be.”

You feel your eyes welling up. Being brave doesn’t come easily to you the way it seems to come to Cormac and his family, so you shut your eyes and nod solemnly, hoping to stave off the tears.

Just this afternoon you were about the join the Holyhead Harpies. Now you’re going into hiding. You were going to move to Scotland near your parents. Now you’re not sure when you’ll see them again.

“How about I make us some tea?” asks Mrs McLaggen. “And then we can all get some rest.”

McLaggen nods resignedly and Mrs McLaggen conjures a teapot from thin air. You watch numbly as the teapot busies itself, filling three china teacups with the hot liquid before one of the cups slides in front of you.

“Something stronger than tea for you, darling,” says Mrs McLaggen, conjuring two small cups and pouring Skele-Gro into one. “And something to help you sleep through the pain.” She pours a purple potion that you recognise as a sleeping draught in the other cup. McLaggen drinks the Skele-Gro with a grimace and goes to pick up the other cup.

“Not here. I’m not carrying you unconscious upstairs, you great lump,” Mr McLaggen admonishes.

“Oh, right. Yeah,” says McLaggen sheepishly.

As you drink your steaming hot cup of tea McLaggen screws his face up.

“You alright, McLaggen?”

“Yeah, it’s just the Skele-Gro. It’s definitely kicking in.”

He eventually manages to stand up and Mrs McLaggen tells you pointedly that the guest bedroom is next door to Cormac’s room. The two of you bid his parents goodnight before slowly making your way upstairs as McLaggen grips onto the bannister and you carry the small cup of sleeping draught carefully.

“This is my room.” He nods at the door and you open it, letting him in.

There’s no need for a bed to be pushed up against the wall for space in here. His four-poster sits in front of an airy bay window overlooking the vast moonlit grounds outside. With a pained exhale he sits on the edge of the bed.

“This is adorable,” you say, picking up a framed photo of a children’s Quidditch team on his bedside table. “Which one are you?”

“Wait for it,” he sighs. A small boy on a broom cuts through the group and the rest of the team scatters.

“That makes more sense,” you giggle, watching an eight-year-old McLaggen causing chaos. “It’s very cute.”

He shakes his head. “I had meant to tidy that away before you came to visit.”

“I used to think you were tough, McLaggen. This is much better,” you say, replacing the picture on the table.

“I’ve been in a pub fight today. I think that’s pretty tough.”

You sit beside him on the bed and look at his blood-stained t-shirt.

“I’ll help you get this off.” He winces as you help him take it off over his head. You help him undress and arrange his pillows so he can lie back comfortably.

“I��d hoped you’d be taking my clothes off in here under different circumstances,” he says, a little weakly. And despite his injuries, he still manages to give you an arrogant smile that makes you melt.

“Well, I still get to enjoy the view,” you shoot back with a grin as you pull the feather-down duvet over him.

“Sleep in here tonight.” He grips your hand as you smooth out the quilt and those green eyes look at you beseechingly.

“Your parents have been so good to me - I need to respect their wishes. But I’ll stay here til you fall asleep,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. He leans into your touch when you stroke his face. His stubbly chin somehow feels as comforting against your palm as your own touch reassures him. “Drink up.” You pass him the sleeping draught.

He does so and you trace your thumb over his healed lip, wiping away the purple liquid.

“Still handsome. Your dad was right - I did do a good job with your nose.”

He exhales softly and you see his eyelids getting heavier.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he says sleepily.

You’re not annoyed at him. It would be hypocritical of you to criticise him for being hot-headed and getting into a fight. You’d have done the same in his position. And yes, it was awful - you’ve never been so scared. But McLaggen would go to the ends of the earth for you. And you for him.

“Don’t be sorry. You were standing up for me.”

“Not that -“ He stifles a yawn. “I’m sorry… that you have to… go into hiding.”

You’re trying not to think about your dreams of playing for the Holyhead Harpies shattering into a million pieces.

“I’m just glad we’re together.”

You look sadly at the photo of the little quidditch team. McLaggen zooms in and out of frame in his yellow robes.

“You never told me you were a Wimbourne Wasps fan.”

When he doesn’t reply you look back to see he’s fast asleep - dead to the world. You kiss him on the head and inhale deeply. The beautiful, comforting smell of amber and jasmine calms all of your senses. Everything has gone wrong. But it’ll all be alright in the end.

Just then an urgent clanging sound rings, echoing through the vast hallway outside. You hear Mr and Mrs McLaggen running into the hallway downstairs, their voices raised in panic but Cormac doesn’t even stir.

You wrench your wand from your pocket and leap off the bed and out of the door. When you look over the bannister, you see the giant armillary sphere spinning wildly, the glowing stars burning red.

“The gate?” Mrs McLaggen asks her husband, colour draining from her face.

“Oh no,” you whimper and they look up at you.

You were so encumbered helping Cormac and carrying your belongings that you didn’t shut the enchanted gate behind you. And you can tell by their panic that the gate had some sort of protective enchantment.

Mr McLaggen grabs his wife’s shoulders “I’m sorry.”

He spins around and points his wand at you.

“Expelliarmus!”

Your wand flies from your hand before you even realise what’s happening. Mrs McLaggen shrieks and backs into the wall in terror, away from her husband.

“Gregor!” calls a voice from the front doors. “I’ve received word you’re harbouring a Muggleborn.” A man with long black hair and a pointed silver beard storms through the entryway, accompanied by two others who you assume to be Aurors.

“She’s upstairs, Thicknesse. We’ve got her!” Mr McLaggen calls back.

Fuck.

Chapter 12: Cold, Hard Facts

#cormac mclaggen x female reader #cormac mclaggen #cormac mclaggen x reader #ravenclaw #ravenclaw fanfiction #fanfic #harry potter and the half blood prince #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #freddie stroma

49 notes · View notes