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mysweetestcreature · 6 years

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Meus Amor (Hogwarts!Harry) Part II

(Banner by the lovely @pretty-hazza)

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Series Masterlist

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They’ve been inseparable since the start of the spring term, even more so now since they’ve taken their relationship to a more intimate level. Harry chooses to ignore the disdainful looks that some of her fellow Gryffindors give him when they see his arms wrapped protectively around her, or while he waits for her outside the portrait hole. They think he isn’t good enough for her.

And maybe they’re right.

However, it doesn’t change that fact that he’d do anything for Y/n. She’s the person that’s keeping him together and maintaining that last bit of goodness within him that he so desperately is clinging on to. He absentmindedly grazes the white sleeve that covers his left forearm. Sometimes he can feel it burning, and it just becomes a reminder of how fucked he is. The thought of her finding out what he’s done in these past few months makes his insides twist in the most excruciating ways. He’s ashamed of himself. Just looking at her looking at him with such fondness and pride––she doesn’t care what any of those nosey pricks have to say, she’s proud to call Harry her boyfriend––has guilt shredding through him like a knife.

Whenever he finds himself tensing up from all his stress, just the touch of her hand against his brings him back to earth. Her smile––gods, how he could just admire it forever––is his lifeline. If she senses something off about him, she doesn’t say anything. The less she knows, the easier it will be to keep her out of his mess.

To him, she’s perfect. There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary that can describe how much he loves her. Yet, he knows he doesn’t deserve her because she’s just so pure and full of optimism, finding the good and magic in even the darkest of things. She deserves someone who won’t put her at risk, and his heart constricts because that someone might not be him. But he’s not strong enough to let her go. He’s not strong enough to tell her to get lost because he knows he won’t survive it.

Especially with what’s soon to come.

***

Artemis drops a copy of the Daily Prophet in his lap during breakfast. The front page is a report on the most recent Death Eater attacks, one of which occurred not too far from Hogwarts. They don’t choose their battles anymore, instead they wreak havoc on anyone and anything that gets in their way. He skims over the text, ignoring the animated picture of Scrimgeour from a press conference. It just reminds of that fateful day in December when his father had turned his back on his own family.

“Could you give me the sports page?” Niall asks, his mouth full of toast and jam. “Heard Ireland might be going to the World Cup again!” Harry rolls his eyes and plucks the page and shoves it in his friend’s face before he continues to flip through the remaining parts he’s got left. A particular name catches his eye on page four, it belongs to his girlfriend’s father, Nicolás Y/l/n. The Auror had been interviewed on what the Ministry is doing to keep the community safe.

“I assure you all, that my men and I are working tirelessly to protect our families. So far, we’ve been able to put over two and half dozen Death Eaters in their rightful place in the cells of Azkaban. We will not stand down until our streets are safe and we can go back to living in peace.”

The article then goes on to praise Mr. Y/l/n for having lead his team during a raid of a safehouse that You-Know-Who’s followers had been hiding in, making at least a dozen more arrests. He’s a good man, with a moral compass that would put Harry’s family to shame. And it’s obvious he’s extended those ideals to his daughter because she really is just kindest person.

Hands suddenly wrap around his eyes. A stifled giggle erupts from behind, and he can hear Niall let out a soft chuckle from right next to him. “Hi, love,” Harry greets. The hands fall from his face and onto his shoulders.

“How’d you know it was me?” Y/n pouts, as she squeezes herself in between the two boys.

Harry leans in and presses his lips to hers, letting them linger a little longer than he would usually allow in front of so many people. “Couldn’t imagine anyone else wanting to make such an effort.” She sticks her tongue out at him, then reaches for a blueberry left forgotten on his plate. Her face scrunches up from having picked up a ridiculously sour one. Harry fawns over how cute she is as her lips pucker from the taste, and he kisses her forehead as she takes a long gulp from his goblet.

“There’s a reason why I left them there.” He wipes a dribble of pumpkin juice from the side of her mouth with his thumb. Y/n lightly hits his arm, then tries her luck at a seemingly succulent strawberry, humming in triumph when its sweet juice tickles the roof of her mouth.

“No food over at the Gryffindor table?” Niall teases, but she shrugs him off. When she walked into the Great Hall this morning, it had occurred to her that she never sits with her boyfriend during meals––not counting when they eat out in Hogsmeade––and she thinks that’s absolutely ridiculous. Luna Lovegood sometimes trades a spot at the Ravenclaw table to sit with her friends in Gryffindor, so why shouldn’t she be able to sit here?

“Thought I’d eat breakfast with my favorite guy,” she kisses Harry’s cheek, who in turn takes her chin between his fingers and kisses her deeply, completely disregarding the pairs of all-too curious eyes that darted their way.

They move naturally with each other, her fingers playing with the hem of his jumper. He snakes an arm around her midsection, letting his hand run up and down her sides. He can hear Daphne and Pansy squawking in disgust from a few seats down. It only makes this all the more enjoyable because Daphne still refuses to leave him alone, even after she watched Y/n and Harry waltz out of his dorm room, clothes completely disheveled from their previous engagements. He sucks her bottom lip, the remnants of that strawberry still fresh on her tongue.

Niall lightly nudges her back, and the couple turns to face him with annoyed expressions on both of their faces. “That’s so sweet, Y/n. I don’t know what to say.”

***

It’s the first time he’s ever been in the Room of Requirement. Lost items and things just thrown in here stacked high in numerous piles all throughout the space. There are mysteries within the room, treasures for anyone willing to scout through the clutter to find them. About a month ago, he’d found a collection of muggle children stories compiled into one large book. He’d given it to Y/n and laid his head in her lap as she read them out loud to him. Something about a girl falling into a hole and entering an imaginative world, or some nonsense like that. There might have been a rabbit, but he really can’t remember anything because he had been so comfortable that he’d been dozing in and out of sleep.

If only he could be doing that instead of spending all night cooped up with Draco Malfoy as they try to mend this bloody vanishing cabinet like they’ve been doing since their return to school in January.

The platinum blonde haired boy stares at the hunk of wood with such hatred that Harry thinks his steel grey eyes could potentially set it on fire. “Fucking piece of garbage,” he kicks the front right leg of it, cursing to himself once more. He then plops himself down on one of the chairs with broken arms across from it.

They’ve been at this since after dinner. Once Harry had walked Y/n back to her common room, he came straight here. She had tried to convince him to spend an extra hour with her and Liam, so they could teach him how to play Monopoly. It took everything in him to say no to her, but he did promise that they could do it some other night. (Although, he doesn’t know how a game with non-moving pieces could ever be enjoyable.)

Harry shakes his head and pulls his wand out from the pocket of his robes. He’d recently come across a book while he and Y/n had been in the library on how to fix these kind of things, but the mere words in black and white had made it out to seem like the simplest task to accomplish. From what he’s read, the repeated use of mending spells should have been enough to do the trick, but they’ve been doing just that for a good four months. He’s said the repairing charm so many times that Niall says he’s been muttering it in his sleep.

“It’s no use,” Draco tries telling him, but Harry keeps at it. Spell after spell leaves his mouth with the hope that one of them will make even the slightest alteration. All they’ve been able to transport are inanimate objects, which had been somewhat exciting at first, but the initial amusement quickly faded because they’re expected to sneak in an entire group of living Death Eaters. Whenever they tried living creatures, their lifeless bodies are what reappeared. Who knows what sort of shit they’d be in if they managed to severely incapacitate those above them.

A cage of pixies used in their second year––when Gilderoy Lockhart had foolishly set them free, the wanker––sits on the end table next to him. He casts a freezing charm on them to immobilize their movements long enough for him to grab one without starting a riot. Quickly putting it inside the cabinet, he says the counter-spell and immediately hears the pixie banging itself against all four inner corners.

This is where they fall short every time. Getting a living creature to the twin cabinet at Borgin and Burkes is the easy part, they’ve only done it about seventy-something times. It’s the return trip that’s giving the two Slytherins immense amounts of stress that Harry could quite literally blow his top.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.” The cabinet falls silent. Harry opens it up ever-so slightly––just in case the blue mischief maker is playing tricks on him because that may or may not have happened last week––to check if it’s empty. No sign of it when he opens the door all the way. The slight glimmer of hope––the same kind that bubbles in him when whatever it is that they stuff in the cabinet disappears. He closes it and repeats the previous incantation.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.” A soft thump comes from inside. He rests his head against the door, eyes shut tightly because it’s more than likely that it’ll just be another failed attempt. There’s no sign of movement, but he still wants to think otherwise. Draco barks at him to open it, and Harry mentally counts to three before swinging the door open.

“Fuck.” No such luck. The pixie’s dead body lays on its side at the bottom of the cabinet. Its once electric blue skin, a dull grey. He lets out an aggravated sigh, then falls into the chair next to the other boy. “I just don’t get it, we’ve tried everything!” he exasperates, running a hand down his face. While he wants to believe that maybe there’s just something they’re missing, he knows for certain that they’ve been attentive.

He feels like he could punch a hole right through the bloody thing. All he wants to do now is to reduce it to ashes, at least that way he won’t have to look at it ever again. His head hangs low and he brings his left ring finger to his lips.

“That’s an interesting ring,” Draco speaks up after a few minutes of silence. Harry simply nods, a small grin forming when he reads the message on the warm metal. Sleep tight, I love you! He can just picture her curled up under her sheets, Ashes sprawled out by her feet as she flips through another book or magazine. “What does it mean?”

“Who says it means anything?” he counters.

The blonde-haired boy snorts, and that may be the first time since the end of fifth year that Harry’s heard him do so. “All jewelry holds some kind of meaning,” he boldly states. “If it didn’t, then no one would bother to wear them.” He holds up his right hand; a large bulky ring sits intimidatingly on his finger. “This was my father’s ring. I wear it because it serves as a reminder of why I’m slaving away in this hellhole with you. Vol-” he clears his throat, “The Dark Lord wasn’t too pleased with him when he got caught. Now my mother and I have to pay for his fuck-ups.”

Harry lets the words simmer and really take the time to digest them. They’re all the same. Each child of fallen Death Eaters, forced to partake in something that they never signed up for. He looks down at his own ring, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

“It’s for my girl,” he finally admits. Letting out a breath he had been holding this entire time. “She’s my reason for doing this. I just want to protect her.” He leans back against the chair and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know why he’s opening up to Draco Malfoy, but he guesses if there’s anyone who will understand his position, it’s him.

***

Harry loves rubbing his thumb over her ring while they walk hand in hand. The conversation that he and Draco had had about their reasons for doing all of this still fresh in his mind. The matching ring she wears reminds him that there is purpose to this shithole of a life, and he’s positive that she’s his. They walk aimlessly around Hogsmeade, stopping to look at a few window displays and stopping in Tomes and Scrolls (she needs to pick up the latest issue of Witch Weekly), before settling on booth seat in the Three Broomsticks. Harry orders them a few butterbeers, before sliding in next to her on the cushions.

“Did you remember to ask for Madam Rosmerta’s extra sweet version for me?” Y/n asks, and Harry playfully rolls his eyes at her. He’s been actually trying to get her to lessen her sugar intake––sometimes she gets terrifyingly hyper that he just doesn’t know what to do (although when the mood is right, it does come to his advantage) ––but it’s failing miserably because it only takes one look into those damn puppy-dog eyes for him to bend at her will.

“Of course,” he nudges his nose to hers. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I couldn’t remember the enormous sweet tooth you have?”

She lets out a giggle, then leaves kisses on his cheeks, jaw, and chin. “So, I got a letter from my mum yesterday…” she pauses briefly when the waiter brings them their butterbeers. They both take long sips from their mugs, indulging in its sweet butterscotch flavor. Harry lets out a content sigh as the liquid fizzes in his mouth. He watches as she sets hers back down on the makeshift napkin coaster. A nervous chuckle passing through her lips as she busies herself with the handle of the mug “…and she was wondering if you’d want to maybe want to spend the summer holiday with us?”

“Yeah?” He tucks her hair behind her ear and over her shoulder. To say that he’s rather stunned would be an understatement. He’s never been in a relationship long enough to do the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing. Would they like him? Fuck, he already knows that Mr. Y/l/n won’t! After all, he had been present during the arrest and the trial, which means he must know who Harry is.

“Yeah,” she smiles, scooching in closer so that she’s basically sitting on top of him. Just imagining how much fun it would be to spend an entire summer with him excites her. “I mean I get it if you don’t want to…” she pauses, twirling one of his curls around her finger, “…with all that’s going on with your family and all.” Her bottom lip tucks between her teeth, as she tries not to look him directly in the eyes. Of course, she’d understand if he has to say no…but Merlin’s beard she’s praying he’ll say yes because she may or may not have already mapped out the things that they would do together, last night.

The depressions in his cheeks become more prominent as he leans his forehead to rest on her temples. “I’d like that.” Her shoulders relax and shrug forward as she turns just enough to meet his lips. They both giggle into the kiss but maintain the connection for as long as possible.

***

Dearest Harry,

I haven’t heard from you since you went back. You haven’t responded to any of my previous letters, and I guess I’m to blame for why you’ve distanced yourself from us. It was the hardest decision that I’ve ever had to make. For years I feared that my children would follow in their father’s footsteps. You of all people should know that. However, the extraneous circumstances had presented themselves, and it left me no choice but to push aside my pride for the better good of this family.

Even Gemma had been upset with me when she found out about you. She didn’t speak to me for a few weeks after you boarded the Hogwarts Express back to school. You know her, ever the protective big sister to you. I’m not sure if you two have been talking, but in case you haven’t, please find the time to at least send her an owl. She misses you…we both do.

I understand if you still need some more time. My biggest grievance is that you had to get involved in whatever it is your father has started. You have so much potential, of which I’m afraid has been snatched from beneath your feet. Believe me, if there had been another way, I would’ve fought for it. Unfortunately, luck is not on our side. As much as it hurts me to see you and your sister have to suffer through this mess, there is just no turning our backs on this.

I know you may never forgive your father for all that he’s done. If I were in your position, I don’t think I could have handled the situation as well as you have. I would have most likely done something brash, like runaway to some island off the coast of Denmark. But please remember, he still is your father. And if everything goes accordingly, we have a chance at becoming a family again. Isn’t that what we’ve wanted all along?

Your father loves you, Harry, never forget that.

All my love,

Mum.

Harry crumples the paper up and tosses it in the nearest waste bin.

***

In all of his Hogwarts career, Harry has never studied this early for his final exams. But here he is, sat in a chair surrounded by textbooks from each one of him and Y/n’s classes. Usually, he’d study a good two and a half weeks before the scheduled dates. He’s a good student, gets high marks in all his classes and balances that all out with Quidditch. What he’s trying to get across is that he’s more than able to hold off with the studying, especially when June is six weeks away.

“We could go back to my room,” he peppers kisses up her shoulder and to her neck. Y/n giggles as she pushes him away.

“As much fun as that sounds,” she starts. She picks up her Arithmancy notes and holds them centimeters away from his face. “I think we could benefit from a few extra hours in here.” His face falls flat, groaning as he bangs his head against the open Transfiguration book.

Y/n finds it extremely amusing how childish he’s being right now. He starts grumbling to himself, flipping to Chapter 23 to read up on how to change the color of one’s eyebrows. She massages the back of his neck, before turning back to study over all these complex equations that Professor Vector expects them to know how and when to use.

It takes about half an hour until Harry grows bored again. He tries to entertain himself by making paper cranes and sending them off to random parts of the library, but that can only really stimulate the mind for so long. He rests his chin on the table, his eyes flickering over to Y/n. She looks so beautiful when she’s completely focused, with her lips quirked to one side as she scribbles through problems in her muggle notebook. He doesn’t even try to resist the urge to kiss her again.

“You’re being awfully clingy this afternoon,” she says pointedly, but doesn’t pull away when his lips make their way up to her own. She supposes half an hour is enough to deserve a break.

***

She’s infatuated with the how the pinkish pearl colored liquid that sits in her cauldron smells. Today, Slughorn is having them try their luck at brewing Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in the world. (It must be noted that they are NOT allowed to remove any product from the chambers, and each brew will be thrown out soon after dismissal.) Every time she breathes in through her nose, scents of strawberries and hot chocolate and Harry’s cologne send her senses into a whirlwind, and she doesn’t know how much more of this seduction she can take.

“Sit still, will you?” Liam looks up from his brew. It’s easy for him to say, he had brought nose clips to class and didn’t even think about bringing her a pair.

“I can’t help it!”

It’s like her entire body feels all hot and bothered, and she fans herself with the flap of her textbook to get some sort of air circulation going in this stuffy excuse of a room (it’s the hormones talking). Y/n looks over to her boyfriend’s table, he’s concentrated on finishing up his potion––and sure does he look good doing it. Now, it’s like his scent is the only one emitting from her cauldron. All she can think of doing is running her fingers through his gorgeous brown curls and poke at the dimples on his cheeks. Yet, she nearly gawks when she notices that he’s being surrounded by Greengrass and bunch of other serpent girls that she hasn’t bothered learning the names of.

“If you were my bird, I would never let another girl get that close to me,” she rolls her eyes and turns around to see Enzo Hopkins, another Slytherin, smirking at her. “Pretty girl like you? Deserves better than that twig.”

Y/n can’t help but snort. Ever since her and Harry had become official, she’s been getting some unwanted attention from this boy. Apparently, he and Harry have some a not-so-great history, and Hopkins has been jealous of him ever since. It started when both boys were looking to fill in the last chaser position back in third year. It had been Harry who had come out with more scored points, but Hopkins had insisted that Harry had cheated––even went as far as to accuse the keeper of fancying him––in order to outdo his own score. And that’s just one of the reasons why they don’t quite get along. (He may have fancied Daphne around the time she and Harry had hooked up, but that has yet to be confirmed.)

“Still not interested,” she tuts, shaking her head because the guy really can’t take a hint. But she doesn’t expect him to grab her elbow to drag her just centimeters from him. His breath smells like the roast beef from the Great Hall, and there’s a little piece of salad stuck between his canine and first premolar.

“You’d be better off with me, babe. Could give you everything you want. I bet I could make you feel better than Styles ever cou-” Hopkins lets out a cry of pain and slouches over to cradles the area between his legs.

She towers over him now that he’s been reduced down to his knees. “Don’t call me ‘babe.’”

Their little scene is enough to catch everyone’s attention. Harry’s eyes lock on her, and he’s taking long strides over to where she stands, her arms firm on her hips as she watches the way Hopkins hisses through his gritted teeth.

He wraps an arm around her waist. “Did–did you do that to him?” She gives him a proud nod, admiring her handy work.

“Good heavens, what happened here?” Slughorn gasps at the sight.

“He rammed into the corner of the table, Sir,” Y/n explains, her voice dripping in false innocence. “You should really be more careful, Enzo.”

The boy lets out a disgruntled screech as he barks at one of his friends to help him up. The rest of the class quickly falls back into their routine, but Harry stays by her side a bit longer. Once Slughorn is out of ear’s shot, Enzo turns to him. “Better keep that bitch of yours in line, Styles, or she’ll get what’s coming to her,” he sneers and inconspicuously taps over his sleeve, fully aware of what its affects would be on Harry.

This makes Harry tense up enough that Y/n can feel his body harden against her. Her boyfriend’s face is hard and indecipherable, a look that she hasn’t seen since they first met. Harry drops his arm from around her and steps towards him.

“You touch her, and I swear, I’ll ki-” but Y/n tugs at his arm before he can finish his sentence. She urges him back, employing Liam to stand in between the two.

“Just ignore him, yeah?” she places a hand on his cheek and nudges him to face her. “Harry, look at me,” she pleads. “It’s nothing but an empty threat.” His chest continues to heave, but he manages to peel his eyes away from Hopkins to look at her. Her eyes exude worry and a slight amount of fear, and Harry doesn’t know if it’s because of what the prat had just said or maybe it’s him.

***

She pushes the mashed potatoes on her plate around with her fork. Her thoughts wandering over to what had happened in Potions. Harry had been so…un-Harry. It’s the only way she can describe it. There was something about the way his eyes had turned shades darker that she can’t seem to shake off. It’s like he had turned into a completely different person in a matter of seconds. Sure, what Hopkins had said had been rude and downright misogynistic, but the boy has been known to be all talk and no action.

“Earlier,” she starts, capturing Liam’s attention.

“What about?” he asks, wiping his mouth with his napkin and setting it to the side.

“It’s just…I’ve never seen him get like that before,” she stares down into her lap, her lips purse tightly to form a straight line. Her eyes find him from across the room, busy listening to Niall to notice her staring. He looks completely calm as he hunches over plate and forks a few pieces of chicken while chuckling at something his friend must have said. No traces of that earlier coldness, he’s back to being her Harry.

“You can’t blame him, that Hopkins was a right git.”

Maybe Liam’s right. What if it was just his way of defending her? She shouldn’t be getting her knickers in a twist over that! And she’s confident that her boyfriend would never partake in such violence. She sees the way he is with people. The other day, he had helped a first year Hufflepuff pick up all her books when some bully had zapped her a hole in her backpack, then had grabbed said bully and made him apologize.

He’s a good guy. She wouldn’t be so in love with him if he weren’t. The way he handles all the bad talk about him and his family is extremely admirable. What she’s heard people say about him can be so foul. They have no right to assume anything about him. Just because his father is a Death Eater, doesn’t mean anything. Harry is his own person, and she knows how much he hates being branded because of his name.

That’s why she really wants him to meet her parents. Her mother seems to already like him, of course, that’s just based on what Y/n has told her in her letters. It’s her dad that she’s slightly worried about, but she hopes that when he sees how amazing Harry is and how utterly happy he makes her, he’ll accept him as hopefully a permanent resident in her life.

***

That damn cat.

It’s impossible to take him anywhere without him running off. What’s worse is that he somehow managed to escape both their watchful eyes, and now he’s lost somewhere in Hogsmeade.

“Ashes?” she looks under the bench outside of Honeydukes, then behind one of the rubbish bins across from the Hog’s Head Inn. Harry stops a few of the townsfolk and describes the cat’s physical attributes.

“He’s around this big and about this tall,” he uses his hands as means of measurement. One of the two witches is deaf in her left ear, so Harry nearly screams into her right. “A cat. C-A-T,” he annunciates, but it still proves to be useless.

Y/n stops to think. If she were her cat, where would she scurry off to? Ashes really likes food, but she’s already scavenged through the trash. The Shrieking Shack, maybe? No! He’s much too cowardly to even go near it.

“I honestly have no idea where he could be,” she drops her face onto Harry’s shoulder. He rubs her back and lets out a long breath. “What-what if we never find him? He can’t fend for himself out here! He needs me to cut his fish into small pieces or else he won’t eat it!”

Harry snorts, which earns him a glare from his girlfriend. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll find him. He’s probably found his way to the owlery,” he says. “Remember? That’s how I found him.” She nods her head, and he takes her hand to leads her to the Three Broomsticks because all this searching has famished him like no one would believe.

When he opens the door, they nearly collide with someone. Harry rushes out an apology but stops as soon as he recognizes the platinum blonde hair.

“Ashes!” she squeals. He looks down to see the cat cozied up against Malfoy’s right leg. “So this is where you wandered off too, you silly cat!” She picks him up and continues to lecture him.

“Saw him clawing at the door to the toilets,” Malfoy says, Harry notices the way he studies her movements. It makes him feel slightly anxious because Malfoy knows exactly what she means to him and he doesn’t like having him––and any other member of that group––so close to her, even if they’ve become somewhat friendlier over the past few months. It’s nothing against Draco in particular, it’s just a reflex he’s developed.

“Thank you for looking after him,” she says gratefully, ignoring the way Harry’s hand tightens around her waist. “Maybe you’d want to join us for lunch?”

“I’m going to have to decline,” Draco says, his eyes locked with Harry’s. “but maybe next time.” She watches as he and Harry exchange understanding nods, then Malfoy excuses himself and steps around them. They watch as he disappears through the door.

Y/n turns back to Harry. “What was that?” she questions.

“What was what?” he plays off, putting a hand on her shoulder as they find themselves an empty table. It’s in the middle of the room, right next to a group of fifth year Ravenclaws. His eyes glaze over the menu, and she knows this is his way of avoiding the topic. “You want your usual, love?” Before she can even answer, he’s halfway to the bar.

***

The last game of the season, Slytherin versus Gryffindor, and the crowd is absolutely going crazy to see who will take the Inter-House Quidditch Cup. All the players gather in the center of the field, as they listen to Madam Hooch give her pre-game spiel about having a ‘nice clean game’––which everyone knows never happens, especially when these two opposing teams go head to head.

So far, Gryffindor is leading by twenty points. The golden snitch has yet to be seen, which gives the Slytherin chasers enough time catch up. Luckily, Niall (who is the team’s keeper) is able to catch the quaffle before it passes through the left ring and tosses it to Harry when the latter quickly sweeps by on his broom. With it tucked securely under his arm, he dodges his way across the field. Y/n holds her breath as he makes it close enough to attempt his shot. She watches as he throws it up in the air and hits it with the back of his broomstick, right between Weasley’s hands, and through the middle ring.

“Ten points for Slytherin!” Zacharias Smith announces through the loud speaker.

The rest of Slytherin House erupts in cheers, and she joins in despite being sat with those from her own house. She can’t help it though because he just looks so good in that uniform, and those nice fitted pants make his thighs look extra good and give his butt a nice plumpness to it. Just before the game, she’d pulled Harry into an empty classroom while he was on his way to the locker rooms. It was just so she could give him a courage boost, and he didn’t mind it one bit.

“I know you want to support your boyfriend and all, but the least you can do is take off the jumper,” Liam motions to the back of her grey jumper with STYLES embroidered on the back in emerald green lettering. He pulls his hood over his head and seeps further into his seat, even goes as far as to cover over the side of his face “You’re embarrassing me.”

Y/n pulls the strings of his hoodie so that it completely obstructs his vision. “Oh, hush,” she giggles. Another wave of roars breaks out, and she turns her attention back to the game. Potter and Harper neck and neck as both seekers chase after the golden snitch. Some of the other players pause midair to get a glimpse of the action.

“Potter and Harper have both spotted the snitch! Who will get to it first?”

She looks for Harry, who uses their momentarily distracted states to snatch the quaffle right from Ginny Weasley’s arms before she even gets a chance to see him coming. He flies towards the goal rings, a bludger hot on his tail when one of Gryffindor’s beaters––she hadn’t noticed which one––hits the erratic ball in his direction.

“Harry, look out!” she screams, covering her eyes because the bludger is just that close to knocking him off his broom. Four players have already been rushed to the Hospital Wing, which clearly proves her point that flying is just about the worst thing about the Wizarding World. Once one is able to apparate, there really is no purpose in having to ride that death stick. In their second year, Ron Weasley had crashed his father’s flying Ford Anglia into the Whomping Willow. Point validated.

A gasp spreads amongst the crowd, and it only worries her further. “I can’t watch,” she turns to face away from the game.

“Styles scores another ten points for Slytherin! Both teams are tied with 100 points each.”

She turns on her heel and looks through the cracks between her fingers. “Oh thank, god,” she breathes out and shakes Liam’s arm in excitement. When Harry looks her way, she blows him a kiss which has the cute little crevices of his cheeks popping out and he shoots her back a knee-buckling smile that she loves so much.

***

The Black Lake glistens in the moonlight, its water reaching out to encompass the rocks that scatter across the sand. It’s peaceful here, only the sounds of the night filling their ears as they lay against a tree, a blanket transfigured into a cot beneath them. A half empty bottle of firewhisky is passed between the two of them, intoxicated giggles carrying through the air whenever one of them burps aloud.

Half of the student body are cramped in Gryffindor Tower, celebrating how Potter had been the first one to gets his hands on the golden snitch. Had McLaggen not hit the bludger into the Slytherin seeker’s broom, the turnout would have probably been different. But that’s Quidditch, a brutal mess of a game. All of Y/n’s friends are up there basking in their house’s victory, but she would much rather spend the night enveloped in his arms.

Harry finds that drunk Y/n is the cuddliest person in the world. The warmth brought about by the alcohol burns her cheeks and has her leaving sloppy kisses over his face. And she tells him stories that he’s sure she’s making up as she goes.

“…and that’s why river trolls and mountain trolls don’t get along!” she exclaims.

And she’s just met with his laughter. “That’s enough for you.” He takes the bottle from her hands. A cute little pout splays across her lips, and he really can’t help himself and just kisses her. His hands roam up her sides as he listens to her whimper into his mouth.

She can taste the firewhisky on his lips, or maybe it’s the flavor coming from her own. Whatever the case, she feels like she’s on cloud nine. Her fingers travel underneath his shirt, marking crescents into the toned muscles of his back.

“We’re outside, love,” he chuckles when he pulls back.

It’s most definitely the alcohol talking, but she’s feeling uncharacteristically frisky. Her hips unintentionally buck up, pushing pressure into his crotch region. “Don’t care.” He lets out a groan and buries his face into her neck, sucking tenderly on her pulse while her hand palms him through his trousers. “Want to make you feel good.” It’s as though her words are wrapped within a halo, and his mind gets all fuzzy as she wraps her legs around his hips and turns them over.

“I-I want to try something,” she blushes, her fingertips gently pulling his trousers and boxers down by their waistbands to about just below his thighs. They’ve only been intimate a handful of times and have yet to fully familiarize themselves with each other’s bodies. Plus, there was a very explicit article in Witch Weekly entitled, “How to Please Your Wizard in Bed” and her curiosity had once again gotten the better of her. How could she not read it?

“What’s that, pet?” he rasps. He only ever calls her that in times like these. She doesn’t respond, instead settles herself in between his legs. His breath catches in his throat when she takes his stiff member in her soft hand.

She watches how his eyes close and his head falls back onto the cot. The rise and fall of his chest uneven as she jerks her hand up and down. “Does…does this feel good?” Her front teeth sink into her bottom lip.

“Feels brilliant,” he croaks, and he bucks into her hand. This gives her a bit more courage. Before he’s got time to process her actions, her hot breath tickles the swollen tip, her lips just barely connecting with the skin. Dribbles of pre-cum bubble from the slit, and her tongue grazes over it, the new and welcoming taste of him sliding down her throat, and she swears she can even feel it once it’s gone down into her belly. With the adrenaline coursing through her system, she confidently takes a good amount of him into her mouth. Her tongue running over each vein and swirling over each curve. She really is trying to drive him mad, that he’s completely sure of.

Not a single coherent sentence can escape him. All the words feel jumbled as he revels in how good she’s treating his aching cock. Salazar save him because he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to last if she keeps this up. He watches through hooded lids as she bobs her head over him and gathers her hair in his fist, wanting to get a better view of her pretty lips sucking him off. He tries to control himself, resisting the carnal desire to fuck her mouth, but it’s becoming too much for him to fight. His hips buck forward, enough to send his cock into her tight throat. Tears start to prickle behind her eyes, but in no way does she want to stop. The control she has over him, she loves it. She loves how he’s completely dependent on her to help him reach euphoric bliss.

“I’m about to-fuck…” he whines. His knuckles grip the edges of the cot tightly between his knuckles. He’s so close, his senses heightened, every nerve in his body being washed over by the feeling of him tumbling over the edge. Their eyes meet, his mouth parted as he watches her jerk the base of his cock, while the rest of him is still entrapped between her swollen lips. The vibrations of her moans are the last bit he needs. His eyes shut tight when his orgasm rips through him, long white ribbons of his hot cum fill her mouth.

She swallows every last bit of it. The salty-sweet taste giving her goosebumps all over her body. She really can’t believe she just did that, and yet she’s so happy that she did. Some sort of fulfillment comes out of him falling apart right in front of her.

“That was…that was bloody amazing,” he pants, pulling her back up to lay on his chest. He covers her lips with his, still able to taste himself on her.

“Yeah?” she muses, tracing circles on his sweaty torso.

He nods his head vigorously. “Most definitely.”

***

In their fourth year Barty Crouch Jr. (who was posing as Mad Eye Moody) had given his class a demonstration of the three Unforgivable Curses. It had been the first time that most of them had been exposed to such cruelty in the seemingly sheltered environment of their beloved school. A poor harmless spider had become subject to such treacherous treatment, each spell casted with such carelessness, that some students still carry the burden of that day deep within their chests.

Unfortunately, two out of the three are part of the Sixth-Year curriculum. Today the Gryffindors and Slytherins gather around Professor Snape, as they are forced to learn the Cruciatus Curse. Y/n stands in between Liam and Harry, leaning into the latter’s side as she hides her face in his sleeve as Snape does a demonstration of his own on Mr. Filch. The caretaker’s yelps of pain bounce off the walls.

“I hate it,” Y/n mutters. How in the world is this appropriate to teach? Learning about it is one thing, but having to actually subject another to it? It’s outrageous! There might be a war simmering to the surface, but that doesn’t mean that this is the only way of fighting it, right? And maybe Y/n is foolish for wanting to see the glass as half full, but it’s all she can afford.

Her father, is having a field day at work. New Death Eater activity has been swarming around Wizarding England, which means he can barely blink twice before another problem strikes. Knowing that her father is out there, coming face to face with these types of dangerous enchantments as he and his fellow aurors infiltrate a crime site…it’s beyond scary, and all the more nerve-wracking.

None of this is new to Harry, however. In fact, he’s seen those red zaps of light torment others more than he can count. He brings his girlfriend into his chest and covers his hand over one of her ears. He lets his mouth hover in her sweet-smelling hair as he keeps his eyes forward. “It’ll be over soon,” he tells her, rubbing soothing circles on the small of her back. She lifts her head up and nods slowly, and he kisses her forehead and whispers a few more words of reassurance.

“You are to only perform this with the mildest of intensity, do I make myself clear?” Snape turns to the class, his face as unreadable as ever. He orders for everyone to break into pairs, and each student rushes to find a partner that will hopefully go easy on them. Y/n groups with Parvati Patel, which leaves Harry and Niall together.

Almost immediately, Niall is letting out little cowers of pain––and Harry has only put in the bare minimum of his efforts––hunching over on his knees. “He said lightly!” the Irishman cries.

“It barely grazed over your arm. Not my fault you’re a ninny,” Harry teases. “C’mon then, have at me.” He holds his arms out low at his sides, signaling for Niall to hit him. That flash of red light hits him in the shoulder. He can barely feel it at all. It’s almost as though Niall had just thrown a pebble at him.

His friend is clearly annoyed, huffing as he mutters a few colorful words under his breath. “What are you, immune or something?”

“I’ve got a high pain tolerance, is all,” Harry plays off, but the truth is, is that he’s experienced much worse in these past few months. The memories of his initiation still fresh in his mind, as they replay over and over until he passes out in his bed from exhaustion. But then even then, fragments of it still haunt his nightmares. Whenever he closes his eyes, it’s all he can see.

The cloaked figure grasps Harry’s wrist tightly between his fingers. The fingertips of his other hand dancing over the naked skin of his forearm, his long nails tauntingly scraping over a long prominent vein.

“Your father would be very proud,” the figure says, the strange sound of empathy tensing the muscles in Harry’s jaw. He takes out his wand and holds it above the untainted flesh. Harry looks up to meet his hostile eyes. His chest hurts, he can feel the blood drain from his body as the wand pokes at him. There are a few tears fighting to flow out, and Harry has to close his lids shut to conceal such a moment of weakness.

Not here. Not with these people around. Not with all that’s on the line.

An incantation flows through the air and once it reaches his ears, it feels as though his skin is on fire. Excruciating pain courses through him, but he doesn’t dare flinch. Harry holds his breath, just waiting for it all to just end.

After what feels like hours of standing there, the cloaked figure releases Harry’s wrist. He opens up his eyes, and they immediately land on the raw markings that take up the length of his forearm. It’s terrorizing. The feeling of it ingrained permanently on him makes him feel as though he’s just taken a bludger to the stomach.

It feels wrong. He feels like scum. What would she think of him now? These markings on his arm, claiming him as part of the world he tried so hard to pull away from.

He’s a fraud.

Suddenly he remembers that he isn’t the only person in the room. He lifts his head and finds himself surrounded my masked men. And although he cannot directly look into any of their eyes, he can feel an expectancy as he turns back to the seemingly bigger figure.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, his nostrils slightly twitching as he meets the cloaked figure’s gaze. The man’s rotting teeth on full display as he smiles wickedly at Harry.

Harry looks past the man, over his shoulder. His mother and Gemma stand small behind him, they give him soft nods, their mouths formed in thin fragile lines. The lump in his throat is forced down, and he takes just a few moments to find the strength to allow these next words to come out. All he thinks about is that he’s doing this for all of them.

3…For his sister.

2…For his mother.

1…For her.

He bends his body forward, his face parallel to the floor, looking at the cloaked figure’s dirty, bare feet.

“My Lord.”

His eyes open at the chilling scream of agony, and he immediately recognizes it to belong to his girlfriend. He snaps his neck in her direction, his blood runs cold when he sees her in a heap on the cold marble floor.

A crowd quickly forms around her, and he has to shove each person out of the way just to break through.

“Get out of my way!” he barks at them, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike fearfully clear a path for him. By now, everyone knows that they’re an item. And while not everyone in his house is as accepting as Niall or even Malfoy, everyone knows and respects the name Styles.

Or so he thought.

By the time he’s pushed Lavender Brown to the side to get to her, Liam is trying to help her get up, but she can barely move. Her face is scrunch up in pure anguish, barely able to pick her upper body up.

“What the fuck happened!?” Harry yells at Parvati, as he gathers Y/n in his lap. “Love, are you okay?” his tone less harsh. He cups her face, wiping away the pained tears that scatter across her flushed cheeks. She weakly shrugs her shoulders, her head falling into the crook of his neck as she takes staggered breaths.

“We had just finished, but then someone struck her out of nowhere!” Parvati says hurriedly.

A few sniggers catch his ears. He turns to his left and sees Hopkins, smirking down at them, with a wordless exchange with Liam, Harry carefully moves Y/n to rest in his arms. Before she even has time to process that he’s no longer by her side, he’s back on his feet. His eyes are blazing as he gets up, his head spinning with rage as the boy continues to look at him with such smugness. But it’s quickly wiped away when Harry leaps at him, collar scrunched tightly in his fist, the tip of his wand nearly piercing through his neck. No words are able to come out of him because his mind is clouded and all he sees is a belligerent shade of red.

“What’s wrong, Styles? Your Gryffindor girlfriend can’t take a little pinch?” Hopkins taunts. Although, the nervous flicker of his eyes to Harry’s wand is not unnoticed by those around them. Niall tries to get in between the two, but it proves useless because there’s no getting through to Harry.

“I warned you that if you ever touched her I’d-”

“You’d what? Kill me? You don’t have the balls,” he continues. Harry seethes at him, his knuckles turning white from how hard he grips his wand. “Go on then, you know the spell. Big Death Eater like yourself.” The last part is spoken low enough so only he can hear it.

All eyes are one Harry, each pair anticipating his next move. They all know him to be more of a pacifist, one of those who rarely got involved in any fights (unless those playful headlocks with Niall count, but surely, they wouldn’t). Y/n tries her best to get back on her feet, but it’s as though she can still feel the jolts of electrifying pain eating at her. Fear drowns out the feeling, however; she’s afraid of what Harry will do.

But surely, he isn’t capable of committing something as extreme as that…right? Never has she seen him so enraged. It’s another side of him that she never knew existed, and it scares her because she knows that this isn’t her Harry. She scolds herself for being so weak because she knows that she’s the reason why he’s gotten so worked up.

Liam tries to hold her down when she tries to get up. “Don’t move, you were hit pretty hard.”

The words are right at the tip of his tongue. Hopkins is right, Harry does know the spell, and he damn well knows how to use it. It already tastes bitter in his mouth, as the dark part of him itches for him to just spit it out. He mouths the first word, but the second remains caged by the sensible part of him that won’t allow for him to truly become what he’s always despised. But he wants to say it, wants to show Hopkins––and everyone watching them––that no one touches his girl.

“Harry…” he hears her call his name. Her voice strangled by fear and desperation. “Harry, please…” His wand pokes harder into the boy’s throat in such frustration. He’s not a murderer, nor does he have any intentions of getting sent to Azkaban and sharing a cell with his negligent father. He’s better than that.

At least that’s what he wants himself to believe.

It takes all the self-control he has left to release the tight grip he has on Hopkins’ collar. His wand being stuffed back into his pocket. With one last hardened look, he turns his back to him.

She’s finally able to breathe again, the constriction in her chest easing up as he walks away from him. Their eyes meet, and she motions for him to come back to her. With one last glare over his shoulder, Harry picks up his feet and wills himself away.

***

The Hospital Wing is full of the moaning and groaning of students suffering from varying ailments. A few beds down, lies a girl who had somehow managed to curse her nose off while trying to remove some of her acne. So even though her face is as clear as day, the obvious absence above her mouth really does take away from her flawless skin. There’s also a boy who has been laying there unconscious for two days because of some freak mishap out in the Courtyard.

“I’m fine, really,” Y/n whines, but Harry shakes his head as he tries to keep her still in the hospital bed. She’s a tad bit annoyed because she really doesn’t need to be here, especially considering the state of everyone else. But he can be just as stubborn as she and refused to take no for an answer as he carried her right to Madam Pomfrey’s door.

“Could’ve fooled me.” His voice lacks the usual cockiness. As he sits down beside her, an arm under her head as he mindlessly plays with the bottoms of her hair. Since coming here, he can barely look at her without feeling guilty. It’s supposed to be his job to protect her, but he let this happen. What’s even worse is that he allowed a stupid school bully to hurt her, how is he ever going to stop The Dark Lord from doing the same?

He closes his eyes and lets his face fall into her hair. Her sweet scent evening out his irregular heartbeat. Despite not wanting to be here, Y/n is glad that he’s relaxed a great amount since earlier. She kisses his collarbone and runs her hand up and down his thigh.

She gargles the words in her mouth, chewing on her tongue before it accidently slips out of her. “If you could, would you have done it?” And she immediately regrets the question.

He takes a few moments to respond, and she thinks her heart might stop beating. He lifts her chin up with the back of his knuckle. Her eyes lift from his mouth up to his eyes. They’re not as dark as before, but the light in them still visibly absent.

“I think I might have.”

It’s the way he says it, each word sounding more regretful than the last. She takes in his appearance, the way his jaw tenses so much that the sharp bone nearly breaks through his skin. Does he mean it? A new question rises to the front of her mind, but she won’t push him any further.

They sit in silence. Both of them having nothing else to say. All she can do is give him a small nod of understanding, her eyes disconnecting with his. She turns back and rests her cheek against his sturdy chest. She begins to feel her eyelids getting heavier as she focuses on his heartbeat. As hard as she tries to fight off sleep, the warmth from his body isn’t helping her in the slightest. A yawn passes through her lips, and she finds herself snuggling further into him. He pulls the white sheets of the infirmary up just below her shoulder. The back of his fingers graze over her cheek as he lulls her to sleep. Once her eyes remain closed, he presses his lips to the spot between her eyebrows. His own eyes closing as he inhales deeply.

“I won’t ever let anything happen to you.”

***

It’s nearing curfew, the sound of the soles of his leather shoes tapping against the marble flooring echo through the nearly empty corridor. Madam Pomfrey had quite literally pushed him out of the Hospital Wing and towards the staircase, despite his incessant pleads to let him stay. “I assure you Miss Y/l/n will survive a night without you, now shoo!” she had said to him. And it’s not like he doesn’t have faith in the matron––she’d mended quite a few of his broken bones during Quidditch season––but he’s afraid of what could happen when his girlfriend isn’t right next to him.

The lighting falters drastically in intensity as he reaches the dungeons. Only the illumination from the mounted torches guides his way towards the stone wall that conceals the entry way to the Slytherin Common Room. Before he can carelessly mutter the password, he stops. A daunting presence makes itself known behind him, the hairs on the back of his neck rise up as he lowers his gaze down to the floor. His eyes trail backwards, until they are met with the long black robes that cover the black shoes.

“Professor,” he draws out the word as he slowly pivots on his heel.

Snape’s long, greasy hair cupping the perimeters of his cheeks, an unamused look distinguishable in his black irises. Without a word, he’s dragging Harry by the back of his collar towards a secluded area of the dungeons. Harry knows better than to resist, but that doesn’t stop him from letting out grunts of frustration as he gets thrown against the wall. The professor releases him, his hand snapping open as if the fabric were made of fire and thorns.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Snape’s low and nasally monotone voice bites at him.

Harry scoffs, pushing himself off the cold stone wall and standing up to his full height. “I was going to head back to my room, but it seems as though you have other plans for me.”

The older wizard glares at him. “While you may find humor in all of this, I am trying to make sure that you keep on track. Which means such behavior exemplified earlier must be put to and end so that you can fulfill your responsibilities. Do you understand me, or are you too taken by your feelings for Miss Y/l/n?” he sneer. Harry narrows his eyes at the former potion’s master. His tightened fists hidden by the sleeves of his robes. Whenever he hears any of these people mention her name, he’s immediately brought on edge.

“The deal was that she stays out of this,” Harry spits back. “I’ll keep up my end of the bargain if you lot keep yours.” There’s a fire in his eyes, sparks of blazing fury overtaking his clear green orbs. This had only been the first strike, but it had been enough to send Y/n to the hospital wing. He doesn’t think he can fathom what further potential threats will hold.

Snape lets out a bitter laugh. “As difficult as it may be for your teeny mind to comprehend, The Dark Lord is testing you. He has got eyes everywhere, so I advise you watch yourself and think twice before you get yourself in a situation that I guarantee you will not survive. None of you will.” And just like that, he flips his cape and marches down the corridor until his figure is lost in the darkness.

The younger wizard is left standing alone in the empty corridor. He leans back against the wall, sliding down until his bottom hits the marbled floor. His arms balance themselves on his bent knees as his head falls forward. A small puddle forms right beneath his nose.

***

A/N: After 324908 delays, here it is! It’s a bit shorter than the previous part, but I didn’t want to rush through it too much. There are so many things that I would like to happen, and if you guys are willing to bear with me, I think I can make this into a full on series! (Each part will probably be a minimum of 10k words.)

What do you guys think? What what will happen next? Will Y/n find out about Harry’s secret? Send in your comments and questions here!

#hogwarts!harry #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles au #harry styles drabble #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagines #harry styles drabbles #one direction #one direction preferences #one direction fanfic #one direction fanfiction #harry potter au #harry styles x harry potter

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miriamvowen · 4 years

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We have a treat for you today on the blog. Keep reading! The creepy feeling from Agnes Ravatn’s previous book The Bird Tribunal still lingers in my memory. I have high hopes for her new book The Seven Doors and wonder if I will read it in one sitting as I did with her previous book. Agnes is an award winning writer from Norway and it gives me great pleasure to share an extract of her latest psychological thriller The Seven Doors on the blog today:

Monday 19th November

Towards the end of the day she receives a message from Ingeborg. She’s clocking off at 3pm, she writes. Could they take a look at the house on Birkeveien before picking Milja up from nursery?

She glances outside. It’s dry for once, the sun low in the sky. A stroll would do her good.

She hasn’t been there for years, she can’t remember the house number. She calls Mads, but there’s no answer. She searches the street name in her email inbox and finds an email between Mads and their financial advisor she was copied into four years ago. Birkeveien 61.

She pulls up a map on her phone and vaguely remembers visiting Aunt Lena many years ago now, an attractive Bergen lady with a walking frame who lived in a house filled with steep staircases.

Ingeborg is waiting for her outside the hospital building, tall and slim. She waves cheerfully when she catches sight of her mum and walks over to meet her just as an air ambulance lands on the helipad behind her.

How are you doing? Nina asks, but her daughter bats the question away, excited at the prospect of a terraced house in Landås.

Nina had been surprised when Ingeborg chose to pursue medicine like her father; she hadn’t ever felt that her daughter belonged in a job that called for warmth and empathy. All the same, she was pleased that her daughter had chosen such a practical career. What is the point in all of this? she had often wondered as she had watched her own students graduate, only to drift around in ambiguous professions within the culture and education sectors for unforeseeable periods of time.

With the help of the map on her phone, Nina leads the way along Idrettsveien and Gimleveien, past Brann Stadium, until they eventually reach Birkeveien. They pass two nursery schools and one supermarket en route. There’s something uncomfortably earnest about Ingeborg’s manner, she’s prowling like a cat, rosy cheeked, airing every thought that enters her head for all to hear.

Cynical children, Nina thinks to herself, it must be my punishment; I must have been doing something wrong during all my years of parenting. But what?

Here we are, Nina says eventually, stopping in her tracks. She looks from the phone to the house number. Ingeborg lets out a gasp.

And what a house it is too, she whispers.

They’re standing outside a small, ochre-yellow, semi-detached house over three floors, with red roof tiles and a front garden concealed behind a beech hedge, dense with crisp brown leaves.

Fourteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Ingeborg says excitedly, looking up from her watch. And with two nurseries along the way. Mum…

She looks at her mother pleadingly.

It’s ideal, certainly, Nina says.

And I do love the colour, Ingeborg says, her gaze fixed lovingly on the yellow façade.

First, we need to speak to your father, Nina says, lifting a hand to curtail Ingeborg’s excitement.

Ingeborg is already halfway through the gate, and Nina realises that it’s pointless to try to stop her.

A woman’s bicycle with a child’s seat on the back has been left leaning against the wall beside the front door. There’s no sign of a nameplate. The gravel crunches underfoot as if they were wearing horseshoes; Ingeborg scuttles over to the corner of the property to get an idea of what the back garden looks like.

It’s certainly very nice, she says loudly, seeking her mother’s endorsement.

It’s family-friendly, in any case, Nina says, bringing a finger to her lips to hush her daughter’s loud excitement.

There’s a light on upstairs, Ingeborg says, and before Nina can stop her, she’s pressed the doorbell.

But Ingeborg… she says.

What? Ingeborg says, looking somewhat aggressive.

Someone lives here.

Well yes. In our house.

She must be at work, Nina says. It’s only quarter past three.

But I heard something.

I didn’t hear anything, Nina says.

They stand there for a few moments. Nina can tell from the frosty mist surrounding Ingeborg that she is breathing quickly.

We can hardly go barging in unannounced, she says.

Ingeborg leans forwards and presses the doorbell again, holding it for an extra-long time. Nina turns to walk back out onto the street, distancing herself from Ingeborg’s persistence. We’ll call or write, she says. Then we’ll come back in a few days’ time. There’s no great rush, after all.

Her daughter gazes at her beseechingly.

Eirik booked an agent this morning. We’re putting our place on the market as soon as we can, do you know how quickly a colony of silverfish multiplies?

In that same instant, someone tentatively opens the front door.

Ingeborg spins around on the gravel.

A young woman gazes back through the gap in the door. Behind her is a serious-looking little boy, dark-eyed and darkhaired, just like his mother.

I’ve seen you before, Nina thinks to herself as she locks eyes with the woman, but she can’t quite place her.

The woman looks at her unanticipated guests expectantly.

Peekaboo! Ingeborg says, an excited expression on her face as she peers at the boy, who clings to his mother’s burgundy wool jumper.

The woman looks from Ingeborg to Nina and back to Ingeborg again.

Yes? she says.

Ingeborg Wisløff Glaser, she says. We’re the owners of the property.

Ingeborg, Nina whispers.

The woman at the door furrows her brow.

This is my mother, Ingeborg says, nodding in Nina’s direction as her mother takes a step back.

Hi there, she says in as friendly a tone as she can muster. It wasn’t our intention to disturb you, she begins, but she is interrupted by Ingeborg.

Could we have a little look around the house? she asks.

The woman looks at Ingeborg with a puzzled expression.

Oh, Ingeborg says, turning to her mother. She doesn’t speak Norwegian. Excuse us, Ingeborg enunciates emphatically, starting again, we are the landlords.

Yes, the woman says, I understand what you’re saying.

Ingeborg, this is starting to sound like a raid, Nina says under her breath.

Ingeborg gives her mother a confused look before turning back around to face the woman at the door.

I’m a specialist at Haukeland University Hospital, she says smugly, so this area couldn’t be any more perfect for us. We’ve got a little girl, she’s three, she’s going to be a big sister soon actually, so we’re going to need all the play space we can get.

Nina shakes her head inwardly as she observes her daughter with growing discomfort. She might as well be wearing a pith helmet, whip in hand.

The woman stands in the doorway, stiff and silent. The boy whimpers, his mother picks him up and balances him on one hip, he clings to her, burrowing his face in her neck.

You’ll have a few months’ notice, obviously, Ingeborg says impatiently. But before we terminate the contract, I’d love to have a look inside.

If it’s not convenient then we can come back another time, Nina interjects, with what she hopes is a warm, apologetic smile.

It’s not really a good time, the woman in the doorway says.

Just a quick peek? Ingeborg says.

I’m sorry, she says, shaking her head.

How many bedrooms are there, can I ask? Ingeborg says.

The woman thinks about whether she should answer the question or not.

Three, she says eventually, and Ingeborg looks starry-eyed.

Ingeborg, Nina says, then turns to the woman. I’m sorry that we’ve disturbed you like this, she says. We’ll get in touch and arrange another time.

Does it have a fireplace? Ingeborg asks as Nina tugs at her coat sleeve to lead her away. Please, the woman says, comforting her son.

I can assure you, Ingeborg continues imperviously, we really don’t mind if the place is a little untidy.

It is as if the woman surrenders. She hesitates for a moment, then reluctantly steps to one side. Ingeborg makes her way in, unabashed, and follows the woman inside and upstairs without removing her boots.

Nina sighs silently and walks in after them, up the narrow staircase; she recognises the psychedelic, red cyclamen wallpaper. She vaguely remembers having visited once, many years ago, probably when Ingeborg was a baby. Aunt Lena had visited them numerous times, but very rarely returned the invitation.

As they enter the living room she thinks hard about where she might have seen the woman before. The boy is sitting on the floor beside a pirate ship.

It’s like being in a museum, Ingeborg says. How long have you lived here?

Just over three years, the woman replies.

And you’ve never felt the need to change anything? Ingeborg asks, gesturing towards the room. Impressive.

I’m not all that interested in interior design, the woman replies curtly.

Is it alright if I have a little look around? Ingeborg asks, and the woman nods.

Nina stands in the middle of the room, uncertain, while the woman looks down.

I didn’t properly introduce myself downstairs. Nina Wisløff, she says, offering the woman an outstretched hand.

Mari.

Things are silent for a moment as Ingeborg rushes back and forth, flitting from one room to the next with her coat flapping behind her.

Have we met? Nina asks after a short while.

I don’t think so.

She might be a little younger than Ingeborg, but older than most of her students.

No?

The furniture in the living room is just as she remembers it. Old-fashioned, Norwegian armchairs, a teak table, a narrow, threadbare old sofa. The bookshelves belonged to Aunt Lena, but the old encyclopaedias and book-club novels from the 1970s are gone. Nina lets her eyes wander over the spines of the books that now fill the shelves, she sees works of poetry, philosophy, a surprising number of German titles, plus contemporary fiction. Parenting books. A large collection of LPs. A record player has been positioned on a table of its own over by the window.

The young woman’s gaze follows Ingeborg as humming drifts across the room from the corner where the toys are kept.

How old is he? Nina asks.

He just turned three.

A lovely age, Nina says. I have a three-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter myself.

The woman says nothing. Nina stands there smiling, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. It’s an original, untouched since the 1950s. Beside the kitchen table is a Tripp Trapp highchair and an ordinary kitchen chair. On the table is a pile of books, a stack of paper, a laptop, and three small, black notebooks. She’s studying something, Nina thinks.

Ingeborg climbs down from the small attic space.

Do you remember what it says in your contract? she asks. How many months’ notice you’re entitled to?

No, I—

How quickly could you move out, do you think?

The woman looks at her quizzically. We’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands, you see. Maybe we could make a small financial contribution if you managed to pack up in, say— Ingeborg, Nina interrupts sharply.

But, the woman says, we don’t have anywhere … my little boy, Ask, he goes to nursery just along the road, we…

This is a decision for your father and I, not for you, Nina tells her daughter in a tentatively authoritative tone.

But Mum, Ingeborg groans, before turning back to the woman.

Five thousand kroner?

I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you, Nina says. There’s no need for you to see us out.

Ten thousand? Ingeborg says, as her mother nudges her downstairs.

The door slams behind them, and Nina tugs at Ingeborg until they are back out on the pavement.

Goodness, she was odd, Ingeborg says, prising herself free from her mother’s grasp.

She was odd? Nina says. You were like a member of the Gestapo in there, ready to deport her and move in!

It’s just the hormones, Ingeborg says. Nesting. You’ve forgotten what it’s like.

Nina says nothing, seething with shame at her daughter’s behaviour and frantically trying to put her finger on where she has seen the woman before. If she happens to work at the university, it’ll be a catastrophe.

I’ll come back with you to talk to Dad, Ingeborg says. He understands the need for haste.

I’ll be the one to talk to your father, Nina says sharply.

But he doesn’t listen to you, her daughter replies.

Extract provided by Orenda Books. This post is part of a blog tour. Please check out other bloggers reviews/giveaways as part of the tour. The Seven Doors is coming out in paperback on 17 September 2020 and the RRP is £8.99.

A. Ravatn

Read an extract of The Seven Doors by Norway’s Agnes Ravatn #psychological #thriller We have a treat for you today on the blog. Keep reading! The creepy feeling from Agnes Ravatn's previous book…

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