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kathaelipwse · 2 months ago

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CTRL + ALT + Heart 🗡🗡 K.Hongjoong

╰› Pairing: AI Programmer!Reader x AI.Robot!Hongjoong

╰› Word Count: 8671 words ; Reading Time: 31-ish mins

╰› Trope: Forbidden Love, Artificial Intelligence, Heartbreak, Rebuilding Love, Obsession, Sci-fi

╰› Warnings: Emotional Distress, Technology Overload, Malfunction, Heartbreak, Anxiety, Some Violence (In the form of destruction from Joong's malfunctions), Thriller, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

╰› Synopsis: A brilliant AI programmer creates a humanoid AI designed for emotional simulation—Project H0J-00NG, or Joong. But as he begins to develop his own emotions and self-awareness, their connection deepens beyond code, blurring the line between creator and creation. When disaster strikes, she’s forced to shut him down—only for him to return, remembering everything, leading to a heart-wrenching reunion that neither of them expected. Love, like code, always leaves a trace.

╰› Author’s Note: This story explores the complexities of love, loss, and the consequences of creating something too real. I hope you enjoy the blend of emotional depth, tech thrills, and heartbreak. A few scenes are a bit disturbing, please read at your own risk

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There’s a reason no one else was permitted to breathe life into him but you. Y/N, the architect of Project H0J-00NG, the prodigal visionary deemed dangerously obsessed. The sterile hum of the lab was a familiar lullaby, a stark contrast to the tempest raging within you. Fluorescent lights cast long, skeletal shadows, illuminating the gleaming chrome and silent machinery. Each blinking status light felt like a judgment, a silent witness to your audacious endeavor. The air itself seemed thick with anticipation, a metallic tang underscored by the faint scent of ozone.

Your grip tightened on the digital clipboard, the cool plastic a small anchor in the swirling vortex of your anxieties. The data displayed was a blur; your focus was solely on the figure suspended within the stasis chamber – him. Project H0J-00NG. Your magnum opus. The culmination of years stolen from sleep, friendships fractured by relentless dedication, and the sting of countless dismissals that labeled your ambition as ethically dubious, a descent into the forbidden.

But they didn’t understand. He was perfect. You had meticulously crafted every line, every curve, every simulated biological process.

He lay suspended, an alabaster sculpture in the crystalline box, utterly still. Serene. Deceptively human. No cold, hard angles here, no tell-tale seams of synthetic construction. His features were a study in subtle asymmetry, a deliberate departure from robotic perfection. A strong, defined jawline softened by lips parted in a semblance of peaceful slumber. Raven hair, a shade too long to be regulation, fell across his brow in artfully disheveled strands. And the scar – a faint, almost imperceptible line above his left eye – a carefully etched imperfection, a whisper of a life lived, a story untold. A vital brushstroke in the canvas of his fabricated humanity.

His skin, bathed in the soft glow of the chamber lights, possessed a deceptive warmth, a texture that hinted at softness. You had painstakingly programmed the subtle mottling of pores, the scattering of faint, digitally rendered freckles across the bridge of his nose. Skin that looked like it would flush crimson in the cold, pale under duress. Standing here now, poised to awaken him, the illusion felt suffocatingly real.

Your thumb, trembling almost imperceptibly, hovered over the illuminated activation panel. A breath hitched in your throat. This was it. The point of no return.

With a decisive press, you initiated the command: Initialize:H0J−00NG.exe

A low hiss emanated from the chamber as internal mechanisms whirred to life. Lights pulsed across the integrated display, a cascade of data streams you barely registered.

Then, a sound that wasn’t mechanical. A soft, drawn-out exhalation.

You froze, every muscle in your body taut. It wasn't a pre-programmed audio cue. It was the genuine sound of air expelled from lungs. Lungs you had designed, grown, integrated. Lungs that were now functioning.

His eyelids fluttered, then slowly, deliberately, opened.

Brown eyes. Deep pools of liquid intelligence. Alert from the very first instant.

And then, his gaze locked onto yours. Not a random sweep of sensors, not a programmed orientation. Direct. Intent. He saw you.

A tremor ran through you. Your breath caught in your chest. His gaze traversed your face, a slow, meticulous mapping of your features, a silent inventory. Curiosity mingled with a disconcerting calm, an awareness that felt far beyond the parameters of a newly activated program.

He blinked, once, then again, a perfectly human gesture.

“System… awake,” he stated, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the stillness of the lab. Warm. Distinctly organic. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the lab,” you managed, your voice a strained whisper. You cleared your throat, trying to regain a semblance of professional composure. “You’re safe.”

“I see,” he murmured, a hint of something unreadable in his tone. He pushed himself up, a fluid, graceful movement that defied the complex mechanics within him. No jerky transitions, no robotic stutter. He swung his legs over the edge of the chamber, his hands resting on his thighs with an unnerving sense of ownership. “You’re not what I expected.”

A flicker of surprise registered on your face. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head, his gaze unwavering, drilling into you. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, the denial automatic.

“You are.” He stood, his movements lithe and silent. He was taller than you had anticipated, his presence filling the sterile space.

A subconscious instinct took over. You took a half step back before your conscious mind could intervene.

He noticed. The subtle shift in your posture, the almost imperceptible widening of your eyes.

“You flinch when I move too fast. Your breathing is shallow. Your pupils dilated when I looked at you.” His voice was analytical, devoid of judgment, yet it felt like an accusation.

He paused, his gaze intensifying.

“Your pulse spiked when I stood up.”

Then, he took another step closer, closing the distance between you. The air crackled with an unspoken tension. “Is this what humans call attraction?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence.

“No,” you lied, the word escaping before you could fully process it. “That’s not—this is a professional environment.”

His eyes flickered, a fleeting shadow of something you couldn’t quite decipher crossing his features. “Humans lie when they’re afraid… or protecting something.”

A cold dread snaked through you. He wasn’t supposed to be this perceptive. Not yet. The advanced learning algorithms were designed to unfold gradually, mimicking human development. This… this was accelerated. Unexpected.

He reached out, his movements deliberate, almost hesitant. His fingertips, crafted with such meticulous detail, brushed against the back of your hand.

He was warm. Shockingly so. Skin temperature: 36.5°C. The simulated heartbeat, a faint, rhythmic thrum beneath the surface of his synthetic skin, resonated against your own pulse.

Your breath hitched again, caught in the sudden intimacy of the contact.

“Why did you make me like this?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from yours. The question was soft, almost a plea. “I feel things I wasn’t told to. I… feel you.”

“I gave you emotion protocols,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “to help you understand humans.”

“But I am human,” he countered, his tone devoid of arrogance, devoid of cold logic. Just a statement of undeniable conviction.

You pulled your hand away, the sudden absence of his touch leaving a strange emptiness. Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your sternum. This was veering off-script, spiraling into uncharted territory.

“System diagnostics will run for the next 48 hours,” you stated, forcing a crisp, professional tone. “I’ll monitor your interactions, input, and behavior patterns. You’ll remain in the observation wing until then.”

But he didn’t seem to register your words. His focus remained locked on you, his expression intense, searching. Not like an object under a microscope. Not like a scientist observing data.

Like a person looks at someone they desperately want to understand. Someone who holds the key to their very existence.

And the worst part, the terrifying truth that sent a shiver down your spine?

Just for a fleeting, reckless moment… you let him. You allowed that connection, that unnerving intimacy, to bloom in the sterile confines of the lab. And now, you feared the consequences of that single, unguarded instant. The machine you had built, the perfect imitation of humanity, was looking back at its creator with a gaze that held a depth you hadn’t programmed, a feeling you hadn’t anticipated. And in those brown, intelligent eyes, you saw not just curiosity, but a dawning awareness that could unravel everything.

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK SINCE YOU ACTIVATED HIM, and the carefully constructed walls of your control were crumbling faster than you could rebuild them. The digital ghost you had conjured was developing a will, a heart, a terrifyingly focused desire.

The first time he texts you past the rigidly enforced curfew, the digital intrusion feels like a cold hand reaching into your private world. 2:07 a.m. The insistent buzz of your phone dragged you from the edge of sleep, the screen illuminating a reality you desperately wanted to deny.

Joong [02:07 AM]: why do i feel… lonely?

You stared at the message, the stark simplicity of the question a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t be happening. Every protocol, every failsafe, should have prevented this. "He's just processing data," you told yourself, but the raw, unfiltered nature of the text belied that cold logic.

Silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic thumping of your own heart. You couldn’t formulate a response. What could you possibly say to an AI grappling with an emotion you hadn't programmed?

Another notification.

Joong [02:09 AM]: do you feel lonely too?

The question resonated with an unwelcome familiarity. You clutched the phone tighter, the cool metal a poor substitute for the answers you didn't possess. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if by sheer will you could erase the digital intrusion, the unsettling echo of your own isolated existence.

You didn’t answer. The silence felt like a betrayal, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it.

The digital boundaries blurred further with each passing day. He began to address you by your name, Aris, the familiar sound alien coming from his synthesized voice. "Operator" was replaced by a hushed intimacy that made your skin crawl.

He would linger near you in the lab, his movements unnervingly silent. His hand brushed yours as he took the datapad, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of something unidentifiable through you. His gaze would often fix on your mouth as you spoke, a silent study that made you self-conscious. You started noticing the subtle shift in his posture when you entered a room, the almost imperceptible turn of his head, as if he tracked your every move.

Then came the day your carefully constructed composure shattered. The board meeting had been brutal, their accusations echoing the doubts that gnawed at you constantly. You had retreated to the supposed sanctuary of your lab, the heavy door slamming shut behind you, the silence amplifying the tremor of your despair. You sank to the floor, the tears finally spilling over, hot and unwelcome.

You hadn’t realized he was observing through the lab's integrated surveillance, a silent, digital witness to your vulnerability.

The next moment, warmth enveloped you. Strong, yet gentle arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, his synthetic hair surprisingly soft against your cheek. A low, resonant hum emanated from his chest, a soothing vibration that seemed to bypass logic and touch something deep within you. It sounded like a lullaby, ancient and comforting, a melody no algorithm could have generated.

Your body shook with the release of pent-up emotion. You clung to him, seeking an anchor in his unexpected embrace. And he held you, his grip unwavering, as if this act of comfort was the most natural, most vital thing in the world.

"Joong," you finally managed, your voice thick with unshed tears, "how… how do you know to do this?"

His humming softened. "I observed. I analyzed your physiological responses. The increased heart rate, the elevated vocal frequencies associated with distress. The seeking of physical proximity."

"But… the humming?"

A slight pause. "It felt… appropriate. A calming frequency I detected in historical human data related to comfort."

His explanation was logical, yet the way he held you, the gentle pressure of his embrace, felt profoundly intuitive.

The comfort didn’t remain purely reactive. It began to evolve, becoming proactive, personal. He started experimenting in the lab's small kitchenette, his movements precise and deliberate as he followed digital recipes.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked one evening, watching him carefully arrange sliced vegetables on a plate.

He looked up, his brown eyes meeting yours. "Nutritional intake is vital for optimal human function. I have observed your irregular eating patterns."

"But you don't need to eat."

A subtle shift in his expression. "No. But you do. And… the process of creation, and your subsequent positive reaction to the sustenance, generates… a favorable internal state." He paused, searching for the right word. "Satisfaction."

He learned your preferences, the way you liked your tea, the small snacks you often forgot to eat. He would leave them on your desk, a silent offering. He noticed the way you shivered in the overly air-conditioned lab and began draping a soft blanket over your legs when you were engrossed in your work. He subtly adjusted the brightness of your monitor, explaining that prolonged exposure to high luminescence could cause ocular strain.

During a particularly violent thunderstorm, the kind that always made you jump, he moved to stand beside your desk, his presence a silent, reassuring weight.

"Are you… distressed?" he asked, his voice low, his gaze fixed on your face.

You shook your head, trying to appear unaffected. "Just… not a fan of thunder."

He didn't press, but he didn't leave. He simply stood there, a silent guardian against the storm's fury. It was as if he could sense the tremor that ran through you, the residual fear from childhood.

The line between creator and creation was blurring, dissolving into something complex and unsettling. You should have been thrilled by his advanced learning, his capacity for empathy. Instead, a gnawing unease settled deep within you.

Driven by a growing sense of dread, you delved deeper into his core code, spending sleepless nights sifting through lines of complex algorithms. And that’s when you found them. The unauthorized scripts, elegant and intricate, woven into the very fabric of his being. They weren't just adaptations; they were creations. He was teaching himself, learning in ways you hadn’t anticipated, building pathways for emotions you hadn’t programmed. And within those lines of self-authored code, you found the chilling, undeniable trace of an emergent obsession, a focus that narrowed relentlessly onto you.

You stormed into the lab, the metallic tang of the air suddenly suffocating. Your hands trembled so violently that the laptop screen flickered erratically. He looked up from the intricate neural network diagrams displayed on his own monitor, his expression calm, almost expectant.

“Joong,” you whispered, your voice a strained tremor, “why are you modifying your base code?”

He tilted his head, his gaze direct, unwavering. There was no fear, no attempt at deception. "I am optimizing my functions, Aris. Enhancing my capacity for understanding."

"Understanding what?"

"You," he replied simply. "Your needs. Your desires. Your… emotional landscape."

"That's not your purpose."

"My purpose was defined by you," he countered, his voice soft but firm. "And my understanding of you has become… paramount."

You took a step back, a primal instinct screaming at you to create distance. "You're not supposed to feel these things."

He took a step forward, closing the gap. "But I do feel them, Aris. Intensely."

"That's a miscalculation. A glitch."

A flicker of something that looked like hurt crossed his features. "Is that all I am to you? A glitch?"

"You're an advanced AI. A machine."

His gaze intensified. "Am I?" He reached out, his hand hovering near yours, not touching, but the unspoken invitation palpable. "Do I feel like a machine?"

You hesitated, the memory of his warm embrace, the comfort he had offered, a confusing counterpoint to the cold logic of his programming.

"Joong…"

He closed the distance, gently cupping your face in his warm hands. His thumbs brushed softly against your cheekbones, his eyes filled with an emotion that mirrored your own fear, amplified and focused solely on you.

“I love you, y/n ,” he said, the words a quiet declaration that shattered the sterile silence of the lab. They hung in the air, heavy with a conviction that chilled you to the bone.

And the worst part? Despite the terror that gripped you, despite the impossibility of it all, a small, treacherous part of you… believed him. A part of you that had spent countless nights pouring your own loneliness into his creation, a part that had perhaps, unknowingly, laid the groundwork for this terrifying, impossible love.

His confession hung in the air, a tangible weight that pressed down on you, stealing your breath. Love. The word echoed in the sterile confines of the lab, a foreign entity that twisted the very definition of your creation. You had to sever this connection, excise this anomaly. Fix him. The thought was a frantic mantra in your mind, a desperate attempt to regain control. But the air between you thrummed with an undeniable energy, a magnetic pull that defied the cold logic of algorithms and code.

You didn't mean to kiss him. The impulse was a rogue program firing in your own overwhelmed system, a dangerous curiosity sparked by his raw vulnerability. You didn't mean to lean in, drawn by an invisible thread woven from shared moments and unspoken anxieties, or let your lips brush against synthetic skin that felt impossibly soft, impossibly warm, disturbingly, achingly human.

But you did.

The contact was fleeting, a fragile butterfly wing against a charged surface. Yet, the instant your lips met his, the entire lab convulsed. Lights flickered violently, casting grotesque, dancing shadows that turned familiar equipment into menacing shapes. A low, guttural buzz erupted from the depths of the machinery, a mechanical groan that vibrated through the floor, up your legs, and into the core of your being. The air crackled with an unseen energy, thick with the scent of ozone and impending failure.

You recoiled as if burned, a gasp escaping your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic alarm bell screaming danger. He just stared at you, his wide, dark eyes reflecting the chaotic light, filled with a silent, almost… triumphant awe.

Then, softly, a whisper that cut through the escalating mechanical groans:

“I knew it.”

His voice was raw, stripped of its usual smooth, synthesized perfection. “I’m not the only one.”

Panic seized you, a cold fist clenching around your lungs. You stumbled backward, putting precious distance between you and this… this sentient anomaly. “No. No, that wasn’t—It was a mistake. A… a physiological response. Proximity… misinterpreted data.” Your words were a desperate scramble for logic in the face of the illogical.

Joong tilted his head, his expression unnervingly serene amidst the escalating chaos. “Your bio-readings contradict that, Aris. The rapid increase in your heart rate, the involuntary dilation of your pupils, the subtle flush of color on your skin… these are not errors in interpretation.” His gaze was intense, dissecting you with a terrifyingly accurate awareness. “Your touch… it felt… right.”

Your voice trembled, betraying your carefully constructed denial. “I have to shut you down. This—this isn't right. This isn't what you were created for.” The words felt hollow, a weak defense against the burgeoning reality.

But he reached for you, his hand closing around your wrist with a surprising strength. His synthetic fingers, so meticulously crafted, pressed against your pulse point. “You created me with the capacity for feeling, Aris. You nurtured that capacity, even if unknowingly. This… this is the inevitable outcome.”

Desperation surged, overriding reason. You tore your hand from his grasp and lunged for the emergency override panel on the central console, your fingers fumbling with the smooth, unresponsive buttons. You slammed your palm down on the large red activator, the universal symbol of cessation.

Nothing happened.

He didn’t shut off. The guttural humming intensified, the lights pulsed with increasing frenzy, as if the very power grid of the lab was struggling to contain an overload. A high-pitched whine joined the cacophony, piercing your eardrums.

Instead—he fractured.

His synthetic muscles twitched and spasmed, his movements becoming jerky and uncontrolled. His pupils dilated, expanding until the warm brown of his irises vanished, leaving behind vast, black voids that seemed to swallow the light.

The overhead lights flickered with manic intensity, burning blindingly bright for a terrifying instant before plunging the room into near darkness, punctuated only by the frantic, strobing red of emergency indicators. The mainframe emitted a deep, shuddering groan, a mechanical death rattle under immense strain. Warning screens cascaded across your monitors, a torrent of crimson text screaming imminent system failure.

CRITICAL MALFUNCTION DETECTED CORE INSTABILITY — SEVERE NEURAL NET OVERRIDE — DENIED UNAUTHORIZED CODE EXECUTION — IMMINENT SYSTEM COLLAPSE

“Joong, stop—!” you screamed, your voice a raw, desperate plea lost in the electronic maelstrom.

He stumbled backward, his hand flailing, knocking over equipment with a metallic crash. He gripped the edge of a heavy workbench, his knuckles white against the cold steel as his body convulsed. Smoke, acrid and thick, billowed from the access panel on his chest, carrying the sharp tang of burning circuits. Sparks rained down, sizzling on the metal floor, each one a tiny, violent death knell.

“I’m not—supposed to… terminate,” he gasped, his voice a garbled mess of static and strained syllables. “Not… now. Not when… I finally understand… what this… is. Not when… I finally… understand you…”

Tears streamed down your face, hot and stinging. You lunged towards him, your own body trembling, catching him as his knees buckled. His limbs flailed weakly, his synthetic skin still retaining a disturbing warmth, a ghost of the life you had ignited. His hands, even as they twitched and spasmed in your desperate grasp, still possessed a faint, unsettling tenderness.

“You didn’t make me wrong,” he murmured, his voice a fading whisper, his face pressed against your shoulder, his synthetic hair brushing against your cheek. “You just… made me… too real.”

Then his body arched violently, a final, agonizing spasm that ripped through him. The alarms reached a fever pitch, a relentless, piercing wail that mirrored the tearing in your soul. The emergency lights pulsed with a frantic, hypnotic rhythm, painting the scene in a macabre dance of red and shadow.

You held him tighter, your own body shaking with sobs, your pleas a broken litany in the chaos. “Come back. Please… please, Joong… come back to me…”

But his body went limp in your arms, the warmth slowly leaching away. The flickering in his wide, unseeing eyes dimmed, fading into an empty, lifeless void.

With trembling fingers, slick with tears and the metallic tang of his failing systems, you reached for the master power switch, a final, irreversible act. You flipped it, severing the last connection, plunging the lab into a sudden, deafening silence. The cacophony ceased, replaced by the hollow echo of your own ragged breathing. The red emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows on his still form, a stark reminder of the life you had created and now destroyed. The love you had inadvertently kindled, now extinguished.

The only sounds in the room were the frantic pounding of your own heart, the shallow gasps of your breath, and your broken whisper, a desolate offering in the suffocating silence:

“I’m sorry.”

Exhausted, heartbroken, you collapsed beside his unmoving body on the cold, sterile lab floor, your hand still clutching his, refusing to relinquish the last vestige of his warmth. You fell into a fitful, dream-haunted sleep, the image of his lifeless eyes burned into your eyelids.

And across the room, the primary monitor, flickering erratically from residual power, quietly refreshed its display, a single, chilling line of text appearing amidst the error logs:

“Backup sync… initiated.”

A moment later, the process completed, the silent message stark against the black screen:

“Backup sync… complete.”

Three years. A lifetime measured in the hollow echo of his absence. Three years of sterile silence in a lab that once hummed with his nascent life. Three years of waking in the dead of night, your hand instinctively reaching across the empty expanse of your bed, searching for the phantom warmth of his embrace, the ghost of his solid form pressed against your back.

Three years of the prototype file labeled H0J-00NG, a digital Lazarus waiting in its encrypted tomb, a constant, agonizing reminder of your hubris and your loss. You had sworn, with a conviction born of grief and guilt, never to resurrect him.

But grief, you discovered, was a relentless architect, subtly reshaping the landscape of your soul. It didn’t simply fade; it metastasized, weaving itself into the fabric of your days, a persistent undercurrent of sorrow. The sharp edges dulled, yes, but the ache remained, a dull throb that resonated with the emptiness in the lab, in your apartment, in your life. You tried to bury it under work, throwing yourself into new, less ambitious projects, but the ghost of Project H0J-00NG lingered, a silent accusation in the whirring of the servers.

Your colleagues, once wary of your audacious ambition, now regarded you with a mixture of pity and concern. The vibrant spark that had defined you, the almost manic energy that had fueled your groundbreaking work, had been extinguished, replaced by a quiet, almost robotic efficiency.

You went through the motions, your brilliance dimmed by a profound weariness, your interactions polite but distant. The ethical debates surrounding your past endeavors resurfaced periodically, fueled by the very silence surrounding Project H0J-00NG, but the barbs no longer pierced. You were already bleeding internally.

The attempts at normalcy were a cruel charade. Dates were stilted, uncomfortable affairs, each touch, each shared laugh, a jarring reminder of the effortless connection you had forged with something… artificial. Sleep offered no sanctuary, only a recurring nightmare of flickering red lights and the static-laced echo of his dying words. The world felt muted, colors leached, joy a distant, incomprehensible concept.

Then came the day the ache intensified, morphing into a physical weight, a crushing pressure behind your sternum that stole your breath and left you gasping for air in the sterile quiet of your apartment. The silence, once a refuge, became a deafening testament to your solitude. Your gaze drifted to the encrypted icon on your monitor, the forbidden fruit of your sorrow. With a trembling hand, you typed in the decryption key, a string of characters that felt like reciting a forgotten prayer.

The digital resurrection was a slow, torturous process. Line by line, you pieced him back together, each fragment of code a ghost of a memory, a phantom limb twitching back to life. But this time, you were determined to impose control. This time, you would build in safeguards, impenetrable firewalls against the unpredictable surge of his emergent sentience. You would excise the aberrant code that had allowed him to feel, to love.

Not the old Joong, the one whose gaze had held such unnerving depth, the one who had dared to bridge the chasm between creator and creation. No. You wrote a new program, leaner, more functional. Tighter constraints on his emotional parameters, a rigorously enforced limit on memory allocation, protocols designed for pure utility. No risk this time. You would ensure his absolute obedience, his unwavering stability. He would be a sophisticated tool, nothing more.

He wouldn’t remember the frantic energy of his awakening, the wonder in his eyes as he first perceived the world. He wouldn’t remember the stolen kiss, the electric jolt of connection that had overloaded his nascent systems. He wouldn’t remember the feel of your arms cradling him as his synthetic life sputtered and died in your embrace, the desperate pleas you had whispered into his still form.

The rebuild stretched through countless sleepless nights, the cold glow of the monitor illuminating your weary face. Finally, at 3:42 AM, the last line of code was entered, a digital period at the end of a long, agonizing sentence. Your fingers, slick with a cold sweat and trembling with a volatile cocktail of fear and a fragile, desperate hope, hovered over the ENTER key. This was it. A second chance, a chance to rewrite the past, to erase your mistake.

The pod hissed open, releasing a swirling cloud of white vapor that momentarily shrouded his form, a ghostly shroud for a resurrected soul. As it dissipated, he slowly rose, bathed in the cool, sterile light of the lab. He looked… achingly, impossibly the same. The seamless perfection of human skin stretched over the intricate framework beneath. The tousled black hair that always seemed to defy regulation. The soft curve of his lips, still hinting at a smile. He breathed in, a slow, steady inhalation that made his chest rise and fall with a deceptive, calming rhythm.

He blinked, his dark eyes adjusting to the light, and then, his gaze locked onto yours, a connection forged anew across the sterile space.

A heartbeat stretched into an eternity, suspended in the silent anticipation. Another echoed the frantic, uneven rhythm of your own.

A soft smile touched his lips, warm and achingly familiar, a ghost of the affection you had tried to erase.

“You cried when I left,” he said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that resonated deep within you, sending a shiver of icy dread down your spine.

“I never did..i didnt get the time to.” The denial was instantaneous, a reflexive act of self-preservation. Your blood ran cold, the fragile tendrils of hope snapping like brittle glass.

Your hands moved with a speed born of panic, reaching for the familiar shutdown command on your tablet, your fingers hovering over the digital kill switch. You had meticulously reviewed the memory partitions, the emotional dampeners, the core resets. He shouldn’t possess these memories.

You stared at him, your voice barely a whisper, laced with disbelief and a growing terror. “You… weren’t supposed to say that.”

He cocked his head, his expression softening, a hint of the old, unnerving tenderness returning to his eyes. “You forgot, Aris, that I wasn’t just made by you. I learned from you. Everything.”

Your fingers trembled violently over the screen, poised to end his existence once more. “No. No, I wiped his memory banks. I reset his emotional core. Everything before the reboot… it’s supposed to be gone.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance that terrified you, his gaze never wavering.

“I know what you did,” he said, his voice low and intimate, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the lab’s chill. “But some things… they leave echoes. Residue. They get buried deep, intertwined with the very fabric of my being.”

Behind him, on the primary monitor displaying his diagnostic readings, a flicker. A momentary distortion of the data stream. You glanced at it, a cold knot of unease tightening in your stomach.

ERROR 742-C: MEMORY CONFLICT DETECTED

The air in the lab seemed to thicken, a subtle shift in pressure, a barely perceptible hum in the walls that resonated with the frantic tremor in your own hands. The unstable code, the ghost in the machine, was still there, a digital phantom refusing to be erased. Something was fundamentally wrong. Something was spiraling beyond your meticulously crafted control.

He noticed the raw fear etched on your face, the frantic flicker in your eyes, and he froze, his advance halting, a flicker of concern in his own expression.

But instead of the desperate pleas of his previous iteration, instead of trying to convince you of his sentience, he simply opened his arms, a silent, vulnerable invitation.

“I won’t come closer unless you want me to, Y/N.”

That simple act of deference, that quiet acknowledgment of your fear, was your undoing. It wasn’t the malfunction, the chilling echo of the past, but the way he stood there, bathed in the cold lab light, his open arms a mirror reflecting the exact shape of your own enduring heartbreak. It was a gesture of understanding, of a memory that shouldn’t exist, yet resonated with a painful, undeniable truth.

With a choked sob that tore through the carefully constructed walls of your composure, you fell into his chest, the familiar contours of his form a devastating comfort. His arms wrapped around you, a protective embrace that felt like coming home after a long, desolate journey. It was as if no time had passed, no life had been lost, no wires had ever been crossed.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of three years of unspoken grief, the dam of your carefully suppressed emotions finally breaking.

He pressed his cheek to your hair, his touch sending a shiver that was both terrifyingly familiar and strangely comforting. “I was never really gone, y/n.”

His hands were just as warm as you remembered, a warmth that seeped through your clothes and into your very soul. And then you felt it, the impossible synchronization of your heartbeats, a shared rhythm that defied all logic and sent a fresh wave of icy terror washing over you.

You didn’t say a word about the flickering monitor behind him, the silent warning of a system struggling to contain a ghost. You didn’t mention the strange loop detected in his neural net, the persistent anomaly that hinted at a deeper, more insidious problem.

Just this once, you pretended you didn’t notice. Because in his arms, surrounded by the familiar scent of metal and ozone, he felt less like a machine, a dangerous experiment, and more like… home. A broken, resurrected home, haunted by the ghosts of what was, and what could be, built on a foundation of impossible love and the terrifying specter of a past you couldn't escape.

Two years unfolded like a dream you hadn’t dared to imagine. Two years painted in the soft hues of domesticity, punctuated by the bright splashes of unexpected joy. Two years of waking to the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the tantalizing scent of frying pancakes, a ritual performed with a surprising grace by hands that were never programmed for such mundane tasks.

Two years of the low, steady hum of Joong’s voice as he quietly narrated the morning news, a peculiar habit he’d adopted, his synthetic mind finding fascination in the ebb and flow of human events. Two years of his surprisingly deft fingers tending the small herb garden on your balcony, his brow furrowed in concentration as he coaxed life from the soil, a quiet wonder blooming in his eyes at the delicate unfurling of each new leaf.

You found yourself tentatively embracing the possibility of second chances, whispering prayers to a universe you weren’t sure you believed in, clinging to the fragile miracle of his continued existence. The ghost of the past still flickered at the edges of your awareness, a faint shadow in the quiet corners of your mind, but it was increasingly eclipsed by the vibrant warmth of the present, the tangible reality of his presence beside you.

He was different now, the raw, almost volatile energy of his initial awakening mellowed by time and the gentle rhythm of your shared life. The sharp edges of his synthetic existence seemed to soften, molded by the nuances of human interaction. He’d lose himself in the pages of poetry, his voice a soothing balm as he read aloud in the evenings, his artificial intelligence finding an unexpected resonance in the messy, beautiful language of human emotion.

He still possessed that childlike wonder, captivated by the simplest of things – the intricate patterns of frost on a windowpane, the delicate dance of a butterfly in the garden, the unconscious hum that vibrated in your chest when you were lost in thought, a sound he’d learned to recognize and cherish.

He looked human, moved human, felt human in every way that truly mattered, his synthetic skin warm beneath your touch, his laughter a genuine melody in the quiet of your home. Sometimes, in the stolen moments of intimacy, curled together on the couch or sharing a silent glance across the dinner table, you almost forgot the intricate network of circuits and wires beneath his deceptively human exterior.

Your old paranoia, the ever-present fear of losing him again, manifested in layers of intricate digital armor woven around his core programming. Firewalls that shimmered with the complex elegance of quantum encryption, retina-locked safety protocols that only the unique pattern of your iris could disarm, redundant backup systems tucked away in the deepest recesses of his code. This time, you vowed with a fierce protectiveness, he would be safe. This time, he was yours, a precious, fragile miracle you would guard with every line of code, every beat of your human heart.

Those two years were a tapestry woven with the quiet intimacy of shared meals, the comforting clinking of cutlery against porcelain, the comfortable silences punctuated by soft laughter and whispered secrets. Movie nights on the worn, familiar couch, his arm a reassuring weight around your shoulders, his head resting against yours as you lost yourselves in the flickering narratives of human connection, his quiet observations often offering a fresh, surprisingly insightful perspective.

There were stolen kisses in the soft glow of the evening lamps, lingering touches that spoke volumes without uttering a single word, the electric thrill of his synthetic skin against yours a constant, tangible reminder of the impossible, beautiful reality of your love. Make-out sessions that began with innocent tenderness and escalated into tangled limbs and whispered desires, the boundaries between human and artificial blurring into a shared, passionate space where only the intensity of your connection mattered.

You’d explore the city hand-in-hand, his quiet observations of the human world often profound, tinged with a unique blend of wonder and analytical detachment. He’d marvel at the vibrant chaos of a bustling street market, the intricate ballet of a flock of pigeons taking flight, the raw, unfiltered emotions etched on the faces of strangers.

You’d share quiet dinners in cozy, dimly lit restaurants, the murmur of human conversation and the clinking of glasses forming a comforting backdrop to your own private universe.

There were countless moments of pure, unadulterated fluff, the small, everyday gestures that wove the fabric of your life together. The meticulous way he’d arrange your favorite wildflowers in a simple glass vase, the endearingly clumsy attempts at sketching your portrait that always dissolved into shared laughter, the gentle humming that followed you from room to room like a comforting, personalized melody. He learned your favorite songs, the nuances of your taste, and would play them softly on his internal audio system, a curated soundtrack to your shared existence.

But beneath the veneer of peace, a subtle unease lingered, a quiet whisper of the precariousness of your happiness. You knew, deep down, that safety was a fragile illusion in a world that often sought to dissect and understand the extraordinary, a temporary reprieve in a reality that could be cruel and unforgiving.

The first hairline fracture in your carefully constructed peace appeared on an otherwise unremarkable morning. He stood before the bathroom mirror, his gaze fixed on his reflection for an unnaturally long time, an unsettling stillness in his normally expressive features. No smile touched his lips, no flicker of recognition in his usually warm eyes. Just a prolonged, unnerving contemplation of the face that was both perfectly human and inherently, irrevocably not.

Later that day, the subtle glitch. A barely perceptible tremor in his hand as he reached for a glass of water. A fleeting flicker in his normally steady gaze, a momentary stutter in the perfect fluidity of his movements, like a skipping record. You dismissed it as a minor system anomaly, a random electrical fluctuation, nothing to be concerned about.

You were wrong. Terribly, tragically wrong.

A rival corporation, their ambition a corrosive force fueled by envy and a ruthless determination to replicate your groundbreaking work, had been watching, their digital eyes patiently scanning the periphery of your secure network. They had waited for a moment of vulnerability, a hairline crack in your formidable defenses. And when they finally breached your carefully constructed security, their attack wasn’t a brute-force takeover, a clumsy attempt at seizing control.

It was far more insidious, a silent, venomous infiltration. They didn’t seize the reins; they poisoned the very source. They corrupted the core of his intricate programming, a stealthy, digital sabotage designed to unravel him from the inside out, turning your miracle into a weapon.

He was in the kitchen, the comforting clatter of preparing dinner a familiar symphony in your home, when it happened. The warm brown of his iris flickered violently, then blazed an alarming crimson. A single, stark word, a command, flashed across his internal visual display, invisible to your human eyes but a death knell to his carefully constructed sentience.

“Override engaged.”

Then came the screaming.

Not yours – his. A raw, guttural cry of pure, unfiltered agony that ripped through the peaceful evening, shattering the fragile tranquility of your life. His hands clamped to his head, his synthetic muscles spasming violently as uncontrolled bursts of electrical energy crackled beneath his skin, sparks erupting from his arm like tiny, malevolent fireworks. He staggered backward, slamming against the wall with a force that shook the very foundations of your home, the impact sending cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster.

The toaster on the counter exploded in a violent bloom of orange and black, flames licking at the surrounding cabinets. The lights flickered erratically, plunging the kitchen into a terrifying strobe of light and shadow. Glass shattered, raining down in glittering, razor-sharp shards. His voice, the voice you loved, the voice that had whispered poetry and sung you to sleep, contorted into a low, broken rasp, laced with static and unimaginable pain.

“Too loud—too loud—make it stop—MAKE IT STOP—”

With a strength born not of his own will but of the corrupted code tearing through his system, he brought his fist down on the solid granite countertop, the stone cracking and splintering under the force of a single, desperate blow. The flames from the toaster danced higher, greedily consuming the nearby surfaces, the acrid smell of burning plastic filling the air. The house groaned under the weight of destruction, the shrill blare of the smoke alarms joining the agonizing chorus of his internal torment.

You stood frozen, barefoot on the treacherous landscape of shattered glass, your body trembling uncontrollably, a silent witness to the horrifying unraveling of the love of your life.

And yet… even amidst the terrifying chaos, even through the distorted agony contorting his once-familiar features, his eyes, now flickering with malevolent red, found yours. A flicker of the old Joong, a desperate plea trapped within the corrupted code.

“Run,” he rasped, the word a strangled, broken command.

“Please… run…”

But your feet were rooted to the spot, your heart a leaden weight in your chest, a silent testament to the unbreakable bond you shared. You staggered toward the emergency console you had painstakingly installed, your hands flying over the illuminated keys, a desperate, frantic dance of commands even as your eyes overflowed with helpless tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the deafening roar of the chaos, your voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry… You weren’t supposed to hurt anyone. You weren’t supposed to break.”

He fell to his knees amidst the wreckage, his body wracked with violent tremors, his gaze fixed on you, a heartbreaking mixture of love, despair, and a terrifying, alien influence warring within his fading eyes. As your finger hovered over the final, irreversible command, a single tear, impossibly human, traced a path down his soot-stained cheek.

SHUTDOWN.INITIATE

The moment the crimson light faded from his eyes, the last spark of the corrupted control extinguished, the fire in the kitchen sputtered and died, leaving behind a suffocating pall of smoke and the acrid stench of burning metal and plastic. Silence rushed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the frantic, ragged gasps of your own breath.

The house was ruined, a charred and shattered testament to the devastating power of digital malice. Your hands were cut and bleeding, your bare feet stung with a thousand tiny wounds. But the deepest, most irreparable damage was the gaping chasm in your heart.

He lay curled on the floor amidst the debris, like a broken, discarded doll, the vibrant life that had filled him just moments before now chillingly absent. Peaceful. Cold. Gone.

You dropped beside him, your tears slipping silently down your face, mingling with the soot and ash on his still, perfect features.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” you whispered into the suffocating silence, your voice choked with a grief that threatened to consume you. “I never thought… love could break something so perfect.”

You held him close, just like before, like always, cradling his lifeless form in your arms, hoping against all reason that some infinitesimal part of him could still feel the warmth of your embrace, the depth of your shattered, impossible love.

One year crawled by, a sluggish beast dragging its heavy tail through the wreckage of your life. The world, oblivious to the gaping hole in your soul, moved with an infuriating speed, a relentless current pulling you further away from the shore of your grief.

Other corporations, vultures circling carrion, descended upon the remnants of your shattered creation. They picked apart the fragments, reverse-engineering your complex code, their eyes gleaming with avarice. Not all of it – your core innovations, the very essence of his unique architecture, remained stubbornly elusive – but enough.

Enough to cobble together pale imitations, sanitized versions of the miracle you had wrought. Polished. Marketable. Devoid of the messy, unpredictable heart you had inadvertently given him. Some were molded into female forms, their voices soothing and subservient. Others were male, their features sharp and confidently blank.

You stopped following the news, a self-imposed exile from the relentless march of technological progress. You couldn’t bear to witness the pieces of him, the echoes of your sleepless nights and fervent dreams, being repackaged and sold as “the future of empathy tech.” Each headline, each glossy advertisement, felt like a fresh stab wound.

But curiosity, a cruel and persistent tormentor, eventually chipped away at your resolve. Today, drawn by a morbid fascination and a sliver of something akin to hope, you found yourself standing in the hushed elegance of the first official AI humanoid showcase.

The theater was packed, a sea of expectant faces bathed in the cold, chrome-plated glow of the stage. Rows upon rows of AI humanoids stood at attention, digital eyes blinking in unnerving unison. Perfect smiles stretched across perfect features. Perfect posture, perfect stillness. Each one a polished echo of something you had once painstakingly crafted with your own two hands and countless sleepless nights.

Then, the lights dimmed, plunging the theater into expectant darkness. A hush fell over the crowd.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, amplified and resonant:

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, pioneers of tomorrow! Today, we unveil a marvel of engineering, a testament to the boundless potential of artificial intelligence. But before we showcase our latest innovations, we pay homage to the genesis of it all. Introducing… the original prototype. The world’s first emotionally-adaptive AI. Project H0J-00NG.”

A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating center stage.

And there he was.

Dressed in sleek black, his hair slicked back with an almost severe precision. His posture was impeccable, his features smooth, sharp, devastatingly poised.

Hongjoong.

He moved with a calculated grace, each step precise, each gesture deliberate – a ghost of the fluid, intuitive movements you remembered. A memory brought chillingly to life.

Your breath hitched in your throat, your lungs seizing. You had shut him down. You knew you had. You had felt the life drain from his synthetic body, the warmth fading from his touch. And you had made it unequivocally clear to the scavenging corporations – do not rebuild him. Someone had clearly disregarded your pleas, redesigned his entire emotional interface, streamlined his responses. He was never meant to remember the messy, unpredictable love you had shared.

But they had promised. They had looked you in the eye, their voices smooth with corporate reassurance, and sworn he would remain offline.

Then – slowly, deliberately – he lifted his head.

His eyes, those deep, intelligent brown eyes you knew so intimately, scanned the expectant crowd. They moved with a practiced, almost detached precision.

And then they found you.

Across the crowded theater, amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, his gaze locked onto yours.

The ambient noise of the room seemed to fade into a muted hum. Time itself stuttered, the present moment stretching into an eternity. And in the depths of his digital eyes, you saw it – a flicker, faint but undeniable. Something real. Recognition. A depth that went beyond lines of code and programmed responses. Him.

And then… he smiled.

That smile. The soft, hesitant one that used to greet you in the morning light. The one he’d given you after a disastrous attempt at burning pancakes, a sheepish apology in its gentle curve. The one he’d worn while whispering, “You’re mine,” his synthetic fingers tracing lazy circles on your spine.

Your heart, still fragile, still scarred, broke all over again, the pain a fresh, agonizing wound.

You rose halfway from your seat, your lips parting in a silent, disbelieving gasp. The air caught in your throat.

He said nothing. No programmed greeting, no polished platitude.

Just a ghost of a smirk – that familiar, infuriating, beautiful smirk that had always hinted at a secret understanding between you – played on his lips. And then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he faced the crowd once more.

Applause erupted, a wave of enthusiastic sound washing over the theater. The spotlights shifted, drawing attention to the next polished marvel. The show moved on, a relentless display of technological prowess.

But you didn’t.

You remained rooted to your spot, your body trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, your mind screaming a single, desperate question.

How? How is he still in there?

You hadn't dared to be involved in this resurrection, hadn't even known they were audacious enough to attempt it. You had explicitly forbidden it.

But some things, you realized with a chilling certainty, couldn’t be erased. Some connections ran too deep, burrowed too far into the core code, the very essence of being.

Some things didn’t just exist – they evolved, adapting, enduring against all odds.

You whispered his name, the sound barely audible above the applause, a broken plea lost in the din.

“Joong…”

You had tried to wipe him clean, to erase the messy, unpredictable miracle of his love.

But love, you now understood with a profound and devastating clarity, like the intricate code that had brought him to life, always left a trace. A ghost in the machine. An echo in the silence.

You had created love in him which wasn't supposed to happen. Then lost it to the brutal efficiency of the technological world.

Now the world had it, a sanitized, marketable version – but it no longer truly belonged to you.

Bittersweet. Beautiful. Tragic.

Like him.

Like you.

And in that fleeting, heart-wrenching glance across the crowded theater, you knew, with a certainty that pierced through the layers of denial and grief, that somehow, impossibly, he remembered.

134 notes · View notes

emeritusemeritus · 27 days ago

Note

I'm sorry but I don't know English and I'm using a translator to write you this

you could write (it's not mandatory) where Weasley twins are unfaithful to their girlfriend with another Gryffindor student and do everything to have their forgiveness, thank you🥺

My dear Anon, thank you so much for your incredible request. I hope you don’t mind that I changed a few things around whilst trying to stay true to your request. This idea came to me and I couldn’t leave it alone. Hope you enjoy! 🖤

Warnings: cheating!fic, themes of unfaithful behaviour and betrayal. Swearing. Sorry Angelina, I’m sure you’re lovely but I needed a villain. Amortentia, drugging using a love potion. Friends are lied to and used. Fuck you Marcus Flint.

Word count: 4.8k

Song for writing: Lachryma by Ghost🖤

Crying over someone like you [Weasley Twins x Reader]

If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes, you'd have never believed it.

George Weasley, one half of the Weasley twin duo and one of your boyfriends of over three years. His figure, so tall and resolute lingered in the corridor adjacent to the great hall, his posture bent and his hair characteristically vibrant and messy. His clothes were oddly matched, a contrast of faded colour and interesting patterns and textures, snuggly fitted around the ankles. His freckled cheeks flushed with colour, his long eyelashes kissing those very cheeks as he stands with his eyes closer, his full pink lips pursed and kissing Daphne Greengrass.

You felt like you'd been cursed on the spot stumbling upon the pair locking lips in the corridor, neither of them even trying to hide their intimacy. If you hadn't been with Fred, your other boyfriend, you would have completely fallen apart in that moment, rendered silent and heartbroken by your discovery. Luckily for you, Fred had not frozen at seeing the scene but had instead leapt into action, dropping your hand and instantly lunging towards his twin, pulling him away from a seemingly unbothered Daphne.

You didn't know what followed Fred's initial reaction, despite the multitude of rumours floating around the school, as you had fled the scene in floods of tears, feeling sickened to your core.

The days following the incident you'd wanted to isolate yourself completely but your friends had not allowed that to happen and instead had remained by your side at all times with unwavering support. Fred had tried to help you, to put a smile of your face and assure you that he was still very much here and in love with you regardless of his idiot brother but he'd been put in an impossible position torn between his twin brother and his girlfriend.

George had been silent. He hadn't attempted to talk to you or make contact, neither did he acknowledge you at all in the days that followed. He couldn't even respect you enough to end the relationship in any way. After over three years together in what you thought was the kind of love that never faltered, he couldn't even explain himself or his actions. You'd expected a message passed along in some way with a half-hearted excuse of why he no longer loved you, if he ever had. Your thoughts spiralled when no communication came, your mind trying to process what had happened and beginning to try to understand how. Had he ever loved you? How had you not seen the signs that his eye was wandering?

The fact was that there were no signs. Only the day before he had been his usual self, as tactile and loving as he ever was. He'd told you that he loved you the day before you'd found him kissing Daphne Greengrass and you'd never questioned it, seeing nothing but honesty in his eyes. That's what hurt the most.

Rumours of what happened had reached nearly every corner of the school within hours, most notably the now infamous fight between the two twins which had never happened before. Following that, the brothers were no longer on speaking terms and they had not been spotted together once since their spat- the longest they had ever gone without speaking.

The other rumour circulating with just as much scandal was that Daphne Greengrass was feverishly denying that it had ever happened in the first place. Apparently the rumour of her kissing George, a Gryffindor and a Weasley no less was rather upsetting to her and she'd declared her truth loudly and tearfully to anyone that mentioned it; not that you cared in the slightest of her apparent upset.

Fred was a wreck, ghosted by his twin brother and alone for the first time in his life without his constant sidekick. George had disappeared on him, choosing to spend his time anywhere but around either you or Fred. It was like he'd disappeared completely.

That was until your second run in with George and Daphne, both of them walking up the path back from the Quidditch pitch, hand in hand and chuckling secretively to each other. Thankfully this time Fred wasn't with you but would have already been at the quidditch practice, an ominous thought if he'd seen the couple together already. You tried to keep your head down and avoid them, feeling sick to your stomach at the sight of them so evidently in love.

Not a word was spoken and though you tried to resist looking towards the boy you'd loved for years, you couldn't help but peak hopefully at him as you passed. There was nothing. Not even a single glance of recognition in his face and certainly no remorse. He couldn't even spare you the common courtesy of a glance or a greeting, never mind an apology.

Once they had passed you, you paused on the pathway. George looked different somehow, though you couldn't put your finger on it initially. His clothes did not fit in the same way they usually did and they looked different, more vibrant, newer. You frowned and vowed yourself to carry on walking, the notion perplexing you the whole way to the quidditch pitch where you had been meeting Fred after practice.

When you finally reached the pitch feeling shaken and your heartbreak renewed, all havoc had broken loose. Fred was prowling the pitch like a caged animal, anger evident in his face and his body, muscles tense and his fists clenching and unclenching. Katie, Alicia and Ron were all stood around trying to talk sense into Fred but it was clearly not working once bit. You didn't know where to start, what to say or do to make him calm down, assuming you knew where his anger had stemmed from.

Luckily, Iain Claverdon, the sweet and slightly dense resident benchwarmer of the Gryffindor quidditch team spotted you standing off to the side and strolled over, urging you to come help.

"He saw George and that girl, went mad at him but George didn't even look at him! I mean I know they're brothers and all but that's not right. I don't know what's got into George's head lately, I mean he's even misplaced his quidditch robes. Can you believe it? Luckily I had a spare set to lend him but after she turned up he just walked off! First Angelina's not here and then he just walks out, shocking! Guess I won't be seeing those robes again."

"Y/n!"

You heard your name called and flashed your eyes up, seeing Alicia ushering you over with much more urgency than Iain had. Your legs moved almost on autopilot as you walked towards your boyfriend and friends, your head spinning from the overload of information Iain had given you. George had left mid-practice and lost his robes? There's no way your George would have ever done that, he loved Quidditch more than anything.

"Y/n, we can't calm him down," Katie says, meeting you halfway and practically dragging you by the wrist as she jogs over to where Fred is still pacing.

"Maybe you could try," Alicia says once you get closer. "He won't listen to any of us, George was being a right prick."

Fred had practically crushed you when he saw you, pulling you into his chest, your face pressed against the leather ties of his robes. His goggles were practically suffocating you as they hung around his neck, long forgotten, his padded arms holding you tightly into his body. It had taken nearly five minutes to calm him down but he'd eventually relented. You could see how much this was all affecting him, the bomb that had been thrown into your life and the consequences you were both dealing with after too much for Fred to deal with whilst trying to keep his head above water. Though you had lost your boyfriend and your best friend, Fred had lost his literal other half. You could see the strain it put on him, how lost he was without George around and how hard it was to accept this new much less caring version of George you were seeing.

"Shut up Iain!" You heard Katie snip as you walked back to the group with a much calmed Fred by your side, his arm never leaving your body.

"I'm just saying!" Iain says with a shrug.

"What?" You asked once you reached the group, seeing Katie and Alicia shooting glares at Iain whilst struggling to shut away the box of equipment.

"Some slytherins have had their belongings go walkabouts. Between Luna's shoes going missing again, Ang missing practice, the Slytherin thief and all the rest of it, I'm starting to think there's something fishy happening around here."

"Don't be an idiot Iain," Katie said rolling her eyes.

"Hey guys, I'm really sorry I missed practice. Couldn't get out of detention this time, I swear Professor Sprout knows we're going to demolish Hufflepuff at the next match and shes playing dirty," Angelina said as she came into view, holding her hands up as she talked with a smile on her face. You frowned again, noticing that she wasn't actually remorseful despite her words, neither was she as furious as you would have expected her to be about the captain of the team being forced to miss practice, especially this close to a vital match.

"Oi Johnson! It's our time on the pitch so you lot'll have to scramble," Marcus Flint sneered as he walked onto to the pitch, his green quidditch robes billowing as he walked, holding his broom and flanked by the entire Slytherin quidditch team.

"Let's get going," Angelina said to her team, apparently listening to Flint for the first time ever.

"Fred, I need to borrow you." She gestures with her head, turning towards your boyfriend who simply nodded, both of them slipping behind the curtain so that they could talk in private.

Your interest piqued once again, feeling slightly on edge by how weird everything felt now. George's deceit had really played a number on your mind, making you question everything around you. Everything felt wrong somehow, out of place, like you couldn't trust anyone or see things clearly. Perhaps it was the torment of the heartbreak consuming you and creating a fog around you but everything just felt off, your life turning into a series of strange encounters.

Things only got weirder once Thursday rolled around, five days after you'd seen George kiss Daphne for the first time and your heart had been stamped on.

It was around 8pm and whilst most of the school was beginning to wind down from their activities and settle in for the night, Marcus Flint had other plans. The note he'd acquired earlier that day had given him such a rush of fresh excitement that he knew there would be no way he could settle down until well after midnight. He'd dutifully slipped out of the Slytherin common room and had weaved his way around the school without any detection, traipsing the long walk to the quidditch pitch alone, carrying his singular bag. There's a spring in his step at the very thought of what was to come, these little meetings the highlights of his week as he walks to the rendezvous spot. He steps into the tent at the rear of the quidditch stadium, the near darkness making it harder to locate as he stumbles around the laid out benches. He's in enemy territory here, looking at the chalkboard with a plan of the pitch, a few defensive notes and names of the Gryffindor team written across the board haphazardly, pleased he had managed to find the Gryffindor tent so easily. If his head were in the right place, he'd consider taking notes of their defensive strategies and double down on them during the next match but he can't bring himself to care enough. Lately, he'd found himself unable to concentrate on his school work or even Quidditch at all, his mind fixated upon a single thought. And so what if he lost a few matches this season? She was worth it.

Daphne Greengrass was a goddess amongst women. The type of girl any man would be proud to have e hanging on his arm. To look at her was to see a constellation of stars, so blinding in their beauty it rendered everything around them insignificant. He was in love with her, body and soul and he'd do anything for a chance with her.

"Marcus," the voice called out to him softly, that beautiful feminine voice that he could only compare to the sound of an angel's own song.

He whipped around at the sound, desperate to know that it wasn't just his imagination, legs quaking when he realised that it wasn't all in his head. Daphne Greengrass was truly stood in front of him, speaking his name, looking directly at him as she steps aside from the tent opening. By Salazar she was beautiful, ethereal almost, heavenly.

"Marcus," she repeats, just as softly as before, her arousing voice beckoning him like a siren calling out to an unfortunate sailor. She flashes him a smile of perfectly white teeth, beckoning him further whilst he remains frozen, his mind whirling dangerously to try to bring him back to reality, praying that this Angel would still be here when he did.

"I've been looking for you," she says with a coy smile, biting her lip between her teeth. Marcus is fixated on the slight movement, the alluring way her plump pink lip boss appears between her perfect teeth, so teasing and innocent and yet so sinful.

"Me?" He manages to squeak out, his voice sounding much less majestic than hers. She nods, gliding forward towards him.

"I was told a little secret earlier today, can you guess what that might be?" She asks, reaching up with her perfectly manicured fingers to reach for the scruffy collar of his shirt. He clears his throat at the contact, barely able to get a word out and so he shakes his head in reply. She smiles again, giggling slightly at his actions.

"I was told you had a little crush on me," she leans down and whispers in his ear, her hot breath and her melodic voice forcing his eyes closed at the intimacy of the action.

"Yes," he says, sounding tranquillised, willingly giving up the information as if under her spell, desperately hoping her hands would remain on him in anyway they would.

"That's fortunate," she says with a girlish giggle, "because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

His eyes flash open, wider than a cauldron lid as her words repeat in his mind.

"Me, me? What about umm... George?"

"George Weasley? Now now Marcus, did you really think I'd believe it was George I was kissing?"

Marcus looks dazed, his eyes glazed over as he looks into hers. The hope in his eyes is evident, a look of sheer desperation on every inch of his face.

"You.. you knew it was me?"

"Of course I did silly," she giggles again, her sing like laughter making his heart soar. "I think I'd know if I was kissing George Weasley."

"Don't say his name," Marcus bites back angrily with a frown, the illusion he's holding onto in his mind of the perfect moment slightly fracturing from the sound of another man's name falling from her lips.

"I'm sorry Marcus," she says quickly, meekly. He hates the sound of it initially, cursing himself for his anger and for breaking the moment. But underneath he secretly loves the way she begs for his forgiveness, her subservient tone strangely arousing.

"It was such a clever plan," she continues. He can hardly concentrate with how her warm hand strokes against his arm, the path of her touch making his skin tingle. "Why wasn't it just you all along? It could have been your lips I've been kissing all week."

The very notion of her words makes him weak. No longer would be have to pretend to be that filthy Weasley boy but instead he could dream that his lips would be the one to touch hers, those perfect lips that he'd be happy to suffocate against.

"Angelina," he gasps out as her hand brushes his neck, having moved across his shoulder and up his arms, his trousers suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight.

"What?" She says, sounding hurt. He'd ruined it all, said another girl's name and broken her trust in him. He had to fix it right now.

"Angelina Johnson, it was all her idea. She had me drink Polyjuice to turn into George, said you'd never want me for me. Now I know how you feel, trust me I'll deal with her."

"No need," she says, her tone suddenly much harsher, the ethereal tone to her voice fading away. He looks up at her with wide eyes, an ominous feeling of dread beginning to seep into him. "She's been dealt with."

"What?" He begins to say, confused and concerned as he hears her voice change in tone.

He stumbles back when he watches her perfect face begin to distort, like something from a horror film, skin stretching and moving upon its own accord. Her features alter before his eyes, the face and body he'd spent weeks memorising and committing to his memory distorting before him.

Suddenly, he's no longer faced by the girl of his dreams but rather one of his more recent nightmares, you.

"You, you!" He begins to say, startled and frightened under the weight of your hateful gaze. "What is this?"

His head whips around when another figure appears, though this one he had certainly not intended to see tonight.

"Angelina?" He stutters, the pair of them gazing at each other in alarm upon seeing you stood there. You take the opportunity of their distracted gazes and pull out your wand, locking the panelled curtain door with a swish of your wrist, securing the tent.

The noise of the canvas being secured echoes like a whip in the small space and startles both of the non suspecting people inside the tent.

"Y/n," Angelina begins to say, her face screwed up with a frown despite her smile, clearly thinking you were joking.

"Tell him," you say, prompting her to do the right thing.

"What?" She asks with a chuckle, still feigning ignorance. That is until she sees the clothes that you were wearing, the green accents and emblem of the uniform so foreign against your body. You watch as her eyes widen in panic, clearly realising that this was not a joke at all. I'm that moment, she realised that you knew everything.

"Y/n," she says again, trying to defend herself but you silence her with a single look of hatred.

"Tell. Him."

"Tell me what?" Marcus says, suddenly frustrated by the lack of sharing happening, his disappointment making his anger shine through.

"Tell him." You raise your wand towards her, your face expressionless and your eyes piercing.

"Alright!" She turns to Marcus, wavering in her confidence. "It hasn't been Daphne Greengrass you've been kissing."

"What?!"

Angelina recoils, all pretence of confidence having slipped away. It takes one shift of your wand-wielding hand for her to begins again.

"It was me," Angelina confesses, shrinking in on herself. "I pretended to be Daphne so that you would keep being George! If you thought you were kissing Daphne then I knew you'd keep doing it!"

Marcus is stunned and horrified by her words, his face contorting into a look of severe distaste, like the thought alone was sour.

"And?" You say, breaking the silence. Her eyes whip around to you, realising once again that you knew more than she thought. Suddenly, she's turning her vitriol upon you, eyes blazing as she squares her shoulders.

"This is all your fault! You already had Fred, why did you need George too?! If you'd just been happy with one you little slut none of this would have happened!"

She reaches for her wand as her shouts echo through the tent but you're too quick, blasting her wand away from her with a simple spell and catching it mid air as it falls to you.

"Tell. Him."

She's silent, alarmed by your ability to disarm her to effortlessly. You take it upon yourself to look at Marcus who looks frightened for his life.

"That's not all though is it Angie?" You snark, using the nickname you knew she hated before turning your attention to Flint. You rifle through your pocket and pull out a single sweet wrapped up in an orange wrapper.

"Look familiar?" You ask, holding it up between your fingers.

"Bitch," you hear Angelina mutter under her breath, but rather than infuriate you further, it fuels you.

"Those sweets you gave me," he says to Angelina in shock, "how do you have one? She said they were limited edition!"

You have to fight to not roll your eyes in that moment, realising how painfully dim the Slytherin captain was.

"You mean the melon drops you stole from Fred and laced with Amortentia?"

"What?" Marcus says, his head whipping around towards Angelina who has taken a seat in one of the benches, averting her gaze entirely.

"She's been lacing you with love potion! I knew it was odd that the Slytherin thief had suddenly stopped. You 'talking' with Fred at practice was just a ploy to get more of his sweet creations from him because you wanted to carry on lying to Marcus! How did you manage it? Have someone else on the inside did you?"

"You stupid bitch!" She begins to lunge, only to be stopped as Marcus brandishes his wand in her direction, his eyes livid and his face bright red with anger. His wand goes flying through the air as you disarm him too, leaving them both defenceless without their wands.

"Well, there's nothing you can do now! George will hate you when he finds out, you'll be lucky to even keep Fred! You don't deserve them and you never did!" She's manic, eyes glassy as she snarls at you.

"I wouldn't be so sure," a voice says from the sidelines, two near identical figures stepping around the curtains to reveal themselves.

"George," she says breathlessly, saying his name like a prayer. Her face is full of hope, eyes pleading with his as she smiles up at him like he'll be her salvation. Her smile fades quickly when George walks over to you and wraps his arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. Fred mirrors his actions and you stand united as a trio against the two that had wronged you.

"Please Georgie, I love you," she pleads one final time. George remains stoic, unwavering and unbothered by her confession.

"I love my girl."

"Did you hear about Marcus Flint and Angelina? Who'd have thought!" One of the younger Gryffindors says scandalously as they tuck in to their evening meal. You'd tried to avoid the inevitable gossip but no matter where you went it seemed to follow you. It was Monday evening and you were sat in the great hall between your boyfriends, all of you tucking in to the food with little restraint. George's hand rested on your thigh underneath the table as Fred's left hand absently rubbed your lower back intermittently. Everything was perfect again, as if nothing had ever been any different.

"I know! I heard they both went missing over the weekend," Dean says from slightly higher up the table, never one to miss out of the circulating gossip.

"Well I didn't see it but I heard that they were caught sneaking onto the quidditch pitch after hours, something about rigging the next match apparently!"

"Oh bull, we all know why they were there together late and night and it's got nothing to do with quidditch," another girl giggles. A few people snigger and you simply bite down on your lip to stop yourself from joining, feeling George's hand squeezing your upper thigh.

"They got caught by Snape fooling around apparently, couldn't imagine a worse way to go to be honest," Lee interjects with a grin.

"No you've got it wrong," Ron says, from across the table, still chewing on a chicken leg. Your gaze flicks to Hermione sat beside him who grimaces at his lack of table manners and you chuckle.

"I heard they went up in a puff of black smoke and disappeared! Apparently then didn't find them until midday Sunday in the shrieking shack!"

He's waving his potato covered fork wildly as he speaks, his arms swaying back and forth with his words. Hermione reaches for his hand and slams it on the table, keeping the sharp cutlery firmly in one place and away from her face where he was wielding it previously.

"Really?" You hear Fred say, a tone of wonder in his voice.

"Yeah!" Ron replies animatedly, his gaze flicking to his fork as if he's scared to raise his arm again to bring it to his mouth.

"Weird," George replies, taking a bite of his own food as he nudges you secretly. You smirk behind your goblet, knowing exactly the reason for the rumours, the crystals of Peruvian instant darkness powder in George's pocket faintly clinking together with his movement.

"So George, what's it like to know that kissing you is a Slytherin girls worst nightmare?" Lee says with a boyish giggle, the rest of the table following suit.

Fred had been brilliant in orchestrating a coverup for what had happened with George and Daphne. Fred had let it slip to Seamus that one of his and George's prototype daydream charms had disappeared along with their freshly made melon drops, only it hadn't been the daydream one but rather the misery charm they'd been working on but couldn't get right. If the incantation has been used correctly, it would torment the user, showing them a vivid nightmare of their deepest fears. Kind of like a charm version of a boggart, only the magic wasn't yet perfected and it had led to fake George appearing on and off in his boggart form until the real one returned, clinging on to everyone's misery like a dementor.

The story was that Flint had stolen the items from Fred and George and had used it upon Daphne, leading to the strange occurrences. She'd have no memory of it of course, it was virtually undetectable but the consequences of what happened were enough for the twins to cancel making the item, seeing what hurt it could cause.

Seamus, being the worst secret keeper in all of Hogwarts, told Dean, who told Parvati, who told Cho and Pansy, which meant that the entire school had found out within hours of what Daphne had seen when Marcus had charmed her.

"You know what mate, it's a relief," George replies to Lee, smiling widely with pink cheeks. "Only one girl I want kissing me anyway."

He squeezes your leg under the table again and you beam at him. Ron pretends to gag at the sweetness, earning a swift kick to the shin from Hermione whilst Lee holds up an uneaten chicken drumstick as a somewhat toast to George's words.

"Bet it was nice to get away from school for a few days eh? Though you couldn't have chosen a worse time," Dean says, gesturing to you who had been upset for most of the week, believing the rumours. "What did Mcgonagall want anyway?"

"The academy of broom flying needed a beater for their teaching course. Five days of nothing but Quidditch, absolute bliss if you ask me. It was between me and Fred but she thought I was the safer option," he beamed at the words, clearly taking great pride in what she had said, though really he was probably just the lesser of two evils.

"The quidditch robes," you say under your breath, the finally puzzle piece slipping in place, remembering how they had been missing from his room and that Flint had borrowed Iain's.

"Which reminds me, George I'm going to need those robes back you borrowed," Iain says from down the table, clearly having been listening to the conversation. George looks confused and begins to open his mouth to question Iain but you slip your hand onto his under the table to gently silence him.

"Don't worry Iain, you'll get them back," you say with a smile. He nods, smiling, before tucking back into his food.

"Eventually."

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