Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter as J. K. Rowling does, and I am not about to get into a massive lawsuit for stealing anything, so it all belongs to her...except the plot, of course, XD Also, the song ‘Forever Yours’ belongs to Sunrise Avenue.106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUX7XrfHb1v
You were mine, and I was yours for one night,106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgwyynz364r
You were mine, and there is no one who´s like me.106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzlP9KH5iR5
These dreams, they wake me up in the night,106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ87tfaqDLd
They violently fill my room,106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2PEDHoAztI
They keep me awake; I hate you.106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC9wSFTHsvC
He let out a heavy sigh, his hand trembling as he ran it through his pale hair. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would find himself in such a situation—caught in feelings he was never supposed to have. The idea was ridiculous: falling for someone who had always been seen as his enemy. He tried to tell himself otherwise, but his mind fought back with desperate denial. This isn’t love, he thought silently. It was just one night—a brief, fleeting moment that shouldn’t carry any significance.106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP5Dza0adda
One night...106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡidCzwZak50
One night that changed his life forever. That unexpected evening left a lasting impact, haunting his thoughts and dreams. Although he desperately tried to dismiss it as insignificant—a brief lapse in judgement—he could not deny the truth. He was permanently changed, overwhelmed by emotions he never thought he would feel. The memory of her remained, vivid and unrelenting, a constant reminder that things could never go back to how they once were. In that moment, his beliefs about himself and the world shifted dramatically, leaving him lost in the wake of a night that would define him forever.106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIokaZaSeqU
He recalled the sensation of her—how each touch seemed to spark something deep inside him, leaving him breathless and craving more. Their kisses were equally frantic, pressed against each other with an unspoken longing neither could hide or control. In that brief, intense moment, they clung to each other, seeking comfort and connection amid their chaos. Her fingers had moved through his hair, gentle yet searching, grounding him in the reality of their shared moment. The memory of her touch stayed vivid and persistent, a reminder of how profoundly he had changed after that night.106Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYVeAD8owlC
Letting his thoughts drift back to her was a terrible idea. Their arguments had always been intense, a familiar cycle, but this time felt different—something had changed underneath. She yelled at him, her words sharp and cutting, profanity spilling from her in a fierce, almost shocking manner. However, instead of pushing him away, her anger fuelled something inside him. He was irresistibly drawn to her in those moments, unable to look away. Her fury was captivating: her hair getting messier, her cheeks flushing, and her honey-brown eyes burning with a fierce light that made his heart race. Her anger made her even more striking, and he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by a longing that was both surprising and powerful.
It was a stunning scene to witness. The fierceness of her anger, her untamed hair, and the fiery sparkle in her honey-brown eyes drew him in entirely. He sensed an irresistible pull, a longing that intensified with each fiery word she directed at him. He could no longer resist; the storm of emotions within him had reached a breaking point. He had reached his limit—tired of the shouting, the constant arguing, and the pretending he was indifferent.
To stop her tirade, he used his usual method for calming a ranting woman: he closed the gap between them and kissed her. Time seemed to freeze in that instant. Her protests faded as their lips touched, and the anger that had lingered was replaced by something more intense and compelling. In that kiss, all their tension and frustration dissolved, leaving only a pure, undeniable desire that they could no longer ignore.
He remembered that day so vividly, despite it being weeks ago. The memory was clear and sharply etched into his mind. He felt furious after receiving detention from Professor McGonagall, his anger boiling over after being caught not paying attention in class. The reprimand hurt, fuelling the anger that was already simmering beneath the surface.
Things worsened when he ran into the Weasel. Their meeting rapidly turned into another argument, with voices rising and tempers flaring. It was a typical scene: accusations flying, insults being exchanged, and neither side willing to concede. The shouting echoed through the corridor, attracting some passing students who paused to observe the latest episode of their persistent feud.
Every harsh word and glare intensified the storm within him. He felt imprisoned—by his frustration, the fallout from his actions, and the strong emotions he refused to acknowledge. That day, a minor incident escalated into something much larger, leaving him haunted by memories and feelings he couldn’t escape.
She was leaning on his arm.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the burn of the drink still in his throat as he finished the last sip. The empty glass he held served as a stark reminder of his loss and the brown liquid he was using in a futile attempt at comfort. Its emptiness seemed to mock him, mirroring the void within, which had deepened since he thought of her—and even more since he touched her.
Without hesitation, he signalled for another drink, desperate to fill the void he felt. Each sip was an effort to dull the pain and quiet the obsessive thoughts that haunted him after realising the fallout of his actions. The awareness that he had condemned himself—merely by entertaining thoughts of her—eating at him, with alcohol offering only a fleeting escape. Still, no amount of drink could erase the truth or the regret that lingered, unwavering and unforgiving.
Only he had touched her. That single act sealed his fate, filling him with a sense of doom he couldn’t escape. The burden of his actions weighed heavily on him, like a silent judgement he carried with every breath. Deep inside, he understood that crossing that boundary had effectively sentenced him—maybe not to death, but to a life forever altered, haunted by the memory of that forbidden touch. This realisation tore at him relentlessly, constantly reminding him that in reaching out to her, he had condemned himself.
However, he had no regrets.
Since that day, she hadn’t even glanced at him. Her deliberate avoidance felt like a slap, fuelling his frustration more than he’d admit. Her cold shoulder constantly highlighted the chasm between them, and her indifference hurt deeply—the silent treatment was more painful than any loud accusation. She behaved as if he were invisible, as if he no longer existed in her world. Not long ago, he would have found relief in her ignoring him, thinking it was a sign of reprieve to disengage from someone he once looked down upon. Now, that same indifference left him empty, a hollow ache he couldn’t ignore or heal.
The same emptiness mocked him from the bottom of his empty glass.
He briefly closed his eyes, sensing the familiar surge of anger. When he opened them, his look was sharp and filled with barely suppressed rage. Without speaking, he snapped his fingers at a nearby waitress to get her attention and clearly indicated he expected prompt service. The anger in his eyes conveyed his seriousness: no delay or error would be tolerated. As soon as she saw him, her eyes widened in fear, and she hurried over to take his order. He immediately requested another drink, his expression and tone hinting at the serious repercussions if she did not comply.
The waitress, visibly anxious, hurried away and returned shortly afterwards with a bottle of Firewhiskey. She carefully poured another glass for him, trying not to spill under his watchful eye. Recognising he might want more, he instructed her to leave the entire bottle, which she did without hesitation. After a quick nod, she set the bottle on the table and stepped back, her posture shrinking as she quickly moved away to escape the tense atmosphere.
He watched her retreat, noting how swiftly she disappeared from view—undeniably too afraid to face him again, fully aware of the possible repercussions if she failed to meet his expectations. The shadow of his temper seemed to linger in the air, heavy and oppressive, and he noticed her absence without surprise. He only shrugged lightly, a small sign of his resignation; outwardly, he appeared indifferent, unaffected by the wary looks or whispered comments from those nearby. However, beneath this tough exterior, inner turmoil churned. Although he would never admit it, not even to himself, he was haunted by a deep disappointment and, if he acknowledged it, a hint of heartbreak. These unspoken feelings weighed on him heavily, an invisible torture he was determined to conceal, his pride preventing any sign of vulnerability from showing.
He ran his hand through his hair again, a disgusted sneer curling his lips. It was an unconscious habit he had picked up, one he had seen many times—Potter, always running his fingers through his perpetually messy hair. Realising he had started to imitate any action of The-Boy-That-Just-Would-Not-Die filled him with disgust. The mere thought was enough to increase his irritation because he hated finding any resemblance to Potter, no matter how small or accidental.
He gazed at the full glass before him, distracted briefly by strands of hair falling into his eyes. With a tired motion, he pushed the hair back to see more clearly. His hand then rubbed his rough, unkempt stubble, a clear sign he had neglected his grooming. Once meticulous about his appearance, he had abandoned the routine of slicking back his hair, leaving it wild over his forehead. His clothes, wrinkled and dishevelled, reflected his disregard for neatness. Usually expressionless, his cold blue eyes now showed a hint of sadness—an emotion brought out by the alcohol haze.
He was painfully aware that turning to alcohol for comfort wouldn’t truly ease his pain. The realisation persisted, troubling him with every sip. Since these new, intense emotions began tormenting him—raw and overwhelming feelings that shook him to his core—he couldn’t go more than a few minutes without taking a drink. It became his constant companion, always nearby, as if its presence could shield him from his internal storm. Still, he knew deep down that this ritual was futile; alcohol could only dull his pain temporarily, never eliminate it. Despite this, he clung to it desperately, unable or unwilling to confront his feelings without help.
Hate consumed him as the reason for his unruliness resurfaced in his thoughts. The resentment he kept inside simmered quietly, always present and fuelling his every action and reaction. This bitter feeling was not just temporary; it was deeply rooted within him, shaping how he behaved and thought, and affecting his view of the world and others. Every time he remembered the events that brought him here, his hatred grew more intense, pulling him deeper into his own chaos.
He despised her deeply, but he couldn’t allow his anger to show.
His desire to retaliate against her was intense; he wanted her to experience the pain he felt, to suffer as deeply as he did from what she had done. Their differences had always been apparent—he was a Pureblood, raised with pride that set him apart, while she was a Mudblood, a fact that should have made her unworthy in his eyes.
He was a player—famous for his arrogance, magnetic charm, and the reputation as the Slytherin Prince. His charisma made him the most desired bachelor at Hogwarts, with confidence and poise that distinguished him from others. He carried himself with a pride rooted in his Pureblood heritage, each move deliberately designed to uphold the persona expected of him.
She, in stark contrast, was the quintessential Gryffindor Princess—the good girl. Renowned for her diligence, she was a dedicated bookworm and a model student, admired by teachers and classmates. Constantly aiming for perfection, she embodied virtue and propriety, guided by a strong moral sense and an unwavering desire to do what’s right. Their differences were obvious to everyone observing, each representing the core values of their houses.
She played him.
She had perfected the skill of deception, creating a convincing illusion of affection around him. Every gesture and tender word was carefully designed to draw him in, making him believe her feelings were sincere. He trusted her and let his guard down, thinking he had found something real. However, beneath her surface demeanour, she was manipulating him skilfully, playing him as effortlessly as a musician draws music from an instrument. The realisation hurt deeply—her so-called love was merely a façade, a strategic act to trap him while she manipulated events for her own benefit.
The mere thought of her intensified his desire, which only worsened his frustration and self-loathing. His anger was immediate and intense; he hated how she had gained such a strong influence over his emotions. Every time he thought about her, that longing conflicted with his resentment, creating a turbulent mix of feelings that made him feel vulnerable and uneasy. It was frustrating to admit—even to himself—that the more he tried to resist her, the more he was drawn to her, unable to escape her hold over his heart.
He was hers... he could no longer deny it.
He resented how she now held such sway over him, a power that left him helpless. Though he would never admit it aloud, he knew that if she merely called for him, he would be quick to obey. The influence she had was intense, awakening a deep emotion within him that no one else truly understood. Even though the thought of surrendering completely frightened him, being near her—sharing that close connection—felt strangely right. They seemed to complete each other, as if two halves finally made a whole, fitting perfectly like the last pieces of a puzzle.
He wondered briefly how she truly felt, the thought quickly suppressed. He knew he shouldn’t care, as even a moment of empathy felt like betrayal of his teachings. He desperately focused on the voice inside, echoing his father’s views about Muggleborns—that they were nothing but filth, unworthy of respect, and comparable to vermin that tainted pure bloodlines, despised by all Purebloods and blood traitors alike. Clinging to these beliefs, he fought to silence any sparks of compassion or curiosity that threatened to surface.
The idea of a Pureblood, especially one meant to follow in the footsteps of the Death Eaters and harbour feelings for a Mudblood on the opposing side, was not only unthinkable but outright forbidden. This taboo weighed heavily on him, constantly reminding him of the boundaries he was crossing just by feeling this way. If his father ever found out what had happened, there would be no mercy. His fate would be decided swiftly, with no chance for argument or appeal—his father would personally ensure his demise, and nothing could stop that dark course of action. He no longer considered resistance; he knew he lacked both the desire and strength to face the inevitable consequences.
He lost his will to live.
Realising that a Mudblood had triggered such a profound change in him left him completely shocked. The idea was hard to accept—he, who had always taken pride in his unwavering detachment and loyalty to his heritage, now felt himself developing a heart. This emerging heart kept urging him to listen to its new voice of reason, even as his familiar, scornful inner voice tried to silence it. The internal struggle was both repulsive and oddly soothing; he disliked feeling vulnerable but still felt a strange relief from it.
He took a slow, purposeful sip, then placed the glass down somewhat carelessly. The world around him appeared to shift and blur as the alcohol affected his sight, making his thoughts even more muddled. The room seemed to spin with his emotions, leaving him feeling unsteady and conflicted.
He was stunned when he saw an angel standing before him.
A slight frown creased his brow as he studied the figure before him, attempting to reconcile her ethereal look with the absence of wings he naturally associated with angels. Yet, her beauty remained undeniable—pure and luminous. He believed that a being so perfect could only stem from something more wondrous than magic, her allure outshining anything he had encountered in the wizarding world.
He squinted once more, attempting to understand the figure in front of him, and his heart started pounding as understanding set in. The angelic figure he had briefly seen was not a distant, otherworldly being, but the actual person behind his suffering. The realisation hit him hard—this was the very individual who had completely disrupted his life and put him into this miserable situation, now standing directly before him.
He met her gaze, engaging in a silent confrontation. Her face was stern and disapproving, but he briefly saw a flicker of regret in her eyes. Overwhelmed by her judgement, he responded with a sneer, hiding his inner chaos behind disdain. Without a word, he grabbed his glass and drank it all in one desperate gulp. The glass crashed onto the table with a loud bang that startled them both, shattering upon impact. Sharp shards embedded in his hand, causing a piercing pain. Blood dripped from his wounds, making him realise the seriousness of his injury. A high, involuntary yelp escaped him, resembling a puppy’s cry after an accidental hurt.
She approached him quietly but with resolve, brushing off his protests as she gently grasped his injured hand. Her touch was both gentle and steady as she carefully inspected the cuts, her eyes filled with concern over the bleeding. Moving closer, she skilfully removed each piece of glass with her thumb and forefinger, her well-manicured nails catching his blood. He couldn’t bear to see the crimson stains on her skin, a wave of hatred swelling inside him at the sight.
Blood should never stain the hands of one so pure and beautiful.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the intrusive thoughts swirling in his mind. It seemed as if his heart had fooled his brain, pushing him to focus on ideas he found completely repulsive. Still overwhelmed by emotional chaos, he watched in shock as she, after carefully removing glass shards from his hand, leaned down and gently kissed his wounded skin. The gesture surprised him entirely. She then moved back, letting go of his hand, but he stayed still, frozen by the intimacy of her action. His injured hand, although still bleeding, hovered in the air between them, unsure of what to do next.
He gazed at her... her eyes, nose, and lips, which were stained with specks of his blood.
He was unable to contain himself.
He pressed his lips to hers, the taste of his blood lingering on her mouth.
And she let him.
He despised himself. He despised her. He resented being a Pureblood. He despised that she was a Mudblood. He loathed his life. He resented kissing her. He detested his father.
He wished he could have despised her enough to stop kissing her.
That was the only thing that could have saved her.
The door to the bar swung open suddenly, revealing a tall, handsome man with blonde hair stepping inside. His presence was commanding from the start, and the disgust visible on his sharply featured face made his feelings clear about what he saw. He looked around, and his eyes narrowed when he saw his son in a passionate embrace with a Mudblood. His disgust was evident in his body language and face as he watched his son kiss someone he considered unworthy, his expression twisted with contempt as he grasped the reality of the moment.
They separated abruptly, surprised by the sudden intrusion. Both spun around to see the new arrival, their faces instantly registering shock and alarm. Their eyes widened with fear, like deer caught in headlights, frozen and unsure, deeply aware of the danger now present in the room.
His son glared back, eyes filled with defiance, though his entire body betrayed his fear, trembling despite his effort to seem steady. They exchanged intense looks, tension thick as neither looked away, engaged in a silent struggle of will and dread. The older man, with an unreadable face, slowly drew his wand from his cloak. Maintaining eye contact, he raised it, pointing unerringly at his son’s chest—right over his heart, which thumped so loudly he was sure even the drunkest patrons in the bar could hear its frantic beat.
The older man sneered, curling his lips in contempt as he looked around. His son, aware of what was likely to happen, closed his eyes and prepared for the cold, clammy touch of death. He anticipated his father’s anger to be directed at him. However, in a harsh turn of events, his father changed his aim and suddenly shifted his plans.
Instead of venting his anger at his son, he spoke the two feared words—words that sounded final—toward the girl his son loved. Suddenly, a bright green light flared up, flooding the room with an eerie glow. The spell’s power hit her, and the girl he had been trying to protect suddenly fell silent in his arms. Her eyes, once vibrant with emotion, now looked back at him blank and hollow, drained of all life.
He looked back at her, unable to divert his gaze from the cold accusation in her lifeless eyes. The emptiness in her stare cut through him, a silent blame that brought tears to his own eyes. Overcome with emotion, a solitary tear escaped, rolling down his pale face as he fully felt the weight of his loss.
It was the first time he ever cried.
He had little time to mourn, his grief raw and overwhelming, before his father turned his cold gaze to him again. The elder, still holding his wand with deadly precision, now aimed it directly at his son. There was no hesitation or mercy in his eyes. With a quick, chilling motion, he cast the deadly spell once more. A bright green flash lit up the room, piercing the darkness. In that fleeting, devastating moment, everything dissolved. The world slipped away, and he was lost—his consciousness extinguished as quickly as the girl he loved.
and then Add to home screen.