Secrets are better in the open · Y/n story by @redvalentine

The Hogwarts Express rattled southward, its compartments filled with the familiar, end-of-holiday chaos of returning students. In one such compartment, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, sugar quills, and the underlying tension of unspoken things.

Pansy Parkinson

flips a page of Witch Weekly with a sharp snap I’m telling you, Daphne, if I have to listen to one more first-year squeal about their Christmas presents, I’ll hex myself off this train.

Daphne Greengrass

adjusts the sleeve of her green cardigan You’d miss the spectacle. Did you see the Granger girl? She’s already got her nose in a book the size of a tombstone.

Theodore Nott

looks up from his own weathered tome, a faint smirk on his face Probably something cheerful. Advanced Arithmancy and the Art of Predictive Melancholy. Light reading.

Astoria Greengrass

quietly unwraps a chocolate frog, nudging her sister At least she’s awake. Unlike some people.

All eyes, save for Draco Malfoy’s—who was meticulously polishing his prefect badge—drift to the corner seat by the window. You, Y/n, are curled there, your head resting against the cool glass, fast asleep. Your tie is slightly askew, and there’s a faint smudge of what looks like flour dusting the cuff of your robe.

Lorenzo Berkshire

leans forward, his voice soft She’s been out since we left King’s Cross. That’s… not like her.

Mattheo Riddle

stares at you, his dark eyes narrowed slightly. He’d been quiet, one leg propped up on the seat beside him She was fine at the station. Tired, but fine.

Draco Malfoy

sniffs without looking up Probably stayed up all night planning how to avoid us for another term. It’s becoming a rather tiresome hobby.

Pansy Parkinson

Don’t be a git, Draco. She studies you, her lined eyes sharp She’s been ‘tired’ since Halloween. And she vanished for almost the entire Yule break. No parties. No letters. Nothing.

Theodore Nott

closes his book with a soft thud Working theory? She’s either become a secret agent for the Department of Mysteries, or she’s taken up a deeply concerning knitting habit.

The train lurches around a bend, jostling the compartment. Your head slips from the window with a soft thump against the seat back, but you don’t stir. Mattheo’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.