it’s midnight, which means it’s
officially halloween. they’re walking up the rundown red-brick drive of the old
riddle house—the one that pansy insists
is haunted; the one that weasley
insists isn’t—and damp, rot-spotted leaves are sticking to the soles of their
boots while wispy swathes of fog swirl around their ankles. after a few
minutes, the house slowly starts to rise up and out of the gloom, a hulking
mass of sagging gutters and peeling paint, shutters dangling from rust-shot
hinges and the cast-iron spires on the roof casting shadows that remind her of
“this is literally the plot of a
horror movie,” pansy snaps, tucking the fringed ends of her scarf farther down
the front of her tailored suede jacket.
“you’re the plot of a horror movie,” weasley mutters darkly. the
hood of his sweatshirt is pulled up around his ears, and his breath is coming out
in smoky white puffs of air. “why’d you even come if all you’re going to do is whine?”
“pointing out factual hazards to my health is not whining!”
the ancient, rain-swollen porch
steps creak ominously as he motions for her to follow him inside. “weasley, it’s cold,” he mimics with an
exaggerated pout. “weasley, i need hot
chocolate. weasley, why didn’t you ask them for marshmallows. weasley—”
the front door suddenly slams
shut behind them with a startlingly loud thump.
pansy jumps, emitting a
strangled, quickly bitten-off scream before reaching out to grab weasley’s arm.
“what the fuck was that?” she whispers, digging her nails into his elbow.
he glances down at her—way down at her; she doesn’t think she’s
ever been this close to him before, and she’s a little taken aback by how tall he is—and then he smirks.
“oh, it was probably just the
ghosts,” he says, too casually. “or. you know. the fucking wind.”
“shut up,” she hisses, eyes darting warily around the cobwebbed ceilings
of the entry hall. “god, i hate you,
i can’t believe you coerced me into
“i didn’t coerce you, you invited
“of what? a condemned sign?”
“you’re so dramatic,
parkinson,” pansy deadpans, dropping her voice an octave. “that house isn’t haunted—in fact, let me be extra dramatic and tell everyone i’ll sleep there just to prove you wrong.”
weasley scoffs, but there’s a
faint pink tint to his cheeks that hadn’t been there a second ago. “seriously? you’re
here to prove me wrong so that i can’t
prove you wrong?”
she sniffs. “like you wouldn’t have done the exact same
he rolls his eyes, flashlight
clutched between his teeth, and begins to rummage around in his backpack. pansy
has no idea what he’s looking for, but she’d bet half her trust fund it’s
“here,” he finally says, tossing
her a small grey spray bottle. “all yours.”
she catches it clumsily, furrowing
her brow. “what’s this?”
he grins, and she flatly refuses
to admit to herself that he’s kind of alright-looking when he smiles. “it’s
ghost repellant,” he tells her solemnly. “for the ghosts.”
she narrows her eyes. “gosh, is
that a spider web?” she drawls,
loudly. “with a spider on it? do you
see that, weasley? the spider?”
“what—where?” he spins around, expression frantic, and it’s pansy’s turn to smirk.
“oops,” she coos. “my bad. it’s
just a little dust.”
he scowls at her, looking more
disgruntled than angry, and then sighs. “where are we sleeping, then? one of
“do you want to fall through the ceiling?” she
half-shrieks, rubbing her lips together. it’s a nervous habit. she hopes he
doesn’t realize that anytime soon. she does it a lot around him. “no, god, we’re sleeping—wherever there aren’t
bloodstains, i don’t know.”
“bloodstains,” he repeats, wryly.
she wonders if she’s imagining the way his gaze lingers on her mouth. he
blinks. “i guess that leaves out the root cellar—”
a thunderous crash sounds from
somewhere upstairs, screechy and shrill and jarring enough that the hair on
pansy’s forearms prickles with unease as she darts forward to clutch at weasley’s
elbow again. he’s gone perfectly still, she notices, his gaze sharp and wary.
“what the fuck was that,” he
whispers, a mirror echo of her earlier panic.
The s/o dragging them to a haunted house for Sinbad and Kouen
Sinbad thinks he’s going to be the hunky hero for his terrified s/o but things do not go to plan. Sinbad startles more easily than the thought and races through the haunted house. He hold his s/o’s hand tightly, makeing sure not to lose them as he drags them through in record time.
Kouen isn’t perturbed by the spooky cobwebs and teenagers in masks making minimum wage. He really doesn’t see the appeal—until one particular jump scare causes his s/o to cling to his arm for deal life. Maybe he’ll look up some more haunted houses near by.