class president yuta x troublemaker reader pretty pleaseee 🥺🥺
· · ─ · ◈ Spice Up Your Life ◈ · ─ · ·
↳ Features: Class President!Y. Okkotsu X Class Deliquent!Fem!Reader
▷ College AU, Fem!Reader, Masturbation (F), Fantasizing, Caught, Guided Masturbation (F), Mutual Masturbation, Voyeurism (?), Humping, Bried Nipple Play, Public-Sex, Slight Edging, Small Power Imbalance, Stress Relief Sex (I suppose), Stoned Sex, Implied Blunt Lacing (not from Yuta), Choking on Smoke, Yuta has a Praise Kink, Kissing, Giving Yuta Lovebites, Dacryphilia, Virginity Loss (Yuta), Inexperience, Slight Hair Pulling (Yuta receives), Clit Rubbing, Poorly Writen Weed Smoking (I have no experience), Shotgunning, Slight Dumbification of Yuta, Yuta Eating his Cum lwk, Petnames (Pretty Boy towards Yuta), P in V, Cockwarming, Switch(Mostly Dom)!Reader + Switch(Mostly Sub)!Yuta, Porn with Little Plot
WC || 2.7k
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College life was tough; anybody could tell you that. The only way to get through college is to live stress free. Pretty contradictory but you know. Stress relievers are a must if you don’t want to wase away into dust within the first semester. Luckily, your college campus is infested with top tier plugs.
Your dormmate, Nobara, already called dibs on keeping the dorm for her slumber party with Maki tonight, and you really don’t want to be caught third wheeling when you’re trying to get geeked. So, clearly, the next best option is an empty classroom. One of the old literature classes that only get used for clubs that shut down after a week. I mean, what are the chances of someone coming in at 6pm anyways.
The door slides open on your first attempt, the lazy staff never bothering to lock the room. A quick glance around lets you see that, surprise surprise, the classroom is empty. Like muscle memory, you bee line for the back of the classroom, letting your bag slide off your shoulders and onto the floor beside you. You pull the chair out and sit in it, slouching and manspreading slightly.
For once, you don’t have Yuta breathing down your neck, telling you how slouching will cause permanent damage. That’s the last of your problems right now. Digging through your bag, you pull out a little pak of pre-rolled weed blunts. It’s basic but all the other stuff the plugs carry around look sketchy to all hell.
The opposite end of the blunt lights up as you use your mini lighter that you stole from Mr. Kusakube before he quit smoking. A deep breath of the blunt and your shoulders relax like you’re high already. You exhale, feeling the faint buzz of the weed starting to do something, if only faint. You go back nearly straight away for another breath.
One of your favorite things about this plug is how his blunts always give you this tingly feeling all over your body. At this point, you couldn’t even care if he’s lacing it with something, it makes you feel great and hasn’t had any negative outcomes so far. If you were to be completely honest, it kind of turns you on a little bit.
Probably laced.
It’s not too long until you’re almost in the clouds, even with your constant use of these specific blunts. Subconsciously, your thighs start to squeeze together to ease the throb down there. You mutter a swear under your breath. You almost wish Yuta was actually breathing down your neck right now.
You wish he was telling you off for how nasty it is when your fingers start to sneak under your skirt. He’d scold you on how this is supposed to be a private activity, yet you’re here, somewhat hoping someone catches you circling your clit before dipping your finger into your soaked hole.
Your breath stutters as you imagine him calling you irresponsible, curling your fingers in just right, to hit that gooey spot that you would swear Yuta could get better.
Yuta volunteered to do a final check of the classrooms, like the oh so stand-up guy he is. He wanders down the corridors, making sure the doors and windows are locked, lights are off, whatever else he could think of to avoid going back to his dorm this early. He had biology homework to do, and honestly, he wasn’t quite in the mood to do it yet.
He’s only got a few more rooms left when he happens to stumble upon what feels like a dream come true to him. The door was already slightly open, so he peers inside. In the back of the room is that annoying student he has to tell off constantly. He sees you, hunched over the desk, an unlit blunt next to you. Your face is flushed; you’re panting and whimpering as your hands move under the desk.
He stops right in his tracks, no idea how he’s supposed to respond to the sight. He just found his downlow crush, getting herself off with 100% illicit drugs next to her. Reasonably, he should call her out, report her to Principal Yaga, but he’s already procrastinating, why not indulge a bit.
He watches as your hips meet your fingers, growing needier and more rushed by the second. You’ve been on the edge for so long, you just can’t let go. It’s starting to frustrate you, so much so that you don’t notice the class president standing in the doorway, intensely palming at his half hard on.
Your thighs are so sticky, and you’re completely disregarding how your slick is getting on the chair and down to your knees. Similarly, Yuta can feel fats globs of his precum beginning to stain his boxers. He swallows hard, standing there like a pervert, he’s pathetic. So, he steps inside, abandoning his dick.
His voice breaks your concentration. You freeze in your spot, but you don’t look up. You hope that it’s just that blunt fucking with your hearing. Until you hear the soft footsteps coming in your direction. You pull your skirt back down, ready to play the whole thing off like it wasn’t exactly what he saw.
“Did I say to stop?”
Silence. And for a moment he starts to regret saying that. Was that overstepping? Did he sound disgusting??
You swallow, “…no.”
Your fingers go back under your skirt, plunging right back in. You start to thrust your first finger in and out at a steady pace. Your breath grows heavy again. Your compliance surprises Yuta. His eyes widen and his fingers itch to go back to stroking his dick.
Your own eyes flicker up to his boner. Jeez those jeans aren’t helping hide shit, especially not the stain forming on the front of the blue fabric.
“Please Yuta,” a shaky whine breaks from your throat as you eye his hidden cock.
“Shit…” He groans before fumbling with his belt.
It drops to the floor, quickly followed by his jeans and then his boxers as well. His slightly curved dick leaks at the harsh new air, the tip angry and flushed already. Your own rhythm stops for a moment.
“Keep going.” He commands an octave higher than his usual voice.
You nod and keep fingering yourself, watching him start to jerk himself off to you. He licks his palm briefly, his cheeks heating up as he hopes you don’t find it weird. His thumbs swirls around his tip, collecting and spreading his precum.
Yuta whimpers at the sensation of his own hand as he starts to slowly stroke his full length. His slender fingers naturally graze the vein on the underside.
“Go faster… please go faster,” He pleads, speeding his own hand.
Both of you start to feel that delicious pressure building in the bottom of your stomachs. Both of you are alone in this classroom, panting, whimpering, trying to bring yourself closer to orgasms. Your eyebrows furrow when an idea pops into your fuzzy brain.
You pull your hand away from the mess between your legs and you grab Yuta’s wrist. He damn well mewls at his hand being forced to a stop, right before he was about to bust his load all over his pants, floor and your face.
“I didn’t say to stop—”
But his weak demand is stopped when you stand up, fixing your skirt. Underneath, you pull down your panties, dropping them to the floor and kicking them to the side. Yuta stumbles, but quickly kicks his shoes, boxers and pants all off to the side, piling on top of your blue panties. He stares at you, the commanding tone evaporating immediately, waiting for you to tell him what to do now.
Your hands reach out, grabbing onto his shoulders and his face lights up red like a Christmas tree. You slowly guide him to your chair, before pushing him down onto it, taking your place. His breath hitches before he mentally reminds himself to breath.
“We shouldn’t—We should stop…” It’s a weak argument, but anything to hold his self-image.
“Actually?” You challenge his wavering tone.
“Please don’t.” You’re almost addicted to the way he says please now.
“Thought so.”
Now you have that shit eating grin on your face, the one that he always saw whenever you argued with the professors or pushed in front of the timid guy in the food line. Never would he have ever expected to feel his dick throb at it. His eyes follow your movements as you perch yourself on his lap, adjusted your skirt so you can rub your wet pussy against his aching cock.
He whimpers, actually whimpers, as you start to glide yourself along his length at an agonizing pace. His hands quickly find your hips, not making you go faster, just needing to grab onto something.
His head drops to your shoulder, hiding his bright red face, breathing heavily onto your shirt, feeling his breath fan over your clothed nipples.
As you slowly wet his length, one of your hand runs through his hair. You slowly push his face down towards a breast. Instantaneously, he starts licking at one over your shirt, causing him to lose focus, and his hip ruts up into you. His tip slightly dips into your hole and both of you moan. Yuta cusses before pulling the neckline of your shirt down.
Underneath, to his surprise, you have no bra. Of course you didn’t, you hadn’t expected to encounter anyone in this room. He takes a nipple into his mouth, and you have to muffle yourself in his neck, returning the favor but leaving a few hickeys just above where his short usually sits. The sensation of his tongue swirl around your now perked tit causes you to move your hips faster.
You pull away from his neck, tugging on his hair to pull him up from your breast. Looking into his eyes for a moment, you decide something. Reaching over his shoulder, grabbing the second, unlit blunt, and the small lighter next to it.
“You ever smoked before, Yuu?” You whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Yuta quickly shakes his head and your eyes nearly light up.
“I’ll teach you something for once then, okay?”
An immediate switch in action has him rapidly nodding his head now.
You lean back from him, putting the blunt between your lips. You flick on the lighter and hold it to the end. The blunt lights up, and Yuta can instantly smell it, he hasn’t smelt it this strong before. Occasionally he’d come back to his dorm occasionally smelling like weed because of Toge, but never enough to remember or describe it.
You take a deep hit of it before blowing it into the air around the two of you. Poor Yuta is already coughing from the secondhand smoke. You watch him regain his breath, before placing a hand on his cheek. You move his head to make him look right into your eyes. Blunt in the other hand, you take a second hit.
Instead of letting it billow into the classroom, you lean forward. The hand on his cheek taps him, demanding he open his mouth. He swallows before opening his mouth slightly, a shy action. You lean forward, pressing your lips to his. Yuta’s eyes widen as he feels the weed smoke transfer into his own mouth.
You pull away, but push his jaw shut, “Hold it for me, pretty boy.”
He tries, he really does, but it’s only 3 seconds before he’s coughing out the gas. You pout dramatically, feigning disappointment at him.
“Again. I wanna try again. Please, please I can do it.”
So, you do. You take another hit from the blunt and kiss it into his mouth. His hands come up to cup your face, holding you in a kiss with him. When he finally let’s go, he only half coughs once.
“Good job, Yuu. Did so well.”
“Yeah? I did?”
“Mhm. I think you deserve something else.”
You make the movement to shotgun him again, capturing him in a kiss. Except this time, you move your hand from his cheek and cup his boner and line it up with your hole. He chokes on a moan. All the smoke spills out of his mouth as you lower yourself down inch by inch. His head tilts back, muttering under his breath.
“Holy shiiit, hah, oh my god,” repeating small phrases even after your clit is pressed against his pelvis.
He tries to lift his hips up to encourage you to ride him, but you take your empty hand and press it onto his lower stomach, silently telling him to behave. He whimpers, so needy and desperate, all his previous focus and confidence gone again.
You breath in more of the blunt, leaning forward to continue blowing it into his mouth. Yuta’s eyes lock onto yours, his are glossy, from both tears and his first high. While swapping the smoke over to his mouth, you clench around him.
“Ah--!” And all the smoke leaves his mouth before it can get into his system.
You shake your head, “Until you can keep this in your mouth, I’m not moving. Got it pretty boy?”
“Y-yeah. I can do it I promise.”
One of his hands grabs your wrist, encouraging you to try again. So, you do. You repeat the inhaling, breathing into his mouth and clenching. It takes 2 tries for him to successfully breathe it out when told to.
He breathes heavily, catching his breath. When it finally processes in his fuzzy mind, his eyes practically light up. You take a final hit from the blunt before putting it out in your makeshift ashtray on the desk. Both your hands are free now, one braces behind you, on his thigh, and the other locks onto his shoulder.
You lift off of him, just until his tip is the only thing left inside, before you drop back down. Yuta’s whole-body jolts and his mouth opens without a sound. You start to move again, at a sloppy pace. You feel his dick slide in and out of your soft walls, pulling some of your slick out and onto his lap and your thighs.
Yuta himself holds onto your hips for dear life. His chest is heaving, his whole body overwhelmed with the sensation. He probably should’ve mentioned his virginity before he agreed to getting high, because he can feel his balls start to grow tight. Tears fall down his cheeks as he gazes up at you.
“I’m—I’m gonna—”
“I know, Yuu. Just a little longer, okay? Can you do that?”
He shakes his head, “Can’t. Please.”
With a huff, the hand on his thigh moves to bring one of his hands down to rub your clit. You guide him into circle motions, he learns quick enough to make your rhythm falter again. You only start to get louder, if someone were to pass, they’d easily hear both of you though the open door.
The tension in you builds, and builds right until Yuta thrusts up into you, the warmth of his cum flooding your pussy. Your back arches into him as you clench around him in your own orgasm. You slowly ease your movements to a stop. Both of you don’t move, his eyes look anywhere but at you.
As you start to move off of him, he hisses from losing the warmth. A fat glob of his cum slides down your leg. Quicker than a thought forming your head, Yuta leans forward and licks a line from where his cum had reached. He swallows it and licks the trail it had left down your thigh.
Your whole-body tenses in shock, watching him lap at the fat of your thigh. Even after your skin is visibly clean, he continues. His eyes flicker to look up at you. He looks so pretty. A light layer of sweat on his skin, his lashes still wet with his tears from before.
“Shit…” is muttered under your breath as he tries to trail up back to the mess between your thighs. Unfortunately for him, you grab his face and pull him up for a kiss, basically eating his face. Nobara can definitely keep the dorm for the night.
A/N: I took a LOT of freedom with this req so I hope you like it （；´д｀）ゞ
The ballad of a Snake and a Raven | Mattheo Riddle
Summary: His last name defined, yet he died not as a Riddle but as a man who loved to hard.
Ravenclaw reader!!
Wc: 1912
M.R who.. Isn't violent like his father, and refuses to join or fight or draw his wand on anyone, hoping that maybe he could create a better image for himself. He often walks past them and ignores the comments he gets, but yet through all this no one says it to his face, not because they’re a coward but because they see him the same way they see Voldemort.
M.R who.. Refused to acknowledge his love for you in fear of being the way his father was with his mother. He ignored it for months, watching from the sidelines and stealing glances during class, he hated it, when he smelt your exact smell in amortentia, he froze, the smell; lavender, with a hint of spring air and the sweet perfume you sprayed every day made his head spin. Images of his name, his family and what had been done in the riddle name flashed in his mind, swirling around like a storm waiting to be released.
M.R who.. Didn't care what he was doing, you called, he came. He fears not being enough, so whether he was studying or simply hanging with his friends, you called his name and he came running. Mattheo is the type of man who could be bleeding to death, and if he heard your sweet voice call his name he would drag himself off the floor and crawl in your direction.
M.R who.. Didn't tell his father about you and left no trace of you when he went home for the holidays, he was scared to think his dad would see you as weakness. He feared his father, there was no doubt about it. Voldemort was cruel and would kill anyone Mattheo knew id it meant making him the same way, Voldemort wasted no time in turning Crabbe and goyle, the scared boys, into scared spies.
M.R who.. Despite your blood status of being muggleborn, he loved like you will die tomorrow, after all he is a half-blood himself. Blood didn't mean anything, yes it was a part of human life but to wizard life it could define your social status, when Mattheo first told you of his feelings you thought he was joking, “So Mattheo Riddle wants to go out with me, a mudblood. Or in your world a “Mudblood”.” your voice was like a cruel song, Mattheo shook his head quickly, “I think you're beautiful, and smart. Your blood doesn't mean anything to me.” he rambled, he nearly dropped the wildflowers in his hands, the water of the black lake reflected the sun and made Mattheo sweat internally.
M.R who.. Listened to all your interests, whether the topic went from dragon’s to muggle things, he listened. To him every word you spoke was a prayer, it didn't matter whether you talked about you hate Gilderoy Lockhart, it was a prayer. Mattheo wasn't taught religion but he would kiss you like a sinner any day.
M.R who.. Only trusted Theodore to know of your relationship, even though eventually Blaise eavesdropped and spread the secret to the rest of the group. He got scared when Blaise mentioned the relationship in the great hall, his eyes wide like saucers, only Theo knew. Theo looked up at Mattheo, silently trying to gauge his emotions. “I would never date a filthy mudblood like her.” He spoke quickly. You had to walk past him at that moment, brows furrowing and tears gathering in your pretty eyes, Mattheo stayed in his seat but the anger in himself stayed and reflected onto everyone else for the rest of the night.
M.R who.. Ran straight to your dorm after dinner, hoping to apologise but the portrait wouldn't let him in, no matter how much he pleaded or begged the denied him. During the night Mattheo did the one thing he knew how to do, cause trouble. He stole a broom and climbed through a window in Ravenclaw Common Room. His eyes drifted to the couch where he saw you asleep, tears stains on your cheeks, his breath hitched, guilt gathering in his chest. Quietly he sunk to his knees beside the couch, brows furrowed, hands shaking, gently nudging you awake. Before you yawn Mattheo began spilling apologies, words flying from his mouth in a flurry, claiming he had to protect you.
M.R who.. panicked when Crabbe and Goyle let it spill around Draco’s father, who in return told Mattheo’s dad. He didn't want to go home on the holidays, he wanted to stay with you, if his father would come for you he would have to kill his heir, he spent every night in your bed staring at the door waiting for his father to burst in. When he did sleep, flashes of green filled his mind, his father’s voice yelling out “Avada Kedvra!” while he was pinned down and forced to watch.
M.R who.. panicked and tried to get you safe after learning that his dad knew of you, his attempts had failed. Draco’s mother, Narcissa had sent him a letter, begging him to get the poor ravenclaw girl somewhere safe, in her letter she didn't claim Mattheo a monster for bringing this on you. She called him a child, who deserves a better family than what he’s got. He hid in you a small home, deep within the forbidden forest, every night he came to you, hoping that enchantments he put on the house were keeping you safe and shielded. During the night after a few weeks Mattheo had arrived and found you safe, you were sleeping quietly in the small bed, hair spread around like a halo. For the first time he felt you were safe and fell asleep beside, would he have known that would be a mistake he would've kept his eyes glued open. During the night Voldemort did come, alongside, his mother and a handful of deatheaters, they pinned him down to the floor, as you awoke, he watched as you reached for your wand only to be struck in the back by his father.
M.R who.. Watched as they didn't kill you right away but carved Mudblood into your arms, littered cuts all over your body, he watched as they all took turns using crucio on you, your screams pounded against home walls and all Mattheo could make out was the word, “Matty!”
M.R who.. Watched as his mother finally killed you, her sickening laughter filling the room. He watched each and every Deatheater follow his father out, he stood from the floor, crying, tears streaming down his face, and snot filling his nose. His sobs were deafening as he walked towards your mutilated body, he collapsed to his knees, heavy cries coming from his sore throat, begging for them to take his life, not your’s. Your beautiful filled with colour and laughter, but in every memory you had would be the sickening black darkness in which is Mattheo Riddle.
M.R who.. Clutched your body tightly, ignoring his friend’s entering the room, Theo who actually knew you had tears threatening to fall. Pansy who could have her mouth as she thought of all the times you comforted her despite not knowing her. Draco who stared distraught, and Blaise who stared, the revelation of eavesdropping on something he shouldn't have apparent.
M.R who.. Refused to accept your death and kept asking you to wake up, he only accepted it after Theo had Crouched beside him, gently grasping your cold, lifeless hand as he spoke to Mattheo. “She’s gone, Mattheo. She won't wake up.” he spoke quietly. Mattheo brushed hair from your face shaking his head.
M.R who.. Watched dumbledore, McGonagall and snape walk in, their eyes falling on your body. McGonagall looked away, and snape stared helplessly. None had the guts to talk except Dumbledore, he placed a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder and called Hagrid in to take your body.
M.R who.. Refused to let you go, if he let Hagrid take you it would be really dead.
M.R who.. Turned angry after your death, he blamed blaise and often got into a bloody fight with Blaise. To him Blaise was the one who told a secret that wasn't his to tell, so after he watched Hagrid pick up your limp and bleeding body he turned, eyes darkening with a rage and he walked to Blaise and punched him square in the face, the tumbled out the house and began shooting spells at each other, Blaise who wasn't trying to hurt his friend yelled out “Crucio”, the spell didn't work but it made develop flashbacks of your writhing body and horrified screams.
M.R who.. At your funeral, he stood silently, alone, and grieving. When the funeral ended he stayed longer staring at your ravenclaw friends who sobbed, hugging each other pleading for the scraps of your memory. When the girls decided to leave they made eye contact with. One muttering as she walked past, “This is all your fault. You're just like your father.” Mattheo remained silent, desperately trying not to believe the girl's words, but to no avail he did.
M.R who.. Lost himself after your death. He wouldn't talk to anyone, not Theo, not even himself. Narcissa once tried to ask him after he got the dark mark, she asked if he was okay and Mattheo just looked at her, eye’s filled with unheard emotion’s. Eventually he spoke to Theo, during a smoke on the astronomy tower with him he Told Theo how much you haunt him, how he sees you in the hallways, and your voice was always in his ears.
M.R who.. Couldn't come to terms with your death, instead he consumed himself in drugs and alcohol something he swore he would never do. Eventually one night when he was high off his mind, he crawled to your old bed in the Ravenclaw Dorm Rooms, he hadn't been here since the funeral but he knelt at the edge. He looked up eye’s catching on a piece of paper sticking out from under the mattress, hesitantly he reached for it and pulled it out, eyes falling on a photograph of you two on your third date, by then you were dating but the smile on your face was the same one you always had around him, Kind, sweet and genuine. He sobbed again as he turned it over and read the scribble on the back, “My matty” it read.
M.R who.. Consumed with grief, smoked himself off the astronomy tower. His weed supply by Theo was always overused so it did not surprise anyone when he was found the next morning, bleeding and dead on the grass. In his hands he clutched the photo of you two he found, and when the professors found him they were sad, but they expected it. Despite his evil name, Mattheo Riddle wasn't as bad as they thought. Instead he was just a boy, with a golden heart, born to the wrong people.
He was mourned, by Theo, by everyone who thought he wasn't capable of love.
M.R who.. Kept every memory of you he could until his death, even when Madam Pomfrey cleaned up his body, on his arm laid your initial, Tattooed beside a small black raven.
Because to Mattheo Riddle you weren't just a ravenclaw muggle born witch, you his raven, his forever love.
She made a deal with the devil (Fred Weasley). The terms? He helps her get the boy she’s always wanted. But the price? Well, it costs her everything she thought she knew about him.
Inspired by the book ‘Better Than The Movies’ by Lynn Painter.
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The fields between your house and the Burrow were golden in the late summer sun, swaying lazily as though they had nothing better to do than mock you for your restlessness. You hated how quiet it felt now. Summers used to mean running through these fields barefoot, shrieking with laughter, Luna trailing daisies behind her, Dylan Green’s smile burning brighter than the sky, and the Weasley boys. Always too loud, and always too much.
But that was before. Before you lost her. Before the world cracked open and swallowed your mother’s laugh, her warmth, her everything. Now summers felt like borrowed time, a season stretched thin with memories. You spent them scavenging scraps of her, finding her in her dresses, her favorite books, her perfume bottle that still held the faintest trace of her. Sometimes you thought if you dressed yourself in her life, if you wore her stories, you could trick the world into thinking she was still here. Trick yourself into thinking she hadn’t gone anywhere at all.
That’s why you’d decided to go to The Spot. The willow tree stood like an old friend in the center of the fields, a giant with arms open wide, leaves trailing to the grass like secrets being whispered. It was the place that knew your childhood like the back of it’s leaves. You’d built forts there with Luna, pretended to be knights and villains with Dylan, and held countless summer night meetings with the Weasley twins. It was sacred.
It was also a war zone, because you and Fred Weasley did not share. Not then. Not now. The Spot was either his or yours, depending on who got there first. Stupid? Yes. But when it came to Fred, nothing was ever simple.
So when you pushed through the tall grass, heart set on curling up against the bark with your book tucked in your lap, and saw him sitting there like he owned the place with his long legs stretched out, and head tipped back against the tree with that insufferably smug expression, you groaned out loud.
“Merlin save me,” you muttered, not even bothering to hide your disappointment.
Fred cracked one eye open and smirked. “Oh, perfect. My afternoon just got more entertaining.”
You glared at him, fists already curling at your sides. “Of course you’re here. Don’t you have a sibling to annoy?”
He grinned wider, straightening up and patting the grass beside him. “And miss the pleasure of ruining your day? Not a chance.”
Heat climbed your neck, the familiar rush of irritation that only Fred could summon. “This is my spot.”
“Correction,” he said, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers, “this is whoever-gets-here-first’s spot. And lucky me, I beat you.”
You stomped closer, trying not to notice how the late sun caught in his hair, turning it to copper fire. Ugh. He was too tall, too sharp around the edges, too much like every cliché of the arrogant, untouchable jock in the books you devoured at night. Except in the books, the girl didn’t want to punch the hero in the face.
“You’re unbearable,” you snapped.
Fred leaned back on his elbows and his gaze flicked over you with infuriating ease. “And you’re predictable. By now I can draw the exact way your forehead wrinkles when you’re angry.”
Your hand flew to your brow automatically. “It does not wrinkle.”
“Oh, it does.” His grin was wicked, knowing. “Adorable, really. Like a very cross kitten.”
Your pulse jumped, though whether from rage or embarrassment, you weren’t sure. “I am not a kitten. And I am not adorable.”
Fred clutched his chest theatrically. “Careful, love, you’ll hurt my feelings. Calling me unbearable, denying your own cuteness…truly cruel.”
You scoffed, the urge to throw your book at his head almost overwhelming. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Not really.” His eyes glittered as they locked on yours, a spark of mischief you knew all too well. “I told you, annoying you is my favorite pastime.”
That was the final straw. With a sharp huff, you turned on your heel and started marching back across the field, grass whipping at your ankles. Behind you, his laughter chased after you, warm and mocking at once.
“Don’t be like that!” he called. “See you at Hogwarts!”
You flipped him a very unladylike hand gesture without looking back, your cheeks burning hot as you quickened your pace. Of course he’d ruin your last summer afternoon. Of course he’d win The Spot, because Fred Weasley always won and you hated him for it. Or at least, you told yourself you did.
———————————————————————
The castle felt alive again. After a summer of empty fields and lingering silences, the sound of laughter and chatter echoing off Hogwarts’ stone walls wrapped around you like a blanket. The Great Feast had been the usual chaos with pumpkin juice spilling, Luna telling you about Nargles nesting in the chandeliers, the Sorting Hat droning on in riddles while you stole rolls from the platter. It was almost comforting.
Afterwards, you split off from Luna with a squeeze of her hand, her dreamy smile following you as she drifted off to Ravenclaw Tower. You knew she’d be up all night stargazing with her telescope, but you had other plans.
Your Spot. The thought made you quicken your pace through the Gryffindor common room, weaving between clusters of students, heart thrumming with anticipation. Your little secret wasn’t just a broom closet. It was your sanctuary, a hidden place carved out, tucked neatly behind a portrait of an unusually fat shepherd who always insisted you bring him gossip in exchange for entry. Inside, you had blankets piled high, pillows in every corner, and a stack of books you’d dragged there over the years. And candles of course, because nothing felt more romantic than soft flickering light, even if you were the only one around to enjoy it.
You waited impatiently in the common room, feigning disinterest until the crowd thinned, until the fire burned low and your housemates finally disappeared upstairs. Then, at last, you slipped to the portrait, whispered the little bribe you’d promised the shepherd (“Dean Thomas has been drawing in his sketchbook of Ginny Weasley again”), and slipped inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and your heart stopped.
The candles were already lit. Their golden glow cast shadows across the walls, pooling light over the nest of blankets and pillows you’d so carefully arranged. But worse, infinitely worse, was the figure sprawled right in the middle of it. His long limbs took up far too much space, his stupid grin flashing the moment his eyes met yours. “Evening, love.”
Your groan ripped out of you, loud and guttural, echoing off the stone. “Are you kidding me?”
Fred propped himself up on one elbow, looking irritatingly comfortable. “You didn’t think I’d let you have all the best spots to yourself, did you?”
You stormed a few steps forward, pointing a furious finger at him. “Seriously? First the willow tree and now this? You had to take this too? You can’t just let me have one thing, can you?”
“Not when it’s this entertaining.” He stretched lazily, folding his arms behind his head as though he’d been king of this hideout his entire life. “You really should work on hiding your hiding places. You left an awful lot of crumbs behind when you smuggled biscuits in last year.”
You clenched your fists. Merlin, you hated him. Or at least, you desperately wanted to. “This is my Spot. I made it. Every pillow, every candle, every blanket. You think the school provided all this?”
Fred’s smirk only deepened. “Then I should thank you for decorating. Lovely ambiance, by the way. Sets the mood perfectly.”
Your cheeks burned. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re territorial.” His eyes glinted with that dangerous mischief, the kind that made you want to shake him and maybe throttle him just a little. “It’s just a broom closet. We could share, you know.”
You shot him a look that could have scorched through walls. “We are not sharing. You can’t just waltz into my sanctuary and decide it’s yours.”
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You should know by now, love. Once I find something good, I don’t let go.”
The words caught in your chest, heavier than they should have been. You hated that. Hated that his voice slid so easily under your skin, like a song you couldn’t stop humming even when you despised the tune.
So you crossed your arms, chin lifted stubbornly. “Well, tough luck. Because this one’s mine. I don’t care what you say, I’m not backing down.”
Fred only leaned forward, his grin widening as if he’d been waiting to hear exactly that. “Good. I like a challenge.”
Your stomach flipped, though whether from rage or something far more dangerous, you couldn’t say. All you knew was this, Fred Weasley wasn’t leaving. And you weren’t either. The war for your broom closet had begun.
———————————————————————
You were furious all day. Every class, every corridor, every stairwell felt like it had been tainted with the ghost of last night. Fred Weasley lounging in your spot, smirking like he’d won, like he’d always win. Your quill snapped halfway through Charms when you thought about it, and Professor Flitwick looked personally offended. You scowled through Transfiguration, muttered darkly through Herbology, and nearly set your parchment aflame in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
By lunch, Luna had drifted beside you serenely, balancing a stack of pudding cups in her arms like offerings. “You look as though you’ve swallowed a Snargaluff,” she observed, settling beside you at the Gryffindor table.
“I’m fine,” you bit out, stabbing at your roast potato so viciously it crumbled into paste.
“You’re not fine,” she said dreamily, peeling open a pudding cup. “But you will be. Did you hear? Dylan’s back.”
Your fork clattered against your plate. You blinked at her. “What?”
“Dylan Green,” she repeated, as if the name wasn’t a thunderclap in your chest. “His family moved back. I heard they’ve been staying with Alicia Spinnet.”
Your stomach twisted. Dylan Green. The boy who used to run through the fields with you, who always distracted the twins when they’d tie your shoelaces together or charmed your hair neon green. The boy who had smiled at you like you weren’t just the awkward, too-loud, too-dreamy girl trailing behind everyone else. Your mother had adored him. She was always teasing, always nudging you with conspiratorial grins about how cute you looked together.
It had been years since he left, since his family disappeared across the ocean. But the moment Luna said his name, you felt every memory bloom back to life, fresh and bright and golden. Your heart caught like maybe your mother had sent him back to you. A sign. A gift.
And then Luna’s words fully registered. “Wait. Did you say they’re staying with Alicia Spinnet?”
Luna nodded, spooning pudding into her mouth. You made a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl. Alicia Spinnet had been the worst kind of brat when you were kids, always flaunting her shiny hair and new robes, rolling her eyes when you tripped or stumbled, making faces when you dared to speak up in games. Sure, she wore her Gryffindor badge and polite smiles now, but you’d never forgotten. You could smell fake a mile away. The thought of Dylan spending time with her was unbearable.
Still, you straightened your spine, fire burning in your chest. No. You wouldn’t let it ruin this. If Dylan’s return was a sign from the universe, or from your mum, you weren’t about to ignore it.
So when you spotted him later in the hallway, walking toward you with that same sunbeam smile you remembered, you sucked in a deep breath, fluffed your hair with trembling fingers, and plastered on the brightest grin you could manage.
“Dylan Green,” you said, and his name tasted sweet on your tongue.
He looked down at you, and when that smile curved his lips it was handsome, easy, and familiar. You swore the castle itself tilted. His voice wrapped around your name like it had been waiting years to say it. “Wow. You look…the exact same as I remember you.”
Your cheeks burned as you laughed, nervous but elated. “It’s been forever. I can’t believe you’re back.”
“Yeah,” he said warmly, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “Feels weird, but…good. Hogwarts hasn’t changed much, has it?”
You shook your head, heart soaring, trying to find words that didn’t sound idiotic. You were about to tell him how glad you were he was back when a loud BANG sounded. A firework shot off right at your ankles, shrieking and exploding into a fizz of gold sparks. You yelped, stumbling back, colliding hard with the wall as your elbow scraped painfully against the stone.“Bloody—!”
Dylan reached out like he might steady you, but your eyes had already snapped to the culprit. Of course. Who else would it be? Fred Weasley, leaning against the wall down the corridor, wand lazily twirling between his fingers, smirk plastered across his face like sin itself.
“Careful, love,” he called, voice maddeningly light. “Walls can be vicious.”
Your jaw clenched, fury bubbling hot. But Dylan was still looking at you, and the last thing you wanted was to look like the childish, easily ruffled mess Fred always painted you as. So you forced a tight, brittle smile. “All good. Just a…minor accident.”
Fred’s smirk faltered for half a second, confusion flickering in his eyes at your civility. Then, like he’d caught himself, he pushed off the wall and strode over, clapping Dylan on the shoulder like they were old mates. “Dylan Green, heard you were back. Welcome home.”
Dylan grinned, clearly pleased. “Thanks, Fred. Good to see you.”
“Listen,” Fred said smoothly, ignoring you entirely now, “some of us are having a little party in Oliver Wood’s dorm Friday night. You should come by. Good chance to catch up with everyone.”
“Sounds brilliant,” Dylan said at once, flashing that smile again. “I’ll be there.”
You stood stiffly, fury searing through your chest as Dylan bid you both goodbye and walked off. Your scraped elbow stung, your pride stung worse, and your insides burned at how Fred hadn’t even thought to invite you.
Later, when you found Luna, you practically exploded. “Can you believe him? Not inviting me? Like I don’t exist?”
She tilted her head, dreamy and confused. “But you don’t like Fred. And you hate parties. Why would you want to go to a party?”
You threw your hands up. “Because Dylan will be there, Luna. And I have to - no, I will - make sure he sees me before Alicia worms her way in. This is my chance.”
You narrowed your eyes, already plotting. If Dylan was your destiny, then nothing, not Alicia Spinnet, not your clumsiness, and especially not Fred Weasley, was going to stop you. And if the only way into that party was through Fred…Well. You’d just have to beat him at his own game.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room was quieter than usual that night. The fire had burned down low, painting the walls in a soft amber glow, and most of the house had already trailed off to their dorms. You knew Fred liked to sneak out for a midnight snack before bed though, and he was due any minute. You lingered near the staircase, fidgeting with the hem of your polka-dot skirt, trying to time it just right so you could catch Fred alone.
When he finally appeared, sauntering down from the boys’ dormitory with that irritating air of smugness that seemed permanently stitched into his posture, you squared your shoulders and cut him off by the armchairs near the fire. “We need to talk.”
He blinked at you, feigning surprise, then let a grin curl across his mouth. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favourite little cross-kitten. What’s the matter? Come to admit I’ve won the broom closet once and for all?”
Your hands balled into fists. “Hardly. This is about Friday night.”
His brows arched, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh? Asking me out on a date, are you?”
You exhaled sharply through your nose, determined not to rise to his bait. “No. I want into that party in Oliver Wood’s dorm. You’re going to get me in.”
For once, his smirk faltered into genuine amusement. He leaned back against the armchair, folding his arms like he had all the time in the world. “And why, pray tell, would I do that?”
“Because,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’ll give you The Spot for two weeks.”
That got him. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, calculating. “Two whole weeks? You must really want this. But why? You’ve never been interested in parties before?”
Your cheeks heated, but you held your chin high. “No questions asked. That’s the deal. You get me in, and you keep it a secret. No running your mouth, no teasing, nothing.”
Fred’s grin returned, wolfish. “Oh, I’ll take the deal. But let’s not pretend I can’t figure out why you want it so badly.”
You froze, stomach dropping. “What are you talking about?”
He leaned in, eyes sparkling like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “Dylan Green. Your childhood sweetheart, the one you’ve been sighing about since you were old enough to plait daisies into your hair. You think this is fate, don’t you? Him coming back. A grand romantic sign from the heavens.”
Heat rushed to your face, fury bubbling up. “That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, but it is.” Fred chuckled lowly, tapping his chin as if savoring every word. “You’ve probably got this insane, romanticized notion that you’re destined to be together. It’s adorable, really. Desperate, but adorable.”
Your jaw clenched. You wanted to scream, to hex him, to throw him into the fire. But the truth in his words hit too close, so you swallowed it down and forced yourself to say stiffly, “Do we have a deal or not?”
Fred’s grin widened, triumphant. “We have a deal. The Spot for two weeks, and in exchange, I’ll make sure you and Dylan have your shining moment. Merlin knows I’d do anything to keep you away from me for that long.”
You glared at him, your pride in tatters. He pushed off the armchair, brushing past you with a casual air. “Meet me at the staircase Friday at eight o’clock sharp.”
“Fine,” you snapped.
But before you could leave, his gaze flicked down to your outfit. He paused, head tilted, and smirked. “And don’t wear that.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“That,” he said, gesturing to your polka-dot skirt and cozy sweater. “You want Dylan to notice you? Don’t dress like…that.”
Your face burned. “What’s wrong with how I dress?”
Fred let his silence linger just long enough to make your blood boil. His eyes raked over your outfit in exaggerated slow motion before he shrugged, utterly infuriating. “It explains itself.”
You sputtered, defensive. “Oh, because you’re such an expert in fashion? Please. Half your wardrobe is hand-me-downs with moth holes.”
He smirked, clearly delighted by how riled up you were getting. “True. But I still manage to look good, don’t I?”
You scoffed, ready to strangle him on the spot. “You’re unbearable.”
Fred only gave you a lazy, knowing smile as he turned toward the boys’ staircase. “Friday, eight o’clock. Try not to embarrass yourself, love.”
You stood there, fuming, your heart pounding far too fast. You hated him. You hated him. It felt like you’d just signed a deal with the devil, and why did part of you feel like he was already winning whatever sick twisted game he was undoubtedly plotting in his head?
———————————————————————
By Friday evening, your nerves buzzed like static. You’d gone through four different outfit options before finally settling on the one you thought struck the perfect balance of chic and effortless: a black pleated skirt, crisp white button-up tucked neatly in, black leather Mary Janes polished to a shine, and a silk scarf tied at your neck with your mother’s pearl necklace. Classic. Elegant. Unforgettable.
When you saw Fred waiting for you at the staircase, your stomach did a traitorous little flip. He was leaning against the banister, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other tapping lazily against the railing. His hair was annoyingly perfect tonight, falling just so across his forehead, and his button-down (rolled at the sleeves, of course) looked far better on him than you wanted to admit.
When did he get handsome? The thought flitted through your head before you shoved it out. You weren’t here for him. You were here for Dylan.
Still, you stepped forward with confidence. “Ready?”
Fred’s eyes flicked down at your outfit…and he instantly burst out laughing. You froze, heat rushing to your cheeks. “What?”
He shook his head, still chuckling, one hand pressed to his stomach as though you’d just made the best joke of the night. “Oh, Merlin. You’re really going to wear that?”
Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I look chic.”
“You look like you’re about to give a presentation on the Goblin Rebellions of 1612.” He snorted, gesturing broadly at your ensemble. “Everyone else is going to be in jeans. You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Good,” you snapped, lifting your chin. “That’s the point. I want to stand out to Dylan.”
Fred smirked, unbothered. “Oh, you’ll stand out, all right. Just not the way you think.”
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as he started up the stairs, and you had no choice but to follow.
Oliver Wood’s dorm was packed. Music blared from an old wireless in the corner, bottles of butterbeer littered the desks, and the air was thick with laughter and the smell of too many sweaty Gryffindors in one place. The Quidditch team was clustered near the center, and Fred slipped seamlessly among them, exchanging handshakes and grins like he owned the room.
You hovered at his side, scanning frantically until your gaze caught on Dylan. He was by the makeshift snack table (which was really someone’s trunk shrouded with a plastic tablecloth), pouring pumpkin juice into a cup, looking maddeningly handsome.
“Relax,” Fred muttered when you practically bounced on your toes. “He’s not going anywhere.”
But before you could retort, Dylan spotted the two of you and came over. He clapped Fred on the shoulder warmly, then turned to you with a smile.
“Wow,” he said, eyeing your outfit. “Studying late already?”
Your heart sank. “Studying?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Uniform still on. You’re dedicated as always.”
Mortification clawed at your insides. Of course. He thought you were still in uniform. You forced a laugh, trying to play it off. “Right, yeah. Got a little carried away with coursework.”
“Always the overachiever.” Dylan grinned, then glanced between you and Fred. “And you two showed up together? Cute couple.”
Your stomach flipped, and not in the good way. “What? No! We’re not! At all. Just friends. Barely friends.”
But Dylan only laughed, looking at you differently now with something a little warmer and curious. Your cheeks burned. Maybe this was working after all. Until an already drunk fifth-year girl stumbled toward Fred while giggling, clearly trying to flirt, and then promptly vomited all over you. The stench hit immediately. It was warm, sticky, and absolutely everywhere.
“OH MY GOD!” You shrieked, arms flailing, horror consuming you. “She…she threw up on me!”
Laughter erupted around you, voices chiming in, “Oi, watch out, it’s vomit girl!” and “Careful, don’t slip!”
You thought you might actually die. But then Fred was suddenly beside you, steadying you with one firm hand on your shoulder. His voice dropped low against your ear. “Bathroom. Now. That door on the left. I’ll bring you something to change into.”
You didn’t think, you just ran. The bathroom was mercifully empty. You slammed the door shut, stripped off the soaked clothes, and jumped straight into the shower, scrubbing like you could erase the entire disaster. When you climbed out, dripping and desperate for a towel, you found none. Groaning, you muttered a half-effective drying charm, your hair still damp, water dripping down your calves.
A knock sounded. “Oi,” Fred’s voice called. “Got you a spare set.”
You cracked the door just enough to slip your hand out, snatching the bundle from him before slamming it shut again. When you unfolded it, your groan was loud enough he probably heard through the door. Sweatpants and a Gryffindor Quidditch jersey. Both massive.
“Seriously?” you shouted through the wood. “This is what you brought me?”
Fred’s amused voice floated back. “I can’t get into the girls’ dorm, remember? That’ll have to do.”
You muttered under your breath, but guilt prickled through you. He had helped. And he sounded…oddly kind. Not smug, not cruel, but the same easy-going Fred he always was with everyone who wasn’t you. Which was confusing in its own right.
Still, you tugged on the clothes, rolling the waistband of the sweatpants three times just to keep them from falling, cuffing the bottoms so you didn’t trip. The jersey hung like a tent, so you knotted it at your waist, tugging it off one shoulder to make it look something like an outfit. You glanced in the mirror. You looked ridiculous. And yet, kind of cute.
With a bracing breath, you shoved your vomit-soaked clothes into the bin and stepped back into the party. All eyes turned and cheers rang out. “Hey, vomit girl!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you. Dylan, at least, looked sympathetic as he came over. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you lied, forcing a breezy smile. “Just…unforgettable first impression, right?”
He laughed, eyes flicking down your body. And then you realized with horror that Fred’s sweatpants had slipped low on your hips, dangerously so. Before you could adjust, Fred appeared at your side, jaw tight, hand yanking the waistband up sharply.
“She’s leaving,” he announced, voice hard. “Her clothes are falling off.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but Dylan was already nodding, still watching you. So you forced a smile. “See you around.”
Fred marched you out before you could say anything. The walk back to your dorm was oddly quiet at first. You were giddy, despite the disaster, convinced Dylan had finally noticed you. Fred shattered the illusion with his next words. “You know, while you were in the bathroom, Dylan said some stuff.”
You looked at him sharply. “What stuff?”
“He still sees you as the weird little kid from next door.” Fred shoved his hands in his pockets. “The one who forced us to act in all those plays you wrote.”
Your face burned. “I have an artistic spirit!”
He grinned. “You also tried to charge us entry tickets made out of grass. And you made me play the damsel once. Wig and all.”
You sputtered. “It was theatrical, hardly weird.”
“And you used to collect dead beetles and tell people their names.”
“That was…educational.”
Fred’s laughter was warm, rolling, almost infectious. You found yourself laughing too, despite your indignation, cheeks aching as the two of you walked. By the time you reached the staircase to your dorm, your irritation had softened into something else entirely.
Fred paused, smirk tugging at his lips. “Thanks for the free advertisement, but I’ll need my jersey back before Quidditch practice on Wednesday.”
You huffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the stairs. “Don’t hold your breath.”
When you glanced back, he was still watching you, his grin lingering in the low torchlight.
———————————————————————
By the time you reached your dormitory staircase, the adrenaline of the night had finally worn off, leaving you oddly restless. You changed into your pyjamas, slipped beneath the covers, and stared up at the canopy overhead. The room was quiet, muffled by the soft snores of your roommates, but your thoughts were anything but still.
You replayed the party in your head, every humiliating detail. The uniform comment. The vomit. The chanting of “vomit girl.” You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. This was not how you’d imagined Dylan finally noticing you. You’d wanted sparks, romance, destiny. Not the scent of alcohol and someone else’s dinner decorating your shirt.
And yet, when your thoughts wandered back over the night, Dylan wasn’t who stuck out. Fred was. Fred, who hadn’t abandoned you when you wanted to melt into the floor. Fred, who had murmured directions to the bathroom to save your dignity. Fred, who’d stood outside the door and made sure you had clean clothes, even if they were his ridiculous sweatpants and Quidditch jersey. Fred, who had walked you back with no smirks and no grandstanding, just steady company at your side.
You frowned at the memory. You’d spent years chalking him up as the typical Gryffindor jock: loud, cocky, always ready with some joke at your expense. And tonight? He’d been…different. Not entirely. He still teased, still laughed at your childhood beetle collection and called your weird, but there was something under it. Something that made you laugh with him instead of at him.
Gentlemanly. That was the word, wasn’t it? It startled you, the realization. You shifted under your blankets, unsettled, your mind tugging at the edges of the thought like it was dangerous to follow too far.
You were supposed to be thinking about Dylan and about how you’d finally caught his eye, and how maybe next time you’d get it right. But instead, you found yourself picturing Fred’s grin in the torchlight as he’d told you to return his jersey. The warmth in his laughter. The way his hand had clamped firm and certain on your waistband before Dylan’s gaze could wander too far.
Your stomach gave a tiny, traitorous flutter. You scowled at yourself in the dark, dragging the blankets over your head. No. Absolutely not. Fred Weasley was not who you wanted. Not who you’d been pining for since forever.
And yet, as sleep finally crept up on you, the thought that lulled you under was not Dylan’s smile…but the sound of Fred’s laugh.
———————————————————————
Two mornings later, you found Fred lounging on a low wall in the courtyard, tossing a Quaffle in the air like he hadn’t a care in the world. You hesitated only a second before marching over, the bag with his clothes clutched tight in your hand.
“Here.” You thrust it at him. “Washed and folded. You’re welcome.”
Fred caught the bag mid-air with a smirk, peering inside before glancing back up at you. “Folded? You’re spoiling me.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get used to it. And…thanks again. For, you know. The other night.”
His grin widened, and he leaned back, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “That almost sounded like genuine gratitude. Careful, you’ll ruin your reputation.”
Before you could snap back, a group of fourth-years walked past, and one of them sing-songed, “Cute couple alert!” Another chimed in, “Weasley’s finally got himself a girlfriend!” followed by a chorus of laughter.
You blinked after them, heat rushing to your face. “What are they on about?”
Fred chuckled low, enjoying your bewilderment far too much. “Oh, didn’t you know? You’re my girlfriend now.”
Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged, wholly unbothered. “You showed up to a party on my arm. You were wearing my jersey. My name across your back.” He leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to make you flush. “That’s as good as a declaration, sweetheart.”
You groaned, loud and dramatic, dragging your hands down your face. “This is a disaster! Dylan is never going to go for me now if he thinks I’m already taken!”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Fred muttered under his breath, but when you glared at him, his expression shifted quickly back to smug amusement.
But then an idea sparked, wild and ridiculous, and before you could stop yourself you blurted, “Wait. This could actually work.”
Fred arched a brow. “Dangerous words coming from you.”
“No, listen,” you said, pacing in front of him now, excitement building. “If Dylan sees you and me together, it shows him I’m not the awkward little kid from next door anymore. I’ve grown up. I’m dateable. Desirable, even. And if he thinks you - Fred Weasley, human embodiment of chaos - are interested, maybe he’ll see me differently.”
Fred tilted his head, clearly entertained. “Or,” he drawled, “he’ll think you’re entirely off the market and never bother trying.”
“Not if you help me,” you countered, pointing at him. “You pretend to like me, talk me up to Dylan, and I’ll keep you firmly in the friendzone. He’ll see I’m wanted, but still available. It’s perfect.”
For a moment, Fred just studied you, the Quaffle balanced lazily in his palm. Then, to your surprise, his grin turned sharp. “Alright. I’m in.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What’s the catch? Because there’s no way Fred Weasley is doing something out of the kindness of his heart.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting. “The Spots. Both of them. Forever.”
Your stomach dropped. “What? No. Absolutely not. You can’t be serious!”
“Non-negotiable,” Fred interrupted smoothly. “You want Dylan Green? You want me to play doting fake-boyfriend in front of half the school? I get the willow tree and your little hideaway broom closet. Permanent custody whenever I want it.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but your brain was already conjuring up images of Dylan smiling at you, seeing you as something more than just the girl who wrote plays in the field. Something worthy. Your mum’s voice in your memory was teasing and hopeful, nudging you closer to madness.
You groaned, loud enough that a group of second-years nearby jumped. “Fine. Fine! But if you so much as breathe wrong in this arrangement, I’m revoking it.”
Fred leaned back again, tossing the Quaffle skyward with a grin of victory. “Pleasure doing business with you, darling.”
You scowled, but deep down, a thrill of nerves and anticipation curled in your chest. You’d made a deal with the devil and now there was no turning back.
———————————————————————
Wednesday morning found you bleary-eyed at the Gryffindor table, stirring half-heartedly at your porridge while Luna leaned across the bench, telling you about a dream she’d had involving dirigible plums and a colony of puffskeins. You were nodding along, trying to feign alertness, when someone slid onto the bench beside you with far too much energy for this hour.
“Morning, darling,” Fred said, helping himself to a slice of toast from your plate like he owned it.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t call me that. And don’t steal my breakfast.”
“Consider it my fee,” he said smoothly, buttering the toast. “For delivering very important news.”
You huffed, but curiosity won. “What news?”
Fred leaned back, grinning. “Saturday night a bunch of the lads are getting together for a friendly Quidditch match on the pitch. Nothing formal, just some flying and showing off. I’ve made sure Dylan’s coming. And,” he added with a meaningful look, “I want you there.”
You blinked. “You want me to…play Quidditch?”
“Not play,” he corrected, smirking. “Spectate. Maybe take a few laps if you’re feeling brave. The point is, it’s a small group, no gaggle of girls hanging around, no distractions. Just you, Dylan, and some quality opportunity for him to see how cool you’ve become.”
Something in his tone prickled, and you set your spoon down with a sharp clink. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting I’m invisible whenever other girls are around?”
Fred immediately raised his hands, mock-innocent. “I didn’t say invisible. Just…less noticeable.”
Your glare could have set him on fire. He grinned, utterly unfazed. But then you found yourself laughing, just a little. Because somehow, over the past few days, his teasing had stopped feeling cruel and started feeling familiar. Like banter instead of battle.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.
He just leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’ve been talking you up to Dylan, you know. Convincing him you’re not just the girl who used to wear your mum’s dresses and force us to reenact Romeo and Juliet under the willow tree.”
You flushed, biting back your retort. “I maintain that I just had an artistic spirit.”
“And now you’ve got a chance to prove it’s matured,” Fred said, smug. “So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll get you some clothes to wear, and you’ll—”
“Clothes?” you interrupted, scandalised. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“Nothing,” Fred said immediately, too smoothly to be honest. “But for this, you need the whole cool girl makeover. Not your usual ‘off-duty librarian’ chic.” His eyes flicked to your outfit, which was another patterned skirt and blouse combination, and back up, lips twitching. “Jeans. A jumper. Something casual. Like you didn’t try, even though you obviously did.”
Your mouth fell open. “Off-duty librarian? Excuse me?”
Fred only shrugged, that maddening grin never faltering. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”
“I will not,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “And where exactly do you plan on getting me these so-called ‘cool girl’ clothes?”
“Oh, that’s the fun bit.” He crunched into your toast, talking around the bite. “We’ll go to Hogsmeade Saturday morning. My treat.”
Your stomach lurched. You’d promised Luna you’d spend Saturday morning with her, looking through the bookshop and sipping butterbeer. But the gleam in Fred’s eyes told you he wasn’t going to let this one go, and the thought of Dylan noticing you at last was too powerful to ignore.
So you sighed, stabbing your porridge with unnecessary force. “Fine. Hogsmeade. Saturday.”
Fred smirked, victorious. “Perfect. Don’t be late. And change your hair.”
Your fork froze mid-air. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing,” he said again, eyes dancing. “But I think we should commit to the bit. Full transformation.”
You groaned and dropped your fork with a clatter. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me.”
Fred leaned back, smug as ever, and stole the rest of your toast. “Believe it, sweetheart.”
———————————————————————
Saturday morning came with a drizzle of mist and the kind of crisp autumn air that made you want to bury yourself in blankets. Instead, you found yourself making excuses to Luna at breakfast about piles of unfinished homework before slipping out of the Great Hall with a guilty twinge in your chest.
Fred was already waiting by the gates, hands stuffed in his pockets, hair ruffled by the breeze. He spotted you and grinned in that annoyingly effortless way that made him look like he owned the morning. “Ready, darling?” he drawled.
You scoffed but fell into step beside him as you headed down the sloping path to Hogsmeade. The walk, to your surprise, was easy. You found yourselves talking, not arguing, not bickering, but actually talking. Somehow the subject landed on books, and when Fred casually mentioned Pride and Prejudice, you almost tripped over your own feet.
“You’ve read Austen?”
He shrugged, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Of course. George and I found Mum’s stash years ago. Figured if we were going to pull off good love letters for prank fodder, we had to learn from the best. Ended up actually enjoying them. Don’t tell anyone.”
You blinked at him, caught between disbelief and fascination. “You…liked them?”
“Darcy’s a prat, but he grows on you,” Fred admitted. “And don’t get me started on Heathcliff. ‘Be with me always, take any form, drive me mad, only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you?’ That bloke needs serious therapy, not Catherine.”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “I can’t believe this. Fred Weasley quoting the Brontës.”
“And quoting them better than you, sweetheart,” he teased, bumping your shoulder lightly with his.
By the time you reached the shop, you were almost disappointed the walk had to end. Inside, Fred wasted no time plucking jumpers, jeans, and jackets from the racks, piling them into your arms. “Try these. And don’t argue.”
“I’m not putting on a fashion show for you,” you hissed, cheeks heating as he tried to shove you toward the changing rooms.
“Who said show? Just think of it as an evaluation.” His grin widened. “Purely professional.”
You slammed the door of the fitting room in his face, heart hammering. But when you tried on the clothes, you hated to admit he had an eye for it. The jeans fit perfectly, the jumper hugged you in a way that felt casual but chic. You felt confident. It was certainly different from your mum’s dresses and skirts, but not in a bad way. You found yourself almost smiling at your reflection before stomping back out, determined not to let Fred see how much you liked them.
Fred was lounging on a bench when you emerged, a box beside him. He handed it over without ceremony.
“What’s this?” you asked warily.
“Open it.”
Inside sat a pair of chunky white sneakers, gleaming new. You blinked down at them, your throat tightening. “Fred…why?”
“You’re in desperate need of new shoes,” he said simply, eyes flicking down to your worn Mary Janes. “Those things are practically relics.”
You swallowed hard, caught off guard by how much the gesture meant. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t smug. He’d taken the time to notice something as small as your beaten up pair of old shoes.
“Thank you,” you said softly, meaning it more than you expected.
He nodded toward the pile of clothes in your hand, smirk sliding back into place. “So? Verdict?”
You rolled your eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “You have good taste. I’ll give you that.”
“I know I do,” he shot back, smug as ever.
You huffed and carried the clothes to the counter, trying to hide the warmth blooming in your chest.
When you stepped out into the street again, arms full of bags, the last person you expected to see was Luna.
“There you are!” she said brightly, eyes widening at the shopping in your hands before darting to Fred at your side. “I thought you had homework?”
Your brain scrambled. “I did. Finished early. And then I, um…ran into Fred. He needed help picking a present for Ginny. An ‘I’m sorry for pranking you’ present.”
Fred nodded solemnly, playing along. “I’m terribly guilty, you know. It needed a woman’s touch.”
Luna tilted her head, considering, then seemed to accept it with a dreamy smile. “That’s very thoughtful. Well, come on then, there’s a new shop I want to show you!” She looped her arm through yours, tugging you away before you could protest.
You glanced back, panic flickering, but Fred was already stepping forward, plucking the bags from your hands. He leaned in close enough to whisper, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them safe in the common room.”
You mouthed thank you, once more startled by his unexpected kindness, before Luna tugged you down the street. Fred gave you a cheeky salute as you disappeared into the crowd.
———————————————————————
You burst into the common room, breathless, eyes darting around until you spotted Fred slouched in one of the armchairs. Relief hit you like a wave.
“Thank you!” you exclaimed, snatching the bags out of his arms. “You’re a lifesaver!”
He arched an eyebrow at your dramatic entrance as you sprinted toward the stairs, bags flapping against your legs. “Don’t thank me yet,” he called after you.
An hour later, you emerged from the dormitory transformed. Your hair hung straight and smooth, gleaming in the firelight. Baggy ripped jeans clung comfortably at your hips, paired with a cropped jumper that slipped off one shoulder, the color making your eyes stand out. A touch of makeup softened and defined your features.
Fred was leaning against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, waiting. When you appeared, he visibly froze for half a second before his expression melted into a smirk. He crooked a finger toward you. “Turn.”
Rolling your eyes but secretly fluttery, you spun once on the spot. Fred clapped slowly, dramatically. “Brilliant. I do good work.”
You gave his arm a playful whack. “What about me? I had something to do with it, you know.”
“Yes, well done to you as well,” he replied breezily. “I didn’t know you had the capacity to follow instructions accurately.”
You gasped and smacked him again, but laughter spilled out as the two of you bantered your way out of the tower.
When you reached the grounds, the others were already waiting. Dylan caught sight of you instantly, his face brightening as he waved. He fell into step beside you as you all headed toward the pitch.
“Remember when we used to play tag on brooms? And you’d always chicken out halfway through?” Dylan teased.
You laughed, cheeks warm. “I was small! And uncoordinated. Luna still reminds me of the time I nearly flew into a tree.”
“You and Luna still close then?” he asked.
“Best friends,” you said without hesitation.
Dylan smiled, then casually asked, “Do you remember Alicia?”
Your stomach dropped. “Unfortunately.”
As if summoned, Alicia’s voice called out, “Hey!” You turned to see her jogging toward you, cheeks flushed, smile dazzling.
You bit back a groan as she immediately slotted herself beside Dylan, launching into conversation about her Charms book.
Slipping to the back of the group, you fell into step with Fred. He raised both hands in surrender at your sharp glare. “I swear, I didn’t know she’d show up.”
You let out a resigned breath. “Doesn’t matter. You were right, I disappear as soon as she’s around.”
His voice softened, uncharacteristically gentle. “You don’t disappear.”
Your throat tightened, but you said nothing, keeping your eyes fixed ahead until Alicia veered off toward the locker rooms.
Later, you found yourself curled in the stands with a book, glancing up every so often to watch the boys dive and dart across the pitch. Fred and George were matched against Lee and Dylan, shouts of laughter echoing into the evening air.
“Come on, play with us!” Dylan’s voice cut through the din.
You sat up, startled. “I can’t fly for shit.”
He grinned, dropping to the ground and extending a hand. “I’ll teach you.”
Before you knew it, you were standing by his broom, heart hammering as he adjusted your grip. He gave you a once-over, and you thought maybe you caught something like admiration in his eyes.
“You’ve changed, you know,” he said, almost casually. “You’re not the little kid I remember.”
A surge of pride swelled in you. Victory! You managed to hover clumsily off the ground, Dylan climbing on behind you to steady the broom. His voice brushed against your ear as he guided your movements.
But just as you started to find your balance, he ruined everything by saying, “Fred’s really into you, you know.”
Your grip faltered, the broom dropping a whole meter before Dylan seized control again. “What?” you blurted.
“He’s a great guy,” Dylan said earnestly. “You should give him a chance. If it doesn’t work, no harm done.”
Heat crept into your face. “I don’t see Fred that way.”
“Just think about it,” Dylan urged. “He’s good for you.”
You gritted your teeth, mumbling an agreement just to end the conversation. And then WHAM! Something slammed into your face, white-hot pain exploding across your nose. You toppled sideways off the broom, the ground rushing up until you hit the grass with a thud. Groaning, you clutched your face, tears springing unbidden to your eyes.
Voices blurred around you of George scolding Lee, Lee shouting back, Dylan laughing as he tossed the quaffle into the air. Panic clawed at your chest. Dylan was laughing. At you.
Then Fred’s voice cut through everything. Urgent, steady and close. “Hey, hey, are you okay? Put pressure on it. Come on, let me have a look.”
Your trembling hands were gently pried away. Fred shoved his sweater against your nose, the wool already warm from his body. His hands were steady, his eyes fierce with focus.
You winced but forced a shrug. “I’m fine.”
George crouched beside you. “You’re being ridiculously cool about this. Lee would be bawling.”
“I would not!” Lee shouted. “I don’t cry.”
Fred, still crouched close, smirked faintly. “Oh, I’d cry. Hurts like hell.”
That made you smile through the ache. “Is it bad?” you asked weakly, trying to peel the jumper back.
The collective wince from everyone around made your stomach drop. “Oh, it’s mashed!” Lee blurted. “You look like a Mrs Potatohead.”
“Mrs Potato-what?” George muttered, confused.
Fred’s jaw tightened. “Right, that’s it. We’re going to the hospital wing.”
Before you could argue, he was helping you up, his arm steady around your shoulders as he steered you toward the castle. You pressed his jumper firmly to your nose, blood soaking through.
He kept talking as you walked, spouting nonsense, jokes and banter to keep you distracted from the pain. “So Dylan’s been giving you broom-riding lessons? Romantic, I suppose. Shame they ended with you faceplanting.”
You managed a laugh, pain buzzing through you. Somehow, his voice was grounding.
By the time you stumbled into the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey took one look and clucked her tongue. “Broken. Not to worry, it’ll be mended in a jiffy.”
Fred helped you onto the bed, then lingered long enough to flash you a crooked smile. “Try not to get hit in the face by flying bludgers next time, yeah?”
You waved him off with his bloodied jumper, warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment. Maybe you had completely misjudged him.
