Mike Driver
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One Nice Bug Per Day
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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almost home
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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Andulka
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@bartonomy
YOU KNOW ME LIKE NO OTHER greetings! I'm Rosalie! / asian / german / twenty / she/her / infp / massive yapper / pandora kind of whimsy / ravenclaw & slytherin / hardcore barty enthusiast!
library req guide kpop writing blog
requests: open !
AFTER THE RAIN
Dear Gentle Reader, one wonders how their families will react to this bold display. For the rest of London, however, it is a delightfully scandalous beginning to the season.
PAIRING James Potter x Fem!Reader
CONTENT WARNINGS Bridgerton AU, love confessions under pouring rain ( cliche i know), just a lot of yearning from James and insecurities from reader, Asshole Jamie! , angst to fluff
WORD COUNT 1.4k
library.
The rain had ruined your hair, your slippers, and what remained of your patience.
It fell in relentless sheets, turning the gravel path into dark slick ribbons, soaking through silk and lace until your gown clung heavy and cold to your legs. Lantern light from the terrace behind you blurred into smears through the downpour, music from the ball distant now - muffled, unreal, like another life entirely.
You should have stayed inside. Smiled, danced and pretended.
Instead, you stood in the garden like a woman on the edge of mutiny.
“Of course,” came a voice behind you, half breathless, half chuckling, “you would choose a storm for this.”
You didn’t turn.
“Go back inside, James.”
“No.”
His boots splashed through puddles as he came after you. The lanterns along the path threw gold halos through sheets of rain, catching on his glasses, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his evening coat already ruined.
“You cannot simply disappear in the middle of a set,” he said. “Your mother is in a panic.”
“Let her be,” you snapped. “They already think I am strange.”
“You are strange.”
“Yes, well, at least I am consistent.”
He stopped a few paces behind you. You could feel him there, heat, presence, the infuriating steadiness of him.
Rain plastered your curls to your temples. You wiped water from your eyes, angry at the tears you could blame on the sky.
“I am tired,” you said.
“Of the weather?”
“Of you.”
His mouth parted, pain etched in his face. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You know how I-"
You spun then, skirts twisting around your ankles, fury finally brighter than humiliation.
“No,” you cut in, voice shaking. “That is precisely the problem. I do not know how you feel, because you never actually say anything.”
Lightning flashed, bleaching the world silver for a heartbeat.
“You walk me home,” you continued, “you sit beside me at every musicale, you argue with me about novels and politics and whether biscuits are improved by chocolate-”
“They are,” he muttered automatically.
“- and yet when it comes to actual courtship, you vanish behind politeness.”
“I have been nothing but attentive.”
“Attentive is not intentional.”
He flinched. You pressed on, because the storm had cracked you open and the truth would not stay contained.
“For months,” you said, voice shaking, “you walk beside me, talk with me, laugh with me, look at me like I matter, and yet when it comes time to actually, actually...”
Your voice broke on the word.
“I have spent this entire season orbiting you,” you said. “Turning down invitations because I thought perhaps tonight would be the night you finally made your intentions clear. Smiling at people I do not care for while waiting for you to do more than hover.”
He stared, rain running down his face, dark hair soaked, coat heavy with water. He looked less like a gentleman and more like a man dragged into truth against his will.
“Court you,” he finished quietly.
“Yes.” Lightning flickered somewhere far off.
“You dance with me,” you continued, words spilling now, “you seek me out at every gathering, you know my thoughts before I speak them - and still you do nothing. No declaration. No intention. Nothing I can stand on.”
His jaw tightened. “You know why.”
“No,” you said fiercely. “I know excuses.”
“Rank is not an excuse.”
“Then what is it? A ghost? A superstition? I am flesh and blood, James, not a title stitched to a dress!”
“You are both!” he burst out. “You cannot pretend you are not!”
Something inside you cracked. “You do not get to decide that for me,” you whispered.
“I am trying to be honorable.”
“You are being absent.”
He stared at you, chest rising fast now. The careful composure you knew so well was splintering.
“You deserve certainty,” he said. “A man who strides up to your father with a plan, an estate, a future that makes sense. I am still building mine. Still proving myself. I would not trap you in promises I am not yet ready to fulfill.”
“I am not asking for guarantees,” you cried. “I am asking for you.”
The rain roared around you, blurring the world into just the two of you and the space between.
“Do you know what it feels like,” you said, voice breaking, “to stand in a ballroom and wonder if I have imagined all of it? If the way you look at me means nothing? If I have wasted my season on a fantasy because I was too afraid to face that you simply don’t want-”
“I love you!”
Everything stopped. But not the rain. Not the thunder. But the frantic spin of your thoughts.
You mouth opened but you couldn't do anything but stare at him He looked almost angry now, not at you, but at himself.
The rain fell harder, drumming on leaves, on stone, on the fragile space between you.
“I have loved you,” he said, voice rough, “since you were thirteen and argued with a tutor about moral philosophy at dinner. Since you called me a coward for not climbing a tree first. Since you cried in the library because your sister was leaving and you thought no one saw.”
Your breath hitched.
“I have loved you in every ballroom,” he went on, stepping closer, “every garden, every carriage ride where I sat an inch too far away because I thought wanting you was selfish.”
“Then why-”
“Because loving you is the most selfish thing I have ever done.”
“You are making no sense, James.”
“I knew,” he said, rain dripping from his lashes, “that if I courted you, truly courted you, I would not stop. I would not step aside if someone more suitable came. I would not let you go even if it cost you comfort, approval, ease. And I could not bear to be the reason your life became smaller.” he cried.
“Because loving you felt like stepping onto a cliff without knowing if there was ground below,” he said. “If I declared myself and failed you - if I could not give you the life you deserved - I would be the man who cost you everything.”
“I do not measure my life in drawing rooms and dowries!”
“I know that,” he said fiercely. “But the world does. And I thought, if I stayed near, if I made you laugh, if I was simply… there… maybe that would be enough without risking your future on my heart.”
You shook your head, still in disbelief.
“I would choose you over your world,” he said. “Every time. And that terrified me.”
Your anger faltered, rearranging into something rawer.
Tears mixed with rain, indistinguishable.
“You absolute idiot,” you breathed.
“Yes,” he said, voice wrecked. “Absolutely, Wholeheartedly. I have been an utter fool for distressing you.”
“You thought loving me meant holding back.”
“I thought it meant not being selfish.”
“You never asked what I wanted.”
His eyes closed briefly, pain flickering across his face.
“I want you,” you said. “Not your caution. Not your noble restraint. You.”
His eyes opened.
Hope, raw, terrified, incandescent.
“I am tired of being brave alone,” you said. “If you love me, then stand beside me. Properly. Not half a step behind.”
He crossed the distance between you in two strides.
His hands came up, hesitated, then settled at your waist like he was claiming something sacred and fragile at once.
“I love you,” he said, forehead almost touching yours. “Enough to look like a fool. Enough to risk refusal. Enough to walk into any room and say it again.”
Your fingers twisted into his soaked lapels.
“Then do not make me wait anymore,” you whispered.
“I won’t,” he breathed.
When he kissed you, it was not tentative.
It was months of almosts breaking open at once. rain, breath, the storm inside finally matching the one outside.
Somewhere, the music carried on.
But for the first time all season, you were not waiting to be chosen.
You already had been.
And you had chosen back.
FELL FROM HEAVEN FOR YOU!
PAIRING quidditch player!james potter x fem!medic!reader
SYNOPSIS james would break every single bone in his body just to see you
CONTENT WARNING fluff!, minor descriptions of injuries, james being a flirt, no y/n, not proofread
WORD COUNT 0.9k
REQUESTS open!
library.
The first time James Potter stumbled into your clinic, he was bleeding from the eyebrow and grinning like a man who thought he could flirt his way out of a concussion.
“Bit of a rough landing,” he said, as if that explained why he was leaving a trail of blood on the terracotta floor tiles of the Chudley Cannons’ medical wing. “Bloke tried to knock me off my broom. Swerved. Dramatically. Might’ve yelled ‘Protect the brand!’”
You looked outside the window, noticing a visible dent in the northern part of the arena. Sighing, you looked back at your clipboard, not sparing him a glance.
“You crashed into the stands,” you said flatly.
“Well, the brand was in danger.”
“The brand is your face?”
“Exactly.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you waved him toward the examination table with all the enthusiasm of someone about to degnome a garden.
The truth was, you didn’t mind treating players. You liked your job, patching up Quidditch’s finest (or at least the most reckless), snapping bones back into place, repairing egos alongside bruises. You just hadn’t expected James bloody Potter to be your most frequent patient.
Over the next few weeks, he visited more than any professional athlete had a right to. Dislocated shoulder. Bruised ribs. Blistered palms. A minuscule cut on his cheek, and once, somehow, a sprained tongue (“long story,” he’d said with a wink that didn’t explain anything).
Each time, you fixed him up. Each time, he flirted. Each time, you told yourself it was part of the job to tolerate this nonsense.
But today? Today was egregious.
“You jumped off your broom mid-practice,” you said, incredulous, as you patched up the third-degree burn on his left calf. “Who in Merlin’s name jumps off a broom? Were you trying to become a legend or a headline?”
James hissed as you smeared on dittany. “The wind shifted. Had to act fast. Life or death. Very dramatic.”
“There was no wind,” you snapped. “There was a light breeze and you threw yourself off like a bloody chicken.”
He shrugged, carefully, since you were still tending to his wound, and flashed a grin that could melt steel beams.
“Had to see you somehow.”
You blinked. “I literally have office hours. There’s a sign-up sheet.”
“Exactly,” he said. “But practice is long, and I’m terribly impatient.”
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little entertained. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and always had that disheveled look like he’d just stepped off a broom and into a fashion editorial titled ‘Dangerous Men With Quidditch Scars’ or whatever nonsense the Weekly Witch editors write. His voice had that easy charm- laid low poshness, with a hint of mischief- and when he smiled, it was with the full knowledge that he probably shouldn’t get away with it, but would anyway.
Still. Professionalism mattered.
You leaned forward, inspecting the stitched edge of the gash on his thigh. “You’re one hexed ligament away from me reporting you to the coach.”
James gasped, absolutely scandalized. “You wound me, doc. I thought we had something special.”
“We have a recurring medical file that’s thicker than any hogwarts textbook.”
“Oh come now, you’ve enjoyed patching me up.”
“I enjoy not watching grown men leap off brooms like skydivers.”
“But I do it with style.”
“You do it with zero regard for your skeletal integrity.”
He winced as you pressed on a bruise that was darkening beautifully across his ribs. “Ow!”
“Good. That’s your fault.”
The rest of the team wasn’t oblivious. Every time James limped off the pitch, someone- usually the Cannons’ Beater- would nudge another and whisper, “Three galleons says it’s because of the Healer again.”
By week six, it was practically a team-wide joke.
You were not amused.
“I swear to Merlin,” you muttered as you stitched up yet another injury, “if you get hurt on purpose one more time, I’m going to hex your broom to auto-land you directly into a lake.”
“I love lakes,” James said brightly. “Very reflective. Like me.”
You glanced up, needle paused mid-stitch. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“Frequently. I’m delightful.”
You shook your head, fighting back a smirk. No. No. He was impossible. And not even your type.
Probably.
It was after a particularly chaotic game- against Puddlemere United, which explained the carnage- that he hobbled in, bloodied and grinning, and you finally snapped.
“This is a professional medical facility,” you said, hands on hips. “Not your personal hangout location. Definitely not your dating pub, either.”
James looked deeply offended. “You think this is how I flirt?”
“I know this is how you flirt.”
“I’ll have you know,” he said, swinging himself onto the exam table like a man completely unaware of the blood dripping from his elbow, “I’m being very subtle.”
“You’re bleeding on the floor.”
“That’s just flair.”
“I’m about to flair you out the window.”
“But I love it here,” he said, batting his lashes. “The temperature's great. The Healer’s fit. The pain is worth it.”
You weren’t sure when the act stopped being annoying and started being… something else.
Maybe it was when he brought you a coffee, unprompted, a perfect blend, exactly how you liked it, before a morning training session. “For the miracle worker,” he’d said, setting it down next to your charts.
Or maybe it was when you walked into the ward one day to find a bouquet of Quidditch gear. Actual broken broom pieces and bandaged Quaffles, charmed to sing a harmony of the team's hymn, with a note attached.
“To my favorite fixer-upper. Love, Your Number One Medical Disaster.”
You rolled your eyes. And kept the note in your drawer.
It came to a head one stormy Wednesday, when James arrived not injured for once. Hair wind-tossed, uniform immaculate, and… hands full of a variety of desserts.
“Peace offering, for my lady,” he bowed dramatically, holding out a jam tart like a man handing over a box of gold.
You frowned. “You’re not hurt.”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t fall out of the sky.”
“Not even a scrape.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you here?”
He leaned on the desk and gave you a look so sincere it short-circuited your common sense. “Because I like you, alright? And I wanted to see you without bruising half my body to do it.”
You stared at him.
“Oh,” you said.
He smiled. “That’s the first time you haven’t threatened to hex me.”
“I’m not saying I won’t. I’m just… considering the novelty.”
There was a beat. A long, awkward, stupidly charged beat.
“Would you- uh” he began, then paused. “Would you maybe want to get dinner sometime? You know, when I’m not half out of my mind?”
You folded your arms, trying to look unimpressed. You failed.
“I don’t date patients,” you said.
James raised a brow. “Then I’ll retire.”
You snorted. “You? Retire? You’d last ten minutes before starting a broom gang.”
He grinned. “So you do think I’m charming.”
You sighed. “I think you’re trouble.”
He stepped closer, eyes dancing. “The good kind?”
“Still deciding.”
“Well,” he said, gently bumping his shoulder against yours, “I’ll keep turning up until you do.”
You looked at the jam tart in your hand, then at him.
“One date,” you said. “No injuries.”
“No promises,” he whispered, but his grin was pure sunlight.
And Merlin help you, you let him take your hand.
y/n’s stronger than me because i would have dropped to my knees the moment james potter walked inside my clinic.
CRYING.
thank you for feeding us all these fics lately
mwah 😘❤️
giggling and kicking my whole lower body rn 😝
Hi darling! How are you? I loved these James fics you posted
thank you so much 🫶🏻 im trying to be mire active but no promises
FELL FROM HEAVEN FOR YOU!
PAIRING quidditch player!james potter x fem!medic!reader
SYNOPSIS james would break every single bone in his body just to see you
CONTENT WARNING fluff!, minor descriptions of injuries, james being a flirt, no y/n, not proofread
WORD COUNT 0.9k
REQUESTS open!
library.
The first time James Potter stumbled into your clinic, he was bleeding from the eyebrow and grinning like a man who thought he could flirt his way out of a concussion.
“Bit of a rough landing,” he said, as if that explained why he was leaving a trail of blood on the terracotta floor tiles of the Chudley Cannons’ medical wing. “Bloke tried to knock me off my broom. Swerved. Dramatically. Might’ve yelled ‘Protect the brand!’”
You looked outside the window, noticing a visible dent in the northern part of the arena. Sighing, you looked back at your clipboard, not sparing him a glance.
“You crashed into the stands,” you said flatly.
“Well, the brand was in danger.”
“The brand is your face?”
“Exactly.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you waved him toward the examination table with all the enthusiasm of someone about to degnome a garden.
The truth was, you didn’t mind treating players. You liked your job, patching up Quidditch’s finest (or at least the most reckless), snapping bones back into place, repairing egos alongside bruises. You just hadn’t expected James bloody Potter to be your most frequent patient.
Over the next few weeks, he visited more than any professional athlete had a right to. Dislocated shoulder. Bruised ribs. Blistered palms. A minuscule cut on his cheek, and once, somehow, a sprained tongue (“long story,” he’d said with a wink that didn’t explain anything).
Each time, you fixed him up. Each time, he flirted. Each time, you told yourself it was part of the job to tolerate this nonsense.
But today? Today was egregious.
“You jumped off your broom mid-practice,” you said, incredulous, as you patched up the third-degree burn on his left calf. “Who in Merlin’s name jumps off a broom? Were you trying to become a legend or a headline?”
James hissed as you smeared on dittany. “The wind shifted. Had to act fast. Life or death. Very dramatic.”
“There was no wind,” you snapped. “There was a light breeze and you threw yourself off like a bloody chicken.”
He shrugged, carefully, since you were still tending to his wound, and flashed a grin that could melt steel beams.
“Had to see you somehow.”
You blinked. “I literally have office hours. There’s a sign-up sheet.”
“Exactly,” he said. “But practice is long, and I’m terribly impatient.”
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little entertained. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and always had that disheveled look like he’d just stepped off a broom and into a fashion editorial titled ‘Dangerous Men With Quidditch Scars’ or whatever nonsense the Weekly Witch editors write. His voice had that easy charm- laid low poshness, with a hint of mischief- and when he smiled, it was with the full knowledge that he probably shouldn’t get away with it, but would anyway.
Still. Professionalism mattered.
You leaned forward, inspecting the stitched edge of the gash on his thigh. “You’re one hexed ligament away from me reporting you to the coach.”
James gasped, absolutely scandalized. “You wound me, doc. I thought we had something special.”
“We have a recurring medical file that’s thicker than any hogwarts textbook.”
“Oh come now, you’ve enjoyed patching me up.”
“I enjoy not watching grown men leap off brooms like skydivers.”
“But I do it with style.”
“You do it with zero regard for your skeletal integrity.”
He winced as you pressed on a bruise that was darkening beautifully across his ribs. “Ow!”
“Good. That’s your fault.”
The rest of the team wasn’t oblivious. Every time James limped off the pitch, someone- usually the Cannons’ Beater- would nudge another and whisper, “Three galleons says it’s because of the Healer again.”
By week six, it was practically a team-wide joke.
You were not amused.
“I swear to Merlin,” you muttered as you stitched up yet another injury, “if you get hurt on purpose one more time, I’m going to hex your broom to auto-land you directly into a lake.”
“I love lakes,” James said brightly. “Very reflective. Like me.”
You glanced up, needle paused mid-stitch. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“Frequently. I’m delightful.”
You shook your head, fighting back a smirk. No. No. He was impossible. And not even your type.
Probably.
It was after a particularly chaotic game- against Puddlemere United, which explained the carnage- that he hobbled in, bloodied and grinning, and you finally snapped.
“This is a professional medical facility,” you said, hands on hips. “Not your personal hangout location. Definitely not your dating pub, either.”
James looked deeply offended. “You think this is how I flirt?”
“I know this is how you flirt.”
“I’ll have you know,” he said, swinging himself onto the exam table like a man completely unaware of the blood dripping from his elbow, “I’m being very subtle.”
“You’re bleeding on the floor.”
“That’s just flair.”
“I’m about to flair you out the window.”
“But I love it here,” he said, batting his lashes. “The temperature's great. The Healer’s fit. The pain is worth it.”
You weren’t sure when the act stopped being annoying and started being… something else.
Maybe it was when he brought you a coffee, unprompted, a perfect blend, exactly how you liked it, before a morning training session. “For the miracle worker,” he’d said, setting it down next to your charts.
Or maybe it was when you walked into the ward one day to find a bouquet of Quidditch gear. Actual broken broom pieces and bandaged Quaffles, charmed to sing a harmony of the team's hymn, with a note attached.
“To my favorite fixer-upper. Love, Your Number One Medical Disaster.”
You rolled your eyes. And kept the note in your drawer.
It came to a head one stormy Wednesday, when James arrived not injured for once. Hair wind-tossed, uniform immaculate, and… hands full of a variety of desserts.
“Peace offering, for my lady,” he bowed dramatically, holding out a jam tart like a man handing over a box of gold.
You frowned. “You’re not hurt.”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t fall out of the sky.”
“Not even a scrape.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you here?”
He leaned on the desk and gave you a look so sincere it short-circuited your common sense. “Because I like you, alright? And I wanted to see you without bruising half my body to do it.”
You stared at him.
“Oh,” you said.
He smiled. “That’s the first time you haven’t threatened to hex me.”
“I’m not saying I won’t. I’m just… considering the novelty.”
There was a beat. A long, awkward, stupidly charged beat.
“Would you- uh” he began, then paused. “Would you maybe want to get dinner sometime? You know, when I’m not half out of my mind?”
You folded your arms, trying to look unimpressed. You failed.
“I don’t date patients,” you said.
James raised a brow. “Then I’ll retire.”
You snorted. “You? Retire? You’d last ten minutes before starting a broom gang.”
He grinned. “So you do think I’m charming.”
You sighed. “I think you’re trouble.”
He stepped closer, eyes dancing. “The good kind?”
“Still deciding.”
“Well,” he said, gently bumping his shoulder against yours, “I’ll keep turning up until you do.”
You looked at the jam tart in your hand, then at him.
“One date,” you said. “No injuries.”
“No promises,” he whispered, but his grin was pure sunlight.
And Merlin help you, you let him take your hand.
oh lord i love your works !! been spam reading all morning lmao TT can we be mutuals?
yes of course!
did you name the kid in your parents au with reggie “carina” after @crescenthistory? 🥺
to bee honest, I didn't form the connection when I was writing it but its a funny coincidence 😭😭😭 i just googled female constellation names (a la black tradition) and it was the first one to come up
And how many of those 20 drafts about Barty🤤🤤
way too many, anon, way too many 😝
FEET FIRST INTO TROUBLE!
PAIRING James Potter x fem!gryffindor!reader
SYNOPSIS James just can’t stop bumping into you. literally.
CONTENT WARNING fluff! humour!, this came to me in a dream (again), not proofread
AUTHOR‘S NOTE slowly descending down the path of James Potterism but im so here for it. if you saw me posting this earlier this day no you didn't <3 also! leave requests!
WORD COUNT 1.3k
library.
You could tell from the moment you woke up that today would be the day James Potter finally pushed you over the edge.
It started with the way he looked at you across the Gryffindor table at breakfast, eyes glinting with boyish mischief, tie knotted too loosely (for fashion, not function), and hair, of course, in a permanent state of post-explosion disarray. The nerve of him. He had blueberry jam on the corner of his mouth and was laughing too loudly at something Peter had said. And when he caught you glaring?
He just winked.
That should’ve been your sign to go back to bed.
But no, you had Apparition practice with a Ministry instructor today, and McGonagall made it clear: miss one more, and you’ll be lucky to get your license before you’re thirty. So you powered through.
You just hadn’t anticipated a certain troublemaker to knock into you three separate times before lunch. Would it be immoral to swoon your instructor into giving you a pass without attending a single lesson?
“Right,” barked the lanky, passive man from the Department of Magical Transportation who was tasked with shaping Hogwarts students into competent apparators. “This lesson, we’re focusing on precision. That means your body should not be ending up inside anyone else’s body. If that happens again, Mr. Potter, I will start docking house points. I will figure a way.”
You were reasonably sure he was bluffing, but you were also too annoyed to care.
James, looking very sheepish (and maybe a little too pink in the cheeks), rubbed the back of his neck and offered a lopsided grin.
“Sorry, Sir. Hard to stay away from Y/N. Must be a gravitational thing. You know, since she's so attracted to me.”
“I will punch you, Potter. I swear to Godrick's bullocks that I am going to hit you square in places you don't even know have pain receptors.,” you said flatly.
“See? She’s drawn to me.”
He was so pleased with himself that you contemplated learning how to apparate directly into his kidneys.
“Concentration!” T something snapped, clapping his hands. “Focus on your target. Remember the three Ds: Destination, Determination, Deliberation!”
You took a deep breath. The white chalked X marked the floor a few meters away. Everyone was taking turns now, one at a time, so the likelihood of body-melding incidents should’ve decreased.
You closed your eyes.
Destination. Determination. Deliberation.
With a slight warmth embracing you, you felt something inside of you, and for a glorious half-second, you thought you’d finally done it.
Until you opened your eyes and saw calloused hands sticking out of your sternum and the warm, musky smell of James’s aftershave hit you square in the face.
You opened your eyes.
He was inside your torso again.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, POTTER!”
“It’s not my fault!” he squeaked. "I actually followed the instructions this time!”
"Then how could you have missed by 6 meters?! Make it make sense, you baboon!", you were actually near tears.
You pulled your wand out and removed him from your body like he was contagious and fixed him with a glare that could have frozen the deepest pit of tartarus.
“I’m hexing you. I'm so going to hex you,” you muttered.
“Oh, come on,” he said, grinning. “That was kind of romantic, in a horribly invasive way.”
Before he could say another string of word vomit, you raised your wand and muttered a limb freezing spell (All thanks to Marlene for teaching you this).
A gold light shot from your wand and wrapped around his legs like invisible vines. James wobbled and fell forward onto the floor like a cut down tree.
“What the hell?” he yelped, trying to stand. His legs didn’t budge a bit.
“You’ve been grounded, Potter,” you said sweetly, internally high-fiveing yourself for the comeback.
Around you, the Gryffindors burst into laughter. Even Alice let out a snort.
The instructor barely glanced over. “As long as he’s not Apparating anymore, I don’t care. Class dismissed.”
And then he walked out like that, briefcase in hand and an abandoned crossword puzzle in the other, abandoning James Potter to his fate.
You felt amazing, marvelous even.
You returned to the corridors with a smug sort of satisfaction, ignoring the trail of confused, increasingly concerned Marauders dragging James through the hallways like a wounded lion.
“I can still hex you more from here!” you shouted over your shoulder.
“Y/N!” James wailed, legs stiff and dragging pathetically behind him. “You can’t leave me like this! I have Quidditch practice!”
Sirius tried lifting him by the armpits and immediately dropped him.
“You’re like dead weight, Prongs,” he said, panting. “Do you have bricks in your pants?”
"Oh, Pads, I sure have something bricked inside my pants, that I do."
“Unbe-fucking-lievable,” Remus groaned out, “no, but he has the emotional maturity of a pebble.”
“I hope you all suffer,” you called, rounding the corner with a satisfied huff.
The common room was peaceful for approximately twenty-three minutes on the dot.
You had just opened your Muggle Studies textbook and gotten to the good part (extremely inaccurate descriptions of muggle transportation) when Sirius burst in, clothes even messier than usual, eyes wide.
“Emergency,” he panted. “Prongs is crying, honest to heart.”
You blinked. “Come again?”
“Real tears. Actual snot. He thinks he’s going to die foot-first.”
“He is not crying.”
“He is,” said Remus, entering behind him. “He just wept on my shoulder about lost dreams and doomed toes.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “He also said something about never dancing again and dying young.”
You groaned and slammed the book shut.
“Where is he?”
He was still in the boys’ dorm, sprawled across his bed sideways, feet frozen rigidly parallel to the wooden floor. His legs stuck out like a doll with no articulation points.
You folded your arms and glared “Aren't you a little bit too old to be sulking like that, Potter?”
James looked up, and okay, maybe his eyes were a little glassy. Maybe they're just the lenses from his oversized glasses.
He whispered your name like a prayer answered, voice wobbling. “I can’t feel my feet. Did you cut them off?”
“No I did not, you idiot. And you can. That’s the point. You just can’t move them. They're just frozen, that's all”
“I’m dying, you evil demon of a woman. I can feel the magic running up my bum.”
You rolled your eyes and walked over, wand in hand. “I’ll remove the hex-”
James’s expression immediately transformed into smug glee. “Hah! I knew it. So you care.”
You froze.
“Nope,” you said. “Nope, nevermind that. Good evening, gents.”
“NO! Y/N, wait-”
You raised your wand and muttered a reversing spell, but pointed at Sirius’ feet instead.
Sirius immediately collapsed, even though he hadn’t been the one hexed.
“You’re all brainless hippogriffs,” you said, walking away. “I’ll fix it when I’ve had tea and silence. Maybe not even then.”
“Wait!” James shouted as you left. “Y/N! PLEASE! I’m SORRY! FOR EVERYTHING! FOR WHATEVER I HAVE DONE!”
You eventually relented.
Mostly because you liked having leverage. But also, if you were honest, you were sort of fond of James Potter. In the most frustrating, infuriating, makes-you-want-to-continuously-hex-his-face-off kind of way.
And when you finally unhexed him three hours later, after he’d declared you the most beautiful, terrifying goddess of mercy, you told him, “Do it again, and I’ll glue your hands to your knees."
He didn’t. For exactly six days. Impressive, honestly.
Then he tried to apparate again during a solo practice and landed once more too close in your personal space.
This time, you just stepped back, let him fall, and hissed “Next time, Potter, I will remove your brain since it seems like it's taking dead space in that big head of yours”
James groaned from the floor.
“Still think it’s gravitational?” you asked sweetly.
He looked up at you, grinning despite the wince.
“Nah. I think I just like being close to you, mate.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Damn him. Damn him. Damn his little 'mate'.
You turned away before he could see the smile tugging at your mouth. Oh you're so doomed.
chat, i think i got shadowbanned
TATTLE, TRASHING AND TALKING
PAIRING james potter x fem!journalist!reader
SYNOPSIS James' ego can't handle being the subject of your little frontline and he just has the perfect solution for it: get under your skin for a perfect column
CONTENT WARNING fluff!, james being his usual dickheady self, basically the same plot as my sirius fic but i had to write a james version, implied slytherin reader, this one's for u hawtie @wintrsoul
WORD COUNT 1.3k
library.
You never meant to start a war with James Potter. Not purposely- or maybe a little. It just sort of happened- like someone accidentally knocking over a cauldron full of swelling solution and pretending it was intentional. Which, coincidentally, sounds exactly like something James would do.
You ran the Hogwarts gossip page under the pen name The Quill. Not exactly on the same prestige as The Daily Prophet, but it had a decent following. People liked tea. You were simply the kettle.
Your fatal mistake? A daring post from last week titled “Ten Reasons Why that one four-eyed Gremlin is the Human Embodiment of a Niffler on a Sugar High.”
It was a comedic masterpiece. You outlined everything from his tendency to ruffle his hair like it owed him a brand campaign, to his unrequited and slightly pathetic obsession with a certain lion red-head, to the way he insisted on commentating rivaling Quidditch matches from the bench with a voice that sounded like a toad trying to sing opera.
It was meant to be harmless. A little chuckle for the mornings. No names were used, of course. But everyone knew who it was about. Hogwarts had only one Niffler-like, sugar-high athlete who answered to “Oi, captain!” on a sunday morning.
But James Potter? He didn’t laugh.
No. James Potter declared war.
It started subtly. Your ink bottle was mysteriously filled with glitter one morning. Not the fun, sparkly kind. The kind that cursed your quill to burst into showtunes every time you tried to write the word ‘incantation.’
Following that, your dormitory door was transfigured into a mirror. One that yelled compliments at you in slughorn's terrifying voice loudly. “LOOK AT THOSE CHEEKBONES! CUT THROUGH A CAULDRON WITH THAT JAWLINE, BABY!” Even the Bloody Baron looked disturbed.
Then came the howlers. Not the angry ones, of course, just… dramatic. Recitations of bad poetry written in what you assumed was James’s handwriting.
“Oh, gossiping muse, with eyes like the moon,
Why must your words spell my social doom?
You call me a twit, you call me a prat,
But tell me, my dear, did you mean all that?”
Yup. You were 80% sure you were going to strangle him. It was pathetic.
Sirius laughed himself into a coma every time one of them went off. Peter clapped. Remus, fake study buddy that he was, just looked over his book and muttered, “You started this, mate. Don't act surprised.”
Fine. Maybe you had.
The tipping point? A flock of enchanted origami hippogriffs that chased you through the Great Hall yelling “POTTER IS THE FITTEST!” in synchronized harmony. It was honestly rivaling Flitwick's bloody toad choir in terms of ear-piercing. McGonagall nearly inhaled her pumpkin juice.
Oh, you'll definitely strangle him, for sure
“You absolute bullock smelling, toe rag of a bitch!” you shouted, storming up to James outside charms class. “Have you lost your bloody mind?!”
"Oh, hello little writer", He turned around slowly, the picture of innocence, twirling his wand and smirking. “Can’t lose what I never had, can I?”
“You bewitched my goblet to scream your name every time I drank from it!”
“Well,” he said with a dramatic bow, “hydration is important. Number one survival rule.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest. “This ends now.”
James leaned in, grabbing your shoulders with his warm, borderline clammy hands, and whisper-shouted with the enthusiasm of a man in despair. “Then write something nice about me! That’s all I want! My reputation is at stake, woman!”
You blinked. “So this is a blackmail campaign?”
He nodded cheerfully. “Exactly.”
Behind him, Sirius gave you finger guns. Remus mouthed sorry and returned to his book. Peter just waved. You scowled at all of them.
You were going to hex them into next week.
Unfortunately, you didn’t get the chance.
Because Peeves chose that exact moment to dump a vat of slime over your head. And James, James Asshat Potter, pointed at you and cackled.
“Looks like the gossip’s spilled,” he giggled.
You lunged at him.
So now you’re all in detention.
The six of you sat in Slughorns office, elbows deep in buckets of soapy water, scrubbing the dirty cauldrons by hand because “magic is too good for troublemakers like you lot!”
You were in a particularly foul mood. Your robes were still vaguely sticky. Glitter lingered in places it should not. And James Potter kept singing.
“Scrub-a-dub-dub, my ego’s in the tub…”
“Care to shut your mouth for a minute, Potter?,” you snapped.
James gave you an exaggerated wounded look. “Come now, Quill. Don’t you want to write about how charming I am in detention? Look at these arms. Feel the suds, the dedication, the passion.”
“Feel the hex coming at you,” you gritted.
Remus looked like he wanted to evaporate. “Can we just finish this without anyone being cursed, slimed, or serenaded?”
James leaned over toward you with a devilish glint. “You could write that I have devastatingly good looks.”
You turned to him slowly. “I’d sooner write a ballad about Severus Snape’s shampoo routine.”
Sirius barked a laugh so loud that his pot fell to the ground with a big thunk!
James clutched his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely devastated. You wound me, Quillie.”
“You’ve been asking for it since the second I wrote that article!”
“Oh come on,” he said whining. “You wrote that my voice sounds like a banshee trying to flirt.”
You raised a brow. “I still stand by that.”
Detention ended, but James’s antics did not.
If anything, he seemed…weirdly committed now.
You’d expected him to stop once he got bored. But he started walking next to you in the corridors, offering dramatic readings of your own articles. “And alas, Potter did saunter like a peacock on parade…” He started offering you flowers, if you can even call them that. They were definitely strange bunches, like a bouquet of self-writing quills, or a single daisy enchanted to sing some obscure muggle song.
And once- once!- he showed up outside the library holding a parchment.
“Ten Reasons Why the Gossip Girl Might Secretly Be Brilliant, Beautiful, and Possibly Bribable.”
You almost smiled. Almost.
One night, you returned to your common room to find a box on your bed. It was labeled “Truce?” in handwriting you were becoming far too familiar with.
Inside was a familiar bottle of ink (glitter-free), a box of Fizzing Whizzbees, and a note.
"Dear Quill,
I surrender. You win.
I’m a sugar-high Niffler and a banshee-flirting banshee. But if you ever get tired of roasting me, maybe try talking to me instead. I’m actually pretty okay.
Mostly.
-James
P.S. If you’re going to write about me again, at least get my good side. It’s the left."
You stared at it for a long time.
And then, for the first time since this whole ridiculous feud started, you laughed.
The next day, Hogwarts woke up to a new post from The Quill.
Ten Reasons Why the four-eyed Gremlin is Still a Menace, But Maybe a Little Less of One
1. He gave me magical flowers that sing off-key.
2. He writes terrible poetry and reads it in public.
3. He bribed me with candy. It unfortunately worked.
4. He’s surprisingly productive at detention scrubbing. Shocking, I know.
5. His hair defies logic, gravity, and reason.
6. He smells like mint and trouble.
7. He makes me laugh when I’m trying to be mad.
8. He called a truce with glittery ink and meant it.
9. He’s still a sugar-high Niffler. But a charming one.
10. I might hate him a little less than I thought.
BONUS!
Later that night, you caught James waiting outside the library again. Same smirk. Same messy hair. He held up a daisy that sang Dancing Queen.
“Hey, Quill,” he said. “Read your post.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And?”
He leaned in, eyes shining. “So… hypothetically. If I asked you to sneak into the kitchens for pudding and terrible flirting… would you say yes?”
You tilted your head. “Only if you promise not to rhyme anything with ‘snog.’”
James grinned. “Deal.”
And just like that, the war was over.
For now.
ROSALIE—this just cured my reading slump (HONESTLY SPEAKING LIKE FOR REAL) i was giggling while reading the whole thing shsshhshs. James being complete menace is the best gender FR FR. and you made a good job of writing him (u deserve a fat kiss for that pookie) ALSO—I hope uni doesn’t take u away from us (me 😝😝😝) anymore because what would I do without your fics?
STOP. SHUT IT. tally ur literally the sweetest person on this app and you are the sole reason why i am so attached to james 😭🫶🏻 lets just hope that writers block wont come knocking on my door again
TATTLE, TRASHING AND TALKING
PAIRING james potter x fem!journalist!reader
SYNOPSIS James' ego can't handle being the subject of your little frontline and he just has the perfect solution for it: get under your skin for a perfect column
CONTENT WARNING fluff!, james being his usual dickheady self, basically the same plot as my sirius fic but i had to write a james version, implied slytherin reader, this one's for u hawtie @wintrsoul
WORD COUNT 1.3k
library.
You never meant to start a war with James Potter. Not purposely- or maybe a little. It just sort of happened- like someone accidentally knocking over a cauldron full of swelling solution and pretending it was intentional. Which, coincidentally, sounds exactly like something James would do.
You ran the Hogwarts gossip page under the pen name The Quill. Not exactly on the same prestige as The Daily Prophet, but it had a decent following. People liked tea. You were simply the kettle.
Your fatal mistake? A daring post from last week titled “Ten Reasons Why that one four-eyed Gremlin is the Human Embodiment of a Niffler on a Sugar High.”
It was a comedic masterpiece. You outlined everything from his tendency to ruffle his hair like it owed him a brand campaign, to his unrequited and slightly pathetic obsession with a certain lion red-head, to the way he insisted on commentating rivaling Quidditch matches from the bench with a voice that sounded like a toad trying to sing opera.
It was meant to be harmless. A little chuckle for the mornings. No names were used, of course. But everyone knew who it was about. Hogwarts had only one Niffler-like, sugar-high athlete who answered to “Oi, captain!” on a sunday morning.
But James Potter? He didn’t laugh.
No. James Potter declared war.
It started subtly. Your ink bottle was mysteriously filled with glitter one morning. Not the fun, sparkly kind. The kind that cursed your quill to burst into showtunes every time you tried to write the word ‘incantation.’
Following that, your dormitory door was transfigured into a mirror. One that yelled compliments at you in slughorn's terrifying voice loudly. “LOOK AT THOSE CHEEKBONES! CUT THROUGH A CAULDRON WITH THAT JAWLINE, BABY!” Even the Bloody Baron looked disturbed.
Then came the howlers. Not the angry ones, of course, just… dramatic. Recitations of bad poetry written in what you assumed was James’s handwriting.
“Oh, gossiping muse, with eyes like the moon,
Why must your words spell my social doom?
You call me a twit, you call me a prat,
But tell me, my dear, did you mean all that?”
Yup. You were 80% sure you were going to strangle him. It was pathetic.
Sirius laughed himself into a coma every time one of them went off. Peter clapped. Remus, fake study buddy that he was, just looked over his book and muttered, “You started this, mate. Don't act surprised.”
Fine. Maybe you had.
The tipping point? A flock of enchanted origami hippogriffs that chased you through the Great Hall yelling “POTTER IS THE FITTEST!” in synchronized harmony. It was honestly rivaling Flitwick's bloody toad choir in terms of ear-piercing. McGonagall nearly inhaled her pumpkin juice.
Oh, you'll definitely strangle him, for sure
“You absolute bullock smelling, toe rag of a bitch!” you shouted, storming up to James outside charms class. “Have you lost your bloody mind?!”
"Oh, hello little writer", He turned around slowly, the picture of innocence, twirling his wand and smirking. “Can’t lose what I never had, can I?”
“You bewitched my goblet to scream your name every time I drank from it!”
“Well,” he said with a dramatic bow, “hydration is important. Number one survival rule.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest. “This ends now.”
James leaned in, grabbing your shoulders with his warm, borderline clammy hands, and whisper-shouted with the enthusiasm of a man in despair. “Then write something nice about me! That’s all I want! My reputation is at stake, woman!”
You blinked. “So this is a blackmail campaign?”
He nodded cheerfully. “Exactly.”
Behind him, Sirius gave you finger guns. Remus mouthed sorry and returned to his book. Peter just waved. You scowled at all of them.
You were going to hex them into next week.
Unfortunately, you didn’t get the chance.
Because Peeves chose that exact moment to dump a vat of slime over your head. And James, James Asshat Potter, pointed at you and cackled.
“Looks like the gossip’s spilled,” he giggled.
You lunged at him.
So now you’re all in detention.
The six of you sat in Slughorns office, elbows deep in buckets of soapy water, scrubbing the dirty cauldrons by hand because “magic is too good for troublemakers like you lot!”
You were in a particularly foul mood. Your robes were still vaguely sticky. Glitter lingered in places it should not. And James Potter kept singing.
“Scrub-a-dub-dub, my ego’s in the tub…”
“Care to shut your mouth for a minute, Potter?,” you snapped.
James gave you an exaggerated wounded look. “Come now, Quill. Don’t you want to write about how charming I am in detention? Look at these arms. Feel the suds, the dedication, the passion.”
“Feel the hex coming at you,” you gritted.
Remus looked like he wanted to evaporate. “Can we just finish this without anyone being cursed, slimed, or serenaded?”
James leaned over toward you with a devilish glint. “You could write that I have devastatingly good looks.”
You turned to him slowly. “I’d sooner write a ballad about Severus Snape’s shampoo routine.”
Sirius barked a laugh so loud that his pot fell to the ground with a big thunk!
James clutched his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely devastated. You wound me, Quillie.”
“You’ve been asking for it since the second I wrote that article!”
“Oh come on,” he said whining. “You wrote that my voice sounds like a banshee trying to flirt.”
You raised a brow. “I still stand by that.”
Detention ended, but James’s antics did not.
If anything, he seemed…weirdly committed now.
You’d expected him to stop once he got bored. But he started walking next to you in the corridors, offering dramatic readings of your own articles. “And alas, Potter did saunter like a peacock on parade…” He started offering you flowers, if you can even call them that. They were definitely strange bunches, like a bouquet of self-writing quills, or a single daisy enchanted to sing some obscure muggle song.
And once- once!- he showed up outside the library holding a parchment.
“Ten Reasons Why the Gossip Girl Might Secretly Be Brilliant, Beautiful, and Possibly Bribable.”
You almost smiled. Almost.
One night, you returned to your common room to find a box on your bed. It was labeled “Truce?” in handwriting you were becoming far too familiar with.
Inside was a familiar bottle of ink (glitter-free), a box of Fizzing Whizzbees, and a note.
"Dear Quill,
I surrender. You win.
I’m a sugar-high Niffler and a banshee-flirting banshee. But if you ever get tired of roasting me, maybe try talking to me instead. I’m actually pretty okay.
Mostly.
-James
P.S. If you’re going to write about me again, at least get my good side. It’s the left."
You stared at it for a long time.
And then, for the first time since this whole ridiculous feud started, you laughed.
The next day, Hogwarts woke up to a new post from The Quill.
Ten Reasons Why the four-eyed Gremlin is Still a Menace, But Maybe a Little Less of One
1. He gave me magical flowers that sing off-key.
2. He writes terrible poetry and reads it in public.
3. He bribed me with candy. It unfortunately worked.
4. He’s surprisingly productive at detention scrubbing. Shocking, I know.
5. His hair defies logic, gravity, and reason.
6. He smells like mint and trouble.
7. He makes me laugh when I’m trying to be mad.
8. He called a truce with glittery ink and meant it.
9. He’s still a sugar-high Niffler. But a charming one.
10. I might hate him a little less than I thought.
BONUS!
Later that night, you caught James waiting outside the library again. Same smirk. Same messy hair. He held up a daisy that sang Dancing Queen.
“Hey, Quill,” he said. “Read your post.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And?”
He leaned in, eyes shining. “So… hypothetically. If I asked you to sneak into the kitchens for pudding and terrible flirting… would you say yes?”
You tilted your head. “Only if you promise not to rhyme anything with ‘snog.’”
James grinned. “Deal.”
And just like that, the war was over.
For now.
your honor, your majesty, chat, I think i have officially entered my flop era
THE GHOST OF YOU
PAIRING deatheater!barty x black!gn!reader
SYNOPSIS once two stars aligned to be the greatest, only to be face to face with grief and rage
CONTENT WARNING angst with open ending, different timestamps, reader is disowned, everyone is DEAD., mention of regulus disappearance, not canon compliant but who cares its the marauders era, canon ending though, ignore the synopsis i DO NOT know how to write them probably
WORD COUNT 1.6k
library.
You stood at the edge of the blasted-out garden, wand raised, the air trembling with the last echoes of shattered wards. Smoke curled between the ruined hedgerows, choking on ash and ozone. He was there, where you knew he’d be, emerging from the haze with that same wicked grin you remembered from school, only now it sat wrong on his face, stretched thin by cruelty and war.
“Still fond of dramatic entrances, Barts,” you said, voice hoarse.
He tilted his head, almost smiling. “You still call me that, huh? Broučku, I didn't know I was still in your little mind.”
You hadn’t meant to, not fully. It slipped out, muscle memory shaped by a hundred whispered conversations behind greenhouses, by fingers brushing yours in the dark, by the smell of his wool robes soaked with rain after late curfews.
You had loved him once. Or something like love at least- obsessive, coiled tightly around shared ambition and the bitter recognition that the world would not forgive people like you.
“If you're here for the target,” you said. “They’re already gone.”
“I’m here for you.”
Silence stretched. Your wand didn’t waver. “Then you’re wasting your time, Crouch.”
"Crouch? Little harsh dont you think, lásko?", His laugh was soft and low, like it used to be. But it wasn’t warm anymore.
You and Barty had grown up in the spaces between two worlds. He, the Ministry golden boy in public, a deranged, brilliant bastard in private. You, the Black that wasn’t quite Black enough, too defiant, too thoughtful, too unwilling to let blood mean anything more than coincidence.
They’d disowned you by seventh year. You remembered your mother’s wand pointed at your chest, the sharp hiss of your name struck from the family tapestry. Regulus had tried to intervene- too late, yet again. He was slowly slipping beneath the tides of the Dark Lord’s influence. And Sirius had already been long gone.
It had been you, Barty, Evan and Pandora, once. Four shadows against the wall of the world.
But during your last year at school, even that had begun to crack. Barty, wild-eyed, had started talking about the greater world and destiny. Evan followed him too easily, loyal to a fault, hungry for something more than schoolboy rebellion. Pandora plagued by endless visions. And Regulus… he disappeared before the year has started. No goodbye. No body.
They were good. But you're not sure if they were now.
Back in the ruined garden, he circled you slowly, like a predator waiting to see if its prey would run. You matched his steps, keeping him in your periphery. The ground beneath you was scorched earth- Ministry safehouse, ransacked. Burned-out shell of what once had been sanctuary.
“You left,” he said finally. “You left us, Regulus, Pandora.”
“I saved myself.” you gulped drily, the nausea of thoughts of your loved ones creeping up your throat.
“From what? Power?” His voice curled around the word like smoke. “From making something of your name? doesn't look like you've come far.”
You clenched your fists “I saved myself from becoming you.”
He stopped.
There was something brittle in his eyes now, beneath the sharpness. “We could’ve ruled it, you know. Together. We were always stronger than the rest of them.”
“We were children, Barty. Angry, smart, arrogant children with too much money to even think about. And you let that anger turn you into a weapon.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
"Oh yeah?" You challenged. " Would you still think it's no bad deal if I told you that you have become the worst side of your father that you swore to never be?"
He hissed.
The duel began not with words, but with motion. A flicker of his hand, a curse arcing through the fog. You deflected it with a snap of your wrist, the force sending sparks into the grass. It wasn’t the first time you’d fought a Death Eater. But it was the first time the fight felt like an autopsy.
Everything about him was familiar and twisted. The way he moved- still precise, still reckless. The timing of his counters. You could almost predict him. Almost.
“Still favor the left, I see” you muttered, sidestepping a jet of red light.
“Still read me too well,” he said. “That was always your strength, hm?”
Your mind flicked back, without permission, to that last night at Hogwarts. After exams. After Regulus’s empty bed had been stripped, his owl cage silent and kreacher's summons unanswered.
You and Barty had sat by the Black Lake, moonlight shivering on the water. His hand in yours. He’d whispered things then- visions of power, of rebirth, of cleaning the rot from wizardkind.
You’d listened. You’d been tempted.
And then he’d said “We’ll have to burn the old world down.”
That was when you knew. You couldn’t follow him. Couldn’t be party to the fire.
He hadn’t forgiven you for that.
Back in the present, he disarmed your right hand with a sharp cry, your wand flying into the air, caught by a charm mid-flight. You lunged forward, drew Alice's wand from your boot, shot a scorching curse toward his feet. He staggered back, robes incinerated, and for a moment you saw the boy you once loved recoil beneath the man he’d become.
“You were always quicker,” he muttered.
“And you were always overconfident.”
Silence again, thick as the smoke.
He looked at you, truly looked, “Do you ever miss it?”
Your breath caught. He didn’t mean school. He didn’t mean Regulus. He meant you and him.
You didn’t answer. Instead, “You could leave. Right now. Disapparate. Walk away before the Aurors arrive.”
“And do what?” he asked, almost cackling. “Knit? Take up magical gardening?”
“Live. Repent for the lives you have taken.”
He took a step forward. “That life died when you left me.”
You didn’t move. “Then you buried it yourself.”
He didn’t reply. Not with words. Instead, his wand twitched again, faster than breath, and a gout of red flame spiraled toward your side. You ducked, rolled, countered mid-spin, your Stunning Spell grazing his shoulder. He hissed but stayed upright.
“I trained with the best,” you said, chest heaving. “You forget I know every spell you ever loved.”
“You knew the old me,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “But I’ve gone deeper since then. I’ve bled for this.”
“And you think that makes you powerful?” you spat, circling him again. “You think slaughter makes you right?”
“It makes me inevitable.”
His words could’ve come from Voldemort himself. That chilled you more than any spell could have.
He launched forward again. His movements sharp, brutal now, fury replacing finesse. You parried him blow for blow, but each spell tore up more of the already ruined garden, sent soil and stone exploding into the air. Somewhere behind the treeline, the telltale crack of Apparition rang out, reinforcements. Yours? His? It didn’t matter.
You had to end this.
“Crucio!”
The word echoed across the field, and pain like wildfire seared across your nerves. Your knees buckled. You gasped, digging your fingers into the ground, forcing your mind into a single, crystallized thought: survive.
The curse lifted before it could truly break you. He was watching- his expression unreadable yet you knew it all too well. “I didn’t want to use that on you,” he said softly.
“No,” you rasped, staggering to your feet. “You just needed to. Just how you needed to use my brother's name as a wretched excuse to commit unforgivable acts."
The look on his face faltered for half a second.
It was the crack you needed.
You drew in a breath and summoned every ounce of raw energy you had left. “Bombarda!” The shockwaves burst from your wand and unleashed around his legs, impacting him fast.
He tried to recover through it as wuick as possible, but you were faster this time.
“Expelliarmus!” His wand flew from his hand, spinning away into the shadows.
You stalked forward, wand raised, every nerve on fire. Your face grimaced and voice cracked, “Tell me one thing, Crouch. Tell me, did you even look for Regulus?”
Silence. He blinked at you, stunned.
“I saw your face when he vanished,” you continued. “You were shaken. For once in your life, you didn’t have the answers. And then you ran to Voldemort like he was going to give them to you.”
He said nothing. But you saw something shift in his eyes- grief, maybe. Or guilt.
“I thought he was dead,” Barty finally muttered. “I thought we’d lost him. And I couldn’t take losing you too.”
“So you tried to become him?”
He didn’t deny it. And maybe that was the worst part.
The Aurors broke through the smoke. Shacklebolt, Vance, Fenwick. Spells trained on Barty before you could blink. His wand was already gone. He didn’t resist. Not yet.
But he looked at you one last time, as they dragged him away.
Not with anger. Not with regret.
With affection.
As if even now, he believed some part of you might follow.
Years later, when whispers surfaced of his escape, you felt no surprise.
Only the echo of an old truth:
Some ghosts don’t stay buried.
A WHOLE LOT OF NOTHING!
PAIRING barty crouch junior x rosier!reader
SYNOPSIS on the verge of getting your ass whooped by your parents, you take the help of the, oh well, local maniac!
CONTENT WARNING purely crack, girlfailure reader, idk what im doing! fem gryffindor reader, floral nicknames, dialogue heavy, barty needs help i think! fluff, not proofread, kinda filler drabble!
WORD COUNT 0.9k
library.
You’re sitting in the Slytherin common room, trying to convince yourself that Arithmancy is somehow not an evil joke designed to make you cry in public, when Pandora plops down beside you, looking annoyingly cheerful.
You’re already regretting this. It’s only been twelve seconds.
“I don’t need tutoring,” you muttered through gritted teeth, gripping the strap of your pristine bag like it owes you money.
“You failed your last three Arithmancy assignments,” Pandora said serenely, looking at the ceiling like a fairy oracle of doom. “And you put down ‘time is fake’ for the answer to Question Four on the theory exam.”
“Because it is.”
“Barty will help,” Evan swooped in, apparently teleported by sibling radar. “He’s top of the year for a reason, Daisy.”
“He’s unhinged.”
“He’s passionate.”
“He brought a dead rat to Potions class to ‘test a theory.’” you deadpanned, running a tired habd through your face.
“It was for science!” a voice yelled from behind you.
You whirled around, dread already flowing through your body.
There he is. Your sleep paralysis demon himself (No, literally. You once woke up with him somehow standing at the foot of your Gryffindor bed at 4 am). Raccoon hair wild, tie askew, ink stains on both hands and also, inexplicably, his neck.
He looked thrilled to be here. You considered jumping into the black lake head first.
“You ready to LEARN, STUDENT?” he roared with the same energy as someone who has just drunk a full cauldron of coffee and might be about to set something on fire.
“No,” you said flatly. Gosh, how many galleons would it take to bribe Professor Vector into giving you an O?
“Perfect,” he grins. “Let’s begin.”
You’re not sure where the tutoring session was supposed to be, but Barty immediately lead you to the third floor girls’ bathroom.
“I dont know if you're aware, Crouch,” you said, stopping short. “This is a girls' laboratory, and also where Myrtle haunts. Why are we here? What does this possibly have to do with Arithmancy?”
“Peace. Privacy. Excellent acoustics.”
“Acoustics? We’re doing equations.”
“I chant when I concentrate.” he nodded with utmost sincerity.
“…I want to go home.”
“You’re at Hogwarts.”
“Exactly.”
Barty pulled out a textbook that’s clearly been dropped in a pond at some point, opened it to a completely blank page, and said, “So. What’s the square root of a Gringott’s curse modifier when divided by a leyline fluctuation index?”
“That cannot be a real question.”
“Everything’s a question if you’re brave enough.” he sighed with false disappointment.
“Are you high?”
“Well, only on knowledge and a dash of you, little Rosie.”
You looked at him. He’s already halfway through drawing a pentagram on the floor with a sugar quill.
“I’m telling McGonagall,” you said.
“You’ll be thanking me when you pass your next exam,” Barty replied, lighting a small candle with Incendio and tossing it under the nearest sink. “Knowledge is pain.”
Your eye twitched. “That’s not the expression.”
"Celery or whatever Reggie says"
He opened a new book, this one appears to be hand-bound with string and labeled ‘Barty’s Notes – DO NOT TOUCH unless you are Barty or Santos Santa’.
“You don’t need to worry about the fire,” he added casually, scribbling down symbols with his overdipped quill. “Bathroom tiles are flame proof. Definitely. Probably.”
You backed away slightly, already distributing your assets to every single sane bloke you know.
“Today’s session,” he says, “is on numerical ward collapse. Incredibly useful. Also illegal in seventeen countries.”
“I’m twelve.”
“You’re sixteen.”
“Feels like twelve when you talk.”
“Well, thank you, Daisy May.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know,” he grinned. “Now hold still.”
You instinctively ducked just as he throws a piece of chalk at your head. It explodes against the wall with a loud crack and released a glowing symbol that looked… suspiciously like a goat?
“What the bloody hell was that?!”
“Calibrating your magical aura, my dear disciple.”
“You hit me with a freaking goat.”
“Near you.”
“WHY is the goat still hovering??”
Barty squinted at it thoughtfully. “Huh. That’s new. Anyways, let’s do some equations!”
“So, if you take the leyline coefficient-”
“Which is?”
“You’d know if you were paying attention-”
“I am! I just can’t listen while I’m actively having a panic attack.”
“Good! Stress sharpens the mind. This is educational.”
“YOU JUST BLEW A HOLE IN THE SINK.”
“It was for demonstration purposes.”
“The water is flooding the floor.”
“Hydration is essential.”
You gave him the blankest stare you could muster. “You are Evan’s friend. You are Pandora’s friend. I am going to tell Mum what you’ve done.”
"Please", He snorted. “Your mum adores me.”
“She thinks you’re ‘weird and jittery’ and once asked if you had rabies.”
“She laughed when she said that!”
“She was holding garlic.”
“Listen,” Barty said seriously, crouching down like a manic goblin in too-long robes, “I can teach you how to feel the numbers. Don’t calculate. Breathe. Accept the equation into your soul.”
You blinked. “You need help.”
“I am help.”
You’re about to bolt when Barty clapped his hands.
“Time for flashcards!” he announced, holding up what is very clearly a shuffled tarot deck from Pandora.
“Those are not flashcards.”
“Tell that to the Ministry,” he muttered, flipping one over. “This one means ‘death’- which reminds me, if your magical signature doesn’t match the rune circle in exactly three minutes, the floor may implode.”
You just stared at him.
He grinned.
You pulled out your quill and immediately started writing.
BOOM!
You stormed into the common room with wild eyes, a soaked robe, and possibly the lingering scent of burnt toothpaste.
“Why,” you demanded, breath still short “did you make me do that?”
Pandora, on the floor surrounded by floating teacups, looks up serenely. “Did you learn anything?”
“Yes.”
“See?”
“I learned that Barty Crouch is clinically unfit to be near school supplies.”
Evan looked up from his chessboard, raising a brow. “Did he try the goat spell again?"
“I have seventeen mosquito bites and no idea how to add fractions now.”
Pandora smiled. “So productive, daisy!”
You hissed.
GIRLIE. YOURE BACK???? OMG I MISSED YOU 😭
OMFG i was talking to a girl on campus about tumblr and i remembered that i have TWENTY. drafts begging to be posted😭😭😭 i missed u too twin </3
