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19 years old

[dearlizzies]

FRED is a waist-obsessed bf.

He’s always been clingy, and this obsession proves it.

He swears he can spot you from across the Great Hall just by the way your robes cinch at the middle.

He’s not subtle at all, girl, whether you’re cooking, reading, or talking to someone, Fred’s arms are around your waist like it’s his personal anchor.

He would also rest his chin on your shoulder (bless the height difference) and hum obnoxiously until you giggle or threatens to hex him.

In tense moments—Order meetings, post-battle problems—his hand finds your waist instinctively. It’s grounding, protective, and a silent “I’ve got you.”

George makes fun of him because of how he looks like a gum stuck to you.

Fred has a habit of whispering sweet nothings directly into your side when he’s hugging you from behind. It’s ticklish and ridiculous and you love it.

“Oi, did you know you’re the reason I failed Potions?”

“Fred, what—” “Couldn’t concentrate. Too busy daydreaming about holding you like this”

[rottenherbs]

Saint Like

✧.* : G.W x Reader ✎ : Molly Weasley doesn’t hide her disapproval of you, being George’s girlfriend, it made things awkward every time you visit the Burrow. But when George loses his ear and you care for him with gentle dedication, Molly begins to see you in a new light—slowly warming up and starting to accept you as part of the family. 𖦹 : 2.2k A/N: finally back to writing! Yippie!! That sickness actually was the worst I've had in years. [masterlist] Much love, Saige

It hurts to be dismissed by your boyfriend's mother. Year after year you arrive at his home, welcomed by others in his family, banter with his father, and simultaneously given the stark cold shoulder by the woman who gave him life.

It confused you to no end. She never supported the twins' endeavors; she consistently dismissed and shrouded any thought of their joke shop, practically banning any conversation of the idea in the burrow indefinitely. In her own world, Fred and George would magically wake up one day and decide that they wanted to pursue a career that was more lucrative. Her own fear of poverty inflamed her distaste in their aspirations — purely because it had the possibility of their own financial demise. She wanted better for her boys, and unfortunately you were the easy scapegoat to place blame.

It poked and prodded every nerve on you. You wanted nothing but success and love for George and his family, but you were seen as a threat to the possibilities that they might turn out… normal.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The climate of the wizarding world was beyond bleak. Everyday you rose to the sun, beyond blessed to be living another day, but filled with anxieties that it truly may be your last.

Your addition to the order was practically mandatory. With no ties to your parents it was easy for you to sign away your life for the greater good. Your heart lied with George and your friends and fighting next to them would be an honor.

As it came up on Harry’s seventeenth birthday, figuring out how to transport the boy became more trivial. The magical protection given to him by his mothers sacrifice would wear off and he would be more vulnerable to Voldemort than ever. Every movement or spell he made was under the view of the ministry and it had to be done with extreme caution.

The burrow was the next safest place for him, but getting him there bred confusion and limited options.

“What if we just had him apparate out?” Ron asked. The order sat around the kitchen table at the Burrow, just days before operation Free Potter.

”He is still underage Ron, it’ll be flagged immediately.” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes slightly. Ron shook his head.

”We’re already breaking the law, why not one more!” He chuffed, disappointed how easily his idea was shut down.

“Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem.” Moody interrupted “He’s made it an imprisonable offence to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here or apparate in or out.”

The table silenced at his arrival, everyone soaking in the new information and the loss of yet another helper on the inside.

“That’s pointless, he is protected anyway -“ You started. You were honestly just thinking out loud, soon realizing everyone’s eyes on you.

“All that’s done is stop Harry from leaving safely.” You coughed, attempting to find your voice again. Moody shook his head in agreement, those in the order all now speaking among themselves. George arrived at the kitchen taking a spot next to you. He nudged you quietly, smirking down at you.

“Anything juicy?” He whispered, leaning down. You smiled and shook your head no, leaning over to reply.

“Just all hobgobble about how we will get Harry here. Even moody is stumped.” You whispered. George scoffed.

“Moody stumped? Give him like 4 minutes, we’ll be out of here in no time.” He chuffed. The feeling of his hot breath tickled your neck, causing you to shiver slightly. Giggling, you looked over the room, unfortunately making eye contact with Mrs. Weasley. She pursed her lips and scowled.

“I think we ought not be distracted.” She stood, walking around the large table to the sink. She stood with her hands firmly on the ledge leaning away from the crowd. As much as you felt targeted by the statement she was right.

“Its risky but it’ll take cooperation… from all yous.” Moody thumped, his fake eye spiraling around the room. Thievery fell into a hush, waiting for what he had to reveal.

“Everyone will be a potter. As many heads as we can round up. They’ll be confused, won’t know who’s who.” He coughed, opening his flask and taking a swig.

“Polyjuice potion?” George asked. It was more of a rhetorical question of course, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Aye boy.” Moody nodded.

“They’ll just kill us all.” Molly shrieked, the idea of everyone now the face of the target became increasingly daunting.

“No they won’t Molly.” Remus coincided. “We ride on brooms, quietly through the night in groups eh” He raised his eyebrows, checking the feelings of the table. Most people nodded in agreement.

“It’s the order Molly. We’ve been in danger from the beginning. It’s not the time to become fearful.” Moody coughed, standing up from the table.

“One month from today. Stay vigilant.” Moody snapped from the room, leaving everyone in silence.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The month came and went in a flash. It felt as if the sky was grey every day since that meeting. No sign of summer or joy, only the steep consequences that were to come.

“Hi my love.” George purred from behind you. He wrapped his arms around your torso, resting his head on top of your.

“Hi.” You whispered, leaning back into his body. You both swung lightly in each other's arms enjoying the feeling of peace.

“They just got word of who’s flying.” He mumbled, keeping his head steady. You kept swaying, but your body stiffened slightly at his words.

“You’re going.” You sighed. You knew he would, and you kicked yourself daily for worrying about his demise. It wasn’t exactly a positive situation to be in, but your milling about danger wouldn’t help.

“I know you wish I could stay, but Fred and I fly well, and they need people who are confident in their brooms.” He murmured, rubbing your sides lovingly. He turned you around to face him, his cheeks warm with glow, beaming down at you.

“What am I doing?” You asked, holding his arms tightly. Part of you wished to be in the sky with him, as if your presence could protect.

“You, my beautiful bird-“ George leaned down, kissing your forehead after every word. “You are meant to stay here. Look for signs and send alerts back if anything happens.”

You didn’t respond, you just sighed and smiled.

“I know you wanted to go.” He whispered. “But it’ll be good. A good opportunity to help from the ground.” He smiled. You could tell he was trying to reassure you, his eyes darting between yours looking for any sign of disapproval.

“Okay.” You whispered, leaning up so your nose grazed his. “I’ll be waiting for you, and you better come back in one piece.”

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The night finally arrived and you spent every waking moment with George. You hated to think it was your last time seeing him, but the reality was clear. Anything could happen tonight and you would be sure that it was spent with him.

After dinner, Moody arrived at the burrow rallying up those who were going.

“5 minutes and we must be out, got it?” He looked around the room, heads nodding in acceptance. He turned to you and Molly, softening his face.

“You two will be the first to know if anything happens. I will send a message once we have left the Dursleys, then we will be back here in approximately 30 minutes.” His eyes widened in question, looking for any look of approval between you two. You dare not look at Molly and keep eye contact with Moody.

“Yes sir.” You choked, the air in your chest seizing.

“Atta girl. Alrig’t move out.” Moody winked, turning on his heel and walking out of the room, numerous bodies following. George paused and jogged over to you, kissing your cheek and squeezing your hand before joining the fray.

Once everyone left the burrow became quiet. Molly soon looked for any way to busy her fingertips knowing she’d have to distract her mind or else she’d go mad. You stood by the window for a short period, looking at the sky and prairie out past the horizon looking for any sign of movement. Hearing a hefty sigh behind you, you turned to face the sound, already anticipating a lecture.

“Could you help me make supper? I bet they’ll be hungry when they get back.” Mrs. Weasley spoke softly, her back turned to you still maneuvering pots and pans in the kitchen. You nodded to yourself and took a deep breath in, walking over near her.

“Maybe start with the potato’s, rid the eyes and peel the skin for me.” She didn’t look at you, instead speaking into her hands, sniffling after ever few words. She wasn’t crying, but you could hear the trouble in her voice clear as day. Grabbing a peeler, you got to work, trying to pass the time as well.

“I hope you know I don’t .. loathe you like you may think.” She whispered, just loud enough so that you’d hear but quiet enough that the words don’t linger in the air.

You stood in silence, peeling the potatoes, confused entirely by her statement.

“I don’t think-“ you lied, thinking it was the right thing to counter, even deep down you felt that she thought you were better off dead most days.

“You have every right to think it.” She snuffed, pausing her work and biting her cheek. “I just….”

“I understand a mothers love.” You whispered, picking up another potato and holding it softly. “I understand wanting the best for your children, but ..” you choked. You didn’t know if you had the confidence to say yet another thing that would make her angry.

“But sometimes their best interest isn’t yours and it’s out of a mothers control what their adult children do.” You finished. You knew it was the truth, but on the heels of Percy abandoning the family it had to have stung just as hard.

Mrs. Weasley didn’t respond. She didn’t move her head or acknowledge your statement but stood and pondered what you said. You couldn’t tell if she was boiling with rage or the words finally penetrated the field of deep affection that clouded her judgement so.

Just from the window, a owl rapped the glass, begging to be let in.

“That’s them.” She muttered, wiping her hands on her apron and rushing over to let the owl in.

“Thirty minutes.” She sighed

“Thirty minutes.” You repeated.

Time moved extremely fast after that. You both were taking turns by the window to cool down your nerves with the cold night air. The meal was brewing magically on the stone and didn’t need the tender touch of either of you to finish. Even though very little was said between you two, it felt as if you had become closer because of tonight. At least, we understood a little more about each other retroactively.

The sound of loud snapping wood alerted you both that people were apperating at the burrow. Running out of the burrow, you locked eyes with Harry, who was barreling off of Harris’s motorbike, stumbling towards the house.

“Death Eaters, loads of them — we were chased —" Harry coughed, falling into Mrs. Weasley's arms. Your mind raced, searching the sky for any one else who would arrive.

“Death eaters-“ You whispered, fear overtaking your body. You could taste the adrenaline in your mouth, a sour foul feeling overcoming your every sense. Luckily the pain of unknowing was only for a moment more, as Lupin and George followed suit.

“George!” You cried, running over to the boy. His hand held the side of his head, blood was dripping down his shoulder and across his cheek.

“I’m okay im okay.” He mumbled, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and hoisting himself upon your small frame. You tugged his body indoors, flopping him on the family couch in the living room.

“It’s just my ear darling.” He smiled weakly, his face was pale from the loss of blood but still held your hand tightly. Mrs. Weasley quickly began to tend to her son, allowing you to hold his hand and be with him through it all. Even though you were slightly inconvenient to her tending, she dare not ask you to move. Both Fred and you had been tied together, your sobs uncontrollable.

“Honestly I think I’m way cuter without an ear. Don’t you think?” George tossed, rubbing your hand affectionately. Mrs. Weasley had successfully stopped the bleeding and bandaged what she could, leaving you both alone in the room. Just in the kitchen, Lupin and the order continued to talk about their now sudden loss of Moody and who could be trusted.

“It definitely makes you stand out.” You laughed, finally feeling comfortable in his state. You both smiled at each other, the everlasting admiration you had for him only grew, how resilient and fateful even in the face of death he had been.

“I’ll always get the last laugh-“

[yasministration]

before you go - fred weasley

summary: fred weasley has relentlessly asked you out for years, but you've never given the younger boy a chance. not until sixth year, when he makes the compelling argument that if the date goes terribly, at least it'll be the last year you'll ever see him at hogwarts. wc: 3.4k+

Fred Weasley had been chasing you since your fourth year at Hogwarts. As a young teenage girl, you’d been absolutely horrified. Having a younger boy chasing after you had been a nightmare: your friends teased you about it and no matter how hard you tried brushing him off, he never relented. Over the next couple of years, you had learnt to accept Fred’s flirting, rolling your eyes and occasionally entertaining his conversations. Fred would smile, watching as you would finally walk away from him, catching up to your friends, sighing in awe as he observed your retreating form.

“Maybe if you stopped flirting and became genuine, she’d give you a shot.”

Would sassily throw Ginny as she pretended to do her homework, watching your exchange instead. Fred scoffed, rolling his eyes at her as he tried to mask his true feelings towards you. “I don’t know what you mean Ginny.”

But it was true: Fred was utterly and irrevocably in love with you.

He remembers the first time he saw you. It hadn’t even been his first day at Hogwarts. In fact, it was during the sorting ceremony, nervously strutting over to the Gryffindor table and catching your eye as you clapped uninterestingly, a comment of “Huh, twins.” Leaving your lips as you watched the younger twin walk onto the stage. That night, George complained about how much Fred spoke about brief eye contact, and from that moment, Fred knew he was screwed.

Contrary to popular belief, Fred wasn’t extremely confident when speaking to older students when he was a mere first year, sticking to the idea of becoming liked by students his own age before broadening his horizons. He had more brief encounters with you over the next two years, remembering the time he walked into the common room after a late detention, slumping onto a couch in exhaustion without awareness of who he’d joined. It was only when a soft question of “You okay?” was heard that he jolted upwards, instantly recognising your voice. Fred gulped, nodding eagerly, a blush blooming onto his cheeks. You’d laughed softly at the shy look on his face, patting an arm on his bicep before returning to your conversation.

After hearing that story more than a dozen times from his twin brother, George decided things had to change. And there was only one thing that could ensure Fred made a move on you; a dare. “I can’t do that.” Fred had instantly refused. George crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back with a raise of his eyebrows. “Is Mr. Fred Weasley refusing a dare?” Fred felt the blood drain from his face, and he quickly shook his head, mustering the courage for what he was going to do.

It happened the next day.

Three years of crushing on you, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and he was finally making his move.

Sure, your group of friends widely intimidated him, but he had to stick to the reputation he’d built of being a confident jokester. At breakfast, he marched right up to you, sitting down facing you, forcing himself not to be affected by the presence of your friends. “Hey Freddie!” You greeted, buttering a slice of toast. He replied with a call of your name. “You look absolutely beautiful today.” Although Fred was fully intending to continue his flirting, your immediate reaction threw him off. Your eyebrows instantly shot up, a smile tugging on the corners of your lips shyly. You ducked your head down, avoiding eye contact with him as you thanked him.

Fred cleared his throat, continuing “What do you say we go out together? On a date?” Fred never heard your answer, watching carefully as you slowly chewed your toast, pondering what to tell him. Your friend on your left hand side glanced towards you, deciding to save you from decision-making.

The gasp that escaped her lips was award-winning, and she cried “We’re about to be late to class!” but even as Fred watched her drag you away, he knew class started in another twenty minutes.

Well, at least you hadn’t rejected him.

Yet.

Because when he saw you that night in the common room, catching your eye from across the room, you shook your head at him, fully convinced that he had only been joking with you. However, now that Fred started, he couldn’t stop until you agreed. Besides, he liked the reaction you gave him, exactly the same every time. So the flirting continued: across the Great Hall as you entered, crossing each other in the hallway, leaving a class that he was entering.

Despite your feelings for the boy, you had built a strong dynamic. You were afraid that if you finally accepted his offer to on a date, he’d stop giving you attention. Afraid that your date would be disastrous and you would never speak again.

It was endless.

At least, until it finally came to an end.

But what could you say? Sixth Year Fred Weasley’s argument had been so convincing. “Come on, this is our last year together! Give me one chance before you go, and if the date sucks, so be it! But don’t let us miss out on an opportunity just because you’re… stubborn.”

Finally, you put your book down.

You’d been reading your book when Fred decided to come and resume his flirting, asking you out. You had quickly glanced his way before returning your gaze to the words on these pale pages. That was when his desperate words had stumbled out. “You want to go out with me that bad?” You questioned, unable to stop the smile from climbing onto your lips. Fred nodded, a hopeful look in his eyes as you swung your legs over the side of the couch to lay flat on the floor, properly sitting up.

“Okay then.” Fred’s eyes widened, and he stumbled to sit next to you on the couch, holding one of your hands between both of his. “Yeah?” He double checked, watching with a wide grin as you nodded, picking up your book and mumbling “Don’t mess it up Weasley.” Fred twisted his body to watch you walk away from him, calling out “Is Sunday good?” His only response was a thumbs up.

When you finally reached your dorm, you could only sit atop your duvet in silence, the realisation of what you had just agreed to dawning on you. You screamed in your pillow for a short while before recollecting yourself.

Did you believe that the Weasley twin really liked you? Yes. But did you think that the two of you would get along so well that it would satisfy the years of his building expectations? Well, not really. However, you were officially going out on Sunday, and you had to at least make an effort for the younger boy.

So when Sunday rolled around, you dressed yourself in your most appropriate date attire. You considered taking a jacket to wear over your little dress, however as your fingers grazed the warm material, decided against it. No, Fred would enjoy draping his jumper over your shoulders, the bold letter “F” claiming you as his while he smoothly tugged you closer to him, a glad smile on his face.

And you were right, pretending not to notice Fred’s wide grin as his arm settled around you, guiding you to the date spot he’d always dreamt of taking you to. You were surprised when Fred walked you past Zonko’s without looking back, offering sweetly to pop into Honeydukes together. You nodded eagerly, beelining straight towards your favourite candies and asking the taller boy if he’d ever tried them. At the shake of his head, you immediately grabbed another bag from the shelf, dragging him to the counter by the hand. Fred didn’t have the time to even take out his pouch of money before you were tossing a couple of sickles onto the counter and dragging him back out of the colourful shop. A grumble of disagreement bubbled in Fred’s chest, but you ignored it, cozying up in Fred’s side as he pulled you snugly against him.

Fred was nervous, you thought, noticing how unusually quiet he was, as though stopping himself from saying anything true to his personality that might put you off him.

“You know,” You started, hopeful to boost Fred’s confidence. “I’m really happy to be here Fred.” The boy’s face snapped towards you, a red flush adorning his cheeks. “Yeah?” You hummed “Mhm, I’m glad you gave me that final push.” “I’m happy you agreed.” He mumbled quietly.

“You know, I do really really like you. I was willing to try anything for you to finally go out with me.” You genuinely smiled, bumping your hip with Fred’s. “Well, let’s make it worth it, yeah?” You gasped softly when you felt a pair of lips on your forehead, kissing you softly. Heat climbed up your neck to land on your cheeks, and you raised an arm to rest on Fred’s back as he guided you into the forest behind the small village.

You joked to Fred about the suspicious location, but he only grinned at you, telling you to watch out as he stepped over a fallen branch, the path to your date spot imprinted in his mind. He dragged you deeper into the forest until the you could barely catch sight of the buildings in Hogsmeade. But it was worth it, because when you finally reached your date location, you couldn’t help the gasp that flew past your parted lips. “Didn’t know Hogsmeade had gems like this, did you?” You shook your head as Fred’s arm fell from around your body, instead slipping down your arm so he could slide his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers together. Your heart fluttered at the bold move, letting Fred tug you along towards the green grass.

The boy swung his backpack off his shoulders, only letting go of your hand at the very last possible second so that he could quickly empty the contents of his bag. He carefully laid out a picnic blanket on the grass — one he had charmed to keep you warm despite the remnants of winter still lingering in the air. He sat down, patting the spot next to him before extracting two sealed butterbeers from his bag a small camera.

“Thought this would be good to capture the moment. Show you in a couple decades that I was right about us. You know, when we’ll look back on this day.”

You raised your eyebrows at Fred, trying to act annoyed, but his playful smirk and the subtle blush on his cheeks only made the corner of your lips tug upwards into a smile.

You swallowed thickly, folding your legs on one side of you before shifting them to the other. Fred frowned slightly. He didn’t realise that you’d be uncomfortable sitting on the floor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise-” But his quick thinking had already solved your confining situation, slipping his hands around your ankles to pull your legs across his lap. “Oh. Thank you.”

You removed Fred’s jumper from around your shoulders, but you missed the fleeting look of sadness that crossed his features. No, you didn’t notice it, because you were too busy trying to find the holes that would introduce the sleeves to the jumper, messily pulling it over your head. Fred grinned widely, reaching over to help you fit your head into the right hole. You huffed as your head emerged, wiping the hair away from your face.

“Sorry, it’s colder than I realised.” Fred shook his head at your apology, boldly placing a hand over yours. “Are you not cold?” Fred shrugged his shoulders, pulling a face and dismissing the question with his hand. “No, not really.”

“Shame. Otherwise I could help warm you up.” You saw the blood creep up Fred’s face and settle in his ears, and you tried suppressing the smile from your face. Fred cleared his throat, mumbling “Actually, it’s freezing.”

Laughing, you reached the hand Fred wasn’t holding upwards, brushing rogue strands of hair away from Fred’s face. His eyelashes fluttered weakly as your fingertips tore away from his face. “Well, we don’t want you getting hypothermic, do we?” Fred shook his head frantically before diving in closer to you and eagerly pressing his lips against yours. You gasped loudly, a hand freezing mid-air, as the ginger-haired boy kissed you.

Fred began pulling away, suddenly convinced he had completely ruined his chance with you, but just as his lips separated from yours, you were gripping his shirt and pulling him back onto you.

Fred whimpered quietly before both his hands were suddenly on your waist, his lips parting so your tongue could dip into his mouth. He was panting heavily when you broke the kiss, head immediately falling over your shoulder before tilting it, and pressing a couple of kisses onto your neck. Your fingers snaked into his hair, and you giggled as Fred declared “I’ve been waiting years for that.”

“Was that worth the years of waiting?” Fred hummed ‘yes’, lifting his head off your shoulder. He looked adorable to you, with his flushed cheeks and shy smile.

“Can I show you everything else I’ve been waiting for? Please?”

“Open me a butterbeer and you can do whatever you want to me, Weasley.” And Fred was jerking away from you, looking around for the butterbeers. He was quick to open the bottle, silently thanking whatever power that they were the twisty kind. He gave you the bottled drink, watching with eager eyes as you sipped it, humming in satisfaction. Then, he was instantly hooking his arms around your thighs and tugging you towards him. A loud gasp left your lips as your back hit the floor, and you carefully placed your butterbeer at arm's length, away from danger.

“Fred!”

“I’ll prove to you I’m worth more than just a pity date.” You gulped at his words, mumbling “I do like you, Fred.”

“But you only agreed to this out of pity. Don’t worry, you’re going to begging for more after this. We’ll be even.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, but you decided to argue with him nonetheless. “It’s this ego that made me reject you so many times. Someone needed to humble you.” Fred grinned, hovering over you, “I’m sure you’ll only be feeding into my ego after this, yeah?”

“You know what? Try your best.”

So he did. Fred was immediately pulling down your underwear, and laying down on his stomach so he could be levelled with your cunt. He brought his cold fingers to your pussy, and you immediately jumped at his touch. Fred grinned, his playful persona coming through as he trailed his fingers down to your clit, where he immediately started rubbing slowly. You propped yourself onto your elbows to look at him, reaching over to take a drink from your butterbeer.

Fred added pressure to your clit, watching happily when your hips bucked slightly and you choked out a moan, some of your drink dribbling down your chin. Finally, Fred averted his attention to your dripping cunt, bringing his lips down to press slow, teasing kisses down your slit. “Fred.” You whispered, furrowing your eyebrows at him.

If he wanted you crawling back into his bed, this was not the way to do it.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes joking, moving down to begin sucking harshly on your clit, causing you to jump, a loud cry escaping your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth to silence yourself, suddenly aware that anyone could walk out and see you, despite being in an estranged area. Fred reached up to yank your hand away from your face, so you resorted to biting your lower lip.

Fred’s arm tightened around your thigh, pulling it to the side as he brought his free hand down to touch you. He ran his fingers up and down your slit, gathering your wetness before probing his fingers at your hole. He suddenly pushed them in, just as he stopped sucking on your clit, instead, laying his tongue flat against you and licking a bold strip up your cunt.

Fred suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, and you deflated, but quickly found yourself moaning again as his tongue pushed inside you, curling inwards as deep as possible. And just as quickly as he was there, he’s gone again, replacing his tongue with his fingers. “I’ll stop teasing, I promise.” He revealed, propping himself up on one arm and kneeling as he plunged his fingers into you, curling them just right that your thighs squeezed, closing shut around his hand.

With a shake of his head, Fred tutted at you, hooking and arm underneath your thigh and bringing it upwards until it hung over his shoulder. The new position allowed him a new type of access, and he was suddenly thrusting his fingers into you at a much faster pace, grinning over you as you shut your eyes and arched your back against the hard ground.

“Yeah, you like that?” Fred teased, turning his head to the side to press kisses down your leg until he’s at your inner thigh, sucking and running his teeth over your soft skin in between kisses.

“Fred, please!” Fred didn't understand what you were begging for until you brought a hand down to grip his collar, weakly attempting to pull him up towards you. He lowered your leg down to the floor so he could climb over you and press a kiss to your lips, one that you immediately deepened by forcing your tongue into his mouth. Fred broke away from the kiss too quickly for your liking, but he moved his kisses down your neck and jaw, until he was restricted by his own jumper you were wearing.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful falling apart on my fingers. Shit, wearing my jumper too.”

“Fred, mouth please!” You panted, a hand tangling in his hair, trying to push him down towards your cunt. But Fred didn't need to be told twice, because he was instantly returning to his previous position and closing his lips around your clit, beginning to suck on it relentlessly.

It didn't take thirty seconds for Fred to know you were about to cum, practically riding his face as he ate you out, long, veiny fingers pushing at the spongy spot inside you with ever harsh thrust. Fred shut his eyes, savouring the moment as he laid a hand over your abdomen. But soon after, he felt fingers lacing with his, and Fred couldn't help but moan at the realisation that you wanted to hold his hand as you came.

The vibrations up your cunt had you bucking your hips harshly, high-pitched moans falling from your lips as your body was overtaken over by a hot sort of pleasure, your orgasm causing your thighs to shake around Fred’s head.

His face stayed buried between your thighs, and he pulled his fingers out, moving his hand to grip your thighs, smearing some of your orgasm onto your skin while he lapped up at all the juices between your legs. His second hand stayed intertwined with yours, thumb caressing your skin.

Fred was barely satisfied when you tugged him upwards to desperately connect your lips together, eager to spend all day between your thighs, tasting you. You wrapped one arm around his neck, the other one hanging by your side, not letting go of his hand.

“That was,” You began as your lips parted, still touching.

“Amazing, right?” Fred finished for you, lifting his body off of yours to retrieve something off the blanket. Your eyes widened when you see the camera pointed towards you, Fred cupping your face with his free hand and snapping a photo of you, all spent, laying down on the floor of a park in your post-orgasm glow.

“That enough to get a second date?”

“Fred, that might have been enough to secure me for life.” You panted, accepting the help he offered for you to sit up. You reached for your butterbeer, purposefully ignoring the way he grinned, and made a face, mumbling. “It’s gone all flat.”

But luckily for you, the smitten boy in front of you opened the second butterbeer and offered it to you, taking the one from your hands for himself. You felt your face go hot.

If that orgasm didn’t secure you for life, that sweet gesture sure did.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-017, @boromoony

[blondykebarbie-deactivated20260]

Pretty Boy

Harry Potter x fem!reader

WC: 563

CW: mentions of the Dursleys being neglectful; FLUFF

Summary: You love to make your boyfriend embarassed

Day 21 of mk's mad dash

Sadly, your boyfriend grew up without any affection from his family. So, it was no surprise that any affection he was shown was foreign to him. And, in some cases, maybe even a little embarrassing. You remembered the early days of your relationship- how even a peck on his cheek or a hug would make him blush furiously. With time, of course, he became more comfortable in your affection and even initiated it himself. Still, occasionally, you were able to bring back out his shy side, intentionally or not. 

In this instance, you were very intentional about trying to make your boyfriend blush. After he’d called you pretty girl a few weeks ago and left you a flustered mess, you were determined to get revenge. 

You decided to act completely unassuming, only throwing the term of endearment back in his face when he was most vulnerable and sweet in your arms. 

After a long Friday of classes, you brought Harry back to your dorm to cuddle and relax, simply enjoying one another’s presence. You snuck some food from the kitchens that now left you both feeling stuffed and satisfied. In your current position you were laying sprawled out, back on the bed and Harry nearly entirely on top of you.

In your post-dinner bliss, you two had gone mostly silent, reveling in each other’s company and touch. You absentmindedly ran your fingers through Harry’s wild black hair, pursuing a pointless mission of trying to untangle his curls. 

Your boyfriend’s face was buried in your neck, occasionally pressing gentle kisses to your skin when the urge presented itself. 

When your fingers made their way to the nape of his neck, Harry hummed softly against you.

“Feel good, Haz?”

“Yeah, baby. So good. Love when you play with my hair,” he sighed.

You pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, “Good. You deserve to be spoiled, you know.”

“Why? ‘Cos my parents are dead?” he mumbled.

To those who didn’t know your boyfriend, this type of comment would’ve left them floored. But for you, who was used to his dark humor, you only laughed disbelievingly, squeezing his arm chidingly, “Harry!”

“Well?”

You pressed another fond kiss against his skin, this time to his cheek, “You deserve to be spoiled because I love you and because you’re a sweet boy.”

Then more quietly you whispered, “my sweet boy.”

Harry raised his head from its home in your neck and pecked your lips lovingly, “love you, baby.”

You knew that now was the time to strike. 

“I love you too, my pretty boy.”

Your boyfriend’s face went from loving to embarrassed in seconds, his brown skin coloring red. 

He whined and buried his face back in your neck.

“What’s wrong my love,” you asked teasingly.

“You know what’s wrong,” he grumbled, “you did it on purpose.”

“Did what on purpose?”

Harry looked back up at you, the most adorable pout gracing his lips, “You called me…. pretty boy…. just to make me embarrassed.”

“I said what I meant,” you answered honestly, “though the teasing was a benefit.”

Your boyfriend continued to pout at you, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you reminded him, “Otherwise you wouldn’t feel so embarrassed right now.”

“Fine,” he huffed, rolling his eyes, “Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

And damn him, because now you were the one left a blushing mess.

[midniqhtt]

this was adorable 😭

[realitybitesyouknowit]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle Characters: Tom Riddle, Harry Potter, Abraxas Malfoy, Orion Black, Horace Slughorn Additional Tags: tentatively m. tentatively. barely. just in case m, Crack, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, Time Travel, Smitten Tom Riddle, … horrifically so, Obsessive Tom Riddle, an overabundance of jewelry, tom’s life ambition used to be world domination, now his life ambition is to be harry’s bride, Standing Ovations, The Slug Club (Harry Potter), mentions of World War 2, mentions of pride month, the cartier halo tiara Summary:

“Tom,” Abraxas said, cajoling, because Tom still had the diamond in his mouth. Tom took it out and cleared his throat.

“Abraxas,” he said with a stately nod. “If you have plans for the end of June. Cancel them. Expeditiously.”

“Why,” said Abraxas, reasonably.

“It’s Pride Month,” said Tom. “I will be wed.” — or: harry keeps giving tom increasingly expensive cursed objects. tom, increasingly, believes them to be courting gifts.

[moonchildvivi]

Basilisk?

Draco and you were standing at the top of the stairs talking about the upcoming second year in Hogwarts. Currently the line for the autograph hour with Gilderoy Lockhart was beginning in half an hour.

He was joking around with you making you laugh.

Growing up together and being eachothers fiancé since birth has formed a close bond between the two of you.

When Draco saw Harry potter and how much attention he was getting his mood went down in an instant. He stepped onto the stairs and looked at a book.

Sneaking up behind him you looked over his shoulder to see a basilisk on the page.

"Why are you looking at this?" You asked curious while laying your head onto his shoulder.

"I'm just curious." And right after this he ripped out the page.

"Draco!" You quietly scolded and reached to get the book back with the page but he held it above your head and levitated it back to it's original spot. The page hidden in his hand.

But before you could do or say anything else he already walked to potter.

"Bet you loved that potter! Famous harry potter can't even go into a bookshop without making it to the front page." He sneered and you had to bite your lip. Partly because you always did it when you got uncomfortable and nervous, partly of the way Draco said it. You were trying to keep the small laugh in.

"Leave him alone!" The only sister of the Weasley family stepped Infront of potter.

Draco's sneer turned into a amused smirk.

"Oh look, you got yourself a girlfriend potter!"

"Speak for yourself Malfoy." Suddenly potter's glare went to you, along with his friends who also glared. Being used to it, because being Draco's best friend meant automatically that you were also involved in everything he did apparently, you stayed quiet. Hating confrontation, you were glad that Draco took the lead in this uncomfortable conversation (that's what you called it because you didn't like the thought of fighting with potter and his friends/ fighting in general), Draco didn't seem to mind. He was more than thrilled to get into it but before he could, Lucius interrupted.

Draco came to stand beside you holding your hand to offer some comfort in this tension. Finally after what felt like forever Lucius left meaning you could leave too.

Draco still held your hand to lead you through the crowded streets.

You didn't question why your parents send you along with them to go shopping for school supplies. Draco and you did everything together since birth.

First steps, first words (which were eachothers names), first ball and dance.

It felt natural, you always had him by your side just as he had you.

First year was.... Interesting.

Draco got a bit grumpy when you made new friends. And you got mad that he got you in trouble.

By now Draco was a bit taller than before so he and you were more or less the same height, causing Draco to tease you a bit, saying that he will be much taller than you next year. You didn't say anything because that was most likely to be true but it annoyed you.

So you made a quiet protest you would hex his shoelaces together when he wasn't paying attention only for him to always notice and glare at you playful, undoing it again.

At friendly Family Meetings between the two families you and Draco would always be send off together when the adults were talking about something serious.

From playing hide and seek in the big manors to drawing on paper, you did everything together since birth.

When you left Flourish and Blots Lucius left the two of you at a small café with ice cream handing both of you some money and telling you to stay here.

Draco and you went inside and each chose a flavour.

He went for green apple while you went for cinnamon cookies.

Draco hated sharing, but when you looked at him with these pretty eyes of yours he folded each time.

So now you were taste testing each other's ice cream.

Draco made a surprised expression, not expecting it to taste this good.

You however pulled a face that practically screamed 'sour'.

He had the audacity to laugh.

"Don't you laugh at me Draco." You said shoving him slightly, but with a tiny smile.

"I can't help it." He snorted out.

When the 1st of September came around you were already sitting excited in a train cabin, waiting for Draco.

He was searching the train for you, followed by Crabbe and Goyle.

Sliding the door open with a grin he practically tackled you on the seats in a hug.

Almost falling down to the ground you hugged him back (more like, were holding on to him so you wouldn't fall).

The train ride was filled with laughter and throwing green apple drops in eachothers mouths.

Draco was in the middle of bragging about how he was the latest subject of your doodles, he as a tiny figure, when a car flew by the window.

And from the open door was hanging no other than Harry potter.

"Is that..... Harry potter?" You asked confused.

"Tsk. Potter always has to stay in the spotlight. Can't even go to school like a normal person." He scoffed and muttered a bit mad that you were giving potter your attention and not him.

"Draco look he really seems to be falling." You said while squeezing Draco's hand in worry.

Not that you really knew potter. You just didn't want anything bad happening to any of your classmates.

But Draco still was offended. He would throw a tantrum by now if it wouldn't be for your hand that held his. That was the only good thing about all of this.

After the first shock was over the train ride continued uneventful. Draco was still talking about summer and what the two of you did, for example flying around on a broom, kind of making a bit of fun of you for holding onto him so tight. So he wouldn't have to admit the blush that was crawling at the tip of his ears.

The sorting ceremony was a bit boring now that it wasn't you who got sorted anymore.

And so the daily school life began again.

Except for when suddenly a message written in blood was covering the entire wall in the hallway and misses Norris was petrified. Covering your mouth you swallowed a shocked gasp. Draco instantly took your hand before reading out loud what was written all over the wall for everyone to hear.

"Enemies of the heir beware."

He turned to sneer at Granger.

"Mudbloods you're next."

"DRACO!" You said in disbelief and shock, hitting his arm.

Not that you liked muggleborns particularly, but you had enough decency in you to not insult them or use the other 'M' word. It was a unwritten law to not use it. It was inappropriate, mean and disgusting. But you already knew that the malfoys didn't draw a line for what was too low for insulting muggleborns.

Draco just shrugged when he saw your face, as if to ask 'what?! I'm not wrong.'

Soon after Dumbledore send all students (except potter and his friends) to the common rooms.

In the middle of the night,after tossing and turning for hours, you eventually gave up and searched for Draco. He was the only one who could make you feel better.

Luckily you found him still in the common room.

He fell asleep on the leather sofa Infront of the fireplace.

The darkness from the black lake occasionally let a bit of moonlight shine through the water, causing it to reflect off of Draco's hair.

Feeling bad to wake him you stood awkwardly at the end of the sofa.

As if Draco could feel your presence he suddenly woke up.

"Urgh what time is it? And why am I still laying on the sofa?" He groaned clearly tired and annoyed. But one look at your slightly smaller and almost trembling form, he instantly opened his arms and moved himself enough so there was space for you to lay down next to him.

"What's wrong?" He whispered into your hair after making sure you're comfortable.

"I can't sleep... Every time I close my eyes,I see the bloody writing on the wall."

"But... Isn't it better this way?"

"Draco..." You said a bit angry.

"Okay sorry... I wasn't thinking about how you feel. I'm sorry love. But you know you have nothing to worry about. Nothing will happen to you. I promise."

"You promise?" You looked at him.

"I promise." He gave your head a soft kiss.

The next day in Transfiguration, you were learning how to transform a bird into a goblet when suddenly Hermione Granger asked professor McGonagall about the chamber of secrets and what monster lies within.

Then Professor McGonagall proceeded to tell everyone about the four founders of Hogwarts. Saying how three of the four worked together in harmony but one wasn't pleased with the idea of muggles attending the school.

Weasley turned to look at potter. "I wonder who..." He said sarcastic.

Trying to ease everyone she said that even after searching the school several times, no chamber has been found.

But it still left a bitter taste in your mouth.

After the lesson you ran to the next classroom. Draco ran after you, causing Crabbe and Goyle to run after him.

Taking the seat next to you, both of you were breathing heavily.

"Blimey n/n I didn't know you could run that fast."

"Sorry...." You said a bit tense. Draco's eyes softened and he took your hand under the table.

"It's alright. Don't apologise."

After classes (and lots of running...) the day finally came to an end.

But you still were walking Draco to his very first Quidditch practice. Fussing over him and saying how proud you were.

His ego was beaming.

But suddenly the Gryffindor Quidditch team was standing In front of the Slytherin Quidditch team.

After a short bickering session Draco stepped forward after being announced slytherins new seeker.

Flexing a bit with the nimbus 2001's his father bought for the whole team after Draco made it on the team.

Granger accused Draco of buying his way into the team. Earning a glare from both you and Draco. But before you could say a clever remark back Draco called her a mudblood.

Gasps could be heard from the Gryffindors and you.

You knew he used that word but never once had he said it to a Muggle before. And since you didn't like it before you sure as Merlin didn't like it now.

Quietly leaving angry, that Draco let his vocabulary be heavily influenced by his father, he didn't even notice after weasleys spell backfired on himself and Draco was done laughing.

Turning to where he assumed you still stood, he looked around confused, after finding nothing but air.

Shrugging it off, as you needing to use the restrooms or something he left for his first practice with the team.

Being sure that you would eventually follow them later.

But you didn't.

The practice was over in the blink of an eye. Draco, usually calm, fast and collected during flying, couldn't focus without you being near him, without knowing where you went and why you left.

That was a lie. He knew why you left. You didn't like it when someone uses that word. Especially if it was him, that's why he usually doesn't use it Infront of you. But this time he was so angry, so frustrated, after all this hard work he put in to get on the team, he couldn't bare the mudbloods insult. Buy his way on the team?! He was the best flyer in his year.... Well he would be ...if it wasn't for Saint potter. The mere thought of that... that stupid golden boy made his blood boil. His hands tightened on his broom. With new found dedication and ambition he only focused on the practice for the rest of the time. At the end he glanced at the seats for slytherins. Feeling a pang of guilt in his chest. Not for saying what he said. No. It was because he said it Infront of you.

So after changing he ran to the castle.

You were glad when the doors to the common room closed. Letting out a shaky breath, Draco hugged you instantly from behind.

"It's okay. I'm here. Nothing will ever happen to you as long as I'm with you. And if you think about it on the logical side, you don't have to be scared. Since Salazar only targets mud-" the look on your face shut him up.

"Not....born...in the... wizarding world... Students?"

"You could just say muggles..."

"I'd rather not." He layed his head on your shoulder.

"Either way.... You should go to sleep. Today was rather exhausting for you love."

Turning in his arms you hugged him properly and sighed.

"Can I sleep with you tonight please?"

"Ofcourse. I'll tell Crabbe and Goyle to sleep somewhere else."

"You don't need to do that."

"How generous of you.... But I don't want them to listen in on what secrets we whisper."

"Don't worry... We will sleep and that's usually done quietly and without words."

"Urgh... How boring."

"We can't stay up and talk like we did in the summer holidays. We have school tomorrow."

"I know I know... At least I get to cuddle you."

A few weeks later, almost at Christmas, you were sitting on the sofa. Scared and shaken up, after finding out that students were being petrified.

Draco was getting more and more creative to cheer you up and take your fear away but you really didn't leave the common room anymore.

"Alright n/n I tried every to cheer you up and convince you to go out. You win. Then I'll just stay here with you."

Draco dramatically fell back onto the sofa and his head fell onto your lap.

"You really don't have to do that. I'm sorry I'm so scared. I don't want you to suffer with me in here." You said while looking away guilty.

"Who told you I was suffering with you?! I will hex them!" He suddenly sat up straight and was already looking for his wand.

Taking his hand in yours you quickly said

"Noone. I just think it's unfair to you. You don't have to stay inside just because I am scared to leave the common room."

His eyes softened again.

"I'm not staying inside because I have to, I'm staying inside because I want to keep you company."

"But-" he pressed a finger to your lips.

"Shhh I know I'm wonderful. You don't have to say anything else."

That made you laugh a little.

Then came Draco's first Quidditch match. Against potter of all people.

You were wearing his scarf and cheered for him the loudest.

He was flying around the field until he stopped Infront of potter, probably to mock him after he was constantly being chased by a buldger.

But then potter spottet the snitch and flew after it. Draco spotted it seconds later and was diving down in his broom. Now both of them were being chased by the buldger.

They flew through the safety ring around the field between the stands and the grass when after a few rounds Draco's broom hit the joist.

He was loosing his balance and fell from his broom into the grass. You gasped and we're already rushing down. The face Draco made looked kind of sick and Lucius made a disapproving face in the teacher stands.

When you finally reached him, you were fussing and worried.

"Where does it hurt? Do you get enough air into your lungs? Can I help you in any way?!" Slowly helping him to sit up you missed the small smile Draco had when you took care of him.

On Christmas break Draco was looking one evening for Crabbe and Goyle while you stayed in your room, preparing his gift.

After a few hours went by you went down to stretch your legs, finding Draco on one sofa and a unusually tense looking Crabbe and Goyle on the opposite side from him.

They were talking about something in quiet voices so you didn't want to interrupt. But when Draco looked up to see who walked in his whole presence changed.

"N/n come over to us. I saved the space next to me for you." He had a wide grin, causing Crabbe and Goyle to look even more uncomfortable and tense than before.

Something was definitely off about them you just didn't know what. Usually they laughed and agreed with everything Draco said.

But before you could think about it any longer Draco made you sit next to him, surprising you with the sudden short fall on the sofa.

In the same moment Crabbe and Goyle ran out of the common room.

Draco yelled after them but they didn't react at all. Very strange.

Suddenly you remembered the question you wanted to ask him all year but always forgot about it before.

"Draco?"

"Hm?" He was shaking a little giftbox next to his ear.

"Why did you look at that page of the Basilisk when Lockharts signing session was in flourish and blotts?"

"Oh... I was just curious about it."

"But why?"

"It is a giant snake. Who wouldn't be curious?!"

"That is true but-"

Draco sighed. "I heard my father talk about it at home. I didn't really know what it was so I got curious. But when you came I panicked and well... You know what happened after."

"Oh. That's actually a much simpler explanation than I expected."

"What? Did you think your fiancé had some kind of Masterplan or something?" He joked around.

"Maybe..."

"I didn't."

"Well now I know."

After a short silence Draco also had a question on his mind.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you think we will feel the difference of being eachothers fiancé soon? I mean now it's just us. We are friends, we joke around, we spend time together... But do you think this will ever change?"

"I don't know. I never thought about it before. Being with you is so normal and natural to me that I don't think it could ever change."

"What do you think would it be like if we were just normal friends?"

"I don't think it would be much different than now."

And right in that moment you could both feel that everything would be okay, because you had eachother.

After Christmas was over, more muggles were petrified.

Causing you to worry more.

Draco's new full time activity was to help you stay calm. He worried so much about you that he could be found near you all the time. Keeping a distance from five steps at most so he could be there with you in seconds.

One day professor Snape made an announcement in the Slytherin common room. No student was allowed to be outside the common room after dinner. The walks to class would now all be done with a teacher and all activities like Quidditch were cancelled for the time being.

Scared murmures could be heared around the common room.

Snape looked around, noticing the students unsettlement and explained further that there was a possibility that the school would have to close if the culprit wasn't found.

If that was meant to comfort, it was the baddest you had ever gotten. Shaking from fear Draco had to hold you close to him so you could listen to the steady beating of his heart.

Getting used to the tense situation and nerve-wracking days, another sudden change was made. Hagrid was taken to Askaban and Dumbledore was stripped of his position as headmaster.

Not that Draco or you minded really. You didn't have any connection to either of them but Dumbledores absence surely wasn't helping your nerves at all. Even worse was that the incompetent defense against the dark arts teacher was still here.

But then suddenly everything went really fast.

Apparently moaning Myrtle was the girl who got killed 50 years ago, by the Basilisk.

Because now the whole school knew what the monster within the chamber was.

She told potter and weasley about the entrance to the chamber of secrets and they saved the day.. again... Making you question if any of your teachers was truly capable of protecting the students themselve.

Draco's mood at the banquet, to celebrate the successful healing of the petrified, wasn't great. It got even worse when Dumbledore and hagrid returned.

And when everyone suddenly applauded hagrid he pulled Crabbe down again when he accidentally clapped along.

The only good thing, in Draco's opinion, about this was that you were more at ease.

But so ended your second year in Hogwarts and the years to come would surely be nothing like ordinary school years. But at least you had Draco by your side.

The end?

An: honestly I'm so happy that I made it this far. I have so many unfinished drafts and I just don't know how to end them. This was sitting in them for at least a month.

But yes... I feel like there are very little one shots about the first and second year in Hogwarts and I thought it would be cute to make it a bit more friendly than romantic since they are 12.

[sashimj]

finally finished this piece😪 it's been in my gallery for two months lol

what if i make that my new profile picture🤔

[batburgr]

this could build us a home

[yasministration]

smash - draco malfoy

summary: draco malfoy? smash. except you say those words a little too loud. wc: 0.9k+

Immersed in the magazine in front of you, you only caught bits and pieces of the conversation Harry, Hermione and Ron were having around you, the great hall otherwise mostly empty. It wasn’t everyday the three of you had free periods together, but when you did, the conversations were always entertaining.

Especially when Harry started complaining.

You halted your focus on the magazine at the sound of Harry’s sassy and oddly loud voice. It was as though he wanted himself to be heard. Hermione scoffed from in front of the boy and you pulled the corner of your page up slowly, pretending to still be immersed in your reading.

“At this point, Malfoy is just following in his fa-” “Malfoy?” You asked, humming apprehensively, “Smash.”

From the slytherin table, sat right behind you, Draco’s head snapped backwards, his mouth parting in surprise before he forced his features into a confident smirk. Theo, Pansy, Mattheo and Blaise held matching looks at the bombshell you dropped so shamelessly.

A silence overtook your three friends at your comment, jaws slack and faces frozen in shock. “What!?” Harry spluttered. You flicked over to the next page, shrugging your shoulders as you scoffed carelessly. “Yeah, you can complain about him all you want, but that is one attractive man.”

“If you felt so strongly about the matter, you should’ve spoken sooner.”

Your head shot up and you slammed your magazine shut at the familiar voice, your eyes widening in panic. Ron, who sat facing you, grimaced at you softly. Clearing your throat, you spun around on the bench, kicking your legs over its side. Leaning your elbows back on the table cooly, you replied “Why would I have spoken sooner if you weren’t around to hear it?”

Draco grinned and you cocked your head to the side, holding eye contact, challenging him to keep your gaze. It was silent as you stared at each other, apart from Theo’s loud exhale and Mattheo’s chuckle before he turned his attention back to his cup of tea. Finally, Draco gulped thickly, eyes momentarily flickering to look back at his friends.

Humming apprehensively, you stood up, tucking your magazine under your arm and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Makes sense you’re not a gryffindor,” You started, eyes trained on Draco as he stiffened up. You leaned closer to him, bringing your voice down to a whisper. “Find me when you’re brave enough to do something about it, Malfoy.”

And with a toss of your hair over your shoulder, you strutted out of the great hall, grinning as you heard a clatter of things behind you. Draco rushed to catch up to you, tripping over his feet as he followed you all the way from the great hall to the girls’ bathroom you dragged him into, pushing him against the wall and pressing your lips to his.

Draco groaned, immediately flipping your positions around so he had you cornered between his body and the stone wall, and he separated himself from you momentarily to ask you “What was that you said earlier?” before moving his kisses down your neck and instantly sucking on your skin to leave bruising hickeys that Harry will most definitely question.

“What? Find me when you’re-”

“No, before that.”

“Um, smash?” Draco chuckled against your skin, trailing his kisses back up your neck and towards your lips. “Would you let me take you on a date before that?” You felt your cheeks go hot at the embarrassing whimper that escaped your lips at his question, but nodded your head nonetheless.

Draco pushed himself off you with a satisfied smile, smoothing his uniform down as he stated “Good. Now, I believe you have a lesson.” You gasped deep in your throat at the realisation that he was correct, hearing the halls outside fill with chatter as students were released from their classrooms.

“Sunday. Hogsmeade.” He told you, pushing the door to the bathroom open and walking past the group of girls who were coming into the room, giving him judgemental looks as he passed them. But then they turned to you, and they were immediately gasping at the revelation of you and Draco being together. You giggled nervously, slipping out of the bathroom when they turned to look at each other, the gossip already beginning to spread.

Meanwhile, in the great hall:

Harry’s jaw dropped lower than he believed possible as he watched Draco stumble to reach you. He shook his head “We cannot let that happen.” Hermione scoffed, “Oh yes we can, and we will. I want all the details when they’re done.”

At the sounds of disgust both Harry and Ron expelled from their mouths, Hermione sighed disappointedly. “Right. I forgot you’re not girls.”

“Hey, Granger!” Hermione turned to the voice that had called out her name and she stared back nervously at Pansy Parkinson, who had a surprisingly welcoming smile on her face. “You can come discuss it with us, if you’d like. I’m a girl, and you’d think they are too based on how much they love the drama.” Hermione laughed whole-heartedly as Pansy nodded her head towards the boys around her with a joking roll of her eyes.

“Will that work if we’re getting different sides of the same story?” Hermione questioned, crossing her arms over his chest in mock rivalry. Pansy hummed, standing up and gathering her belongings. “I get his side of the story, you get hers, then we exchange?” Hermione grinned.

“Perfect. But I think she’ll want to join.”

Pansy winked. “Even better, I want all the filthy details.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @boromoony, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

media training (h.p.)

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader

Word Count: 13.3k

Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.

A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet

Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!

(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?

The Evening Prophet never did subtle.

The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.

A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.

You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.

You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.

"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.

“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.

Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.

After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.

When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.

Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.

Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.

Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.

The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.

“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.

Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”

You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.

Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.

Exactly the image you wanted.

Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”

You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”

You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.

Harry.

He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.

It made his skin crawl.

You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.

Harry looked away first.

And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.

Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.

The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.

The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.

Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.

“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”

You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.

From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.

A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.

Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.

From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.

The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.

And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”

The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.

Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.

Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.

“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.

You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”

Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"

Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”

Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”

From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.

The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.

It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.

Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.

“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”

For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.

Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”

A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”

The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.

You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.

The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.

Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.

“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”

He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”

Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”

“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”

A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”

“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”

“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”

Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.

He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.

A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”

Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”

The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.

You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.

You loved kids.

What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.

You were here because you were a woman.

As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.

You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.

You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.

“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”

“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”

You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.

Harry looked down at your hand.

Then back up at your face.

One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.

The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.

And then—

“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”

The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.

You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.

A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.

Your birthday.

Your breath caught.

“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”

Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.

“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”

You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”

She lit up like a summers day.

“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”

Your heart twisted.

“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”

Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”

“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."

She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.

You listened. Truly listened.

“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”

Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.

“I think you can, love.”

She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”

“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”

You glanced over your shoulder, searching.

“Isn’t that right, Potter?”

Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.

He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.

At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.

“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”

The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”

Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”

Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.

You met Harry’s gaze briefly.

He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.

As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.

You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.

“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”

Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”

“Got it.”

She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.

You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.

Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.

“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.

“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.

This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.

You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.

“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”

Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.

“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”

His expression shifted, “For what?”

“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”

Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”

A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”

For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.

“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”

“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”

He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.

Just acknowledging you.

And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.

You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.

That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.

The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.

And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.

“Shake hands!”

You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.

“Good luck.” He said.

The words barely registered.

Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.

The whistle shrieked.

You launched.

The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.

Puddlemere played aggressively.

Too aggressively.

A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.

They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.

But it didn’t stop.

Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.

From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.

His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.

The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.

Something in him broke.

“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”

The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.

One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”

“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”

The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.

The crowd erupted.

You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.

“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”

“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.

“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”

“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”

You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”

He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.

You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”

The whistle blew again.

You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.

The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.

Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.

Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.

You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.

Harry.

He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.

“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”

“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.

You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”

“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”

“Help who?” You asked.

He hesitated, “What?”

“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”

You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.

“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”

You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”

For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.

Instead, he exhaled.

“…Right.”

You nodded once, “Good.”

And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.

The flowers arrived the next morning.

You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.

A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.

You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.

I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it. — Harry

You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.

Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.

“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”

You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.

You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.

Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.

So you came back.

Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.

The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.

She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.

You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.

“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”

She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”

You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Teddy.”

The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”

“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.

“I’m better.” He added instantly.

“Are you?” You asked, playing along.

It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.

“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”

“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”

“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.

You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.

You bit your lip.

You loved children.

The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.

“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”

He beamed.

You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.

“Teddy.”

You looked up.

Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.

Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.

He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”

Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”

You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.

Something warmer.

The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.

You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”

A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”

A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.

Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.

And froze.

Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.

Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.

Your stomach dropped.

What the hell?

Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—

No. Absolutely not.

You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.

“Everything okay?”

You startled.

Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.

“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”

His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.

You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”

He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.

Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.

Your breath caught.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”

When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.

You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.

“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”

“That’s—are you sure?”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation in his voice.

He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”

You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.

A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.

Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.

“Okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”

You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.

“Stay close.” He murmured.

“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”

His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.

The air shifted.

You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.

You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.

As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.

“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—” “Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”

You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.

Only then did Harry stop.

“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.

You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.

You knew yours did the same.

His hand was still at your back.

And neither of you pulled away.

The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.

Harry swallowed.

“This is probably—” He began, voice low.

You didn’t let him finish.

You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.

His lips met yours.

Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.

There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.

No fans. No cameras. No expectations.

Just the two of you.

Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.

“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.

The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.

And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.

Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.

“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”

You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”

Still, neither of you moved.

After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.

“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”

You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.

Harry’s fingers.

They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.

You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.

“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”

You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.

“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”

You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.

“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”

His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.

Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”

You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.

You almost drifted off again.

Almost.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.

“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”

You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."

He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.

He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.

You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.

"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.

And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.

A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.

Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.

Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.

A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.

“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.

It felt… solid. Comfortable. Real.

So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.

Had you left a lamp on?

You took another step inside.

No. This wasn’t overhead light.

This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.

You froze just inside the doorway.

The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.

And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—

Harry.

He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.

“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.

You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.

“…Harry.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”

He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.

“I thought I’d try.”

Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.

Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.

He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”

“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”

His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”

You laughed, bumping your nose against his.

“Oh thank Godric.”

He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.

Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.

Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.

Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.

You found him on the balcony.

The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.

That smile.

The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.

“Morning.” He said.

“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.

Brief didn’t last.

It never did.

The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.

You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.

Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.

The long lens.

The quiet click.

By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.

All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.

Intimate.

Suggestive.

Just unclear enough.

Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.

Harry Potter spotted outside private residence. Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment. Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker? Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.

Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.

Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.

“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”

You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”

And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.

The flat felt smaller than it ever had.

Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.

You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.

Every headline said the same thing in a different font.

You reread them anyway.

Sources suggest. Industry insiders hint. Mystery woman. Rising star. Harry Potter spotted.

They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.

You didn’t hear the door open.

You felt it.

The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.

His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.

“We need to talk.” He said.

You stepped aside silently, giving him room.

The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.

“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”

Your head snapped up, “What?”

“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”

Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.

“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”

Your heart dropped straight through the floor.

“No.”

He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”

“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”

He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”

“For you.” You shot back.

His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”

His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”

You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”

“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

The words hung there, heavy and cruel.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.

"Here. Take it."

Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.

“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”

He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.

“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”

The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.

And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.

The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.

You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.

“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.

“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”

Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.

“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”

“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.

“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”

Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.

“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”

The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.

You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.

You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.

The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.

You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.

The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.

You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.

Finally, you stepped back inside.

The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.

That was when you noticed it.

A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.

Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.

You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.

And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.

You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.

You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.

Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.

You had your life. Your team. Your game.

And maybe, one day, he would understand.

The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.

She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.

“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”

Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”

You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.

“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.

Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”

You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.

Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.

“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."

The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.

You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."

You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.

“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.

You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”

“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.

“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”

The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.

You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”

The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.

They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.

“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”

Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”

Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”

Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”

“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.

Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”

Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”

“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”

Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”

Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”

Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”

“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.

Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.

Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”

Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"

Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."

Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.

And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.

The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.

The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.

As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.

It lingered.

Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.

“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.

The whistle shrieked.

Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.

Then, chaos.

One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.

Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.

“Harry!”

You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.

The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.

You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.

Hard.

The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.

“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.

Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.

“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.

Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.

Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.

Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.

The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.

The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.

Then, finally, a flicker of movement.

“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.

“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.

Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”

You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”

He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”

Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”

Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.

His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.

You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”

He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.

“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.

You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.

For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.

The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section “Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”

After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.

Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.

This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.

bonus:

The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.

And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.

Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.

And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.

“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.

Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”

The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.

You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”

The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.

Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.

“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”

You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”

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[neurthewanderer]

Where is My Wife? - One Shot

Tag: Fred Weasley x F!Reader. Post-War. Post-Hogwarts. Married Life. Hospital Chaos. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Weasley Family Comfort. One shot. Summary: In which Fred Weasley doesn’t die. He just passes out dramatically, wakes up confused and high on anesthetic, and asks for his wife like it’s the most urgent mystery in the world. Note: Inspired by this clip I once again scroll past. Never getting old.  Masterlist and ao3

The world was still a blur when Fred opened his eyes.

Well, one eye.

The other was bound tightly beneath gauze, the wrap tugging at his temple with every blink. The light above him was aggressively white, far too bright, as though it was trying to burn straight through his skull.

Everything was distant. Muffled. The sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint copper tang of blood. Voices, somewhere nearby, a mediwitch speaking sharply, someone sobbing. Footsteps creaked across tile. The room tilted.

His arms felt like stone. His chest ached like he’d taken a Bludger to the ribs. Everything hurt.

But none of that mattered when his gaze caught movement beside him. Someone hunched over the bed, shaking.

And then he smiled.

A loopy, lopsided grin.

“Angel...” he croaked, voice rasping like gravel in his throat.

Your head jerked up.

You’d been curled there for hours, unwilling to leave his side even when they told you he wouldn’t wake for a while. Tear tracks were still fresh on your face, your eyes wide and glassy and raw.

“Fred?”

He blinked again, vision swimming. His eye fixed on your face like it was the only thing in the world that made any sense.

“Blimey…” he murmured, grinning broader now. “You’re beautiful. Am I in heaven?”

You let out a soft, strangled laugh, half a sob, half disbelief.

“No,” you breathed. “You’re in St. Mungo’s, you idiot. There was an explosion in the-”

Fred squinted. His brow furrowed.

“Oh yeah…” he mumbled, wincing as he shifted slightly. “Was it the Prototype 6.9? I told George not to combine it with Boom Berry powder, bloody volatile, that stuff…”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out for a beat.

Because that wasn’t what had happened.

That wasn’t this explosion.

He was talking about another one, months ago. A mishap in the backroom of the shop. A ceiling scorched, walls cracked, shelves overturned. It had taken two weeks and three repair charms to set it all right.

He was remembering that instead of this.

Instead of the war.

Instead of the final battle.

Instead of the castle collapsing around him, bricks and fire and curses tearing through the air.

You exhaled through your nose, fingers brushing through his fringe as you tried to anchor him. “That was you, Fred. You did that. You and George, you tested the prototype without labeling the powder. George swore he’d never let you near the cauldron again.”

Fred blinked again, confusion flickering behind his eyes. “Oh,” he muttered. “Right. Did I pass out?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because how could you tell him that he hadn’t just fainted in the shop?

How could you tell him that the last time you saw him, he’d been smiling in the Great Hall and then the world had cracked open, and part of the ceiling had come down in a thunderous roar, and someone screamed his name, and you’d run toward the rubble thinking, hoping, that you’d only find him bruised?

Molly burst into the room in that moment like her heart had just restarted. Arthur was at her shoulder, his face pale, drawn tight with emotion he rarely showed.

“Fred…” Molly whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh, Fredrick Gideon Weasley, don’t you ever, ever, do that to me again!”

She collapsed into the chair beside him, gripping his arm like she still couldn’t believe it was real. Her whole body shook with the sobs she’d been holding in for hours.

Fred looked over at her, baffled, his features still slack with groggy confusion.

“Mum? Did someone die?” he rasped, blinking like he was still waking from a dream. “You all look like someone died.”

You flinched.

So did George, standing just outside the door now, his knuckles white against the frame.

Fred’s words hung in the air like a cruel joke the universe didn’t have the guts to finish.

“George!”

Fred’s voice cracked through the stillness like a firework misfired in a library. The startled gasp around the room was immediate, even the Healer in the corner who nearly dropped a clipboard.

George was already at his side in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the bed, his bruised face breaking into a wild, trembling smile. “Yeah, it’s me, you prat,” he breathed.

Fred blinked blearily, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. Then, through the haze of potion and pain, he squinted.

“…Where’s your ear?”

George huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with the kind of sheepishness only a twin could pull off. “Long story.”

Fred stared a second longer, eyes scanning what parts of the room he could see, faces leaning over him, some red-eyed, some smiling through tears. He caught each one, naming them in a tired, raspy roll call.

“Mum.”

“Yes, baby, I’m here,” Molly choked, stumbling forward to clasp his arm with both hands. Her voice broke on the word baby, like it had been waiting years to be said again.

“Dad.”

Arthur leaned down to gently smooth Fred’s damp hair, his voice as soft as smoke. “I’m right here, son. You gave us quite the scare.”

Fred’s lips twitched, like his brain had caught up just enough to register everyone’s hovering, their hesitant smiles and the thick blanket of emotion hanging in the air.

He blinked. Then whispered, “Why are we whispering?”

The entire room erupted.

Laughter burst through the tension like a dam cracking, relieved, breathless, too-exhausted-to-care laughter. Molly broke into tears again, this time in the form of a wet giggle against Fred’s arm. Bill actually doubled over. Ron coughed into his fist to cover a snort. And George, still crouched beside the bed, pressed a hand over his mouth and wheezed so hard it looked like he might fall over.

You exhaled a watery breath, your head ducked slightly as your shoulders shook. Relief tasted like salt and felt like trembling joy.

Your hand was still resting on Fred’s chest, palm barely moving with each slow rise and fall. The other brushed gently through his curls, smoothing them back from his forehead, damp with sweat, sticky with potion mist and a faint burn salve. His skin was pale, but warm. His pulse, slow but steady beneath your fingertips.

And he was here.

Still half-drugged, still confused, but alive. Talking. Cracking jokes.

And you were just barely holding yourself together.

You didn’t dare speak. The lump in your throat had taken up permanent residence. Every time you tried to find words, all that came out was a whisper too soft to be heard, just comfort laced into touch, into quiet presence, into the way you curled protectively over him even now, as though shielding what was left of his strength with your own.

Molly stood close by, her hands wringing the hem of her cardigan, eyes locked on her son like she feared blinking might make him disappear. Arthur’s hand never left her back. And George…

George sat on the windowsill now, bruised and bandaged, a thin scratch curving just beneath his jaw, half of his hair still sticky with dried blood.

Fred shifted under your touch, his body twitching slightly as his lashes fluttered open again, eyes hazy, unfocused, and clearly still high as a broomstick in a windstorm.

“Mum,” he croaked, voice hoarse and bleary but unmistakably Fred, “why is this woman petting me? Where’s my wife?”

A beat of stunned silence, then the room erupted again

Stifled snorts, choked giggles, and not-so-quiet laughter spilled through every corner of the hospital room. Even Arthur had to cough into his fist. Bill turned away, shaking with laughter. And George nearly lost his balance against the window from how hard he was wheezing.

You choked on your own breath, caught between crying and cracking up. Your hands, still gently spread over Fred’s chest, trembled with the absurdity of it all. Of the fact that this disaster of a man was alive and still this ridiculous.

Molly, bless her ever-patient soul, leaned in with a smirk tugging at her mouth and whispered like it was a family joke passed down through generations.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Fred’s brows scrunched, that classic confusion squirming across his face. His head lolled toward your voice, though his gaze still struggled to land.

“My wife…” he repeated dreamily, his voice slurred like it was melting. “She’ll be furious if she sees you touching me like this… on the chest…”

George howled. Actually wheezed and slid down the wall, clutching his side, gasping for air.

You didn’t answer right away. Just kept stroking slow, calming circles over Fred’s heart as you leaned in a little closer, your voice soft, affectionate, laced with love and barely-stifled amusement.

“I am your wife, Freddie.”

His eyelids fluttered again. His eyes, still murky with potions, snapped open with sudden, laser-cut clarity. They flicked down to your hand, the familiar glint of his wedding ring catching the sterile light, then up to your face.

That infamous Fred Weasley spark.

That impish, unkillable glint of mischief that not even war, rubble, or death itself could smother.

“Oh.”

A beat passed.

Then the confusion melted. That signature grin slid into place like it had never left, slow and crooked and smug as sin.

“What’s up,” he said, like he hadn’t just woken from near-death. “Damn, I really did marry a goddess.”

The room roared with laughter.

George groaned dramatically, slumping against the wall like he’d taken a fatal blow. “He’s back,” he announced to no one in particular. “Merlin help us all.”

Fred tried to sit up, only to wince as his side pulled tight.

“Oi, easy now,” you scolded gently, pressing a hand to his chest to ease him back down. But the warning didn’t quite land, not with the way your grin stretched all the way across your face.

Fred beamed like he hadn’t just survived an explosion. He was glowing with mischief, alight with that unshakable, incorrigible spark that had always made him half menace, half miracle.

Later that evening, after the room had cleared and he was tucked into a hospital gown, color slowly returning to his face, legs propped up beneath a transfigured cushion, Fred sipped his pumpkin juice like it was vintage champagne.

Within hours, every floor of St. Mungo’s knew.

He’d woken up from near-death, accused his own wife of adultery, and called himself a war hero, all before breakfast.

And Fred?

Oh, Fred thrived in it.

“Must’ve thought my wife was an angel,” he told every healer, every visitor, every passing intern who dared make eye contact. “She was glowing, I tell you. Petting me like a dying hero.” he placed a dramatic hand to his heart. 

-The End- 

[lqveharrington]

Every Year in Greece? | F.W.

summary: after ten years of marriage, you and Fred find yourselves celebrating in Greece with your family.

pairing: dad!fred weasley x mom!reader

includes: PURE FLUFF, reader is implied pregnant at the end

a/n: I’m about to be free of all stress after March 8, so the posting should be consistent very soon!!

Love is absolutely endless. No matter how, where, or who falls in love, it was always bound to come. In your life, it came the second you met Fred Weasley in your first year at Hogwarts. Maybe it didn’t occur to you straight away that he was the true love of your life, but you knew as time went on.

Now it was your ten-year wedding anniversary.

This year, your family had collectively agreed to celebrate in Greece, with the added surprise of Molly and Arthur joining to watch over your two troublemakers—children you and Fred loved with every piece of your hearts.

Sunlight filtered through the white curtains, casting a golden glow over the room where you and Fred lay tangled beneath soft sheets. His head rested in the crook of your neck, warm breath fanning against your skin as you lazily traced patterns into the freckled expanse of his back. The world outside was quiet save for the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore. Peace. Pure, perfect peace.

Until it wasn’t.

With a burst of energy only Weasley twins possessed, the door slammed open. The newly appointed Weasley twins—Jane and Henry—launched themselves onto the bed with gleeful squeals, sending Fred jolting upright, hair tousled and eyes bleary.

“M’sorry, lovey,” you mumbled and pressed a kiss to his head as he groaned in mock agony. You reached for the two lively children, pulling them into your arms. “Now how did you two escape Nana and Papa?”

“They were busy making breakfast for us!” Jane answered with a bright grin, laughter filling the air when Fred began to tickle her. She squealed, squirming in your arms. “Daddy!”

You chuckled softly before turning your head toward Henry, his laughter quieter than his twin’s. You nudged your chin to his forehead, earning his attention. “Are you excited to head to the beach, Henry?”

He shifted in your arms and nodded, his browns eyes—the same one’s his father had—sparkling with excitement. “Yes! I’m gonna build the biggest sandcastle in the world! It’s gonna be bigger than the Burrow!”

Fred’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, Jane now in his arms and messing with his hair. “Bigger than the Burrow? Mate, we better get to the beach now before other people begin taking all the sand!”

Henry’s mouth fell agape, voice coming out as loud as his father’s. “People do that?”

You suppressed your laughter as Fred dramatically described his story about his vacation to Egypt when he was fifteen—slipping out of bed to get for the day for Godric knows how long the twins will encourage their father to keep talking.

By the time you exited the bathroom with the white sundress Fred bought you just for Greece and hair pulled back—still styled perfectly like usual—Henry was sitting crisscrossed on your side of the bed still listening to his father while Jane finished another braid in his hair. As always, Fred remained unbothered by anything his children did to his hair, especially the braids his daughter adorned him with.

“—And your uncle Georgie and I could’ve trapped your uncle Perce in the tomb when…” Fred trailed off as he saw you step out of the bathroom and began to pack for the beach. His eyes scanned your figure before meeting your eyes, your warmed cheeks saying unspoken things. “Bloody hell, your mum’s gorgeous.”

At the mention of their mother’s return, the twins whipped their heads in your direction, clambering over the bed to race into your loving arms one more. You stumbled at the sudden impact and held them close, your smile absolutely blinding to Fred.

“You two need to get out of your jammies and into beach clothes,” you squeezed their shoulders and ushered them out of the room swiftly, tilting your head out the doorway to ensure they made it to their room before turning back to Fred. “You need to change too, Weasley.”

Snapping out of his quiet daze, he finally stood and stretched like a lion, freckles that were scattered across his body practically glittering from the rays of sunlight. He met your stern look—the one where you narrowed your eyes at him with your hands on your hips—and placed a large hand on your waist, pulling you close to him.

Keeping your facade up, you bite your tongue in hopes of not letting a smile slip through. However, nothing ever gets past Fred Weasley’s careful eye.

“I suppose,” he murmured and tilted his head down to meet your eyes properly, squeezing your hip softly.

You subconsciously wet your lips and flit your eyes down to his inviting lips—instantly lifting them back to meet his teasing eyes. “Better hurry if you want to help Henry make his sandcastle.”

Fred hummed and thumbed your waist, “Sure.”

Finally giving in, you wrapped your arms around his neck as a loving smile adorned your face, pushing on your toes to be closer. You play with the hair in your reach, twirling the red hair in between your fingers. “I love you, Fred Weasley. I hope you know that.”

He grinned and closed the distance between the two of you, pressing a tender kiss to your lips and pulling you impossibly closer to him. Fred deepened the kiss ever so slightly before pulling away, leaving you in a daze and wanting more.

“I love you a helluva lot more,” he looked between your eyes and slowly release you from his hold. “I’ll see you in a minute, gorgeous.”

“You make me swoon,” you tease lightly as you moved around him to exit the room, jokingly glaring at him when he smacked your ass on the way out.

The morning sun continued to stream through the windows as the Weasley family gathered around the kitchen table, the air filled with the tantalizing aroma of Molly’s famous pancakes and Arthur’s perfectly brewed tea. Jane and Henry were already seated in front of their breakfast with the kind of enthusiasm only children could muster, syrup somehow already smeared across their cheeks when their father entered the kitchen.

And indeed, Fred Weasley indeed made you swoon.

When he wandered into the kitchen with the bag you packed for the beach, you felt your face heat up at the sight. He wore his light blue summer shirt that complimented his features beautifully—you honestly weren’t sure if he was a greek statue brought to life.

“Mum, you’re gonna cut into the plate.” Jane giggled and stopped your movements, tilting her head when you snapped your attention back to her food. “What’re you staring at daddy for?”

“Why are you being nosy?” Fred poked his daughter’s back, smiling when she laughed at the familiar feeling. “Mum can stare at me all she wants.”

Fred slid into the seat beside you, his arm casually draped over the back of your chair as he leaned in to whisper, “You know, I could get used to this. Waking up to you, the kids, and a view like that.” He gestured toward the window, where the sparkling Aegean Sea stretched out endlessly, its waves glinting like diamonds under the morning sun.

You smiled, leaning into him slightly. “Ten years of this, and you’re just now getting used to it?” You teased, nudging him with your elbow.

“Ten years of this,” he echoed, his voice softening as his gaze met yours. “And I still can’t believe how lucky I am.”

Jane scrunched her nose in playful disgust, stuffing her mouth with a fork full of pancakes with blueberries. “Ew, Daddy. You’re so mushy.”

Fred gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if she had wounded him. “Mushy? Me? I’m the definition of ruggedly handsome, Jane.”

Henry, still munching on a piece of cut up banana, giggled and shook his head. “Mum thinks you’re handsome, but you’re just silly.”

You smirked and took a sip of your tea as your kids argued with their father, knowing they were an exact replica of him. You sighed and rested a hand over your stomach, holding back a laugh when Jane stuck her tongue out at Fred.

“I happen to like silly.” You added as Fred stuck his tongue out at his daughter, making you roll your eyes in amusement.

Fred locked eyes with you and waggled his eyebrows. “I guess you're lucky too, love, because you’re stuck with me.”

The morning passed in the easy rhythm of family life—Molly and Arthur doting on their grandchildren, Fred entertaining the twins with wild hand gestures as he retold stories—this time slightly exaggerated for dramatic effect—and you soaking in every moment.

By late morning, you made your way to the beach, the golden sand warm beneath your toes. The twins raced ahead, kicking up tiny clouds of sand as they shrieked with joy. Fred, carrying the beach bag, walked beside you, fingers loosely laced with yours.

“You happy, love?” He asked, squeezing your hand gently.

You turned your face up to the sun, the salty breeze playing with your hair, and sighed contentedly. “More than I ever thought possible.”

Fred grinned and tugged you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple before lifting his voice. “Alright, team! Let’s build a sandcastle bigger than the Burrow!”

Henry and Jane cheered, already digging into the sand with determination.

You knelt beside them as you set up the blanket on the sand, laughter bubbling from your lips as Fred made a show of supervising, hands on his hips like some kind of foreman. The hours passed in golden warmth, filled with playful splashes in the sea, shrieks of delight as Fred tossed the kids into the waves, and soft, stolen kisses between you and your husband when the twins weren’t looking.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden glow, the four of you sat before your grand sandcastle—an uneven, slightly lopsided but utterly magnificent creation.

Jane leaned against you sleepily, her damp, red-curls sticking to her forehead. “This was the best day ever,” she murmured, yawning.

Henry nodded in agreement, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Yeah… Can we do this every year?”

You glanced at Fred, your heart swelling at the sight of him watching your children with so much love it was almost tangible. He met your eyes and smiled, the same boyish, mischievous grin you’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

“Every single year,” Fred promised, voice full of warmth.

You lean closer to him and give him a quick kiss, eyes shining with your own secret. “Maybe with one more addition to the family,” you whisper.

His eyes widened and looked down toward your stomach, grin widening when you nodded. He pulled you closer to him, in return pulling the sleepy twins along.

And in that moment—with your family nestled together, the waves whispering their lullaby, and the sky painted in fiery shades of orange and pink—you knew that love, real love, was absolutely endless.

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[lqveharrington]

Never Planned | F.W.

summary: you and fred had been friends for so long that it never occurred to the both of you that everyone thought you were dating.

pairing: fred weasley x gryffindor!reader

includes: fluff, the both of you being mischievous, kissing, cursing, the two third years being wingmen when they don’t even know it

a/n: officially working on requests the second this gets posted!

You and Fred had the same routine every Sunday night after dinner. The routine was simple and familiar—so familiar that even the younger students knew it all too well. Every Sunday evening, you would typically read the Daily Prophet or do final touches to your essays while Fred would find a way to bother you until you finally gave into him and give him attention. That’s how Sunday nights would always go.

Except for tonight. For some reason, today felt off and neither of you could place a finger on it. The evening started off normal, but the longer you ignored it, the more the feeling intensified.

You were supposed to be working on your Charms essay, but all you could think about was the small feeling nagging at the back of your mind. You were so absorbed with the thought that you didn't realize you were biting the tip of you quill until Fred pulled your hand away from you, propping his feet up on your lap.

"What's with the face, Faucett? Need help with your Charms essay?" Fred asked, pouting dramatically when you snapped out of your trance and pushed his feet off your lap. "You hate me."

You scoff and roll up your parchment, placing it away on the side table. "I do not hate you, Fred."

“You do.” He teased and angled you to face him, pulling your legs to lay over his lap instead. He watched you rest your head against the cushions of the couch, making him tap your knee in concern. “What’s wrong?”

You huff and play with the threads of you sweater that Molly had made you this past Christmas, meeting his eyes that were filled with more emotion than you could place. “Nothings wrong with me, but it feels like something in this room is, you know?”

Fred looked over at the other people in the room. There were hardly any people in the Gryffindor Common Room on Sunday evenings. Everyone was out either making use of the last few hours of freedom they had before classes started the next day or in their dorms, trying to cram for any surprise quizzes.

The only people that were in the Common Room were a group of first years comparing notes, some fourth years playing exploding snap, and a pair of third years conversing quietly in a corner, tucked away from prying eyes and voices—such as Fred Weasley himself.

Fred raised a brow at the two boys who looked away quite quickly when they met the older boy's gaze. He turned back to you for a quick second, replying quietly to your previous comment. “Maybe…”

You crease your brows and look over at the pair of boys as well, “What—?”

“Oi!” Fred hollered at the two third years, making the entire room snap their heads over at the sudden boom of a voice. You blew a piece of hair away from your face in exasperation, giving the other students apologetic looks for the commotion.

“What are you blokes whispering about?” He called out, making the third year on the left burn bright red.

You poke Fred's arm when you saw the poor boy's face, not deterred by all his muscles underneath his own sweater. “Fred, stop bothering them."

The same boy looked away from you two, swallowing thickly while his friend pursed his lips in an effort to not laugh at the current situation. While the rest of the room went back to what they were doing, Fred continued to watch the pair, waiting for a response from either one of them.

Finally, after the two boys whispered back and forth—for Godric only knows how long—one of them spoke up, making the red-head beside you perk up instantly.

“Nothing important.” The teen on the right said for the sake of his friend, waving a dismissive hand in your general direction. “Just trying to figure out how to ask this girl out."

The second you both heard those words come out of the boy's mouth, you looked over at Fred who was already looking back at you with a grin that could only be described as smug.

You sighed, knowing you couldn't do much to stop whatever Fred planned on doing. “Freddie, don’t—“

He stood from his spot on the couch, hands placed on his hips like he suddenly knew the answers to everything in the universe. “Luckily, you’ve come to the right man—“

“—Boy—“ You quipped from his side as you followed him to ensure he wouldn't do or say anything stupid.

“Shut up.” Fred half-heartedly pushed you to the side, still catching you when you stumbled over your feet. He stuck his thumb in the other teen’s direction, “Anyway, who does he fancy?”

You roll your eyes at his antics and give them a warm, reassuring smile, hoping it would take their minds off whatever foolishness Fred has in plan. “First, what are your names?”

“I’m Oliver, and he’s James.” The boy on the right said tentatively, the one on the left—which you both now knew was James—nodding in agreement.

Fred clasped his hands together and nodded mindlessly, keeping his eyes trained on the boys. “Alright, I’m Fred and she’s the pain in my arse—“

“Can you focus?” You groan and shove him to the side, laughing loudly when he threw you over his shoulder to get you to stop interrupting—although the two of you knew it was hopeless.

“Oliver, who does James fancy?” Fred asked, ignoring your calls and protests.

You continued to wiggle yourself free from his grasp, huffing when he held onto you tighter. At that point, the rest of the Common Room gave you odd looks, making you flush a bright pink in slight embarrassment.

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, hesitantly as he stared at you and Fred in concern and confusion, unsure what to do in the situation. “Uhm… He fancies this girl in Hufflepuff named Lila—“

You gasped and hit Fred hard in between his shoulder blades, earning a groan as he dropped you from his arms. You spun around and gave James a soft look, knowing exactly who Lila was. You had tutored her last year in Potions—and based on your five minute interaction with James—the would be the perfect pair.

“She’s really bright and gifted in Herbology.” James says softly, making your heart ache at how he spoke about Lila in adoration.

“Have you tried to ask her out before?” You ask and watch him fidget with his hair.

He shakes his head, eyes darting away from your face toward the ground. “I’m too nervous.”

After recovering from you sudden attack, Fred clapped his hand on James’ back, ruffling his hair when the boy looked up at him. “Don’t be, you look handsome and clearly you’ve got the brains for it.”

In an instant, you saw an increase of confidence in the thirteen year old, making you grin at the sight. Maybe Fred being nosy in other students’ conversations wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

You watched for another second before murmuring something to Fred about finally finishing your Charms essay, giving the two boys one last smile. Before you left for the couch, Fred subconsciously pressed a kiss to the top of your head, knowing you were leaving even though he barely listened to you as he continued to speak to the younger students.

“Ask her out to a picnic by the lake or in one of the outdoor gardens—Not Hagrid’s, of course. That would be a nightmare.” Fred clarified with a small smirk decorating his face, leaning back on one of the armchairs behind him as the boys listened intently.

“Thanks, I’ll ask her tomorrow after class.” James replied with a new found determination in his voice.

Finally snapping out of his small trance, Oliver switched his gaze from Fred to your spot on the couch, tilting his head with a raised brow. “How did you ask your girlfriend out?”

Fred copied his facial expression, turning his head to follow the boy’s eye line when they landed on you. He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue before clearing his throat, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“Oh, we’re not dating.”

“Sure seems like it.” Oliver crossed his arms and raised both brows this time, judging Fred like he was a liar. “You can’t give out advice about dating without having a girlfriend yourself.”

“My advice is fool proof!” Fred blurted, almost baffled that a thirteen year old accused him of spreading false information—though he has done that multiple times before to everyone he knew

“Then how come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Fred opened his mouth and shut it, putting his index finger up toward the boys before turning and walking over to you. He stood in front of you with his hands in his front pockets, waiting until you finished your thoughts on the essay before speaking.

“Did you know people think we’re dating?” He said quietly, earning a wide-eye look from you. Based on your reaction, you probably didn’t know either. “Yeah, weird. Those two boys thought we were dating.”

“That’s the weird feeling I was getting in this room.” You say as you twirl your golden charm necklace between your fingers, looking over at the two boys who suddenly looked guilty and mischievous at the same time. You raise a brow and look back at Fred with a small smirk, making him grin back.

“Can you imagine the shock on their faces if they believed it took you two seconds to land a girlfriend?”

Fred bent over by the waist, lips mere centimeters from yours. “And what do you have in mind, Faucett?”

Your smirk widens before you pull him in by the collar of his sweater, lips meeting his faster than anyone could have expected it. As if someone flipped a switch in Fred’s mind, he quickly reciprocated, hands coming up to cup the back of your neck and cheek.

For a second, the two of you were completely immersed in each other that you didn’t realize that—once more—the Gryffindor Common Room stared. This time, they stared only for a brief moment before looking away. It seemed like everyone expected it since the moment you both walked into the Common Room together on any Sunday evening.

You separate after the kiss that lasted longer than you both thought it would last, the two of you slightly out of breath, but still wearing eat-shitting grins at fooling the two third years in their small corner. Fred glanced at them from the corner of his eye, winking at Oliver specifically when he stared with a gaped mouth.

“That’ll be the best piece of advice they’ll ever get.” You laugh quietly as Fred plops down beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arm around your abdomen, warm against your skin under the sweater. “You’re not going back to those two boys?”

“Nah, it’ll ruin the fun.” He drawled and looked up at you with his pretty brown eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder unexpectedly. You looked down at him and raised a brow, waiting for an explanation from the one Weasley you liked a little more than the others.

“So, you? Me? Next weekend? Hogsmeade?” He asked with a confident smile, twirling a piece of your hair in between his index and thumb.

You bite back a smile and pat his cheek, his own smile never wavering. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Weasley.”

“Is that a yes?” He questioned, looking between your eyes.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” You say as you go back to finishing your essay, not caring for the blush that rose to your cheeks.

You and Fred have been friends since first year, but it never crossed your mind that you could ever be in the relationship everyone assumed you were in. Not until this year. It felt like you clung to every single word he spoke to you this time, and it felt so different.

All the pranks he would plan with Lee and George was always relayed to you, every gift he planned to give to his family members went through you—you were practically his without officially being his.

“I plan for many things, Faucett.” Fred moved to sit properly and dragged your legs back on top of his lap, messing with the embroidery on your jeans. “But I never planned on someone like you kissing me just to mess with two thirteen year olds.”

“You went along with it.” You clarify, knowing damn well that he also wanted to prank the two teens. Besides, it’s not like it was your first time kissing Fred. Not at all.

Your gaze meets his, “So what, you actually want to take me out on a date now?”

“Yep.” He continued to grin and trace the embroidery.

You carefully tuck away your Charms essay once more, continuing to hide the smile that came with the thought of going out with Fred Weasley. “I guess I’ll go on a date with you.”

Fred didn’t even know his grin could get bigger, but it did. He pulled you as close to him as he could, arms wrapped securely around your waist as he tilted his chin down to meet your eyes. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“You are bad news.” You laugh and melt into him when he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You raised a brow at him, “Never planned huh?”

“Nope.” He popped his syllables with a smile so bright you swore the sun would shake in it’s presence. “Never planned.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[ladyhelona]

But You Are My Good Boy?

💌 Draco Malfoy x Reader

💭MDNI: Smut, praise kink (Draco recieving hehe), sort of soft and sweet, a little teasing

A/N: I wouldn’t describe Draco as submissive, he certainly isn’t. But this was such a fun angle to write.

—

It always starts the same.

Draco Malfoy, crisp shirt rolled at the sleeves, his tie loose around his neck, eyes glinting with that usual cocky tilt of his chin—smirking, smug, untouchable.

Until the door shuts.

Until you’re alone.

And then?

Draco’s posture softens. His voice quiets. And he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

He leans in, hands brushing your waist like he’s unsure where to touch first, already twitching with anticipation. And when you curl your fingers in his hair and tug—just enough to tilt his head back?

The breath he lets out is downright sinful.

“You’re such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” you murmur, lips brushing his ear.

That’s it.

His knees almost buckle. His hands grip your hips tighter like he needs the grounding. Every time you praise him, his whole body reacts: his hips twitch, his breathing hitches, and his pupils blow wide.

No one else gets to see Draco like this. No one else gets to see the way he melts under your praise, or how fast his arrogant facade crumbles the second you say those words.

“Just like that, baby. You’re perfect.”

He moans—actually moans—and tries to bury his face in your neck like that’ll hide him, like he’s not falling apart from three words and a tug of his hair.

He doesn’t answer. But his whole body arches into yours like it’s the only answer he can give.

It’s almost unfair, really—how easy it is to undo him.

One hand in his hair. One whisper against his throat. One “Good boy,” breathed like a secret just for him—and he’s shaking.

You’ve barely touched him.

He’s already panting against your collarbone, trying to ground himself while his hips stutter forward, chasing friction like he can’t help it. Like the praise is wired directly to his body.

“You feel that?” you whisper, hand sliding down his back, voice sweet but wicked. “Every time I call you my good boy, you twitch like you’re about to come just from the sound of it.”

He groans—like he’s embarrassed by how right you are. Tries to bury his face in your neck to hide it, but you don’t let him. You grab his chin and make him look at you.

“Eyes on me, Draco.”

And he listens. Instantly.

Because that’s the thing—he loves this. Loves letting go, loves being told what to do, what you want, how good he’s making you feel. Loves the way you look at him like he’s yours and he’s doing well.

And when you tell him he’s doing perfect? That you’re so proud of him?

His hips jolt so hard you actually feel it—his cock twitching against your thigh like your words alone are winding him tighter than any spell ever could.

He doesn’t say it out loud—but you can see it.

In the way his hands fumble at your shirt like he’s rushing without meaning to. In the way his lashes flutter when your hands skim under his jumper and trace the pale skin of his back.

“Slow down,” you murmur, easing the fabric over his head. “You’re acting like I’m going to stop.”

He scoffs, cheeks pink. “I wouldn’t put it past you. You’re cruel like that.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and he groans, tipping his head back. “Merlin, you’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” you hum, leaning in to kiss his flushed throat. “My pretty boy gets all snippy until he’s got no clothes on and I’m praising him like he’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel this good.”

His breath hitches.

You feel it—that shift. The moment his bravado falters and he starts leaning into it.

Draco’s fingers tighten against your waist. He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t ask for more. He just presses closer, jaw taut, eyes low-lidded and starving.

He kisses you like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. Sweet, desperate, a little clumsy.

You feel his hands trembling where they grip your hips.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You blink. “Tell you what?”

His voice is low. Tight. Earnest.

“That I’m doing good.”

You pause—then smile, cupping his jaw.

“You’re doing better than good,” you say softly. “You’re perfect. You always are.”

And the noise he makes? Utterly obscene.

His hips jerk forward, needy, helpless. He hides his face in your neck again, like he can’t handle it—but you don’t let him.

“You’re not hiding from me, Draco. Look at me.”

He whines—whines,—but he obeys. Because he always does.

He’s over you—knees framing your hips, shoulders tense, lips slightly parted like he’s trying not to pant. His hair falls messily into his face, and Merlin, he looks beautiful.

You trace your fingers down his back, slow and deliberate. “You look so good like this.”

Draco exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s pretending your words don’t affect him. But he shifts—subtly—pushing into your touch, silently begging for more.

“You don’t believe me?” you ask, smiling up at him. “Draco, you’re perfect.”

His hips stutter forward just slightly. Not enough to grind, not yet, but enough that you feel how that praise lights him up.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut.

“Perfect,” you whisper, reaching up to brush the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You feel so good—so good inside me. Like you were meant to be here.”

The breath he releases is ragged, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.

He starts to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips, every thrust smooth and practiced but desperate underneath.

And when you moan? When you arch into him, nails dragging gently down his back?

“Good boy,” you breathe, reverent. “You’re my good boy.”

He shatters.

Physically, he’s still in control. His hands are braced on either side of your head. His hips are still driving into yours, purposeful and deep. But mentally? Emotionally? He’s yours.

You watch him fall apart in pieces—his breath hitching, his mouth slack, his moans low and unguarded.

“I love watching you like this,” you say, brushing your fingers down his chest. “You don’t have to think. Just feel. Just be good for me.”

He lets out the softest, broken sound—“fuck”—and it sounds like gratitude.

You shift beneath him slightly, tilting your hips just enough that he gasps—quiet, through clenched teeth, but still so telling.

“Still holding it together?” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down his sides.

Draco huffs, barely catching your eye. “Please,” he says, but there’s a bite to it. “I can handle a little—” his voice catches when you squeeze around him mid-thrust, “—distraction.”

You smile. He’s flushed, breathing harder now, and you know damn well he’s fighting the urge to ask for more. Not just more of you—more of your voice. Your praise.

“You’re doing so well,” you say slowly, letting each word sink in. “I love the way you move inside me. So deep, so good…”

He growls under his breath, almost annoyed at how much he likes hearing that. He doesn’t respond right away—but his next thrust is a little sharper. Not rough. Insistent.

“Say it again,” he mutters finally, eyes fixed on the space between your bodies like it might ground him.

“What part?” you ask sweetly. “That you’re doing so well? That you feel perfect like this?”

His hips twitch at that.

He glares, but it’s weak at best. “You’re enjoying this,” he accuses, breathless. “Watching me come undone.”

“Of course I am,” you whisper. “You’re so pretty like this, Draco.”

He groans, head bowing. His rhythm falters just slightly.

“You can’t—” he pants, jaw tight, “—you can’t say things like that. You’re going to make me—”

“Come?” you finish, tightening just slightly around him again. “Not yet, love. Be good for me a little longer.”

The way he whines through gritted teeth would be humiliating if he were with anyone else— and he’s trying so hard to be good. Just for you.

You slide one hand into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, and the quiet gasp he lets out is everything. He’s panting against your throat now, trembling with restraint, his thrusts growing sloppier as the edge pulls tighter around him.

“Shh,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss just under his jaw. Then another. “That’s it. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

He nods, jaw clenched, and then you tug—gently but firm, just enough to make his hips stutter. He moans, low and desperate, like it’s been building for hours.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Draco,” you whisper, voice like velvet. “So perfect, so—mine.”

That’s what does it. He shatters.

A strangled noise tears from his throat as his body tenses, hips driving deep one last time. You keep your hand in his hair, holding him close as he comes apart with a vulnerability he’d never let anyone else see. His breath stutters, hips twitching as he rides it out, burying his face in your neck like it’s the only safe place left in the world.

You keep whispering to him as he slows down, peppering kisses along his cheek, his jaw, his temple—anywhere your lips can reach. He’s boneless now, slumped over you but still holding on tight, not quite ready to let go just yet.

When he finally speaks, it’s soft, a little hoarse.

“…you drive me mad.”

You smile against his skin. “Mm. But you love it.”

A beat of silence—and then, grudgingly, he murmurs, “I do.”

The air is warm and quiet now, just the slow hum of your breathing and the subtle rustle of sheets as you curl your arms around him. Draco’s head rests on your chest, one arm snug around your waist, fingers lazily tracing invisible patterns against your skin. Every now and then, his lashes flutter like he’s on the edge of sleep—but you can tell he’s still very much aware.

You rake your fingers gently through his hair, and he lets out the faintest, content sigh. It’s so soft, so unguarded, that your heart actually aches a little. He only ever lets himself be like this with you.

“I think,” you murmur, “you like being my good boy a little too much.”

His fingers freeze against your waist.

You don’t get a response at first. Just silence. Then—

“If you ever breathe a word of this,” he says, voice muffled slightly where his face is pressed against your chest, “I will hex you into next week.”

You grin.

“Mhmm.”

“I mean it.” He shifts just enough to glare up at you—well, half-glare. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair’s a mess, and he still looks completely wrecked in the best way. “I’ll curse you. Violently. Creatively.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So no one can know Draco Malfoy turns into a needy mess when he’s praised?”

He narrows his eyes. “No one. I have a reputation to maintain.”

You can’t help the way your fingers slide back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp just to watch his eyes flutter shut again.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, lips brushing his temple. “Your secret’s safe with me, good boy.”

He groans. “I hate you.”

You kiss his forehead. “No, you don’t.”

And he doesn’t. Not even a little.

[ladyhelona]

Buy One, Get One Free

💌 Fred and George Weasley x Reader

💭SFW: Fluff, chaos, light hearted, both twins are into you, short.

A/N: Ask and you shall receive! Weasley twins x reader in some fluff! Hope I captured them well.

—

It started like most twin-related things did: too suddenly and far too dramatically.

One second, you were walking back to the Gryffindor common room, your bag heavy with books, your mind heavy with stress. The next, Fred Weasley stepped out from behind a suit of armor with a grin like a conspiracy.

“Evening, love.”

You flinched. “Merlin’s—Fred.”

“Wrong. I’m the handsome one,” he replied, just as George popped up on your other side.

“That’s wildly unfair to me,” George said, mock-offended. “You know, for someone who claims to like us, you really can’t tell us apart.”

“I never said I liked you.”

They gasped in perfect unison.

“Heartless.”

“Cruel.”

“Tempted by neither red hair nor charm—truly a tragic case.”

You didn’t stop walking, but they fell into step with practiced ease, flanking you like mischievous bodyguards.

Fred nudged your shoulder playfully. “It’s a shame, really. We were going to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

“Oh no,” you said flatly, already regretting asking. “What kind of deal?”

George threw his arm around your shoulders, dramatic as ever. “Buy one, get one free.”

“We’re a package deal,” Fred added, slipping your bag off your arm before you could protest. “Imagine it — two boyfriends for the price of one. Unbeatable, really.”

“And we’re very efficient,” George said. “One plans the pranks, the other makes sure you’ve eaten breakfast. We take turns being the funny one and the responsible one.”

“I’ve never seen either of you be responsible,” you muttered, but your lips twitched despite yourself.

George gave you a smug little smile, catching it. “Admit it. You like us.”

You rolled your eyes. “I tolerate you.”

“Which is basically love,” Fred said, swinging your bag onto his own shoulder like it weighed nothing. “Next thing you know, you’ll be sitting in our laps by the fire and calling us handsome.”

“Dream on.”

They grinned — the same grin, like they practiced it in a mirror.

—

You meant to go upstairs. You really did.

But somehow you ended up sandwiched between Fred and George on the Gryffindor common room couch, a blanket draped over your legs and your head leaning against George’s shoulder.

Fred was playing with your fingers — casually, like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t spent the last month trying not to get attached.

And George? He’d tugged you closer when you shivered, blanket and all, like it was second nature.

“You’re warm,” you murmured, eyes slipping shut for just a second too long.

“Of course we are,” Fred said, voice low and smug. “We run hot. All part of the boyfriend bundle experience.”

“Not your girlfriend,” you mumbled, but the protest was so weak it may as well have been agreement.

George rested his chin gently on the top of your head. “Mmhmm. That’s why you’re curled up here like a kitten.”

“You tricked me.”

Fred smirked. “We prefer charmed.”

“And trapped,” George added.

“Absolutely ensnared,” Fred said. “You never stood a chance.”

You huffed a laugh, not quite fighting the small smile that tugged at your lips. Their hands were warm where they touched you — one at your waist, one holding your hand, both of them too close, too much, too safe.

“Just for tonight,” you whispered.

But neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to. Fred was already pressing a soft kiss to your temple, and George’s hand tightened just slightly around yours.

You never stood a chance.

Besides, who doesn’t like bundles?

[lumosflairr]

HIIII

Can you pleaaaase write something about Harry x Slytherin reader?? I'll literally take anything PLEASE 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Green and Gold - harry j. potter

summary: when you, a sharp-witted Slytherin express interest in joining Dumbledores Army, you soon find yourself caught between not only house loyalty and what’s right - but an unexpected bond with Harry Potter.

This story contains: Slytherin! reader, enemies to lovers trope, slow burn, fluff. Um***dge.

Thank you for your request!! As a fellow Slytherin i enjoyed writing this💚

You found Gryffindor’s far too predictable.

They wear their emotions like their ties — loud, proud, and always slightly crooked. Especially Harry Potter.

You didn’t hate him, you hated how carried himself. How he fed into and entertained the “Chosen One” act. You hated how he eyed some of your fellow house members with disgust. You hated how teachers let him break rules without blinking. Especially when Dumbledore gave him more second chances than you’ve had detentions- and don’t even start with the house cup points for Gryffindor being handed out like it was candy on Halloween.

You didn’t like him. That much was certain.

And yet, somehow… you didn’t quite hate him either.

Which, in Slytherin, might be worse.

You were raised to see people like him as reckless, impulsive, dangerously idealistic. And honestly? He is. He breaks rules like they’re twigs and shouts back at professors who could end him with a look. He’s messy. He’s loud. He’s Gryffindor.

But lately he was far too quiet.

And in Slytherin, silence was never innocent.

You soon found yourself in the Slytherin Common Room plopped on a sofa with Blaise while Draco was on one of his many, many rants.

“I’m telling you,” he said, chin high, voice sharp, “Potter’s planning something. He disappears for hours. Granger’s been whispering with Lovegood. Weasley hasn’t shut up about practicing defensive spells. It’s not for class.”

You smirked at him while he spoke - letting out a snort yourself. “You sound obsessed with them.”

“It’s not obsession,” Draco snapped, letting out a huff.

Drama Queen Draco.

“It’s observation. He’s up to something. He’s got to be plotting on Umbridge and the Ministry- he can never keep his head up his own ass.”

You didn’t say anything else. In honesty, you were in zero support of what Umbridge has been doing to Hogwarts. You were shocked on why Draco would even like her, hell even practically work for her as some spy. maybe its something to do with his father and the Ministry, you thought, but you tossed it to the side. If anyone - even if it was some Gryffindor wanted to fight again the injustice you wanted in as well. For now, however - you stored the information in your brain and filed it.

You’ve always been good at patterns, but it seems Potter’s been breaking his.

——————————————————————————

It was late.

Too late for class. Too late for anyone to be slipping into unused rooms — unless they’re sneaking, hiding, or both. You walked through the corridors of hogwarts with ease, scanning every class you came across.

So when you spot a familiar messy head ducking through a side corridor, you follow.

Quiet as shadow. Curiosity sharper than caution.

And then you knew who it was.

Harry Potter. Shutting a door behind him. Tension in his shoulders, jaw set tight.

He doesn’t see you at first.

But you’re leaning against the stone wall when he turns. Arms crossed. A single brow raised.

“Potter.”

He gives you a scowl while he rolls eyes and narrows his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Bit defensive, aren’t we?” You smirk at him as you walk towards him, slowly. “Not used to being caught?”

He straightens up, clearly trying not to look flustered.

cute.

“I’m not hiding.”

“Mm, right. So that was just… a casual stroll out of an unused classroom with a pocket full of parchment and a face like someone just nicked a broomstick?”

His jaw clenches. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” you say as you finally come to a stop just about three feet away. “But I do enjoy a good mystery. And this school’s been very loud about one thing lately ‘Potter’s planning something.’”

You playfully raised an eyebrow at him as you awaited for him to reply.

“You sound like you’d rat me out.”

You cock your head. “Do I?”

“Yes.” he spoke with a sharp tone.

You frown at the sharpness in his tone, then lower your voice. “Relax. I’m not Malfoy, not quite like him either.”

You glance down the corridor, then let out a sigh. “Look. I’m not saying I like you. You’re arrogant. Impulsive. And you’ve got this whole ‘Chosen One’ complex going on.”

“Thanks,” Harry mutters.

“But,” you continue, ignoring his comment. “you’re not wrong about Umbridge and how corrupt the Ministry has started to become. And people are scared. Not just Gryffindors.”

Harry studies you. Suspicious. Curious. “So what are you saying?”

You smile, something sharp and slightly amused. “I’m saying if you are planning something… maybe don’t assume every Slytherin’s dying to see you fail. I am far aware of the reputation we have earned from the other houses- but we aren’t villains. We’re not all Malfoy, Potter.”

He blinks. That clearly wasn’t what he expected.

“And if I was starting a group?” he asks, almost testing you.

“Then I’d probably already know about it.” You tap his cloak pocket where the parchment is still tucked away before walking past him. “You Gryffindor’s aren’t exactly subtle.”

“Wait—”

You pause, glancing back over your shoulder. “What?”

“…Why would you help?”

Your expression turns just a little softer. “Because some of us grew up being told not to ask questions. And I’m tired of that. ”

Harry gives you a look - a genuine one.

You spoke again as you begin walking back to your own common room as Harry loses sight of you. “Filch is probably lurking, so if i were you i’d be off.”

Harry stood there for a second, shocked - confused. You wanted to help? A witty, smart mouth Slytherin? He pondered for a minute, trying to process it all. Maybe he’s been wrong about all Slytherins being the root of all evil?

——————————————————————————-

Ron throws a Bertie Bott’s bean at the fireplace and misses. “What d’you mean she caught you?”

Harry drops into the chair across from him, eyes still narrowed from replaying the whole thing in his head. “She was just… there. Leaning against the wall like she’d been waiting.”

Hermione’s head lifts from her book. “And she didn’t tell Umbridge?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. She knew what I was doing, I don’t know how, but she knew. And then she said—” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “She said we’re not all Malfoy. That she knows when to pick the right side. That she wants to fight for good.”

Ron snorts. “That’s rich. Coming from someone who shares a dorm with Parkinson.”

Hermione doesn’t laugh. She’s thinking. “Maybe she meant it.”

Ron gapes. “You want her to come to the meetings now?”

“I didn’t say that,” Hermione replies carefully. “But if she already knows… it might be smarter to bring her in. Keep her close.”

Harry doesn’t say anything right away. His mind is still stuck on the way you’d looked at him. Calm. Calculated. Not scared. Not arrogant either.

Just… certain.

“She’s not like the rest of them,” he says quietly.

Hermione turns to him, surprised.

Ron groans. “Oh no. He’s got that look.”

“What look?” Harry frowns.

“The ‘maybe Slytherins aren’t all evil’ look,” Ron says, flopping back dramatically onto the couch. “Next thing we know, you’ll be offering her your seat in class and writing her name on your cauldron.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Ronald.”

But Harry just stares into the fire, still thinking.

Of all the rotten luck.

“Potter. You’ll be partnered with…” Snape glances at the seating chart like it personally offends him. “Miss Y/L/N.”

Harry’s head jerks up. Across the room, you blink once, then slide your quill behind your ear and rise smoothly from your seat.

You don’t grin. But there’s a knowing look in your eyes as you settle beside him at the shared table, parchment already unrolled.

“Don’t worry,” you murmur without looking at him. “I promise not to poison you. Yet.”

Harry snorts under his breath. “Comforting.”

Across the room, Draco throws you both a look like he’s watching someone pet a wild Hippogriff and is just waiting for the mauling.

You ignore him.

The silence between you and Harry isn’t tense exactly — more like… charged. He hands you the ingredients while you measures out the powdered valerian root, careful and precise. At some point, your elbows start bumping. Neither of you moves away.

“You know,” you say lowly, as you stir, “for someone who acts like he hates all things Slytherin, you’re not half bad at teamwork.”

“Funny,” Harry mutters back, “I was just thinking the same about you.”

You glance up, eyes catching his. “So you do think.”

“Occasionally,” he says, smiling a little.

You look back at the potion, smirking. Across the room, Draco is practically craning his neck trying to eavesdrop.

You tapped Harry on his shoulder, keeping your head faced at the potion but eyes faced to him. He turned his head to you, then down to your hands as you slip him a piece of parchment folded. He cocked a brow up as he grabbed it from your grasps, fingers brushing.

Harry opened it hiding it from his side,

‘Draco says Umbridge is meeting with Filch every other evening now. They’re setting patrols for corridors near the Room of Requirement. She thinks someone’s hiding something behind one of the walls. She’s not stupid, just paranoid.

Filch has been checking the west hall on the third floor just past midnight. That’s his current favorite hunting ground.

I’ll keep watching. Act normal.’

Harry gives you a smile, a subtle thank you. You returned it and you both went back to your work as he stuffed it into his pocket in his robes.

——————————————————————————

For the next three days, Harry kept receiving these notes from you. He would write back a simple ‘thank you.” Except this time, where you planted it in his pocket yourself.

Harry didn’t notice until dinner that day when he fiddled in his pockets for something, then he felt the parchment.

He pulls it out from under the table, trying not to attract much attention to himself as his eyes flicker from yours across the Slytherin table.

‘Umbridge is trying to get the Inquisitorial Squad involved. Draco says she’s giving them free roam to catch anyone “plotting. I think she has more plans than what shes feeding Draco.”

Avoid the west wing after ten. Filch changed patrols again. He’s onto you.

Also — your handwriting is atrocious. Fix it before McGonagall sees your essays.’

Harry stares at it for a moment, eyebrows raised.

Then, without a word, he passes it to Hermione, who reads it once and immediately looks toward the Slytherin table. Her lips part in surprise.

Ron leans over to peek. “Wait - she gave you this?”

Harry nods. “She’s been slipping me notes for the past few days. Every time Filch changes where he’s patrolling. She knew about Umbridge’s plans before we did.”

Ron blinks. “You’re telling me a Slytherin has been protecting the DA?”

“She’s the reason we haven’t been caught,” Harry says. “She’s been feeding us what Draco’s telling their house — without raising any suspicion.”

Hermione leans in, her voice low. “I knew she wasn’t like the others… but this? She’s been risking everything.”

Harry glances again at the note, then tucks it into his Transfiguration book with quiet care.

“She’s on our side,” he says simply.

It’s quiet enough to hear the wind skimming along the stone parapets — moonlight casting pale silver across the flagstones. You’re standing with your arms folded, waiting, watching the shadows move.

You hear footsteps, and a familiar voice calls out softly:

“Y/N.”

You turn. Harry stands there, hands tucked in his pockets, and behind him — Hermione and Ron, watching warily but not unkindly.

He steps closer, his voice low. “You said Umbridge has plans. Real ones. Things even Malfoy doesn’t realize.”

You tilt your head, careful. “And you want me to tell them.”

“I trust you,” Harry says plainly. “I think they should too.”

You smile at his comment then glance at Hermione and Ron. Hermione gives the faintest nod. Ron still looks like he’s trying to puzzle you out.

You sigh lightly. “Okay..but I don’t repeat myself, so listen close.”

You step toward the low wall and lean your hands on the cool stone. The three of them follow.

“She’s trying to push Dumbledore out. Not just politically, structurally. She’s replacing staff, rewriting policy, spying on students. Filch is practically her personal bloodhound now. She wants full Ministry control over Hogwarts. No independence. No magic she can’t regulate.”

Hermione’s expression darkens. “That’s… way beyond anything we thought.”

“She’s been meeting with Ministry officials privately,” you continue. “Even tried to ban certain books in the library. She’s using Draco and the others to dig — anything suspicious, anything that smells like rebellion.”

Ron shifts uncomfortably. “So she’s turning Hogwarts into a bloody prison.”

“Pretty much.”

Harry doesn’t look surprised. Just angry. “How do you know all this?”

You meet his eyes. “Because I listen. And because Slytherins are excellent at being ignored when it matters most.”

There’s a pause. Then Hermione steps forward.

“You’ve been helping us. Risking a lot, actually. And you didn’t have to. That says more than your house ever could.”

“Well, a house doesn’t entirely define you.” You sighed as you looked around at the hogwarts grounds. “Frankly, theres a good amount of Slytherins who agree with what all four of us stand for. Some just follow Draco because of his parents i presume.” You turn back around to face them, sort of more specifically Ron.

“I’m not a bad person just because I was placed in Slytherin. Its a common misconception though. Suppose its because Voldemort was one and Salazar did place a Basalisk in a secret chamber.. and Dracos a proper pain.” You let out a little laugh at that last part and so did the four others.

Ron looks between you and Harry, and after a beat, says grudgingly, “Alright. You’re not like Malfoy. You’ve got a better spine, for starters. And i s’pose your right. I trust you if Harry and Hermione do.”

You smirk. “High praise.”

Hermione smiles a little, then glances at Harry. “She should come to the next meeting.”

“Definitely,” he says, already certain.

You raise an eyebrow. “You lot always recruit people in shadowy courtyards at midnight?”

Harry grins. “Only the interesting ones.”

You shake your head with a small laugh, and for the first time, the four of you stand there not as enemies or rivals because of a silly house fued -but as allies, friends.

The wall shimmers and opens like a secret only certain people are meant to know. You step inside cautiously, and the first thing that hits you isn’t the magic - it’s the heat of twenty pairs of eyes staring straight at you.

Gryffindors. Hufflepuffs. Ravenclaws.

No Slytherins. Except you.

You catch the flicker of confusion, a few students stiffen. One whispers something to another. Zacharias Smith audibly mutters, “What’s she doing here?”

You ignore it.

You always do.

Harry steps forward, casual but firm. “She’s here because she’s helped us. More than most of you even realize.”

Hermione follows suit. “She’s risked getting caught by Umbridge. She’s helped keep this a secret and she’s on our side.”

You gave a smile at their remarks, then glance at Ron, half-expecting him to stay silent. But he clears his throat.

“She’s alright.”

High praise from Weasley.

The room slowly relaxes. Suspicion simmers down to curiosity. And that’s something you can work with.

Harry starts the meeting like always — wand held in both hands, voice calm but sure. “We’re going to start with disarming spells. Partner up.”

There’s a brief shuffle. Hermione moves toward Neville. Ginny grabs Luna. Ron pairs with Seamus.

You’re still standing there when Harry turns to you.

“You’re with me.”

Of course you are.

You take your stance across from him, wand raised.

“Try not to embarrass yourself, Potter.”

He grins. “I was going to say the same.”

“Expelliarmus!” you fire first and he blocks, quick but not smug. Just sharp.

He counters. You dodge. The two of you trade spell after spell, the energy between you buzzing just slightly more than it should.

“You’ve been practicing,” he says, ducking a hex.

“I grew up in a house where survival’s kind of… expected.”

“Sounds familiar.”

He says it lightly, but it lands heavier than expected. For a moment, there’s something almost reflective in the way he looks at you. Like he’s starting to see something beyond your crest, something shared.

Another spell flies. You catch it. Disarm him. His wand clatters to the floor, and a few heads turn.

“Oops,” you say, tilting your head innocently.

“You’ve got a mean streak.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

——————————————————————————

When the meeting wraps, people are smiling. Laughing. Even Zacharias looks begrudgingly impressed. The tension that followed you in is long gone.

Ginny Weasley nudges your arm with a grin, “You were wicked with that disarming charm. Might ask you to teach me how you do that wrist thing.”

You smirk, bumping her shoulder gently. “Only if you teach me how to hit a Bludger with that much attitude.”

Ginny laughs, full and unfiltered - and suddenly, it’s easy. Hermione joins the conversation next, tucking her hair behind her ear as she says, “That was impressive. You really are a good witch” You gave her a smile which she returned.

Then Luna walks up, wide-eyed and glowing in that distant way of hers. “You looked like you’d been practicing with wandless dueling fog spirits. They make you sharper, you know.”

You blink. “I… haven’t, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

For the first time, it feels like you actually belong here - not because you’ve earned it, but because they’ve decided you don’t have to.

Before you leave, Harry catches up to you at the door.

“You were great,” he says, quieter now. “Really.”

“You always this sentimental after disarming spells?” you ask, one brow raised.

He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Only when I nearly get my wand taken out by someone who says they don’t like me.”

You gave him a cheeky smile. “Who said I don’t like you?”

His cheeks heat up at your comment, clearing his throat.

“You’re hard to read,” he says honestly.

“Good. You’re not supposed to have me figured out yet.”

There’s a pause, but it isn’t awkward. It’s… something else. Something a little charged.

“I don’t think you’re like the others in your house,” he says quietly, stepping just a little closer.

“I know,” you reply, eyes lifting to meet his. “That’s what scares you, isn’t it?”

His smile quirks, half-impressed. “A little.”

You tilt your head toward the door. “You going to walk me back, or do Gryffindors only do chivalry when there’s a camera around?”

“Chivalry?” he echoes, pretending to scoff. “I was hoping you’d protect me from Filch.”

You laugh under your breath, turning to go. “Come on, Chosen One. Try to keep up.”

The halls are quieter than usual, even for after curfew. The kind of quiet that lets you hear the soft echo of your own steps… and Harry’s, just a little behind.

He falls into rhythm with you easily, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking toward the windows where moonlight spills in pale silver.

“You always sneak around this late?” he asks, voice low and casual.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m walking Gryffindor royalty back to enemy territory.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Right. Because I’m so royal.”

“You said it, not me.”

You flash a teasing smile, and he catches it - holds your gaze a second too long before looking away like it caught him off guard.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The corridor bends into another stretch of silence - empty staircases, the distant groan of old pipes behind the walls. But it isn’t awkward. It’s something else.

Something settling in.

“I used to think I had you figured out,” Harry says suddenly.

You raise a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Slytherin. Sharp tongue. Friends with people who hate me.” He glances sideways at you. “But now you’re helping me. Protecting the people you’re supposed to hate like you’ve got something to prove.”

You shrug, half-smirking. “Maybe I do.”

He stops walking for a second, and so do you. His gaze lifts to meet yours fully now, serious but soft at the edges.

“I was wrong about you.”

You study him for a moment. His voice isn’t teasing anymore. It’s quiet. Honest.

And it hits a little harder than it should.

“You’re not the only one who’s been wrong,” you admit. “I thought you were all fame and ego and dramatic speeches.”

Harry laughs under his breath. “Dramatic speeches?”

“You literally have a fan club.”

“Unfortunately.”

You both laugh - but it lingers this time. Fades slower. And when it does, there’s something warmer in the space between you.

You tilt your head slightly. “You always this charming during illegal castle strolls?”

He steps a little closer, hands still in his pockets. “Only when I’m with someone who keeps catching me off guard.”

There’s a flicker of something between you then, subtle but unmistakable. Like gravity, like something pulling, even though neither of you move.

Finally, you take a slow step forward. “Come on, Potter.”

But when your shoulder brushes his again, it stays there a moment longer. And neither of you say a word about it.

The next morning, sunlight cuts through the narrow windows of the Slytherin dorms, pale and soft against the stone walls. The room is quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of someone getting ready for class. You’re halfway through buttoning your robes when you spot it:

A folded piece of parchment, tucked just beneath your Charms textbook at the foot of your bed.

No one’s said anything. No one’s around. But the moment you open the note, you know exactly who it’s from.

‘You were right.

You do keep me off guard.

Not sure what last night was exactly.

But I keep thinking about it.

If you ever want to walk the long way back again…

Let me know.

—H’

You stare at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the edge of the parchment. There’s no joke. No awkward attempt to cover it with sarcasm or a fake nickname.

It’s just… honest.

And you can’t help it — your mouth lifts at the corner. The kind of smile you’d never let anyone else in your house see.

You fold the note once, then again, tucking it safely behind your potions essay.

You’ll see him again tonight at the next DA meeting.

And suddenly, the day feels just a little bit easier.

——————————————————————————

The DA meeting flies by faster than usual.

Tonight, Harry focuses on practicing defensive spells in pairs — steady, clean wandwork under pressure. He lets Hermione take charge of the demonstrations, which she does with sharp precision and only a few eye-rolls at Ron.

You’re paired with her. At first, it’s all business - counters, stances, corrections. But soon, she’s smiling when your spell knocks a practice dummy flat on its back. You laugh when she mutters something about how Parvati once nearly set her sleeve on fire trying that exact hex. It’s easy, surprisingly so. There’s no tension like there used to be in the library, no side-eyes because of your house. Just a natural rhythm. Respect.

By the time the meeting ends, she leans over and says quietly, “You’re really good, you know. I think we make a solid team.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did Hermione Granger just compliment a Slytherin?”

She smiles. “A certain one, maybe.”

When the last few spells are cast and the group starts packing up, you wander toward the tall enchanted mirror against the wall - the one that reflects everyone in the room with little golden sparks dancing faintly around them.

You’re not paying much attention, just scanning the blurred reflections, your expression soft with something almost wistful.

From across the room, Harry watches.

He’s barely moved since the meeting ended, wand still loosely in his hand. Ron notices first, then Hermione. Both glance between him and you, then share a quiet look.

“She’s different, a good different.” Ron says eventually.

Hermione doesn’t answer. She’s too busy watching the way Harry’s eyes trace your outline, like he’s seeing something he hadn’t allowed himself to before. or maybe something that’s been there all along, just waiting.

There’s a kind of quiet in him now. One that feels big. Unspoken.

“She’s good for him,” Hermione murmurs, so low only Ron hears.

Harry barely notices they’re watching. His eyes stay on you as you tilt your head and smile faintly at the mirror’s reflection. Not at yourself, but at the people around you. The ones you’ve slowly let in.

Hermione nudges Harry gently, “We’ll see you back in the common room, yeah?”

Harry blinks, barely registering her words. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll be up soon.”

They go, leaving him standing in the now-empty Room of Requirement - except for you, still near the mirror, fingers brushing the surface like it might reveal something more.

He walks toward you slowly.

“I’m not,” he says, and his voice has that familiar mix of nerves and honesty. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

Harry stops beside you, close enough to feel the quiet hum of magic still lingering in the room. “You looked happy earlier.”

You smiled. “Maybe i was”

“It’s nice seeing you like that.”

You turn to face him, arms folded loosely over your chest, smile growing wider. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment, Potter. You sure you’re feeling alright?”

He laughs softly, but it’s quieter now, more real. “Maybe I’m just seeing things differently lately.”

“Like what?” you ask, stepping just a little closer. Your voice is teasing, but your heart is louder now, like it knows something’s about to shift.

“Like you.”

That makes your breath catch - not dramatically, but enough to feel it. Enough to know this is no longer just casual banter in the safety of dim candlelight.

“You’re not what I expected,” Harry says, eyes locked on yours. “You’re clever, and yeah, you’ve got that Slytherin sharpness, but maybe thats what attracts me to you more than it should. you care. You’ve risked a lot to help us. To help me.”

“Don’t get soft on me now,” you murmur, but there’s no bite to it. You’re soft, too. And vulnerable in a way that feels dangerous but true.

“I mean it.” He shifts, his fingers brushing yours - not quite holding your hand, but close enough to feel the warmth. “I used to think… I don’t know. That you saw me like everyone else does. Like I was just… the Chosen One. Some Gryffindor hero with a target on his back.”

Your lips twitch upward, but your eyes are steady. “I did.”

Harry blinks.

“I did think that,” you clarify, “for a long time. That you were arrogant, self-important. The kind of person who expected people to follow just because you’ve got a scar and a name.But then I started watching, and you weren’t any of those things. You’re loyal. Reckless, sure. But not because you want attention. You’re just… trying. Always trying. Even when no one sees it.”

He says nothing for a beat — just looks at you like he’s never heard anything like that before. Like he wants to believe it, and maybe does.

Your voices are hushed now, the quiet wrapping around you like a charm. The candles have dimmed, the fire low and golden, and the room seems to be listening.

And then, gently.. without warning - something begins to shimmer above you.

A flicker of enchanted magic gathers into shape: mistletoe, delicate and glowing, suspended just overhead. Harry glances up, then back to you. He looks almost surprised, like he’s not sure he deserves this kind of moment.

You smile again. “Mistletoe…”

Harry shifts closer, and this time, he does take your hand, fingers curling between yours like it’s instinct. Like it’s always meant to be that easy.

“Probably full of nargles, though.”

“Shut up and kiss me Harry.”

And then he does.

The kiss is soft at first - careful, like he’s still afraid he might ruin it , but you lean into him, and it deepens naturally, warmly. His hand finds your waist, yours tangled at the collar of his robes. It’s gentle, but not shy.. like both of you had been waiting, denying, until now.

You taste winter air and something like firewhisky on his breath. He smells like pine and old parchment and something unmistakably his - and when you finally part, just barely, your foreheads rest together, and you’re both smiling like fools.

“I can’t believe I thought you were insufferable,” you whisper.

“I can,” Harry murmurs, brushing a thumb along your cheek, “but I’m glad you stuck around anyway.”

[colouredbyd]

"If you look closely, you'll see them!"

Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: when you swear your boyfriend, regulus, has dimples no one believes you, that is until he walks in and proves everyone wrong.

warnings: pure fluff, mentions of cold demeanor, some mild language, grumpy x sunshine kinda?

w/c: 3k

a/n: my headcanon is that regulus has dimples!!! i said what i said guys, argue with me !! also this has been in my drafts for a good 7 months </3

masterlist

"Regulus Black does not have dimples!"

Sirius declares for the third time that afternoon, sprawled across the common room sofa with his legs thrown carelessly over James’s lap, his voice carrying that unbothered arrogance he wielded like a second skin.

"You’re hallucinating."

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you stand firm before the Marauders, unyielding in your defiance. Mary is nestled against Remus’s shoulder, her eyes glimmering with barely-contained amusement as if she knows something the others don’t.

"I am not hallucinating," you retort, voice dripping with indignation, hands finding your hips in a stance that borders on stubbornness. "I’ve seen them! They’re right here."

You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.

But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.

To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.

Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.

"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."

He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.

They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.

"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."

"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.

"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"

"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.

"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.

"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.

The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"

"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.

"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."

"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.

"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"

They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.

Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.

It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.

"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."

"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.

"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."

"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."

Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"

"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.

"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"

"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.

But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.

You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.

"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.

James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."

The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.

There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.

He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.

Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.

But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.

"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.

Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.

A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.

"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."

There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.

The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.

Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.

And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.

You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.

You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.

A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.

You are not the only one who notices.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.

Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.

Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.

Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.

"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.

Because it is true.

There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.

They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.

"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"

Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.

James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down," Remus points out.

"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.

But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."

His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.

He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.

"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.

In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.

For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.

The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.

He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.

But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.

It was as though the universe had woven this small, delicate fragment of softness solely for you to uncover, a secret threaded carefully into the very fabric of him, waiting patiently for your hands to find it, to hold it like something sacred and fragile and wholly yours.