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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ secret mission.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well. warnings – 18+, smut, alcohol, jealousy, secret hookups, hockey violence/injuries, swearing. notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! this was so cute i got carried away lol <3 word count – 9.4k

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The thing about keeping Garrett Graham a secret was that Garrett Graham was, in almost every available category, a terrible secret.

He was too tall for it, for one. Too broad. Too recognisable from the back, from the shoulders, from the mess of dark curls and the stupid confident way he moved through a room like gravity had signed some private agreement to make him look good from every angle. 

He was also, tragically, friendly. Friendly in that Garrett-specific way that meant everybody on campus felt like they knew him well enough to yell his name across a party, slap his shoulder at Malone’s, stop him in the hall to talk about last night’s game or next week’s line-up or whatever else men said to one another when they wanted to bask briefly in proximity to a local legend and pretend it was a conversation.

And she wasn't exactly anonymous either. Not anymore. Not after Dean.

Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.

Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.

But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.

She knew that. She had known that then, technically.

Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.

Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.

Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”

That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.

Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew. 

It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.

He had sat down beside her instead.

Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.

Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.

“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.

She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”

Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”

The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.

Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”

“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”

He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”

“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”

“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”

She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried. 

The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.

His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder. 

His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.

“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”

His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”

She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly. 

It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.

“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”

She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.

Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

She bit the inside of his palm.

His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”

She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.

“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”

She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.

“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority. 

He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.

Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.

Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”

Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.

For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.

He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.

His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.

Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.

She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.

In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”

A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”

“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”

Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.

Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”

She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”

“It was the first thing that came up.”

“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”

He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”

“That’s not the same as being good.”

“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”

She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”

Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.

“Too close,” she murmured against him.

“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”

“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”

“Because you’re loud.”

“Because you’re annoying.”

His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”

She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.

The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.

The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.

She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.

Garrett: You good?

It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.

She typed, yes.

Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.

Then typed, yed.

Then stared at that for a long time.

Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed. 

She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.

Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.

The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote. 

“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”

The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.

The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice. 

Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.

So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.

The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.

The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”

Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.

“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.

The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.

The blonde blinked. “What?”

“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”

The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.

“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”

Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.

“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”

Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached. 

Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.

Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.

Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?

She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.

Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.

His response came almost immediately.

Garrett: What

She squinted at the screen.

Garrett: Baby where are you

The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.

She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.

“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”

She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”

Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”

“Like the whole night.”

His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”

“So that girl is a liar.”

A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”

She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”

His brows jumped. “Did I?”

“Garrett.”

“What? I feel like I’d remember.”

She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”

“Sounds like it.”

“She looked me in the face and lied.”

Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”

She stared at him.

His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Baby,” he whispered.

“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”

“She asked how I knew.”

“Okay.”

“And then I left.”

“Good call.”

“I almost said because you were with me.”

His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”

She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”

“The mission?”

“Our secrecy mission.”

“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”

“She started it.”

“Sure.”

“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.

“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”

Her face fell. “Yes.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”

“You know that?”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re a slut.”

“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”

She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.

The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.

It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.

Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.

She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything. 

No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.

And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.

So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be. 

She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.

Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You broke into my room.”

“I prefer… entered creatively.”

He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.

For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.

“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.

She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”

Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.

The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being. 

One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.

She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.

“Baby,” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Garrett.”

A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.

“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”

Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited. 

“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”

“No,” he mumbled into her hair.

She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”

“M’sleep.”

“You’re talking.”

“Sleep talking.”

She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”

“Mm.”

She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.

The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.

He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.

The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.

She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.

She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.

Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.

Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.

For one full second, neither of them moved.

Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.

“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”

Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”

That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”

He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.

Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”

Oh.

The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.

“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”

Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”

Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”

“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”

Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”

She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”

“Do you… need anything?”

The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”

“Okay.”

Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”

“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.

She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.

He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.

Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”

“Tucker caught me downstairs.”

That woke him a little more. “What?”

“He thinks I slept with Dean.”

Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”

“I had to go with it!”

“You had to?”

“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”

“Because of Dean!”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”

“I was asleep.”

“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”

Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”

“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”

Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”

She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yes.”

“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”

She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”

“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”

Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”

“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”

“You’re so easy.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re possessive.”

He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”

She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.

“Okay,” she whispered.

His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”

His breath left him slowly. “Good.”

“You still should’ve gotten me water.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You’re mean.”

“You broke into my room.”

“You let me in.”

“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”

The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.

It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders. 

The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.

“Don’t,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”

“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”

“You were not.”

Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.

It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.

His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.

At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.

She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“No, you’re doing the face.”

His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”

That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.

Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”

“Yeah?”

“You should be embarrassed.”

He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”

“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”

He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”

She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.

“Graham?”

Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.

A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.

“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”

The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.

Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.

No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?

Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.

Nervous.

She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.

“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.

Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”

“Had to get off campus for a minute.”

The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.

Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.

“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.

Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.

So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”

She closed her eyes.

Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”

Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.

Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.

She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”

She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”

His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”

His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”

She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”

“Yeah.”

“And you were nervous.”

He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”

“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”

“My jaw itched.”

Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”

“Itched too,” he shrugged. 

“And your hair?”

“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”

She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.

“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making it weird.”

“It is weird.”

“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”

The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”

“I didn’t call you that.”

“You kinda did.”

Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.

She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half. 

The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.

Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable. 

She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.

But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period. 

Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.

He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.

She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.

Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.

So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.

The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.

She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.

He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.

Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”

His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.

“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”

She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by. 

“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”

Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.

“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.

He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.

“Baby,” he murmured.

That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.

Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.

The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.

She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”

“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.

Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.

Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”

They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way. 

His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.

Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.

Garrett kept holding her.

Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”

“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.

Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”

Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”

But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”

The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.

She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.

For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest. 

Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”

Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”

She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”

His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.

This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was. 

He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.

Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.

Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing. 

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.

Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”

She groaned. “Don’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”

“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.

Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”

“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.

She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.

Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”

“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”

Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.

Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”

Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”

“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”

Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”

“Nope,” Garrett said.

“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.

She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.

“Three weeks,” she said.

Garrett’s head snapped toward her.

“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”

Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.

“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.

Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”

Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”

Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”

She winced. “That was strategic.”

“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”

“Yes.”

Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”

Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”

Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”

“What? That was supportive.”

Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”

“No, we’re not,” she called back.

“We absolutely are.”

Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”

“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.

The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.

Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.

“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”

His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”

“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”

The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”

She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”

His arms tightened. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.

This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.

[weezyweasleys-fg]

like him | f.w

summary: The war ended five years ago. Why do you stare at your son like you'd seen a ghost?

c/w: aged up, character death, single parent, just pure angst and depression i'm sorry

a/n: i know, not a very good thing to post after months of inactivity, but i'm not crying alone 😔

"One... two... three... four..."

Nothing.

Again.

One.

Two..

Three...

Four.

It's been about twenty minutes since you started listening for something. Anything.

But denial was the damndest thing in the room.

You were met with silence. The hollow, empty shell of what used to be the man that showed you how good life could be had none left in him to give.

Just eerily hummed with the already fulfilled promise of nothingness.

The very chest that used to cradle your head like it belonged there and held the heart of the man you're certain you'd marry one day, was...quiet.

You tried counting the beats of his heart like you did when you and he used to tangle your limbs by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room.

It was your favorite song.

Now a fading lullaby.

No rise and fall of his torso, and no warmth to be felt when he'd wrapped his arms around you like before when days were hard.

With your ear pressed firmly against his chest, the coldness of his lifeless body seeped through his clothes.

You lay sprawled across his upper body weakly, hands clinging onto the fabric of his shirt with little to no strength. Eyes unfocused, nose running, and hot tears rushed down your cheeks, staining them as though grief had engraved itself into your skin.

"I should've stayed with you..." your voice trembled as you whispered. Your grip failing you when your fingers tried tightening around the fabric of his jacket.

"I should've...I should've followed you...Maybe...Maybe I could've done something."

The words scraped over your tongue like barbed wire when they left your mouth. The thought of how things could've turned out if you had done something differently now lodged in your throat like you'd attempted to swallow a whole Bludger at the news you never got to tell him.

— 30 minutes earlier —

You hated the cold. You hated the way it made everything look dull and depressing. The way it made your skin wrinkle and dry up, and how itchy it felt.

That was until he came along.

Second year, outside Potions classroom. Both were twelve and looking for a friend. That's how it started. With frogs in one's shoes and the other being the cause of it.

In the years that followed up until the twins left to start their joke shop, many winters came, but he never left. The summers were a bit more bearable, and the cold, weirdly warmer. He was the only constant in your life. The warmth throughout the seasons.

The only constant, until...he wasn't.

You raced through the torn-down hallways after receiving word from a very distraught Cho that something terrible had happened.

Looking around as you ran, you remembered that these were the very halls that once saw eager and busy students. Professors and nurses alike used to tread through like fire was hot on their tail to get where they needed to be.

Halls that used to echo with hope, laughter, arguments, plans, and confessions, now loomed dark, littered with debris, and smelled of death.

Sequences of no's and his name slipped past your lips like a mantra, as if saying them over and over again would somehow stop your worst fear from becoming a reality.

Were the halls always this long?

It felt like an eternity before you eventually reached the entrance of The Great Hall.

It was a dreadful sight. One that certainly wouldn't leave you for a lifetime.

The injured on stretchers, the disarranged and broken tables, and debris that made up for chairs or makeshift beds.

And the deceased. Lots of them.

While you made your way through the thick crowd of both students and teachers, even those who left a long time ago and thought it worthy cenough to come back and fight, you couldn't help but hold your breath.

You recognized some of the bodies.

Amongst them were the girls and boys you used to pair up with in Advanced History of Magic, or shared a small laugh with in-between classes when the room felt a little still.

You wrapped an arm over your stomach in an attempt to compose yourself. If it hadn't been for your search for Fred, you'd be as good as a weeping mess right about now. But you kept on.

The very front of the hall neared, and on the stairs leading up to the main area where the school's staff would settle in during annual dinners and events, stood a group of people with ginger locks you recognized almost immediately huddled over something. Or someone.

None of them spoke at all. It was unnerving.

Your feet took you closer. The sounds of battle from the outside faded. The voices around you muffled. And your eyes couldn't seem to peel off their backs as they shook from crying. Your vision was tunnel-like.

Your gaze flickered over to George, who looked absolutely destroyed. Eyebrows scrunched so hard the creases dug deep wrinkles into his forehead, and his lips downturned in the most devastating frown.

An uneasy feeling began to twist in your chest.

Then you looked at Ginny, whose tears streamed down her cheeks quietly. Her shoulders slumped and shook gently with her fingers clasped over her mouth.

Your jaw trembled.

The closer you got, the more you got to see. Because now there was Molly, in front of whoever they were crying over, looking as if her own legs couldn't keep supporting her own weight anymore. She had Arthur beside her—an arm wrapped securely around her waist as she clung to his shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring her from collapsing to the ground.

And just like that, your entire body began to grow cold. Each step felt weighted, as though something was stopping you from going any further.

You were dangerously close when Ron had noticed you first.

He had been kneeling off to the side, wiping the tears from his eyes that didn't really do much of a job as more kept coming anyway. He was as red as a tomato from all the crying. He looked at you when he saw someone coming in from his peripheral.

“Y/n,” he whispered, stumbling to his feet before dragging himself over to you.

"Ron, what's—" Before you could ask any further, his hands were on your shoulders, steering you away.

He didn't say anything, just kept on trying to take you somewhere. Anywhere but there.

"What are you doing? Ron, please," you struggled, your hands wrapped firmly around his wrists and attempted to pry them off. But he kept on, using his build to his advantage and kept pushing you away, all while still weeping.

"You're scaring me," you squeaked, frowning. "What's going on? Why do you—why does everyone look like that?"

He then stopped. Hands still on your shoulders, breathing labored as his bloodshot eyes looked into yours. Eventually, he dropped his head, torso shaking from his sobs.

"Say something." You grabbed his arm almost pleadingly, craning your head down to try and meet his gaze.

"You can't," he choked.

"Why?"

"God," Ron mumbled. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You clenched your jaw. "Where's Fred?" Ron's grip tightened on your shoulders.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A sick feeling of dread curled in your stomach.

Deciding this wasn’t going anywhere and desperate to know who everyone was gathered around, you shoved Ron’s hands off you and hastily made your way toward the Weasleys.

That was until a strong grip wrapped around your wrist, holding you back.

You glanced behind you, unsurprised to see Ron trying to stop you. Again.

"Ron, let me go."

His grip only tightened. He could only shake his head.

You looked back over to the crowd on top of the stairs. Nobody looked at you. Not a single person.

Your eyes searched, and they landed on George once more. Still crying, and the sight made something inside you snap.

And then you saw it.

Blood on the floor, and a flash of familiar red hair peeking through the group.

Motionless.

And that was all it took.

You tore yourself from his grasp and stumbled toward the stairs, pushing past George and Molly who couldn't do more than look at you, knowing this would destroy you too.

At first, all you saw was red hair.

Then a familiar jacket.

A hand lying limp on the floor.

Still. Far too still.

Everything around you silenced. Like your ears had been hexed to stop hearing anything and everything.

"No," you breathed.

He was just unconscious. He had to be.

He always had a habit of sleeping through things he knew he shouldn't.

Any second now he'd sit up. Laugh. Say something stupid.

The room fell impossibly quiet.

But he was never quiet. Never just in one place.

And suddenly the silence you used to beg for whenever he got too loud became unbearable.

You dropped beside him, gaze fixed on his face, still waiting for him to crack a smile and yell out how brilliantly his prank worked out. How absolutely hilarious you looked over him.

He thinks it's funny, but you don't. Not one bit. It's a horrible, horrible joke.

"Very funny. Playing dead won't have you win our bet so easily," you chuckled nervously, observing his expression. He looked like he was asleep. The corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly.

"Stop playing around now, Fred, your whole family's here. Unless you dragged them in on this whole mess." With a weak smile, you turned behind you to look at the Weasley family. "Please tell him to stop joking."

Nobody answered.

Molly let out a broken sob, using her trembling hand to cover her mouth.

Arthur looked away.

George's face crumpled instantly. He shook his head, unable to even look at you or his twin brother.

Your smile slowly faltered when nobody laughed.

Snapping your head back to Fred, you reached your hand out, trembling like a leaf.

"Fred," you called, your hand trembling as your palm touched his cheek—only to recoil at the unnatural coldness of his skin.

Your heart pounded violently in your chest. You cradled your hand against yourself, still able to feel the lingering cold of his skin.

But then it all came together.

The blood dried at his temple.

The soot in his hair.

His freckles looking dull.

"Fred, stop," you muttered, reaching for his hand. Another wave of that same sickeningly cold feeling pressed against your skin.

But he didn't hold it back like he used to. Even while he slept. You don't know how he did it, but he did, and now it's driving you mad how he isn't. It stayed limp.

"No, no, no," your voice trembled as you let go of his hand and rocked yourself back—your body started to shiver uncontrollably.

"You—" All the air left your lungs. "You were supposed to come back."

Snot clogged your nose as your eyes welled with tears. Your face heated up too quickly. Another sudden sob escaped your lips.

"I didn't tell him."

And almost as if on cue, your upper body lost whatever strength it had left, causing you to collapse against his torso with your fingers tangled in his clothes.

"It's not fair," you mumbled into Fred's chest, bottom lip quivering as you gripped onto his jacket tighter. His flesh felt stiffer than when you last held him.

“Y/n, maybe you should—“ George began to intervene, but before he could finish, you quickly smacked his hand away.

He attempted to comfort you. Anything to possibly try and take you away from the sight of your dead lover. Anything to keep you from crumbling away further, even though you were already halfway there.

“IT’S NOT FAIR!” you screamed. Strands of hair clung to the tears and sweat coating your rubble-streaked skin.

But nobody said anything. What could they say?

The sight before them was enough to keep them silent.

Molly, Arthur, Ginny, Ron, Bill, Percy.

George…

They all knew what came after denial.

Your face shot up to the sky, tears falling quicker than Fred's blood had run cold.

"WHY HIM?" Your hands gripped Fred's jacket as you shook him desperately. "WHY?!"

He was supposed to be here.

"PLEASE, ANYTHING BUT HIM!" you continued to wail, your body physically unable to keep up with the overwhelming amount of sorrow coursing through you.

Lungs. Heart. Veins. Everything.

Everything Fred had touched was hurting. Burning.

"Come here, little bugger, up you go!" he beamed, lifting a little one with ginger hair just like his on his shoulders.

"I'VE LOST MY FAMILY AND MADE PEACE WITH IT. I'VE ASKED FOR PEACE AND NOW THAT I'VE FOUND IT, YOU TAKE HIM FROM ME TOO. WHY?!"

"Y/N!!!" Ginny exclaimed, running to you—tugging at your arms to try and snap you out of it. She was as scared as she was concerned.

Scared she was going to lose you too.

Another sudden image intruded into your mind. A tiny freckled hand curled around Fred's finger.

"They've got my charm, obviously," he laughed heartily.

"Y/n, please, listen to me," she pleaded, squeezing your arms to try and ground you. "It's hard for all of us...We've all lost something. Someone. But right now, you need to pull yourself together. Please."

But how could you when his voice echoed in your head? The rhythm of his laugh, the sound of it haunted you.

"I'm thinking Fred Junior the Third or Fabian II would be nice."

"Why Fabian II?"

"Because the first one worked so well."

You looked at Fred's cold, lifeless body, then back at Ginny again. All she saw was the empty shell of what used to be the woman who once radiated such warmth and light, enough to keep everyone afloat.

Now she barely had any of that left to keep herself from drowning.

Ginny was taken aback at how grief-stricken you looked. Everyone was, but yours was...unforgettable. The way dullness pooled in your eyes sent chills up her spine.

"I have...nothing, Ginny. Your brother—Fred—he—I..." You fell limp into her embrace, hanging onto her arms like a lifeline. If it weren't for her sleeves, you would've torn straight through her freckled skin.

Molly rushed to your side, gazing down at you like you were one of her own. She finished crying—didn't think she had any more tears left to give. And in all the ways, her heart crumbled for you too. Because she knew that could've been her Arthur as well. How she couldn't bear living if she'd lost him.

But Molly knew she had to be strong. She'd lost a son, yes, but her children lost their brother. George lost his twin. You'd lost a piece of your future.

"Oh, my poor girl..." Molly reached out. You didn't fail to notice the slight tremble in her tone. "It's alright...You're okay."

You hiccuped, looking up from Ginny's embrace as Molly had just begun caressing your head. Her eyes were never deceitful. They were as sad as you'd ever seen them.

"Mo—Moll—lly..." you called out, chest stuttering from your hiccups as you reached your hand out to which she immediately took.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, tone soft yet somehow struggled to keep steady.

"I loved your son," you started, and you saw the way Molly's eyes shifted at your sudden confession. "So much so that I don't know what to do with myself when I'm around him."

"Thank you..." you swallowed, "for bringing him up."

Molly smiled. One that hid her pain, but it was all too obvious.

She shook her head and took your cheek into the palm of her hand—using her thumb to swipe away a stray tear.

"Thank you for loving Fred for what he was. For what he could've been, and for what he was to you. I know he was very content with what he had. He couldn't have asked for anything more."

You nodded, before leaning yourself into Molly's chest. Her arms immediately wrapped around you like a blanket while you silently cried until you passed out from exhaustion.

After you'd gone still, both Ginny and Molly checked on you to see if you were alright. Breathing, so that was a good sign.

But what Molly had missed, and had Ginny's heart nearly drop out of her rear when it clocked in her mind, was the way you had one arm wrapped securely around your belly, almost as if protecting it.

Because internally, you did have something worth protecting. To look forward to.

A whole life.

Marriage probably.

Children.

Growing old.

And in your mind, all of it just got buried along with him.

"Come back to bed," Fred groaned, turning onto his back before sitting up on the bed. The dusty blue blanket covered no more than his waist.

"It's ten in the morning, you lazy bum. We've got a pretty big thing tomorrow, if you haven't forgotten," you responded, brushing your hair back behind your shoulders.

As you looked into your reflection in the mirror, you couldn't help but observe the way you looked. The way you changed after knowing.

The tips of your fingers delicately caressed the thin strap of the top you'd picked up from the floor before drifting them down your collarbones, and eventually settled on your stomach—absentmindedly caressing it.

And from behind you, Fred noticed.

He tilted his head to the side when he observed how unnaturally still you were being. He saw the way your eyes were unfocused, yet intently locked on to your belly's reflection.

"You alright?" his voice echoed from behind you.

How could you tell him? When can you tell him? How would he react?

You didn't even realize he had asked you something. You simply continued caressing your belly as though you'd somehow be able to feel the tiny life growing inside there already, even if it was no more than a cluster of cells at the moment.

"Y/n!" Fred poked at your waist, suddenly popping up from behind you.

"Jesus!" You jumped, quickly turning sideways to shoot him a glare.

He chuckled. "I'm Fred." Then turned you around by the waist to face him.

"Is that right? I thought you were George. Could've fooled me."

Fred gasped dramatically.

"You take that back."

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile before crossing your arms.

"That was awful."

"Awfully funny?"

"Fred—"

"You knew it was."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you adore me."

Yeah. Maybe a little too much for your own good.

You knew he was trying to pull you out of your own head. To make you laugh. To ease whatever it was that plagued your mind.

But with the current circumstances, the thought of losing him felt unbearable.

Your laugh came out weaker than usual. The smile he so effortlessly put on your face faltered. And then you averted your gaze away from his.

Knowing Fred, he immediately noticed. Because at times like these, it's quite unfortunate how well he knew you.

His hands lifted instinctively and found your face with practiced ease like they belonged there. He brushed your hair away from your face, his eyes gazed at you tenderly.

"Hey." He tilted your face up, making you to look at him. "Where'd you disappear to just now?"

A beat of silence passed after his question, your eyes drifted somewhere across the room in contemplation.

Then you opened your mouth, your body tensed slightly as your gaze flicked back to his patient eyes.

A small smile tugged at your lips as a hesitant hand drifted toward your stomach.

"Fred..."

And for a split second, you really considered it.

Because what if tomorrow changes everything?

What if this is the wrong time?

What if—

"I promise I'll be careful tomorrow," Fred spoke, interrupting your thoughts.

"What?" you squeaked, blinking a few times.

"Gotcha," he laughed, flicking your nose. "You're distracted!"

“No, I’m not," you huffed.

"We're Weasleys," he said with a crooked grin. "Near-death experiences are basically family traditions."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss between your brows. "I'll be careful. And I’m coming back to you, obviously. I was thinking about expanding the shop after all this is done, and I need you to make sure we don't wreck the place before we even finish."

And in a sense, that gave you hope. Hope you couldn't afford to cling to so strongly, yet were terrified to lose all the same.

War was never a small feat. It was almost too dangerous to even feel things like that.

"So..." His thumbs traced your waist. "You gonna tell me what you were about to say earlier?"

"Oh...that." A sigh escaped your lips before you shook your head. "It's nothing. I just wanted to tell you I'll be careful tomorrow too. And I’ll say it to you once everything's over with."

You gulped, nervous he'd nudge you further for an answer, but he didn't.

"It's rigged if you of all people don't make it out." He dropped his hands, slowly pulling you back to bed before setting you beside him with your head rested on his shoulder. "Mouldy Voldy's minions should be the ones running off when they see someone with the likes of you coming."

That earned a smack on his chest from you. But Merlin, he loved it.

"What a thing to say to your own girlfriend," you scoffed, shifting to move your head over his chest. The sounds of his heartbeat banging pleasantly against your ear.

"I'll be waiting on that confession of yours after tomorrow. You better not leave me at a cliffhanger."

Your lips parted.

Tell him now.

But the words never came.

"Loser who gets to The Great Hall last would owe the winner a year's worth of treats from Honeyduke's."

"...You're on, Weasley."

"Mum?"

A small voice echoed down the dimly lit hallway causing your ears to perk up.

It was always such a familiar sound.

The way your son dragged out certain words exactly the way Fred used to when he was tired.

"Yeah?" you replied, but was only met with silence.

After wiping your hands with a rag you'd nicked from the oven, you made your way towards your son's bedroom.

And there he stood by the doorway, rubbing at one eye dramatically with his hair sticking out in every known direction imaginable. Wonder where you'd seen that before.

"Hi," you whispered, kneeling down to his level with a soft smile. "What's happened? Why're you out of bed?"

"I had a nightmare." And his pout looked awfully familiar. "There were monsters in it and it was loud and scary and I couldn't find you."

"Was it now?" You smiled again, rubbing his arms reassuringly. "You were very brave. Now come, let's get you back and tucked in."

Without fuss, he skipped off and climbed into bed with the same lack of personal space Fred once had. Noticing that pulled a chuckle out of you.

You sat at the empty space beside him, pulling the blanket over his body with one hand. "Ready for bedtime part two?"

"Yes, madam," he answered with a crooked smile. A sight that kept nearly knocking the breath out of your lungs.

A weak laugh escaped you as your eyes adjusted to the warm glow of the lamp light by his bed.

The same freckles dusted across his face, that slight copper red hair illuminated by the warm light, same eyes, same grin, even the same expression when concentrating.

For a moment, it felt cruel how much he resembled the man you loved and lost.

Sometimes loving your son felt dangerously close to missing Fred all over again.

There were nights where all the resemblances caught you off guard no matter how many years had passed, and you wondered if Fred would've noticed it too.

Their shared smile.

Their laugh.

The shared way he and his son would reach for you in their sleep.

The ache never left. At least not really. It only softened around the edges. Soft enough not to cut you as deep anymore.

It had been five years since then, and Fred still found ways to appear before you.

Just...differently this time. Smaller. Younger.

An extension of yours and his love.

"Goodnight, darling," you mumbled, leaning and planted a kiss on his forehead.

But before you could fully turn away and leave your son to rest, his tiny hands had caught your sleeve.

You looked back to see him clutching it like letting go would make you really disappear.

Your eyebrows twitched up in surprise. "What's wrong?"

"...Can you stay until I fall asleep?"

Your expression softened. You turned your body to face him again, before leaning in real close to whisper.

"I'll do you one better. I'll be even here when you wake up tomorrow morning."

And there appeared that small, lopsided, yet shy smile once more. Your chest twisted unexplainably.

"Scoot over then," you chuckled lowly, and settled next to him under the covers that were far too small for your body.

He nestled himself snugly in your arms, his face half buried in your chest with his hands curled into his own. Your hands gently reached for his hair, combing through his locks the same way Molly had once soothed you.

"Ma?" his muffled voice sounded from your torso.

"Mm?"

"Are monsters real?"

You almost laughed at how small his fears still were.

"No." You shook your head, burying your nose in his hair. "Your daddy took care of them a long time ago."

"Is that why he hasn't come back yet?"

And that same ache surged through you again. Your breathing stuttered for a moment before you blinked back the surprise of your son's sudden question.

"Yeah. He's...still got quite a few to handle."

"We'll be here to welcome him back though, right? All that fighting must be really tiring."

"...Of course. We'll even have a cake ready for him, how's that sound?"

Silence. No answer ever came. You looked down and saw that he'd already drifted off to sleep. You felt his breathing had already evened out under your touch.

And in the silence, surrounded by warm lighting and magical toys lying about, your throat began to tighten. Your chest began to swell, and your eyes welled up with tears.

A sigh left your lips.

"God. I wish you could've seen him, Fred," a pained whisper escaped you, tilting your head back against the headboard. "He's exactly like you. You were right."

Your sniffles filled the room, mixing with the sound of the distant clock that ticked down the hall. You shifted your body down carefully so you were now lying next to your boy, head on his chest and ready for the steady rhythm of his breathing to lull you to sleep.

So there you were, head rested against his chest, listening carefully as his heartbeat drummed steadily beneath your ear.

The rhythm was different only in size. Smaller, lighter, but familiar enough to make your throat tighten again.

It sounded like home.

And for the first time in years, the sound didn't destroy you.

Somewhere between the steady beating beneath your ear and your son's sleepy breathing, grief loosened its grip.

Fred's heartbeat had once been your favorite song, and somehow, against all odds, you had found the melody again.

Fred hadn't left you empty-handed after all. He never did.

In the quiet of the night, with your son held safely in your arms, you realized Fred had never truly stopped coming back.

[romanczukowsky]

Temporary — (Part 1)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Breakups with Fred Weasley had always been temporary.

A slammed door. A bruised ego. A few days of silence before one of you inevitably came back.

So when you tell Fred you’ve started seeing someone else, he laughs.

Right up until he realizes you’re serious.

Warnings: Romance / Angst with Humour / Jealousy / Emotional Slow Burn / Suggestive / Mild Smut

Breakups with Fred Weasley had become so common that by fifth year, most of Gryffindor treated them like weather conditions.

Loud. Temporary. And usually resolved within twenty-four hours.

At this point, people barely reacted anymore. Because somehow despite the jealousy, the arguments, the slammed doors, the absolutely catastrophic communication skills... you and Fred always found your way back to each other.

Usually through excessive flirting and poor decision making.

Which was why when the boys’ dormitory door slammed open with a bang loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

“Honestly?” Fred snapped, storming into the room. “I’m done. Finished. Dead. Romance has killed me.”

George didn’t look up from the Zonko’s catalogue in his lap.

“What’d you do?”

Fred looked scandalized. “Why is everyone immediately against me?”

Lee Jordan snorted from his bed. “Fred, come on.”

Fred ignored him completely, already pacing between the beds with sharp, annoyed energy.

“No, because tell me if this sounds fair to you lot,” he continued dramatically. “A girl asks me where the library is—”

George finally spoke without looking up. “First year?”

Fred frowned. “…No.”

“Second?”

“No, she was older.”

That made George pause for the first time. Slowly, he lowered the catalogue. “How old?”

Fred shrugged. “Fifth year maybe? Sixth? I don’t know.”

Silence.

“Fred,” Kenneth laughed from the corner of the room, “if she was sixth year, she’s been living here for nearly six years.”

Fred opened his mouth.

Paused.

Because annoyingly enough…

the girl had smiled quite a lot.

George saw the realization hit him and groaned softly into the catalogue.

“Oh, Y/N murdered you for this, didn’t she?”

“She overreacted,” Fred defended immediately.He dragged both hands through his hair now, properly irritated.

“I can’t do this anymore! Every conversation turns into ‘Why were you smiling like that?’, ‘Why’d you walk her there?’, ‘Why does every girl in this school look at you like that?’”

George raised an eyebrow. “To be fair, you do flirt with people accidentally.”

“I do NOT flirt with anyone.” Fred dropped dramatically onto his bed. “And THEN,” he continued loudly, “she starts going on about how I don’t take the relationship seriously—”

“You broke up with her, didn’t you?” George interrupted calmly.

Fred paused.

“…Maybe.”

Lee made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“For God’s sake.”

Fred sat upright instantly. “No, because listen—what was I supposed to do? She keeps acting like I’m seconds away from running off with every girl who talks to me.”

George looked unimpressed.

“You did walk a random girl to the library.”

“She asked.”

“She was flirting.”

“I was being NICE.”

“You’re always being nice,” Lee informed him. “That’s the problem.”

Fred stared at all of them in disbelief.

“This room is unbelievable.”

George snorted quietly and picked the catalogue back up again.

“So,” he said casually, “how long before you go crawling back downstairs?”

Fred looked offended. “I do not crawl.”

“Right. You lean against walls and flirt until she forgives you.”

Fred considered this. “…That’s completely different.”

Lee laughed again.

Fred smirked faintly now, irritation already fading from his face.

Because honestly?

This was how things worked.

You fought. He said something dramatic. You ignored each other for a bit. Then eventually one of you cracked.

Usually him.

And judging by the way George was already turning another page like none of this mattered. Everyone else knew it too.

Fred grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it behind his head comfortably.

“She’ll get over it by tomorrow.”

Across the castle, the girls’ dormitory door flew open with equal force.

“I hate him.”

Angelina didn’t even blink.

You stared at her in disbelief. “Did you hear me?”

“What did he do?” Angelina asked, not even looking up from her nails.

You threw your bag onto your mattress hard enough to make the curtains shake. “He thinks I’m overreacting.”

Angelina hummed. “Mhm.”

Your jaw dropped. “This is serious!”

“That’s what you said last time,” Alicia pointed out.

“And the time before that,” Katie added.

“That is NOT the point!” You groaned loudly and dropped onto your bed. “And then,” you muttered into your pillow, “he says maybe we should stop doing this altogether if I’m going to keep acting mental every time he talks to another girl.”

That finally got a reaction.

Mostly because all three girls exchanged the exact same look.

Not shocked.

Just Ah. Another breakup.

Angelina went back to painting her nails. “So,” she asked casually, “how long are we giving this one?”

Katie answered immediately. “Tomorrow.”

“Saturday at worst,” Alicia agreed.

The girls laughed softly.

Normally, you would’ve laughed too.

Because usually they were right.

Usually Fred would appear beside you with that stupid grin, flirt until you forgot why you were angry, kiss you against a wall somewhere and suddenly everything would be fine again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

But this time instead of comforting you the whole thing just made you tired.

You sat up slowly.

“No,” you said quietly.

You looked down at your hands for a second before continuing“No, because this isn’t normal anymore.”

The room went quiet.

You laughed once softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it.

“We break up every other week and everyone just…” You gestured vaguely around the room. “Waits for us to get back together again.”

And suddenly the words spilled out before you could stop them.

“He doesn’t even care when he says it anymore.”

Nobody interrupted you.

Because deep down they all knew exactly what you meant.

Fred always came back. Fred always flirted. Fred always kissed you like he couldn’t survive without you.

But somehow he’d also become completely certain you’d never really leave.

Like no matter what he said in the heat of an argument, you’d still be there afterward.

Still his.

Still waiting.

The thought made something twist painfully in your chest.

You swallowed hard before looking up again.

“Well,” you said finally, quieter this time, “this time he’s going to regret it.”

You grabbed your pajamas and stood.

“This time,” you repeated, “Fred Weasley’s actually going to understand what breaking up means.”

And for the first time all evening none of the girls laughed.

The next morning, you avoided Fred Weasley with military precision.

At first, Fred found it funny.

By Thursday, even George had stopped asking questions.

By Friday, Lee started a betting pool. “Ten sickles says they’re back together by Sunday.”

“Too optimistic,” Angelina muttered from nearby.

Fred smirked from the sofa. “She misses me already, I guarantee it.”

And maybe part of him even believed that.

Because despite everything you and Fred always came back to each other.

Always.

Which was why the second week felt…strange. Because now people had started noticing.

Noticing you never sat together anymore, Fred stopped automatically saving the seat beside him, you no longer looked at each other across the room.

Even the common room felt different somehow.

Quieter.

People started exchanging looks. Like maybe this breakup had lasted slightly too long to still be funny.

Fred noticed it too.

Of course he did.

But every time George asked if he was finally going to talk to you properly, Fred shrugged casually.

“She just needs time.”

Fred knew you.

So when he spotted you alone outside the library late that afternoon and immediately changed direction. You were sitting on the wide stone windowsill with a book in your lap, completely focused.

Fred grinned faintly to himself.

He missed you.

Which was exactly why he walked straight over and dropped beside you like he belonged there.

Because in his mind? He still did.

Fred leaned sideways slightly, trying to read the page.

“Merlin,” he groaned, “this looks painfully boring.”

A tiny smile flickered at the corner of your mouth before disappearing again.

Fred saw it instantly.

And relaxed.

He smiled faintly to himself and nudged your knee gently with his.

Now that you were finally sitting beside him again, everything felt stupidly fixable.

So naturally Fred leaned in to kiss you.

Only this time you pulled away before his lips could touch yours.

Fred froze for half a second. Then he laughed softly under his breath, recovering instantly.

“Alright,” he smirked faintly. “Still angry. Got it.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Terrifying, then.”

You closed your book slowly.

And something about that movement made Fred’s smile weaken just slightly.

Because you still looked calm.

No yelling. No jealousy. No dramatics.

That was new.

“Sweetheart,” Fred said lightly, “we’ve had worse fights than this.”

And quietly you answered. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Fred frowned faintly.

Before he could respond, you looked down at the book in your lap and shut it fully.

“I’m seeing someone.”

Fred blinked once, then laughed immediately.

Actually laughed.

“Oh, that’s brilliant.”

“I’m serious.”

Fred leaned back against the stone wall beside you with a crooked grin. “Love, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just said so.”

You just looked at him completely serious.

And Fred still relaxed, still certain, shook his head with quiet amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I mean it, Fred.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

Fred snorted softly. “Come on Y/N. You’re telling me you suddenly found another boyfriend?”

“I didn’t say boyfriend.”

“Even worse,” Fred grinned. “Now I know you’re lying.”

You stood before he could say anything else, sliding your book against your chest.

Fred looked up at you, still completely unconcerned.

“You’ll talk to me eventually,” he informed you casually.

You held his gaze for a second.

Then:

“Maybe.”

And walked away.

Fred watched you disappear down the corridor before shaking his head softly to himself.

—

“She’s bluffing.”

“She sounded convincing?” Lee asked.

Fred sprawled further across the common room sofa, completely relaxed.

“She’s clearly trying to make me jealous,” he explained. “Which honestly? Fair enough.”

George hummed thoughtfully. “So how long until she forgives you?”

Fred shrugged lazily. “At this point? No idea. She’s dragging this out weirdly long.”

“Maybe she’s actually angry this time.”

“She’s always angry.”

Lee laughed into his drink.

Fred leaned back with a sigh. “And apparently now she’s invented some mystery bloke she’s seeing.”

Right then Angelina, walking past the sofa with Katie, stopped abruptly.

“You know,” she said casually, “it’s not invented.”

Fred barely looked up. “Mhm.”

Still relaxed.

Angelina folded her arms. “Y/N is actually seeing someone.”

Fred barked out a laugh. “Oh, please.”

“She is,” Katie added carefully.

Fred stared at both of them.

Then scoffed.

“No, she isn’t.”

“She spent all of yesterday in Hogsmeade with him,” Angelina replied.

Something flickered briefly across Fred’s face then.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

“…Who?”

Katie and Angelina exchanged a quick glance.

Then Angelina answered:

“Cedric Diggory.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Fred snorted softly and leaned back into the sofa again, grin returning immediately.

“Oh, now I know she’s messing with me.”

“Fred—” George started.

“No, think about it,” Fred interrupted, laughing now. “Diggory? Really?”

“She’s serious,” Angelina informed him.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

And the dangerous little smile that spread slowly across his face after that looked far too much like a challenge.

The next morning, Fred saw you before you saw him. And immediately wished he hadn’t.

You were crossing the courtyard beside Cedric Diggory, sunlight catching against your face while you laughed at something he’d said.

Cedric carried half your books under one arm effortlessly.

Fred slowed automatically.

The faint grin on his face twitched slightly, not disappearing completely, just… tightening.

George, walking beside him, noticed instantly.

Fred scoffed softly. “She’s dedicated, I’ll give her that.”

But his eyes stayed on you.

On the way you leaned closer to Cedric when he spoke.

On the way Cedric looked at you like he already knew things about you.

Fred hated that immediately.

Still he smiled lazily to himself. “Cute. Very cute.”

—

Later that evening, Fred finally found you alone.

About bloody time.

Because watching Cedric Diggory carry your books around all day like some tragic romantic hero was beginning to genuinely irritate him.

You had just turned the corner of an empty corridor when a familiar hand caught your waist from behind.

Warm. Certain.

“Found you,” he murmured against your ear.

Your breath caught instantly.

Fred smiled against your skin the second he felt it.

Before you could properly react, he gently pulled you backward against his chest, hands settling low on your hips like they belonged there.

“You shouldn’t do that anymore Fred.”

“Do what, love?”

“This.”

Fred’s fingers flexed lightly against your waist.

His voice turned teasing. “Touch my own girlfriend?”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

“Temporary title.”

You tried stepping away.

Fred only moved closer.

Not forcefully. Never forcefully.

Just naturally.

His chin brushed near your temple as he spoke again.

“You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, “Diggory carrying your books around all day was a bit much.”

You turned in his hold until you were facing him.

Fred still didn’t let go.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” he corrected softly, eyes dragging slowly across your face, “I’m annoyed.”

You swallowed once.

Fred noticed immediately.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning closer now, “can we stop this now?”

Your heartbeat was already betraying you. You hated that.

Hated how easy it still was for him.

Fred saw the hesitation flicker across your expression and stepped even closer.

Now there was barely space left between you.

“You know what I miss?” he asked quietly.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead “What?”

Fred’s eyes darkened slightly.

“This.”

One hand slid slowly higher along your waist before settling again.

“Having you this close.”

Your breath caught again.

Fred smiled faintly.

“And Merlin,” he whispered, “I miss your body.”

Heat rushed through you immediately.

Fred’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again.

“Miss you sneaking into my room at stupid hours because apparently you ‘couldn’t sleep.’” His fingers traced lazily along your side. “Miss your legs tangled with mine at three in the morning.” Another inch closer. “Miss the way you look in my bed.”

“Fred—”

“No, come on,” he murmured softly. “You can’t honestly tell me you haven’t thought about it too.”

His mouth brushed near your ear again when he spoke next.

“Because I have.”

Your pulse stumbled badly now.

Fred noticed every second of it.

And grew more confident with each reaction.

“You know what I kept thinking all day?” he whispered.

You hated yourself for asking “What?”

Fred smiled slowly. “You,” he murmured, “me, my room…”

His fingers tightened slightly against your waist.

“…door locked.”

Fred leaned his forehead lightly against yours now, completely certain he was winning.

For one horrible second you almost broke, and Fred saw it. That familiar victorious look started creeping slowly across his face.

Until quietly you said: “I’m still seeing someone.”

Fred exhaled a soft laugh against your mouth. “Right. Diggory.”

“I mean it.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured patiently, “you don’t have to keep doing this.”

You looked directly at him then.

Completely serious.

And slowly—

very slowly—

Fred’s smile weakened.

You stepped back this time.

And Fred let you.

“I’m not pretending, Fred.”

That landed somewhere far deeper than it should have.

But before he could answer—

you walked away again.

Leaving Fred standing alone in the corridor, staring after you for several long seconds.

And for the first time since this entire thing started—

Fred Weasley stopped looking certain.

[leinesluckyclover]

im in english project purgatory, but we're doing dead poets society but while i was supposed to do a serious art piece i got a little side tracked... long live charlie dalton

tis but a doodle but its cute enough that i wanted to share

[mostlymarvelgirl]

I really miss those old avengers tower fics

1. Clint in the vents

2. Bruce and Tony in the lab... science bros

3. Cap being accused and called out by his team ... either it's the "language" or "I understood that reference"

4. Loki for some reason being imprisoned in the tower by Odin to learn humanity blah blah

5. Thor and his poptarts

6. Natasha and wanda being the bestie

7. Reader either dating Loki or Bucky

8. Fury calling out reader initially as a threat as they were an orphan who was a lineage of witches type of trope. OR reader is Tony's kid.

9. Bucky randomly becoming besties with Sam and them having their own fights.

10. Peter and Shuri becoming besties with reader

11. Maria, pepper, wanda, Natasha and reader having sleepovers.

12. Tony having a party every time after a mission. Everyone ends up trying to lift thor's hammer and reader turns out to be worthy.

13. Loki teaching reader how to use magic.

And the list goes on....

[lokileaf]

Loki who always keeps a protective eye on you from across the room.

Loki who leaves fine, gift-wrapped dresses on your bed for you to find.

Loki who always walks on the street side of the sidewalk.

Loki who uses his seiðr to lower the temperature of your room when it’s too hot for you to sleep.

Loki who lives for eye contact.

Loki who leaves cold kisses across your shoulders.

Loki who weaves your hair into Asgardian-style braids.

Loki who lets you sleep on his shoulder on the subway after a long day.

Loki who grows his hair out because you said you liked it.

Loki who listens to Midgardian music because you love it.

Loki who sets your morning alarms for you when you forget.

Loki who buys the books you mention and leaves them for you to find.

Loki who wakes you up with his tongue between your thighs.

Loki who conjures a clone of himself after you mention a wet dream you had.

Loki who opens doors for you.

Loki who kisses your spine as you’re on all fours in front of him.

Loki who moans into your mouth when his hair is pulled.

Loki who manspreads because he sees how you look at him when he does.

Loki who likes to fuck you against the wall.

Loki who enters your dreams at night because he can’t get enough of you.

Loki who braids a strand of your hair into his.

Loki who teleports you to a different location at the first sign of danger.

Loki who struggles with the idea of taking you to Asgard.

Loki who shows up on your fire escape late at night.

Loki who whispers nasty things in your ear in public.

Loki who whisks you away to foreign countries for the weekend.

Loki who contemplates giving up his immortality because the thought of outliving you is too much.

[icaruswar]

shane and ilya at their daughter's peewee hockey game, judging the FUCK out of the coach for roster mismanagement and mediocre in-game adjustments.

(they don't realise that this is a middle school annual tournament for kids and not the NHL playoffs)

edit: since you guys liked the tags so much;

[trowneyy]

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐊!

• fred weasley

{summary} It starts with a look across the dinner table—the kind that lingers too long to be innocent. By the time Fred gets you alone, the teasing is gone, replaced by something quieter, closer, and far more dangerous… until a very unfortunate interruption ruins the moment.

{content} fred weasley x reader, established relationship, warm to heated transition, soft tension, kissing, slow undressing (non-explicit), emotional closeness, almost-smut

Dinner at the Burrow has that restless kind of warmth that never quite settles. The table is crowded, plates half-cleared, voices overlapping in a constant stream that makes it impossible to follow any one conversation for too long. Laughter comes in bursts, chairs scrape against the floor, and somewhere at the far end Molly is insisting someone takes more food they’ve already refused twice. The windows are open, letting in the soft evening air, but it does very little to cut through the heat gathered inside.

You try to pay attention.

You really do.

But it becomes increasingly difficult when you can feel it—that steady, familiar pull of attention that doesn’t let up.

When you glance up, it’s exactly where you expect it to be. Fred Weasley is already looking at you, elbow propped lazily against the table, his focus nowhere near the conversation happening around him. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you catch him. Instead, his mouth tilts slightly, something knowing in it, like he’s been waiting for you to notice.

You drop your gaze back to your plate, but it doesn’t help.

It never does.

A few minutes pass like that—half-listening, half-aware—until you feel movement beside you. Not obvious enough to draw attention, just enough that you notice him shifting, leaning slightly closer.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past you.

“I’m listening,” you reply, though your attention is already slipping.

“To what?” he murmurs, glancing briefly around the table before looking back at you again. “None of them are making any sense.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That’s not new.”

“No,” he agrees, and there’s something softer in the way he says it now, something that settles between you instead of being thrown out like a joke. His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts again, just slightly, like he’s testing the space.

You don’t move away.

There’s a pause.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

But long enough.

“Come on,” he says quietly.

You don’t ask where.

You don’t ask why.

You just push your chair back a little, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and stand. No one stops you. No one really notices—everyone is still too caught up in their own conversations.

He follows a second later.

Not rushed.

Not obvious.

But close.

The moment you step into the hallway, the difference is immediate. The noise fades into something distant, muffled behind walls and floors, replaced by quiet that feels almost too still after everything downstairs. The air is cooler here, moving slowly through the open windows, carrying the faint scent of summer with it.

You walk side by side at first.

Then not quite.

Because he drifts closer without thinking about it, until your arms brush, until there’s barely any space between you at all.

“You didn’t even argue,” he says, his voice softer now, more private in the quiet.

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s new.”

You glance at him briefly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” he says, but there’s something in his tone that makes it sound like he doesn’t mind either way.

You reach the stairs, moving up them slowly, the wood creaking faintly under your steps. He’s right behind you now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching, close enough that every movement feels more noticeable.

“You were staring,” you say, not turning.

“So were you.”

“I was not.”

“You were,” he replies easily. “You’re just worse at hiding it.”

You huff quietly. “You weren’t hiding it at all.”

“Didn’t see the point.”

That sits with you.

Longer than it should.

By the time you reach his room, the tension is already there, stretched thin and waiting.

You step inside first, the room dim in the soft gold of evening, the open window letting in a slow breeze that shifts the curtains just enough to make the space feel alive. It smells faintly like him—clean, familiar, something that settles into you before you can think about it.

He steps in after you.

Closes the door.

Not locked.

Just shut.

And for a second—

nothing happens.

You turn slightly, meaning to say something, to break the quiet before it becomes too much—

But you don’t get the chance.

Because he’s already there.

Close enough that the space disappears in a single step, his hand finding your wrist first, then your waist, pulling you toward him with an ease that makes it feel like this was always going to happen.

“Couldn’t wait?” you murmur, but it comes out softer than you meant it to.

“You came with me,” he replies, just as quiet.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is tonight.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t have time to.

Because he kisses you.

It’s immediate—not rushed, not messy, but certain. Like he’s been holding it back just enough to make it matter now. His hand settles at your waist, steady, grounding, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

You lean into it without thinking.

Of course you do.

“Thought about this all evening,” he murmurs against your lips, barely pulling away.

You let out a soft breath that fades when he kisses you again, deeper this time, more intentional, like he’s not holding back anymore.

Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately, the shift subtle but there—his hand tightening slightly, his body pressing closer.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

“You like trouble.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “when it’s you.”

That’s what tips it.

The movement to the bed happens without either of you really deciding it. The back of your legs meets the mattress and you let out a soft breath as you fall back slightly, his hand steadying you, guiding more than pushing. The sheets are warm, faintly rumpled, the room suddenly feeling smaller, closer, like everything outside it has disappeared completely.

He follows you down, not breaking the moment, the kiss shifting again—slower now, deeper, more deliberate. His hand moves along your side, not rushed, just there, like he’s paying attention to every reaction, every breath.

His hand travel under you shirt, his finger tips cold agains your skin as he pushes the shirt over your head breaking the kiss for a moment. He throws the shirt somewhere on the ground, before pressing his lips against your neck, leaving soft kisses.

Your hands travel to his sweater too pulling at it a bit before speaking. “Fred...“ you mumble into his hair, he pulls away from your neck, straightening up to take off his sweater, revealing his bare skin.

“You are so hot,“ he says, looking down at you, eight there in front of him, laying on his bed only in your pants and bra.

You chuckle quietly, “come here“ you mutter to him, pulling him down and pressing your lips against his, the kiss being hotter now.

Fred ’s lips travel from your lips to your jaw, to your neck, to your collarbone and to in between your breasts. Leaving wet marks behind.

His fingers brush against the waistaband of your pants, looking up at you for approval. You nod, hands in his hair.

He softly undoes the button and zip, when suddenly...

The door opens.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Fred stills first, his head lifting slowly, like he already knows this is going to be bad.

“…you’re joking.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Oh—bloody hell—”

Ron Weasley stands frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, like he’s just walked into something he absolutely did not want to see.

For a second, no one moves.

Then Fred exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, irritation cutting through everything else.

“Ever heard of knocking?” he says flatly.

Ron blinks. “I didn’t— I thought—”

“You didn’t think,” Fred cuts in, sharper now, already shifting slightly, instinctively blocking you from view even if it’s far too late. “Door was closed. That’s usually a clue.”

“You didn’t lock it!”

“Because normal people knock!”

You turn your face away, heat rushing up, grabbing whatever you can just to have something to do.

“Ron,” you manage, “out.”

“I am leaving,” he says immediately, backing away fast. “I’m gone—this didn’t happen—I didn’t see anything—”

He disappears down the hallway.

Fred watches the doorway for a second longer, jaw tight.

Then, louder—

“Next time—”

A pause outside.

His voice sharpens, deliberate.

“KNOCK.”

The door shuts.

Silence settles again.

Thick.

Shifted.

Fred exhales slowly, then looks back at you, something softer slipping back into place like nothing just happened.

“…where were we?”

And somehow—

it doesn’t feel over at all.

[romanczukowsky]

Claimed by Fire

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Fred won’t share you. A slip of the tongue, a name you didn’t mean, and suddenly everything explodes — jealousy, anger, desire. He claims you, and neither of you can resist. A heated argument becomes a wild, unrestrained night where boundaries vanish and passion takes over.

Warnings: Mature content / Smut / Strong language / Jealousy & possessive behavior / Emotional intensity

You were already close when it started.

Too close to think clearly.

Fred’s hands rested on your waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded patterns as if he had nowhere else to be, as if this was the most natural place in the world. You leaned into him without thinking, drawn by the familiar warmth, the quiet crackle of tension that always sparked when he looked at you like that — amused, intent, entirely focused.

His lips brushed yours once, then again, deeper this time. Unhurried. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world.

You smiled into the kiss.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low, roughened just enough to make your pulse jump.

“I’m right here,” you whispered back.

His hands slid higher, then lower again, teasing, grounding. He kissed along your jaw, your cheek, then down the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping familiar territory he never tired of exploring.

You sighed, head tipping back without thinking, giving him access.

“Fred…” you breathed.

He hummed softly, pleased, lips lingering at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s it.”

The room felt smaller. Warmer. Like the rest of the castle had faded away.

His mouth moved lower, kisses unspooling down your neck, unhurried but purposeful. One of his hands slipped beneath the edge of your shirt, fingers warm against your skin, making you shiver despite yourself.

Your thoughts blurred.

Your body reacted faster than your brain could keep up.

And then—

“Ced—”

The sound left your mouth before you could stop it.

Before you could even realize what you’d said.

Everything stopped.

Fred froze.

His lips left your skin. His hand stilled. The warmth vanished so suddenly it felt like stepping into cold air after fire.

Silence filled the space between you — thick, heavy, unmistakable.

Slowly, Fred pulled back just enough to look at you.

“What did you just say?” he asked.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

You blinked, still dazed, heat flushing your face. “What?” You frowned, confused. “I—what do you mean?”

His jaw tightened.

“What,” he repeated, slower now, sharper, “did you just say?”

Understanding hit you like ice water.

Your stomach dropped.

“I—” You swallowed hard. “Fred, I didn’t mean—”

“What. The fuck. Did you say?” His voice rose this time, disbelief cutting through it like a blade.

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest. “It was a mistake,” you rushed out. “I swear. I don’t even know why—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, pulling his hands away completely now, stepping back as if distance was the only thing keeping him from losing control. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

You sat up fully, panic creeping in. “It’s just—Cedric’s been helping me study lately, and he’s been around so much and my head’s been full and it didn’t mean anything, Fred. Nothing. Please.”

He stared at you like you’d struck him.

“So he’s in your head,” Fred said flatly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

You shook your head quickly. “It was a name. A slip. That’s all. It doesn’t change anything.”

Fred let out a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t moan someone else’s name by accident.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

“I want you,” you said, voice shaking now. “I’m here with you.”

“And that’s the problem,” he snapped. “If I’m here with you, I don’t want anyone else anywhere near your thoughts.”

You stared at him, stunned. “So what, you’re just… stopping?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Absolutely.”

Your chest tightened. “Fred—”

“No,” he cut in, running a hand through his hair, agitation written all over him. “I’m not doing this. I’m not sleeping with you while you’ve got another bloke rattling around in your head.”

“That’s not fair.”

He looked at you sharply. “Neither is that.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

“If it passes,” he continued, voice lower, controlled with effort, “if you figure out whatever this is — then fine. Come find me.” His gaze met yours, wounded and stubborn all at once. “But I’m not sharing you. Not even like this.”

Then he stepped back, putting physical space where intimacy had been seconds before.

You sat there, stunned, heart pounding, anger flaring hot and fast beneath the shock.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, voice tight.

Fred’s mouth twisted. “Maybe. But at least I know whose name I’m saying.”

He turned away before you could answer.

And just like that, the warmth was gone — replaced with something sharp, unresolved, and aching.

You didn’t chase him.

And he didn’t look back.

The next day was worse.

Fred was still Fred — laughing too loudly at breakfast, leaning back in his chair like the world had never offended him once. He joked with Lee, stole someone’s toast, flashed that effortless grin that used to be yours.

Just not at you.

When his eyes met yours, something shut down. The smile vanished. His jaw tightened. He looked away.

You didn’t speak either.

You told yourself you were right. You hadn’t done anything wrong. A name wasn’t betrayal. Not really. Still, by the third day, the tension sat behind your eyes like a headache you couldn’t shake.

You noticed everything.

How he never sat near you. How he never reached for you. How, according to Lee, Fred had started sitting next to some girl in class — someone you didn’t even know.

The jealousy surprised you with its violence.

So when Cedric found you that afternoon, it felt like relief — unfair, unwanted, but real.

“Hey,” he said gently, holding up a stack of notes. “I thought you might want help with this part. I’ve got time.”

He smiled the way he always did — kind, steady, unthreatening.

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You sat together, talking, flipping pages. It was easy. Too easy. Like slipping into a familiar rhythm.

Then his hand brushed yours.

Once — accidental, you told yourself.

Again.

And again.

When you pulled your hands into your lap, his knee touched yours under the table, lingering just long enough to make your spine stiffen. His gaze held yours a second longer than friendly required.

Something was wrong.

You stood abruptly. “I—sorry. I just remembered I need to—something. I should go.”

Cedric blinked. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I just—later, okay?”

You left before he could answer.

You were halfway down the corridor when someone shouted your name.

You turned.

Cedric jogged toward you, slightly out of breath, holding your notebook. “You forgot this.”

“Oh. Right.” You took it — and his fingers stayed wrapped around yours a moment too long.

You flushed.

He noticed.

His expression shifted — softened, sharpened, emboldened all at once.

“I heard some things,” he said carefully. “People saying you and Fred… aren’t together anymore.”

Your stomach dropped. “Who said that?”

He shrugged. “I just thought—since we’ve known each other so long… And I’d be lying if I said you haven’t been on my mind for a long time, Y/N. I really like you—”

He leaned in.

And before you could react—

“Oi! Diggory!”

Fred’s voice cracked through the corridor like a whip.

Cedric froze.

Fred stormed toward you, fury rolling off him in waves. “Have you lost your mind? Or do you always go after girls who aren’t yours?”

Cedric straightened. “I thought she was free.”

Fred laughed sharply. “Thought wrong.”

He stepped between you without hesitation. “Just because our dads get on doesn’t mean I’ll like you if you don’t learn one thing.” His eyes were ice-cold. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”

Cedric opened his mouth.

“Do it again,” Fred finished, voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll rearrange that pretty face.”

Fred grabbed your hand and pulled you away before Cedric could reply.

You didn’t resist.

Back in the common room, eyes followed you. Whispers sparked. Fred didn’t care.

He dragged you into his room, shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Fred didn’t shout at first.

That was almost worse.

He paced once, then turned to you, hands planted on his hips like he was trying to physically hold himself together. His jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, “Do you have any idea,” he said slowly, “how that looked?”

You scoffed. “I didn’t do anything.”

His laugh was sharp, disbelieving. “You didn’t do anything,” he repeated. “You let him! Like I didn’t exist.”

“That’s not fair,” you shot back immediately. “You’re the one who acted like I didn’t exist for three days.”

Fred stopped pacing.

His eyes snapped to yours. “Because I was angry.”

“And I wasn’t?” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “You walked away from me. You didn’t even ask what it meant — you just decided I wasn’t worth staying for.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snapped. “I asked. You brushed it off.”

“Because I made a little mistake and you acted like it was a crime.” you fired back.

Fred dragged a hand through his hair, frustration written all over his face. “It wasn’t just a 'little' mistake. It was personal.”

You swallowed. “I said his name once.”

“Once was enough,” he said immediately. “You’re minimizing it because facing it would mean admitting you crossed a line.”

“Do you know how that felt?,” he said lowly. “To hear another man’s name when I was touching you? When I thought we were—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. “When I thought I had all of you.”

You opened your mouth — then stopped.

“No,” he continued, voice lower now, more dangerous. “Don’t brush it off. Don’t pretend it’s nothing. Because it is something. It’s humiliating. It’s like being told I wasn’t really there with you at all.”

Your throat tightened. You looked away.

“I wasn’t thinking,” you said quietly.

“That’s the problem,” he snapped. “I was. Every second.”

The air felt too thick to breathe.

“I wanted you,” he continued, quieter now, rough with restraint. “I chose you. And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t the only one in your head.”

You stepped closer despite yourself. “You’re right,” you said, forcing the words out. “It was wrong. If the roles were reversed… I’d have lost my mind.”

Fred’s shoulders dropped just a fraction.

“I didn’t pull away to punish you,” he said roughly. “I pulled away because if I stayed, I would’ve said something I couldn’t take back.”

That broke something in you.

You stepped closer. “I never wanted anyone else. I was overwhelmed. He was around all the time. It didn’t mean—”

“It mattered,” Fred said, cutting in. “Because I love you.”

“You scared me,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “You scared me too.”

And for the first time in days, when Fred looked at you, he didn’t look away.

He held your gaze like he was daring you to flinch first — like he was staking a claim without saying a word. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped into your space until there was nowhere left to retreat.

His hand came up, firm at your jaw, tilting your face back to meet his eyes.

“Say it again,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Say what?”

“That you’re here,” he replied. “With me.”

“I’m here,” you whispered. “With you.”

Something dark and relieved flickered across his face.

“Good,” he murmured — and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle this time.

It was hungry. Controlled. Like days of restraint snapping all at once.

His mouth claimed yours fully, unyielding, his hand still at your jaw, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse jump. You melted into it, fingers clutching at his shirt like you needed the anchor.

He backed you up without breaking the kiss, step by step, until the edge of the bed hit the backs of your legs.

Fred broke away just long enough to say, low and certain, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Then he pushed you down.

Not roughly — decisively.

He followed you immediately, body crowding yours, solid and warm, the weight of him grounding and unmistakable. One knee pressed between yours, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in like he was reminding himself you were real.

You gasped when his mouth found your neck.

“This,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough, “is mine.”

Your hands slid up his back, nails grazing skin, and he groaned softly at the contact — a sound that sent heat straight through you.

He kissed you like he was reclaiming something he’d been afraid of losing. Slow, deep, relentless. Every touch deliberate. Every movement sure.

When his forehead rested against yours, his breath was uneven.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

His expression softened just a fraction — enough to make your chest ache.

“There you are,” he murmured. “That’s who I want. No one else.”

Your answer was lost when he kissed you again, deeper this time, hands roaming, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you at all.

The room seemed to fade — the world narrowing to heat and breath and the way his body fit against yours like it always had.

His mouth lingered at your ear.

“Stay,” he whispered.

You did.

And the door stayed closed long after the fire burned low.

Later the fire crackled softly as you sat curled on the sofa, knees tucked beneath you, staring into the flames more than actually reading the book in your hands. Your body was pleasantly tired, your thoughts finally calm.

“Y/N?”

Ginny’s voice was careful. Hesitant.

You looked up.

She stood a few steps away, arms folded loosely over her chest, her expression a mix of concern and uncertainty — not teasing, not playful. Worried.

“Hey,” you said softly. “What’s wrong?”

She exhaled, clearly relieved that you didn’t look upset — but still not convinced. She moved closer and sat on the arm of the sofa.

“I just wanted to check on you,” she said. “About you and Fred.”

Your stomach dipped. “Okay…”

“I was walking past his room earlier,” Ginny continued, lowering her voice, “and I heard you shout. Like—really shout.”

You stiffened.

“And,” she added quickly, “I’m not judging, I swear — I just… you sounded upset. And you used the F-word. Very loudly.”

Your face went warm instantly.

Ginny noticed — and frowned. “See? That’s exactly why I’m asking. Are you two okay? Because it didn’t sound like a normal argument.”

You hesitated for half a second — then let out a breathy laugh.

“Oh,” you said. “Ginny.”

Her eyes widened. “That wasn’t a fight?”

“No,” you said, mortified but smiling now. “It really, really wasn’t.”

She blinked. “So you weren’t yelling at him?”

“Nope.”

“…at all?”

You shook your head. “Different kind of situation.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ginny’s lips parted slightly. “Oh.”

You nodded, burying your face in your book. “Yeah.”

Ginny stared at the fire for a second, processing — then groaned softly and covered her face with her hands.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. “I was worried sick.”

“I’m so sorry,” you said, laughing quietly. “I didn’t realize—”

“I thought he’d made you cry,” she went on. “Or that something awful happened. I was halfway through writing a letter to my mum..”

You peeked at her. “Please don’t.”

She dropped her hands and looked at you again — this time, finally smiling. “So… everything’s okay?”

You nodded, warmth settling comfortably in your chest. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

Ginny sighed in relief. “Good. Because for a second there, I was ready to hex my own brother.”

You snorted. “That’s fair.”

She stood, shaking her head. “Next time,” she said dryly, “maybe keep the language down a bit.”

You groaned. “Ginny!”

She grinned over her shoulder. “I’m just saying — ‘Oh my fucking—’ echoes more than you think.”

And as she walked away, still smiling to herself, you sank back into the sofa, cheeks warm, heart full — knowing that this time, everything really was fine.

[blog-of-agony-and-despair]

Why is he so…FINE?!?

[maeverrrb]

Not Shy Of A Spark - Fred W. x Slytherin!Reader

A/N: I love the idea of like a fun slytherin sm!! Like kind of the resident fun slytherin who literally just gets along with everyone!! I like to think reader took the pic of fred w the lil camera we see her with eheh

Warning(s): Reader is a slytherin but NICE, fred is completely enamored, reader is popular, extroverted, and loves parties!! Reader and Fred are in their last year, before he drops out to open the shop <33

Word count: 1.8k

Dividers by @muerdida !!

The Gryffindor common room pulsated like it had a heartbeat, fluorescing lights lighting up the room in flashes of red, blue, yellow, and green. The tables, chairs, and everything pushed aside to make a makeshift dancefloor. Nights like these were beautiful; people came, without house colours, but as themselves. People got along, danced and drank together. Nelly Furtado played over invisible speakers, silencing charms being tested to their limits. Bodies swayed under the strobing lights, the room was filled with obnoxiously loud singing and hammered sixth and seventh years yelling over the music to talk to each other.

You were the centre of it all, despite it not even being your house’s party; you were fanning the flame, all around the room. Taking shots off of Alicia Spinnet’s back one second, the next chatting up Roger Davies in another corner. You danced with Cassius Warrington, giggled with Katie Bell, even gossiped a bit with Angelina.

Again—life of the party. You were known, popular. You lit up every function you attended, knowing how to get people dancing, drinking, laughing. Your name was constantly being yelled from all corners of the room, you stuck around with everyone, drank with them, laughed and danced with them, then spun around to another corner—another person. It was a careful dance, you thrived in it.

What you didn’t expect was being pulled out of it as a large hand curled around your upper arm, pulling you into a corner by the stairs. You looked up, warm with alcohol as a pair of piercing chocolate eyes looked down at you, fiery ginger hair and a lazy grin. Your stomach fluttered as a grin grew on your lips.

“Freddie! I haven’t seen you all night, thought you bailed ‘n left poor George here.” You mused, looking up at his towering frame. He chuckled, crossing his arms. “Miss seeing you? I’d feel robbed of the prettiest glittering thing in the common room.” 

He gestured to your excessive jewellery, you snickered in response, playfully swatting his wrist while he gestured. “Oh, hush! Don’t spend all your time here, want me to introduce you to a few? There’s a girl I feel you’d get on with—” You said excitedly before you heard his tongue click. He leaned over you, lowering his head to mumble in your ear.

“Think I’m happy enough with you, mhm?” He mumbled, making your cheeks burn. “Well– well, okay! I just— There’s people looking for me, okay?” You sputtered out, eyes wider as you patted his chest like your insides weren’t exploding. His grin only widened as he leaned back, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Shame. Look for me, alright, pretty girl?”

You laughed in response, giving him a bright smile. “Oh, for sure. Who else’ll call me the prettiest glittering thing in the room? Can’t let go of that ego fuel, can I?”

He snickered, moving to loosely touch your hair, tilting his head. “If anyone else calls you pretty, tell ‘em I did first, will you?” The soft, subtle touch of possessiveness made your knees feel like jelly. Your name was yelled again, and you fell back into it, into the music and the laughter—but Fred hung at the back of your mind, sat in your ribs. Your breathing hitched just a tad whenever you heard his loud laughter from across the party.

You told yourself Fred was just touchy, you didn’t know each other beyond the parties, beyond the noise. You were fine with that, you always kept yourself occupied. He was always occupied. 

But there it began.

Party after party, the common rooms switching but the people constant. With Umbridge’s rules and the fact it was the last year for so many, parties were thrown almost every single night.

You never minded, always attending each one. People needed it; to be able to let loose and have fun. But Fred came to each and every one too.

Every single one.

Fair, it was his final year too, you doubted he’d even finish it with how much he talked about his upcoming shop. But you felt his eyes on you through every one. You felt insane when you looked his face, only to see him doing something else. Not looking at you. 

Were you the one thinking of him? Wishing he’d look at you?

You shook the thought, back on the dance floor, pulling people in as Sean Paul blasted over the speakers, making quite literally every girl in the room scream and dance together.

You were flushed, dancing with Katie Bell to the upbeat song, moving your hips as you and Katie sang the song at each other, grins wide.

You were completely consumed by it, swaying to the music. Spinning around with the rest of the bodies in the crowd. You looked around, spotting Fred on the outskirts of the dance floor just as the song switched, Everybody Wants To Rule The World, Tears for Fears. 

The new songs pulled more guys in, and you moved to grab Fred’s wrist making him scoff and shake his head. “Oh, no no no—“ making you snicker, nodding as you tugged him into the crowd. 

“Oh, yes, Weasley. You’re not shy, right?” You cooed, making him exaggeratedly groan. You danced to the slower song in front of him, singing with him. Though he was quite reluctant to, he sang with a soft smirk, rolling his eyes every once in a while when you very dramatically acted out the lyrics.

The next song came, then the next. You two stayed, he got more comfortable. Dancing, swaying, singing, grinning at each other. 

You shared drinks, teased each other—had a complete ball.

Soon, your interactions shifted, evolved.

Parties turned into bumping into eachother in the back of the library.

Alcohol turned sharing coffee during hangovers.

The music started sounding like rain when you and him sit together in the Astronomy Tower. It sounded like the crackling of the Gryffindor Common Room fire when he and George made you wear a Gryffindor tie to sneak you in under the guise of you being the only tolerable Slytherin. 

Talking at parties was natural, he went straight to you when he walked in; you always gave him your full attention in turn. The girl who was the human version of everywhere, all at once, began to find a place to be. Fred.

Gradually, people went to Fred when they needed you—and someone always needed you. She almost gave Fred a starter pack on how to help people if you were busy.

If someone asked Fred why he had a pouch in his bookbag full of pads, inflatable heating pads, spare underwear, lip balm, and pain-relief potion seven months ago, he’d have snorted and made some dumb joke about being the saint Mary for women’s needs.

But now? He quite literally was. Because of you. 

You’d begun letting yourself into his dorm whenever you wanted; Lee and George were used to you hanging around their dorm at this point. You and Fred would sit on his bed, you’d tell him all the drama that looked for your advice on to make sure he could give his two cents whenever anyone came asking for your opinion. Late nights just sitting within the curtains of his four-poster bed, whispering and giggling people's problems. He’d occasionally snort at the ridiculousness.

Your heart swelled—you loved being everyone’s girl. Everyone’s person. But this? Sitting with him? It felt like you had a person, felt like you were his someone. 

And on it went. Months. It came to a point, you and Fred snuck out of your common rooms, in nothing but dorky Merlin pyjamas you’d both bought on a whim to be funny. 

He leaned against the railing of the Astronomy Tower, the air was cool, but not biting. Your shoulder kept bumping against his as you swayed softly, humming some Beatles song under your breath. He didn’t move, looked out towards the stars. The silence wasn’t alarming, you’d learned that Fred thought about stuff a lot when he was alone, and you always let him be alone with you. 

Your fingers brushed too many times for it not to be deliberate. 

“You know me ‘n Georgie’ll be leaving soon. The shop. Everything and whatnot. I won’t be here.” He said softly into the night, looking at you with the same intensity his eyes always had. He was like a live storm, no matter how quiet. You nodded once, looking back at him. 

“I know. It’ll be weird. Can’t wait to see it, though.” You said in turn, offering up a smile. He didn’t reciprocate, not satisfied. 

“I won’t be here.” He repeated.

“The hallways will be quieter.”

“I’ll be, like, gone. No more this.”

“I’ll miss it. I’ll write to you.”

He pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at you like you were messing with him.

“Are you taking the piss?” He huffed, frowning at you. You frowned back, tilting your head. “Of what?”

He groaned, moving to face you, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin, woman. Me. You. Us. Is there seriously nothing you want to talk about on this horrifically romantic night?”

Your heart picked up a few beats, looking at his warm chocolate eyes, now swirling with frustration. “Do you?”

He gaped, almost exasperated. “What—what do you even– Of course! You’re just– The whispering in my ear?! I–I have a bloody period kit for helping people because you asked! Not to mention the fact it’s a known fact that everyone knows that I always know your bloody whereabouts?!”

He grabbed your shoulders, you yelped. “Freddie!”

“You’re gonna make me go mad, okay? I’ll be leaving, love. Gone. You won’t see me. I can meet you at Hogsmeade but that’s it. I’ll be busy with the business. Next time we’ll be proper together will be ages from now.”

He glared, you turned sheepish. 

“Say something or I’ll do something you may not like.” He mumbled, quieter but no less intense. 

“Like kiss me?” You mumbled.

“Like kiss you.”

Your stomach fluttered, because he looked so undeterred, like a string pulled taut to the point of snapping. 

“Do it then.” You whispered, making his hands move from your shoulders to your hips, squeezing the plump skin before tugging you closer. 

“Fuckin’ crazy. You’re terrifying. I-I can’t even begin to keep myself sane near you.” He huffed, his lips ghosted over yours, making your pulse hammer inside your veins, against your skin.

He leaned down, teeth clinking into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. You were breathing into each other’s mouths, practically sucking each other in.

And so Slytherin’s party girl found something beyond the strobing lights and blasting music. Something equally as enjoyable, but just a bit closer to her heart.

[trowneyy]

𝐃𝐎 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍

• fred weasley

{summary} You and Fred Weasley have always been easy-laughing, talking, never quite questioning it. Until one quiet afternoon in the meadow, you do something you can’t take back.

{content} no smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, impulsive kiss, fluff, fem!reader, no-war universe

The meadow isn’t really a secret spot. People pass through it all the time—between classes, on their way back from the lake—but at this hour it’s quiet enough to feel like it belongs to you.

You’re stretched out in the grass, shoes kicked off somewhere behind you, the sun warm against your face. The sky is too bright to look at for long, so you turn your head instead.

Fred’s already looking at you.

He doesn’t look away when you catch him.

“Careful,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’ll start thinking I’m interesting if you keep staring like that.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I was thinking the opposite, actually.”

“Tragic,” he murmurs. “I’ll have to work harder, then.”

He says it lightly, like everything else—like he always does. It’s easy with him. It’s always been easy. Since first year, since before either of you really knew what anything meant, it’s just been this—talking, laughing, filling space without trying.

You shift onto your side, facing him properly. “You’ve had years to impress me. I think we both know how that’s gone.”

“Unfair,” Fred says, though he’s smiling. “I’ve impressed loads of people.”

“Name one.”

“George.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts,” he argues. “He’s very hard to impress.”

“Bare minimum, really.”

Fred grins at that, wider now, eyes bright in a way that makes your chest feel a little too tight for no reason you can explain. He drops back onto the grass again, folding his arms behind his head.

“You wound me,” he says. “All this time, I thought I was your favorite.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because you could say it—could brush it off, make it a joke like he did—but the words feel different when they sit at the front of your throat.

He tilts his head slightly, glancing at you again. “What, no denial?”

You swallow, then shrug, trying to keep your tone light. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

That gets his attention.

There’s a small pause—barely anything—but it’s there. His gaze lingers a second longer than usual, like he’s deciding whether to push it or not.

“Good,” he says finally, softer than before. “I’d hate to lose my spot.”

You smile, but it feels quieter now. The kind of quiet that settles in without asking.

The wind shifts, brushing through the grass around you. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear faint voices—other students, far enough away not to matter.

It’s just you and him.

It always is.

Fred says something else—something about a prank he and George are planning, something ridiculous—and you try to focus on it, you do, but you’re only half listening.

Because you’re looking at him.

At the way his hair falls into his eyes, the way he keeps brushing it back without thinking. The way he talks with his hands, like the story needs it. The way he keeps glancing at you, like he’s checking you’re still there.

And suddenly—

it feels obvious.

So obvious it almost makes you laugh.

You don’t think about it.

You don’t plan it.

You just lean in.

And kiss him.

It’s quick—barely more than a press of your lips to his—but it’s enough to stop everything.

Fred freezes.

Completely.

No movement, no reaction—just still, like his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

And the second you realize that—

your stomach drops.

You pull back immediately, heat rushing to your face too fast, too sharp.

“I—” you start, already shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t know why I did that, I just—”

You let out a breath that doesn’t quite land, a small, awkward laugh slipping out with it. “Forget it. Just—forget it, okay?”

He’s still staring at you.

Not angry. Not upset.

Just… stunned.

Which somehow feels worse.

“I shouldn’t have—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head again. “I’ll just— I’ll see you later.”

You don’t wait for him to answer.

You push yourself up too quickly, grabbing your shoes without really looking at them, and turn—already moving, already trying to put distance between you and whatever that just was.

Your heart is pounding too loud, your thoughts tripping over each other.

Stupid. That was stupid. Why would you—

“Hey—”

You don’t stop.

Of course you don’t.

“Wait—”

His voice is closer now.

You pick up your pace anyway.

Until—

his hand catches yours.

It’s not rough, just firm enough to stop you, to pull you back before you can get any further.

You turn, breath uneven, already starting to talk again. “Fred, I said I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird, I just—”

“Will you stop?”

The words aren’t sharp.

Just… certain.

You do.

Because it’s him.

Fred’s still holding your hand. His grip isn’t tight, but he doesn’t let go either. He’s looking at you differently now—not confused, not distant.

Focused.

There’s a beat.

Then, softer—

“Do it again.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“Or don’t,” he adds quickly, like he’s catching himself. “I mean—I can, I just—”

He stops.

For once, Fred Weasley doesn’t have the right words.

And that—

that’s new.

You stare at him for a second, something warm and nervous twisting in your chest.

Then, before you can overthink it—

he closes the distance.

His hand shifts slightly in yours, steadying you as his other comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing just under your cheek.

This time, when he kisses you—

there’s no hesitation.

It’s not rushed, not clumsy—just sure. Like he’s decided, finally, and there’s no going back from it now.

You melt into it before you can stop yourself, your free hand gripping the front of his shirt without thinking.

He pulls you closer, just slightly, like he’s been wanting to do that for longer than either of you realized.

When he pulls back, it’s not far.

His forehead rests briefly against yours, breath uneven but quieter now.

“See,” he murmurs, a hint of his usual grin returning, “that’s more like it.”

You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says easily. Then, after a beat—more genuine, softer— “Don’t run off next time.”

You look at him for a second, something settling into place.

“Don’t freeze next time,” you shoot back.

He grins.

“Deal.”

And this time, when he laces his fingers through yours—

you don’t let go.

[jellyfishsthings]

Hello hello! I found ur page and I am very intrigued 👀🙂‍↕️ I was wondering if I could request a ootp fred weasley x reader? 🥹🙏 fluff with maybe lil hints at smut, ofc if not feel free to ignore this ty in advance -🖤💜🔮

Contraband

One: The Weasley Problem

The problem with Fred Weasley was not that he was annoying.

You could have dealt with annoying. Annoying was manageable. Annoying was something you could build a defence against and maintain with reasonable consistency.

The problem with Fred Weasley was that he was annoying and funny and he knew it, and the combination of those three things meant he operated with a kind of confident ease that made it very difficult to look at him without your brain doing something you hadn't given it permission to do.

He sat two rows across from you in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

'Sat' was generous. He occupied the space. Sprawled into it. Took up exactly as much room as he felt like taking up on any given day, and somehow Umbridge had never managed to make him sit up straight, which you suspected was a source of genuine personal anguish for her.

He'd first spoken to you properly in September. Not counting the years of existing in the same castle — you'd been in the same year since first year, you knew who he was the way you knew who everyone was, but knowing wasn't the same as speaking.

September. Umbridge had just handed back a particularly insulting essay grade and you'd made the mistake of muttering 'this is actually educational malpractice' under your breath, and from two rows across Fred Weasley had said, without looking up, 'educational malpractice. I'm using that.'

'Please don't,' you'd said.

'Too late. It's mine now.'

'I coined it.'

'And I've claimed it. Spoils of war.'

Umbridge had looked over. Both of you had looked very interested in your parchment.

After class he'd fallen into step beside you in the corridor and said, 'Fred Weasley. In case you didn't know.'

'I know who you are.'

'Good. What's your name?'

You told him.

'Right,' he said, like he was filing it somewhere. 'I'll be needing that.'

'For what?' you'd asked.

He'd grinned — that specific Fred Weasley grin, the one that meant something was already in motion that you hadn't been informed about — and said 'you'll see' and turned down a different corridor.

You had, in retrospect, been doomed from that moment.

It had taken you several more weeks to admit it.

✦ ✦ ✦

The thing about fifth year was that everything had a weight to it that the previous four hadn't.

You felt it in the corridors — something taut and low, the way the air felt before a storm. Umbridge in the castle and her decrees going up on the noticeboard one after another, each one landing like a small controlled explosion. No gatherings. No organisations. No independent study of defensive magic. The Ministry's hand reaching all the way to Hogwarts and closing around it, slowly, like it had all the time in the world.

You'd heard about the DA from Ginny, who had heard about it from Hermione, who had looked at you with the very specific expression of someone deciding whether to trust you with something important and deciding yes.

'It's risky,' Hermione had said.

'Most worthwhile things are,' you'd said.

Hermione had nodded once, like you'd passed something.

The first meeting was in the Hog's Head, which smelled terrible and was clearly chosen because nobody sane would linger there. You'd filed in with the others, found a space, and were trying to look like someone who attended clandestine anti-Ministry meetings all the time, which was the exact kind of thing you thought about, when Fred Weasley appeared at your elbow.

'Educational malpractice,' he said, very quietly, into the space beside your ear.

You startled. He was closer than you'd expected. Close enough that you could smell the particular Fred Weasley combination of something smoky and something sweet, which was presumably the product of spending every available hour working on things that occasionally exploded.

'You're still using that,' you said.

'It's a good phrase. It captures the full horror of the situation.'

'I want credit.'

'You'll get a footnote,' he said. 'In the official account of the revolution.'

'The revolution.'

'Someone's got to call it that. Might as well start now.'

Harry had started talking at the front of the room. You both turned to listen.

Fred didn't move away.

You didn't move away either.

You told yourself it was just the room being crowded.

The room was not, especially, crowded.

Two: The Room of Requirement

DA meetings became the fixed point of the week.

Everything else was Umbridge's Hogwarts — the decrees, the inspections, the Educational Authority nonsense that had settled over the castle like a particularly vindictive fog. But the Room of Requirement was something else. Warm and lit and full of people who had all collectively decided that learning to defend themselves was worth the risk of being caught, which was, you had decided, one of the braver things you'd ever been part of.

Fred Weasley was, reliably, at your elbow.

Not in a way you could call him out on. Not in a way that was obvious. Just — there. When you were practicing Expelliarmus, there was a Fred-shaped presence somewhere nearby making commentary. When Harry was explaining Patronuses and you were frowning at your wand trying to find the right memory, a voice appeared beside you saying 'you're overthinking it.'

'How do you know?' you'd said.

'Your face does this thing when you're overthinking.'

'My face does not do a thing.'

'It does. It goes — ' he'd pulled a face that was a completely unfair impression of your concentration expression.

'It does not look like that.'

'It looks exactly like that. You look like you're trying to do sums in your head.'

'I'm trying to access a specific memory, it requires concentration — '

'What's the memory?'

You'd stopped.

'Sorry?' you'd said.

'The happy memory. What is it?' He tilted his head. Not joking now, just — asking. Looking at you with an attention that was different from the banter, steadier. 'The best ones are specific. Not big things. Small ones. Moments.'

You'd looked at him for a second. 'How do you know that?'

'Because George's Patronus is our mum's cooking on Sundays,' he said. 'And mine is — ' He stopped. Looked briefly like he hadn't meant to say that much. 'Anyway. Small moments. Try that.'

You'd tried it.

The Patronus had come — silver, substantial, more than the wisp you'd been managing — and Fred had made a sound of satisfaction beside you that you felt more than heard.

'Told you,' he said.

'You did,' you agreed.

He was already grinning. Back to Fred, the version you were used to. But you'd seen the other one, just for a moment, and you were not going to be able to un-see it.

Which was, you were beginning to understand, rather the problem.

✦ ✦ ✦

The Decoy Detonators incident happened on a Thursday.

You hadn't been involved, technically. You'd been in the corridor adjacent to the one where a small army of Fred and George's prototype devices had gone off simultaneously, which technically put you in the wrong place at an extremely interesting time.

You'd been pulled into an alcove by a hand around your wrist — Fred, appearing from nowhere the way he always seemed to, George immediately behind him — just as Filch came thundering around the corner.

The three of you pressed back into the shadows. Fred's hand was still around your wrist. Filch stood in the corridor for approximately thirty seconds that felt significantly longer, peered at the smoke still curling from the Detonators, muttered something unprintable, and left.

Silence.

George looked at the two of you, looked at Fred's hand on your wrist, and said 'I'll meet you upstairs' with the energy of someone exercising enormous self-control, and left.

Fred's hand dropped. He had the grace to look slightly caught out, which was not an expression you saw on him often.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Reflex.'

'Pulling people into alcoves is a reflex?'

'Pulling people out of the path of trouble is a reflex.' He glanced at the corridor where Filch had been. 'You were about to walk right into that.'

'I was going to the library.'

'You were going to the library via a corridor full of our finest work.' He said it with complete pride. 'You're welcome, by the way.'

'I didn't say thank you.'

'That's what the 'you're welcome' was for. Pre-emptive.'

You looked at him. The alcove was not large. He hadn't moved back, which meant the distance between you was the distance of two people who had just been pressing themselves into shadows trying not to get caught, which was to say: not much.

'Were those the Decoy Detonators?' you said. 'The ones you were testing last month?'

He blinked. 'You remember that?'

'You mentioned them. In the Hog's Head, that first meeting. You said you were working on something that would cause a diversion.'

Fred Weasley looked at you the way people looked at things that had surprised them.

'You were listening,' he said.

'I listen to most things.'

'I talk a lot.'

'I know. I still listened.'

Something moved across his face. There and gone. He stepped back, gave you the corridor distance back, and the moment was over.

'Come on then,' he said. 'Library's this way. I'll walk you, make sure there aren't any more diversions en route.'

'That you caused.'

'Details,' he said, and gestured for you to walk, and fell into step beside you, and you went to the library with Fred Weasley as an escort and tried very hard to think about books.

You thought about him the whole way.

Three: Umbridge Makes a Mistake

Umbridge inspected your Defence class on a Wednesday.

You had been warned it was coming — the whisper network in Hogwarts was efficient in the way of all things that formed in response to something intolerable — and so most of the class had arrived prepared to look precisely as obedient and useless as she wanted them to be.

Fred and George had other ideas.

It started small. A question asked with perfect, polished innocence about whether Ministry-approved theory was consistent with the spells used in documented dark wizard encounters. Umbridge had said yes. Fred had said, with an expression of complete sincerity, that he'd read something suggesting otherwise and could she clarify. Umbridge had clarified. George had asked a follow-up question. Fred had countered with a point. The whole thing had the quality of watching two cats calmly bat a vase toward the edge of a table, and Umbridge's smile was getting tighter by the minute, and the rest of the class had gone completely still in the way of people witnessing something that could go badly wrong and finding it impossible to look away.

You were sitting directly in front of Fred, one row up.

He leaned forward and said, barely a breath, 'she's going to snap in about three questions.'

'Two,' you murmured back, without turning around.

'Bet?'

'What are the stakes?'

'If I win, you have to come to the next DA meeting early and help us test something.'

'That sounds dangerous.'

'Mildly.'

'And if I win?'

A pause. Umbridge was answering George's question through a smile that had become essentially structural.

'Name it,' Fred said.

You thought about it for exactly the length of time it took George to ask the follow-up question.

'You stop stealing my phrases,' you said.

'Educational malpractice is my phrase now.'

'It was never your phrase.'

'I've used it fourteen times since September.'

'That's called theft, Fred.'

He made a sound that might have been a laugh converted into a cough at the last second.

Umbridge snapped on George's second follow-up question.

Not loudly — she didn't do loud. But the smile went completely rigid and she said, in the soft deadly voice she used when she'd had enough, that she thought that would be sufficient discussion for the day.

George sat back, satisfied.

Fred leaned forward again. 'Two questions. You win.'

'Thank you.'

'Educational malpractice is still mine though.'

'You agreed to the stakes, Weasley.'

'I agreed to stop stealing your phrases. I'm arguing that prior acquisition counts as possession.'

'That is not how that works.'

'It's how it works in my legal system.'

'You don't have a legal system.'

'I'm working on one,' he said. 'George is the co-founder. We've been drafting since third year.'

You turned around, just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

He was grinning. Close — your desk was only a row ahead — and looking at you with that specific attention that made it hard to remember what you'd been going to say.

'Fine,' you said. 'Keep it. It suits you anyway.'

He blinked. Like that wasn't what he'd been expecting.

'Yeah?' he said.

'You're the one actually doing something about it,' you said. 'You've earned the phrase.'

Umbridge dismissed the class. People started moving. Fred didn't, for a second, just looked at you with an expression you couldn't entirely decode.

'Come to the next DA meeting early,' he said.

'I won the bet.'

'I know. Come anyway.'

He left before you could answer, catching up with George in the corridor.

You gathered your things.

You were going to go early. You'd already decided.

You weren't going to tell him that yet.

Four: Early

You went early.

The Room of Requirement was already configured when you arrived — mats on the floor, practice dummies in the corner, the warm light that the room always chose for these evenings. Fred was there, sitting on the floor with components spread out around him in the organised chaos of someone who knew exactly where everything was even when it looked like nothing was in order.

He looked up when you came in and something — quick, genuine, there before he managed anything over it — moved across his face.

'You came,' he said.

'I said I might.'

'You said you weren't going to tell me.'

'I wasn't. I'm here anyway.' You came and sat on the floor across from him, looking at the components. 'What is it?'

'Portable swamp,' he said. 'Prototype. We've been testing the containment.'

'What does it do?'

'Exactly what it sounds like.' He picked up one of the small packages. 'Except it needs to deploy in an enclosed space without flooding the whole building. That's the part we haven't solved yet.'

'Spatial limitation charms,' you said. 'You'd need to set a boundary before deployment.'

He looked at you. 'Go on.'

'The charm would have to go on first, not the device,' you said, thinking it through. 'Otherwise the swamp expands to fill available space. If you set the boundary before — like a ward, basically — the swamp reads the ward as a wall.'

Fred was quiet for a moment. Looking at you with that steady attention. 'That's — yeah. That's the part George and I kept getting stuck on. We kept trying to limit the device itself.'

'You can't control the output, you can only control the space.'

'That's exactly it.' He leaned forward slightly. 'How'd you work that out?'

'Charms theory. Containment principles. We did it in fourth year, Professor Flitwick.'

'I was probably not listening in fourth year Charms.'

'Probably not,' you agreed.

He smiled. It was a different smile from the grin — quieter, less performed, the one she suspected most people didn't get to see.

'You're clever,' he said, simply. Not a compliment designed to get somewhere. Just a thing he'd observed and said.

'I know,' you said, which made him laugh — quick and real, head tilting back slightly — and the Room of Requirement was warm and empty and there were forty minutes until anyone else would arrive and Fred Weasley was laughing and sitting three feet away from you and you thought: there it is. There's the problem, clearly named at last.

You were absolutely gone on him.

You'd been gone on him for weeks.

You had no idea what to do with that.

✦ ✦ ✦

He taught you the containment application. Walked you through the modifications, which meant forty minutes of the two of you on the floor of the Room of Requirement with components between you and his voice doing the thing it did when he was explaining something he cared about — still warm, still Fred, but focused, specific, not performing anything.

At some point the distance had reduced without either of you formally deciding to reduce it. He'd leaned in to show you something and stayed leaned in. You were close enough that you could see the small scar above his left eyebrow that you'd noticed before and never asked about.

'The scar,' you said, before you could stop yourself.

He glanced up. 'What about it?'

'How did you get it?'

'Which story do you want? I have three.'

'The true one.'

He looked at you for a moment. 'Exploding Snap, second year. George dared me to hold the card too long and I held it too long.'

'That's much less dramatic than the options you implied.'

'The other two are better. A dragon features in one. Completely false, but compelling.'

'I'll take the true one,' you said. 'I prefer those.'

He tilted his head. That slight recalibration he did sometimes, like you'd said something that made him reassess something else.

'Most people want the dragon,' he said.

'Most people don't know you well enough to know the truth is better.'

The words sat between you.

You hadn't fully intended them to come out like that — weighted, specific. But they had, and Fred Weasley was looking at you in the warm light of the Room of Requirement and not saying anything, which was, for Fred Weasley, a significant event.

'Is that right,' he said, finally. Not a question.

'I think so,' you said, keeping your voice level.

He looked at you for another moment. Then, slowly, deliberately — giving you every opportunity to move if you wanted to — he reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Just that. Nothing more.

Your breath did something it didn't have permission to do.

'I've been trying to work something out,' he said quietly.

'What?'

'Whether you'd mind if I — ' He stopped. His hand had dropped but not far, resting near your knee, not quite touching. 'Whether this is something you'd want.'

'This,' you said.

'Yeah.'

'You're going to have to be more specific than that, Weasley.'

He looked at you. 'No I don't,' he said. 'I think you know exactly what I mean.'

You did.

You'd known what he meant for weeks. Maybe longer.

'I'd want it,' you said.

The smile came back. The quiet one. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

He leaned in —

The door opened.

George walked in, stopped, took in the scene with the rapid assessment of someone who had spent seventeen years reading his twin, and said 'oh' in a tone that contained a truly impressive amount of information.

Fred did not lean back. He just turned his head and looked at George with extraordinary calm.

'You're early,' Fred said.

'You told me to come early,' George said. 'To help test the — ' He looked at the components on the floor. Looked at you. Looked at Fred. 'The portable swamp.'

'We solved the containment problem,' you said.

'Did you.' George was having an extremely good time. It was written all over him. 'Brilliant. The swamp. Solved.'

'George,' Fred said.

'I'll just — ' George gestured vaguely at the other side of the room. 'Go over here. Test some things. Alone.'

'Thank you,' Fred said.

'Take your time,' George said, moving away with magnificent dignity. 'The swamp will keep.'

You looked at Fred.

Fred looked at you.

'Right,' he said, low enough that it didn't carry. 'Where were we.'

'I believe,' you said, equally quiet, 'you were being more specific.'

He laughed — surprised, warm — and this time when he leaned in there was no door opening, and he was specific, and it was — brief, because people were going to start arriving, but entirely, completely enough to confirm everything you'd been not-examining for months.

When he pulled back he was still smiling. The quiet one.

'Educational malpractice,' he said.

'What?'

'Still mine. Just so we're clear.'

You laughed, helpless, and he looked at you laughing the way you'd seen him look at things he liked — openly, without trying to manage it.

'Fine,' you said. 'Keep it.'

'I intend to,' he said. And then, quieter, just for you: 'among other things.'

✦ ✦ ✦

People started arriving ten minutes later.

George, from across the room, caught your eye and gave you a look of such extravagant satisfaction that you had to look at the ceiling to keep a straight face.

Fred pretended to notice nothing. He was extremely bad at it. His ears were red.

Harry started the meeting.

Fred sat next to you. Close. Not touching, because there were people everywhere and this was new and fragile and neither of you had decided what to do with it yet.

But close.

And when you were practicing Shield Charms and he corrected your stance — hands brief and light on your shoulders, adjusting the angle — he said, very quietly, 'better' and his voice was warm and specific and entirely for you and only you.

And when the meeting ended and everyone filed out and George said he'd see Fred upstairs with the manner of someone giving two people space on purpose, Fred turned to you in the emptying room and said:

'Tomorrow. Hogsmeade. Before the others.'

'Is that a question?' you said.

'It's a request.'

'A polite one, even.'

'I'm trying something new.'

You looked at him. Fred Weasley in the warm light, ears still slightly red, looking at you with the most sincere expression you'd seen on him.

'Tomorrow,' you said. 'Before the others.'

His whole face did something wonderful.

'Good,' he said. And then, because he was Fred: 'I'll file that under 'wins'.'

'You have a file for wins?'

'Extensive one.' He held the door open. 'You feature in it more than once.'

You walked through. He fell into step beside you.

The corridor was cold and Umbridge's latest decree was pinned to the board at the end of it and the year was heavy with things that hadn't happened yet.

But Fred Weasley was warm beside you and his shoulder was pressed to yours and you were going to Hogsmeade tomorrow before the others and right now that was enough.

Right now, that was everything.

[mimi-iscrazy]

When the fanfic was going amazing but the author ruined it by making yn compete with another female character for the male leads attention

[jily4lyfe]

Mr Hayward and Mary about to have a meaningful conversation at any given time

Mr Ryder somewhere in the background

[ashley-foster-13]

hear me out

thomas x newt x reader challengers AU