Stranger Things
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@ds0408
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
Redemption - Draco Malfoy
Tags: [draco malfoy] [angst] [post-war] [guilt] [redemption] [hurt/comfort] Word Count: 1,588
The Great Hall was eerily quiet, filled with a tension that had yet to fade even months after the war. The long tables weren’t as full as they used to be, and there were faces missing—empty spaces where friends and enemies alike should have been. Hogwarts was rebuilding itself, but some wounds weren’t so easily repaired.
Draco Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, shoulders stiff, head lowered. He had learned to make himself small, to fold inward under the weight of the stares, the whispers, the judgments. He couldn’t blame them—he wouldn’t.
“Malfoy.”
The voice was sharp, cutting through the dull hum of conversations around him. He looked up, already knowing who it was before he even met the glare of Hermione Granger.
“Granger,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. He had spent years perfecting his sneer, his drawl—now, his words just sounded... tired.
She was standing before him, arms crossed, brows furrowed. She wasn’t alone. Potter and Weasley flanked her, their expressions a mixture of wariness and something else—contempt, maybe, or exhaustion.
“You need to leave,” Ron said, voice laced with restrained anger. “No one wants you here.”
A part of him agreed. A part of him wanted to disappear, to vanish like the ghosts who now roamed the halls with heavier steps.
“Ron,” Hermione warned, but Draco could see that she wasn’t entirely against the idea.
Harry, however, said nothing. He simply stared at Draco, green eyes unreadable.
Draco let out a slow breath. “I have every right to be here.”
Ron scoffed. “Right? After everything? After what you did—what your family did?”
The words hit like a curse, but Draco didn’t flinch. He had replayed every moment of the war in his head so many times that the guilt had carved itself into his bones. The Mark on his forearm may have faded, but he could still feel it burning.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Draco said, and he hated the way it sounded—weak, pathetic.
“There’s always a choice,” Harry finally spoke, voice calm but firm. “And now you have one too. You can either spend the rest of your life hiding behind excuses, or you can prove that you’re not your father’s son.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Draco wanted to lash out, to defend himself, to spit out words sharp enough to cut. But he didn’t. Because for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to say.
The Gryffindors turned away, leaving him alone once more. He let them go. What else could he do?
The Astronomy Tower was where he went when he couldn’t breathe.
The air was colder up there, the wind sharp against his skin, but it was better than the suffocating judgment in the Great Hall. He leaned against the stone railing, staring out over the grounds, his hands gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white.
“Brooding again, Malfoy?”
Draco closed his eyes. He didn’t turn around. “Piss off, Parkinson.”
Pansy scoffed, her footsteps echoing as she stepped closer. “You’re going to freeze to death up here. And as amusing as that would be, I’d rather not have to explain it to McGonagall.”
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.
She leaned against the railing beside him, her dark hair whipping around her face. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it, Draco. You can’t keep doing this.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
Pansy sighed, her tone softer now. “You survive. You show them that you’re more than your last name.”
Draco shook his head. “I don’t think they care.”
“Then make them care,” she snapped, her voice sharp, but her eyes held something different—concern. “You’re not alone in this, you know. You just like to pretend you are.”
Draco looked away. He wasn’t sure what he deserved, but kindness wasn’t it.
The library was quiet, which made it the perfect place to hide. Draco sat in the farthest corner, books piled around him, though he had long stopped reading. His head was pounding, exhaustion creeping in, but sleep never came easily these days.
A chair scraped against the floor, and he glanced up to see Theo Nott settling across from him.
“You missed dinner,” Theo said simply, setting a wrapped sandwich on the table.
Draco raised a brow. “You stealing food for me now?”
“You look like you need it.”
Draco smirked, but there was no real humor in it. “How generous.”
Theo didn’t rise to the bait. He just studied Draco, his expression unreadable. “We all lost something, you know. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Draco swallowed, looking away. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
A beat of silence passed. Then another. Finally, Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Theo nodded, his gaze steady. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just move forward.”
Draco exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest still there but, for the first time in a long time, a little lighter.
Maybe.
The Gryffindor common room was unusually quiet. The usual warmth of the fireplace flickered against the walls, but the tension in the room made it feel colder than ever.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat on the worn-out couch, their minds heavy with the weight of the conversation they had overheard just hours ago. Draco Malfoy had cracked—maybe not in the way they had expected, but enough for them to see the fractures beneath his carefully built mask.
"I never thought I'd see the day Malfoy admitted he wasn’t as in control as he pretends to be," Ron muttered, breaking the silence. "He looked... wrecked."
Hermione shot him a warning look, but even she couldn’t deny it. “He’s not the same person he was before, Ron. None of us are.”
Harry leaned forward, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I don’t think we can ignore it anymore. We’ve spent years thinking he was nothing more than a spoiled git, but he’s—” He exhaled sharply, struggling to find the right words. “—he’s breaking apart, just like the rest of us.”
Ron crossed his arms, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “So what? We just forgive him? He’s made our lives hell, Harry.”
“No one’s saying that,” Hermione said quietly. “But maybe it’s time we stop seeing him as just our enemy.”
The words settled over them heavily, and none of them spoke for a while. The war had changed everything, blurred lines that had once been so clear. Draco Malfoy had been raised to believe he belonged on one side, but he had seen firsthand the horrors of the world he had been born into. He had suffered, just like they had.
Finally, Harry stood up. “I think we should talk to him.”
Ron scoffed. “Yeah, because I’m sure he’s just waiting for a friendly chat with us.”
“He’s alone, Ron.” Harry turned to face him fully. “Really alone. I know what that feels like, and it’s not something I’d wish on anyone.”
Hermione nodded, standing up as well. “We don’t have to trust him completely, but we can give him a chance.”
Ron groaned but pushed himself up from the couch. “If he hexes us, I’m blaming both of you.”
Together, they left the common room, making their way through the dimly lit corridors.
Draco sat on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, his gaze fixed on the dark sky. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, as if he were bracing himself for something—though he wasn’t sure what. The conversation from earlier still echoed in his head, and he hated how much it affected him.
He heard footsteps before he saw them. Instinctively, he tensed, ready to put up his usual defense, but when he turned, it wasn’t a professor or a Slytherin classmate. It was Potter, Weasley, and Granger.
Draco exhaled sharply, his fingers clenching into fists. “What do you want?”
Harry hesitated before stepping closer. “We heard you earlier. With Nott.”
Draco’s face twisted with something unreadable, something raw. “Eavesdropping now, are we?” His voice was sharp, but there was no real venom behind it. He sounded tired. Defeated.
Ron shifted awkwardly. “Look, Malfoy… we’re not here to fight.”
Draco scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Hermione took a step forward, her voice softer than the others. “We know things aren’t easy for you.”
Draco let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, really? And what gave it away? The constant pressure to be something I’m not? The fear of making the wrong move and paying the price?” His voice wavered slightly, but he masked it quickly. “Sounds a bit like your golden trio struggles, doesn’t it?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “We’re not saying we understand everything you’ve been through. But we know what it’s like to be trapped in something bigger than yourself.”
Draco looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “It does.”
There was a long silence before Draco finally spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix any of this.”
Harry stepped closer, meeting his gaze. “Neither do we.”
Draco swallowed, his throat tightening. He had spent years fighting them, trying to prove he was better, stronger. But now, standing here with them, he realized he was exhausted.
Ron sighed heavily. “I still don’t like you, Malfoy. But maybe… maybe we don’t have to be enemies anymore.”
Draco let out a shaky breath, nodding just slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
The Moon's Burden
Tags: [mlw] [angst] [hurt/comfort] [Marauders era] [friendship] [hidden pain] [self-worth issues] [reader-insert] [found family] [slight fluff ending]
Word Count: 2,140
The Marauders were loud. They were reckless, wild, and altogether too much. They were the brightest light in any room, a force of nature that nothing—not professors, not rules, not even the war brewing outside the walls of Hogwarts—could seem to dim.
And yet, in the middle of it all, there was Remus.
Remus, who laughed along with them but never quite as freely. Who let himself be dragged into pranks but was always the first to pull back. Who, despite being surrounded by warmth, still looked like he was standing just a little too far from the fire.
And tonight, you could see it clearer than ever.
You weren’t sure when you’d started noticing. Maybe it had been years, maybe it had only been months. But somewhere along the way, you had learned to read the shift in him, the way his mask would slip when he thought no one was looking.
Like now.
The Gryffindor common room was filled with its usual chaos—James was dramatically reenacting his latest Quidditch goal using a pillow as the Quaffle, Sirius was sprawled on the couch, lazily tossing popcorn into Peter’s open mouth, and somewhere in the corner, Lily was attempting (and failing) to focus on her Arithmancy homework amid the noise.
And then there was Remus.
He was seated by the fire, a book open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading. He wasn’t even pretending to. His gaze was distant, lost in the flames, fingers curled tightly around the edges of the pages as if anchoring himself to something.
You knew what today was.
The full moon had passed just two nights ago, and though he had done his best to clean himself up, to smooth out the evidence of what it had taken from him, you saw the exhaustion in his frame. The slight tremor in his fingers. The way the sleeves of his sweater were pulled down just a little too far, hiding whatever wounds hadn’t yet faded.
“Moony,” James called, plopping down next to him, disrupting his staring contest with the fire. “Come on, mate, you’ve been quiet all evening. We’ve all taken a vote, and it’s been decided that you must participate in our highly important discussion.”
Remus arched a brow. “Which is?”
“Which professor would survive the longest if Hogwarts was suddenly taken over by a herd of angry Hippogriffs,” Sirius supplied from his position on the couch.
Remus exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “This is what you lot do in your free time?”
“You love it,” Peter said with a grin.
Remus smiled—one of those small, quiet ones that never quite reached his eyes. But before he could reply, James threw an arm around his shoulders, shaking him slightly.
“Come on, Moons,” James said, playful, but laced with something more—something knowing. “You can’t sulk all night. You’re among friends. No brooding allowed.”
You watched as Remus hesitated, his expression shifting for a fraction of a second before he plastered on something that looked close enough to amusement.
And you knew.
He was going to let them believe it. He was going to pretend, to act like everything was fine, because that was what he did. What he always did.
You weren’t going to let him.
Later that night, after the common room had emptied, you found him on the Astronomy Tower.
The wind was biting, but he didn’t seem to care. He stood by the railing, staring out at the sky, hands gripping the stone like he was trying to ground himself.
“You know, I might start charging you for these late-night visits,” you said lightly, stepping beside him.
Remus huffed a soft laugh but didn’t look at you. “And here I thought you just enjoyed my company.”
“I do,” you admitted. “But I’d enjoy it a lot more if you weren’t wearing that ‘I’m fine’ face.”
His smile faltered.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
You gave him a look. “Try again.”
He sighed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, and you let the silence settle between you, waiting.
Then, finally—
“I hate this,” he murmured.
Your chest tightened. “What?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely to himself. “Me. The way I feel after every full moon. The way I pretend it doesn’t hurt. The way I make them laugh, so they don’t notice that I’m—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.
“That you’re breaking?” you finished softly.
His jaw clenched. “I don’t get to break.”
You took a step closer. “Why not?”
“Because—” He exhaled sharply, his grip on the railing tightening. “Because I have to be the responsible one. The level-headed one. I can’t afford to be a mess.”
“And yet, here you are.”
He turned his head, finally meeting your gaze, his amber eyes tired, guarded.
“I’m so bloody tired,” he admitted.
You reached for his hand. He let you take it.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you said softly. “You have them. You have me.”
He swallowed. “I know.”
But did he?
You squeezed his hand. “You are allowed to fall apart, Remus.”
His breathing hitched, and for the first time, his guard cracked. Just a little.
And you held on, grounding him, reminding him that he wasn’t alone.
That he never would be.
You didn’t say anything else. You just stood there, holding his hand as he quietly tried to put himself back together. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
And yet, despite the moment of honesty, despite the fact that he had let you see a glimpse of what he carried, nothing really changed.
Because the next morning, Remus was right back to pretending.
The bags under his eyes were darker, his movements slightly slower, but he still smiled, still went along with James and Sirius’ ridiculous antics, still answered Peter’s questions about Transfiguration, still did his best to act like nothing was wrong.
But you saw it.
And, soon enough, so did the others.
It started small.
James noticing that Remus had been skipping meals more often, shoving food around on his plate but never really eating.
Sirius catching him dozing off in the library with his notes sprawled around him, ink smudged on his cheek.
Peter asking him something during a group conversation and realizing, for the first time, that Remus hadn’t actually spoken in over an hour.
Little things. Things that, when pieced together, painted an entirely different picture.
And, somehow, James was the first to confront him.
“You look like shite, Moony,” James said bluntly, dropping onto the couch beside him in the common room.
Remus glanced up from his parchment, unimpressed. “Charming, really.”
“I mean it,” James pressed, nudging him with his shoulder. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’m fine.”
James frowned. “That’s bollocks.”
Remus sighed, rubbing his temple. “James—”
“Don’t ‘James’ me.” The usual playfulness was gone from his voice, replaced with something more serious. “We’ve all noticed it, you know. You’re exhausted.”
“I have work to do.”
“You also have a stomach that needs food, and a body that needs sleep, and—”
“I can handle it.”
James scoffed. “Right, because that’s clearly working out for you.”
Remus clenched his jaw. “I don’t need you to mother me.”
James stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, shaking his head. “You stubborn arse.”
And though Remus went back to his essay, pretending like the conversation was over, the weight of James’ words lingered.
Sirius, of course, took a different approach.
“Alright, this is ridiculous.”
Remus barely looked up before Sirius plopped down dramatically across from him at breakfast.
“What is?”
“You.” Sirius grabbed a piece of toast and waved it in his face. “Eat.”
Remus gave him a flat look. “I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care.” Sirius pushed the plate closer. “Eat.”
“I—”
“Eat, Moony.”
Remus sighed heavily but grabbed the toast, if only to shut Sirius up.
Sirius grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Remus shot him a glare but took a bite anyway.
Peter, being Peter, was quieter about it.
He didn’t push. He didn’t tease. He just… helped.
When Remus forgot to grab extra parchment for class, Peter had already borrowed some for him.
When his hands were too shaky from the full moon to write properly, Peter quietly passed him a quill with a better grip.
When they all walked back from Hogsmeade in the cold, Peter made sure he ended up with the extra scarf Sirius had been carrying around.
Little things.
Things Remus never thanked him for, but always noticed.
Despite all their efforts, Remus still wasn’t letting up.
He still studied late into the night, still woke up before everyone else, still tried to keep up with every single responsibility that came with being Remus Lupin—reliable, intelligent, well-mannered, responsible Remus.
And then it all came crashing down.
It was late. Too late. Even the common room fire had begun to dwindle into soft embers, casting long shadows across the floor. You and the Marauders had long since turned in, but when you woke up in the middle of the night, an uneasy feeling settling in your chest, you found yourself wandering back down the stairs.
And there he was.
Still at the table by the window, hunched over his notes, the candle beside him flickering unsteadily.
You had seen this before—the way his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote, the way his shoulders curled inward, the way his head drooped lower with every passing second. But this time was different. This time, his exhaustion wasn’t just pressing against him—it was crushing him.
And then, just as you took a step closer, you saw his hand tighten into a fist.
“Remus?” you called softly.
He flinched.
For a split second, he looked up at you, and that’s when you saw it—the sheer, overwhelming weight of everything he had been carrying. And before you could say another word, before you could tell him to just stop, to just breathe, he let out a shaky exhale—and the dam broke.
His quill snapped between his fingers.
His other hand, the one resting on the table, gripped the edge so tightly his knuckles turned white.
And then, suddenly, violently, he shoved everything off the table.
Ink splattered across the floor. Parchment scattered in every direction. His textbooks hit the ground with heavy, final thuds.
Remus was never like this. He never let his emotions get the better of him, never lashed out like this.
But right now? He was breaking.
And the worst part? He didn’t even look angry. He just looked… tired. So, so tired.
You rushed forward, hesitating only slightly before kneeling beside him. “Remus—”
“I can’t,” he rasped, voice raw. “I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.”
Your heart twisted painfully. “Moony…”
“I’m trying.” His breaths were coming faster now, uneven and ragged. “I’m trying so hard to keep up, to be okay, to be normal, but I—I don’t think I can do it anymore.”
The words shattered something in you.
Because this—this was Remus at his most vulnerable. The Remus who spent so much time holding everything together for everyone else that he had nothing left for himself.
You reached out, hesitantly at first, before gently taking his shaking hands in yours. “You don’t have to do it alone.”
He let out a sharp breath, one that almost sounded like a sob, but he squeezed his eyes shut before anything could escape.
“I don’t know how,” he admitted quietly.
And for a moment, you just sat there. Holding onto him, grounding him, staying with him.
The door creaked open behind you.
You turned, finding James, Sirius, and Peter standing there, their faces etched with worry. None of them said anything, but as soon as Sirius saw the ink staining Remus’ hands, saw the scattered pages around him, his expression softened into something heartbreakingly gentle.
James moved first, kneeling beside Remus, not saying a word before pulling him into a firm, steadying hug. And that’s when Remus broke completely, shoulders shaking as he buried his face into James’ shoulder, gripping onto him as if he were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
Sirius sat down on his other side, resting a hand on his back, rubbing slow circles there. “You’re allowed to be tired, you know,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to need help.”
Peter sat down too, silent but solid, a quiet presence that meant more than words ever could.
And you?
You just held his hand.
Because that’s all he needed right now—to know that, no matter how heavy the weight on his shoulders got, he wouldn’t have to carry it alone.
A/N GUYS! if you have any ideas please let me know, and if you want to be tagged to a particular type or all of my posts, just comment or message!
Fractures in the Foundation
Tags: [mlw] [angst] [slight fluff] [panic attack] [best friends] [comfort] [Umbridge era] [Weasley family dynamics] [stress] [emotional breakdown] [Fred Weasley needs a hug]
Word Count: 2,031
Fred Weasley was tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly exhausted.
He'd grown used to balancing things—pranks and punishments, schoolwork and scheming, mischief and mayhem. But lately, it wasn’t just about finding the next big laugh. It was about surviving.
Ever since Harry had announced that Voldemort was back, Hogwarts had become a battlefield. Not with wands or curses—no, that would’ve been easier. Instead, it was words, whispers, and doubt. Slytherins sneered, Ravenclaws debated, and even among Gryffindors, there was hesitation. Umbridge’s influence spread like a sickness, twisting minds, feeding into the fear, and anyone who so much as considered standing with Harry found themselves a target.
Fred didn’t care much about people’s opinions—he knew the truth, and that was enough. But Ron? Ron took it personally.
And that was how Fred ended up in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, physically separating his younger brother from a fight that had spiraled out of control.
It had started with a few snide remarks, something about Harry being delusional, about Dumbledore feeding him lies, and then suddenly, Ron was throwing a punch. The other Gryffindor—a burly fifth-year who should’ve known better—shoved him right back.
Before Fred even thought about it, he had stepped between them, shoving Ron back with one hand and holding the other boy at arm’s length.
"Enough," Fred snapped, his voice sharper than usual. "Are we really doing this? Fighting each other when there’s a literal psychopath out there gathering an army?"
Ron was fuming, chest heaving, fists still clenched. "Tell him that!" he spat. "Tell him to stop acting like Harry’s making this all up!"
"I’m just saying," the fifth-year argued, still glaring, "we haven’t seen anything. You expect us to believe You-Know-Who is back just because Potter says so?"
Fred's patience, already worn thin, finally snapped. "Believe whatever the hell you want," he said coldly. "But if you think turning on your own house is the way to go, then you’re just as bad as—"
He cut himself off, jaw tightening.
As bad as Percy.
The words went unspoken, but they hung in the air like a curse.
Ron’s ears were burning red, but the fight had left his eyes. He gave one last glare before stomping up to the boys' dormitory, shoving past the people who had gathered to watch. The fifth-year huffed but backed down as well, muttering under his breath before retreating.
Fred stayed rooted in place, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He could feel the weight of the stares, the hushed murmurs. He didn’t care.
What he did care about was the pressure in his chest, the way his throat felt tight, the way the walls seemed to close in around him.
George had been at his side during the argument, but he didn’t say anything now. Maybe he knew. Maybe he felt it too—the weight of holding everything together, of keeping their family from fracturing any more than it already had.
Fred exhaled sharply and turned on his heel, leaving the common room without another word.
You found him in the Astronomy Tower.
It was late—too late for anyone to be wandering around without the risk of detention. But you knew Fred better than most. You knew when he was itching for trouble and when he just needed to breathe.
Tonight was the latter.
He was leaning against the railing, staring out at the darkened grounds. His usual easy smirk was gone, replaced with a furrowed brow and a clenched jaw.
"You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles," you teased lightly, stepping beside him.
His lips twitched, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. "That’s the least of my problems, love."
You didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, you leaned against the railing too, letting the silence settle.
Finally, after what felt like ages, he exhaled. "I can’t do this anymore."
Your stomach twisted at the quiet admission. "Do what?"
"This," he gestured vaguely. "Being the one who keeps it together. Mum’s a wreck, Dad’s always at work, Bill and Charlie aren’t here, Percy won’t even answer us, and now I have to be the one to make sure Ron and Ginny don’t fall apart too." He let out a humorless chuckle. "Merlin, even George and I—it's like no one listens to us unless we’re yelling or pulling a prank."
Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice.
"You shouldn’t have to do it alone," you said softly.
Fred scoffed. "Yeah? And who else is going to step up? Everyone else is too busy either pretending nothing's wrong or losing their minds over it."
He ran a hand down his face, his breathing turning shallow. "I just—I can't keep pretending it's fine. I'm tired. I'm so bloody tired, and no one sees it."
Your hand found his, squeezing gently. "I see it."
His fingers tightened around yours like a lifeline.
For a moment, it was silent again, the tension between you almost suffocating. And then—his breathing hitched.
At first, you thought it was a sigh. But then his shoulders trembled. His grip on the railing went white-knuckled. His breaths came in uneven, rapid bursts.
Panic.
"Fred," you said quickly, stepping closer. "Hey, look at me."
He didn’t. His eyes were squeezed shut, his body rigid, like he was bracing himself for something.
"Fred," you tried again, firmer this time, cupping his face in your hands. "Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, with me."
His chest heaved, but he tried. He matched your rhythm, though each inhale still stuttered.
"That’s it," you murmured. "You’re okay. You’re not alone."
His eyes finally opened, glassy and red-rimmed. He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him from shattering entirely.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile. "There you go. Better?"
He nodded weakly, though he still looked drained. "Yeah," he mumbled. "A bit."
Without thinking, you pulled him into a hug. He didn’t resist.
For someone who always carried himself with such ease, with such laughter and bravado, Fred melted into you like he’d been holding himself together for too long. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in your shoulder.
"You’re not in this alone, Fred," you whispered. "You have me. You have George. You have your family, even if it doesn’t always feel like it."
He let out a shaky breath. "Thanks," he murmured, voice muffled. "For this. For being here."
You smiled softly, running a hand through his hair. "Always."
The road ahead was still uncertain. The war loomed, Umbridge tightened her grip, and the weight on Fred’s shoulders wouldn’t disappear overnight.
But in this moment, in the quiet space between exhaustion and comfort, he allowed himself to rest.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. A/N GUYS WHO SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT NEXT???
Chasing Victory - Harry Potter
Tags: [mlw] [enemies to lovers] [quidditch rivals] [flirty banter] [teasing] [Hogwarts tension] [drabble]
Word Count: 1,896
Being on the same Quidditch team as Harry Potter was hell.
Not because he wasn’t a good player—no, that would have been too easy. The problem was that he was too good, and worse, he knew it. Every practice turned into a silent war, a battle of one-ups that left the rest of the Gryffindor team either highly entertained or deeply exhausted.
“Try not to let me outscore you too badly this time, Potter,” you taunted as you mounted your broom, a smirk curling at your lips.
Harry, already hovering a few feet in the air, tilted his head with that infuriating half-smirk. “I would, but I have actual priorities—like winning us the match.”
You scoffed, flipping your broom around to join the team in the air. “Oh, I’m sorry—isn’t scoring goals part of winning?”
“For you, maybe.” He flew up beside you, matching your pace effortlessly. “I just have to catch one thing and end the whole game. You could score all day, but if I grab the Snitch before you make an impact, you’re just putting on a show.”
You gasped, shoving him playfully in midair. “Excuse you—my goals do make an impact.”
“If you say so,” he drawled, his grin only widening as you scowled. “Just don’t be too upset when I win before you get to double digits.”
Katie Bell snorted from across the pitch. “Merlin, you two are exhausting.”
The team had long since accepted that your and Harry’s rivalry was part of practice. It had started back in First year, when you had both vied for the Seeker position. He won, much to your outrage, and you had begrudgingly settled as a Chaser. Not that it stopped the competition.
Every goal you scored. Every Snitch he caught. Every match was a battle of who could prove their importance more.
And you hated to admit it, but Merlin, did Harry Potter look good when he was winning.
Annoying.
But good.
Practice ended just as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky in streaks of gold and violet. The team landed one by one, groaning as they stretched out their sore muscles.
You swung a leg off your broom, running a hand through your sweat-dampened hair, and felt eyes on you.
Harry.
You turned, arching a brow. “Like what you see, Potter?”
He leaned against his broomstick, grinning. “Just impressed you didn’t crash into me this time.”
You scoffed. “That was one time—”
“That was last match, when you got so focused on showing off you nearly knocked me off my broom.”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “Maybe if you weren’t so slow at catching the Snitch, I wouldn’t have to work overtime.”
Harry smirked. “Slow? I’d say it’s more of a strategic delay. Gives you time to get a few goals in before I finish the job.”
You gasped, shoving him again. “Oh, you absolute—”
Oliver Wood clapped a hand on both your shoulders, shaking his head fondly. “If you two put as much energy into practice as you do bickering, we’d never lose a match.”
You and Harry exchanged a look.
Then, as if choreographed, you both turned to Wood and said, “But we don’t lose.”
Wood sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly. Just—try not to kill each other before the Slytherin match, alright?”
You grinned. “No promises.”
Harry chuckled beside you, and for once, it wasn’t mocking.
The locker room cleared out slowly, leaving just the two of you still gathering your things. It wasn’t unusual. You often ended up being the last ones out—sometimes because you were too busy bickering to leave, other times because you both enjoyed dragging out these moments.
Harry, still in his uniform, leaned against the lockers as he watched you pull your sweater over your training gear. “You know,” he mused, “for all your talk, I don’t think you could actually outscore me.”
You scoffed, turning to face him. “In Quidditch?”
“In impact.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping closer until there was barely a foot between you. “Big words from someone who barely won the Seeker spot.”
“Barely?” he repeated, amused. “I caught the Snitch in my first match. That’s not ‘barely,’ that’s legendary.”
You smirked. “And yet, here you are, still trying to prove something.”
Harry tilted his head, looking at you with that unreadable expression—the one that made your stomach tighten despite yourself. “Maybe I just like getting a reaction out of you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Careful, Potter. Sounds like you like me.”
He grinned. “Now that would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?”
Your breath caught for just a second.
Because, beneath the playful taunts, beneath the endless banter—there was something else in his voice. Something electric.
The air between you felt charged, neither of you willing to step back first.
Then, before you could process it, Harry reached out, fingers curling around the hem of your jersey, tugging you just slightly forward.
“Tell you what,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost teasing. “For the Slytherin match, we make it a challenge.”
Your brow arched. “What kind of challenge?”
His fingers tightened on your jersey, just slightly. “You have to score ten goals before I catch the Snitch.”
You inhaled sharply. That was—ambitious. Ten goals in a match wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t easy, either.
“And if I do?” you asked.
Harry smirked. “I admit you’re better.”
Your stomach flipped. “And if I don’t?”
His lips curled, eyes glinting. “Then you do exactly what I say for a whole day.”
You sucked in a breath. “Exactly?”
His grip on your jersey didn’t loosen. “Exactly.”
You swallowed, your mind already racing with all the possible implications.
Then, mustering up every ounce of defiance, you leaned in slightly, just to watch his smirk falter for half a second.
“Better start practicing, Potter,” you whispered.
And then, before he could respond, you stepped back, grabbing your broom and heading for the exit, throwing one last look over your shoulder.
Harry was still standing there, watching you go.
And if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looked a little flustered.
Good.
He wouldn’t know what hit him.
The air was electric.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin teams hovered tensely in the air, waiting for Madam Hooch to blow the whistle. The crowd was already roaring, half of Hogwarts packed into the stands, banners waving high.
Lee Jordan’s voice boomed across the pitch, as excited as ever.
“Welcome to the most anticipated Quidditch match of the season! On one side, we have Gryffindor, captained by our very own maniacally obsessed Oliver Wood—”
“JORDAN.”
“—and on the other, we have Slytherin, captained by Marcus Flint, whose face, if you ask me, resembles a troll with a bad haircut—”
“JORDAN!”
Professor McGonagall’s exasperated voice rang through the stadium, but Lee was undeterred.
“And let’s not forget today’s most heated battle—Gryffindor’s star Chaser and Slytherin’s collective worst nightmare versus everyone’s favorite Boy Who Just Can’t Lose, Harry Potter! That’s right, folks, we’ve got the ultimate showdown: Ten goals or a Snitch?”
You smirked as Harry, hovering beside you, shook his head. “You paid him, didn’t you?”
You flipped your hair over your shoulder. “No comment.”
A Slytherin Chaser sneered from a few feet away. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you two threw the match just so you could flirt some more.”
You gasped dramatically. “Flirt? With Potter? I’d rather kiss a Flobberworm.”
Harry snorted. “Funny, considering last night you said—”
The whistle blew.
And chaos erupted.
The Quaffle was immediately stolen by Angelina Johnson, who soared past the Slytherins with frankly disrespectful ease. You followed close behind, eyes locked on the posts.
Lee Jordan was already narrating at full speed.
“And Johnson has the Quaffle—dodging a Bludger, beautiful move! She passes to our resident menace, who—Merlin, did she just elbow a Slytherin? McGonagall, tell me that was legal—”
McGonagall groaned into her hands.
“Completely legal,” you called out mid-air, catching the Quaffle and bolting toward the goalposts. Flint lunged to block you, but you twisted around him effortlessly.
“And SHE SCORES!” Lee bellowed.
The Gryffindor stands exploded.
You turned and grinned at Harry, who was hovering nearby, scanning the field for the Snitch. “That’s one.”
He smirked. “Nine to go, then.”
The game pressed on, intensity rising with each play. The Slytherins weren’t holding back—they were brutal. A Bludger whizzed past your ear, barely missing, courtesy of their Beater, Derrick.
“Oi, aim for the Quaffle, not my head!” you snapped, zooming past him.
“Didn’t know you could tell the difference!” he shot back.
You dodged another rough push from a Slytherin and snatched the Quaffle mid-air.
“And SHE SCORES AGAIN!” Lee Jordan cheered. “That’s two—wait, three! She’s on fire!”
“Pity Potter won’t let her have this one,” a Slytherin muttered as they zoomed past.
“Bold of you to assume I let her do anything,” Harry called back lazily.
By the time you reached seven goals, the Slytherins looked pissed, and Harry still hadn’t caught the Snitch. He was circling above like a hawk, waiting for the perfect moment.
But you weren’t done yet.
“Come on, Potter,” you teased as you passed him. “Slacking off?”
He gave you a slow once-over, lips curving into a smirk. “Just enjoying the show.”
You flipped him off before racing toward the Slytherin goalposts.
Eight.
Nine.
One. More.
The stadium was wild, Gryffindor on their feet, waiting for you to hit ten. You gripped the Quaffle, dodged a Slytherin, and—
A shadow passed over you.
Then—
WHAM.
A Bludger—hurled at an ungodly speed—slammed into your side, knocking the wind out of you instantly.
Pain exploded through your ribs. The world tilted—no, you tilted—spinning uncontrollably.
For one terrifying second, you realized you weren’t on your broom anymore.
The sky blurred. The ground rushed up to meet you—
And the last thing you heard was Harry yelling your name.
The world was ringing.
Shouts. Whistles. Someone screaming.
You groaned, pain throbbing in your side. Your fingers twitched. Your broom was gone. The grass was—
Wait. Grass.
You had landed.
Somewhere above you, a deafening roar erupted. The game was over.
Gryffindor had won.
Someone skidded to a stop beside you, breathing hard.
Harry.
You blinked up at him, vision hazy. He looked… terrified. His hair was windblown, glasses askew, green eyes blazing with panic.
“Hey,” you croaked.
His hands hovered over you, unsure. “Are you—? Can you—? Bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me.”
You coughed, wincing. “Did I—win?”
Harry stared at you, somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. Then, to your shock, he laughed, though it sounded slightly unhinged.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You nearly die, and that’s what you care about?”
“Ten goals, Potter.” You managed a weak smirk. “I win.”
Harry exhaled sharply, eyes scanning your face. Then—before you could say another word—he leaned in.
Your breath caught.
His forehead pressed against yours, just for a second, before he pulled back.
“Now be a good girl, and listen to Madam Promfey, when she says to rest your stubborn ass” he murmured, voice low, “and maybe I’ll give you a reward later.”
Your face burned hotter than a Bludger to the ribs.
Somewhere behind him, Oliver Wood yelled, “POTTER, IF YOU’RE DONE FLIRTING, HELP ME GET HER TO THE HOSPITAL WING.”
Harry sighed.
But as he carefully helped you up, arms steady around you, you didn’t miss the way his grip lingered—
Or the way he smirked.
Under The Table- Damain Wayne
Tags: [mlw] [friends to lovers] [bratty Marinette] [teasing] [public teasing] [slow burn] [flirty banter] [drabble]
Word Count: 1,217
Marinette had been a menace all damn day.
From the moment she waltzed into the manor, she had been insufferable.
It started that morning, when she plopped onto the couch beside him, phone in one hand, a perfectly iced coffee in the other, and had the audacity to flick at the collar of his dress shirt.
“Do you ever unbutton this thing, Dami?” she teased, sing-songing his name with that knowing smirk that made his eye twitch. “You dress like a mafia boss at all times—ever heard of casual wear?”
“I am casual.”
She snorted, reaching up before he could stop her and undoing the first button herself. “There. Now you look a little less like a CEO and more like a person.”
He shoved her hand away, scowling. “Touch me again, Dupain-Cheng, and I will have Pennyworth feed you decaf.”
Her gasp of betrayal was nothing short of theatrical. “You wouldn’t.”
He would.
She narrowed her eyes, obviously plotting her revenge, and that should have been his first sign that the day would only go downhill from there.
By lunchtime, she was relentless.
When he was reading in the study? She flicked at his ear.
When he was training? She sauntered past, snagged a water bottle, and smirked. “Careful, Dami—if you furrow your brows any harder, they might get stuck like that.”
When he was working on an important file for Wayne Enterprises, she plopped down beside him and stole his pen, twirling it between her fingers as she hummed, unbothered.
And when he made the mistake of snapping, “Dupain-Cheng, I swear—”
She simply blinked at him, lashes fluttering as she held the pen out of reach.
“Make me.”
…He clenched his fists, counted to ten, and reminded himself that throwing his best friend out the window was frowned upon.
And then came dinner.
Wayne Enterprises was hosting a formal charity gala, and Marinette, of course, had been invited.
She looked breathtaking in a sleek black dress, her dark hair pinned up with a few loose strands framing her face—not that he was looking—but the problem was that she knew it.
“Careful, Angel,” he murmured when she linked her arm with his. “Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
She gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “The wrong idea? You mean the correct idea?”
He exhaled through his nose. “We’re friends.”
She batted her lashes. “For now.”
He chose to ignore that.
And then, of course, she flicked a damn pea at him.
It hit him square on the forehead, rolling onto his plate.
The room was full of important people—investors, politicians, Gotham’s elite. It was not the place to engage in a war.
But Marinette didn’t care.
When he slowly turned his head, she was smirking—arms crossed, one brow raised, waiting for his reaction.
“Oh, please,” she mused. “It was just a pea.”
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain composed.
That was the final straw.
Which is why, five minutes later, his palm now rested firmly on her thigh under the banquet table.
Her breath hitched. He smirked.
Finally. Silence.
"Something wrong, Angel?" His voice was smooth, unbothered, but the pressure of his hand against her skin said otherwise.
Marinette swallowed, shifting in her seat, but the movement only made things worse for her. His fingers flexed, inching up, dangerously close to where she definitely didn’t want him to be.
Scratch that. Where she shouldn’t want him to be.
“You—” she sucked in a breath, eyes narrowing at him, “—are insufferable.”
Damian leaned in, looking the picture of innocence to the outside world. “Pot, meet kettle.”
She tried to shove his hand away, but his grip only tightened, thumb brushing the hem of her dress. His touch was slow. Deliberate.
A warning.
“You were being a brat,” he murmured, lips a hair’s breadth from her ear, “so I had to remind you who’s in control here.”
Her face burned. “I’m not a brat.”
The barely-there squeeze of his fingers had her thighs clenching together, and his answering chuckle made her want to throw her champagne in his face.
“You sure about that, Angel?” His voice was a taunt, rich with amusement. “Because right now, I think you’d do just about anything to get me to move my hand.”
She turned her head slightly, lips ghosting over his jaw as she whispered, “Keep talking like that and I’ll make you regret it.”
His grin sharpened. Oh, he loved a challenge.
“Is that a threat?”
Marinette smirked, batting her lashes at him as she placed her hand over his… and slowly pushed it higher.
Damian’s breath caught—just for a fraction of a second—but she felt it.
Now it was her turn to smirk.
“Consider it a promise.”
His eyes darkened. And then—before she could react—his fingers dug into her thigh, a firm squeeze that sent a sharp jolt of heat up her spine.
She gasped, back going rigid, hands gripping the edge of the tablecloth.
The bastard chuckled. Low. Dark.
"Now, be a good girl," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear, voice smooth as sin, "and maybe I'll give you a reward later on."
Marinette bit her lip, cursing herself for the way her body reacted to his words.
Because damn it, she really wanted that reward.
Freckles- Fred Weasley
Tags: [mlw] [established relationship] [lazy morning] [mild teasing] [flirty] [drabble]
Word count: 1,064
Having a boyfriend is the human equivalent of having a particularly mischievous cat.
He steals your food, claims your bed as his own, gets into places he shouldn’t, and—on occasion—demands attention at the most inconvenient hours.
The nice thing about having Fred Weasley, however, is that he’s just as good at receiving attention as he is at demanding it.
Which is precisely why you’re currently shifting beneath the sheets, warm morning light streaming in through the Burrow’s curtains, illuminating the freckles that map his bare shoulders like constellations.
Fred sleeps on his stomach, arms folded beneath the pillow, ginger hair a mess of tousled strands, his mouth slightly parted. His back rises and falls with each steady breath, broad shoulders relaxed, and one leg kicked out, knee bent lazily like he owns the bed (which, to be fair, he mostly does).
Your fingers twitch.
It’s a terrible idea.
But then again, Fred Weasley has never shied away from terrible ideas.
You trail a slow fingertip down his spine, featherlight, tracing along each dip and ridge until you reach the small of his back. He stirs, shifting slightly, but doesn’t wake.
Emboldened, you press a soft kiss to his shoulder, then another, trailing warmth along his freckled skin. He hums in his sleep, one arm flexing briefly before relaxing again.
It’s the kind of morning where everything is slow and golden, where the air is thick with warmth, and the only sound is the rustling of the sheets as you move closer, pressing against his side.
You let your lips ghost along his jawline now, feeling the faintest prickle of stubble, and he exhales deeply, shifting onto his back, blinking sluggishly at the ceiling.
A smirk tugs at his lips before his eyes even open.
"Thought I was dreaming for a moment," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, accent rough around the edges.
You grin against his skin, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “Dreaming about what?”
He finally turns his head, gaze still heavy with sleep but wickedly amused.
“Dunno,” he muses, stretching lazily, muscles flexing beneath freckled skin. “Something about a very lovely, very distracting person who likes to wake me up in the best ways.”
You roll your eyes, resting your chin on his chest. “And here I thought you liked your beauty sleep.”
Fred huffs a laugh, eyes slipping shut again. “Oh, I do. But I like you more.”
A warm silence settles between you, his fingers finding your waist beneath the blankets, tracing mindless patterns against your skin.
After a beat, he cracks one eye open. “You’re staring.”
You hum, fingers drumming lightly against his chest. “Just admiring my work.”
His brows lift in amusement. “Your work?”
You tap your lips against his collarbone. “Mhm. Someone’s gotta keep you humble.”
Fred grins, quick and lopsided. “Love, if you wanted to keep me humble, you wouldn’t be in my bed, looking at me like that.”
You open your mouth to retort, but he moves faster—flipping you onto your back with an effortless shift, caging you beneath him, his weight warm and solid.
“See, now you’ve gone and made it unfair,” you complain, laughing breathlessly as his lips hover just over yours.
“Unfair?” Fred echoes, tilting his head. “I’ll have you know, I’m a firm believer in equal opportunity.”
And then he kisses you, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.
And maybe he does.
If your tummy itches when you wear jeans, you have a nickel allergy and should paint the back of the buttion with nail polish. Okay I am going into the woods forever now. I love you.
WHAT
Sensitivity to nickel is extremely common amd despite this, clothing manufacturers often use it because it is cheap. A coat or two of nail polish is an effective barrier between the allergen and your skin. Goodbye forever. Do not forget my wisdom
yeah okay ill reblog that!!
For all those with nickel allergy 💪
Love, Always
Love feels like an unfinished story— a book I keep returning to, even when the pages blur. It sits in the quiet spaces, the spaces I thought were empty, until I realized they weren't. It's not the crescendo they promised, not the fireworks or the grand confessions. It's the way the sun lingers a little longer, even when the day is done. The way a familiar song aches in places I didn't know could still feel. Somewhere, in all this searching, I've learned: Love doesn't come in absolutes. It's a fleeting thread, a borrowed moment, the knowing glance in a crowded room that you can never quite hold on to. And yet, it's always there— in the words I write, the spaces I leave blank, the stories I keep untelling. Love, I've found, isn't about finding or losing. It's about carrying it with you, even when it hurts, even when it fades, even when it's just the echo of your own heartbeat. -TheDeceasedPoetsDepartments
I really liked this poem and it seems like its the poets first time ever post on tumblr,
Bruce keeping a tighter and tighter lid on his identity around the Justice League because with each new person to reveal their identity he realizes that he has fucked far too high a percentage of his co workers as Bruce Wayne and he has to take this secret to his grave
fuck it homebrew boop button. reblog this post to boop the person you reblogged from.
“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”
not even risking that shit
scrolled past this, re-evaluated my life, then SCROOOLLLED back up and hit the damn reblog button.
Last comment same thing. Sorry to the next person who sees this. I just can’t risk it. I have things I need to do before my life becomes hell. Lol
man i fucking hate yall who tf put this up knowing damn well we all gonna reblog it im heated im really sick af bout this
I don’t play that shit lol sorry
You know, i’m curious to see if this brings me some good news y'know
ALBUS SEVERUS POTTER DESERVES JUSTICE
OK so like I was just thinking what on earth could ever get harry to name his freaking child after the man who hates, and I mean hates him, and the only decent thing he has done to that boy is not killing him before the 'dark lord' gets to him? The guy who only helped him one last time because he had if his mother's freaking eyes. But like what if Ginny named him? Like just listen, OK so James Sirius Potter was named after Harry's Father / Father figures, right? Cause like Sirius has never practically tried to kill him and yeah we also require justice for Hagrid but like that's another topic completely, anyway both these people meant something to Harry, something he valued, even though he never met James in real life, he had Sirius and Remus tell him enough stories about him right? So technically that makes sense Albus Severus Potter was named after one dude that harry tried to look up to through his years and like genuinely put him up on a higher pedestal than Dumbledore deserved but like he still always saw him in good light, even though Albus quite literally brought him up like a lamb ready to be slaughtered, but he still valued the man right? But what has Severus ever done for him? Exactly nothing, zilch, Nada, except for his last words being "You have your mother's eyes" which literally he could tell himself just by looking in the mirror, or even talking to someone who even saw his mother once? And getting to my point what if after Ginnys first year and all the trauma she of course will get nightmares, but Ginny is a Weasley so she won't ask for help, and even if she did, she thought it would make her seem weak. So she thought about going to madam promfey to ask for sleeping meds or something that would at least keep the nightmares at bay or at least let her sleep properly, but then she realises that this would come on her records, and her parents would find out, so she went for the next best alternative being snape, and what does Snape see? He sees a little girl with red hair walking up to him looking confident, but deep in her eyes there is fear and a slight bit of hope, asking him if he had potions to keep the nightmares away, or maybe even something to stop her from fearing the dark and cold? Because during the summer she would always turn of the fan and wrap herself up with multiple blankets and jackets, she had to force herself to stop because it would worry her family, and Little Ginny hated being an inconvenience to anyone, So Snape decides to help her not only because she looks like a certain someone, but she also reminded him of the hope he once held that was diminished when no one helped him, he helped her because he saw his little self cowering form the older Slytherins for being friends with young Lilly evans, he was still friends with her even after being bullied. So he decided to teach her something no one taught, but he learnt himself, he taught her how to love the dark, how to find warmth in the coldness, he sat every day after class, and after school hours to sit and help little Ginny overcome her fear, he told her how darkness can be a friend he told her how the darkness can help you feel safe, because if you can't see then nor can anyone else, and little Ginny was finally happy she could overcome her fear, but that's not where it stopped, they continued this little ritual for years until her 6th year when everything changed, and the only reason Severus Snape decided to help Harry Potter was because he knew that his favourite student was in love with him, and if he died she would break, he helped him because he didn't want Ginny to grow up in such a cruel world. This is the reason Ginny Weasley decided to name her second child after someone ho changed her life, who taught her everything he could to help her get better, when no one noticed something was wrong. This is the justice Albus Severus deserves, because being named after a Slytherin isn't such a bad thing, even if he made one of your parents' life miserable, he saved the other one.
I want to date someone, but I'm also scared of the commitment, and also have trust issues, My Pinterest is full of couples, and now I'm getting FOMO, anyone relate??
