froggapi's fics

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[froggapi-writes]

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alias: froggapi 🫶

pronouns: she/they

interests: biochemistry, listening to music, crochet, building legos, thrifted + alternative fashion

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embarrassment has good bones

[froggapi-writes]

🩷┆Postcards Boone x F!Reader

Fluff where you and Boone wish to remember things exactly as they are.

Warnings Tooth-rotting fluff 😝, maybe fear of forgetting?  Word Count 5,467

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A/N Woah! Long time, no see 🧐 I hope y'all enjoy this as much as I loved writing it <3

— “‘Cause I want to remember this one exactly how you do.” One-Shot

The first thing Boone said to you that morning was, “You stole my sock.”

He said it like an accusation from beneath the tangled blanket, hair flattened on one side, voice still rough with sleep. The motel curtains were glowing a weak gold around the edges, the kind of thin morning light that made every room look a little gentler than it was. You had slunk in after midnight, sunburnt and smoky from gas station coffee and road dust and a chase that hadn’t given you much besides a pretty shelf cloud and a tire full of gravel. The room smelled like detergent, damp towels, and Boone’s soap.

You were standing by the tiny sink in one of his old T-shirts, brushing your teeth.

“I didn’t steal it,” you muffled around the toothbrush. “I borrowed it.”

“You’re not wearing it.”

“Maybe I borrowed it for emotional support.”

He lifted his head just enough to squint at you. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“It means I miss you when I’m not with you, so I have to take little pieces.”

That got half a laugh out of him. Boone dropped back onto the pillow, one arm flung over his eyes like the day had personally offended him. The sheet had twisted around his waist. One bare foot stuck out from under the blanket, and the other was cold and tragic and apparently sockless.

You spat, rinsed, and grinned at his reflection in the cracked motel mirror. “You’re very brave.”

“For what?”

“For surviving this devastating theft.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Get back in bed and maybe I’ll recover.”

It was a stupid line. It wasn’t even smooth. Boone said things like that all the time, casual and crooked, as though they just fell out of the sky and landed between you. But it always worked anyway.

You left the toothbrush in its little paper sleeve, padded across the thin carpet, and slid back under the blanket. The mattress dipped. Boone made a small sound like he’d won something, then immediately draped himself over you with all the solemnity of a saint laying down a blessing. His skin was warm from sleep, hair smelling faintly like the motel shampoo he’d complained about last night.

“There,” he mumbled into your shoulder. “Healing.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You like me.”

You threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. “Unfortunately.”

His grin pressed into your collarbone.

Outside, a truck started up in the parking lot. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed, then another. The motel air conditioner rattled like it was thinking about giving up. Boone’s breathing evened out for another minute, not quite asleep, not quite awake. You could stay there all day, you thought. You could let the map curl up at the bottom of your duffel and let the sky go on making weather for somebody else.

But that wasn’t your life.

Your life was shoes half-kicked under beds. Your life was chargers braided together on stained nightstands, paper maps and radar apps, drive-thru breakfasts, and cracked lips from wind. Your life was waking up in strange little rooms and remembering where you were by the color of the curtains or the neon sign outside.

Your life was leaving.

By nine you were back on the road. Boone drove first because he said you were still making your “haunted Victorian child” face from being tired, and you told him that was rich coming from a man who’d spent ten full minutes looking for his keys while they were in his hand. He said that was a tactical warm-up exercise for the day. You told him the tactic appeared to be confusion.

You were somewhere in western Kansas, or maybe the edge of Oklahoma, or maybe a thin place in the country where the state line mattered less than the road. The land stretched broad and sun-bleached under a pale blue sky. Power lines raced beside you. The radio hissed in and out. Boone drummed his fingers on the wheel in time with a song neither of you knew well enough to sing.

There was a grocery sack between your feet filled with the snacks you’d bought that morning: gummy worms, peanuts, iced tea, two bananas already bruising, and a ridiculous number of sunflower seed packets because Boone claimed they kept him alert.

“They make your truck look like a rodent lives in it,” you said, glancing at the shell pile in the console.

“This rodent is a patriot.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m an American and I need my seeds.”

“That’s not what patriot means.”

“That sounds like communist talk.”

You laughed so suddenly you snorted, which was awful, and Boone pointed at you in triumph.

“That,” he said, “was undignified.”

“You made me snort.”

“Not possible. That came from within.”

The road ran on and on.

This was your favorite hour of the day with him, you thought. Not sunrise, not sunset, not the electric build right before a storm broke open. Midmorning, with the AC going full blast and the fields skimming by and Boone beside you in a faded baseball cap, saying nonsense just to hear you laugh. Midmorning when the whole day was still ahead of you and you could pretend, for a little while, that it belonged only to the two of you.

You’d been together long enough that your silences were easy. Not empty, never that. Just easy. He didn’t rush to fill every gap. You didn’t either. Sometimes you rode for twenty miles without talking, and still you felt him there like a hand at the small of your back. Present and familiar and chosen, in the gentle way anybody got to be yours in this life.

He glanced over and caught you looking.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got a face.”

“You’ve got a face.”

“That’s weak, darlin’. Workshop it.”

You smiled and looked back out the windshield. “I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby.”

“I was thinking that I like this.”

Boone’s fingers tapped once against the steering wheel. “What, my excellent driving?”

“This part.” You gestured vaguely. The road, the truck, the day. “Just this. With you.”

For a second he didn’t say anything. Boone could get shy in the strangest places. Not around people, not with a camera around, not when he had a joke lined up and a whole room waiting for it. But hand him something soft and sincere and sometimes he handled it like it might collapse in on itself.

Then he reached across the console until his knuckles bumped yours. You turned your hand over, and he tangled your fingers together without looking away from the road.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

The song on the radio changed. The sky opened wider. You drove.

Around noon you pulled into a little town that looked sunstruck and drowsy, all low brick buildings and faded signs and a courthouse dome glinting over the trees. Boone wanted gas and real coffee. You wanted air that didn’t come through the truck vents and maybe a bathroom that didn’t require Olympic trust.

You found both at an old station on the corner with a diner attached, the kind of place with metal-framed windows and a hand-painted sign advertising pie. The bell over the diner door gave a tired jingle when you walked in.

It was cool inside. Cool and dim. There was a long counter with red stools and a row of booths by the windows. Somewhere in the back, dishes clattered. The woman behind the counter called you honey before you’d even sat down.

Boone got pie with his coffee because he had no self-control. You got a grilled cheese and a Coke. You split a basket of fries without discussing it because at some point your food had stopped being singular.

There was a family in the corner booth with two little girls coloring on paper placemats. A man in overalls reading the local paper. A teenager wiping down tables with an expression of cosmic boredom. It felt like stepping sideways into another time. Not old, exactly. Just slower, untangled.

Boone nudged your ankle under the table. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The one where you look like you’re writing a poem in your head.”

“I don’t write poems.”

“You absolutely do, you just don’t let anybody call ’em that.”

You took a sip of Coke. “Maybe I’m judging your pie choice.”

His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Cherry pie is a noble institution.”

“It’s sticky.”

“Love is sticky.”

“Gross.”

“You’re right.” He pointed his fork at you. “That sounded better in my head.”

You laughed, and the woman behind the counter smiled at the two of you like she’d seen this before, a hundred times, in a hundred booths: a girl trying not to grin too big, a boy acting foolish on purpose because he liked the sound it made when she did.

Maybe that was part of why that day felt the way it did. The song of it. The tug in your chest. It wasn’t dramatic. Nothing was happening besides lunch in a little town you probably wouldn’t pass through again. But you kept getting these flashes, tiny and sharp and golden, as though you were already remembering it.

The shine of the sugar dispenser. The crack in Boone’s sunglasses where he’d sat on them last month and refused to buy new ones. The way his thumb stroked once, absentmindedly, over your wrist when he reached across the table for ketchup. Ordinary things. The whole world made of ordinary things, and somehow they kept cutting right through you.

“You’re far away,” Boone said.

You blinked. “Sorry.”

He leaned back, studying you. “Where’d you go?”

You could’ve shrugged it off. Made a joke. You almost did. But there was something about that day that made you less interested in dodging your own feelings.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Just… sometimes I get worried I don’t notice things enough when they’re happening.”

Boone’s mouth softened.

The diner noise went on around you. Silverware, low voices, the hum of the refrigerator case by the register.

“I notice storms,” you continued, tracing your fingertip through a bead of condensation on your glass. “I notice all the big stuff. The dramatic stuff. But then I think about how many motel rooms and back roads and random lunch stops blur together, and I hate it a little, because this matters too. Maybe more.”

Boone didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “You notice more than anybody I know.”

You looked up.

He shrugged one shoulder. “You remember everything.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You remember what gas station outside Amarillo had the good coffee. You remember the waitress in Nebraska who called me movie-star handsome and gave you a wink. You remember the first song that came on the radio the day we crossed into New Mexico. You remember what I was wearing when we got caught in that downpour last spring.”

“That's because you looked insane.”

“Th’ hurtful memory still proves my point.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Boone set down his fork. “You notice things. I think maybe you just don't trust that they’ll stay with you unless you hold onto them too hard.”

There it was again, that way he had sometimes of saying something so gently you didn’t realize it was true until it was already inside you.

He reached for a fry, pointed it at you like it was a tiny wand. “Besides, that’s what I’m for.”

“What, fries?”

“For remembering with you.”

Your chest ached in that sweet, unwieldy way that had nowhere to go but into a smile. “That was almost smooth.”

“Almost?”

“You pointed a potato at me.”

He considered this. “That’s fair.”

After lunch, the heat hit you all at once outside, bright and flat and absolute. Boone groaned like a man personally wronged by the sun. You laughed and squinted across the street, where there was a thrift store with dresses in the window and an antique shop full of old signs and furniture.

“Come on,” you said.

“To where?”

You were already tugging him by the hand. “Adventure.”

“Your adventures are always suspiciously close to shopping.”

“Maybe your soul needs knickknacks.”

“My soul needs air conditioning.”

“Same building, probably.”

The antique shop smelled like old wood and dust and lemon polish. The air was cool enough to make you shiver. You wandered without direction, trailing your fingers along the edges of things that used to belong to somebody else: tarnished silver trays, chipped blue china, vinyl records in cardboard sleeves, a rack of postcards gone soft at the corners.

Boone stopped in front of a shelf of vintage cameras. “Look at this,” he said, lifting one carefully. “This thing’s older than my dad.”

“That’s because your dad is, like, thirty-seven.”

“Darlin’, I reckon he’s about double that.”

“I dunno, he seemed thirty-seven.”

“Explain.”

“None needed.”

He gave you a narrow-eyed look. “You’re a lovely, deeply confusing woman.”

“I’m a delight.”

You drifted apart and together through the store. You tried on a pair of sunglasses shaped like little stars and made Boone judge them. He said you looked like you were about to either headline a country concert or rob a bank in 1978. You told him those were both aspirational.

In a basket by the register you found a stack of postcards, blank and yellowing, each with a different roadside attraction on the front. Giant prairie dogs, a dinosaur park, the world’s largest ball of twine. You laughed and flipped through them until Boone came up behind you.

“Those are horrifying,” he said, peering over your shoulder.

“They’re perfect.”

“For what?”

You held one up. It showed a roadside motel pool from what looked like 1963, all impossible blue water and women in cat-eye sunglasses.

“For us.”

He tilted his head. “Explain.”

You tapped the blank back with one fingernail. “We should start sending them.”

“To who?”

“To ourselves.”

That got his attention. “What?”

“From wherever we were. Just little notes. Then someday we’ll have this whole weird pile of where we’ve been.”

Boone stared at you for a second, then broke into a grin that unfolded slowly, like he could already see it. “That,” he started, “is disgustingly sentimental.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You bought the postcard and a pen that barely worked. The woman at the register let you use the mailbox out front. Boone leaned against the hood of the truck while you wrote your names on the front with your P.O. box back in Oklahoma, the one you mostly used for bills and the occasional fan letter and one memorable package containing a taxidermied squirrel in a graduation cap.

“What are you writing?” Boone asked.

“You’ll see when it gets there.”

“That could be weeks.”

“That’s the beauty of correspondence.”

He made a face. “You sound like somebody’s great-aunt.”

“Thank you.”

Then he snatched the card from your hand before you could stop him and scribbled something on the back too, shielding it with his elbow while you protested. When he finally dropped it into the mailbox, he looked much too pleased with himself.

“You’re insufferable,” you said.

“And you’re curious.”

“I am. I hate that you’re right.”

He opened the truck door for you with a ridiculous little bow. “After you, m’lady.”

Back on the road, the land changed shape by degrees. Greener now. More trees. Creeks threading silver between the fields. Clouds building in the distance, not storm clouds yet, just layered white towers stacking up like they were trying to remember how.

Boone drove with one wrist slung over the wheel, sunglasses back on. You stole glances at him when he wasn’t looking. The line of his jaw roughened by a day’s stubble. The sun catching in the curly mess of his hair. The tiny scar near his chin from before you knew him, some teenage story involving a fence and a dare and a deeply unwise confidence in physics.

Established relationship, people thought that meant the exciting part was over. That all the voltage belonged to beginnings. But there was something to be said for loving somebody past the first bright collision. For learning the shape of them in weather and boredom and bad moods and silence. For reaching the point where affection stopped announcing itself and started living everywhere, in the smallest motions.

The way he passed you the water bottle without your asking. How he checked that your seatbelt wasn’t twisted when you climbed back in. His focus as he slowed for every dog on the side of the road, just in case.

You rested your elbow on the window ledge and watched the sky roll by.

“Tell me something,” Boone broke up your thoughts.

“What kind of something?”

“Something I don’t know.”

You thought. “When I was little, I used to think road trips changed who you were.”

He glanced over. “What, like spiritually?”

“No. Literally. I thought if you crossed enough state lines, maybe you’d become the version of yourself you were supposed to be. Like each place could rub off on you until you got it right.”

Boone smiled. “That’s very on-brand for childhood you.”

“Thank you.”

“Y’think it worked?”

You looked out at the long road, wavering in the heat. “Maybe,” you said. “A little.”

He nodded like that answer made perfect sense.

Then he said, “When I was ten, I swallowed a quarter because I thought it would make my voice deeper.”

You turned to him so fast you nearly pulled something in your neck. “What?”

He laughed, shoulders shaking. “I’m serious.”

“Boone.”

“I wanted to sound cool, or somethin’.”

“What happened?”

“My mom took me to urgent care and I had to dig through my own poop for two days.”

You stared at him in delighted horror.

He grinned wider. “Now tell me you don’t love me.”

“You are deeply, deeply embarrassing.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” you admitted.

By late afternoon you were an hour off any real plan. That happened sometimes. More than sometimes. A road closed, a forecast shifted, somebody texted about a lead two counties over, or you simply decided to keep driving because the day felt too good to waste by arriving anywhere on time. You were supposed to meet the others tomorrow near Wichita Falls, regroup, check models, figure out the next move. But tonight was still yours.

You took a county road just because it looked pretty, which was the kind of decision that usually led to either magic or regret. Maybe both. The pavement narrowed. Trees met overhead in places, dappling the windshield with green shadow. The air outside looked thick enough to drink.

Then the road bent, and there it was. A little lake, all sudden silver through the trees. There was a public access area with a peeling sign and a gravel lot half-empty except for an old pontoon boat trailer and a pickup with fishing rods in the bed. Boone slowed.

“Detour?” he asked.

You were already smiling. “Detour.”

The lake was wind-rippled and bright under the lowering sun. Not large, not dramatic. Just lovely. A wooden dock stretched out a short way from the shore. Cicadas buzzed in the trees. Somebody had left behind a folding chair and a crushed soda can near the grass.

You walked down to the water. Boone laced your fingers together and swung your joined hands once between you.

“I think,” you said, “if you pushed me in, I’d kill you.”

“That’s a lot of trust to place in a hypothetical.”

“I know you.”

“You do.”

He looked pleased about that.

You stepped onto the dock. The boards creaked softly under your weight. Water slapped against the posts. You breathed in that green, muddy, sun-warmed smell that every lake somehow shared. For a moment neither of you talked.

Then Boone said, “You wanna know a secret?”

“Always.”

He squinted out over the water. “Sometimes I think this is the part I’d miss most.”

“What part?”

“This exact thing. Not even this place. Just… sneaking time out of the day with you. Between all the hard stuff.”

You turned to look at him. His cap shaded his eyes, but not enough to hide the honesty there. Boone wasn’t guarded with you, not really, but sometimes he’d say something that sounded like he’d reached down and pulled it from somewhere deeper than usual. Those moments never stopped catching you off guard.

“Yeah?” you said softly.

He nodded. “Storms are storms. Chases are chases. I love all that, I do. But this is the stuff I’d be haunted by.”

The breeze picked up, fluttering the edge of your shirt.

He laughed a little at himself. “That sounded more dramatic than I meant it.”

“No,” you assured. “It didn’t.”

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it with a kind of fierce recognition. It was this. The pause. The in-between. The life that happened around the headline moments.

You stepped closer until your arm fit along his. “We should get better at it,” you murmured.

“At what?”

“At keeping it.”

Boone’s expression went thoughtful. “You mean, like, stopping more?”

“Maybe. Or maybe just not acting like the rest is only filler.”

He looked back at the lake, then at you. “You’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“I know.”

“I like when your brain grabs onto something and worries it like a dog with a shoe.”

“That's such an ugly metaphor.”

“It was affectionate.”

“I'm not convinced you know what affection is.”

His mouth curved. “Pretty sure I do.”

He leaned in and kissed you. Warm and sure and familiar, sun on the dock boards and wind off the water and his hand lifting to your jaw like he’d done it a hundred times and still meant every single one. You kissed him back with your eyes closed, one hand braced lightly on his chest. His shirt was warm from the day.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“We’ll keep it,” he promised.

You didn’t ask what exactly he meant. The day. The moments. The two of you. All of it, maybe.

You sat at the end of the dock until the sun started to slope gold and orange through the trees. Boone took off his boots and dangled his feet above the water. You lay back with your head in his lap and squinted up at the sky through the brim of your cap when he stole it off your head and put it on backwards.

“You look stupid,” you informed him.

“I know. It’s part of my appeal.”

A dragonfly landed briefly on the dock rail. Somewhere across the lake a fish jumped.

You told Boone about a road trip your family had taken when you were twelve, how the car broke down outside Santa Fe and you cried because you thought the vacation was ruined, but years later all you could remember clearly was eating melting ice cream on the curb while your dad tried to look calm and failed. Boone told you about the first time he ever saw a tornado in person, not on a screen, not in a book. How afterward everything else looked slightly too still for an hour. You traded stories back and forth until the light started thinning.

Eventually he said, “We should probably find somewhere to sleep before we become local folklore.”

You didn’t move. “I could live here.”

“In a public access lake lot?”

“You could build me a nice shack.”

“With what tools?”

“Love.”

“That’s not a tool.”

“It is in the movies.”

He sighed. “Your understanding of construction’s alarming.”

But he helped you up anyway.

You found a motel twenty minutes later, the neon VACANCY sign blinking in one window like a tired eye. It had flower boxes under the office windows and a swimming pool shaped vaguely like a kidney. The room had quilts instead of duvets and tiny framed paintings of ducks on the walls.

Boone threw your bags inside and immediately flopped backward onto the bed nearest the door. “I’m dead.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Yes. Mourn me tenderly, my darlin’.”

You pulled the curtains apart. From the window you could see the pool shining turquoise in the dusk.

“Boone.”

No answer.

“Boone.”

He lifted his head. “What?”

“There’s a pool.”

He stared at you for one beat, then sat upright. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you become lawless around motel pools.”

“That is not true.”

“You once convinced three grown men from Tulsa to have cannonball competitions with us at midnight.”

“They were receptive.”

“You yelled, and I quote, ‘Last one in hates joy!'”

You grinned at him over your shoulder. “And did it work?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

You turned around slowly. “Are you saying you won't get in the pool with me?”

Boone pointed at you. “That tone was manipulative.”

“That sounds like someone who hates joy.”

He groaned so hard it sounded rehearsed, but he was already getting up.

The pool water was cold enough to make you shriek when you jumped in. Boone laughed from the edge until you splashed him and then he was in too, cursing and grinning and pushing his hair out of his face. The sky above you deepened to violet. Moths gathered around the pool lights. Somewhere down the road a siren warbled faintly and faded.

There was nobody else out there. You floated on your backs for a while, shoulders bumping.

“This,” Boone said to the sky, “was your fault.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m freezin’ my ass off.”

“And yet you remain.”

“And yet.”

You turned your head in the water to look at him. His face glowed pale in the pool light, softer somehow without the sun on it. He caught you watching and drifted closer until your arms brushed.

“You happy?” he asked.

The question landed more gently than it could have. Not heavy. Not loaded. Just curious, like he really wanted to know the shape of the answer that night.

You thought about the postcard in the mailbox. The dock on the lake. The diner pie. His hand finding yours on the highway without looking. The road still unspooling ahead of you, uncertain and bright.

“Absolutely,” you said.

Boone studied your face like he was checking for cracks in it. Then he nodded once. “Good.”

You climbed out dripping and laughing and shivering, wrapped up in motel towels that barely qualified as fabric, and trailed wet footprints back to the room. Boone commandeered the bathroom first on account of “imminent frostbite,” which was absurd, but you let him. You sat cross-legged on the bed in one of those quilts, hair damp down your back, and listened to him singing badly through the wall over the sound of the shower.

By the time he came out, the room smelled faintly of steam and soap. He stopped short when he saw you looking at him.

“What?” he said, rubbing a towel over his hair.

“You’re cute.”

His ears went a little pink. It delighted you every time.

“You’ve seen me before,” he said.

“Still true.”

Boone tossed the towel at you. “Men used to go to war, an’ now I have to endure this.”

“That sentence made no sense.”

He climbed onto the other bed, then changed his mind and climbed onto yours instead, because of course he did. You ended up half-sitting against the headboard with the quilt tangled over your legs and the TV on low, muted, showing some home renovation show where everyone looked too clean to be trusted.

“Check the weather?” he asked after a while.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand. Radar glowed blue and green across the screen. Tomorrow’s setup was decent. Not spectacular. Enough to meet back up with the team.

You set the phone back down.

“Anything scary?” Boone said.

“Just moderate instability and some more of your driving.”

He nodded solemnly. “Nature is cruel.”

The room went quiet again.

Boone picked at a loose thread on the quilt. “D’you ever think about stopping?”

You looked over at him. “Storm chasing?”

“Not forever.” He shrugged. “Just... eventually.”

There was no tension in him when he asked it. No hidden agenda you could hear. Still, the question rippled through you.

“Sometimes,” you answered honestly. “You?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned his head back against the wall. “Not because I don’t love it. I do. But sometimes I think about what comes after. Or what comes alongside it.”

Your chest went warm. “Like what?” you asked.

Boone smiled without looking at you. “You fishin' for a monologue?”

“Maybe.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t know. A place with a porch. A truck that isn’t always packed. Maybe being home long enough to buy groceries that make sense together.”

You laughed softly.

“And,” he added, glancing at you now, “still this, somehow.”

The tenderness of it nearly undid you. Not because it was a proposal, not because it was a promise carved in stone. Just because it was him, letting you see the shape of a hope before he was sure it could exist.

You reached over and took his hand. “A porch would look good on you.”

“You think?”

“Very weathered. Very heroic.”

“I would dominate porch life.”

“I know.”

He turned your joined hands over and traced his thumb over your knuckles. “What about you?”

For a moment you pictured it so clearly it startled you. A little house somewhere the sky still felt big. Wind chimes. Boots by the door. Maybe boxes never fully unpacked because some habits didn’t die, they just softened. Maybe the road not gone, only gentler. Chosen in shorter bursts.

“I think,” you said slowly, “I want a life together. Not just the road.”

Boone’s expression changed, just slightly. Recognition, like you’d said something he already knew but needed to hear anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You didn’t solve anything that night. There was nothing to solve. The future stayed where it was, half-lit and waiting. But it felt different somehow after that. Less like a cliff edge, more like a road not yet traveled.

The TV flickered silently. Outside, somebody laughed in the parking lot. A car door slammed. Then the night curled back in around you.

“Tell me what you wrote on the postcard,” you begged.

“Nope.”

“Boone.”

“You’ll see it when you get it.”

“This is tyranny.”

“It’s romance.”

“That is not what romance is.”

He grinned. “You keep saying that, and yet.”

You rolled your eyes and settled deeper against him. After a minute he lifted his arm, and you slid in under it like you belonged there. The room hummed softly around you.

You thought, not for the first time, that love was maybe less a lightning strike than a long road with good light on it. A shared basket of fries. A hand reached out across the console. A postcard dropped into a box in a town you might never see again.

Boone kissed the top of your head. “You’re doin' the thing again,” he murmured.

“What thing?”

“The poem face.”

You smiled against his shirt. “Maybe I am.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

His fingers moved lazily over your shoulder. “‘Cause I want to remember this one exactly how you do.”

And there it was. The whole day folding in on itself like a letter.

You closed your eyes.

Tomorrow you’d drive again. You’d chase weather, study maps, meet up with the others, stand in wind that smelled like rain and dust and possibility. You’d keep moving because that was what this life was, for now. Motion. Open country. Motel keys and gas receipts and skies too large to ever really belong to you.

But that night there was the quilt, the hum of the AC, Boone warm beside you, and the sweet ache of knowing that day would one day be a memory and loving it hard anyway.

Maybe that was the trick. Not stopping the road, or catching time by the throat. Just riding beside what you loved while it was there, hand in hand, naming the towns as they passed, saving what you could.

Boone’s breathing evened out, slow and sleepy. You listened to it. You listened to the muffled night outside. You listened to your own heart easing into the dark.

Then, because he was nearly asleep and you could say things more easily when the room was dim and tender and almost dreaming, you whispered, “I’ll remember with you too.”

He made a small sound, halfway to sleep, and tightened his arm around you once.

Outside, somewhere beyond the motel, the highway went on singing to itself in the dark.

[froggapi-writes]

🩵┆Disappear Platonic!Fred Weasley x F!Reader x Platonic!George Weasley

Comfort where the Weasley twins do everything in their power to help you through grieving your grandpa's death.

Warnings Death of a grandparent, dementia, crying, grief  Word Count 10,377

☞ Masterlist

A/N Hey guys! I kinda ran into the AO3 author curse and am grieving my grandpa, so this is a bit self insert-y. It was very cathartic for me to write this, so I hope it can help someone else that needs a bit of comfort right now too! <3

— “What was the point of losing him in pieces if I was going to lose him all at once anyway?” One-Shot

The owl arrived wrong.

Not wrong in the way a letter could be addressed, or in the way Percy Weasley could use the word furthermore like it had feelings. Wrong in the way your body knew before your mind did. The parchment was too plain. The handwriting too careful. The seal too clean.

It landed on the table at breakfast like it didn’t want to make a sound.

You stared at it long enough for your tea to go from steaming to merely warm, for the marmalade to lose its shine, for the chatter of the Gryffindor table to become a muffled thing you heard through water.

Fred and George were mid-conversation with Lee, both of them grinning in that synchronized way that usually made you laugh even if you tried not to. Fred had a spoon poised like a conductor’s baton. George had leaned back on his bench like the world was a joke and he’d written the punchline.

Then George’s eyes flicked to your hands. To the way you hadn’t reached for the letter, your fingers turning into a tight white cage around nothing.

Fred’s grin fell first. Not all at once, or dramatically. It simply slid off his face, as if gravity had remembered him.

“Hey,” George said, softly enough that you almost didn’t register it as his voice. “You alright?”

You opened your mouth and what came out was a thin little sound, like a page tearing.

Fred stood up. The bench scraped. He didn’t make a joke about it. That alone made the air feel strange.

“Come on,” he said, and the words weren’t a command. They were an offer made into a moment that didn’t feel like it had any doors.

You wanted to be normal. You wanted to laugh and say, Of course I’m fine, and then tear the letter open later in the girls’ loo like you could postpone whatever waited inside it.

But your hands were already shaking, and you couldn’t keep the world steady.

George reached across the table without thinking, catching the parchment gently between two fingers and sliding it toward you like it was fragile glass.

Fred’s hand hovered near your shoulder, not touching, giving you the choice.

You broke the seal.

The words inside were tidy, polite, devastating.

Your grandpa had died yesterday.

Your vision narrowed until everything was only ink and air and the sudden, loud absence of the future you’d been dragging behind you like a string.

You didn’t remember standing, but you were standing. You didn’t remember the Great Hall shifting, but it shifted. The noise didn’t stop. It never stops for anyone, does it? It just keeps being morning for people who have no idea your whole internal universe has cracked.

Your throat closed like a fist.

George took the letter from your trembling hands, scanning it in a glance, and you watched his face change in real time. The usual mischief, the practiced lightness, folded up and put away, replaced by something older and steadier.

Fred swore under his breath, not loudly.

“Right,” Fred said. He swallowed. “We’re leaving.”

Lee started to protest out of instinct, then stopped when he saw you. His mouth fell open. He didn’t know where to put his hands, his sympathy, his helplessness.

You didn’t either.

Fred angled his body so he blocked the worst of the Great Hall from your view, like you were something he could shield. George stepped in on the other side. Between them, you felt held. Not hugged or crowded, but just flanked by two solid presences that made it slightly easier to keep your bones from collapsing into dust.

They guided you out, careful to not make you feel like a spectacle. Just moving with you as if you were all three one creature that knew how to walk.

The corridor air was cooler. It slapped your cheeks gently, as if the castle were trying to wake you up.

Your breath came in stuttering pieces.

Fred glanced at you, then looked away quickly, like he didn’t want you to see the worry in his eyes because maybe that would make it worse.

George’s voice was low. “Where do you want to go?”

You couldn’t answer.

Fred didn’t demand one.

“Alright,” he said anyway, as if you had. “We’ll pick.”

They took you somewhere you would never have chosen on your own, which was the point. Decision-making felt like trying to write with broken fingers.

They led you up a narrow stairwell and out onto a quiet landing near an unused classroom. The sun spilled through a tall window and made a puddle of light on the stone floor.

George flicked his wand, and the door to the classroom clicked open with a soft sigh.

Inside, dust motes floated like tiny planets. It smelled faintly of chalk and old books and something floral, like a girl had once spilled perfume here and it had decided to haunt the air forever.

Fred closed the door behind you and leaned his back against it.

George sat on a desk and patted the space beside him.

You stood in the middle of the room, letter in your hand like a broken thing, and then your knees gave up their argument.

George slid off the desk instantly and caught you by the elbows before you hit the floor. Fred was there too, fast, steady, lowering you carefully until you were sitting with your back against a desk leg.

You stared at your shoes because your eyes didn’t know where else to go.

The grief didn’t arrive like a wave. It arrived like a thousand small punctures. A memory would flare, bright as a match, and then the match would burn your fingers because you couldn’t hold it.

Dementia had already stolen pieces of him while he was alive. And now, with this letter, it felt like the last piece had been taken too, and you were furious that you were supposed to accept it quietly.

Your chest shook as you tried to breathe and it sounded like failing.

Fred crouched in front of you. His freckled face looked strange without the grin, like you’d never realized how much of him lived in laughter until it was gone.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

You couldn’t.

George sat on the floor beside you anyway, close enough that your shoulder touched his. He didn’t speak. He just stayed. He just breathed in the same room.

Fred’s voice softened even further. “I know it doesn’t… feel real.”

That did it. Something inside you snapped open.

“I wasn’t there,” you whispered, and your own voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, someone smaller. “I wasn’t there and I… I kept thinking I’d have more time.”

George’s hand closed over yours, warm and firm. His thumb pressed once against your knuckles. A steadying tap. A code: I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

Fred’s eyes shone. He blinked hard.

“You did have time,” George said, and his voice didn’t argue with your grief. It simply placed a fact beside it like a candle beside a shadow. “You’ve got a whole pile of it.”

You shook your head, choking on the words that would not become tidy. “But dementia… it made everything… it made our memories have ups and downs. Sometimes he knew me and sometimes he didn’t and it’s not fair and I hate it.”

Fred’s jaw tightened, and for a moment you saw the part of him that would burn down a world if it tried to hurt someone he loved.

“It’s rubbish,” he said, with a vicious gentleness. “It’s absolute rubbish.”

Your eyes flooded. You wiped them with the heel of your hand and immediately hated how childish it felt, hated that you couldn’t keep yourself contained, hated that your body insisted on being honest.

George leaned his head back against the desk leg behind you. “Tell us about him.”

You laughed once, sharp and broken. “What?”

“Tell us about your grandpa,” George repeated. “The real him. The bits you want to keep.”

Fred nodded, like this was a plan he could execute. “Give us a memory. One of the good ones.”

The good ones came to you uninvited, knocking down the door.

You swallowed. “He burned easily,” you said, and the sentence sounded ridiculous in the face of death. “Like, so easily. I’d beg him to take me to the beach and he’d… he’d lather up sunscreen like he was icing a cake. He looked absurd, like a ghost before the sun even touched him.”

Fred huffed a small laugh, and it wasn’t a joke-laugh. It was a relief-laugh. Like he was grateful the room had space for something human.

George’s eyes softened. “He did it anyway.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “He did it anyway.”

The memory sharpened. You could see the way his hands moved, careful and thorough, the way he pretended to complain while doing exactly what you wanted.

“And,” you continued, voice wobbling, “he used to sneakily take me to the store to buy donuts for breakfast when my grandma was out. He’d act like it was a spy mission. Like, ‘Keep your head down, kid.’ And I’d be trying so hard not to laugh.”

Fred’s grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, haunted but warm. “A criminal.”

“The worst,” you said, and then you cried again because the love in it was too much.

George squeezed your hand. “He sounds brilliant.”

Your throat tightened. “We used to run through the sprinklers in the backyard,” you said, and you could almost feel cold water on your shins, the grass slick under your feet. “We’d… we’d get soaked and he’d pretend he was going to catch me and I’d scream like it was the end of the world.”

Fred’s voice went quiet. “He ran with you.”

You nodded, tears dropping onto your sleeves. “And… Disney Bingo on their living room floor. We’d watch Popeye the Sailor cartoons. There was this dog, Trixie. She passed when I was young. I used to feed her popcorn. Like… whole handfuls.”

George made a soft sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Trixie.”

You wiped your cheeks again. “Yeah. She’d sit there like she’d won the lottery.”

Fred stared at the window for a second, swallowing hard.

Then, very carefully, as if handling something precious, he said, “So your grandpa was… sunscreen cake-icing, donut-smuggling, sprinkler-sprinting, Disney-Bingo champion of the living room floor.”

Your breath hitched. A smile flickered, tiny and guilty.

George tilted his head. “And a popcorn dealer.”

That made you laugh, properly this time, a wet, startled laugh that felt like opening a window in a smoke-filled house. 

It broke your heart immediately, because you shouldn’t be laughing when your grandpa was gone and he couldn't join in with you. 

The guilt arrived fast, like it had been waiting around the corner.

Fred saw it on your face. “Don’t you dare,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Don’t you dare punish yourself for laughing,” Fred said, voice firm now, a protective thing. “Not today. Not ever.”

George nodded. “Laughing doesn’t mean you’re not sad. It means you’re still you.”

You pressed your hands to your eyes. “I miss him,” you whispered.

Fred’s voice cracked. “Yeah.”

George’s shoulder nudged yours. “Yeah.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was full of breathing. Full of the way the castle hummed around you, indifferent and alive. Full of the truth that the world continued, which was cruel, and also, somehow, merciful.

You sat there for a long time. You cried. You told more stories. Fred and George didn’t try to fix anything. They didn’t turn it into a joke or a lesson. They just listened, like your memories were sacred objects you were placing into their hands for safekeeping.

Eventually, when your crying slowed into exhaustion, Fred cleared his throat.

“Alright,” he said, standing. His voice had that familiar edge of purpose. “We’re doing something.”

George rose too, stretching his arms overhead like he was shaking off the heaviness so he could carry yours.

You blinked up at them. “What?”

Fred glanced at George, and they shared a look you knew well: a silent conversation in twin-language.

George’s mouth curved faintly. “We’re going to make you a memory.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you said, hoarse.

“It will,” Fred promised, and he held out his hand.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust him. Because you didn’t trust your own ability to stand.

George took your other hand too, and together they pulled you up gently, like you were something breakable that still deserved to be moved through the world.

They walked you out of the classroom and through the corridors as if they had a map for grief.

They didn’t take you to the Hospital Wing. They didn’t take you to a professor. They didn’t take you to a place of rules and whispers.

They took you to the kitchens.

You wouldn’t have thought you could cry in front of a thousand house-elves, but the second the warm smell of bread wrapped around you, it punched right through your ribs. Home smells always did that. They were traitors.

Fred spoke to the house-elves with a strange kind of reverence, like he knew what it meant to ask for comfort in a place built on feeding people.

George leaned down and murmured something to a small elf with enormous eyes. The elf nodded so hard its ears flapped.

Within minutes, a plate appeared in front of you.

Donuts.

Not exactly like the ones from your grandpa’s store-run missions, because these were wizarding donuts, slightly uneven and dusted with sugar that glittered faintly as if it couldn’t help showing off.

You stared at them like they were a spell.

Fred sat opposite you at a kitchen table that looked like it had seen centuries of hands press into it. “Eat,” he said, gently bossy. “It’s not a solution. It’s just… fuel. You need fuel to grieve.”

George slid a mug toward you. “Tea.”

You wrapped your fingers around the mug. The warmth seeped into you. It didn’t heal anything. But it made you less cold.

You took a bite of the donut. Sugar stuck to your lip. Your eyes burned again.

“It tastes like trouble,” you whispered.

Fred’s mouth twitched. “Your grandpa would approve, then.”

George reached across the table and wiped the crystals off your lip with his thumb, quick and gentle, like he didn’t want to make a fuss out of taking care of you.

Your eyes stung. “Thank you,” you said, and it came out small.

Fred’s gaze held yours. “You don’t have to be brave,” he said. “Not with us.”

George nodded. “You can be a mess. We’ve seen mess. We’ve been mess.”

The kitchen noises softened around you, like even the clatter of pots had learned manners.

You ate. Slowly. You drank your tea. The sweets didn’t fix your grief, but they gave your body something to hold onto while your heart did its wild, exhausting work.

When you finished, George stood and offered his hand again.

“Come on,” he said. “Next part.”

You frowned. “There’s a plan?”

Fred’s grin flashed briefly, a ghost of his usual self. “There’s always a plan.”

They led you outside.

The grounds were crisp with winter light. The grass was pale and stiff. The lake looked like a dark sheet of glass. Your breath came out in little clouds.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of the cold.

Fred murmured, “Oh, absolutely not,” and flicked his wand.

Warmth bloomed around your shoulders like an invisible blanket. It wasn’t hot, but the perfect temperature of someone else’s jumper fresh from the dryer.

You exhaled shakily. “Thanks.”

George glanced sideways at you. “We’re going to the one place Hogwarts is most honest.”

You sniffed. “Where?”

“The Room of Requirement,” Fred said, like he was announcing a holiday destination.

You’d been there once, in a different kind of emergency, and the memory of it was a knife-edge. Still, you followed.

The corridor where the Room lived was quiet, empty, as if the castle itself was giving you privacy.

Fred paced in front of the blank wall three times, muttering under his breath, “We need a room for grief,” like he was ordering it off a menu.

George added, “And comfort. And… sprinkler-related nonsense.”

You stared. “What?”

Fred winked, and it was the first wink that didn’t feel wrong since the letter arrived. “Trust the process.”

The door appeared, but the inside wasn’t what you expected.

It wasn’t a training room, or a hidden library, or a storage space full of lost things.

It was a backyard.

A proper backyard, with soft green grass that felt like summer under your shoes, a short metal fence, patio stone warm beneath your feet, and sunlight that smelled like afternoons.

In the middle of it, sprinklers arced water into the air in glittering fans.

You stopped dead.

Your lungs forgot how to work.

George’s voice was quiet behind you. “You said sprinklers.”

Fred rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking younger. “We figured, if your body remembers happiness there, maybe it’ll help your heart breathe.”

Tears flooded your eyes so fast it felt unfair.

“It’s not real,” you whispered.

George stepped beside you. “It doesn’t have to be. It just has to be kind.”

Fred jogged forward and flicked his wand. The sprinklers shifted into a gentler pattern, lower arcs, like they were inviting rather than attacking.

The sound of the water was immediate and physical. It filled your ears with something other than your own thoughts.

You took one step onto the grass.

It was warm.

It was summer.

It was impossible.

And yet your body reacted like it had been waiting for permission.

You walked toward them, slow at first, like you were approaching a memory that might bite.

Fred and George hung back, letting you have it.

You reached out a hand and let the spray hit your palm.

Cold water. Bright sunlight. The smell of grass.

Your throat tightened. Your heart twisted.

The grief didn’t go away. It sat on your shoulders like a heavy cloak. But under it, something else moved, fragile and alive.

You laughed, startled, and then cried again, because grief was rude like that. It stole your breath and then it returned it in a different shape.

You stepped into the spray.

Water soaked your hair. Your robes clung to you. You didn’t care.

You ran.

Not far. Not fast. But your feet moved, and for a moment you were a kid again, shrieking as cold water caught you, spinning away, pretending you were being chased by something harmless.

Behind you, Fred whooped.

George laughed. Real laughter, bright and sharp as a bell.

After a moment, Fred darted in with you, acting like he was being attacked. “Oh no, not the dreaded Backyard Hex!”

George followed, making a dramatic sound of suffering. “Tell my mum I love her!”

You laughed so hard it hurt.

For a moment, it felt like your grandpa’s laugh could live inside yours. Like you could carry it forward. Like you could be a bridge instead of a broken thing.

When you finally slowed, panting, soaked through, Fred flicked his wand and warmed the air again so you didn’t shiver.

George offered you a towel that appeared out of nowhere, impossibly soft.

You took it and pressed it to your face.

Fred’s voice softened. “How’s your chest?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Still… tight?” he asked, gentler now. “Or a little looser?”

You swallowed. The tightness was still there. The missing was still there. But you could breathe.

“A little looser,” you admitted.

George’s gaze held yours, steady. “Good.”

You stood in the invented backyard, dripping and exhausted, and the tears came again, quieter.

“I hate that he’s gone,” you whispered.

“I know,” Fred said.

George stepped closer and, this time, he hugged you. Not a quick squeeze. Not a joke hug. A real one, full-bodied and unhurried. Like he was telling your nervous system, you’re not alone in this.

Fred joined, one arm around you, the other hand rubbing your back in slow circles like he didn’t care if you fell apart against him because he’d simply hold the pieces.

You let yourself lean into them.

After a while, Fred’s voice rumbled near your hair. “Do you want to tell us what you’re scared of?”

You swallowed. Your throat hurt. “I’m scared I’ll forget him,” you whispered. “Because dementia, it already stole so much. Sometimes he’d look at me like I was a stranger. Sometimes he’d say my name and it would feel like… like a miracle. And now I’m scared the memories will fade too.”

George’s arms tightened.

Fred’s voice was fierce, suddenly. “We won’t let you.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, blinking. “You can’t control that.”

“No,” Fred said, swallowing. “But we can help you keep them, even just to make them more concrete.”

George nodded slowly. “We can make a memory box.”

You stared. “A what?”

Fred’s eyes lit with purpose again, the way they did when he was building something. “A proper one. Wizarding. With protections.”

George added, “And snacks.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Fred pointed at you, triumphant. “There. That’s the spirit. Grief with snacks. The only acceptable kind.”

They guided you out of the sprinkler room and into something else the Room of Requirement conjured at their request: a small cozy lounge with a low table, cushions, a soft fire, and shelves filled with parchment, quills, and little glass jars.

On the table sat a wooden box with a latch, plain and sturdy.

George picked it up carefully and set it in front of you. “This is yours.”

Fred waved his wand, and the latch shimmered briefly. “I’ve put a charm on it. Whatever you put in here, you can’t lose it- not permanently, at least. Even if you misplace the box, it’ll come back.”

Your breath hitched.

George slid a stack of parchment toward you. “Write them down. Your grandpa stories. The sunscreen. The donuts. The sprinklers. Disney Bingo. Popeye. Trixie.”

Your eyes filled again. “All of them?”

“As many as you can,” Fred said. “And if you can’t write, you can tell us, and we’ll write. Or draw. Or… whatever. There’s no correct way to do this.”

George’s voice was soft. “You don’t have to do it all today.”

Fred nodded. “But we can start.”

You picked up a quill, hands trembling.

The first words were hard. They felt like chiseling into stone.

He burned easily.

Your eyes blurred. Ink blotched.

George slid closer, shoulder against yours again, a quiet anchor. Fred sat across from you, elbows on knees, watching you with a steadiness that felt like he’d decided you were not going to drown on his watch.

You wrote, and you cried, and you wrote again.

You wrote about sunscreen thick as frosting. About secret donuts like stolen treasure. About sprinklers and shrieks and grass. Disney Bingo sprawled across a living room floor. Popeye’s ridiculous laugh as he saved Olive Oil yet again. Trixie’s hopeful eyes as she crunched away between giggles.

As you wrote, something shifted.

Not the grief. That stayed, stubborn and heavy.

But the panic loosened its grip, because the memories had a home now. A box. A spell. A place.

After a while, your hand cramped, and you set the quill down.

Fred cleared his throat. “I’ve got one more thing.”

George rolled his eyes fondly. “He always has one more thing.”

Fred shot him a look, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tin. He popped it open.

Inside was a pale cream that smelled faintly of coconut and something warm, like summer skin after sun.

You blinked. “What is that?”

Fred looked almost shy. “Sunscreen. Well. Sort of. It’s… a Muggle thing, you know, but I’ve been tinkering. It’s basically a harmless protective salve with a sun-shielding charm. You can put it on and it’ll keep you from burning even if you fall asleep on the grass like an idiot.”

George added, smug, “Which he has done.”

Fred ignored him and held the tin out to you.

Your throat tightened violently.

“Why?” you whispered.

Fred’s voice went rough. “Because you said he did it for you. Now you can do it for him.”

George’s eyes shone. “And because keeping someone’s love alive can be as small as a smell. A texture. A stupid tin of cream.”

You took it with both hands like it weighed something enormous.

Tears slid down your face.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Fred exhaled and looked away quickly, blinking hard.

George leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, brotherly and certain. “Anytime.”

You sat there, between the fire and the sprinklers that still hissed faintly somewhere in the magic of the Room, holding a tin of enchanted sunscreen like it was a relic, safety settling around you.

That night, the common room was loud in its usual way, but Fred and George carved a pocket of quiet around you like it was a spell only they knew.

They sat you on the sofa near the fire, one on either side, and Fred produced a deck of Muggle playing cards like a magician.

“Disney Bingo substitute,” he announced.

George waggled his eyebrows. “Wizard Bingo. Much more dangerous.”

You huffed a small laugh. “There’s no such thing.”

George’s grin flashed. “There is now.”

They improvised a ridiculous game that involved shouting “BINGO” when someone drew a card that matched a category Fred had invented on the spot, categories like Things Percy Would Disapprove Of and Reasons Mum Will Yell At Us and Animals That Would Win In A Fight.

It should have been dumb. It was dumb.

And somehow, it worked.

Because laughter didn’t erase your grief. It just gave it a chair to sit in that wasn’t the center of the room.

At some point, when the common room thinned and the fire burned lower, George leaned his head back and said quietly, “Want to tell us more about Trixie?”

You swallowed. Your eyes burned again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, I do.”

Fred reached for your hand. George squeezed your shoulder.

And you talked.

You talked until your voice went hoarse, until the memories stopped stabbing and started glowing.

Not softer. Not smaller. Just less jagged.

When you finally fell asleep, your cheek pressed into the cushion, Fred’s jumper draped over you like a blanket, George’s hand still loosely holding yours, you dreamed of sprinklers and sunlight and a man laughing as he rubbed sunscreen onto his nose like he was preparing for battle.

In the dream, you didn’t have to fight to remember.

In the dream, love stayed.

And when you woke, grief was still there, sitting patiently, but so were the twins, bleary-eyed and stubbornly present, as if they’d made a vow to be your lighthouse even when the sea got rough.

George yawned and murmured, “Morning.”

Fred’s hair stuck up in three directions. “We’re nicking breakfast from the kitchens again. In your grandpa’s honor.”

You blinked hard. Your throat tightened.

“Okay,” you agreed, voice quiet. “Let’s go.”

Fred grinned, gentler than usual. “That’s our girl.”

George stood and offered his hand. “Come on, love. Donuts await.”

You took it and nodded, and the world stayed unfair anyway.

Grief didn’t negotiate. It didn’t say, Ah yes, since you’ve agreed to be comforted, I’ll now become manageable. It simply sat inside you like a stone you kept swallowing, over and over, every time you remembered he was gone.

Fred and George walked you to the kitchens again, because they’d decided your sadness deserved pastries and a plan.

They were quieter than usual, but not fragile. More like… focused. Like you were the most important prank they’d ever pulled, except the prank was keeping you alive through a day you didn’t want to live.

Fred knocked on the barrel like he owned it. “Oatmeal,” he announced to the kitchen door, as if the Room of Requirement had taught him confidence and he’d decided to apply it to breakfast theft.

The door swung open.

House-elves rushed like you were royalty and also a bit underfed, which, to be fair, you probably were.

In minutes, there were donuts again, and warm rolls, and a mug of cocoa that steamed like a promise.

George slid the mug toward you. “Drink.”

You stared at it, heart thumping in your throat.

Fred sat opposite you and didn’t even pretend he wasn’t watching for the moment your face crumpled again. He let you be seen.

You took a sip. It was too sweet, and it tasted like someone trying to help, which made your eyes sting.

“I don’t want this,” you said suddenly, voice rough.

George’s eyebrows lifted. “The cocoa?”

You laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Any of it. The letter. The… everything. I don’t want him to be gone.”

Fred’s gaze softened, but his jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the part no one tells you. You don’t consent to it. It just happens.”

The word happens landed like a slap.

You gripped the mug harder. “Why,” you whispered, and your voice was the smallest thing in the room, “why would this happen to me?”

Fred didn’t say something awful like everything happens for a reason.

George didn’t say something tidy like time heals.

They both stayed very still, like they understood the question wasn’t really asking for an answer. It was asking for someone to witness the injustice with you.

George reached across the table and covered your hand with his. “It shouldn’t,” he said quietly. “It’s not… fair.”

Fred nodded once, hard. “And you’re allowed to be angry about it.”

That cracked something open.

Because sadness, you could almost understand. Sadness was love with nowhere to go.

But anger felt like a second grief, a hotter one, one you didn’t know what to do with. Anger made you feel mean. Ungrateful. Like you were swearing at the sky for raining.

You inhaled shakily. “I am angry.”

“Good,” Fred said, like anger was a tool you were finally picking up. “Be angry. Be furious. Tell us about it.”

You looked down at your mug because if you looked at them you might fall apart. “I’m angry that dementia took him before he even… left. I’m angry that sometimes he didn’t know my name. I’m angry that I tried so hard to be patient and kind and I was, most of the time, but sometimes I wanted to scream because he’d look right through me and I’d feel… erased.”

George squeezed your hand. “You weren’t erased.”

“I felt like it,” you said, voice breaking. “And now he’s gone and it’s like— what was the point of all that? What was the point of losing him in pieces if I was going to lose him all at once anyway?”

Fred’s eyes glistened. He blinked hard. “There was a point,” he said, and his voice was firm like he was building a railing for you to grip. “The point was you loved him. The point was he loved you. Dementia can’t… change what was real.”

You swallowed. “But it changed everything.”

George shook his head, slow. “It changed how he could hold things in his head. It didn’t change the truth that he held you in his life.”

You stared at the table, at the crumbs, at your shaking fingers.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was respectful, like even the kitchen knew better than to interrupt you.

Fred cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said. “We’re going to the Burrow.”

You blinked. “What?”

George looked pleased, like he’d been waiting to deploy this. “Mum’s already been told. She’s… prepared, in her own way.”

“Meaning she’s cooked enough food to feed the entire castle,” Fred added.

You blinked again. “You told your mum?”

Fred’s expression didn’t waver. “Of course we did.”

George leaned closer, voice gentler. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want. But… you shouldn’t be alone right now. And Hogwarts is loud. It doesn’t know how to be quiet with you.”

You glanced around the kitchens, at the warm stone and busy elves. It was comforting in a way, but it wasn’t yours. It was borrowed.

The Burrow, though… you remembered it in flashes: leaning floors and cozy chaos, a kettle that seemed to sing, Molly Weasley's eyes seeing everything and forgiving nothing except pain.

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you whispered.

Fred scoffed. “You’d be a burden if you started reorganizing Mum’s spice rack by alphabetical order.”

George nodded gravely. “Or if you joined Percy’s correspondence club.”

You snorted despite yourself, then pressed your lips together as guilt tried to bite.

Fred’s expression softened immediately. “No guilt,” he murmured. “Not for laughing.”

You took a shaky breath and nodded.

“Okay,” you said. “Okay, I’ll go.”

George stood and offered you his hand.

You took it, and the world tilted toward somewhere that might hold you.

The Floo network spit you out into the Weasley kitchen in a burst of green flame and immediate warmth.

The Burrow smelled like bread and onions and laundry soap and woodsmoke, all at once, like the house had made a potion out of home.

Molly was there the second you stepped out, like she’d been pacing a groove into the floor waiting for you. Her face changed when she saw you, the way it did when she looked at Harry sometimes: fierce, worried, ready to love you with both hands.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said.

And then she hugged you.

It wasn’t a polite hug. It was not a careful hug. It was a Molly Weasley hug, which meant it was a full-body declaration: You are safe here. I have decided it.

Your grief, which had been teetering, simply collapsed.

You cried into her shoulder before you could even apologize for it.

Her hand rubbed your back in firm circles. “There we are,” she murmured. “There we are.”

Fred and George hovered behind you like guard dogs pretending to be casual.

Molly pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes shiny, and cupped your face in her hands.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, voice thick. “So terribly sorry.”

Your mouth trembled. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

Her gaze sharpened with certainty. “You don’t have to know. You just have to be. We’ll do the rest.”

Your throat closed again. You nodded, helpless.

Molly glanced over your shoulder. “You two,” she snapped at the twins, though her eyes stayed soft. “Get her a cup of tea. And don’t you dare put anything strange in it.”

Fred put a hand to his chest, wounded. “Mother.”

George looked equally offended. “We’re artists.”

Molly’s glare could curdle milk. “Tea. Now.”

The twins moved instantly, because no one argued with Molly when she was in caretaker mode.

You sank into a chair at the kitchen table, your knees weak.

The Burrow’s kitchen was all mismatched chairs and chipped mugs and a clock that didn’t tell time so much as it told truth. One hand pointed to Mortal Peril like it always did. Another two pointed to At Home. Another to Travelling. Another to In Bed.

You watched the hands twitch, restless.

Molly followed your gaze. “Don’t mind that,” she said briskly, and then, gentler: “Or do. It’s honest, at least.”

Fred set a mug in front of you. George slid a plate of toast toward you, and there was butter already melting into it like the bread had been waiting.

You stared at the toast. Your stomach churned.

Molly sat across from you and didn’t force anything. She simply folded her hands and waited with the patience of someone who had raised seven children and loved them through every kind of chaos.

After a long moment, you whispered, “I’m angry.”

She nodded, as if you’d told her the sky was blue. “Of course you are.”

You blinked, surprised by how easily she accepted it.

“It’s unfair,” you said. “He didn’t deserve any of it. Dementia… it took him and then it took him again. And now he’s just… gone.”

Molly’s eyes filled. She swallowed. “I know,” she said quietly. “I know what it is to watch someone you love be taken in pieces.”

Your chest tightened. “Did you—”

Molly’s lips pressed together. “Not dementia,” she said softly. “But there are many kinds of slow loss, sweetheart. They all leave bruises.”

Fred leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like you were something precious and breakable.

George sat on the floor near your chair like a loyal shadow.

Molly reached across the table and put her hand over yours. Her palm was warm, calloused in a way that suggested she worked hard and loved harder.

“You’re allowed to ask why,” she said. “You’re allowed to rage at it. You’re allowed to scream into the night. It doesn’t make you ungrateful. It makes you human.”

You inhaled sharply.

Your eyes stung.

“I keep thinking,” you whispered, “why would this happen to me? Like… what did I do? Why do I get the letter? Why do I get the phone call? Why do I get the empty chair at family dinner?”

Molly’s grip tightened. “You didn’t do anything,” she said, firm as stone. “This isn’t punishment. It’s… life being cruel in the way it sometimes is.”

The truth of that landed like a weight and a relief at the same time. Because if it was punishment, maybe you could undo it. If it was just cruelty, then there was nothing to bargain with.

You hated that.

Her voice softened. “But you know what isn’t cruel?”

You swallowed. “What?”

“The love,” Molly said. “The love isn’t cruel. It’s… steady. It stays. Even when people don’t.”

You stared at your hands.

Fred spoke quietly from the counter. “We brought her the memory box.”

Molly’s eyes flicked up. “You did?”

George nodded. “Room of Requirement.”

Her eyes softened. “That was very clever, boys.”

Fred looked faintly smug, then guilty for being smug, then resigned. “It seemed… necessary.”

Molly stood abruptly, as if she’d decided something. “Right,” she said. “We’re doing something tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

She turned, rummaged in a cupboard, and pulled out a bundle of white candles. “A little ritual,” she said matter-of-factly. “Nothing dark. Nothing dangerous. Just… a way to give your love somewhere to stand.”

Fred’s eyes widened. “Mum.”

George’s expression mirrored his. “Are we doing Feelings Magic?”

Molly shot them a look. “Yes. And if either of you makes fun of it, I’ll hex you.”

Fred held up his hands. “We would never.”

George nodded solemnly. “Never. We are statues of respect.”

Molly ignored them and looked at you. “We’ll do it by the lake,” she said. “After dinner. You can tell us no if it’s too much, but I think it might help.”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t know if anything could help.

But you nodded, because being offered help was better than being left alone with the question of why.

Dinner at the Burrow was overwhelming in the gentlest way.

Arthur Weasley returned from work and greeted you like you were already part of the family, his eyes sad but kind, his handshake warm.

Ron arrived later, breathless and worried, and froze when he saw your face. He didn’t try to joke. He didn’t try to pretend. He simply came to your side and hugged you awkwardly, fiercely, like he was trying to keep you from falling through the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Ginny squeezed your hand and sat close enough that your shoulders touched.

Bill and Charlie weren’t there, Percy stuck at school, but the Burrow still felt crowded with love.

Molly fed you with the stubbornness of someone who refused to let grief starve you. She didn’t say, Eat because you should. She said, “Here. This is for you,” like food was a note that read I’m here.

Fred and George barely ate, watching you like hawks pretending to be normal boys.

You managed a few bites.

Then, halfway through, anger surged again, sudden and hot.

Everyone was laughing softly at something Arthur said about a Muggle rubber duck, and for a second it felt like you were watching life through glass.

How could they laugh?

How could you be sitting at this table when yesterday your world had ended?

Your fork clattered against your plate.

Conversation paused.

You stared at the potatoes and felt your throat tighten until you could barely breathe.

“I don’t understand,” you said, voice shaking. “How… how is everything still happening?”

Molly’s eyes softened immediately. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You pressed your hand to your mouth. “He died yesterday and I’m here eating potatoes,” you whispered, and the words sounded absurd, which made them more unbearable. “Why is the world still… normal?”

Arthur’s face crumpled a little. He looked down at his hands. “It’s the strangest thing,” he said quietly. “The world doesn’t stop when it should.”

Ginny’s hand rubbed your back gently.

Ron swallowed, eyes red. “It’s… horrible,” he said, voice low. “It just… keeps going.”

Fred leaned forward, elbows on the table. “But,” he said softly, “we can make a bit of it stop for you. For a little while. That’s what tonight is.”

George nodded. “We’ll make a pocket.”

You blinked hard, tears spilling.

Molly reached for your hand again. “You don’t have to be okay at this table,” she murmured. “You can be angry. You can be sad. You can be confused. We’ll still feed you.”

You let out a broken little laugh and cried at the same time.

And somehow, the table made room for all of it.

Night at Hogwarts had a particular quiet, but the Burrow’s night had its own sort of hush, full of crickets and wind and distant trees.

Molly insisted on cloaks. Fred and George insisted on walking on either side of you like you were precious cargo.

Arthur carried the candles. Ginny brought matches for no reason because they were wizards and still liked the romance of flame. Ron brought the memory box, tucked under his arm carefully.

You walked down the path toward the lake.

The water was dark and calm, reflecting the stars like it was hoarding them.

Molly set the candles down in a circle on the grass, near the shore.

“Right,” she said, rubbing her hands together briskly as if she were about to bake something. “These are remembrance candles. They float. They don’t go out until you’re ready.”

Fred muttered, “Mum, that’s… actually brilliant.”

George nudged him. “Don’t let her hear you praising her. She’ll start expecting it.”

Molly gave them a look over her shoulder. “I heard that.”

They both smiled, sheepish.

She turned to you. The briskness faded from her face.

“This isn’t about letting him go,” she said softly. “It’s about… letting the love have somewhere to stand while you’re drowning.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded, because you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Molly opened the memory box gently, as if it might bite.

Inside were your parchment slips, folded carefully. The first ones you’d written with shaking hands.

George hovered beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth through your cloak.

Fred stood opposite, hands in his pockets, watching you with a fierce sort of gentleness.

Molly handed you one of the slips. “Pick one,” she said. “Read it. Or just… think it hard. Then we’ll light a candle for it.”

Your fingers shook as you unfolded the parchment.

He burned easily. Like he was made of sunlight’s opposite. He put sunscreen on anyway because I begged him to take me to the beach.

Your chest clenched.

You stared at the words and felt your anger rise again, bitter and sudden.

“I don’t want to have to do this,” you whispered.

Molly nodded. “I know.”

You swallowed hard, voice shaking. “I don’t want him to be a memory.”

The wind moved over the lake, cold and gentle.

Fred’s voice was thick. “He isn’t just a memory,” he said. “He’s… in you. In the way you ask people to come with you to the beach. In the way you—” He swallowed, blinking hard. “In the way you love.”

George’s hand slid into yours. “You can be furious,” he murmured. “And still light the candle.”

You looked at the dark water and felt something inside you buck.

Why did people get to die?

Why did your grandpa get to disappear while you were still here, still breathing, still trying to figure out how to be a person in a world that didn’t have him in it?

“Why,” you choked, and it came out raw, “why would this happen to me?”

Your voice echoed off the lake like the water was listening.

Molly’s eyes filled. She stepped closer and put her hand on your shoulder. “Because life is… careless,” she whispered. “Not because you deserve it.”

Your throat burned. You nodded, shaking.

Molly raised her wand. “When you’re ready,” she said.

You took a trembling breath and held the slip in your hand like a talisman.

“I remember you,” you whispered, and you didn’t know who you were talking to. The lake. The night. The empty space your grandpa had left behind. “I remember you putting sunscreen on like frosting. I remember you doing it anyway.”

Molly flicked her wand.

A candle lit with a soft golden flame that didn’t crackle. It simply… glowed, steady and warm.

Then it lifted off the grass and floated onto the lake’s surface, drifting like a tiny boat of light.

Your breath hitched violently.

One candle became two, then three, as you read more slips or simply spoke memories into the dark.

Making cinnamon rolls. Playing in the sand. Putting up the Christmas tree. Cartoons. Disney on Ice. 

Each memory earned a flame.

Each flame slid onto the water and found its place among the reflections of the stars.

The lake began to look like it was filled with captured summer.

You cried quietly as you watched the lights drift.

Fred stood beside you now too, shoulder brushing yours, and he didn’t say anything. He simply existed with you in the moment, like he was making sure the grief didn’t swallow you whole.

George’s hand never left yours.

When the last candle drifted away, Molly said softly, “One more.”

She handed you a blank slip of parchment and a quill.

“This one,” she said, “is for the anger.”

You stared at the blank parchment.

“What do I write?” you whispered.

Molly’s voice was gentle. “Write what you wish you could shout.”

Your hands shook as you pressed the quill to the parchment.

The ink bled slightly, dark against the pale paper.

I am angry. I am angry that you were taken in pieces. I am angry that I wasn’t there. I am angry that the world kept going. I don’t understand why this happened to me. I don’t want it. I hate it.

Your throat tightened as the words poured out.

You finished, breathing hard, tears falling onto the parchment and smudging the ink.

George’s voice was a whisper. “That’s real.”

Fred nodded once. “That’s allowed.”

Molly took the slip carefully. “Now,” she said, “we burn it.”

Your stomach lurched. “Burn it?”

“Not to erase it,” she assured quickly, seeing your face. “To… release it. Anger needs somewhere to go. Otherwise it eats you from the inside.”

You swallowed hard, then nodded.

Molly held the parchment over the lake and flicked her wand.

The paper caught fire, not violently, but cleanly, and the flame was the same soft gold as the candles. It burned without smoke, as if the magic refused to choke you.

As it turned to ash, the wind lifted the ash and carried it over the water.

Your chest shuddered.

And then, in the space the anger left behind, there was still grief, yes, but it felt less poisonous.

More honest.

Molly exhaled. “There,” she whispered. “There.”

You stared at the lake full of floating lights and felt your heart split open again, not with pain this time, but with something like reverence.

George squeezed your hand.

Fred’s voice was rough. “He’d be proud of you.”

You shook your head, tears spilling again. “I don’t want to be strong.”

Fred’s laugh was soft and sad. “Then don’t be.”

George nodded. “Just be here.”

And you were.

The next morning, you woke up exhausted, like you’d been running all night in your dreams.

Grief did that. It made sleep feel like a place you were forced to visit without rest.

The Burrow was quiet, but not empty. You could hear Molly downstairs, the soft clink of a spoon against a mug. The creak of a floorboard.

You stared at the ceiling and felt anger flare again, hot and abrupt.

He was gone.

Yesterday he had been alive in the world, even if dementia had blurred him. Yesterday there had still been a possibility of a phone call, a visit, a moment where he might say your name like a miracle.

And now there was only gone.

You sat up, breathing hard, eyes stinging.

A knock came at the door.

Before you could answer, George’s voice slipped through softly. “You awake?”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah.”

The door opened just a crack.

George peeked in, hair messy, expression gentle. “Fred and I had an idea,” he said.

You blinked. “That’s usually terrifying.”

He smiled faintly. “This one’s… less explosive. Promise.”

He stepped in, holding the little tin of enchanted sunscreen.

“We thought,” he said, “we could do a beach day.”

You stared. “At the Burrow?”

George shook his head. “At Hogwarts. Lake shore. We’ll… make it warm. The Room of Requirement helped, but the actual lake is nicer. And… it felt right.”

Your throat tightened around a yes you didn’t trust.

George’s eyes searched yours. “No pressure,” he said quickly. “We just thought… your grandpa did the sunscreen thing because you wanted the beach. Maybe we can… give you that. Not to replace him. Just to… honor him.”

Your chest ached.

You nodded, small. “Okay.”

George’s shoulders loosened like he’d been holding his breath. “Brilliant. Fred’s already pinched towels.”

“Of course he has,” you whispered, and the softness in your voice surprised you.

George offered you his hand. “Come on.”

The Hogwarts grounds looked different in daylight. Brighter. More insulting in their cheerfulness.

But when you reached the lake, something in you softened.

Fred had already set up camp like you were going to war against sadness and the weapons were blankets.

There were towels and a picnic basket and, somehow, a ridiculous striped parasol.

You blinked at it. “Where did you get that?”

Fred grinned. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

George spread a blanket on the grass and patted it. “Sit.”

You sat. Your hands shook slightly in your lap.

Fred plopped down beside you, close enough that your shoulder touched his.

George sat on your other side.

They were doing that thing again: flanking you, not letting you feel exposed.

The lake rippled gently. A breeze skimmed the surface.

Fred opened the sunscreen tin and held it out to you. “Alright,” he said. “In honor of your grandpa’s heroic service.”

Your throat tightened. You took the tin.

The smell hit you immediately. Coconut, warmth, summer.

It was so unfair, how scent could time travel.

Your eyes filled.

“I’m angry again,” you admitted, voice trembling. “I thought… the candles helped, but now I’m just… angry.”

George nodded, as if anger was a weather report. “It’ll come and go.”

Fred’s voice was soft. “Tell us.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the lake. “I’m angry that I have to do this without him. I’m angry that I’m going to have birthdays and holidays and normal days and he won’t be there. I’m angry that dementia already stole him and now death stole what was left.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m angry that I begged him to go to the beach and he did, and now I would give anything to beg him for one more day and I can’t.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy.

Then Fred reached over, took a little bit of sunscreen on his finger, and dabbed it on the tip of your nose with exaggerated solemnity.

“There,” he said quietly. “Beach-ready.”

You stared at him, shocked.

George leaned over and dabbed a little on your cheek. “Can’t have you burning.”

Fred dabbed another small spot on your other cheek. “We’ve seen you in the sun. Tragic.”

A laugh escaped you, startled and wet.

Then you cried immediately after, because grief never let you have one thing at a time.

George’s arm slid around your shoulders. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Laugh. Cry. Both. Whatever.”

Fred’s voice went gentler, his hand warm on your knee. “You’re not doing it without him,” he said. “You’re doing it with him in your head. And with us beside you.”

You wiped your cheeks with your sleeve. “I hate that he’s only in my head now.”

Fred nodded, eyes bright. “Yeah. That’s the worst part.”

George’s grip tightened. “But your head is… a good place. It’s yours. Dementia couldn’t take it from you.”

You stared at the lake and breathed in the coconut scent again.

Somewhere in the distance, you could almost see him, pale as anything, lathering sunscreen like frosting, pretending to complain while doing it anyway.

You pressed the tin to your chest like it could keep the memory from slipping.

Fred nudged you gently. “Want to run?”

You blinked. “Run?”

George’s smile flickered. “We’ve got a sprinkler charm.”

Fred waggled his eyebrows. “It’s either that or we attempt to teach Ron to juggle.”

You snorted. “Definitely more sprinklers.”

“Correct answer,” Fred said promptly.

George raised his wand and murmured a charm.

A line of water burst up from the grass near the shore, arcing into the air like a playful fountain. Another joined it. Then another, until the air in front of you glittered with spray.

Your chest tightened.

You stood slowly, as if your body didn’t trust the invitation.

The water hissed softly, bright in the sun.

Fred jogged through it immediately, shrieking in an exaggerated way. “It’s attacking!”

George followed, dramatically clutching his heart. “Tell my mum I died doing what I loved!”

You laughed, properly, and the sound surprised you so much it felt like someone else’s laughter falling out of your mouth.

You stepped into the spray.

Cold water hit your arms, your cheeks, your neck.

You gasped, then laughed again, because it was so ridiculous and so familiar.

You ran.

Not fast. Not far. But you ran, and the water chased you in glittering arcs, and you turned and shrieked as Fred pretended to lunge after you.

George spun, arms out, letting the water soak him completely, hair plastered to his forehead.

For a moment, it wasn’t a lake. It was a backyard. It was grass and sunlight and shrieks and a man laughing.

You stumbled to a stop, breathless, soaked.

Your laughter faded into something quieter.

Your throat tightened again.

George approached slowly, careful not to spook you like you were a wild animal made of feelings.

“How’s your chest?” he asked softly.

You pressed a hand to it. It still hurt. It still ached.

But you could breathe.

“Looser,” you whispered.

Fred came up beside you, dripping, and bumped his shoulder against yours. “Good.”

You looked at them, soaked through, ridiculous, devoted.

And suddenly, anger surged again, hot and sharp.

“I still don’t understand,” you said, voice shaking. “Why he had to suffer like that. Why dementia had to take him. Why I had to watch him forget.”

Fred’s grin faded. He nodded, eyes serious. “Yeah.”

George’s voice was quiet. “Sometimes there isn’t a why that makes you feel better.”

You swallowed. “That’s horrible.”

“It is,” Fred said immediately. No sugarcoating. No pretending.

George stepped closer and took your hands. “But we can still… choose what we do with it.”

Your eyes stung. “And what do I do with it?”

Fred’s voice softened. “You remember him on purpose.”

George nodded. “You tell stories. You keep the little things alive.”

You looked down at your hands, then back up at the lake.

The floating candles from last night were gone now, but the memory of them wasn’t. The way the light had looked like captured summer.

Your throat tightened again.

“I want to put something else in the box,” you whispered.

Fred’s eyes softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, wiping your cheeks. “One more slip. Something… that’s not just a memory, but… a promise.”

George smiled faintly. “We’ve got parchment.”

Fred gestured grandly toward the picnic basket. “We’ve got everything. We’re suspiciously prepared.”

You huffed a wet laugh, then nodded.

Back in the Burrow that evening, after Molly had fussed over you and clicked her tongue at your wet robes, after you’d been forced into a warm jumper and handed a bowl of stew like grief was something you could feed into submission, you sat at the kitchen table with the memory box open in front of you.

Fred and George sat close, one on either side, their knees brushing yours under the table.

Molly bustled in the background, giving you space while still being there. Arthur read a newspaper with his glasses slipping down his nose, occasionally glancing up with quiet concern.

The box smelled like parchment and ink and the faint coconut sweetness of the sunscreen tin you’d placed inside earlier.

You stared at the blank slip in front of you.

The quill hovered over it, trembling in your fingers.

Your throat tightened.

Anger hummed under your skin like electricity. Grief sat heavy in your chest like wet sand.

You took a shaky breath.

And you wrote.

I don’t understand why this happened to me. I don’t understand why you had to suffer. I don’t understand why love has to hurt like this.

The words blurred as tears filled your eyes.

George’s hand covered yours gently, steadying the quill.

Fred’s voice was soft. “Keep going.”

You swallowed hard and kept writing.

But I remember you. I remember the good times, and the bad ones. I remember you doing things anyway, even when you complained, because you loved me.

Your chest shook.

You pressed your lips together, forcing the next words out like they were coming from someplace deeper than pain.

I will carry you. I will tell your stories. I will let myself laugh without guilt. I will let myself be angry without shame. I will love people the way you loved me, in small, steady ways.

Your tears fell onto the parchment, splashing ink.

You finished the last line with a shaky hand:

I will not let you disappear.

You set the quill down and stared at the slip, breathing hard.

The kitchen was quiet.

Molly had stopped moving. Arthur had lowered his paper.

Fred’s eyes were bright. George’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You folded the slip carefully and placed it into the memory box with the others.

The moment it landed, the box’s latch shimmered faintly, like the charm had accepted your promise as something important.

You exhaled shakily and pressed your palm to the lid.

George’s voice was a whisper. “That’s it.”

Fred nodded, voice rough. “That’s the thing. That’s… how you keep him.”

Your throat tightened. “It still hurts.”

George squeezed your shoulder. “It will.”

Fred’s hand found yours. “But it won’t always hurt like this.”

You looked at them, these two ridiculous boys with their impossible tenderness, and your anger flared again, but softer this time, like a candle instead of a fire.

“I’m still mad,” you admitted, voice hoarse. “I’m mad that this is part of being alive.”

Fred’s mouth twisted. “Being alive is frequently offensive.”

George huffed a small laugh. “Put it on a T-shirt.”

You smiled, tiny and wet.

And then you cried again, because grief didn’t leave just because you’d written it down. It was still there, still heavy.

But now it wasn’t lonely.

Fred stood abruptly, as if he couldn’t sit still with the emotion. “Right,” he said. “I’m making hot chocolate.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Mum already made stew.”

Fred shot him a look. “Hot chocolate is non-negotiable.”

Molly sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “He gets that from me,” she said, voice thick.

Fred muttered, “I get everything good from you,” and then looked startled that he’d said it out loud.

George made a face of mock disgust. “Feelings again.”

Molly pointed her wand at him. “Don’t start.”

George shut his mouth, smiling.

As Fred returned with mugs, steam curling upward, he handed one to you with both hands like it was something sacred.

You wrapped your fingers around it and let the warmth seep into you.

You stared at the memory box on the table.

You thought of sunscreen and donuts and sprinklers.

You thought of a man who loved you in small, steady ways.

You thought of how unfair it was that love could be stolen.

And you thought of how stubborn love was anyway, refusing to vanish completely, leaving behind lanterns in your chest.

George leaned his head against your shoulder.

Fred nudged your knee under the table.

Molly hummed softly as she cleaned a dish that was already clean.

Arthur’s paper rustled.

Life kept going. Horribly. Relentlessly.

But in the Burrow kitchen, for this moment, it also kept holding you.

And you let it. 

You let it because you didn’t know what else to do. 

You let it because you missed him so much it felt like you were missing an organ.

You let it because your anger and your grief deserved witnesses.

You let it because, somehow, between hot chocolate and a small enchanted box, the world made the tiniest space for your love to keep existing.

Not as a replacement, or a permanent fix.

But as proof that he had been real.

That you had been loved. 

That you still were.

[froggapi-writes]

Hi Hello! I've read a lot of your work and I'm just so inlove with your writing! I don't know if you're currently taking requests but if possible, can I request a Cedric Diggory × Older Sister!Malfoy!Reader? Reader is basically Draco's older sister and the prefect of Slytherin. Only if you want or okay with it, no pressure! Anyways, I love you so much!!!♡

🩷┆Prefect Pin Cedric Diggory x Older Sister!Malfoy!Reader

Romance where Draco's older sister avoids Cedric after kissing him on prefect duty, and he wants answers.

Warnings Denial of feelings, fear of commitment, kissing  Word Count 6519

☞ Masterlist

A/N Oh my gosh, thank you so much for this!!! I love you too! I'm always more than happy to write for Cedric 😝 I hope you enjoy it!

— “You can't run away from this forever.” One-Shot

You didn’t lose things.

At least, not important things.

Not the sort of things that had your name and House stitched into them in invisible thread, the sort of things that came with responsibility and rules and the weight of a Head of House’s disapproving stare.

So when you reached for your prefect badge on a Thursday morning and felt only the cool, useless fabric of your robe, your stomach did something unpleasant. A sharp little dip, like you’d stepped onto a stair that wasn’t there.

You checked the inside pocket. Then the outer. Then the seam you’d charmed last month to hold your wand steady and your patience steadier. You patted yourself down like you’d misplaced your own ribcage.

Nothing.

Your fingers froze for a beat over the spot where the badge should’ve been, as if it might materialize out of sheer audacity. It did not.

A sensible person would have retraced their steps immediately. A sensible person would have asked another prefect for help.

You were a Malfoy. Sensible was what other people called you when they wanted to pretend you were predictable.

You could feel the day trying to become a disaster already, the castle humming with its usual chaos: portraits gossiping, staircases shifting, owls streaking overhead like feathery missiles. Somewhere in the Great Hall, someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere else, a suit of armour complained about its joints.

You kept your face smooth, your breathing even, and your plan simple.

Find the badge. Quietly. Before anyone noticed.

Before he noticed.

Because the last place you distinctly remembered touching it was… on prefect duty, late, weeks ago, fingers curled around the metal edge while you’d shoved it back into place with more force than necessary. The memory arrived uninvited, bright and sharp.

You and Cedric Diggory in a corridor lit by torchlight and irritation. Your voice too cold. His too calm. The argument a thing with teeth.

And then, the heat of it. The sudden, stupid, impossible tilt of the world when he’d stepped close to make a point and you’d stepped closer to refuse him, and the space between you had collapsed like it had been waiting for permission.

You remembered his breath catching. Your own hand fisting in the front of his jumper like it was a lifeline. The kiss clashing like a spell cast wrong and right at the same time.

And you remembered breaking away first, the taste of him still on your mouth, your pulse trying to climb out of your throat.

“Don’t,” you’d said, which hadn’t meant anything useful, because you hadn’t known what else to say.

Cedric had stared at you with those steady eyes, his lips parted like he had half a sentence ready and didn’t trust it yet.

Then you’d shoved past him and spent the following weeks perfecting the ancient art of avoidance.

You avoided the library when he tutored. You avoided the entrance hall when Hufflepuff came to breakfast. You avoided the Quidditch pitch so aggressively you’d nearly walked into the lake once out of spite.

You avoided him like he was a hex you refused to acknowledge.

It had worked.

Mostly.

Until your prefect badge decided to betray you.

You slid into the corridor outside the Slytherin common room with the grace of someone who had never panicked in her life, and the internal fury of someone who was currently panicking quite a lot.

The badge couldn’t have gone far. It might’ve fallen out during rounds. It might’ve snagged on a tapestry. It might’ve—

A voice, behind you, warm as a hearth you didn’t trust.

“Looking for something?”

Every muscle in your body went tight.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The castle could’ve gone silent and the torches could’ve snuffed themselves out and you’d still have recognized Cedric Diggory by the way your spine reacted like it had been insulted.

Slowly, you faced him.

He stood in the corridor like he belonged there, shoulders relaxed, school bag slung over one shoulder. Hufflepuff scarf looped around his neck, because of course he wore it as if it were an extension of his personality. He looked unfairly awake for this hour, hair still a little damp like he’d come from practice or a shower or some other wholesome activity that made you want to throw something.

His gaze flicked down, quick and assessing, then back to your face.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“Diggory,” you said, and put every bit of your bloodline into the syllables.

“Malfoy,” he returned, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You hated that too. It made him look like he knew things.

“I’m busy,” you lied.

“So am I,” he said lightly. “But here we are.”

You could’ve walked away. You should’ve walked away. You’d built an entire routine around walking away.

Instead, you found yourself rooted, like the corridor itself had decided you deserved this.

Cedric’s hand moved, and for a terrifying second you thought he was going to touch you. Your nerves flared like a warning spell.

But he only reached into his pocket.

Metal glinted.

Your prefect badge.

Your stomach dropped again, harder this time. Like the stair was not only missing but laughing.

He held it between thumb and forefinger, letting the torchlight catch the polished surface. Your name looked crisp and official. Your House crest looked smug and powerful, a symbol of your failure to control.

You kept your expression blank. “Give it to me.”

His brows lifted, mock-innocent. “Is that how you ask?”

You stared at him with the coldest disdain you could conjure.

It didn’t land the way it usually did. Cedric didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look offended. He just looked… attentive, like he’d been waiting for you to look at him for weeks and didn’t plan to waste the opportunity.

“Please,” you said flatly, because you were not about to play etiquette games in a hallway.

Cedric turned the badge once, slowly, as if considering it. “I found it near the third-floor landing.”

That meant he’d been near the third-floor landing.

That meant he might’ve been doing rounds.

That meant he might’ve been thinking about the same night you were thinking about, the same corridor, the same torches, the same—

You cut off the thought like it was poisonous, invasive to your mind’s native state.

“Give it,” you repeated, voice clipped.

Cedric didn’t move. His eyes held yours, steady, warm, infuriatingly patient. Then he said it, soft as if he were offering you a choice.

“I’ll give it back when you stop running away from me.”

You let out a short laugh that had no humour in it. “I’m not running.”

“Oh?” he said. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve been sprinting.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’ve been busy.”

“Right,” Cedric said, still calm. “Busy avoiding the Great Hall at breakfast.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Coincidence.”

“Busy taking the long way around the courtyard when I’m there.”

“Also coincidence.”

“Busy switching library tables like I’m carrying dragon pox.”

You should’ve been offended by the accuracy. You were offended by the fact he’d noticed enough to catalogue it.

“You’re imagining things,” you said.

Cedric’s mouth curved again, that almost-smile. “Maybe.”

Your fingers twitched, wanting to snatch the badge. He held it just out of reach, firmly, like he knew you’d lunge.

You tried to summon your best Malfoy composure, the one that made grown men falter. It didn’t help that your heartbeat had turned traitor.

“Diggory,” you said, low. “This isn’t funny.”

He sobered, just a fraction. “I’m not laughing.”

The corridor felt smaller. The torches seemed to lean in.

You lifted your chin. “You have no right to keep that.”

His eyes dipped briefly to the badge again, then to your collar, where it should’ve been pinned. You saw something flicker in his expression, quick and unreadable.

Then he looked back at you and said, very simply, “I do.”

Your breath caught, and you hated yourself for it.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Cedric’s voice didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to. “You lost it. I found it. I’m not handing it over so you can disappear again.”

You were not used to people talking to you like this. People either snapped back angrily or folded politely. Cedric did neither. He stood his ground like it was a natural thing.

You felt your temper flare, hot and familiar, a comfort.

“Disappear?” you echoed, scornful. “You’re not my keeper.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m not.”

He paused, eyes steady, and the quiet between you filled with everything you’d refused to say.

Then, quietly, “But I am a prefect too. And we both know you can’t do your job without that.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated the way he’d said it like it was practical, like he hadn’t just twisted the situation into a trap with velvet lining.

“What do you want?” you snapped.

Cedric’s gaze softened. “A conversation.”

Your throat went tight.

“No.”

His eyebrows rose. “No?”

“No,” you repeated, as if you could make the word into a wall.

Cedric studied you for a moment, then sighed, like you were exhausting in a way he’d expected.

“Fine,” he said, and for one glorious second you thought he might actually give in.

He stepped past you.

Your pulse leapt. “Where are you going?”

“To class,” he said, too casual. “I’ll hold onto this until you’re ready to act like an adult.”

You whirled, fury spiking. “You can’t just—”

He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes bright with the faintest hint of amusement. “Watch me.”

Then he walked away with your badge in his pocket like it belonged there.

You stood in the corridor, perfectly still, while a portrait of an old witch cackled quietly behind you as if she’d just watched a play.

You wanted to hex her too.

The first thing you did was tell yourself it didn’t matter.

It mattered.

The second thing you did was vow to retrieve it by any means necessary.

You were very good at vows.

By lunchtime, you’d devised three different strategies, each more humiliating than the last.

The problem with Cedric Diggory was that he didn’t respond to the usual weapons. You couldn’t intimidate him. You couldn’t charm him without risking it actually working. You couldn’t shame him because he seemed impervious to shame in the way that only genuinely decent people were.

And he had your badge, which was a small piece of metal and also, apparently, your entire pride.

By dinner, you’d discovered a fourth strategy: pretend you didn’t care.

This strategy lasted approximately twelve seconds.

You spotted him across the Great Hall, laughing with his friends, and your attention locked like a curse. He looked up, as if he felt it, and met your gaze.

His smile faltered into something quieter, more focused. Then he lifted his goblet in a small, almost polite salute.

You nearly snapped your fork in half.

Draco, across from you, narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” you said sharply.

He leaned closer, voice lowered. “You’re staring at Diggory like you want to stab him.”

You didn’t look away from Cedric. “I might.”

Draco huffed. “Let me.”

“No,” you said immediately.

Draco blinked at your tone. “Why not?”

Because if Draco touched this, it would become a war. A loud, messy, public war that would drag your family’s name through every corridor and land you in your mother’s owl post for the rest of the year.

Because this was already too close to something tender and dangerous.

Because if Draco interfered, Cedric might get hurt, and the thought made your chest go strange.

You set your fork down carefully. “Because I said so.”

Draco stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “You’re being weird.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed further. “If Diggory has done something—”

“He hasn’t,” you cut in, too fast.

Draco paused, then smirked slowly, like he’d smelled blood.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Your stomach clenched. “What is?”

Draco’s grin widened, maliciously delighted. “You like him.”

You went very still.

Across the hall, Cedric’s gaze stayed on you, steady as a heartbeat.

You looked back at Draco with all the frost you could muster. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Draco’s smile sharpened. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m furious.”

“That’s usually how it starts,” Draco said, smug.

You stabbed a piece of potato like it had personally betrayed you. “If you tell anyone, I’ll hex your hair off.”

Draco leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “I’m your brother.”

“Exactly,” you said. “I know your weaknesses.”

Draco snorted, then muttered, “Mum would faint.”

You pretended not to hear him.

You pretended not to feel Cedric’s eyes like warmth against your skin.

He didn’t corner you again until two days later.

You’d managed to avoid him with renewed ferocity, gliding through corridors like a ghost with a grudge. You skipped the usual route to Charms. You took staircases that threatened to change direction mid-step. You even ducked into a storage closet once to let a group of Hufflepuffs pass.

It would’ve been dignified if you hadn’t knocked over a mop.

Then, Friday evening, you stepped out of the Slytherin common room for rounds, and there he was, leaning against the wall across from the entrance like he’d been carved there.

Badge pocketed. Hands loose. Expression calm.

You froze.

Cedric pushed off the wall, slow, like he didn’t want to spook you. The thought made you bristle.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’m not,” you replied automatically.

He glanced at the hourglass in the corridor. “You are.”

You bristled harder. “I don’t answer to you.”

Cedric nodded. “Good. Because this isn’t me ordering you around.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out your badge, holding it up between two fingers again.

Your eyes tracked it like it was the snitch.

“Then what is it?” you demanded.

Cedric’s gaze moved from the badge to you. “This is me giving you an option.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m listening.”

He looked almost amused. “Are you? Because last time, you did a lot of talking and not much listening.”

You glared. “Say what you want to say, Diggory.”

Cedric’s expression shifted, the teasing edge fading. “Fine.”

He stepped closer.

Not too close. Not yet. Just enough to make you aware of the space between you. Just enough to make you remember what it felt like when there hadn’t been any space at all.

“You kissed me,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

“That’s—” you began, then stopped because there was no clever lie that didn’t sound pathetic.

Cedric’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “And then you acted like it never happened.”

Your throat went tight, anger rising to cover whatever else was trying to surface. “It was a mistake.”

Cedric’s brows lifted, just slightly. “Was it?”

“Yes.”

He waited a beat, like he was giving you a chance to convince yourself.

Then, “You didn’t look like you thought it was a mistake.”

Your pulse thundered. “You don’t know what I looked like.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked to your mouth. Back to your eyes.

“I do,” he said. It wasn’t a boast. It was a fact.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. You hated it. You hated that he could do this without even trying.

You forced your voice into something sharp. “If you’re here to make me uncomfortable, congratulations.”

Cedric’s expression softened. “I’m here because you’ve been making yourself miserable.”

You scoffed. “How noble.”

He didn’t rise to it. “It’s not noble. It’s… frustrating.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Frustrating?”

Cedric exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding in too much for too long. “Yes. Because I don’t know what you want.”

You laughed once, brittle. “I want my badge.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t humour this time. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

You stared at him, and for a moment, you saw something unguarded in his face. Not the confident captain, not the charming Hufflepuff, not the boy everyone liked.

Just Cedric. A boy standing in a corridor, holding a piece of metal like it was a bargaining chip and a lifeline.

You swallowed.

“I want you to stop,” you said, quieter than you intended.

Cedric’s eyes softened. “Stop what?”

“Stop…” You gestured vaguely, because naming it felt like stepping onto thin ice. “This.”

Cedric nodded slowly, as if considering.

Then he said, “I can’t.”

Your spine stiffened. “You can.”

“I could,” Cedric corrected. “But I won’t.”

Your anger flared again, easier than vulnerability. “Why?”

Cedric took another small step closer. The torchlight caught the gold in his hair. The Hufflepuff scarf brushed his collar. Your hands tightened into fists at your sides.

“Because it meant something,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Cedric watched you closely, as if your reaction mattered more than the words themselves.

You forced a scoff. “To you.”

Cedric’s gaze didn’t waver. “To you.”

You shook your head, sharp. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he repeated, voice quiet, certain. “Because you wouldn’t be this scared if it didn’t.”

The word hit like a slap.

Scared.

You, a Malfoy, scared of a kiss.

Your cheeks burned. “I’m not scared.”

Cedric’s mouth curved, faint and sad and infuriating. “Then why are you running?”

You opened your mouth, ready to slice him to pieces with a sentence. No words came out that didn’t sound like the truth.

You hated him for seeing it.

You hated yourself for letting him.

Cedric held the badge up again, gentle now, not teasing. “Come on.”

Your eyes snapped to it, then back to his face. “Don’t—”

“Talk to me,” Cedric said softly. “Just… talk to me.”

The corridor felt too bright. Too quiet. Like the castle itself was holding its breath.

You wanted to snatch the badge and disappear.

You wanted to stay.

Both wants collided inside you like duelling spells.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused, because anger was safer.

Cedric blinked, then let out a short laugh, surprised. “Enjoying it? Merlin, no.”

“You are,” you insisted. “You like having leverage.”

Cedric’s expression sobered. “I don’t like any part of you looking at me like I’m something you have to escape.”

Something in your chest twisted.

Cedric’s eyes softened again. “I just… I want you to stop pretending that night didn’t happen.”

You forced your chin up. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

Cedric tilted his head. “But it did.”

You stared at him.

His gaze didn’t drop. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t retreat. It was infuriating how safe he looked, standing there like your secrets didn’t scare him.

“You don’t understand,” you said finally, voice low.

Cedric’s brows knit. “Then make me.”

You almost laughed. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing is,” Cedric said. “But you’re acting like it’s impossible.”

“It is,” you snapped, then immediately regretted the word because it tasted like fear.

Cedric’s eyes sharpened. “Why?”

You swallowed. Your fingers flexed. “Because you’re… you.”

Cedric blinked, thrown off. “That’s your reason? Because I’m me?”

“You’re the Hufflepuff golden boy,” you said, bitterness and honesty tangled. “Everyone’s favourite. The castle’s perfect example of what a good student should be. You’re safe.”

Cedric’s face softened, but there was a spark of something there too. “Safe.”

You hated the way your voice wavered. “And I’m not.”

Cedric watched you for a long moment.

Then he said, very quietly, “I don’t care.”

The words didn’t sound heroic. They sounded stubborn.

Your throat tightened.

“You should,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Cedric stepped closer until he was close enough that you could smell clean soap and cold air, like he’d been outside. Close enough that your pulse turned into a siren.

His voice dropped. “Tell me to my face that you didn’t feel anything. Tell me that kiss was nothing, and I’ll give you your badge and I’ll never bother you again.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you stared at him, corridor blurred around the edges. 

You could do it. You could lie. You’d lied before. You could slice the moment clean and walk away.

But you could still feel him on your lips if you let your mind drift even a little. You could still remember the way his hand had hovered at your waist like he didn’t want to touch you without permission, even in the heat of an argument. You could still remember the way he’d looked at you afterward, stunned and hungry and careful all at once.

Your voice came out thin. “You’d leave me alone?”

Cedric’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”

You should have said it.

You didn’t.

Silence stretched, heavy with everything you weren’t brave enough to name.

Cedric’s gaze softened. “That’s what I thought.”

You snapped, because you needed control back. “Don’t act smug.”

“I’m not smug,” Cedric said, gentle. “I’m relieved.”

“Relieved?” you echoed, incredulous.

Cedric’s mouth curved faintly. “Because for a second, I thought you’d actually say it. And I didn’t want you to.”

Your breath caught, and you stared at him like he was something dangerous.

Maybe he was.

Cedric lifted the badge again and tucked it away, not cruelly, but firmly. “Come on. Rounds.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“You’re doing rounds with me tonight,” Cedric said, as if it were settled.

“I’m not,” you said instantly.

Cedric’s brows rose. “Then you’ll explain to Snape why you weren’t on duty and why your badge is missing.”

Your blood went cold.

He smiled, apologetic. “Sorry.”

You glared. “You’re not.”

“I’m a little sorry,” Cedric corrected, then his gaze softened. “Mostly I’m just tired of you avoiding me.”

You took a breath through your nose, fury and something softer fighting inside you.

Then you hissed, “Fine.”

Cedric’s smile warmed, small and real. “Good.”

You turned sharply, stalking down the corridor like you hadn’t just agreed to be trapped with Cedric Diggory for the next hour.

Behind you, you heard his footsteps fall into pace with yours. Not too close, not too far, playing a familiar game of measured patience.

Rounds with Cedric Diggory were, to your deep annoyance, not miserable.

They were worse.

They were… normal.

He checked doors, listened for noises, shooed a pair of second-years back toward their dorms with a kind warning and a promise of detention if they did it again. He didn’t preen, or brag, or act like he was above the job.

He just did it, periodically glancing at you like he was taking attendance for your mood. 

You kept your face composed, your voice sharp, your steps precise. It was exhausting.

Halfway through the second floor, you passed a window and caught your reflection: hair neat, posture perfect, expression like a carved statue.

Cedric, beside you, looked annoyingly relaxed.

“You’re quiet,” he remarked.

“I’m working,” you said.

Cedric’s mouth twitched. “You’re glaring at a suit of armour.”

“It started it.”

Cedric laughed, soft. The sound did something irritating to your chest.

You shot him a look. “Don’t.”

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Alright.”

Silence returned, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of all the words you weren’t saying, all the glances you weren’t admitting you were taking.

At the third-floor landing, your steps slowed despite yourself.

This was near where he’d said he found the badge. Near where, weeks ago, you’d argued. Near where your control had slipped like a ring off a finger.

Cedric noticed your hesitation. His voice gentled. “It was around here.”

You kept walking, stiff. “I don’t care.”

He hummed, unconvinced.

You made it to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his attempts at ballet, and your gaze snagged on a small scuff mark on the stone near the baseboard.

A memory flashed: your shoulder hitting the wall. Cedric’s hand bracing beside your head. His voice low, heated. Yours even lower, sharper.

Your breath caught.

Cedric’s voice came quietly. “You alright?”

You forced air into your lungs. “Fine.”

Cedric’s gaze held yours for a beat.

Then, without warning, he reached into his pocket.

Your pulse jumped.

He pulled out your badge.

You halted, glaring. “I thought you said—”

“I did,” he said calmly. “But I’m not a complete monster.”

He held it out.

Your fingers hovered, then stopped short.

If you took it now, you could leave. You could disappear again. You could restore your routine, your distance, your sanity.

Cedric watched you, eyes steady.

“You can take it,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to bite.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked to your mouth again, quick. “I know.”

Your cheeks heated.

You grabbed the badge sharply, more force than necessary, and pinned it to your robe with stiff fingers.

It took you a second too long because your hands were trembling just slightly.

You hated that, too.

Cedric’s eyes didn’t leave your hands. He didn’t comment. He didn’t tease. He just watched, attentive, as if the small act mattered.

When you finished, you straightened, posture perfect. “There. Happy?”

Cedric’s gaze lifted to your face. “Not really.”

Your temper sparked. “Then what do you want?”

Cedric stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest.

His voice dropped, private. “I want you to look at me like you did before you ran.”

Your heart hammered.

You scoffed, desperation pushed down. “You’re insufferable.”

Cedric’s mouth curved, faint. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” you snapped.

Cedric’s eyes warmed. “You kissed me in the middle of an argument. I’m not sure you get to call anyone insufferable.”

You glared. “You provoked me.”

Cedric’s brows lifted. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

Cedric leaned in just slightly, close enough that your breath mingled.

“What if I did?” he murmured.

Your pulse turned vicious as you forced yourself not to flinch, not to lean. “You’re playing a game,” you accused.

Cedric’s expression softened. “No.”

“Then what is this?” you demanded.

Cedric’s gaze held yours, steady and serious. “This is me not letting you pretend you didn’t want it too.”

Your throat tightened.

You hated him. You wanted him. Both truths sat side by side like they’d always belonged together.

The corridor felt too warm.

A distant clock chimed. Somewhere, a portrait yawned.

Cedric didn’t move away.

Neither did you.

Finally, you said, voice sharp because you couldn’t make it soft, “You’re going to regret this.”

Cedric’s eyes softened further. “I already regretted it.”

Your breath caught.

Cedric’s voice stayed low. “Not the kiss. The part after, where I let you walk away without saying anything.”

You stared at him, and something in you wavered.

You covered it with ice. “Then say something now.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked over your face like he was memorizing it. “Alright.”

He took a slow breath.

And then footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

You both turned as Filch appeared, lantern swinging, face pinched with suspicion. Mrs Norris prowled at his heels like a furry omen.

Filch squinted at you. “Prefects.”

“Yes,” you said crisply, relief and irritation colliding.

Filch’s eyes flicked between you and Cedric, lingering too long on the space between you. “Hmph.”

Cedric nodded politely. “Evening, Filch.”

Filch grunted and shuffled off, muttering about students and troublemakers.

When he disappeared, the corridor seemed to exhale.

You swallowed. “We should finish rounds.”

Cedric studied you for a moment. Then he nodded, like he could tell you needed the escape. “Yeah.”

You walked briskly.

You didn’t look back, but you could feel him beside you like a shadow that warmed instead of chilled.

You told yourself, afterward, that you were safe.

You had your badge. You’d done rounds. You’d survived Cedric Diggory’s stubborn persistence.

So you went back to avoiding him.

You avoided him on Saturday.

You avoided him on Sunday.

You avoided him with the dedication of someone who treated denial like an Olympic sport.

And it might have worked, too, if Cedric hadn’t developed a new weapon.

Politeness.

He started greeting you in corridors, casual and bright, like you were simply two prefects who occasionally shared duties. He started holding doors open when you passed, as if he was the kind of person who held doors open for everyone (he was, infuriatingly). He started appearing in places you frequented, never cornering, never forcing, just… there.

Like he was giving you chances, waiting for you to take just one.

It made you feel hunted and protected all at once.

By Wednesday, you were running out of excuses and patience.

By Thursday, you were running out of sleep.

And by Friday evening, you were in the prefect bathroom, staring at your own reflection, trying to convince your heart to behave.

The water in the pool shimmered, blue and still. Steam curled softly around the marble like a secret. You’d come here because it was quiet, because it felt like distance, because nobody bothered you here.

Because nobody could look at you the way Cedric did.

You were pinning your badge back onto your robe, checking the clasp twice, when the door opened.

Your spine went rigid.

Cedric’s voice carried in, gentle. “I thought you might be here.”

You turned slowly.

Of course. Of course he knew.

He stood just inside the doorway, hands raised slightly, as if proving he wasn’t here to ambush you. His hair was damp again, like he’d just come in from the pitch or the rain. His cheeks were flushed from cold air.

He looked alive in a way that made you furious.

“This is the prefect bathroom,” you said coolly. “Not your personal meeting room.”

Cedric nodded. “I know.”

“Then leave,” you ordered.

Cedric didn’t move. His gaze settled on your badge, newly pinned, as if it were a symbol of something beyond duty.

Then he looked at your face, and his expression softened.

“You’re still doing it,” he said quietly.

You bristled. “Doing what?”

“Running,” Cedric said.

You scoffed. “I’m standing still.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. “That’s not what I meant.”

You turned away, hands tightening on the edge of the sink. “I don’t have time for this.”

Cedric stepped further inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made your pulse jump.

The sound echoed in the marble room like a verdict.

You turned back sharply. “Don’t—”

Cedric’s eyes held yours, calm. “I’m not here to trap you.”

You laughed, harsh. “You’ve been trapping me for weeks.”

Cedric’s brows lifted. “Have I?”

“Yes,” you snapped. “You stole my badge, you used it to force me into rounds, you keep popping up like—like—”

“Like I’m trying,” Cedric finished quietly.

The words stole your breath.

You stared at him, throat tight.

Cedric took a slow step closer. The steam curled around him like a veil. His voice dropped.

“I’m trying because I don’t like the version of you who pretends she’s made of stone,” he said. “And I don’t like the version of me who lets you.”

Your fingers tightened around the sink. “You don’t know me.”

Cedric’s gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “I know enough.”

You tried for a sneer. It came out weaker than you wanted. “You’re very confident for someone who got kissed once and decided he owned the situation.”

Cedric’s mouth curved, faint. “Once?”

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer again. Now he was within arm’s reach, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the air.

“You keep acting like that kiss was a fluke,” he said softly. “Like it was an accident.”

“It was,” you said automatically.

Cedric’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Then why are you still thinking about it?”

You froze.

Your anger flared, bright and desperate. “I’m not.”

Cedric’s voice went quieter, dangerously gentle. “You are.”

You swallowed, pulse roaring in your ears.

Cedric moved another half-step closer. His gaze dropped to the badge on your chest.

Then, slowly, his hand lifted.

Your muscles tensed instinctively. You didn’t step back. You didn’t step forward. 

You just held still, caught between pride and want.

Cedric’s fingers hovered near your collar, not touching yet. His voice was low. 

“Do you trust me?”

You scoffed, because the question was absurd. “No.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. “You’re lying.”

You glared. “I’m not.”

Cedric’s eyes warmed. “You didn’t move away.”

Your throat tightened.

He let the silence stretch, steam and water and torchlight making the room feel unreal.

Then he said softly, “Admit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Admit what?”

Cedric’s smile turned sharper, but not unkind. “You like me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

You forced a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

Cedric’s voice stayed steady. “That’s not an answer.”

You lifted your chin, fury and heat tangled. “You want an answer?”

“Yes.”

You stepped closer until your robe nearly brushed his jumper, until the space between you was a thin thread.

“And what if I do, Diggory?” you asked, voice low, daring.

Cedric’s eyes darkened, just slightly, like someone had turned down the lights inside him.

For a beat, he didn’t speak.

Then, very quietly, “Prove it.”

The words landed like a spark on parchment.

You stared at him, breath shallow.

Cedric didn’t move. He didn’t grab you. He didn’t close the gap for you. He just held your gaze, steady, giving you the choice like he always had.

It made you ache.

It made you furious.

It made you brave.

You reached up and grabbed the front of his jumper the way you had weeks ago, fisting the fabric, yanking him just close enough that his breath hit your mouth.

Cedric’s inhale was sharp, like he’d been waiting for this for days and still couldn’t quite believe it.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” you whispered.

Cedric’s hands lifted, hovering at your waist, not touching. His eyes flicked to your lips. Back to your eyes.

“Then don’t let me,” he murmured.

Your pulse snapped.

You surged forward and kissed him, self control be damned.

It was heat and frustration and all the words you’d swallowed turning into something physical, something undeniable. Your mouth crashed to his and Cedric made a sound in the back of his throat like surrender.

His hands came to your waist, firm now, like he couldn’t help himself anymore. He pulled you closer, and the contact was electric, the badge between you pressing lightly into his chest like an accusation.

You deepened the kiss, because if you were going to fall, you were going to do it properly.

Cedric kissed back like he’d been starved.

Not sloppy. Not reckless. Just intense, like he was trying to tell you a thousand things without speaking. His thumb brushed your side, a grounding touch that somehow made everything hotter.

You broke the kiss just long enough to drag in air.

Cedric didn’t let you go. His forehead dipped briefly to yours, breath shaky.

His voice was rougher than you’d ever heard it. “That… that’s what you’ve been running from?”

You swallowed, pulse wild. “Don’t make it sound ridiculous.”

Cedric’s mouth brushed the corner of yours, not quite another kiss, but close. “It’s not ridiculous.”

You glared weakly. “You’re enjoying this.”

Cedric huffed a laugh, breathless. “I’m terrified.”

You blinked.

Cedric’s eyes held yours, open and honest. “Because you’re going to bolt again.”

Your throat tightened.

You hated that he knew you so well.

You hated that he was right.

You whispered, sharp and shaken, “Then don’t let me.”

Cedric’s gaze softened like sunlight breaking through cloud. “I won’t.”

His fingers slid up, gentle now, to the badge on your chest. He touched the edge of it with reverence that made your stomach flip.

“You lost this once,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

Cedric’s hand moved to the clasp. Carefully, he unpinned it.

You stared at him, startled. “Cedric—”

He lifted the badge away, held it for a second between you like a tiny, shining symbol of all your excuses.

Then, slowly, he pinned it back onto you himself.

His fingers lingered at your collar, warm against your skin through the fabric. The kind of touch that made your whole body pay attention.

His eyes never left yours.

“Perfect,” he murmured, voice soft. “Now it’s where it belongs.”

Your breath came out shaky. “You’re unbelievably arrogant.”

Cedric’s smile was faint and tender and wicked all at once. “And you like me anyway.”

You swallowed, heart pounding.

You could deny it again. You could flee. You could turn this into a mistake and bury it under Malfoy pride and prefect duty.

But Cedric’s hands were still at your waist, his touch steady, his gaze unflinching, and you were so tired of running.

So you leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed his as you spoke.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you whispered.

Cedric’s voice was soft against your mouth. “I’ll spend the rest of the year making sure you don’t.”

Your pulse stuttered.

“You promise?” you breathed, like a challenge.

Cedric’s eyes warmed. “On my honour.”

You scoffed, but your hands tightened on him like you couldn’t let go.

“Good,” you murmured. “Because if you break it, I’ll get my brother to hex you into graduation.”

Cedric’s smile widened, and it was so bright you hated how much you wanted to live inside it.

“I’d expect nothing less,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you again.

Hotter, deeper, like he’d finally been given permission to want you out loud. Your fingers slid up into his hair, tugging, and Cedric’s hands tightened at your waist like he was anchoring you to him, like he was saying stay in a language your body understood better than your pride.

The steam curled around you like a secret the castle would never get to keep.

And for once, you didn’t run.

You kissed him like you were done pretending you didn’t want this.

Like you were done pretending you didn’t want him.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, Cedric rested his forehead against yours again, eyes half-lidded, smile soft.

“So,” he murmured. “Do I get to say it again?”

You blinked, dazed. “Say what?”

Cedric’s thumb traced your side, light and daring. “That you like me.”

Your mouth opened. No sharp retort came.

Cedric’s smile turned slow, satisfied.

You glared at him weakly, because you had to salvage something. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

Cedric’s laugh was quiet, warm. “Too late.”

You inhaled, steadying, then lifted your chin, forcing steel back into your spine.

“If anyone finds out,” you warned.

Cedric’s eyes softened. “We’ll deal with it.”

“We?” you echoed, suspicious.

Cedric smiled, sure and gentle. “We.”

Your heart did that awful, lovely thing again. 

You swallowed, then muttered, “Fine.”

Cedric’s grin widened, and he leaned in to press a kiss to the edge of your badge, right over your name, like a vow. Then he looked up at you, eyes bright, and said, very quietly, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

“Stop running.”

You stared at him, your own hope reflecting back.

“Alright,” you whispered.

Cedric’s hands tightened at your waist, and he kissed you once more, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world.

Like he intended to keep you.

[froggapi-writes]

🩵┆Soldier Boy Fred Weasley x F!Reader

Angst heavily inspired by The Shirelles' song, "Soldier Boy", which I cried to for the entire second half of this as I regretted my decision to write it.

Warnings Battle of Hogwarts, war, major character death, grief  Word Count 5541

☞ Masterlist

— “Oh, my little soldier boy. I'll be true to you.” Lyric Fic

You remembered him in fragments first.

A freckle you once traced with your fingertip while pretending you were only fixing his collar. The warm, honeyed smell of the Burrow’s kitchen that clung to his jumpers no matter how far he wandered. A laugh, bright as a struck match, that always seemed to find you in a crowd.

Fred Weasley, in your mind, arrived the way summer storms did: suddenly, loudly, with the feeling that the whole world had tilted toward him.

And then, just as suddenly, he was gone.

It had started innocently. Everything had, back then.

You were fifteen and stubborn about your pride, the sort of stubborn that made you refuse help on principle and then accept it only when it came disguised as a joke. Hogwarts was still a place where staircases moved and portraits complained and the worst thing you could imagine was humiliation at breakfast.

Fred made humiliation into an art form. Not yours, mostly. 

You first noticed him because you tried not to. It was a self-preservation habit, the way you learned to walk past a boy like him without looking too long. Looking too long meant trouble. Trouble meant attention. Attention meant whispers. Whispers meant being known for something you hadn’t chosen.

Fred, of course, chose everything. He was all elbows and grin, a constellation of confidence that didn’t seem to obey any laws of gravity. One day he was balancing on the back of a chair in the Great Hall, reaching over George’s shoulder to steal a bit of someone’s toast. The next he was turning his head just so, like he could feel your eyes brushing him and wanted to catch you at it.

When he did, you looked away immediately.

A week later, you found a jam jar on your desk in the common room. Empty, at first glance, except the jar wasn’t for jam at all.

It held a tiny galaxy.

Someone had charmed it so it swirled with starlight, a slow spin of silver and indigo, like the sky had been folded up and tucked inside glass. When you lifted it, the “stars” rolled like marbles, soft and luminous.

A slip of parchment was tied around the neck.

For when the castle feels too heavy. Unscrew for emergency sky.

No signature. But you knew.

Because when you turned, Fred was leaning against the doorway, arms folded, watching you like you were the best thing that had happened to him all day.

You didn’t smile. You made your face into a wall.

“You think you’re funny,” you said, because you had learned that if you said it like an accusation, it didn’t sound like a confession.

His grin widened, unrepentant. “Not think. Know.”

You set the jar down carefully, like it might explode into constellations. “You can’t just leave enchanted objects lying around.”

He pushed off the doorway, strolling closer. “I can. I did.”

“It’s probably against school rules.”

“Most interesting things are.” His eyes dipped to the jar, then back up to you. “Does it work?”

You hated how your heart hopped like it had been startled. “I haven’t unscrewed it.”

Fred’s voice softened in a way that should have been illegal. “You should.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

He shrugged, not quite carelessly. It was deliberate casualness, the kind boys like him used to hide how much they meant something. “Because sometimes the world narrows down to homework and corridors and people expecting you to be a certain shape. And then you forget the sky is still there.”

Your throat tightened, though you weren’t sure why. For a moment, you let yourself smile. Small. Quick.

Fred looked like he’d just won a bet with the universe.

“Good,” he said. “Keep it.”

“I didn’t say I would.”

“You didn’t have to.” He tipped an imaginary hat and sauntered away, leaving you with your jarred-up stars and a new, frightening thought blooming in your chest.

He sees you.

The first time you went to the Burrow, you told yourself it was because of Molly.

Molly Weasley had a way of collecting strays, as if she could not stand the idea of anyone going unloved within her reach. She fed you like it was a moral imperative. She pressed jumpers into your arms with your initials stitched in, as though she could sew you into the family by sheer force of thread.

“You’re too thin,” she said, every time, like you might vanish if she didn’t say it aloud.

It was easy to go there and feel safe. Easy to sit at that crooked table and let the noise of it all fill you up.

The Weasley twins made it impossible to remain anonymous. Fred and George moved through the Burrow like two halves of a single thought, finishing each other’s sentences, nudging elbows, speaking in shared code. They were always building something, plotting something, charming something to do what it shouldn’t.

And Fred, somehow, always ended up near you. Not in a way that could be easily accused. Not in a way that would make Molly frown or Ginny roll her eyes and call him disgusting. Just… near. Passing you plates before you could ask. Tossing you an apple from the bowl like it was a game you’d already agreed to play. Leaning over your shoulder to read what you were writing and then pretending he wasn’t doing it for the thrill of being close.

You told yourself he was just like this with everyone.

One late summer evening, you slipped outside because the kitchen was too hot and the laughter was too loud and your thoughts felt too sharp.

The garden was damp with twilight. Gnomes grumbled somewhere in the shadows. The air smelled like grass and distant rain. You sat on the bottom step and hugged your knees. Footsteps creaked behind you.

You didn’t look up. “If you’re here to prank me, I’m too tired to be a good victim.”

Fred sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “Not pranking.”

You stole a glance. He wasn’t grinning. That alone made your stomach flip.

“What’s wrong?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He huffed a laugh. “You’re asking me that?”

“You seem quieter,” you said softly, because you couldn’t say I notice when you change.

Fred leaned his elbows on his knees and stared out at the garden as if he could see a battlefield in the hedges. “Dad says things are getting worse. The Order’s meetings are longer. Mum’s trying not to show it, but she’s scared.”

You swallowed. Everyone was scared. Fear had become a second curriculum.

Fred turned his head just slightly. “You’re scared too.”

It wasn’t a question.

You bristled on instinct. “I’m fine.”

He made a sound that was half amusement and half something tender. “Right. Of course you are.”

You glared at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you know me.”

Fred’s gaze held yours, steady and bright even in the dimming light. “I do know you.”

The words landed with weight. Not flirtation or teasing, but something heavier than that. Something that made your ribs feel too small, exposing.

You looked away, because if you looked too long you might do something reckless, like believe him.

Fred’s shoulder brushed yours. “You can tell me to leave.”

You didn’t. So he stayed.

The sky deepened into bruised purple. Crickets started up. The Burrow’s windows glowed warm behind you, spilling domestic light onto the grass like a promise.

Fred spoke quietly, as though he didn’t want the night to overhear. “If it comes to it, if things get… if it gets bad, I’m going to fight.”

Your chest tightened. “You say that like it’s already decided.”

“It is,” he said simply.

You hated him, in that moment–not truly, not really–but you hated the ease of it, the way he could claim danger like it was his right.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

Fred blinked. “Don’t I?”

“No,” you said, voice breaking around the edges. “You don’t have to be brave all the time. You don’t have to be… whatever you think you have to be.”

For a second he looked like he might say something sharp. Then his expression softened. “It isn’t bravery,” he sighed. “It's a choice.”

“And you’re choosing to scare the life out of your mum,” you snapped, because anger was easier than pleading.

He flinched, just slightly. You regretted it instantly.

Fred’s voice gentled again. “I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, stunned. Apologies didn’t seem like something that belonged in his mouth.

He reached out, slow, as if giving you time to pull away, and took your hand. His fingers were warm and ink-stained and real.

“You’re allowed to want me to stay,” he murmured.

It hit you like a spell. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you squeezed his hand, hard enough to tell the truth without words.

Fred’s thumb brushed your knuckles once, a small, careful touch.

And then, because he was still Fred, because he couldn’t let sincerity sit too long without dressing it up, he added, “But I’m rubbish at staying put, you know that.”

You tried to laugh. It came out choked and wet.

Fred leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours. “Tell you what,” he said. “If the world goes mad, I’ll still find ways to make you look at the sky.”

You swallowed your tears. “That’s not enough.”

“It’s something.”

You closed your eyes, and when you opened them again, you did the reckless thing:

You kissed him.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t cinematic. It was a desperate, startled kind of kiss, like you’d been holding your breath for months and only just realized it.

Fred froze for half a heartbeat. Then he kissed you back like he’d been waiting too.

His hand slid up to cup your jaw, gentle, reverent, as if he was terrified you might shatter. His lips were warm and tasting faintly of treacle tart. When you pulled back, you were trembling.

Fred’s grin returned, but it was gentler now, like it belonged to someone who’d been changed.

“Well,” he breathed. “That’s going to be hard to forget.”

“Good,” you whispered, because you meant it like a promise and a curse.

After that, your relationship lived in the spaces between things.

A brush of fingers when no one was looking. A stolen moment behind a tapestry. The way Fred would stand too close to you at the kitchen counter and “accidentally” bump your hip with his. The way George would look at you sometimes and smile like he knew exactly what you were doing with his brother and approved anyway.

You never talked about it in the daylight. It wasn’t shame. It was caution. War had a way of making tenderness feel like contraband.

The first time Fred said he loved you, it was in the most Fred way possible. You were in an empty classroom late at night, your wandlight casting shadows that leaned in close.

He’d been rambling about a new joke product, about how it would make Filch scream, about how George was an idiot for doubting him. You’d been laughing, trying not to think about the Daily Prophet headlines folded in your bag.

Then, mid-sentence, he stopped. He looked at you as if he’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. And he said, almost matter-of-factly, “I love you.”

You stared at him, startled into silence.

Fred’s eyebrows lifted. “Don’t make me regret saying it.”

You swallowed. “Say it again.”

His mouth twitched. “I love you.”

It hit your chest like warmth. Like sunlight through a cracked window.

You stepped closer until your robes brushed his. “I love you too,” you whispered, because once you said it, you couldn’t not.

Fred exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

Then he ruined the moment, because of course he did. “Brilliant. Now we’re both doomed.”

You punched his arm. “Don’t.”

He caught your wrist, pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “I’m joking.”

But his “joke” didn’t quite reach his eyes.

That night, you lay awake in your bed listening to the castle groan and creak around you, and you thought about how love and fear had begun to taste the same.

There came a day when the choice he’d spoken about in the garden became real.

The Order needed people. The war didn’t care that you were young. It didn’t care that you were in love. It didn’t care about anything except numbers and losses and who could keep standing.

Fred and George talked about leaving school like they were discussing a business decision, because that was easier than admitting it was a farewell.

You found Fred alone near the lake a few nights before.

The water lay dark and still. The sky was sharp with stars, cold and indifferent.

Fred was throwing pebbles, watching them vanish.

You approached quietly. Your shoes crunched on frost.

He didn’t turn around. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”

“Neither are you.”

He huffed. “Hypocrite.”

You stopped beside him. “I heard.”

Fred’s shoulders tensed. “Heard what?”

“About you leaving.”

Silence stretched. Somewhere, the giant squid surfaced with a soft ripple, then sank again.

Fred finally looked at you. His grin tried to appear and failed halfway. “It’s time.”

“You can’t,” you said immediately, because the word shot out of you like a reflex. “You can’t just… go.”

“I can,” he said softly. “I have to.”

“You don’t,” you insisted, voice shaking. “You don’t have to be a soldier.”

Fred’s eyes flashed at the word, like it had teeth. “That’s what this is now.”

“You could stay,” you whispered. “You could finish school. You could be safe.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Safe? Here? Now?”

You stepped closer, clutching at his sleeve like you could anchor him with your fingers. “Please.”

Fred went still.

Your voice cracked around the plea. “Please don’t leave me.”

The lake wind cut through your robes. You shivered, refusing to let go.

Fred’s gaze softened into something aching. He lifted his hands and held your face, thumb brushing under your eye as if he could wipe away fear itself.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said. “Merlin, I don’t.”

“Then don’t.”

His forehead rested against yours. “If I stay,” he whispered, “I’ll hate myself. If I go, you’ll hate me.”

“I’ll never hate you,” you corrected fiercely.

“You will,” he murmured, “for making you cry like this.”

Tears slipped anyway, hot against cold air. “I hate the war,” you choked out. “I hate that it’s stealing you.”

Fred’s hands tightened, just slightly. “It won’t steal me.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to trap that sentence in a jar like the stars and keep it safe.

Instead you said, desperate, “Swear it.”

Fred’s mouth trembled, a broken version of his usual smile. “You know I can’t swear that.”

The honesty hurt more than any lie would have.

You shook your head, voice small. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

Fred kissed your forehead. “Wait for me.”

You laughed, sharp and wet. “Like some tragic story?”

“Like us,” he said, as if us was the only story he trusted.

You searched his face for weakness, for doubt, for something that would let you pull him back. Fred only looked more determined, like love had sharpened him instead of softening him.

You pressed your hands against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through fabric. “I don’t want to be brave,” you whispered. “I don’t want to wait. I want you here.”

Fred’s eyes closed briefly, like your words physically struck him.

When he opened them, there was something bright and hard behind the tenderness. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I’ll make it back to you.”

You wanted to scream that promises were fragile things. That people died. That names became headlines. That funerals happened.

Instead you just held him, because holding him was all you had.

And in the dark by the lake, with the stars watching like distant witnesses, you begged him again.

“Stay.”

Fred kissed you like he was trying to carve himself into your memory. “I can’t,” he whispered into your mouth.

And then, softer, like a confession meant only for you, “But I’m taking your love with me.”

After they left Hogwarts, time turned strange. Days were made of news and waiting. Nights were made of fear.

You wrote to Fred whenever you could. Sometimes your letters were long, pouring out every thought like ink could build a bridge. Sometimes they were only two lines because your hands shook too much.

He wrote back in bursts, whenever he had the chance. His handwriting was messy, hurried, as if he was scribbling between explosions of laughter and danger.

Miss you, one letter said, and the words were smudged like he’d folded it too fast.

Another: George says I’m acting like a romantic fool. I told him it’s your fault.

You clutched those scraps like relics.

Sometimes an owl arrived with nothing but a small joke product tucked into the envelope, a tiny mechanical heart that hopped in place, stubbornly beating even when you tried to stop it.

The first time you saw it, you cried so hard you nearly choked. You kept it on your bedside table.

Still beating, you whispered to it on nights when you couldn’t sleep.

It beat back, loyal and ridiculous.

Then there were the letters that didn’t come. Weeks where silence stretched until it felt like a noose. 

You’d sit with the Daily Prophet folded in your lap, staring at the names of the dead, searching for his like your eyes might summon it by fear alone.

Every time you didn’t find it, you exhaled like someone who’d been underwater too long. 

Every time you did find another Weasley mentioned, your stomach dropped. When you saw Percy’s name in some Ministry nonsense, you nearly laughed from relief.

Your life became a string of near-drownings.

The last letter Fred sent before everything broke was shorter than usual.

We’re moving. Don’t worry. I know you will anyway. I’ll see you when I see you.

And then, in smaller writing, as if he’d hesitated:

Look at the sky for me.

You pressed the parchment to your lips until the paper tasted like salt.

When Harry Potter disappeared, when whispers turned into certainty, when the world began to rearrange itself into open rebellion, Hogwarts became less like a school and more like a fortress.

You did what you could. You hid things. You passed messages. You learned to lie with your face calm and your hands steady. You learned to be brave because there was no other option. 

But bravery was never the same as not being afraid.

The day the Battle of Hogwarts began, the castle felt like it was holding its breath. The sky was bruised with storm clouds, air metallic, like a coin pressed to your tongue.

You ran through corridors packed with voices and fear. Spells flashed like violent fireworks. Stone cracked. Glass shattered.

You thought, relentlessly, of one thing:

Fred has to be alive. Fred has to be alive. Fred has to be alive.

It was the only charm you knew that mattered.

When you saw him, it was like the world sharpened into focus.

He was in the Great Hall, hair singed, face smeared with soot, eyes bright and wild. George was beside him, matching him step for step, and for a heartbeat it looked like nothing had changed. Like they were still boys pulling pranks in a school that couldn’t touch them.

Fred saw you across the chaos. His face lit up, fierce and disbelieving. He pushed through people as if gravity didn’t apply. 

You collided, hands grabbing, breathless. You felt him. Solid. Warm. Alive.

“Merlin,” you gasped. “You’re here.”

Fred’s grin broke across his face like sunrise. “Couldn’t miss the party.”

Your laugh was half sob. “You idiot.”

He cupped your face, quick and urgent, his thumbs wiping at tears you didn’t remember shedding. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Are you?”

“Nothing worth mentioning.” His gaze flicked over you like he was counting your bones. “I thought…”

“I know,” you whispered.

For a second, the war stepped back. For a second, there was only you and him and the frantic beat of your shared fear.

You grabbed his jumper. “Don’t go,” you blurted, raw and familiar. “Not now. Stay with me.”

Fred’s eyes softened in that way that always broke you. “Love,” he said, voice tight, “I can’t stay still.”

“I don’t mean still,” you said, desperate. “I mean, with me. Don’t leave my sight.”

Fred exhaled, forehead pressing to yours, brief and grounding. “Alright,” he promised. “As long as we can.”

You nodded too hard, like you could force the promise into permanence.

George leaned in, breathless, eyes flicking between you. “Hate to interrupt the tragic romance,” he teased, because that’s how the twins loved, “but we’ve got a job.”

Fred’s mouth twitched, then he kissed you, fast and fierce, like sealing the promise with his lips.

“Look at the sky,” he murmured against you, voice cracking slightly, and you hated the way it sounded too much like goodbye.

Then he turned, and the twins were gone into the fight, two streaks of red hair vanishing into smoke.

You stood there for a heartbeat, frozen with the taste of him still on your lips, and some ancient part of you began screaming.

Time in battle didn’t move normally. It lurched.

You fought. You ran. You shouted spells until your throat burned. You dragged people out from under rubble with shaking hands. You watched suits of armor march like living nightmares. You saw friends bleed and keep standing anyway.

Every so often you caught sight of Fred and George, weaving through danger with that infuriating grace, like chaos was their natural habitat.

You tried to stay near them. You failed.

A wall collapsed. A corridor filled with smoke. A surge of bodies pushed you aside. Someone grabbed your arm, shouting your name, and when you turned back, the twins were gone again.

Panic became a living thing, clawing at your ribs.

You found Percy near the courtyard, of all people, looking wrecked and furious and older than you remembered. He was shouting orders, helping people, not the polished Ministry man anymore but a Weasley in war.

He saw you, and for a moment his expression did something complicated.

“Have you seen Fred and George?” you shouted over the noise.

Percy’s jaw clenched. “They were just…”

His words vanished under an explosion somewhere inside the castle. You ran before he could finish.

You never saw the moment.

You never witnessed the spell, the collapse, the second where fate decided to be cruel.

What you saw was the aftermath, and sometimes you thought that was worse.

A quiet pocket of corridor, suddenly emptied of noise, as if the castle itself had flinched. Dust in the air like ash. A smell like burned stone. People gathered, voices low, faces strange.

You pushed through them, heart hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs.

George was there. He was on his knees, and the sound he made wasn’t a sound you’d ever heard from a Weasley before.

It wasn’t laughter. It wasn’t a shout. It was something ripped out of the deepest part of him, a grief-noise, animal and broken.

Your knees went weak. Someone tried to grab you, but you shook them off and stumbled forward.

Fred lay on the floor as if he’d simply fallen mid-joke. His hair was dusty. His freckles stood out stark against pallor. One of his hands was curled slightly, fingers relaxed, as if he’d been reaching for something and then decided it could wait.

You stared at him, refusing to understand.

Your mind tried to protect you by making it unreal. It felt like a trick. Like he would open one eye and grin and say, Got you.

You dropped beside him, trembling. 

“Fred,” you whispered, because saying his name felt like summoning.

No response.

You touched his cheek. Cold dust smudged your fingers. His skin didn’t warm under your hand.

You laughed once, sharp and hysterical. “Stop,” you whispered. “Stop it. This isn’t funny.”

George looked up at you, eyes wild and empty, and the absence of Fred in his face was unbearable.

“He was laughing,” George choked, voice shredded. “He was laughing at Percy. Percy had just… he’d just made a joke. Can you imagine? Percy making a joke.”

You stared at Fred’s face, waiting for the grin that didn’t come.

Your throat tightened until you couldn’t breathe. “He promised,” you whispered.

George’s face crumpled. “I know.”

The corridor swayed. You pressed your forehead to Fred’s shoulder, because you couldn’t press it to his forehead without losing your mind.

“Wake up,” you begged, the word turning ugly in your mouth. “Please wake up.”

You wanted to beg him to stay again, but it was too late. That prayer had already been answered with silence.

Somewhere far away, the battle continued. Spells flashed. People screamed. The world kept moving, brutal and indifferent.

You stayed with him until someone had to pull you away, hands gentle but firm, because there were still living people who needed saving.

You fought after that like a ghost. You don’t remember most of it. You remember only that every time you lifted your wand, you thought: It should be Fred. It should be Fred, laughing, alive, impossible.

When the war ended, there was a kind of quiet that felt obscene.

The sky cleared. The smoke drifted away. The sun came up like it didn’t know it should apologize.

People hugged, sobbing. People searched for names. People found bodies and broke all over again.

You moved through the rubble like someone underwater, hearing everything as if from far away.

You found the little mechanical heart in your pocket, somehow. It had been there all along. Still beating.

You stared at it until your vision blurred.

“Stop it,” you whispered to it, voice hoarse. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

It beat anyway.

The funeral happened later.

Not immediately, because there were too many dead and too many wounded and too many shattered pieces of the world that had to be collected before they could be mourned properly.

When it came, it came like rain: inevitable, soaking, making everything heavier.

They held it near the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, where the grass rolled gently and the sky felt too wide. The castle stood behind you, battered and scarred, as if it had survived a war and couldn’t quite believe it.

There were rows of people, quiet, wrapped in black and grief. The Weasleys sat close together like a knot tied too tight.

Molly looked smaller than you remembered. Not because she had shrunk, but because sorrow had stolen some of her space in the world.

Arthur’s hand was on her shoulder, steadying her like a beam.

George sat stiff and pale, eyes staring at nothing. There was a hollowness in him, a missing half so obvious it made your chest ache. Percy sat beside him, jaw clenched, and you saw the guilt in the way he held himself, like he was trying to carry a weight that couldn’t be carried.

Ginny’s face was streaked with tears, expression fierce like she was furious at death for daring.

Ron looked wrecked, staring down at his hands. Hermione’s fingers were threaded through his.

Harry stood slightly apart, eyes empty, as if victory had turned to ash in his mouth.

You stood at the back at first, because you didn’t know where you belonged now. You felt like a wrong note in a song that had already ended.

Then Molly turned her head, as if she sensed you, and her eyes found yours. She held your gaze for a long moment. Then she lifted her hand and beckoned you forward.

Your feet moved without permission.

People made space. They understood, somehow, without you needing to explain. Grief had its own language, and everyone here was fluent.

You reached the front and stopped, hands trembling, because the sight of the coffin felt like being struck.

Wood, polished and simple. No jokes. No fireworks. No bright grin.

Just an end.

Someone spoke. You didn’t hear most of it. Words about bravery and light and laughter in dark times. Words about how Fred had fought so others could live. Words that felt too small for him.

When the time came for people to step forward, you didn’t think. You only moved.

Your hands shook as you reached into your pocket. 

You had brought the jam jar. The one with the sky inside.

You’d kept it all these years. You’d unscrewed it on nights when you couldn’t breathe. You’d watched its little stars spin and reminded yourself that there were still beautiful things in the world, even when the world seemed determined to break.

Now you held it like an offering. 

You set it at the foot of the coffin.

Your throat tightened, and for a terrifying moment you thought no sound would come out at all. Then your voice surfaced, thin and trembling.

“You gave me the sky,” you whispered. “You told me to look.”

Your fingers hovered over the lid. You hesitated, because you suddenly wanted to keep it. To hoard those stars like they were the last thing you had of him.

Then you forced yourself to twist. The jar opened with a soft pop, and starlight spilled out.

Not violently. Not theatrically. It poured like breath, like a sigh. Tiny points of light drifted upward, swirling above the coffin and into the air, catching on the morning breeze.

People gasped softly.

You watched those little stars rise, rise, rise, and the tears finally came, hot and unstoppable.

“I tried to make you stay,” you begged, voice breaking. “I tried so hard.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. You stared at the coffin as if your gaze could burn through wood and reach him.

“You always ran toward danger like it was a joke you could win,” you whispered. “And I loved you for it, and I hated you for it, and I loved you anyway.”

A sob tore from you. You covered your mouth, shaking.

Then, because the truth demanded to be spoken even if it destroyed you, you added, “You promised you’d come back.”

The air felt too cold. 

Beside you, Molly made a sound, small and crushed, and your heart broke again for her. For all of them.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, furious at your own tears. “You were supposed to have more,” you said fiercely, as if scolding the universe. “More summers. More ridiculous ideas. More mornings where you stole toast and winked at me like the world belonged to you.”

You swallowed hard. Your voice dropped, soft and raw.

“You were my boy,” you whispered. “My… soldier boy, even when I didn’t want you to be.”

The phrase tasted like salt and surrender.

You reached into your pocket again and pulled out the tiny mechanical heart.

It was still beating.

Your fingers tightened around it. “I kept this,” you said, and your voice almost laughed on the edge of sobbing because it was so absurd. “It wouldn’t stop.”

You set it beside the jar, beside the spilled sky. The heart ticked and hopped and beat, stubborn as love.

You leaned forward and pressed your lips to the wood, just once. A goodbye that felt like failure.

When you straightened, your vision swam with tears and starlight. You stepped back into the crowd, and the world made room for you again.

As the ceremony continued, you stared up at the sky above Hogwarts. The real one. Vast. Uncontained. Cruel in its beauty.

Stars still lingered there from your jar, drifting like tiny ghosts of light.

You listened to the murmur of prayers and the rustle of robes and the quiet breaking of hearts.

And you understood, with a clarity that hurt, that this was what war did.

It took boys who laughed like fireworks and turned them into names on stone.

It left behind people like you, standing under a sky that kept existing, trying to learn how to breathe in a world that no longer held his breath with you.

When it ended, when people began to move away, you stayed a moment longer.

You looked at the starlight still twirling above the coffin, and you whispered to it, to him, to whatever might be listening:

“I’m looking.”

Your voice cracked. You let it. There was nothing left to protect.

“I’ll keep looking,” you promised, because promises were all you had now, and you needed one that didn’t require him to come back.

The wind lifted, carrying the last of the jarred stars into the open sky, where they disappeared among the real ones.

And you stood there beneath them, aching and alive, loving a boy who had turned into light and absence and memory.

A joke that didn’t land.

A laugh that never finished.

A soldier who didn’t come home.

[froggapi-writes]

🩵┆Scrapbook Oliver Wood x F!Hufflepuff!Reader

Hurt/Comfort where she takes up photography, documenting their story in a secret scrapbook.

Warnings Accused cheating, arguing, Oliver prioritizing Quidditch, burn out, bad communication  Word Count 3513

☞ Masterlist

— “It was always you.” One-Shot

Every newfound piece of Oliver Wood fills what you’d always felt was missing.

In the way he laughs too loudly when he wins and too quietly when he loses. In the way he runs his hands through his hair after practice, curls damp with sweat and rain, eyes bright with strategy and obsession and the kind of devotion that could move mountains if it ever learned how to rest. In the way he says your name like it’s something solid, something that grounds him.

You start taking photos because you want to remember.

It begins innocently enough. A borrowed camera from a seventh year who upgrades to something sleeker. A walk around the lake where Oliver is supposed to be relaxing but is actually explaining a new Chaser formation using sticks and pebbles. You lift the camera without thinking, click the shutter just as his mouth curves into that crooked smile he only wears when he forgets he’s being watched.

“You just took a picture of me, didn’t you?” he asks, squinting.

“Maybe,” you say sweetly, already checking the framing.

He leans in to look, shoulder warm against yours, hair tickling your cheek. “Blimey. I look like I actually know what I’m doing.”

“You always do,” you tell him.

He kisses you then, quick and impulsive, lake water and wind and promise, and from that moment on, you’re done for.

You document everything.

Oliver asleep in the common room, Quidditch manual fallen onto his chest like a shield. Oliver mid-laugh as Katie says something scandalous. Oliver standing in the doorway of the Hufflepuff common room, pretending not to be intimidated by the badger banner while waiting to walk you to dinner.

And the two of you. Always the two of you.

Reflections in classroom windows. Shadows on the grass. Blurry smiles caught by Colin Creevey when he insists on helping because he likes your camera and you like how earnest he is. You paste the photos into a scrapbook hidden under your bed, decorating the margins with ticket stubs from Hogsmeade, pressed leaves from autumn walks, notes Oliver leaves you after late practices.

Sorry I missed dinner. Tomorrow? I promise.

You believe him every time.

Quidditch season comes like a storm.

It’s not sudden. You know it’s coming. You know Oliver lives for this. Gryffindor breathes through him when the Cup is in sight. You tell yourself you’re prepared.

At first, it’s just rescheduling.

“Can we do Friday instead?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “Woodwork session ran long.”

“Of course,” you say, smiling. “I’ll bring the camera.”

Friday becomes Sunday. Sunday becomes “after the match.” After the match becomes “once exams are over.”

When you do see him, he’s hollowed out by exhaustion. Dark circles under his eyes. Muscles wound so tight they seem to vibrate. He falls asleep during movie night, head dropping onto your shoulder so heavily your arm goes numb but you don’t move. You take a picture of him there, peaceful for once, and tuck it away like a secret.

You never complain. Not really.

You bring him snacks to the pitch. You sit through rain and wind and the roar of the stands, camera clicking, catching him in motion, in glory. You cheer until your throat hurts.

And then you walk back to Hufflepuff alone.

Colin Creevey notices. He always notices.

He finds you one afternoon in the courtyard, hunched over your scrapbook, fingers smudged with glue.

“Those are brilliant,” he says, peering over your shoulder. “You make him look like a legend.”

You snort softly. “He already thinks he is one.”

Colin grins. “Still. You’ve got an eye for it.”

So you let him tag along sometimes. He carries your camera bag. He fetches more film. He listens when you talk about framing and light and the way Oliver looks like he belongs in motion.

You laugh more than you have in weeks. It doesn’t mean anything, a friend being just what you need to hold you steady.

Oliver starts noticing too.

The way Colin’s name slips casually into conversation. The way you sometimes aren’t waiting by the pitch after practice anymore. The way Colin is always there, camera slung around his neck, looking at you like you hung the moon.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Creevey,” Oliver says one night, tone careful in a way that immediately sets you on edge.

“We’re friends,” you reply. “He likes photography.”

“And you just… forget to tell me?”

You look at him then. Really look.

“You forget to tell me when you’re cancelling,” you say quietly.

That’s when it explodes.

“You’re never around!” he snaps, hands flying as frustration finally spills over. “Every time I turn around you’re busy or with someone else.”

Your chest tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m busy too,” he says, voice sharp. “We both are.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “We’re not the same.”

He scoffs. “Oh, come on.”

“I make time,” you say, tears burning behind your eyes. “I rearrange everything. I sit through practices and matches and exhaustion because I want to be there for you. You choose Quidditch over me.”

The words hang between you, fragile and devastating.

His face twists, wounded pride overtaking reason. “And you choose Colin.”

That one breaks.

You stare at him, disbelief crashing into hurt. “You don’t get to accuse me of that.”

“I see the way he looks at you!”

“And you don’t see me at all.”

You turn and leave before he can say anything else, before you shatter completely. The door slams behind you.

Your phone slips from your pocket and lands on the table.

Neither of you notice.

He paces. He swears. He rakes his hands through his hair and then freezes when your phone lights up.

Colin Creevey: Are you okay?

Another message follows. And another.

Oliver’s stomach sinks.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But insecurity is loud, and guilt is louder, and he picks it up.

He opens the camera roll first, and his breath leaves him.

There are hundreds of photos of him. Laughing, flying, concentrating, half-asleep. Photos of you together, soft and intimate and real. Screenshots of his notes. Pictures of a scrapbook in progress.

He opens messages next, hands shaking.

A draft saved but never sent.

I know you’re busy. I know Quidditch matters. I just wish I mattered the same way.

He sinks onto the bed, phone heavy in his hands, the truth crashing down like a Bludger to the chest.

You never stopped choosing him. You were building a life out of moments he was too busy to notice.

And now he has to figure out how to deserve it.

The darkroom is the only place at Hogwarts that feels honest right now.

No roaring stands. No shouting arguments. No expectations to smile through disappointment or pretend you’re not tired of being second place to a sport with wooden balls and too many rules.

Just red light, a light chemical scent, and quiet.

You sit cross-legged on the cold stone floor, back against the counter, scrapbook open in your lap like an exposed wound. Tears drip down your nose and land on the page, blurring ink, smudging the corner of a photo you’ve already memorized.

Oliver, grinning at you over his shoulder.

You swipe at your face angrily. You hate crying. Hate how small it makes you feel. Hate that even now, part of you is terrified he’ll never understand what this meant to you.

The door creaks open.

You don’t look up, assuming it’s Filch. Or maybe Colin, come to check on you. You’re already rehearsing the lie you’ll tell to make them leave you alone when you hear it.

Your name. Soft. Uncertain. Like it’s being handled with bare hands for the first time. Your chest tightens painfully.

“Go away,” you sniffle, voice cracking despite yourself.

There’s a pause. Then footsteps. Careful ones. Like whoever it is knows they’re walking on something fragile.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Oliver says quietly.

You let out a broken laugh that tastes like salt. “That’s funny. Because it sounded like you meant it exactly.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he kneels in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, hands braced on his thighs like he’s grounding himself.

“I saw your phone,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t have. But I did.”

Your fingers curl reflexively around the scrapbook, pulling it closer to your chest.

The edges are worn, spine creased from love and pages slightly swollen from glue and time and care.

“Oh,” he breathes.

And then, softer, like it hurts. “Oh.”

You finally look at him.

His eyes are red. Not teary. Red like he hasn’t slept, like he’s been staring at the same truth for too long without blinking.

“You weren’t choosing him,” Oliver says hoarsely. “You were choosing me. Over and over again.”

Your throat closes.

“You don’t get to say that now,” you whisper. “Not after you accused me of—” You choke off the word, shame burning even though you did nothing wrong.

“I know,” he says immediately. “I know. And I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, tears spilling freely now. “I just wanted you to see me. Just once. I wanted you to want to be here.”

He reaches out, then stops, hands hovering like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you.

“I do,” he says. “Merlin, I do. I just– I didn’t realize how much I was taking.”

Your grip loosens, the scrapbook slipping open.

Oliver’s eyes flick down, and you see his breath hitch as he recognizes the pages. There’s a picture of him asleep on your shoulder with a small pressed clover taped beside it. A note in your handwriting:

You look peaceful when you forget to chase everything.

His hands come up to cover his mouth.

“You made me a home,” he whispers. “And I kept leaving.”

That’s when he breaks, not loudly or dramatically. Just a sharp inhale, shoulders curling inward as he leans forward, forehead pressing gently to your knee like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“I’m so tired,” he admits. “And I was scared if I stopped, I’d fail. And if I failed, I’d lose everything. I didn’t realize I was already losing you.”

Your heart twists painfully.

You set the scrapbook aside and pull him into you, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He freezes for half a second before melting into you completely, grip tightening in the back of your jumper like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He smells like grass and soap and regret.

“I never stopped loving you,” you murmur into his hair. “I just got so lonely.”

“I know,” he says, voice muffled. “I know now.”

You sit there like that, the red light washing everything in soft, unreal warmth. His breathing evens out slowly, like he’s relearning how.

After a while, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I want to fix this,” he says. “Not with promises. With time. With showing up.”

Your eyes search his face. “I can’t compete with Quidditch.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says fiercely. “You’re not a side quest. You’re… you’re everything that makes the rest of it worth it.”

You huff weakly. “That was almost poetic.”

He gives a shaky smile. “You inspire me.”

You glance at the scrapbook, at the proof of all the love you poured into quiet moments.

“Stay,” you say firmly. “Just tonight.”

He nods immediately. “As long as you’ll have me.”

And for the first time in weeks, when he wraps his arms around you again, it feels like he’s finally where he belongs.

The roar of the crowd is thunderous, shaking the very bones of Hogwarts.

Red and gold blur together in the stands, banners whipping wildly in the wind, the Quidditch Cup glinting cruelly bright as it hovers near the announcer’s box like a promise waiting to be claimed. Your heart is hammering so hard you’re sure the people beside you can hear it.

Your camera is already raised. Of course it is.

You track Oliver instinctively, muscle memory guiding your hands as he circles the pitch. He looks different today. Sharper. Focused, yes, but lighter somehow. Like something inside him finally unclenched.

You catch him mid-dive, face fierce, jaw set. Click. You catch him shouting orders, arm slicing through the air. Click. You catch the exact moment the Snitch flashes gold near the Ravenclaw Seeker’s shoulder and—

Everything happens at once.

A blur of red. A scream tearing from thousands of throats. Lee Jordan yelling something incoherent. The Cup is Gryffindor’s.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your viewfinder fogs.

The stands erupt. People are hugging strangers. Someone spills pumpkin juice down your sleeve and apologizes breathlessly. You barely notice because Oliver Wood lands.

He hits the grass hard, rolls once, and then he’s on his feet, fists raised, laughter bursting out of him like he’s been holding it in for years.

His team swarms him.

And then, instinctively, without hesitation, without thinking—

He looks up into the stands. Not at the Cup. Not at McGonagall. Not even at his teammates.

He looks for you.

Your breath catches when his eyes find yours and for a moment, the noise falls away. You lift your camera with shaking hands and snap the photo just as his expression changes. Pride still there, exhilaration still burning, but something softer threading through it. Something private, just for you.

He presses a fist to his chest and mouths, I did it.

You smile through tears and mouth back, I’m so proud of you.

The celebration lasts for hours.

There’s shouting and singing and Fred and George nearly knocking over a table with fireworks they absolutely should not have. Oliver is hoisted onto shoulders, the Cup passed around like a sacred relic. Everyone wants a piece of him. Everyone wants his attention.

He gives it.

But every time the room shifts, every time he laughs or raises a glass, his eyes flick back to where you stand with your camera, documenting everything with quiet devotion.

When it finally winds down, when voices grow hoarse and people drift away in clumps and pairs, Oliver finds you again.

“Come on,” he says softly, fingers lacing with yours. “Please.”

You follow him up the stairs, heart light and heavy all at once.

His dormitory is quiet. The Cup sits on his desk, catching moonlight like a trophy from a dream. Oliver shuts the door behind you, leans back against it, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the final whistle.

“You were there,” he says, almost reverent. “First thing I looked for.”

You step closer. “I know.”

He cups your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes where tears have dried, and kisses you.

It’s slow. Unrushed. Full of everything you didn’t say during the season and everything you survived together. He kisses like he’s grounding himself, like he’s reminding himself this is real.

You pull back only when you’re both breathless.

“Wait,” you say quietly.

You reach into your bag and pull out the scrapbook.

His smile falters into something softer, more fragile.

“You finished it,” he whispers.

You nod. “For you.”

He sits on the bed, carefully, like it’s sacred, and opens it. Page by page, realization dawns.

Photos he’s never seen. Moments he didn’t know were being kept. Him focused. Him exhausted. Him victorious. Him human. Notes in your handwriting filling the margins like constellations.

And then the last page:

Today’s match. A photo of him on the pitch, arms raised, eyes searching the crowd. Beneath it, a single line.

No matter how high you fly, I’ll always be looking up, cheering the loudest. I am so proud of you, my love.

Oliver stares at it for a long time, and when he finally looks up, his eyes are foggy with tears.

“I don’t deserve this,” he says hoarsely.

You shake your head gently. “You’re allowed to be loved and ambitious.”

He pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder, holding you like he finally understands how easily this could have slipped away.

“I’m the luckiest bloke alive,” he murmurs. “And I’ll never take you for granted again. I swear my life on it.”

You press a kiss to his hair, camera resting forgotten on the bedside table.

Tonight, he chose you. And tomorrow, and every day after, he finally knows how to keep choosing both.

Years later, your first place together smells like cardboard, dust, and something unmistakably hopeful.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows in lazy bands, catching on floating motes and the scuffed wooden floor. There are boxes everywhere. Half-labeled. Some not labeled at all. A stack of Quidditch things leans precariously against the wall, Oliver’s old broom propped beside it like it belongs there.

You do.

Oliver is across the room wrestling with a box that clearly outweighs his pride.

“I said that one was books,” you call, laughing.

“It is books,” he insists, straining. “Just… important ones.”

You glance over. “Those are playbooks from school.”

“Historic,” he says. “Emotionally irreplaceable.”

You shake your head fondly and turn back to your own box. This one is lighter. Carefully packed. You recognize it immediately, heart giving a small, startled flutter.

Your scrapbook.

You sit down on the floor without thinking, legs folding beneath you, the box cutter forgotten in your hand. You lift it out gently, fingers brushing the worn edges, the familiar weight settling into your lap like an old friend.

“So that survived the move,” Oliver says, voice warmer now as he wanders over.

You smile. “Of course it did.”

You flip through it slowly.

There you are again. Young. Soft. In love and learning how to stay that way. Photos of Oliver at Hogwarts, at matches, at victories and losses and moments in between. Notes you wrote with ink smudged by glue and time. 

Your chest fills until it almost aches.

You turn the final page and stop, eyes searching for answers. There’s something new, a page you don’t recognize. Thick parchment added carefully to the end. Your breath catches as you take it in.

Oliver’s handwriting. Messier than yours. Earnest. Pressed a little too hard into the page, like the words mattered so much he was afraid they might escape.

I know you’ll probably find this years from now, when we’re older and braver and hopefully wiser.

Your fingers tremble.

I don’t know when you’ll read this. But if you’re holding this scrapbook, it means you never stopped choosing me. And I want you to know I chose you too. Even when I didn’t know how to say it right.

You swallow hard.

I knew back then. I didn’t say it because I was scared. Of failing. Of not being enough. Of losing you by loving you out loud.

Tears blur the ink.

But I always knew you’d be the one I married.

You suck in a sharp breath.

You are my home. You are my calm. You are the person I look for first, even now.

A soft sound escapes you. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until it’s already happening.

“Love,” Oliver says gently.

You look up.

He’s standing in front of you, suddenly serious, suddenly nervous in a way you recognize instantly: the way he used to look before big matches. 

He drops to one knee and your heart stutters, hands wiping away stray tears.

“I was going to wait until everything was unpacked,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you found it, and I can’t pretend anymore.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable.

“You’ve been cheering for me my whole life,” he says. “In stadiums, in silence, and in moments I didn’t even notice until it was too late. You believed in me when I was impossible to love.”

He opens the box and the ring catches the sunlight. Simple. Thoughtful. Perfect. 

“I don’t want another day where you’re not my choice,” he says softly. “Will you marry me?”

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

“Yes,” you whisper. Then louder, laughing through tears. “Yes, Oliver! Of course I will.”

He laughs too, a broken, joyful sound, and slides the ring onto your finger with gentle care, reverent and devoted. He presses a kiss to your knuckles like it’s a promise sealed into your skin.

You pull him up into your arms and kiss him, slow and sure, tasting home and forever and everything you built together.

When you finally pull back, foreheads resting together, you glance down at the scrapbook again.

“Did you really know all that time?” you ask quietly.

He smiles, soft and certain. “The moment you made me worth remembering.”

You laugh, kissing him softly, and lean into his chest as the room settles around you.

Boxes can wait, as your house is already filled with all the love you need to make it a home.

[froggapi-writes]

🩷┆Rivals Cedric Diggory x F!Slytherin!Reader

Romance Cedric is her sworn rival on the Quidditch Pitch, but they can't seem to get enough of each other after the match.

Warnings Kissing, teasing, fake rivalry  Word Count 1061

☞ Masterlist

— “My only love sprung from my only hate.” One-Shot

The stadium is already roaring by the time you mount your broom. Green and silver flood the Slytherin stands like a living tide, serpents hissing approval as your captain shouts last-minute reminders that you barely hear. Across the pitch, yellow and black ripple in defiant waves, hovering in formation. And there he is.

Cedric Diggory. Captain of the Hufflepuff team and the school’s golden boy. Annoyingly broad-shouldered, annoyingly calm, annoyingly handsome even under the sun glare as he adjusts his goggles and glances your way.

You grin first. It’s tradition.

“Try not to cry when you lose, Diggory,” you call out, loud enough to carry over the pitch. “Wouldn’t want the stands to think Hufflepuff’s sprung a leak.”

A ripple of laughter breaks out from the Slytherin side as Cedric looks over slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. His smile is polite. Weaponized.

“Big talk for someone who still flies like she’s arguing with gravity,” he shoots back. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye out in case you fall off.”

The commentator practically purrs into the microphone,

“And there we have it, folks. The rivalry Hogwarts waits all year for. Slytherin’s star chaser versus Hufflepuff’s captain seeker. Wands down, brooms up, and egos already bruised.”

Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieks as the match explodes into motion. 

You launch forward, wind tearing at your robes as the quaffle is released and immediately contested. Slytherin takes possession, and you’re off, weaving through the air with sharp turns, practiced and precise.

Cedric streaks past overhead, scanning the pitch for the snitch. Even when he’s not looking at you, you’re aware of him and the way he moves: efficient, graceful, and absolutely infuriating.

You score the first goal with a clean spiral shot that kisses the hoop and drops through. The Slytherin stands erupt.

As you circle back, Cedric drifts close enough that you can hear him over the crowd.

“Show-off,” he rolls his eyes lightly.

“You noticed,” you reply, sweet as venom.

The game turns brutal fast. Bludgers fly like missiles. The quaffle changes hands in a blur of color. You trade goals with Hufflepuff’s chasers, neck and neck, neither team giving an inch. The commentator is practically breathless, narrating every near-collision and dramatic save like it’s the final battle of war.

“And there goes the Slytherin chaser again, reminding us all why she’s been terrorizing opposing teams since second year.”

You cut hard to the left, narrowly missing Cedric as he dives after a flash of gold. You call out as you pass him.

“Careful, captain. You’re flying like you’ve got something to prove.”

He smirks without looking back. “Maybe I do.”

The snitch vanishes into the sun glare as the tension coils tighter. After what seems like hours, both teams are sweaty, bruised, and snarling. You’ve exchanged enough insults with Cedric that the fans are hanging on every word, the rivalry of the decade setting fire to both sides of the stands.

“You’re awfully chatty for someone losing,” he calls as Hufflepuff pulls ahead by twenty, cocky grin decorating his lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you reply, banking sharply. “I like my victories loud.”

The game dissolves into chaos by midday. 

A bludger clips your shoulder, sending pain singing down your arm. You grit your teeth and keep flying. Cedric makes a spectacular dive that nearly snaps his broom in half against the wind, and the crowd gasps as he misses the snitch by inches.

You score again. Hufflepuff answers.

The clock ticks on. Muscles burn. The air is electric, thick with adrenaline and rivalry and something else entirely that curls low in your stomach whenever Cedric flies too close.

Then it happens. 

The snitch flashes near the Slytherin goalposts, darting erratically. Cedric and you both see it at the same time, exchanging dangerous glances as your seeker alerts.

The moment he dives, you veer hard, intercepting a Hufflepuff chaser and stealing the quaffle mid-pass. The crowd screams as you hurl it through the hoop, pushing Slytherin ahead just as Cedric’s fingers close around empty air.

The whistle blows mere seconds later.

“Slytherin wins!”

Green and silver explode into celebration. Your team whoops and swarms you, laughter and triumph ringing in your ears. 

Across the pitch, Cedric slows to a hover, hands on his broom, breathing hard. He rolls his eyes as you blow him a kiss, the corner of his mouth twitching.

The charade continues on the ground. 

“Better luck next time, captain,” You brush past him on the field, shoulder bumping his deliberately. 

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he replies smoothly. “Can’t win them all.”

You smirk and disappear into the Slytherin locker room.

The celebrations fade. One by one, your teammates leave, laughter echoing down the stone halls until you’re alone, peeling off your gloves with fingers that still tremble from the match.

When you finally step back into the corridor, it’s quiet. He leans against the wall, robes loosened, hair damp with sweat, eyes dark and intent when they lock onto you.

Before you can open your mouth, he’s there. Hands on your waist as his body crowds yours, the stone wall cool against your back. His mouth crashes into yours, hungry and familiar and nothing like the polite sarcasm he wore on the pitch. You gasp into the kiss, fingers fisting in his robes.

“Gods,” he murmurs against your mouth, breath uneven. “You were incredible out there.”

“You didn’t seem impressed when I stole that goal,” you manage between kisses, hands grasping to pull him closer.

His laugh is breathless as he kisses along your jaw. “I was trying not to grin like an idiot in front of half the school.”

His forehead rests against yours, breathless and flushed.

“You drive me mad,” he says softly. “All that teasing. All those looks. I can’t focus on the snitch when you’re flying circles around me like that.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “Liar. You love it.”

His hands tighten at your hips, grinning devilishly. “Merlin help me, I really do.”

He kisses you again, slower now, reverent, like praise wrapped in heat.

“Best chaser on the pitch,” he whispers. “And you know exactly how to use it against me.”

You smile into his mouth, heart racing, the roar of the crowd still echoing in your bones.

Let them think you hate each other– it only makes the victories that much sweeter.

[froggapi-writes]

🩵┆Crawling Back to You George Weasley x F!Reader

Angst based on Hozier's live cover of "Do I Wanna Know?", which I totally didn't listen to on repeat during the entirety of writing and editing this...

Warnings Battle of Hogwarts, break up, mentioned death (not y'all), grieving, mentioned alcohol consumption Word Count 1158

☞ Masterlist

— “I dreamt about you nearly every night this week.” Lyric Fic

You fall in love with George Weasley sideways.

Not all at once, with fireworks or grand declarations or violins swelling in the background. It happens in the negative space. In the pauses between jokes. In the way his grin softens when he looks at you, like he’s surprised you’re still there. In the way he says your name like it's magic in itself.

Sometimes, you think loving George feels like hovering your hand over a flame. Warm. Thrilling. A danger you can never pull away from fast enough.

He loves you loudly. Laughs too hard, kisses too fast, lives like the world is a prank he hasn’t quite finished setting up yet. You love him quietly. You catalog the freckles on his face. You memorize the weight of his arm around your shoulders. You listen for the moments when his voice dips lower, steadier, like he’s letting you see the parts he doesn’t offer the crowd.

The war presses in anyway. It leaks into the walls of Hogwarts, into the stone, into the air. Even laughter sounds different now. Thinner. Brittle.

The night before the Battle of Hogwarts, George can’t sit still. He paces the room you’re hiding in, stepping over broken bits of ceiling, hands running through his hair. Fred mirrors him from across the room, same restless energy, same spark. Twins, even as the world is ending.

George stops in front of you. He crouches so you’re eye level, his knees brushing yours. “We’re going,” he says firmly, like it’s already decided. Your stomach drops, grabbing his jumper before you even realize you’re moving.

“No,” you cry. One word, a plea disguised as a command.

He exhales through his nose soft and fond, as though you’ve just said something absurd. 

“We have to,” he says. “This is it.”

You shake your head, tightening your grip. “You don’t,” you plead. “Other people are fighting. You’ve done enough.”

His mouth curves into a half smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s not how it works, love.”

Your chest feels too tight, heart threatening to break each vessel in escape. “Stay,” you beg, clutching him close. “Just stay with me. Please.”

There it is. The thing you don’t say out loud often, keeping it tucked behind your ribs. It comes out cracked and shaking. 

Fred looks away. That hurts worse than if he’d stayed.

George’s hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. “Love,” he says gently. “I can’t.”

Something inside you breaks, clean and sickly, voice rising despite yourself. “Gods, I’m stupid enough to hope you’d stay. I know that. I know it’s selfish. But I can’t do this. I can’t stand here and smile while you walk off to die.”

His expression changes, shock forming into hurt, into something unbeknownst to you. “I’m not going to die,” he pushes back.

“You don’t know that,” you shout, hands weakly shoving at his chest. “You don’t know anything. You joke like that makes you untouchable, but it doesn’t, George!”

Silence crashes down around you, the kind that rings in your ears. George stands, looking somehow taller, entirely out of reach

“So what,” he asks quietly. “You want me to cower and hide while they risk their lives for us?”

“I want you alive.” Tears spill over, hot and humiliating. “I want a future where I don’t wake up screaming because I dreamed you never came back.”

He flinches. Just a little. 

“I can’t be the bloke who runs,” he declares. “Not today.”

Your laugh breaks in half. “Then I can’t be the girl who waits around to bury you.”

The words land between you like a curse. George’s expression goes blank, and you can’t help but hate yourself for it.

“Is that it?”

You nod, hysterical now, breath coming too fast. “I won’t go. I won’t follow you into this. If you walk out that door, no matter what happens, you’ll never see me again.”

For a moment, you think he might stay. Just for a heartbeat. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for a loophole, for one last piece of evidence to change his mind.

Then Fred clears his throat. 

George leans down and presses his forehead to yours. “I love you,” he affirms. Steady. Certain. He kisses your brow. Then he turns away.

You don’t watch him leave, staring at the floor until the sounds of battle swallow everything else.

After that night, the days blur together.

You dream of him every night that week, always the same: George standing at the edge of a crowd, calling your name, just out of reach. You wake up gasping, sheets twisted around your legs, heart aching with a want that never goes anywhere.

You hear about Fred from someone else. Not George. Not anyone who knows you well enough to soften it. You scream into your pillow until your throat burns. You cry until you’re empty. Then you cry again.

Months pass. You exist. You eat. You breathe. You learn how to walk past joke shop windows without stopping. You learn how to say his name without breaking. Sort of.

People tell you to move on. They mean well. You nod. You even try. 

You go out. You laugh at the right places. You let someone else hold your hand. It feels wrong, like wearing someone else’s clothes: Too loose. Too tight. Never yours.

You’re too busy being his, even now, to fall for somebody new.

The knock comes late, well past midnight. Soft at first, then clumsy. George stands there, rain-soaked, eyes red, breath smelling like firewhiskey and grief. He looks older. Hollowed out, like someone carved something out of him and forgot to put it back.

He sways a little. “I know it’s late,” he explains quietly. “I know I shouldn’t be here.”

You don’t move, heart a wild thing in your chest.

“I don’t know where else to go,” His voice cracks, eyes searching your own. “I lost him. And I lost you. And I keep thinking if I knock enough times, maybe I can get one of you back.”

Your throat closes as he sinks down onto the step, head in his hands. “I keep asking myself if you ever think about me. If you dial my number when you’ve had a few,” he mutters. “If you hate me. If I should’ve stayed.”

You stumble forward, falling to your knees in front of him. Your hands find his face like they remember the way on their own, a map of memories with each road engrained in your soul.

“I wanted you to live.”

He sobs, quiet and wrecked and real. You pull him into you, his forehead pressing into your shoulder, fingers curling into your clothes like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

When he finally looks up, eyes shining and vulnerable in a way you’ve never quite reached, he whispers, “Can I come in?”

You open the door.

[froggapi-writes]

🩷┆Santa, Baby No Outbreak AU!Joel x Fem!Reader

Fluff You and Ellie convince Joel to dress up as Santa for a charity event.

Warnings Joel being HOT in everything!!! Also minor suggestive jokes, y'all are married and have a kid (Ellie), no outbreak AU! Words 1461

☞ Masterlist

— “It'd make a perfect gift...for Christmas.😏” One-Shot

It was a rare Saturday evening in the Miller household. The air smelled faintly of freshly baked cookies and the musk of pine from the tree. Outside, the snow fell in fluffy, gentle flurries, creating a picture-perfect winter scene that, honestly, could have come straight out of a Hallmark movie. But you weren't in a Hallmark movie. No, you were in the real world, which meant things were about to get... interesting.

Joel Miller, the grumpy, stubborn man you had been living with for the past few years, was sprawled on the couch, nursing a cold beer while watching some old western film. His worn flannel shirt clung to his chest, and he grumbled every now and then at the screen, as if he could somehow change the outcome with his disapproval. But the night wasn’t going to end in typical Joel fashion. You and Ellie had plans.

Ellie, your bright, mischievous teenage daughter, sat on the other couch, scrolling through her phone, a grin tugging at her lips. You’d been plotting for days, trying to figure out the perfect way to convince Joel to do something utterly ridiculous. And Ellie was always up for a little chaos.

“Hey, Mom,” Ellie said, looking up from her phone with an innocent smile. "You know what would be really funny?”

“Don’t even start,” Joel muttered, barely glancing up from his movie.

“No, seriously,” she continued, undeterred. “I’m talking about something that would really bring some holiday cheer to this house. And, you know, maybe to the whole town...”

You raised an eyebrow. You could already feel the drama in the air. “What were you thinking, Ellie?”

She sat up a little straighter, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “We should totally get Dad to dress up as Santa Claus for the charity event tomorrow. It’s for a good cause, and it would be so hilarious.” She turned to Joel, who was now giving her a side-eye. “Dad, I mean, you’ve got the whole ‘beard and gruff demeanor’ thing down already. You’d be perfect!”

Joel let out a low, annoyed grunt. “Hell no.”

“Oh come on, Dad,” you said, leaning over the arm of the couch with a smile that you hoped would be irresistibly sweet. “It’s just for one night. Think of all the little kids who will get to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him their wishes. Think of the joy you’ll bring, Joel. The happiness.”

Joel’s lips twisted into that familiar half-smile that made him look like he was both entertained and mildly irritated at the same time. “You think I’m gonna put on some stupid red suit and pretend to be jolly for a bunch of kids? Not in a million years.”

“Oh, come on, please,” you pleaded, eyelashes batting sweetly. “You’d look so adorable. And you’d be doing something good for the community. You know, spreading some Christmas spirit. Just think about how much fun it would be!”

Ellie, who was an expert in persuasion (mostly because she had spent years convincing you to let her stay out later than you intended), joined in, her voice now a perfect blend of child-like and mischievous. “Yeah, Dad. We could even take a picture of you in the outfit. You’d be a legend around town. Imagine all the ‘Santa Joel’ memes that would pop up. People would never forget.”

Joel’s scowl deepened. He set his beer down with a heavy sigh. “Y’all are ridiculous. There’s no way I’m doing this.”

But Ellie wasn’t done yet. “Dad, remember last year when we barely had enough money for Christmas presents?” She raised an eyebrow. “This is for charity, remember? The money goes to families who actually need it. You could help them. You could be a hero, Dad.”

For a moment, Joel’s tough exterior wavered. His eyes softened just a fraction, and you knew Ellie was playing her trump card. There was no way he could resist doing something for the community after everything that had happened. You had both played the long game.

Joel finally let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But I’m not wearing no stupid hat.”

Ellie and you exchanged a look, both of you struggling to contain your victorious grins. You’d won.

“Deal,” Ellie said quickly, a smirk forming on her lips.

_____

The next day, you stood in the living room, trying not to burst out laughing. Joel had, begrudgingly, put on the tacky Santa suit you had bought, and the sight of him was... well, it was something. The suit barely fit him—the pants were too short, and the jacket strained around his broad shoulders, but that wasn’t what made it so hilarious. No, what really got you was the fact that, despite everything, Joel Miller looked damn good in that outfit.

You'd always known Joel was handsome, but something about the combination of his dark hair, his weathered features, and the jolly red suit made your heart skip a beat. The suit wasn’t a perfect fit—in fact, it was a little ridiculous—but he wore it with an undeniable swagger that had you feeling... distracted. You tried not to stare, but it was hard.

“Do I look like an idiot?” Joel grumbled, his arms crossed over his stomach as he stood in the middle of the living room, glaring at you both.

Ellie, whose phone was already snapping pictures, nodded enthusiastically. “Yep. But it’s perfect. You look like a Christmas miracle.”

You stepped closer, trying to be discreet about how much you were appreciating the view. “You actually look... kind of... uh, good,” you said, your voice catching slightly as you forced yourself to focus on his face instead of his muscles pressed against the fabric.

Joel blinked at you, clearly taken aback. “What? Are you serious?”

You felt your cheeks heat up, pinking a bit as you spoke. “I mean, in a ‘Santa Claus’ kind of way. It’s just... the suit really does something for you, Joel.”

Ellie snorted. “Mom, don’t be obvious. We all know you’re secretly into the idea of Santa Joel.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Y’all are insane.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “We’re gonna be late for this thing if you two don’t stop laughing.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Sorry, Joel. You’re just... unexpectedly handsome in that suit.”

Joel grumbled something under his breath but then straightened up, trying to look more like the Santa Claus you knew he wasn’t.

_____

When you arrived at the event, you had to admit, Joel was, if not entirely comfortable, at least pulling off the Santa role better than anyone could have expected. He grumbled as kids approached him to ask for their Christmas wishes, but when he handed out candy canes with a scowl that could’ve scared the Grinch into submission, it only made the kids love him more.

You watched from the sidelines as Joel awkwardly posed for pictures, his arms crossed protectively over his bulging red belly, the belt of the Santa suit straining around his waist. Ellie was having the time of her life, sneaking in behind him for selfies and laughing when Joel tried (and failed) to look “serious” for a photo.

At one point, one of the little girls approached Joel with wide, hopeful eyes. “Santa, can I ask for a puppy for Christmas?”

Joel looked down at the girl, his glare deepening as he itched his beard. “Look, sweetheart, I’m just the guy who shows up. You gotta talk to your folks about the dog situation.”

You bit your lip to hold back a laugh, watching as the little girl looked disappointed, but then she brightened up when Joel handed her a candy cane with a gruff, “Here, kid. Don’t tell your parents I gave you extra sugar.”

It was moments like these, watching Joel Miller try to be Santa, that made everything feel right.

_____

As the event wrapped up and you and Ellie headed home, Joel still hadn’t shed the Santa suit, though he was clearly done with the whole “Christmas spirit” thing. Ellie’s excitement hadn't dimmed at all, teasing filling the silence the whole car ride home.

You glanced over at Joel as he drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Despite everything, there was something undeniably cute about the way he looked in that suit. You tried to act casual, but when your eyes met his, you couldn't help but smirk as your fingers traced down his arm.

"Joel," you said coyly, "You really do look good in red."

He shot you a sideways glance. "I swear, woman, if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I might have to put both of us on the naughty list."

With that, you knew that Christmas had come early. 😉

[froggapi-writes]

🩵┆Weight of the World Platonic!Tony Stark x Reader

Sad/Comfort Tony looks to you for reassurance after he hits a breaking point.

Warnings Just sad tony, depression Words 1125

☞ Masterlist

— “When you can't even explain what's going on inside your own head anymore.” Long-ish Drabble

You had never quite understood how heavy silence could feel until you found yourself sitting in the remote, quiet confines of Tony Stark's lab. It was late. The soft hum of machines and the occasional beep of monitors were the only sounds that filled the otherwise empty space. You had been here for hours, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your coffee cup, the warmth of the mug doing little to ward off the chill that had settled in your bones.

The world was a heavy place. The kind of heavy that sometimes felt like it might crush you if you didn’t keep moving, keep working, keep pushing. But even the most relentless of forces needed rest. And right now, it felt like he needed it more than anyone.

Tony had always been a whirlwind—faster than the world around him, making jokes to mask his pain, pushing boundaries to avoid facing his own demons. You’d known him long enough to see through the bravado, to see the brokenness behind his quick smile and even quicker wit. You’d seen it in the way his hands would shake ever so slightly when he thought no one was looking, or the way his eyes would linger on the ruins of his past, as if the memories could be reassembled if he just stared for long enough.

Tonight, the world had worn him down more than usual. You hadn’t meant to intrude, but when you found him stumbling through the lab, his usually sharp mind fuzzy and distracted, you couldn’t leave him alone.

You hadn’t said much when you sat down beside him—just placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. And that was all it took. Without a word, he’d slumped against you, the weight of the world suddenly on your shoulders.

Now, hours had passed, and still, Tony hadn’t moved. His body was curled in a chair, his head resting on the backrest, eyes shut tight. He was thinking, you knew. Thinking about everything and nothing all at once. It was the quietest you’d ever seen him.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice a soft intrusion into the silence.

Tony’s eyes flickered open, meeting yours with that familiar glint of humor, though it was muted, as if the weight of exhaustion had dimmed it. His lips lifted up into a tired, half-hearted smile.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough, like he hadn’t spoken in days. “You’re still here?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, not wanting to make him feel bad about your presence, though a small part of you wished you could be elsewhere. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Tony didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned his head, gaze drifting back to the array of screens in front of him, each one filled with data and blueprints for the next iteration of whatever crazy project he was working on.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice distant. “It’s just...this never-ending cycle. The more I try to fix, the more I break.”

You nodded, not expecting him to elaborate further. You never did. Tony had a tendency to retreat into his work when things got too heavy, to bury himself in technology as if their electric glow was the only thing that could keep the darkness at bay. But you knew better. You knew that all the suits in the world couldn’t protect him from the ghosts of his past.

“The Avengers aren’t a cure-all,” you said softly, attempting to breach the topic gently without triggering his walls to raise. “We can’t save everyone.”

Tony’s shoulders tensed at the words. His gaze hardened, but he didn’t turn to face you. You could see the shift in him, the familiar disconnection he forced when he didn’t want to admit how much he cared.

“I’m not trying to save everyone,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. “Just...the ones I can. The ones who matter.”

You watched him, your heart aching for him. He was always like this—always trying to be the hero, the one who could do it all. But you had seen the cracks in his armor, the times when the weight of responsibility threatened to bury him alive. Tonight was no different.

“I know,” you said gently. “But even you can’t do it all, Tony. You’re only human.”

His eyes flickered to you then, the sharp edges of his expression softening ever so slightly.

“I know,” he repeated, the words so light it was almost a whisper. “It’s just... sometimes it feels like it’s never enough. Like nothing I do will ever be able to fix it.”

You shifted closer, your hand still resting on his shoulder, offering what little comfort you could. You didn’t have all the answers, but you didn’t need them. All he needed was someone to sit with him, someone who wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t try to fix him. Someone who understood that sometimes, the best thing you could do was just be there.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” you said quietly. “You just have to be you.”

Tony let out a long, slow breath, his eyes closing again as he leaned back further into the chair, letting himself sink into the rare moment of vulnerability.

“That’s the thing, though,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “I don’t know who that is anymore. I used to...but I’m not sure anymore.”

You could hear the weight of those words. Tony Stark, the man who had reinvented himself so many times, who had built an empire from his own genius and ambition, had lost sight of who he was underneath all the armor. The truth of it flushed over you like a cold wave.

“Hey,” you asserted again, firmer this time. “You’re still you. You’re just... tired. And that’s okay. We all need to rest and reboot.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the eternal, soft buzz of machinery, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. Then, finally, Tony spoke again, his voice a whisper, almost vulnerable.

“You’ve always been there for me, haven’t you?”

You nodded, unsure if he even needed an answer. The bond between the two of you had always been natural, a quiet understanding that neither of you felt the need to put into words. But now, in the stillness of the lab, you realized just how much that meant.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Always.”

There was a long pause, that for once, you didn’t feel the need to fill. Tony didn’t either. He just sat there, leaning into the comfort you offered, a rare moment of peace in a life that was anything but.

The weight of the world might still be heavy on his shoulders, but for tonight, at least, Tony didn’t have to bear it alone.

And that was enough.

[froggapi-writes]

TLOU HC OF THE DAY:

Ellie definitely channels her love for dad jokes into pick up lines once she's confident with you. Be PREPARED for the ambushes of cheesy lines she thinks of any time of day‼️‼️‼️ And I mean ANY. When you wake up, when you're brushing your teeth, eating pancakes, the whole shebang 💃

[froggapi-writes]

masterlist | 📜

☞ bio

supernatural

dean winchester

lazy sundays [fluff, drabble, 302 words]

sam winchester

decorating the tree! [fluff, drabble, 446 words]

harry potter

weasley twins

soldier boy [angst, fred x reader, lyric fic, 5541 words]

crawling back to you [angst, george x reader, lyric fic, 1158 words]

disappear [comfort, platonic!twins x reader, one-shot, 10.4k words]

cedric diggory

rivals [romance, one-shot, 1061 words]

prefect pin [romance, one-shot, 6519 words]

oliver wood

scrapbook [hurt/comfort, one-shot, 3513 words]

marvel

tony stark

weight of the world [hurt/comfort, one-shot, 1125 words]

criminal minds

spencer reid

in the drafts! [hurt/comfort, one-shot, 2031 words]

the last of us

joel miller

santa, baby [fluff, one-shot, 1461 words]

twisters (2024)

boone

postcards [fluff, one-shot, 5464 words]

scott miller

in the drafts [series]

[faithbetryin]

“𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑑.” || “𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝑎 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑑.”

[ 𝐇𝐁𝐎’𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐔𝐬 𝟏.𝟎𝟑 ]

my screencaps, feel free to use as icons, just reblog or credit 🌿 (click for high res)

[froggapi-writes]

🩷┆Decorating the Tree Sam Winchester x Reader

Fluff Reflecting on memories and continuing traditions with Sam marks the start of December.

Warnings None Words 446

☞ Masterlist

— “It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!” Short Drabble

I huffed as my arms were just out of reach of the top of the tree. My hands held the obnoxious LED star that Dean had bought last year. Me and Sam had wanted an angel, but Cass made us think twice. Hopping up as a last resort, I suddenly felt two large hands on my waist. A chuckle sounded from behind me, causing me to roll my eyes when I realized who it was.

My eyes squinted as I carefully placed the tree topper, looking up at the star with a dopey grin. As I felt the warmth of someone behind me, I remembered that he was there. I spun around, his arms wrapping around me on instinct. "Thanks, hot cakes," I teased, "Care to help with ornaments?" Sam smiled at me, his head tilted slightly down. "Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world," He responded happily.

It had been an annual tradition since we were kids for the two of us us to decorate the Christmas tree together on the first day of December. The memories of past Christmases filled our conversation, the tree gradually growing more colorful and sparkly.

One ornament stood out, immediately catching my eye. It was homemade with colored styrofoam and a picture in the middle, obviously a school craft. The picture featured Bobby sitting on a worn down couch while Sam, Dean, and I are all sprawled out on the carpeted floor. Christmas gifts surround us, beaming faces all around. I tapped Sam on the shoulder, waving it in the air to get his attention.

"Remember this one, Sammy?" A smile played on his lips, resting his head on my shoulder. "How could I forget? That's when I met you," Sam said softly. A light blush dusted my cheeks as he turned my head for a sweet kiss. I immediately pulled him back in, taking in the feeling of his soft lips pressed against my slightly chapped ones.

As we pulled away, I turned my attention back to the tree. It was perfectly decorated except for one spot in the middle. I turned my head and exchanged a knowing look with Sam. "It's the perfect place for the perfect picture," He commented, replicating my exact thoughts. We both walked up to the tree, giggling as his fingers fumbled with the small ornament hook.

The tree was beautiful. Bulbs decorated it, big and small. Everything from the obnoxious blinking of the tinsel-laced star to the tape holding our first picture together was imperfectly perfect. Even if we don't live apple pie lives, I wouldn't change a thing about it. As long as we're together, that's enough for me.

[froggapi-writes]

🩷┆Lazy Sundays Dean Winchester x Reader

Mindless Fluff You and Dean spend a day in bed together.

Warnings None Words 302

☞ Masterlist

— “I'm more myself with you than any other day.” Short Drabble

I felt a familiar arm drape over my waist, a smile creeping onto my face. "G'morning, Dean," I whispered, rolling over so that we were chest to chest. His green eyes stared at me in adoration, a small smirk accompanying them. He presses his lips to mine, holding the kiss for just a moment.

"Good morning, sunshine." Dean murmered, not breaking his eyes away from me. "What's the plan for today?" I questioned, snuggling into his chest. He moved his arms to my back, wrapping arond me protectively.

My body fit perfectly with his, like a puzzle clicking into place. "I think," he started, kissing the top of my head, "we should stay just like this. All day. How does that sound, sweetheart?" I felt him smile against my hair, a soft laugh escaping my lips.

I adjusted my body so that I could look up at him. Blush dusted my cheeks as I caught him already staring at me lovingly. My heart raced at the same pace it did when we first met, a dopey grin on my lips. "That sounds absolutely perfect."

And so we did. We spent the day snuggled up under our flannel blanket, telling stories and laughing at our decisions from when we were teenagers. When it was time to eat dinner, we ordered chinese food and Dean ran to get it since he missed our combined warmth.

And, when it was time to sleep, we cuddled close. Whispers of sweet nothings and warm kisses were exchanged until he dozed off, me following soon after. But, before I fell into a deep slumber, I watched his breathing and how peaceful his face looked while he slept. It was comforting, and that was when I knew that I needed to spend the rest of my life with him.