Fluffย where you and Boone wish to remember things exactly as they are.
Warningsย Tooth-rotting fluff ๐, maybe fear of forgetting?ย ย Word Countย 5,467
โย Masterlist
A/Nย Woah! Long time, no see ๐ง I hope y'all enjoy this as much as I loved writing it <3
โย โโCause I want to remember this one exactly how you do.โ One-Shot
The first thing Boone said to you that morning was, โYou stole my sock.โ
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 hadnโt given you much besides a pretty shelf cloud and a tire full of gravel. The room smelled like detergent, damp towels, and Booneโs soap.
You were standing by the tiny sink in one of his old T-shirts, brushing your teeth.
โI didnโt steal it,โ you muffled around the toothbrush. โI borrowed it.โ
โYouโre not wearing it.โ
โMaybe I borrowed it for emotional support.โ
He lifted his head just enough to squint at you. โThat doesnโt even mean anything.โ
โIt means I miss you when Iโm not with you, so I have to take little pieces.โ
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. โYouโre very brave.โ
โFor what?โ
โFor surviving this devastating theft.โ
He peeked at you through his fingers. โGet back in bed and maybe Iโll recover.โ
It was a stupid line. It wasnโt 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 heโd 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 heโd complained about last night.
โThere,โ he mumbled into your shoulder. โHealing.โ
โYouโre ridiculous.โ
โYou like me.โ
You threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. โUnfortunately.โ
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. Booneโs 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 wasnโt 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 โhaunted Victorian childโ face from being tired, and you told him that was rich coming from a man whoโd 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 youโd 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.
โThey make your truck look like a rodent lives in it,โ you said, glancing at the shell pile in the console.
โThis rodent is a patriot.โ
โWhat does that mean?โ
โIt means Iโm an American and I need my seeds.โ
โThatโs not what patriot means.โ
โThat sounds like communist talk.โ
You laughed so suddenly you snorted, which was awful, and Boone pointed at you in triumph.
โThat,โ he said, โwas undignified.โ
โYou made me snort.โ
โNot possible. That came from within.โ
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.
Youโd been together long enough that your silences were easy. Not empty, never that. Just easy. He didnโt rush to fill every gap. You didnโt 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.
โWhat?โ he asked.
โNothing.โ
โYouโve got a face.โ
โYouโve got a face.โ
โThatโs weak, darlinโ. Workshop it.โ
You smiled and looked back out the windshield. โI was just thinking.โ
โDangerous hobby.โ
โI was thinking that I like this.โ
Booneโs fingers tapped once against the steering wheel. โWhat, my excellent driving?โ
โThis part.โ You gestured vaguely. The road, the truck, the day. โJust this. With you.โ
For a second he didnโt 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.
โYeah,โ he said quietly. โMe too.โ
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 didnโt come through the truck vents and maybe a bathroom that didnโt 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 youโd 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. โYouโre doing the thing again.โ
โWhat thing?โ
โThe one where you look like youโre writing a poem in your head.โ
โI donโt write poems.โ
โYou absolutely do, you just donโt let anybody call โem that.โ
You took a sip of Coke. โMaybe Iโm judging your pie choice.โ
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. โCherry pie is a noble institution.โ
โItโs sticky.โ
โLove is sticky.โ
โGross.โ
โYouโre right.โ He pointed his fork at you. โThat sounded better in my head.โ
You laughed, and the woman behind the counter smiled at the two of you like sheโd 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 wasnโt dramatic. Nothing was happening besides lunch in a little town you probably wouldnโt 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 Booneโs sunglasses where heโd 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.
โYouโre far away,โ Boone said.
You blinked. โSorry.โ
He leaned back, studying you. โWhereโd you go?โ
You couldโve 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.
โI donโt know,โ you said. โJustโฆ sometimes I get worried I donโt notice things enough when theyโre happening.โ
Booneโs mouth softened.
The diner noise went on around you. Silverware, low voices, the hum of the refrigerator case by the register.
โI notice storms,โ you continued, tracing your fingertip through a bead of condensation on your glass. โI 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.โ
Boone didnโt answer right away. Then he said, โYou notice more than anybody I know.โ
You looked up.
He shrugged one shoulder. โYou remember everything.โ
โI do not.โ
โYou 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.โ
โThat's because you looked insane.โ
โThโ hurtful memory still proves my point.โ
You smiled despite yourself.
Boone set down his fork. โYou notice things. I think maybe you just don't trust that theyโll stay with you unless you hold onto them too hard.โ
There it was again, that way he had sometimes of saying something so gently you didnโt 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. โBesides, thatโs what Iโm for.โ
โWhat, fries?โ
โFor remembering with you.โ
Your chest ached in that sweet, unwieldy way that had nowhere to go but into a smile. โThat was almost smooth.โ
โAlmost?โ
โYou pointed a potato at me.โ
He considered this. โThatโs fair.โ
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.
โCome on,โ you said.
โTo where?โ
You were already tugging him by the hand. โAdventure.โ
โYour adventures are always suspiciously close to shopping.โ
โMaybe your soul needs knickknacks.โ
โMy soul needs air conditioning.โ
โSame building, probably.โ
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. โLook at this,โ he said, lifting one carefully. โThis thingโs older than my dad.โ
โThatโs because your dad is, like, thirty-seven.โ
โDarlinโ, I reckon heโs about double that.โ
โI dunno, he seemed thirty-seven.โ
โExplain.โ
โNone needed.โ
He gave you a narrow-eyed look. โYouโre a lovely, deeply confusing woman.โ
โIโm a delight.โ
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 worldโs largest ball of twine. You laughed and flipped through them until Boone came up behind you.
โThose are horrifying,โ he said, peering over your shoulder.
โTheyโre perfect.โ
โFor what?โ
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.
โFor us.โ
He tilted his head. โExplain.โ
You tapped the blank back with one fingernail. โWe should start sending them.โ
โTo who?โ
โTo ourselves.โ
That got his attention. โWhat?โ
โFrom wherever we were. Just little notes. Then someday weโll have this whole weird pile of where weโve been.โ
Boone stared at you for a second, then broke into a grin that unfolded slowly, like he could already see it. โThat,โ he started, โis disgustingly sentimental.โ
โYou love it.โ
โI do.โ
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.
โWhat are you writing?โ Boone asked.
โYouโll see when it gets there.โ
โThat could be weeks.โ
โThatโs the beauty of correspondence.โ
He made a face. โYou sound like somebodyโs great-aunt.โ
โThank you.โ
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.
โYouโre insufferable,โ you said.
โAnd youโre curious.โ
โI am. I hate that youโre right.โ
He opened the truck door for you with a ridiculous little bow. โAfter you, mโlady.โ
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 wasnโt looking. The line of his jaw roughened by a dayโs 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 wasnโt 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.
โTell me something,โ Boone broke up your thoughts.
โWhat kind of something?โ
โSomething I donโt know.โ
You thought. โWhen I was little, I used to think road trips changed who you were.โ
He glanced over. โWhat, like spiritually?โ
โNo. Literally. I thought if you crossed enough state lines, maybe youโd become the version of yourself you were supposed to be. Like each place could rub off on you until you got it right.โ
Boone smiled. โThatโs very on-brand for childhood you.โ
โThank you.โ
โYโthink it worked?โ
You looked out at the long road, wavering in the heat. โMaybe,โ you said. โA little.โ
He nodded like that answer made perfect sense.
Then he said, โWhen I was ten, I swallowed a quarter because I thought it would make my voice deeper.โ
You turned to him so fast you nearly pulled something in your neck. โWhat?โ
He laughed, shoulders shaking. โIโm serious.โ
โBoone.โ
โI wanted to sound cool, or somethinโ.โ
โWhat happened?โ
โMy mom took me to urgent care and I had to dig through my own poop for two days.โ
You stared at him in delighted horror.
He grinned wider. โNow tell me you donโt love me.โ
โYou are deeply, deeply embarrassing.โ
โAnd yet.โ
โAnd yet,โ 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.
โDetour?โ he asked.
You were already smiling. โDetour.โ
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.
โI think,โ you said, โif you pushed me in, Iโd kill you.โ
โThatโs a lot of trust to place in a hypothetical.โ
โI know you.โ
โYou do.โ
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, โYou wanna know a secret?โ
โAlways.โ
He squinted out over the water. โSometimes I think this is the part Iโd miss most.โ
โWhat part?โ
โThis exact thing. Not even this place. Justโฆ sneaking time out of the day with you. Between all the hard stuff.โ
You turned to look at him. His cap shaded his eyes, but not enough to hide the honesty there. Boone wasnโt guarded with you, not really, but sometimes heโd say something that sounded like heโd reached down and pulled it from somewhere deeper than usual. Those moments never stopped catching you off guard.
โYeah?โ you said softly.
He nodded. โStorms are storms. Chases are chases. I love all that, I do. But this is the stuff Iโd be haunted by.โ
The breeze picked up, fluttering the edge of your shirt.
He laughed a little at himself. โThat sounded more dramatic than I meant it.โ
โNo,โ you assured. โIt didnโt.โ
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. โWe should get better at it,โ you murmured.
โAt what?โ
โAt keeping it.โ
Booneโs expression went thoughtful. โYou mean, like, stopping more?โ
โMaybe. Or maybe just not acting like the rest is only filler.โ
He looked back at the lake, then at you. โYouโve been thinking about this all day.โ
โI know.โ
โI like when your brain grabs onto something and worries it like a dog with a shoe.โ
โThat's such an ugly metaphor.โ
โIt was affectionate.โ
โI'm not convinced you know what affection is.โ
His mouth curved. โPretty sure I do.โ
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 heโd 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.
โWeโll keep it,โ he promised.
You didnโt 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.
โYou look stupid,โ you informed him.
โI know. Itโs part of my appeal.โ
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, โWe should probably find somewhere to sleep before we become local folklore.โ
You didnโt move. โI could live here.โ
โIn a public access lake lot?โ
โYou could build me a nice shack.โ
โWith what tools?โ
โLove.โ
โThatโs not a tool.โ
โIt is in the movies.โ
He sighed. โYour understanding of constructionโs alarming.โ
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. โIโm dead.โ
โYouโre dramatic.โ
โYes. Mourn me tenderly, my darlinโ.โ
You pulled the curtains apart. From the window you could see the pool shining turquoise in the dusk.
โBoone.โ
No answer.
โBoone.โ
He lifted his head. โWhat?โ
โThereโs a pool.โ
He stared at you for one beat, then sat upright. โAbsolutely not.โ
โWhy not?โ
โBecause you become lawless around motel pools.โ
โThat is not true.โ
โYou once convinced three grown men from Tulsa to have cannonball competitions with us at midnight.โ
โThey were receptive.โ
โYou yelled, and I quote, โLast one in hates joy!'โ
You grinned at him over your shoulder. โAnd did it work?โ
โUnfortunately, yes.โ
You turned around slowly. โAre you saying you won't get in the pool with me?โ
Boone pointed at you. โThat tone was manipulative.โ
โThat sounds like someone who hates joy.โ
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.
โThis,โ Boone said to the sky, โwas your fault.โ
โYouโre welcome.โ
โIโm freezinโ my ass off.โ
โAnd yet you remain.โ
โAnd yet.โ
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.
โYou happy?โ 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.
โAbsolutely,โ you said.
Boone studied your face like he was checking for cracks in it. Then he nodded once. โGood.โ
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 โimminent frostbite,โ 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.
โWhat?โ he said, rubbing a towel over his hair.
โYouโre cute.โ
His ears went a little pink. It delighted you every time.
โYouโve seen me before,โ he said.
โStill true.โ
Boone tossed the towel at you. โMen used to go to war, anโ now I have to endure this.โ
โThat sentence made no sense.โ
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.
โCheck the weather?โ he asked after a while.
You reached for your phone on the nightstand. Radar glowed blue and green across the screen. Tomorrowโs setup was decent. Not spectacular. Enough to meet back up with the team.
You set the phone back down.
โAnything scary?โ Boone said.
โJust moderate instability and some more of your driving.โ
He nodded solemnly. โNature is cruel.โ
The room went quiet again.
Boone picked at a loose thread on the quilt. โDโyou ever think about stopping?โ
You looked over at him. โStorm chasing?โ
โNot forever.โ He shrugged. โJust... eventually.โ
There was no tension in him when he asked it. No hidden agenda you could hear. Still, the question rippled through you.
โSometimes,โ you answered honestly. โYou?โ
โYeah.โ
He leaned his head back against the wall. โNot because I donโt love it. I do. But sometimes I think about what comes after. Or what comes alongside it.โ
Your chest went warm. โLike what?โ you asked.
Boone smiled without looking at you. โYou fishin' for a monologue?โ
โMaybe.โ
He exhaled through his nose. โI donโt know. A place with a porch. A truck that isnโt always packed. Maybe being home long enough to buy groceries that make sense together.โ
You laughed softly.
โAnd,โ he added, glancing at you now, โstill this, somehow.โ
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. โA porch would look good on you.โ
โYou think?โ
โVery weathered. Very heroic.โ
โI would dominate porch life.โ
โI know.โ
He turned your joined hands over and traced his thumb over your knuckles. โWhat about you?โ
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 didnโt die, they just softened. Maybe the road not gone, only gentler. Chosen in shorter bursts.
โI think,โ you said slowly, โI want a life together. Not just the road.โ
Booneโs expression changed, just slightly. Recognition, like youโd said something he already knew but needed to hear anyway.
โYeah,โ he said. โMe too.โ
You didnโt 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.
โTell me what you wrote on the postcard,โ you begged.
โNope.โ
โBoone.โ
โYouโll see it when you get it.โ
โThis is tyranny.โ
โItโs romance.โ
โThat is not what romance is.โ
He grinned. โYou keep saying that, and yet.โ
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. โYouโre doin' the thing again,โ he murmured.
โWhat thing?โ
โThe poem face.โ
You smiled against his shirt. โMaybe I am.โ
โGood.โ
โWhy?โ
His fingers moved lazily over your shoulder. โโCause I want to remember this one exactly how you do.โ
And there it was. The whole day folding in on itself like a letter.
You closed your eyes.
Tomorrow youโd drive again. Youโd chase weather, study maps, meet up with the others, stand in wind that smelled like rain and dust and possibility. Youโd 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.
Booneโs 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, โIโll remember with you too.โ
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.
๐ฉตโDisappearย Platonic!Fred Weasley x F!Reader x Platonic!George Weasley
Comfortย where the Weasley twins do everything in their power to help you through grieving your grandpa's death.
Warningsย Death of a grandparent, dementia, crying, griefย ย Word Countย 10,377
โย 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
โย โWhat was the point of losing him in pieces if I was going to lose him all at once anyway?โ 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 didnโt 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 conductorโs baton. George had leaned back on his bench like the world was a joke and heโd written the punchline.
Then Georgeโs eyes flicked to your hands. To the way you hadnโt reached for the letter, your fingers turning into a tight white cage around nothing.
Fredโs grin fell first. Not all at once, or dramatically. It simply slid off his face, as if gravity had remembered him.
โHey,โ George said, softly enough that you almost didnโt register it as his voice. โYou alright?โ
You opened your mouth and what came out was a thin little sound, like a page tearing.
Fred stood up. The bench scraped. He didnโt make a joke about it. That alone made the air feel strange.
โCome on,โ he said, and the words werenโt a command. They were an offer made into a moment that didnโt feel like it had any doors.
You wanted to be normal. You wanted to laugh and say, Of course Iโm fine, and then tear the letter open later in the girlsโ loo like you could postpone whatever waited inside it.
But your hands were already shaking, and you couldnโt 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.
Fredโs 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 youโd been dragging behind you like a string.
You didnโt remember standing, but you were standing. You didnโt remember the Great Hall shifting, but it shifted. The noise didnโt 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.
โRight,โ Fred said. He swallowed. โWeโre leaving.โ
Lee started to protest out of instinct, then stopped when he saw you. His mouth fell open. He didnโt know where to put his hands, his sympathy, his helplessness.
You didnโt 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 didnโt want you to see the worry in his eyes because maybe that would make it worse.
Georgeโs voice was low. โWhere do you want to go?โ
You couldnโt answer.
Fred didnโt demand one.
โAlright,โ he said anyway, as if you had. โWeโll pick.โ
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 didnโt know where else to go.
The grief didnโt 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 couldnโt 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 youโd never realized how much of him lived in laughter until it was gone.
โHey,โ he said gently. โLook at me.โ
You couldnโt.
George sat on the floor beside you anyway, close enough that your shoulder touched his. He didnโt speak. He just stayed. He just breathed in the same room.
Fredโs voice softened even further. โI know it doesnโtโฆ feel real.โ
That did it. Something inside you snapped open.
โI wasnโt there,โ you whispered, and your own voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, someone smaller. โI wasnโt there and Iโฆ I kept thinking Iโd have more time.โ
Georgeโs hand closed over yours, warm and firm. His thumb pressed once against your knuckles. A steadying tap. A code: Iโm here. Iโm here. Iโm here.
Fredโs eyes shone. He blinked hard.
โYou did have time,โ George said, and his voice didnโt argue with your grief. It simply placed a fact beside it like a candle beside a shadow. โYouโve got a whole pile of it.โ
You shook your head, choking on the words that would not become tidy. โBut dementiaโฆ it made everythingโฆ it made our memories have ups and downs. Sometimes he knew me and sometimes he didnโt and itโs not fair and I hate it.โ
Fredโs 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.
โItโs rubbish,โ he said, with a vicious gentleness. โItโs absolute rubbish.โ
Your eyes flooded. You wiped them with the heel of your hand and immediately hated how childish it felt, hated that you couldnโt keep yourself contained, hated that your body insisted on being honest.
George leaned his head back against the desk leg behind you. โTell us about him.โ
You laughed once, sharp and broken. โWhat?โ
โTell us about your grandpa,โ George repeated. โThe real him. The bits you want to keep.โ
Fred nodded, like this was a plan he could execute. โGive us a memory. One of the good ones.โ
The good ones came to you uninvited, knocking down the door.
You swallowed. โHe burned easily,โ you said, and the sentence sounded ridiculous in the face of death. โLike, so easily. Iโd beg him to take me to the beach and heโdโฆ heโd lather up sunscreen like he was icing a cake. He looked absurd, like a ghost before the sun even touched him.โ
Fred huffed a small laugh, and it wasnโt a joke-laugh. It was a relief-laugh. Like he was grateful the room had space for something human.
Georgeโs eyes softened. โHe did it anyway.โ
โYeah,โ you whispered. โHe did it anyway.โ
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.
โAnd,โ you continued, voice wobbling, โhe used to sneakily take me to the store to buy donuts for breakfast when my grandma was out. Heโd act like it was a spy mission. Like, โKeep your head down, kid.โ And Iโd be trying so hard not to laugh.โ
Fredโs grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, haunted but warm. โA criminal.โ
โThe worst,โ you said, and then you cried again because the love in it was too much.
George squeezed your hand. โHe sounds brilliant.โ
Your throat tightened. โWe used to run through the sprinklers in the backyard,โ you said, and you could almost feel cold water on your shins, the grass slick under your feet. โWeโdโฆ weโd get soaked and heโd pretend he was going to catch me and Iโd scream like it was the end of the world.โ
Fredโs voice went quiet. โHe ran with you.โ
You nodded, tears dropping onto your sleeves. โAndโฆ Disney Bingo on their living room floor. Weโd watch Popeye the Sailor cartoons. There was this dog, Trixie. She passed when I was young. I used to feed her popcorn. Likeโฆ whole handfuls.โ
George made a soft sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. โTrixie.โ
You wiped your cheeks again. โYeah. Sheโd sit there like sheโd won the lottery.โ
Fred stared at the window for a second, swallowing hard.
Then, very carefully, as if handling something precious, he said, โSo your grandpa wasโฆ sunscreen cake-icing, donut-smuggling, sprinkler-sprinting, Disney-Bingo champion of the living room floor.โ
Your breath hitched. A smile flickered, tiny and guilty.
George tilted his head. โAnd a popcorn dealer.โ
That made you laugh, properly this time, a wet, startled laugh that felt like opening a window in a smoke-filled house.ย
It broke your heart immediately, because you shouldnโt be laughing when your grandpa was gone and he couldn't join in with you.ย
The guilt arrived fast, like it had been waiting around the corner.
Fred saw it on your face. โDonโt you dare,โ he said softly.
โWhat?โ
โDonโt you dare punish yourself for laughing,โ Fred said, voice firm now, a protective thing. โNot today. Not ever.โ
George nodded. โLaughing doesnโt mean youโre not sad. It means youโre still you.โ
You pressed your hands to your eyes. โI miss him,โ you whispered.
Fredโs voice cracked. โYeah.โ
Georgeโs shoulder nudged yours. โYeah.โ
The silence after that wasnโt 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 didnโt try to fix anything. They didnโt 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.
โAlright,โ he said, standing. His voice had that familiar edge of purpose. โWeโre doing something.โ
George rose too, stretching his arms overhead like he was shaking off the heaviness so he could carry yours.
You blinked up at them. โWhat?โ
Fred glanced at George, and they shared a look you knew well: a silent conversation in twin-language.
Georgeโs mouth curved faintly. โWeโre going to make you a memory.โ
โThat doesnโt make sense,โ you said, hoarse.
โIt will,โ Fred promised, and he held out his hand.
You hesitated. Not because you didnโt trust him. Because you didnโt 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 didnโt take you to the Hospital Wing. They didnโt take you to a professor. They didnโt take you to a place of rules and whispers.
They took you to the kitchens.
You wouldnโt 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 grandpaโs store-run missions, because these were wizarding donuts, slightly uneven and dusted with sugar that glittered faintly as if it couldnโt 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. โEat,โ he said, gently bossy. โItโs not a solution. Itโs justโฆ fuel. You need fuel to grieve.โ
George slid a mug toward you. โTea.โ
You wrapped your fingers around the mug. The warmth seeped into you. It didnโt heal anything. But it made you less cold.
You took a bite of the donut. Sugar stuck to your lip. Your eyes burned again.
โIt tastes like trouble,โ you whispered.
Fredโs mouth twitched. โYour grandpa would approve, then.โ
George reached across the table and wiped the crystals off your lip with his thumb, quick and gentle, like he didnโt want to make a fuss out of taking care of you.
Your eyes stung. โThank you,โ you said, and it came out small.
Fredโs gaze held yours. โYou donโt have to be brave,โ he said. โNot with us.โ
George nodded. โYou can be a mess. Weโve seen mess. Weโve been mess.โ
The kitchen noises softened around you, like even the clatter of pots had learned manners.
You ate. Slowly. You drank your tea. The sweets didnโt 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.
โCome on,โ he said. โNext part.โ
You frowned. โThereโs a plan?โ
Fredโs grin flashed briefly, a ghost of his usual self. โThereโs always a plan.โ
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, โOh, absolutely not,โ and flicked his wand.
Warmth bloomed around your shoulders like an invisible blanket. It wasnโt hot, but the perfect temperature of someone elseโs jumper fresh from the dryer.
You exhaled shakily. โThanks.โ
George glanced sideways at you. โWeโre going to the one place Hogwarts is most honest.โ
You sniffed. โWhere?โ
โThe Room of Requirement,โ Fred said, like he was announcing a holiday destination.
Youโd 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, โWe need a room for grief,โ like he was ordering it off a menu.
George added, โAnd comfort. Andโฆ sprinkler-related nonsense.โ
You stared. โWhat?โ
Fred winked, and it was the first wink that didnโt feel wrong since the letter arrived. โTrust the process.โ
The door appeared, but the inside wasnโt what you expected.
It wasnโt 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.
Georgeโs voice was quiet behind you. โYou said sprinklers.โ
Fred rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking younger. โWe figured, if your body remembers happiness there, maybe itโll help your heart breathe.โ
Tears flooded your eyes so fast it felt unfair.
โItโs not real,โ you whispered.
George stepped beside you. โIt doesnโt have to be. It just has to be kind.โ
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 didnโt 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 didnโt 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. โOh no, not the dreaded Backyard Hex!โ
George followed, making a dramatic sound of suffering. โTell my mum I love her!โ
You laughed so hard it hurt.
For a moment, it felt like your grandpaโs 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 didnโt shiver.
George offered you a towel that appeared out of nowhere, impossibly soft.
You took it and pressed it to your face.
Fredโs voice softened. โHowโs your chest?โ
You blinked at him. โWhat?โ
โStillโฆ tight?โ he asked, gentler now. โOr a little looser?โ
You swallowed. The tightness was still there. The missing was still there. But you could breathe.
โA little looser,โ you admitted.
Georgeโs gaze held yours, steady. โGood.โ
You stood in the invented backyard, dripping and exhausted, and the tears came again, quieter.
โI hate that heโs gone,โ you whispered.
โI know,โ 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, youโre not alone in this.
Fred joined, one arm around you, the other hand rubbing your back in slow circles like he didnโt care if you fell apart against him because heโd simply hold the pieces.
You let yourself lean into them.
After a while, Fredโs voice rumbled near your hair. โDo you want to tell us what youโre scared of?โ
You swallowed. Your throat hurt. โIโm scared Iโll forget him,โ you whispered. โBecause dementia, it already stole so much. Sometimes heโd look at me like I was a stranger. Sometimes heโd say my name and it would feel likeโฆ like a miracle. And now Iโm scared the memories will fade too.โ
Georgeโs arms tightened.
Fredโs voice was fierce, suddenly. โWe wonโt let you.โ
You pulled back enough to look at him, blinking. โYou canโt control that.โ
โNo,โ Fred said, swallowing. โBut we can help you keep them, even just to make them more concrete.โ
George nodded slowly. โWe can make a memory box.โ
You stared. โA what?โ
Fredโs eyes lit with purpose again, the way they did when he was building something. โA proper one. Wizarding. With protections.โ
George added, โAnd snacks.โ
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
Fred pointed at you, triumphant. โThere. Thatโs the spirit. Grief with snacks. The only acceptable kind.โ
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. โThis is yours.โ
Fred waved his wand, and the latch shimmered briefly. โIโve put a charm on it. Whatever you put in here, you canโt lose it- not permanently, at least. Even if you misplace the box, itโll come back.โ
Your breath hitched.
George slid a stack of parchment toward you. โWrite them down. Your grandpa stories. The sunscreen. The donuts. The sprinklers. Disney Bingo. Popeye. Trixie.โ
Your eyes filled again. โAll of them?โ
โAs many as you can,โ Fred said. โAnd if you canโt write, you can tell us, and weโll write. Or draw. Orโฆ whatever. Thereโs no correct way to do this.โ
Georgeโs voice was soft. โYou donโt have to do it all today.โ
Fred nodded. โBut we can start.โ
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 heโd 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. Popeyeโs ridiculous laugh as he saved Olive Oil yet again. Trixieโs 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. โIโve got one more thing.โ
George rolled his eyes fondly. โHe always has one more thing.โ
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. โWhat is that?โ
Fred looked almost shy. โSunscreen. Well. Sort of. Itโsโฆ a Muggle thing, you know, but Iโve been tinkering. Itโs basically a harmless protective salve with a sun-shielding charm. You can put it on and itโll keep you from burning even if you fall asleep on the grass like an idiot.โ
George added, smug, โWhich he has done.โ
Fred ignored him and held the tin out to you.
Your throat tightened violently.
โWhy?โ you whispered.
Fredโs voice went rough. โBecause you said he did it for you. Now you can do it for him.โ
Georgeโs eyes shone. โAnd because keeping someoneโs love alive can be as small as a smell. A texture. A stupid tin of cream.โ
You took it with both hands like it weighed something enormous.
Tears slid down your face.
โThank you,โ 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. โAnytime.โ
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.
โDisney Bingo substitute,โ he announced.
George waggled his eyebrows. โWizard Bingo. Much more dangerous.โ
You huffed a small laugh. โThereโs no such thing.โ
Georgeโs grin flashed. โThere is now.โ
They improvised a ridiculous game that involved shouting โBINGOโ 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 didnโt erase your grief. It just gave it a chair to sit in that wasnโt 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, โWant to tell us more about Trixie?โ
You swallowed. Your eyes burned again.
โYeah,โ you whispered. โYeah, I do.โ
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, Fredโs jumper draped over you like a blanket, Georgeโs 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 didnโt 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 theyโd made a vow to be your lighthouse even when the sea got rough.
George yawned and murmured, โMorning.โ
Fredโs hair stuck up in three directions. โWeโre nicking breakfast from the kitchens again. In your grandpaโs honor.โ
You blinked hard. Your throat tightened.
โOkay,โ you agreed, voice quiet. โLetโs go.โ
Fred grinned, gentler than usual. โThatโs our girl.โ
George stood and offered his hand. โCome on, love. Donuts await.โ
You took it and nodded, and the world stayed unfair anyway.
Grief didnโt negotiate. It didnโt say, Ah yes, since youโve agreed to be comforted, Iโll 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 theyโd decided your sadness deserved pastries and a plan.
They were quieter than usual, but not fragile. More likeโฆ focused. Like you were the most important prank theyโd ever pulled, except the prank was keeping you alive through a day you didnโt want to live.
Fred knocked on the barrel like he owned it. โOatmeal,โ he announced to the kitchen door, as if the Room of Requirement had taught him confidence and heโd 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. โDrink.โ
You stared at it, heart thumping in your throat.
Fred sat opposite you and didnโt even pretend he wasnโt 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.
โI donโt want this,โ you said suddenly, voice rough.
Georgeโs eyebrows lifted. โThe cocoa?โ
You laughed once, sharp and bitter. โAny of it. The letter. Theโฆ everything. I donโt want him to be gone.โ
Fredโs gaze softened, but his jaw tightened. โYeah,โ he said. โThatโs the part no one tells you. You donโt consent to it. It just happens.โ
The word happens landed like a slap.
You gripped the mug harder. โWhy,โ you whispered, and your voice was the smallest thing in the room, โwhy would this happen to me?โ
Fred didnโt say something awful like everything happens for a reason.
George didnโt say something tidy like time heals.
They both stayed very still, like they understood the question wasnโt 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. โIt shouldnโt,โ he said quietly. โItโs notโฆ fair.โ
Fred nodded once, hard. โAnd youโre allowed to be angry about it.โ
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 didnโt know what to do with. Anger made you feel mean. Ungrateful. Like you were swearing at the sky for raining.
You inhaled shakily. โI am angry.โ
โGood,โ Fred said, like anger was a tool you were finally picking up. โBe angry. Be furious. Tell us about it.โ
You looked down at your mug because if you looked at them you might fall apart. โIโm angry that dementia took him before he evenโฆ left. Iโm angry that sometimes he didnโt know my name. Iโm 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 heโd look right through me and Iโd feelโฆ erased.โ
George squeezed your hand. โYou werenโt erased.โ
โI felt like it,โ you said, voice breaking. โAnd now heโs gone and itโs likeโ 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?โ
Fredโs eyes glistened. He blinked hard. โThere was a point,โ he said, and his voice was firm like he was building a railing for you to grip. โThe point was you loved him. The point was he loved you. Dementia canโtโฆ change what was real.โ
You swallowed. โBut it changed everything.โ
George shook his head, slow. โIt changed how he could hold things in his head. It didnโt change the truth that he held you in his life.โ
You stared at the table, at the crumbs, at your shaking fingers.
The silence wasnโt awkward. It was respectful, like even the kitchen knew better than to interrupt you.
Fred cleared his throat. โAlright,โ he said. โWeโre going to the Burrow.โ
You blinked. โWhat?โ
George looked pleased, like heโd been waiting to deploy this. โMumโs already been told. Sheโsโฆ prepared, in her own way.โ
โMeaning sheโs cooked enough food to feed the entire castle,โ Fred added.
You blinked again. โYou told your mum?โ
Fredโs expression didnโt waver. โOf course we did.โ
George leaned closer, voice gentler. โYou donโt have to go if you donโt want. Butโฆ you shouldnโt be alone right now. And Hogwarts is loud. It doesnโt know how to be quiet with you.โ
You glanced around the kitchens, at the warm stone and busy elves. It was comforting in a way, but it wasnโt yours. It was borrowed.
The Burrow, thoughโฆ 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.
โI donโt want to be a burden,โ you whispered.
Fred scoffed. โYouโd be a burden if you started reorganizing Mumโs spice rack by alphabetical order.โ
George nodded gravely. โOr if you joined Percyโs correspondence club.โ
You snorted despite yourself, then pressed your lips together as guilt tried to bite.
Fredโs expression softened immediately. โNo guilt,โ he murmured. โNot for laughing.โ
You took a shaky breath and nodded.
โOkay,โ you said. โOkay, Iโll go.โ
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 sheโd 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.
โOh, sweetheart,โ she said.
And then she hugged you.
It wasnโt 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. โThere we are,โ she murmured. โThere we are.โ
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.
โIโm so sorry,โ she said, voice thick. โSo terribly sorry.โ
Your mouth trembled. โI donโtโฆ I donโt know what to do.โ
Her gaze sharpened with certainty. โYou donโt have to know. You just have to be. Weโll do the rest.โ
Your throat closed again. You nodded, helpless.
Molly glanced over your shoulder. โYou two,โ she snapped at the twins, though her eyes stayed soft. โGet her a cup of tea. And donโt you dare put anything strange in it.โ
Fred put a hand to his chest, wounded. โMother.โ
George looked equally offended. โWeโre artists.โ
Mollyโs glare could curdle milk. โTea. Now.โ
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 Burrowโs kitchen was all mismatched chairs and chipped mugs and a clock that didnโt 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. โDonโt mind that,โ she said briskly, and then, gentler: โOr do. Itโs honest, at least.โ
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 didnโt 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, โIโm angry.โ
She nodded, as if youโd told her the sky was blue. โOf course you are.โ
You blinked, surprised by how easily she accepted it.
โItโs unfair,โ you said. โHe didnโt deserve any of it. Dementiaโฆ it took him and then it took him again. And now heโs justโฆ gone.โ
Mollyโs eyes filled. She swallowed. โI know,โ she said quietly. โI know what it is to watch someone you love be taken in pieces.โ
Your chest tightened. โDid youโโ
Mollyโs lips pressed together. โNot dementia,โ she said softly. โBut there are many kinds of slow loss, sweetheart. They all leave bruises.โ
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.
โYouโre allowed to ask why,โ she said. โYouโre allowed to rage at it. Youโre allowed to scream into the night. It doesnโt make you ungrateful. It makes you human.โ
You inhaled sharply.
Your eyes stung.
โI keep thinking,โ you whispered, โwhy would this happen to me? Likeโฆ 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?โ
Mollyโs grip tightened. โYou didnโt do anything,โ she said, firm as stone. โThis isnโt punishment. Itโsโฆ life being cruel in the way it sometimes is.โ
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. โBut you know what isnโt cruel?โ
You swallowed. โWhat?โ
โThe love,โ Molly said. โThe love isnโt cruel. Itโsโฆ steady. It stays. Even when people donโt.โ
You stared at your hands.
Fred spoke quietly from the counter. โWe brought her the memory box.โ
Mollyโs eyes flicked up. โYou did?โ
George nodded. โRoom of Requirement.โ
Her eyes softened. โThat was very clever, boys.โ
Fred looked faintly smug, then guilty for being smug, then resigned. โIt seemedโฆ necessary.โ
Molly stood abruptly, as if sheโd decided something. โRight,โ she said. โWeโre doing something tonight.โ
Your stomach dropped. โWhat?โ
She turned, rummaged in a cupboard, and pulled out a bundle of white candles. โA little ritual,โ she said matter-of-factly. โNothing dark. Nothing dangerous. Justโฆ a way to give your love somewhere to stand.โ
Fredโs eyes widened. โMum.โ
Georgeโs expression mirrored his. โAre we doing Feelings Magic?โ
Molly shot them a look. โYes. And if either of you makes fun of it, Iโll hex you.โ
Fred held up his hands. โWe would never.โ
George nodded solemnly. โNever. We are statues of respect.โ
Molly ignored them and looked at you. โWeโll do it by the lake,โ she said. โAfter dinner. You can tell us no if itโs too much, but I think it might help.โ
Your throat tightened. You didnโt 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 didnโt try to joke. He didnโt 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.
โIโm sorry,โ he muttered into your hair. โIโm so sorry.โ
Ginny squeezed your hand and sat close enough that your shoulders touched.
Bill and Charlie werenโt 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 didnโt say, Eat because you should. She said, โHere. This is for you,โ like food was a note that read Iโm 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.
โI donโt understand,โ you said, voice shaking. โHowโฆ how is everything still happening?โ
You pressed your hand to your mouth. โHe died yesterday and Iโm here eating potatoes,โ you whispered, and the words sounded absurd, which made them more unbearable. โWhy is the world stillโฆ normal?โ
Arthurโs face crumpled a little. He looked down at his hands. โItโs the strangest thing,โ he said quietly. โThe world doesnโt stop when it should.โ
Ginnyโs hand rubbed your back gently.
Ron swallowed, eyes red. โItโsโฆ horrible,โ he said, voice low. โIt justโฆ keeps going.โ
Fred leaned forward, elbows on the table. โBut,โ he said softly, โwe can make a bit of it stop for you. For a little while. Thatโs what tonight is.โ
George nodded. โWeโll make a pocket.โ
You blinked hard, tears spilling.
Molly reached for your hand again. โYou donโt have to be okay at this table,โ she murmured. โYou can be angry. You can be sad. You can be confused. Weโll still feed you.โ
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 Burrowโs 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.
โRight,โ she said, rubbing her hands together briskly as if she were about to bake something. โThese are remembrance candles. They float. They donโt go out until youโre ready.โ
Fred muttered, โMum, thatโsโฆ actually brilliant.โ
George nudged him. โDonโt let her hear you praising her. Sheโll start expecting it.โ
Molly gave them a look over her shoulder. โI heard that.โ
They both smiled, sheepish.
She turned to you. The briskness faded from her face.
โThis isnโt about letting him go,โ she said softly. โItโs aboutโฆ letting the love have somewhere to stand while youโre drowning.โ
Your throat tightened. You nodded, because you didnโt 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 youโd 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. โPick one,โ she said. โRead it. Or justโฆ think it hard. Then weโll light a candle for it.โ
Your fingers shook as you unfolded the parchment.
He burned easily. Like he was made of sunlightโs 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.
โI donโt want to have to do this,โ you whispered.
Molly nodded. โI know.โ
You swallowed hard, voice shaking. โI donโt want him to be a memory.โ
The wind moved over the lake, cold and gentle.
Fredโs voice was thick. โHe isnโt just a memory,โ he said. โHeโsโฆ in you. In the way you ask people to come with you to the beach. In the way youโโ He swallowed, blinking hard. โIn the way you love.โ
Georgeโs hand slid into yours. โYou can be furious,โ he murmured. โAnd still light the candle.โ
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 didnโt have him in it?
โWhy,โ you choked, and it came out raw, โwhy would this happen to me?โ
Your voice echoed off the lake like the water was listening.
Mollyโs eyes filled. She stepped closer and put her hand on your shoulder. โBecause life isโฆ careless,โ she whispered. โNot because you deserve it.โ
Your throat burned. You nodded, shaking.
Molly raised her wand. โWhen youโre ready,โ she said.
You took a trembling breath and held the slip in your hand like a talisman.
โI remember you,โ you whispered, and you didnโt know who you were talking to. The lake. The night. The empty space your grandpa had left behind. โI remember you putting sunscreen on like frosting. I remember you doing it anyway.โ
Molly flicked her wand.
A candle lit with a soft golden flame that didnโt crackle. It simplyโฆ glowed, steady and warm.
Then it lifted off the grass and floated onto the lakeโs 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.ย
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 didnโt say anything. He simply existed with you in the moment, like he was making sure the grief didnโt swallow you whole.
Georgeโs hand never left yours.
When the last candle drifted away, Molly said softly, โOne more.โ
She handed you a blank slip of parchment and a quill.
โThis one,โ she said, โis for the anger.โ
You stared at the blank parchment.
โWhat do I write?โ you whispered.
Mollyโs voice was gentle. โWrite what you wish you could shout.โ
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 wasnโt there. I am angry that the world kept going. I donโt understand why this happened to me. I donโt 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.
Georgeโs voice was a whisper. โThatโs real.โ
Fred nodded once. โThatโs allowed.โ
Molly took the slip carefully. โNow,โ she said, โwe burn it.โ
Your stomach lurched. โBurn it?โ
โNot to erase it,โ she assured quickly, seeing your face. โToโฆ release it. Anger needs somewhere to go. Otherwise it eats you from the inside.โ
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. โThere,โ she whispered. โThere.โ
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.
Fredโs voice was rough. โHeโd be proud of you.โ
You shook your head, tears spilling again. โI donโt want to be strong.โ
Fredโs laugh was soft and sad. โThen donโt be.โ
George nodded. โJust be here.โ
And you were.
The next morning, you woke up exhausted, like youโd 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, Georgeโs voice slipped through softly. โYou awake?โ
You cleared your throat. โYeah.โ
The door opened just a crack.
George peeked in, hair messy, expression gentle. โFred and I had an idea,โ he said.
You blinked. โThatโs usually terrifying.โ
He smiled faintly. โThis oneโsโฆ less explosive. Promise.โ
He stepped in, holding the little tin of enchanted sunscreen.
โWe thought,โ he said, โwe could do a beach day.โ
You stared. โAt the Burrow?โ
George shook his head. โAt Hogwarts. Lake shore. Weโllโฆ make it warm. The Room of Requirement helped, but the actual lake is nicer. Andโฆ it felt right.โ
Your throat tightened around a yes you didnโt trust.
Georgeโs eyes searched yours. โNo pressure,โ he said quickly. โWe just thoughtโฆ your grandpa did the sunscreen thing because you wanted the beach. Maybe we canโฆ give you that. Not to replace him. Just toโฆ honor him.โ
Your chest ached.
You nodded, small. โOkay.โ
Georgeโs shoulders loosened like heโd been holding his breath. โBrilliant. Fredโs already pinched towels.โ
โOf course he has,โ you whispered, and the softness in your voice surprised you.
George offered you his hand. โCome on.โ
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. โWhere did you get that?โ
Fred grinned. โDonโt ask questions you donโt want answers to.โ
George spread a blanket on the grass and patted it. โSit.โ
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. โAlright,โ he said. โIn honor of your grandpaโs heroic service.โ
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.
โIโm angry again,โ you admitted, voice trembling. โI thoughtโฆ the candles helped, but now Iโm justโฆ angry.โ
George nodded, as if anger was a weather report. โItโll come and go.โ
Fredโs voice was soft. โTell us.โ
You swallowed hard, staring at the lake. โIโm angry that I have to do this without him. Iโm angry that Iโm going to have birthdays and holidays and normal days and he wonโt be there. Iโm angry that dementia already stole him and now death stole what was left.โ
Your voice cracked. โIโm 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 canโt.โ
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.
โThere,โ he said quietly. โBeach-ready.โ
You stared at him, shocked.
George leaned over and dabbed a little on your cheek. โCanโt have you burning.โ
Fred dabbed another small spot on your other cheek. โWeโve seen you in the sun. Tragic.โ
A laugh escaped you, startled and wet.
Then you cried immediately after, because grief never let you have one thing at a time.
Georgeโs arm slid around your shoulders. โItโs okay,โ he murmured. โLaugh. Cry. Both. Whatever.โ
Fredโs voice went gentler, his hand warm on your knee. โYouโre not doing it without him,โ he said. โYouโre doing it with him in your head. And with us beside you.โ
You wiped your cheeks with your sleeve. โI hate that heโs only in my head now.โ
Fred nodded, eyes bright. โYeah. Thatโs the worst part.โ
Georgeโs grip tightened. โBut your head isโฆ a good place. Itโs yours. Dementia couldnโt take it from you.โ
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. โWant to run?โ
You blinked. โRun?โ
Georgeโs smile flickered. โWeโve got a sprinkler charm.โ
Fred waggled his eyebrows. โItโs either that or we attempt to teach Ron to juggle.โ
You snorted. โDefinitely more sprinklers.โ
โCorrect answer,โ 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 didnโt trust the invitation.
The water hissed softly, bright in the sun.
Fred jogged through it immediately, shrieking in an exaggerated way. โItโs attacking!โ
George followed, dramatically clutching his heart. โTell my mum I died doing what I loved!โ
You laughed, properly, and the sound surprised you so much it felt like someone elseโs 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 wasnโt 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.
โHowโs your chest?โ he asked softly.
You pressed a hand to it. It still hurt. It still ached.
But you could breathe.
โLooser,โ you whispered.
Fred came up beside you, dripping, and bumped his shoulder against yours. โGood.โ
You looked at them, soaked through, ridiculous, devoted.
And suddenly, anger surged again, hot and sharp.
โI still donโt understand,โ you said, voice shaking. โWhy he had to suffer like that. Why dementia had to take him. Why I had to watch him forget.โ
Fredโs grin faded. He nodded, eyes serious. โYeah.โ
Georgeโs voice was quiet. โSometimes there isnโt a why that makes you feel better.โ
You swallowed. โThatโs horrible.โ
โIt is,โ Fred said immediately. No sugarcoating. No pretending.
George stepped closer and took your hands. โBut we can stillโฆ choose what we do with it.โ
Your eyes stung. โAnd what do I do with it?โ
Fredโs voice softened. โYou remember him on purpose.โ
George nodded. โYou tell stories. You keep the little things alive.โ
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 wasnโt. The way the light had looked like captured summer.
Your throat tightened again.
โI want to put something else in the box,โ you whispered.
Fredโs eyes softened. โYeah?โ
You nodded, wiping your cheeks. โOne more slip. Somethingโฆ thatโs not just a memory, butโฆ a promise.โ
George smiled faintly. โWeโve got parchment.โ
Fred gestured grandly toward the picnic basket. โWeโve got everything. Weโre suspiciously prepared.โ
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 youโd 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 youโd 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 donโt understand why this happened to me. I donโt understand why you had to suffer. I donโt understand why love has to hurt like this.
The words blurred as tears filled your eyes.
Georgeโs hand covered yours gently, steadying the quill.
Fredโs voice was soft. โKeep going.โ
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.
Fredโs eyes were bright. Georgeโs 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 boxโs latch shimmered faintly, like the charm had accepted your promise as something important.
You exhaled shakily and pressed your palm to the lid.
Georgeโs voice was a whisper. โThatโs it.โ
Fred nodded, voice rough. โThatโs the thing. Thatโsโฆ how you keep him.โ
Your throat tightened. โIt still hurts.โ
George squeezed your shoulder. โIt will.โ
Fredโs hand found yours. โBut it wonโt always hurt like this.โ
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.
โIโm still mad,โ you admitted, voice hoarse. โIโm mad that this is part of being alive.โ
Fredโs mouth twisted. โBeing alive is frequently offensive.โ
George huffed a small laugh. โPut it on a T-shirt.โ
You smiled, tiny and wet.
And then you cried again, because grief didnโt leave just because youโd written it down. It was still there, still heavy.
But now it wasnโt lonely.
Fred stood abruptly, as if he couldnโt sit still with the emotion. โRight,โ he said. โIโm making hot chocolate.โ
George raised an eyebrow. โMum already made stew.โ
Fred shot him a look. โHot chocolate is non-negotiable.โ
Molly sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the corner of her apron. โHe gets that from me,โ she said, voice thick.
Fred muttered, โI get everything good from you,โ and then looked startled that heโd said it out loud.
George made a face of mock disgust. โFeelings again.โ
Molly pointed her wand at him. โDonโt start.โ
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.
Arthurโs paper rustled.
Life kept going. Horribly. Relentlessly.
But in the Burrow kitchen, for this moment, it also kept holding you.
And you let it.ย
You let it because you didnโt know what else to do.ย
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.
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 ร 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!!!โก
๐ฉทโPrefect Pinย Cedric Diggory x Older Sister!Malfoy!Reader
Romanceย where Draco's older sister avoids Cedric after kissing him on prefect duty, and he wants answers.
Warningsย Denial of feelings, fear of commitment, kissingย ย Word Countย 6519
โย 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 ๐ I hope you enjoy it!
โย โYou can't run away from this forever.โ One-Shot
You didnโt 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 Houseโs 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 youโd stepped onto a stair that wasnโt there.
You checked the inside pocket. Then the outer. Then the seam youโd charmed last month to hold your wand steady and your patience steadier. You patted yourself down like youโd misplaced your own ribcage.
Nothing.
Your fingers froze for a beat over the spot where the badge shouldโve 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 wasโฆ on prefect duty, late, weeks ago, fingers curled around the metal edge while youโd 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 heโd stepped close to make a point and youโd 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.
โDonโt,โ youโd said, which hadnโt meant anything useful, because you hadnโt 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 didnโt trust it yet.
Then youโd 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 youโd 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 couldnโt have gone far. It mightโve fallen out during rounds. It mightโve snagged on a tapestry. It mightโveโ
A voice, behind you, warm as a hearth you didnโt trust.
โLooking for something?โ
Every muscle in your body went tight.
You didnโt have to turn to know who it was. The castle couldโve gone silent and the torches couldโve snuffed themselves out and youโd 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 heโd 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.
โDiggory,โ you said, and put every bit of your bloodline into the syllables.
โMalfoy,โ 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.
โIโm busy,โ you lied.
โSo am I,โ he said lightly. โBut here we are.โ
You couldโve walked away. You shouldโve walked away. Youโd built an entire routine around walking away.
Instead, you found yourself rooted, like the corridor itself had decided you deserved this.
Cedricโs 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. โGive it to me.โ
His brows lifted, mock-innocent. โIs that how you ask?โ
You stared at him with the coldest disdain you could conjure.
It didnโt land the way it usually did. Cedric didnโt flinch. He didnโt even look offended. He just lookedโฆ attentive, like heโd been waiting for you to look at him for weeks and didnโt plan to waste the opportunity.
โPlease,โ 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. โI found it near the third-floor landing.โ
That meant heโd been near the third-floor landing.
That meant he mightโve been doing rounds.
That meant he mightโve been thinking about the same night you were thinking about, the same corridor, the same torches, the sameโ
You cut off the thought like it was poisonous, invasive to your mindโs native state.
โGive it,โ you repeated, voice clipped.
Cedric didnโt move. His eyes held yours, steady, warm, infuriatingly patient. Then he said it, soft as if he were offering you a choice.
โIโll give it back when you stop running away from me.โ
You let out a short laugh that had no humour in it. โIโm not running.โ
โOh?โ he said. โBecause from where Iโm standing, youโve been sprinting.โ
Your jaw tightened. โIโve been busy.โ
โRight,โ Cedric said, still calm. โBusy avoiding the Great Hall at breakfast.โ
You narrowed your eyes. โCoincidence.โ
โBusy taking the long way around the courtyard when Iโm there.โ
โAlso coincidence.โ
โBusy switching library tables like Iโm carrying dragon pox.โ
You shouldโve been offended by the accuracy. You were offended by the fact heโd noticed enough to catalogue it.
โYouโre imagining things,โ you said.
Cedricโs mouth curved again, that almost-smile. โMaybe.โ
Your fingers twitched, wanting to snatch the badge. He held it just out of reach, firmly, like he knew youโd lunge.
You tried to summon your best Malfoy composure, the one that made grown men falter. It didnโt help that your heartbeat had turned traitor.
โDiggory,โ you said, low. โThis isnโt funny.โ
He sobered, just a fraction. โIโm not laughing.โ
The corridor felt smaller. The torches seemed to lean in.
You lifted your chin. โYou have no right to keep that.โ
His eyes dipped briefly to the badge again, then to your collar, where it shouldโve been pinned. You saw something flicker in his expression, quick and unreadable.
Then he looked back at you and said, very simply, โI do.โ
Your breath caught, and you hated yourself for it.
โExcuse me?โ
โYou heard me.โ Cedricโs voice didnโt sharpen. It didnโt need to. โYou lost it. I found it. Iโm not handing it over so you can disappear again.โ
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.
โDisappear?โ you echoed, scornful. โYouโre not my keeper.โ
โNo,โ he agreed. โIโm not.โ
He paused, eyes steady, and the quiet between you filled with everything youโd refused to say.
Then, quietly, โBut I am a prefect too. And we both know you canโt do your job without that.โ
You hated that he was right.
You hated the way heโd said it like it was practical, like he hadnโt just twisted the situation into a trap with velvet lining.
โWhat do you want?โ you snapped.
Cedricโs gaze softened. โA conversation.โ
Your throat went tight.
โNo.โ
His eyebrows rose. โNo?โ
โNo,โ 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 heโd expected.
โFine,โ he said, and for one glorious second you thought he might actually give in.
He stepped past you.
Your pulse leapt. โWhere are you going?โ
โTo class,โ he said, too casual. โIโll hold onto this until youโre ready to act like an adult.โ
You whirled, fury spiking. โYou canโt justโโ
He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes bright with the faintest hint of amusement. โWatch me.โ
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 sheโd just watched a play.
You wanted to hex her too.
The first thing you did was tell yourself it didnโt 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, youโd devised three different strategies, each more humiliating than the last.
The problem with Cedric Diggory was that he didnโt respond to the usual weapons. You couldnโt intimidate him. You couldnโt charm him without risking it actually working. You couldnโt 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, youโd discovered a fourth strategy: pretend you didnโt 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. โWhatโs your problem?โ
โNothing,โ you said sharply.
He leaned closer, voice lowered. โYouโre staring at Diggory like you want to stab him.โ
You didnโt look away from Cedric. โI might.โ
Draco huffed. โLet me.โ
โNo,โ you said immediately.
Draco blinked at your tone. โWhy not?โ
Because if Draco touched this, it would become a war. A loud, messy, public war that would drag your familyโs name through every corridor and land you in your motherโs 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. โBecause I said so.โ
Draco stared at you like youโd grown a second head. โYouโre being weird.โ
โI am not.โ
โYou are.โ
โAm not.โ
Dracoโs eyes narrowed further. โIf Diggory has done somethingโโ
โHe hasnโt,โ you cut in, too fast.
Draco paused, then smirked slowly, like heโd smelled blood.
โOh,โ he said. โThatโs it, isnโt it?โ
Your stomach clenched. โWhat is?โ
Dracoโs grin widened, maliciously delighted. โYou like him.โ
You went very still.
Across the hall, Cedricโs gaze stayed on you, steady as a heartbeat.
You looked back at Draco with all the frost you could muster. โDonโt be ridiculous.โ
โThatโs usually how it starts,โ Draco said, smug.
You stabbed a piece of potato like it had personally betrayed you. โIf you tell anyone, Iโll hex your hair off.โ
Draco leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. โIโm your brother.โ
โExactly,โ you said. โI know your weaknesses.โ
Draco snorted, then muttered, โMum would faint.โ
You pretended not to hear him.
You pretended not to feel Cedricโs eyes like warmth against your skin.
He didnโt corner you again until two days later.
Youโd 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 wouldโve been dignified if you hadnโt 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 heโd been carved there.
Badge pocketed. Hands loose. Expression calm.
You froze.
Cedric pushed off the wall, slow, like he didnโt want to spook you. The thought made you bristle.
โYouโre late,โ he said.
โIโm not,โ you replied automatically.
He glanced at the hourglass in the corridor. โYou are.โ
You bristled harder. โI donโt answer to you.โ
Cedric nodded. โGood. Because this isnโt me ordering you around.โ
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.
โThen what is it?โ you demanded.
Cedricโs gaze moved from the badge to you. โThis is me giving you an option.โ
You crossed your arms. โIโm listening.โ
He looked almost amused. โAre you? Because last time, you did a lot of talking and not much listening.โ
You glared. โSay what you want to say, Diggory.โ
Cedricโs expression shifted, the teasing edge fading. โFine.โ
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 hadnโt been any space at all.
โYou kissed me,โ he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped through the floor.
โThatโsโโ you began, then stopped because there was no clever lie that didnโt sound pathetic.
Cedricโs eyes didnโt leave yours. โAnd then you acted like it never happened.โ
Your throat went tight, anger rising to cover whatever else was trying to surface. โIt was a mistake.โ
Cedricโs brows lifted, just slightly. โWas it?โ
โYes.โ
He waited a beat, like he was giving you a chance to convince yourself.
Then, โYou didnโt look like you thought it was a mistake.โ
Your pulse thundered. โYou donโt know what I looked like.โ
Cedricโs gaze flicked to your mouth. Back to your eyes.
โI do,โ he said. It wasnโt 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. โIf youโre here to make me uncomfortable, congratulations.โ
Cedricโs expression softened. โIโm here because youโve been making yourself miserable.โ
You scoffed. โHow noble.โ
He didnโt rise to it. โItโs not noble. Itโsโฆ frustrating.โ
Your eyes narrowed. โFrustrating?โ
Cedric exhaled slowly, like heโd been holding in too much for too long. โYes. Because I donโt know what you want.โ
You laughed once, brittle. โI want my badge.โ
Cedricโs mouth twitched, but it wasnโt humour this time. โYou know thatโs not what I mean.โ
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.
โI want you to stop,โ you said, quieter than you intended.
Cedricโs eyes softened. โStop what?โ
โStopโฆโ You gestured vaguely, because naming it felt like stepping onto thin ice. โThis.โ
Cedric nodded slowly, as if considering.
Then he said, โI canโt.โ
Your spine stiffened. โYou can.โ
โI could,โ Cedric corrected. โBut I wonโt.โ
Your anger flared again, easier than vulnerability. โWhy?โ
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.
โBecause it meant something,โ he said.
Your breath caught.
Cedric watched you closely, as if your reaction mattered more than the words themselves.
You forced a scoff. โTo you.โ
Cedricโs gaze didnโt waver. โTo you.โ
You shook your head, sharp. โYou donโt know that.โ
โI do,โ he repeated, voice quiet, certain. โBecause you wouldnโt be this scared if it didnโt.โ
The word hit like a slap.
Scared.
You, a Malfoy, scared of a kiss.
Your cheeks burned. โIโm not scared.โ
Cedricโs mouth curved, faint and sad and infuriating. โThen why are you running?โ
You opened your mouth, ready to slice him to pieces with a sentence. No words came out that didnโt 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. โCome on.โ
Your eyes snapped to it, then back to his face. โDonโtโโ
โTalk to me,โ Cedric said softly. โJustโฆ talk to me.โ
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.
โYouโre enjoying this,โ you accused, because anger was safer.
Cedric blinked, then let out a short laugh, surprised. โEnjoying it? Merlin, no.โ
โYou are,โ you insisted. โYou like having leverage.โ
Cedricโs expression sobered. โI donโt like any part of you looking at me like Iโm something you have to escape.โ
Something in your chest twisted.
Cedricโs eyes softened again. โI justโฆ I want you to stop pretending that night didnโt happen.โ
You forced your chin up. โIt shouldnโt have happened.โ
Cedric tilted his head. โBut it did.โ
You stared at him.
His gaze didnโt drop. Didnโt flicker. Didnโt retreat. It was infuriating how safe he looked, standing there like your secrets didnโt scare him.
โYou donโt understand,โ you said finally, voice low.
Cedricโs brows knit. โThen make me.โ
You almost laughed. โItโs not that simple.โ
โNothing is,โ Cedric said. โBut youโre acting like itโs impossible.โ
โIt is,โ you snapped, then immediately regretted the word because it tasted like fear.
Cedricโs eyes sharpened. โWhy?โ
You swallowed. Your fingers flexed. โBecause youโreโฆ you.โ
Cedric blinked, thrown off. โThatโs your reason? Because Iโm me?โ
โYouโre the Hufflepuff golden boy,โ you said, bitterness and honesty tangled. โEveryoneโs favourite. The castleโs perfect example of what a good student should be. Youโre safe.โ
Cedricโs face softened, but there was a spark of something there too. โSafe.โ
You hated the way your voice wavered. โAnd Iโm not.โ
Cedric watched you for a long moment.
Then he said, very quietly, โI donโt care.โ
The words didnโt sound heroic. They sounded stubborn.
Your throat tightened.
โYou should,โ 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 heโd been outside. Close enough that your pulse turned into a siren.
His voice dropped. โTell me to my face that you didnโt feel anything. Tell me that kiss was nothing, and Iโll give you your badge and Iโll never bother you again.โ
Your heart slammed against your ribs as you stared at him, corridor blurred around the edges.ย
You could do it. You could lie. Youโd 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 didnโt want to touch you without permission, even in the heat of an argument. You could still remember the way heโd looked at you afterward, stunned and hungry and careful all at once.
Your voice came out thin. โYouโd leave me alone?โ
Cedricโs eyes held yours. โYes.โ
You should have said it.
You didnโt.
Silence stretched, heavy with everything you werenโt brave enough to name.
Cedricโs gaze softened. โThatโs what I thought.โ
You snapped, because you needed control back. โDonโt act smug.โ
โIโm not smug,โ Cedric said, gentle. โIโm relieved.โ
โRelieved?โ you echoed, incredulous.
Cedricโs mouth curved faintly. โBecause for a second, I thought youโd actually say it. And I didnโt want you to.โ
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. โCome on. Rounds.โ
Your eyes widened. โWhat?โ
โYouโre doing rounds with me tonight,โ Cedric said, as if it were settled.
โIโm not,โ you said instantly.
Cedricโs brows rose. โThen youโll explain to Snape why you werenโt on duty and why your badge is missing.โ
Your blood went cold.
He smiled, apologetic. โSorry.โ
You glared. โYouโre not.โ
โIโm a little sorry,โ Cedric corrected, then his gaze softened. โMostly Iโm just tired of you avoiding me.โ
You took a breath through your nose, fury and something softer fighting inside you.
Then you hissed, โFine.โ
Cedricโs smile warmed, small and real. โGood.โ
You turned sharply, stalking down the corridor like you hadnโt 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 wereโฆ 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 didnโt 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.ย
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.
โYouโre quiet,โ he remarked.
โIโm working,โ you said.
Cedricโs mouth twitched. โYouโre glaring at a suit of armour.โ
โIt started it.โ
Cedric laughed, soft. The sound did something irritating to your chest.
You shot him a look. โDonโt.โ
He lifted both hands in surrender. โAlright.โ
Silence returned, but it wasnโt empty. It was full of all the words you werenโt saying, all the glances you werenโt admitting you were taking.
At the third-floor landing, your steps slowed despite yourself.
This was near where heโd said he found the badge. Near where, weeks ago, youโd argued. Near where your control had slipped like a ring off a finger.
Cedric noticed your hesitation. His voice gentled. โIt was around here.โ
You kept walking, stiff. โI donโt care.โ
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. Cedricโs hand bracing beside your head. His voice low, heated. Yours even lower, sharper.
Your breath caught.
Cedricโs voice came quietly. โYou alright?โ
You forced air into your lungs. โFine.โ
Cedricโs 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. โI thought you saidโโ
โI did,โ he said calmly. โBut Iโm not a complete monster.โ
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.
โYou can take it,โ he said quietly. โIโm not going to bite.โ
You lifted your chin. โIโm not afraid of you.โ
Cedricโs gaze flicked to your mouth again, quick. โI know.โ
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.
Cedricโs eyes didnโt leave your hands. He didnโt comment. He didnโt tease. He just watched, attentive, as if the small act mattered.
When you finished, you straightened, posture perfect. โThere. Happy?โ
Cedricโs gaze lifted to your face. โNot really.โ
Your temper sparked. โThen what do you want?โ
Cedric stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest.
His voice dropped, private. โI want you to look at me like you did before you ran.โ
Your heart hammered.
You scoffed, desperation pushed down. โYouโre insufferable.โ
Cedricโs mouth curved, faint. โMaybe.โ
โMaybe?โ you snapped.
Cedricโs eyes warmed. โYou kissed me in the middle of an argument. Iโm not sure you get to call anyone insufferable.โ
You glared. โYou provoked me.โ
Cedricโs brows lifted. โDid I?โ
โYes.โ
Cedric leaned in just slightly, close enough that your breath mingled.
โWhat if I did?โ he murmured.
Your pulse turned vicious as you forced yourself not to flinch, not to lean. โYouโre playing a game,โ you accused.
Cedricโs expression softened. โNo.โ
โThen what is this?โ you demanded.
Cedricโs gaze held yours, steady and serious. โThis is me not letting you pretend you didnโt want it too.โ
Your throat tightened.
You hated him. You wanted him. Both truths sat side by side like theyโd always belonged together.
The corridor felt too warm.
A distant clock chimed. Somewhere, a portrait yawned.
Cedric didnโt move away.
Neither did you.
Finally, you said, voice sharp because you couldnโt make it soft, โYouโre going to regret this.โ
Cedricโs voice stayed low. โNot the kiss. The part after, where I let you walk away without saying anything.โ
You stared at him, and something in you wavered.
You covered it with ice. โThen say something now.โ
Cedricโs gaze flicked over your face like he was memorizing it. โAlright.โ
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. โPrefects.โ
โYes,โ you said crisply, relief and irritation colliding.
Filchโs eyes flicked between you and Cedric, lingering too long on the space between you. โHmph.โ
Cedric nodded politely. โEvening, Filch.โ
Filch grunted and shuffled off, muttering about students and troublemakers.
When he disappeared, the corridor seemed to exhale.
You swallowed. โWe should finish rounds.โ
Cedric studied you for a moment. Then he nodded, like he could tell you needed the escape. โYeah.โ
You walked briskly.
You didnโt 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. Youโd done rounds. Youโd survived Cedric Diggoryโs 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 hadnโt 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, justโฆ 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. Youโd 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.
Cedricโs voice carried in, gentle. โI thought you might be here.โ
You turned slowly.
Of course. Of course he knew.
He stood just inside the doorway, hands raised slightly, as if proving he wasnโt here to ambush you. His hair was damp again, like heโd 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.
โThis is the prefect bathroom,โ you said coolly. โNot your personal meeting room.โ
Cedric nodded. โI know.โ
โThen leave,โ you ordered.
Cedric didnโt 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.
โYouโre still doing it,โ he said quietly.
You bristled. โDoing what?โ
โRunning,โ Cedric said.
You scoffed. โIโm standing still.โ
Cedricโs mouth twitched. โThatโs not what I meant.โ
You turned away, hands tightening on the edge of the sink. โI donโt have time for this.โ
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. โDonโtโโ
Cedricโs eyes held yours, calm. โIโm not here to trap you.โ
You laughed, harsh. โYouโve been trapping me for weeks.โ
Cedricโs brows lifted. โHave I?โ
โYes,โ you snapped. โYou stole my badge, you used it to force me into rounds, you keep popping up likeโlikeโโ
โLike Iโm trying,โ 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.
โIโm trying because I donโt like the version of you who pretends sheโs made of stone,โ he said. โAnd I donโt like the version of me who lets you.โ
Your fingers tightened around the sink. โYou donโt know me.โ
Cedricโs gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. โI know enough.โ
You tried for a sneer. It came out weaker than you wanted. โYouโre very confident for someone who got kissed once and decided he owned the situation.โ
Cedricโs mouth curved, faint. โOnce?โ
Your breath hitched as he stepped closer again. Now he was within armโs reach, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the air.
โYou keep acting like that kiss was a fluke,โ he said softly. โLike it was an accident.โ
โIt was,โ you said automatically.
Cedricโs eyes narrowed just slightly. โThen why are you still thinking about it?โ
You froze.
Your anger flared, bright and desperate. โIโm not.โ
Cedricโs voice went quieter, dangerously gentle. โYou are.โ
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 didnโt step back. You didnโt step forward.ย
You just held still, caught between pride and want.
Cedricโs fingers hovered near your collar, not touching yet. His voice was low.ย
โDo you trust me?โ
You scoffed, because the question was absurd. โNo.โ
He let the silence stretch, steam and water and torchlight making the room feel unreal.
Then he said softly, โAdmit it.โ
You narrowed your eyes. โAdmit what?โ
Cedricโs smile turned sharper, but not unkind. โYou like me.โ
Your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape.
You forced a laugh. โYouโre insufferable.โ
Cedricโs voice stayed steady. โThatโs not an answer.โ
You lifted your chin, fury and heat tangled. โYou want an answer?โ
โYes.โ
You stepped closer until your robe nearly brushed his jumper, until the space between you was a thin thread.
โAnd what if I do, Diggory?โ you asked, voice low, daring.
Cedricโs eyes darkened, just slightly, like someone had turned down the lights inside him.
For a beat, he didnโt speak.
Then, very quietly, โProve it.โ
The words landed like a spark on parchment.
You stared at him, breath shallow.
Cedric didnโt move. He didnโt grab you. He didnโt 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.
Cedricโs inhale was sharp, like heโd been waiting for this for days and still couldnโt quite believe it.
โYou donโt get to tell me what to do,โ you whispered.
Cedricโs hands lifted, hovering at your waist, not touching. His eyes flicked to your lips. Back to your eyes.
โThen donโt let me,โ he murmured.
Your pulse snapped.
You surged forward and kissed him, self control be damned.
It was heat and frustration and all the words youโd 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 couldnโt 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 heโd 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 didnโt let you go. His forehead dipped briefly to yours, breath shaky.
His voice was rougher than youโd ever heard it. โThatโฆ thatโs what youโve been running from?โ
You swallowed, pulse wild. โDonโt make it sound ridiculous.โ
Cedricโs mouth brushed the corner of yours, not quite another kiss, but close. โItโs not ridiculous.โ
You glared weakly. โYouโre enjoying this.โ
Cedric huffed a laugh, breathless. โIโm terrified.โ
You blinked.
Cedricโs eyes held yours, open and honest. โBecause youโre going to bolt again.โ
Your throat tightened.
You hated that he knew you so well.
You hated that he was right.
You whispered, sharp and shaken, โThen donโt let me.โ
Cedricโs gaze softened like sunlight breaking through cloud. โI wonโt.โ
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.
โYou lost this once,โ he murmured.
Your breath caught.
Cedricโs hand moved to the clasp. Carefully, he unpinned it.
You stared at him, startled. โCedricโโ
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.
โPerfect,โ he murmured, voice soft. โNow itโs where it belongs.โ
Your breath came out shaky. โYouโre unbelievably arrogant.โ
Cedricโs smile was faint and tender and wicked all at once. โAnd you like me anyway.โ
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 Cedricโs 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.
โDonโt make me regret this,โ you whispered.
Cedricโs voice was soft against your mouth. โIโll spend the rest of the year making sure you donโt.โ
Your pulse stuttered.
โYou promise?โ you breathed, like a challenge.
Cedricโs eyes warmed. โOn my honour.โ
You scoffed, but your hands tightened on him like you couldnโt let go.
โGood,โ you murmured. โBecause if you break it, Iโll get my brother to hex you into graduation.โ
Cedricโs smile widened, and it was so bright you hated how much you wanted to live inside it.
โIโd expect nothing less,โ he whispered.
Then he kissed you again.
Hotter, deeper, like heโd finally been given permission to want you out loud. Your fingers slid up into his hair, tugging, and Cedricโs 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 didnโt run.
You kissed him like you were done pretending you didnโt want this.
Like you were done pretending you didnโt want him.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, Cedric rested his forehead against yours again, eyes half-lidded, smile soft.
โSo,โ he murmured. โDo I get to say it again?โ
You blinked, dazed. โSay what?โ
Cedricโs thumb traced your side, light and daring. โThat you like me.โ
Your mouth opened. No sharp retort came.
Cedricโs smile turned slow, satisfied.
You glared at him weakly, because you had to salvage something. โDonโt look so pleased with yourself.โ
Cedricโs laugh was quiet, warm. โToo late.โ
You inhaled, steadying, then lifted your chin, forcing steel back into your spine.
โIf anyone finds out,โ you warned.
Cedricโs eyes softened. โWeโll deal with it.โ
โWe?โ you echoed, suspicious.
Cedric smiled, sure and gentle. โWe.โ
Your heart did that awful, lovely thing again.ย
You swallowed, then muttered, โFine.โ
Cedricโs 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.
โStop running.โ
You stared at him, your own hope reflecting back.
โAlright,โ you whispered.
Cedricโs hands tightened at your waist, and he kissed you once more, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world.
Angstย 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.
Warningsย Battle of Hogwarts, war, major character death, griefย Word Countย 5541
โย Masterlist
โย โOh, my little soldier boy. I'll be true to you.โ 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 Burrowโs 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.ย
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 hadnโt chosen.
Fred, of course, chose everything. He was all elbows and grin, a constellation of confidence that didnโt seem to obey any laws of gravity. One day he was balancing on the back of a chair in the Great Hall, reaching over Georgeโs shoulder to steal a bit of someoneโs 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 wasnโt 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 โstarsโ 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 didnโt smile. You made your face into a wall.
โYou think youโre funny,โ you said, because you had learned that if you said it like an accusation, it didnโt sound like a confession.
His grin widened, unrepentant. โNot think. Know.โ
You set the jar down carefully, like it might explode into constellations. โYou canโt just leave enchanted objects lying around.โ
He pushed off the doorway, strolling closer. โI can. I did.โ
โItโs probably against school rules.โ
โMost interesting things are.โ His eyes dipped to the jar, then back up to you. โDoes it work?โ
You hated how your heart hopped like it had been startled. โI havenโt unscrewed it.โ
Fredโs voice softened in a way that should have been illegal. โYou should.โ
You stared at him. โWhy?โ
He shrugged, not quite carelessly. It was deliberate casualness, the kind boys like him used to hide how much they meant something. โBecause 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.โ
Your throat tightened, though you werenโt sure why. For a moment, you let yourself smile. Small. Quick.
Fred looked like heโd just won a bet with the universe.
โGood,โ he said. โKeep it.โ
โI didnโt say I would.โ
โYou didnโt have to.โ 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.
โYouโre too thin,โ she said, every time, like you might vanish if she didnโt 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 otherโs sentences, nudging elbows, speaking in shared code. They were always building something, plotting something, charming something to do what it shouldnโt.
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. Justโฆ near. Passing you plates before you could ask. Tossing you an apple from the bowl like it was a game youโd already agreed to play. Leaning over your shoulder to read what you were writing and then pretending he wasnโt 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 didnโt look up. โIf youโre here to prank me, Iโm too tired to be a good victim.โ
Fred sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. โNot pranking.โ
You stole a glance. He wasnโt grinning. That alone made your stomach flip.
โWhatโs wrong?โ you asked before you could stop yourself.
He huffed a laugh. โYouโre asking me that?โ
โYou seem quieter,โ you said softly, because you couldnโt 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. โDad says things are getting worse. The Orderโs meetings are longer. Mumโs trying not to show it, but sheโs scared.โ
You swallowed. Everyone was scared. Fear had become a second curriculum.
Fred turned his head just slightly. โYouโre scared too.โ
It wasnโt a question.
You bristled on instinct. โIโm fine.โ
He made a sound that was half amusement and half something tender. โRight. Of course you are.โ
You glared at him. โDonโt do that.โ
โDo what?โ
โAct like you know me.โ
Fredโs gaze held yours, steady and bright even in the dimming light. โI do know you.โ
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.
Fredโs shoulder brushed yours. โYou can tell me to leave.โ
You didnโt. So he stayed.
The sky deepened into bruised purple. Crickets started up. The Burrowโs windows glowed warm behind you, spilling domestic light onto the grass like a promise.
Fred spoke quietly, as though he didnโt want the night to overhear. โIf it comes to it, if things getโฆ if it gets bad, Iโm going to fight.โ
Your chest tightened. โYou say that like itโs already decided.โ
โIt is,โ he said simply.
You hated him, in that momentโnot truly, not reallyโbut you hated the ease of it, the way he could claim danger like it was his right.
โYou donโt have to,โ you whispered.
Fred blinked. โDonโt I?โ
โNo,โ you said, voice breaking around the edges. โYou donโt have to be brave all the time. You donโt have to beโฆ whatever you think you have to be.โ
For a second he looked like he might say something sharp. Then his expression softened. โIt isnโt bravery,โ he sighed. โIt's a choice.โ
โAnd youโre choosing to scare the life out of your mum,โ you snapped, because anger was easier than pleading.
He flinched, just slightly. You regretted it instantly.
Fredโs voice gentled again. โIโm sorry.โ
You stared at him, stunned. Apologies didnโt 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.
โYouโre allowed to want me to stay,โ he murmured.
It hit you like a spell. You didnโt trust yourself to speak, so you squeezed his hand, hard enough to tell the truth without words.
Fredโs thumb brushed your knuckles once, a small, careful touch.
And then, because he was still Fred, because he couldnโt let sincerity sit too long without dressing it up, he added, โBut Iโm rubbish at staying put, you know that.โ
You tried to laugh. It came out choked and wet.
Fred leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours. โTell you what,โ he said. โIf the world goes mad, Iโll still find ways to make you look at the sky.โ
You swallowed your tears. โThatโs not enough.โ
โItโs something.โ
You closed your eyes, and when you opened them again, you did the reckless thing:
You kissed him.
It wasnโt polished. It wasnโt cinematic. It was a desperate, startled kind of kiss, like youโd been holding your breath for months and only just realized it.
Fred froze for half a heartbeat. Then he kissed you back like heโd 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.
Fredโs grin returned, but it was gentler now, like it belonged to someone whoโd been changed.
โWell,โ he breathed. โThatโs going to be hard to forget.โ
โGood,โ 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 โaccidentallyโ 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 wasnโt 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.
Heโd been rambling about a new joke product, about how it would make Filch scream, about how George was an idiot for doubting him. Youโd 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 heโd forgotten the rest of the world existed. And he said, almost matter-of-factly, โI love you.โ
You stared at him, startled into silence.
Fredโs eyebrows lifted. โDonโt make me regret saying it.โ
You swallowed. โSay it again.โ
His mouth twitched. โI love you.โ
It hit your chest like warmth. Like sunlight through a cracked window.
You stepped closer until your robes brushed his. โI love you too,โ you whispered, because once you said it, you couldnโt not.
Fred exhaled like heโd been holding his breath for years.
Then he ruined the moment, because of course he did. โBrilliant. Now weโre both doomed.โ
You punched his arm. โDonโt.โ
He caught your wrist, pressed a kiss to your knuckles. โIโm joking.โ
But his โjokeโ didnโt 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 heโd spoken about in the garden became real.
The Order needed people. The war didnโt care that you were young. It didnโt care that you were in love. It didnโt 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 didnโt turn around. โYouโre not supposed to be out here.โ
โNeither are you.โ
He huffed. โHypocrite.โ
You stopped beside him. โI heard.โ
Fredโs shoulders tensed. โHeard what?โ
โAbout you leaving.โ
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. โItโs time.โ
โYou canโt,โ you said immediately, because the word shot out of you like a reflex. โYou canโt justโฆ go.โ
โI can,โ he said softly. โI have to.โ
โYou donโt,โ you insisted, voice shaking. โYou donโt have to be a soldier.โ
Fredโs eyes flashed at the word, like it had teeth. โThatโs what this is now.โ
โYou could stay,โ you whispered. โYou could finish school. You could be safe.โ
He let out a bitter laugh. โSafe? Here? Now?โ
You stepped closer, clutching at his sleeve like you could anchor him with your fingers. โPlease.โ
Fred went still.
Your voice cracked around the plea. โPlease donโt leave me.โ
The lake wind cut through your robes. You shivered, refusing to let go.
Fredโs 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.
โI donโt want to leave you,โ he said. โMerlin, I donโt.โ
โThen donโt.โ
His forehead rested against yours. โIf I stay,โ he whispered, โIโll hate myself. If I go, youโll hate me.โ
โIโll never hate you,โ you corrected fiercely.
โYou will,โ he murmured, โfor making you cry like this.โ
Tears slipped anyway, hot against cold air. โI hate the war,โ you choked out. โI hate that itโs stealing you.โ
Fredโs hands tightened, just slightly. โIt wonโt steal me.โ
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, โSwear it.โ
Fredโs mouth trembled, a broken version of his usual smile. โYou know I canโt swear that.โ
The honesty hurt more than any lie would have.
You shook your head, voice small. โThen what am I supposed to do?โ
Fred kissed your forehead. โWait for me.โ
You laughed, sharp and wet. โLike some tragic story?โ
โLike us,โ 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. โI donโt want to be brave,โ you whispered. โI donโt want to wait. I want you here.โ
Fredโs eyes closed briefly, like your words physically struck him.
When he opened them, there was something bright and hard behind the tenderness. โIโll come back,โ he said. โIโll make it back to you.โ
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.
โStay.โ
Fred kissed you like he was trying to carve himself into your memory. โI canโt,โ he whispered into your mouth.
And then, softer, like a confession meant only for you, โBut Iโm taking your love with me.โ
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 heโd folded it too fast.
Another: George says Iโm acting like a romantic fool. I told him itโs 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 couldnโt sleep.
It beat back, loyal and ridiculous.
Then there were the letters that didnโt come. Weeks where silence stretched until it felt like a noose.ย
Youโd 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 didnโt find it, you exhaled like someone whoโd been underwater too long.ย
Every time you did find another Weasley mentioned, your stomach dropped. When you saw Percyโs 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.
Weโre moving. Donโt worry. I know you will anyway. Iโll see you when I see you.
And then, in smaller writing, as if heโd 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.ย
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 couldnโt touch them.
Fred saw you across the chaos. His face lit up, fierce and disbelieving. He pushed through people as if gravity didnโt apply.ย
You collided, hands grabbing, breathless. You felt him. Solid. Warm. Alive.
โMerlin,โ you gasped. โYouโre here.โ
Fredโs grin broke across his face like sunrise. โCouldnโt miss the party.โ
Your laugh was half sob. โYou idiot.โ
He cupped your face, quick and urgent, his thumbs wiping at tears you didnโt remember shedding. โAre you hurt?โ
โNo. Are you?โ
โNothing worth mentioning.โ His gaze flicked over you like he was counting your bones. โI thoughtโฆโ
โI know,โ 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. โDonโt go,โ you blurted, raw and familiar. โNot now. Stay with me.โ
Fredโs eyes softened in that way that always broke you. โLove,โ he said, voice tight, โI canโt stay still.โ
โI donโt mean still,โ you said, desperate. โI mean, with me. Donโt leave my sight.โ
Fred exhaled, forehead pressing to yours, brief and grounding. โAlright,โ he promised. โAs long as we can.โ
You nodded too hard, like you could force the promise into permanence.
George leaned in, breathless, eyes flicking between you. โHate to interrupt the tragic romance,โ he teased, because thatโs how the twins loved, โbut weโve got a job.โ
Fredโs mouth twitched, then he kissed you, fast and fierce, like sealing the promise with his lips.
โLook at the sky,โ 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 didnโt 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.
โHave you seen Fred and George?โ you shouted over the noise.
Percyโs jaw clenched. โThey were justโฆโ
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 wasnโt a sound youโd ever heard from a Weasley before.
It wasnโt laughter. It wasnโt 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 heโd 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 heโd 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.ย
โFred,โ you whispered, because saying his name felt like summoning.
No response.
You touched his cheek. Cold dust smudged your fingers. His skin didnโt warm under your hand.
You laughed once, sharp and hysterical. โStop,โ you whispered. โStop it. This isnโt funny.โ
George looked up at you, eyes wild and empty, and the absence of Fred in his face was unbearable.
โHe was laughing,โ George choked, voice shredded. โHe was laughing at Percy. Percy had justโฆ heโd just made a joke. Can you imagine? Percy making a joke.โ
You stared at Fredโs face, waiting for the grin that didnโt come.
Your throat tightened until you couldnโt breathe. โHe promised,โ you whispered.
Georgeโs face crumpled. โI know.โ
The corridor swayed. You pressed your forehead to Fredโs shoulder, because you couldnโt press it to his forehead without losing your mind.
โWake up,โ you begged, the word turning ugly in your mouth. โPlease wake up.โ
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 donโt 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 didnโt 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.
โStop it,โ you whispered to it, voice hoarse. โStop. Stop. Stop.โ
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 couldnโt 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.
Arthurโs 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 couldnโt be carried.
Ginnyโs face was streaked with tears, expression fierce like she was furious at death for daring.
Ron looked wrecked, staring down at his hands. Hermioneโs 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 didnโt 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 didnโt 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 didnโt think. You only moved.
Your hands shook as you reached into your pocket.ย
You had brought the jam jar. The one with the sky inside.
Youโd kept it all these years. Youโd unscrewed it on nights when you couldnโt breathe. Youโd 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.ย
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.
โYou gave me the sky,โ you whispered. โYou told me to look.โ
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.
โI tried to make you stay,โ you begged, voice breaking. โI tried so hard.โ
Your hands balled into fists at your sides. You stared at the coffin as if your gaze could burn through wood and reach him.
โYou always ran toward danger like it was a joke you could win,โ you whispered. โAnd I loved you for it, and I hated you for it, and I loved you anyway.โ
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, โYou promised youโd come back.โ
The air felt too cold.ย
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. โYou were supposed to have more,โ you said fiercely, as if scolding the universe. โMore summers. More ridiculous ideas. More mornings where you stole toast and winked at me like the world belonged to you.โ
You swallowed hard. Your voice dropped, soft and raw.
โYou were my boy,โ you whispered. โMyโฆ soldier boy, even when I didnโt want you to be.โ
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. โI kept this,โ you said, and your voice almost laughed on the edge of sobbing because it was so absurd. โIt wouldnโt stop.โ
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:
โIโm looking.โ
Your voice cracked. You let it. There was nothing left to protect.
โIโll keep looking,โ you promised, because promises were all you had now, and you needed one that didnโt 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.
๐ฉตโScrapbookย Oliver Wood x F!Hufflepuff!Reader
Hurt/Comfortย where she takes up photography, documenting their story in a secret scrapbook.
Warningsย Accused cheating, arguing, Oliver prioritizing Quidditch, burn out, bad communication ย Word Countย 3513
โย Masterlist
โย โIt was always you.โ One-Shot
Every newfound piece of Oliver Wood fills what youโd 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 itโs 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 heโs being watched.
โYou just took a picture of me, didnโt you?โ he asks, squinting.
โMaybe,โ you say sweetly, already checking the framing.
He leans in to look, shoulder warm against yours, hair tickling your cheek. โBlimey. I look like I actually know what Iโm doing.โ
โYou always do,โ you tell him.
He kisses you then, quick and impulsive, lake water and wind and promise, and from that moment on, youโre 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.
Itโs not sudden. You know itโs coming. You know Oliver lives for this. Gryffindor breathes through him when the Cup is in sight. You tell yourself youโre prepared.
At first, itโs just rescheduling.
โCan we do Friday instead?โ he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. โWoodwork session ran long.โ
โOf course,โ you say, smiling. โIโll bring the camera.โ
Friday becomes Sunday. Sunday becomes โafter the match.โ After the match becomes โonce exams are over.โ
When you do see him, heโs 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 donโt 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.
โThose are brilliant,โ he says, peering over your shoulder. โYou make him look like a legend.โ
You snort softly. โHe already thinks he is one.โ
Colin grins. โStill. Youโve got an eye for it.โ
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 doesnโt mean anything, a friend being just what you need to hold you steady.
Oliver starts noticing too.
The way Colinโs name slips casually into conversation. The way you sometimes arenโt 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.
โYouโve been spending a lot of time with Creevey,โ Oliver says one night, tone careful in a way that immediately sets you on edge.
โWeโre friends,โ you reply. โHe likes photography.โ
โAnd you justโฆ forget to tell me?โ
You look at him then. Really look.
โYou forget to tell me when youโre cancelling,โ you say quietly.
Thatโs when it explodes.
โYouโre never around!โ he snaps, hands flying as frustration finally spills over. โEvery time I turn around youโre busy or with someone else.โ
Your chest tightens. โThatโs not fair.โ
โIโm busy too,โ he says, voice sharp. โWe both are.โ
โNo,โ you say, shaking your head. โWeโre not the same.โ
He scoffs. โOh, come on.โ
โI make time,โ you say, tears burning behind your eyes. โI rearrange everything. I sit through practices and matches and exhaustion because I want to be there for you. You choose Quidditch over me.โ
The words hang between you, fragile and devastating.
His face twists, wounded pride overtaking reason. โAnd you choose Colin.โ
That one breaks.
You stare at him, disbelief crashing into hurt. โYou donโt get to accuse me of that.โ
โI see the way he looks at you!โ
โAnd you donโt see me at all.โ
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.
Oliverโs stomach sinks.
He shouldnโt. He knows he shouldnโt. 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 youโre 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 youโre 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 youโve 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 heโll never understand what this meant to you.
The door creaks open.
You donโt look up, assuming itโs Filch. Or maybe Colin, come to check on you. Youโre already rehearsing the lie youโll tell to make them leave you alone when you hear it.
Your name. Soft. Uncertain. Like itโs being handled with bare hands for the first time. Your chest tightens painfully.
โGo away,โ you sniffle, voice cracking despite yourself.
Thereโs a pause. Then footsteps. Careful ones. Like whoever it is knows theyโre walking on something fragile.
โI didnโt mean what I said,โ Oliver says quietly.
You let out a broken laugh that tastes like salt. โThatโs funny. Because it sounded like you meant it exactly.โ
He doesnโt argue. Instead, he kneels in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, hands braced on his thighs like heโs grounding himself.
โI saw your phone,โ he says. โI know I shouldnโt have. But I did.โ
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.
โOh,โ he breathes.
And then, softer, like it hurts. โOh.โ
You finally look at him.
His eyes are red. Not teary. Red like he hasnโt slept, like heโs been staring at the same truth for too long without blinking.
โYou werenโt choosing him,โ Oliver says hoarsely. โYou were choosing me. Over and over again.โ
Your throat closes.
โYou donโt get to say that now,โ you whisper. โNot after you accused me ofโโ You choke off the word, shame burning even though you did nothing wrong.
โI know,โ he says immediately. โI know. And Iโm so sorry.โ
You shake your head, tears spilling freely now. โI just wanted you to see me. Just once. I wanted you to want to be here.โ
He reaches out, then stops, hands hovering like heโs afraid youโll shatter if he touches you.
โI do,โ he says. โMerlin, I do. I justโ I didnโt realize how much I was taking.โ
Your grip loosens, the scrapbook slipping open.
Oliverโs eyes flick down, and you see his breath hitch as he recognizes the pages. Thereโs 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.
โYou made me a home,โ he whispers. โAnd I kept leaving.โ
Thatโs 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 itโs the only solid thing left in the world.
โIโm so tired,โ he admits. โAnd I was scared if I stopped, Iโd fail. And if I failed, Iโd lose everything. I didnโt realize I was already losing you.โ
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 heโs afraid youโll disappear if he lets go.
He smells like grass and soap and regret.
โI never stopped loving you,โ you murmur into his hair. โI just got so lonely.โ
โI know,โ he says, voice muffled. โI know now.โ
You sit there like that, the red light washing everything in soft, unreal warmth. His breathing evens out slowly, like heโs relearning how.
After a while, he pulls back just enough to look at you.
โI want to fix this,โ he says. โNot with promises. With time. With showing up.โ
Your eyes search his face. โI canโt compete with Quidditch.โ
โYou shouldnโt have to,โ he says fiercely. โYouโre not a side quest. Youโreโฆ youโre everything that makes the rest of it worth it.โ
You huff weakly. โThat was almost poetic.โ
He gives a shaky smile. โYou inspire me.โ
You glance at the scrapbook, at the proof of all the love you poured into quiet moments.
โStay,โ you say firmly. โJust tonight.โ
He nods immediately. โAs long as youโll have me.โ
And for the first time in weeks, when he wraps his arms around you again, it feels like heโs 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 announcerโs box like a promise waiting to be claimed. Your heart is hammering so hard youโre 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 Seekerโs shoulder andโ
Everything happens at once.
A blur of red. A scream tearing from thousands of throats. Lee Jordan yelling something incoherent. The Cup is Gryffindorโs.
You donโt realize youโre 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 heโs on his feet, fists raised, laughter bursting out of him like heโs been holding it in for years.
His team swarms him.
And then, instinctively, without hesitation, without thinkingโ
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, Iโm so proud of you.
The celebration lasts for hours.
Thereโs 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.
โCome on,โ he says softly, fingers lacing with yours. โPlease.โ
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 heโs been holding his breath since the final whistle.
โYou were there,โ he says, almost reverent. โFirst thing I looked for.โ
You step closer. โI know.โ
He cups your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes where tears have dried, and kisses you.
Itโs slow. Unrushed. Full of everything you didnโt say during the season and everything you survived together. He kisses like heโs grounding himself, like heโs reminding himself this is real.
You pull back only when youโre both breathless.
โWait,โ you say quietly.
You reach into your bag and pull out the scrapbook.
His smile falters into something softer, more fragile.
โYou finished it,โ he whispers.
You nod. โFor you.โ
He sits on the bed, carefully, like itโs sacred, and opens it. Page by page, realization dawns.
Photos heโs never seen. Moments he didnโt 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:
Todayโs 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, Iโll 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.
โI donโt deserve this,โ he says hoarsely.
You shake your head gently. โYouโre allowed to be loved and ambitious.โ
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.
โIโm the luckiest bloke alive,โ he murmurs. โAnd Iโll never take you for granted again. I swear my life on it.โ
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, Oliverโs 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.
โI said that one was books,โ you call, laughing.
โIt is books,โ he insists, straining. โJustโฆ important ones.โ
You glance over. โThose are playbooks from school.โ
โHistoric,โ he says. โEmotionally irreplaceable.โ
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.
โSo that survived the move,โ Oliver says, voice warmer now as he wanders over.
You smile. โOf course it did.โ
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.ย
Your chest fills until it almost aches.
You turn the final page and stop, eyes searching for answers. Thereโs something new, a page you donโt recognize. Thick parchment added carefully to the end. Your breath catches as you take it in.
Oliverโs 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 youโll probably find this years from now, when weโre older and braver and hopefully wiser.
Your fingers tremble.
I donโt know when youโll read this. But if youโre holding this scrapbook, it means you never stopped choosing me. And I want you to know I chose you too. Even when I didnโt know how to say it right.
You swallow hard.
I knew back then. I didnโt 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 youโd 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 hadnโt even realized you were crying until itโs already happening.
โLove,โ Oliver says gently.
You look up.
Heโs standing in front of you, suddenly serious, suddenly nervous in a way you recognize instantly: the way he used to look before big matches.ย
He drops to one knee and your heart stutters, hands wiping away stray tears.
โI was going to wait until everything was unpacked,โ he says, rubbing the back of his neck. โBut you found it, and I canโt pretend anymore.โ
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable.
โYouโve been cheering for me my whole life,โ he says. โIn stadiums, in silence, and in moments I didnโt even notice until it was too late. You believed in me when I was impossible to love.โ
He opens the box and the ring catches the sunlight. Simple. Thoughtful. Perfect.ย
โI donโt want another day where youโre not my choice,โ he says softly. โWill you marry me?โ
Your breath leaves you in a rush.
โYes,โ you whisper. Then louder, laughing through tears. โYes, Oliver! Of course I will.โ
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 itโs 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.
โDid you really know all that time?โ you ask quietly.
He smiles, soft and certain. โThe moment you made me worth remembering.โ
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.
๐ฉทโRivalsย Cedric Diggory x F!Slytherin!Reader
Romanceย Cedric is her sworn rival on the Quidditch Pitch, but they can't seem to get enough of each other after the match.
Warningsย Kissing, teasing, fake rivalry ย Word Countย 1061
โย Masterlist
โย โMy only love sprung from my only hate.โ 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 schoolโs 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. Itโs tradition.
โTry not to cry when you lose, Diggory,โ you call out, loud enough to carry over the pitch. โWouldnโt want the stands to think Hufflepuffโs sprung a leak.โ
A ripple of laughter breaks out from the Slytherin side as Cedric looks over slowly, like heโs savoring the moment. His smile is polite. Weaponized.
โBig talk for someone who still flies like sheโs arguing with gravity,โ he shoots back. โDonโt worry, Iโll keep an eye out in case you fall off.โ
The commentator practically purrs into the microphone,
โAnd there we have it, folks. The rivalry Hogwarts waits all year for. Slytherinโs star chaser versus Hufflepuffโs captain seeker. Wands down, brooms up, and egos already bruised.โ
Madam Hoochโs whistle shrieks as the match explodes into motion.ย
You launch forward, wind tearing at your robes as the quaffle is released and immediately contested. Slytherin takes possession, and youโre off, weaving through the air with sharp turns, practiced and precise.
Cedric streaks past overhead, scanning the pitch for the snitch. Even when heโs not looking at you, youโre 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.
โShow-off,โ he rolls his eyes lightly.
โYou noticed,โ 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 Hufflepuffโs chasers, neck and neck, neither team giving an inch. The commentator is practically breathless, narrating every near-collision and dramatic save like itโs the final battle of war.
โAnd there goes the Slytherin chaser again, reminding us all why sheโs been terrorizing opposing teams since second year.โ
You cut hard to the left, narrowly missing Cedric as he dives after a flash of gold. You call out as you pass him.
โCareful, captain. Youโre flying like youโve got something to prove.โ
He smirks without looking back. โMaybe I do.โ
The snitch vanishes into the sun glare as the tension coils tighter. After what seems like hours, both teams are sweaty, bruised, and snarling. Youโve 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.
โYouโre awfully chatty for someone losing,โ he calls as Hufflepuff pulls ahead by twenty, cocky grin decorating his lips.
โOh, sweetheart,โ you reply, banking sharply. โI like my victories loud.โ
The game dissolves into chaos by midday.ย
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.ย
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 Cedricโs fingers close around empty air.
The whistle blows mere seconds later.
โSlytherin wins!โ
Green and silver explode into celebration. Your team whoops and swarms you, laughter and triumph ringing in your ears.ย
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.ย
โBetter luck next time, captain,โ You brush past him on the field, shoulder bumping his deliberately.ย
โEnjoy it while it lasts,โ he replies smoothly. โCanโt win them all.โ
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 youโre alone, peeling off your gloves with fingers that still tremble from the match.
When you finally step back into the corridor, itโs 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, heโs 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.
โGods,โ he murmurs against your mouth, breath uneven. โYou were incredible out there.โ
โYou didnโt seem impressed when I stole that goal,โ you manage between kisses, hands grasping to pull him closer.
His laugh is breathless as he kisses along your jaw. โI was trying not to grin like an idiot in front of half the school.โ
His forehead rests against yours, breathless and flushed.
โYou drive me mad,โ he says softly. โAll that teasing. All those looks. I canโt focus on the snitch when youโre flying circles around me like that.โ
You tilt your head, smirking. โLiar. You love it.โ
His hands tighten at your hips, grinning devilishly. โMerlin help me, I really do.โ
He kisses you again, slower now, reverent, like praise wrapped in heat.
โBest chaser on the pitch,โ he whispers. โAnd you know exactly how to use it against me.โ
You smile into his mouth, heart racing, the roar of the crowd still echoing in your bones.
Let them think you hate each otherโ it only makes the victories that much sweeter.
๐ฉตโCrawling 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
โ Masterlist
โ โI dreamt about you nearly every night this week.โ 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 heโs surprised youโre 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 hasnโt 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 heโs letting you see the parts he doesnโt 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 canโt sit still. He paces the room youโre 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 youโre eye level, his knees brushing yours. โWeโre going,โ he says firmly, like itโs already decided. Your stomach drops, grabbing his jumper before you even realize youโre moving.
โNo,โ you cry. One word, a plea disguised as a command.
He exhales through his nose soft and fond, as though youโve just said something absurd.ย
โWe have to,โ he says. โThis is it.โ
You shake your head, tightening your grip. โYou donโt,โ you plead. โOther people are fighting. Youโve done enough.โ
His mouth curves into a half smile, but it doesnโt reach his eyes. โThatโs not how it works, love.โ
Your chest feels too tight, heart threatening to break each vessel in escape. โStay,โ you beg, clutching him close. โJust stay with me. Please.โ
There it is. The thing you donโt say out loud often, keeping it tucked behind your ribs. It comes out cracked and shaking.ย
Fred looks away. That hurts worse than if heโd stayed.
Georgeโs hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. โLove,โ he says gently. โI canโt.โ
Something inside you breaks, clean and sickly, voice rising despite yourself. โGods, Iโm stupid enough to hope youโd stay. I know that. I know itโs selfish. But I canโt do this. I canโt stand here and smile while you walk off to die.โ
His expression changes, shock forming into hurt, into something unbeknownst to you. โIโm not going to die,โ he pushes back.
โYou donโt know that,โ you shout, hands weakly shoving at his chest. โYou donโt know anything. You joke like that makes you untouchable, but it doesnโt, George!โ
Silence crashes down around you, the kind that rings in your ears. George stands, looking somehow taller, entirely out of reach
โSo what,โ he asks quietly. โYou want me to cower and hide while they risk their lives for us?โ
โI want you alive.โ Tears spill over, hot and humiliating. โI want a future where I donโt wake up screaming because I dreamed you never came back.โ
He flinches. Just a little.ย
โI canโt be the bloke who runs,โ he declares. โNot today.โ
Your laugh breaks in half. โThen I canโt be the girl who waits around to bury you.โ
The words land between you like a curse. Georgeโs expression goes blank, and you canโt help but hate yourself for it.
โIs that it?โ
You nod, hysterical now, breath coming too fast. โI wonโt go. I wonโt follow you into this. If you walk out that door, no matter what happens, youโll never see me again.โ
For a moment, you think he might stay. Just for a heartbeat. His eyes search your face like heโs looking for a loophole, for one last piece of evidence to change his mind.
Then Fred clears his throat.ย
George leans down and presses his forehead to yours. โI love you,โ he affirms. Steady. Certain. He kisses your brow. Then he turns away.
You donโt 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 youโre 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.ย
You go out. You laugh at the right places. You let someone else hold your hand. It feels wrong, like wearing someone elseโs clothes: Too loose. Too tight. Never yours.
Youโre 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. โI know itโs late,โ he explains quietly. โI know I shouldnโt be here.โ
You donโt move, heart a wild thing in your chest.
โI donโt know where else to go,โ His voice cracks, eyes searching your own. โI lost him. And I lost you. And I keep thinking if I knock enough times, maybe I can get one of you back.โ
Your throat closes as he sinks down onto the step, head in his hands. โI keep asking myself if you ever think about me. If you dial my number when youโve had a few,โ he mutters. โIf you hate me. If I shouldโve stayed.โ
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.
โI wanted you to live.โ
He sobs, quiet and wrecked and real. You pull him into you, his forehead pressing into your shoulder, fingers curling into your clothes like heโs afraid youโll vanish.
When he finally looks up, eyes shining and vulnerable in a way youโve never quite reached, he whispers, โCan I come in?โ
๐ฉทโSanta, 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
โย Masterlist
โ โIt'd make a perfect gift...for Christmas.๐โ 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 wasnโt 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. Youโd 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.
โHey, Mom,โ Ellie said, looking up from her phone with an innocent smile. "You know what would be really funny?โ
โDonโt even start,โ Joel muttered, barely glancing up from his movie.
โNo, seriously,โ she continued, undeterred. โIโm talking about something that would really bring some holiday cheer to this house. And, you know, maybe to the whole town...โ
You raised an eyebrow. You could already feel the drama in the air. โWhat were you thinking, Ellie?โ
She sat up a little straighter, her eyes gleaming with excitement. โWe should totally get Dad to dress up as Santa Claus for the charity event tomorrow. Itโs for a good cause, and it would be so hilarious.โ She turned to Joel, who was now giving her a side-eye. โDad, I mean, youโve got the whole โbeard and gruff demeanorโ thing down already. Youโd be perfect!โ
Joel let out a low, annoyed grunt. โHell no.โ
โOh come on, Dad,โ you said, leaning over the arm of the couch with a smile that you hoped would be irresistibly sweet. โItโs just for one night. Think of all the little kids who will get to sit on Santaโs lap and tell him their wishes. Think of the joy youโll bring, Joel. The happiness.โ
Joelโs lips twisted into that familiar half-smile that made him look like he was both entertained and mildly irritated at the same time. โYou think Iโm gonna put on some stupid red suit and pretend to be jolly for a bunch of kids? Not in a million years.โ
โOh, come on, please,โ you pleaded, eyelashes batting sweetly. โYouโd look so adorable. And youโd be doing something good for the community. You know, spreading some Christmas spirit. Just think about how much fun it would be!โ
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. โYeah, Dad. We could even take a picture of you in the outfit. Youโd be a legend around town. Imagine all the โSanta Joelโ memes that would pop up. People would never forget.โ
Joelโs scowl deepened. He set his beer down with a heavy sigh. โYโall are ridiculous. Thereโs no way Iโm doing this.โ
But Ellie wasnโt done yet. โDad, remember last year when we barely had enough money for Christmas presents?โ She raised an eyebrow. โThis is for charity, remember? The money goes to families who actually need it. You could help them. You could be a hero, Dad.โ
For a moment, Joelโs 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. โFine. But Iโm not wearing no stupid hat.โ
Ellie and you exchanged a look, both of you struggling to contain your victorious grins. Youโd won.
โDeal,โ 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 himโthe pants were too short, and the jacket strained around his broad shoulders, but that wasnโt 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 wasnโt a perfect fitโin fact, it was a little ridiculousโbut he wore it with an undeniable swagger that had you feeling... distracted. You tried not to stare, but it was hard.
โDo I look like an idiot?โ 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. โYep. But itโs perfect. You look like a Christmas miracle.โ
You stepped closer, trying to be discreet about how much you were appreciating the view. โYou actually look... kind of... uh, good,โ 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. โWhat? Are you serious?โ
You felt your cheeks heat up, pinking a bit as you spoke. โI mean, in a โSanta Clausโ kind of way. Itโs just... the suit really does something for you, Joel.โ
Ellie snorted. โMom, donโt be obvious. We all know youโre secretly into the idea of Santa Joel.โ
Joel rolled his eyes. โYโall are insane.โ He glanced at the clock on the wall. โWeโre gonna be late for this thing if you two donโt stop laughing.โ
You couldnโt help but giggle. โSorry, Joel. Youโre just... unexpectedly handsome in that suit.โ
Joel grumbled something under his breath but then straightened up, trying to look more like the Santa Claus you knew he wasnโt.
_____
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 couldโve 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 โseriousโ for a photo.
At one point, one of the little girls approached Joel with wide, hopeful eyes. โSanta, can I ask for a puppy for Christmas?โ
Joel looked down at the girl, his glare deepening as he itched his beard. โLook, sweetheart, Iโm just the guy who shows up. You gotta talk to your folks about the dog situation.โ
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, โHere, kid. Donโt tell your parents I gave you extra sugar.โ
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 hadnโt shed the Santa suit, though he was clearly done with the whole โChristmas spiritโ thing. Ellieโs 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 donโt 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. ๐
๐ฉตโWeight 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
โย Masterlist
โ โWhen you can't even explain what's going on inside your own head anymore.โ 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 didnโt 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 whirlwindโfaster than the world around him, making jokes to mask his pain, pushing boundaries to avoid facing his own demons. Youโd known him long enough to see through the bravado, to see the brokenness behind his quick smile and even quicker wit. Youโd 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 hadnโt meant to intrude, but when you found him stumbling through the lab, his usually sharp mind fuzzy and distracted, you couldnโt leave him alone.
You hadnโt said much when you sat down beside himโjust placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. And that was all it took. Without a word, heโd slumped against you, the weight of the world suddenly on your shoulders.
Now, hours had passed, and still, Tony hadnโt 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 youโd ever seen him.
โHey,โ you whispered, your voice a soft intrusion into the silence.
Tonyโs 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.
โHey,โ he murmured, voice rough, like he hadnโt spoken in days. โYouโre still here?โ
โYeah,โ you said quietly, not wanting to make him feel bad about your presence, though a small part of you wished you could be elsewhere. โJust wanted to make sure you were okay.โ
Tony didnโt 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.
โIโm fine,โ he said, voice distant. โItโs just...this never-ending cycle. The more I try to fix, the more I break.โ
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 couldnโt protect him from the ghosts of his past.
โThe Avengers arenโt a cure-all,โ you said softly, attempting to breach the topic gently without triggering his walls to raise. โWe canโt save everyone.โ
Tonyโs shoulders tensed at the words. His gaze hardened, but he didnโt turn to face you. You could see the shift in him, the familiar disconnection he forced when he didnโt want to admit how much he cared.
โIโm not trying to save everyone,โ he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. โJust...the ones I can. The ones who matter.โ
You watched him, your heart aching for him. He was always like thisโalways 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.
โI know,โ you said gently. โBut even you canโt do it all, Tony. Youโre only human.โ
His eyes flickered to you then, the sharp edges of his expression softening ever so slightly.
โI know,โ he repeated, the words so light it was almost a whisper. โItโs just... sometimes it feels like itโs never enough. Like nothing I do will ever be able to fix it.โ
You shifted closer, your hand still resting on his shoulder, offering what little comfort you could. You didnโt have all the answers, but you didnโt need them. All he needed was someone to sit with him, someone who wouldnโt judge, wouldnโt try to fix him. Someone who understood that sometimes, the best thing you could do was just be there.
โYou donโt have to fix everything,โ you said quietly. โYou just have to be you.โ
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.
โThatโs the thing, though,โ he muttered, voice barely audible. โI donโt know who that is anymore. I used to...but Iโm not sure anymore.โ
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.
โHey,โ you asserted again, firmer this time. โYouโre still you. Youโre just... tired. And thatโs okay. We all need to rest and reboot.โ
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.
โYouโve always been there for me, havenโt you?โ
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.
โYeah,โ you murmured. โAlways.โ
There was a long pause, that for once, you didnโt feel the need to fill. Tony didnโt 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 didnโt have to bear it alone.
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 dayโผ๏ธโผ๏ธโผ๏ธ And I mean ANY. When you wake up, when you're brushing your teeth, eating pancakes, the whole shebang ๐
๐ฉทโDecorating the Tree Sam Winchester x Reader
Fluff Reflecting on memories and continuing traditions with Sam marks the start of December.
Warnings None Words 446
โย Masterlist
โ โIt's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!โ 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.
Mindless Fluff You and Dean spend a day in bed together.
Warnings None Words 302
โย Masterlist
โ โI'm more myself with you than any other day.โ 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.