HII how about golden trio x reader (platonic) with a slytherin reader who is actually super cute and sweet but they’re suprised cuz she’s in slytherin?
This is such a cute idea — the trio being so confused.
— The Sorting Hat put you in Slytherin. Somehow, the Golden Trio never got the memo.
The first time Hermione Granger noticed you, you were crouched in the corridor between Transfiguration and the Great Hall, coaxing a first-year Hufflepuff through quiet, steady tears.
Hermione had a habit of cataloguing things — a reflex from years of cross-referencing, double-checking, knowing. So she catalogued this: the silver-green of your tie, the patience in your voice, the way you didn't rush the girl even though the dinner bell had already rung.
Slytherin, her brain filed.
And then, because Hermione Granger was also fair when she remembered to be: interesting.
_____________
Harry met you on a Thursday afternoon in the library.
He was losing a silent war with a Charms essay, rubbing his scar out of habit rather than pain, when a small paper crane sailed across the aisle and landed squarely on his parchment. He unfolded it.
Flitwick wants specific examples from Rhadagast's commentary, not general theory. Third shelf from the left, blue spine.
He looked up. You were already reading again, tucked into the corner window seat like you'd always been there, a neat stack of books beside you and a constellation of Post-it notes marking each one. You glanced up, caught his stare, and gave him the most ordinary, friendly smile he'd received in recent memory — no awe, no wariness, no complicated history behind it.
He retrieved the book. The essay practically wrote itself.
He wanted to thank you. By the time he worked up the nerve to cross the library, you'd already gone, leaving behind nothing but a faint trace of cedar and a chair slightly too warm to have been empty long.
_____________
Ron had a more complicated introduction.
He'd been arguing with himself about the last treacle tart on the dessert platter — the unspoken rule being that the one who noticed it first had dibs, but he'd been distracted by a Quidditch debate and missed his window — when a plate appeared at his elbow.
He stared at it.
"You were looking at it the same way I look at a particularly good chess problem," you said pleasantly, settling back into your seat across the table. Slytherin table, he registered belatedly. You'd leaned all the way across to deposit a treacle tart at the Gryffindor table and were now looking at him like this was perfectly normal behavior. "I already had one. Seemed a waste to let it sit."
Ron blinked. "You — thanks?"
"Don't mention it." You smiled and returned to your conversation with a girl beside you, as though you hadn't just casually defied about four unspoken inter-house social codes without blinking.
He looked down at the tart. Then at you. Then at the tart again.
He mentioned it to Harry and Hermione within the hour.
_____________
They started noticing you everywhere after that, the way you only notice something once it's been pointed out and then you can't stop.
You holding the door for the portrait of a weeping woman and murmuring something that made her laugh. You returning a Hufflepuff's lost Transfiguration notes with color-coded tabs. You walking with a pack of first-years who'd gotten turned around on the moving staircases, cheerfully narrating the castle's bad habits like a tour guide who genuinely loved the material.
"She's in Slytherin," Ron said one evening, as if he kept needing to verify this out loud.
"We know, Ron," Hermione said.
"I'm just saying."
"You've been saying. For a week."
"Because it's strange!"
Hermione set her quill down with the particular precision that meant she was about to make a point. "Kindness in a Slytherin isn't strange. It's just less performed. They don't have the same incentive to be visibly good that we sometimes do."
Ron opened his mouth.
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
He closed it.
_____________
The proper introduction happened in Hogsmeade, during the first October visit, when you rounded a corner and walked directly into Harry — scattering his bag, his scarf, and three weeks' worth of bottled self-recrimination about a comment Professor Snape had made.
"Oh — I'm so sorry, here —"
You were already gathering his things before he'd finished processing what had happened, efficient and apologetic, handing back his bag and his scarf and — pausing with his copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, which had fallen open to a dog-eared page.
"This is a first edition," you said, not accusatory, just genuinely impressed. You turned it over in your hands with the careful reverence of someone who understood what books were worth.
"Yeah." Harry took it back, watching you. "My — a friend gave it to me."
Your expression shifted, briefly, into something quieter. "It's been loved," you said. "You can tell. The really good ones always have that. All soft at the spines."
Harry thought about Hagrid, enormous and gentle, pressing it into his hands at a birthday he hadn't expected anyone to remember. He thought about how he still carried it even though he'd read it so many times the words had worn smooth.
"Yeah," he said again, softer this time.
You smiled at him — that same uncomplicated smile from the library — and introduced yourself. Just your name. No house performance, no positioning, no careful calculation of whether Harry Potter was worth talking to.
He told Hermione and Ron about it that evening.
"I like her," Hermione said simply.
"Me too," said Harry.
Ron ate another treacle tart and said nothing, which in Ron Weasley's vocabulary meant agreed.
_____________
Friendship with you turned out to be quiet and easy in a way none of them had quite anticipated. You didn't make a project of them. You didn't treat Harry like a symbol or Hermione like competition or Ron like a sidekick.
You brought Harry books you thought he might like, left without fanfare, never asked for anything in return. You debated magical theory with Hermione with a focus and rigor she found genuinely satisfying, and you lost gracefully and won without crowing. You and Ron discovered a shared, passionate, deeply sincere appreciation for Quidditch statistics, and your arguments about the Chudley Cannons became a fixture of the Thursday lunch table.
Your Slytherin friends found the whole arrangement faintly baffling. The golden trio found it quietly wonderful.
The castle, if it had feelings about such things, probably approved.
You were, Harry thought one afternoon, watching you help a second-year with a Wingardium Leviosa that refused to cooperate — patient, steady, pleased when the feather finally rose — simply good. Not performing goodness for an audience. Not calculating the return on it.
Just good, the way some people were, green tie and all.
— Tom leaves heart-shaped objects on your desk not as romantic gesture but as a test to see if you understand that hearts are organs to be claimed.
The box appeared on your desk on Valentine's Day morning.
Black lacquered wood, small enough to fit in your palm, with a silver clasp that gleamed in the dim light of the Slytherin common room. No note. No indication of who'd left it.
You knew anyway.
Tom Riddle didn't do things by half measures, and he certainly didn't do them anonymously unless the anonymity itself served a purpose.
Inside the box was a stone—smooth, dark, perfectly heart-shaped. Natural formation, not transfigured. The kind of thing that would take hours to find, requiring patience and specific intent.
You turned it over in your fingers, examining it. No curses, no hexes. Just a stone.
The question was: why?
"Admirer?" Abraxas drawled from across the common room, but his eyes were knowing. Everyone knew, in that unspoken way, that Tom had fixed his attention on you months ago. What no one knew—including you—was what that attention meant.
"Something like that," you murmured, pocketing the stone.
The second object appeared three days later. A heart-shaped locket, antique silver, with a serpent engraved on the back. Inside: a lock of dark hair that was definitely not yours.
You found Tom in the library, alone as always, surrounded by books on ancient magic that most students weren't allowed to touch.
"Whose hair is this?" you asked without preamble, setting the locket on his book.
He glanced up, and something flickered in his dark eyes—amusement, maybe, or satisfaction that you'd come to him. "Does it matter?"
"It matters if you're trying to use me for some ritual that requires personal effects."
"Ritual." He smiled, and it was sharp enough to cut. "Is that what you think this is?"
"I think you don't give gifts without purpose. I think you're deliberate about everything you do. So yes, I think there's a purpose to heart-shaped objects appearing on my desk."
"Clever." He closed his book with deliberate care, giving you his full attention. "What else do you think?"
You sat down across from him, meeting his gaze steadily. "I think you're testing me. Seeing if I'll come to you, if I'll question you, if I'll accept things at face value or dig deeper."
"And?"
"And I'm here, aren't I? Asking questions."
His smile widened fractionally. "Most people would have been charmed by the gesture. A mysterious admirer, romantic tokens. They would have swooned appropriately and waited for the grand reveal."
"I'm not most people."
"No." He leaned back, studying you with that unsettling intensity that made you feel like a particularly interesting specimen. "You're not. Which is precisely why you're receiving heart-shaped objects instead of flowers and chocolates."
"You still haven't answered my question. Whose hair?"
"Mine." He said it like it was obvious. "From when I was seven years old. I've kept it preserved all these years."
You blinked. "Why?"
"Because even then, I understood the value of keeping pieces of myself controlled. Documented. Protected." He tilted his head slightly. "The locket is eighteenth century. Belonged to my mother's family. One of the few things I inherited that was worth keeping."
The implications settled over you slowly. "You're giving me pieces of your history."
"I'm giving you pieces of my past. There's a difference." He stood, moving around the table with that predatory grace he'd perfected. "History is what others write about you. The past is what you keep for yourself."
He was close now, close enough that you could see the exact moment his expression shifted from detached interest to something more deliberate.
"Why?" you asked quietly.
"Because you asked the right questions. Because you didn't simper or blush or assume this was romance." His hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw with clinical precision. "Because you looked at a heart-shaped stone and wondered what it cost me to find it, rather than what it meant that I gave it to you."
"What did it cost you?"
"Three hours by the lake. Considerable patience. The satisfaction of watching lesser minds struggle with Valentine's preparations while I searched for something specific." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "The strategic question is: why was I willing to pay that cost?"
Your breath had gone shallow. "I don't know."
"Don't you?" He leaned closer, and his voice dropped to something almost intimate. "You're intelligent. Ambitious. You don't flinch when I speak about magic that makes others uncomfortable. You look at me and see exactly what I am, and you haven't run."
"Maybe I should."
"Perhaps." His smile was cold and beautiful. "But you won't. Because you're curious. Because you want to know what I'm building, what I'm becoming. Because when I talk about reshaping the world, you don't hear madness—you hear possibility."
He wasn't wrong. That was the terrifying part.
"The heart-shaped objects," you said, forcing your voice steady. "What's the point?"
"Valentine's Day is about hearts. Love. Sentiment. All the soft, foolish things people cling to because they're afraid of being alone." He pulled back slightly, but his hand remained on your face. "But hearts are also organs. Flesh. Something that can be stopped, controlled, claimed. I wanted to see which interpretation you'd assume."
"And if I assumed romance?"
"Then you would have been wrong, and this conversation would be very different." His eyes were fathomless. "But you didn't. You assumed purpose. Strategy. Which means you understand me better than most."
"Understanding you and wanting to be part of whatever this is are different things."
"Are they?" He withdrew his hand, but the ghost of his touch remained. "You kept the stone. You opened the locket. You came to find me. Every action suggests you're already part of this, whether you've admitted it to yourself or not."
You wanted to argue, but he was right. You had kept the stone. Had studied the locket. Had sought him out.
"What do you want from me, Tom?"
"Everything." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "Your loyalty. Your mind. Your willingness to stand beside me when I remake this world into something better than the broken thing we've inherited." He paused. "Your heart, if you're foolish enough to give it—though I should warn you, I'm not particularly careful with fragile things."
"You think my heart is fragile?"
"I think everyone's heart is fragile. It's the nature of the organ." He picked up the locket, letting it dangle from his fingers. "But I also think yours is more resilient than most. Otherwise you wouldn't still be sitting here, listening to me explain why I'm collecting you like I collect everything else of value."
"That's what I am to you? A collection piece?"
"You're a partner." The word was careful, deliberate. "Someone who can match me. Challenge me. Someone who won't break when the world fights back against what we're building."
"We," you repeated. "You're very certain."
"I'm always certain." He set the locket back on the table between you. "The question is whether you are."
You looked at the locket, at the heart-shaped reminder of sentiment twisted into something else entirely. At Tom who gave gifts like strategic maneuvers and spoke about hearts like they were tactical advantages.
You should walk away. You knew that.
But you picked up the locket instead.
"One condition," you said.
His expression sharpened with interest. "Name it."
"No more heart-shaped objects unless you're prepared to explain exactly what you mean by them. No games. No tests. If you want my partnership, my loyalty—" You met his eyes. "Then be honest about what you're asking for."
For a long moment, he was silent. Then he smiled, and it was different from his usual expressions—not warmer, exactly, but more genuine.
"Done," he said. "Though I should warn you, honesty from me is often more disturbing than the games."
"I'll risk it."
"Then we have an accord." He extended his hand, formal and deliberate.
You took it, and his fingers closed around yours with precise pressure—not a romantic gesture, but a binding. A promise. A claim.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he murmured, and there was dark humor in his voice.
"Is it?"
"It is now."
As he smile at you—sharp and cold and absolutely certain—you realized you'd just agreed to something far more binding than romance.
You'd agreed to stand beside someone who saw hearts as objects to be understood, controlled, and strategically deployed.
The terrifying part wasn't that you'd agreed.
It was that you weren't sure you regretted it.
note: and this concludes my Valentines challenge 💛
The joyous day of love and cheap chocolate! But it doesn’t always turn out joyously in fic, does it? Like the Yule Ball, we love writing this to either go horribly wrong or incredibly right. Be as good or as evil as you like!
RECOMMENDATIONS FROM ME:
- “XOXO, anonymous” by @whizzing-fizzbee
Love letters, Valentine’s Day and miscommunication
(EXPLICIT, Sebastian Sallow/Original Female Character)
i've been scouring ao3 and tumblr (mostly this morning lmao)--i haven't read many fics that mention valentine's day--but found a few sweet things in the process. today's all about my three favorite hl boys <3
this drabble was so cute- ominis deserves all the love in the world for the bs that seb puts him through lmao. the dialogue alone has to be my favorite part (completely. utterly. catastrophically.) some nice fluff for y'all to start
14 days of valentines: ominis gaunt by @harry-potter-reader-inserts
"When you tell Ominis he has a beautiful smile, he admits no one's ever said that before."
tumblr
this one is basically just (very romantic) smut, but it's garreth!! he needs some love to, and this fic shows how much of a sweetie angel pie baby he can be. it's not their first time, and you can see just the absolute love and reverence between these characters in the way it's written. need more loverboy garreth, pls
velvet & venom by @ hyunlyte
mdni/18+
"February 14, 1891. Garreth Weasley has always worn his heart on his sleeve—especially when it comes to Dahlia Hawthorne. For their first Valentine's Day together, he transforms the Room of Requirement into a romantic haven of black roses and chocolate frogs, eager to show her just how adored she truly is."
ao3
and then of course, i am still unfortunately into sebastian sallow. i found this fic today (written a year ago on valentine's!) and man does this author have a treasure trove of hl fics. this is another one where the dialogue is so good and it's got the perfectly awkward losing-your-love-letter trope that i can't stop reading. i absolutely loved this one- will have to read more
burn after reading by @applinsandoranges
"When a love letter written purely for therapeutic purposes - because she had to be temporarily insane to love Sebastian Sallow - goes missing somewhere in the castle, it takes a whole team to try and find it before the wrong person does."
tumblr | ao3
— When you tell Ominis he has a beautiful smile, he admits no one's ever said that before.
He didn't smile often.
You'd noticed this within your first week at Hogwarts, back when you'd been the new fifth-year and he'd been the reserved Slytherin who spoke in careful, measured tones and kept most people at arm's length.
When he did smile, it was usually sardonic—a twist of his lips that suggested he found the world more amusing than agreeable. Sometimes it was polite, the kind of expression he wore during social obligations he couldn't avoid.
But genuine smiles? Those were rare enough to be remarkable.
You'd seen one exactly three times in the months since you'd befriended him.
Once, when Sebastian had made a particularly terrible pun and Ominis had been so caught off guard he'd laughed before he could stop himself.
Once, when you'd described the sunset over the Black Lake in such detail that he'd said, "I can almost see it," and smiled like you'd given him something amazing.
Once, just last week, when you'd successfully brewed a perfect Wit-Sharpening Potion and he'd been able to tell by scent alone, pride evident in the curve of his mouth.
You'd collected these smiles like treasures, catalogued them, replayed them in your mind during dull History of Magic lectures.
Which was probably pathetic, but you'd stopped pretending your feelings for Ominis were anything less than catastrophic sometime around October.
Now it was February, and you were in the Undercroft—the secret space Sebastian had shown you, that Ominis had reluctantly allowed you to share—working on Charms homework while Ominis practiced a complicated spell sequence.
"It's the wand movement," he was muttering, frustrated. "I can feel it's wrong, but I can't—"
"Here," you said, setting down your quill. "May I?"
He hesitated, then nodded, extending his wand hand.
You moved closer, gently guiding his wrist through the proper motion. "It's more of a spiral than a circle. Like this—feel the difference?"
His fingers twitched slightly under your guidance, learning the movement. "Yes. That's—yes, I see."
You smiled at his choice of words. Ominis always said "see" despite his blindness, and you'd learned it wasn't carelessness but rather his own form of defiance—refusing to let his lack of vision define his language.
"Try it now," you said, stepping back.
He performed the movement perfectly, and the spell ignited with a soft shimmer of light.
"Excellent!" you said. "That was perfect."
"Only because you showed me." But he was smiling—really smiling, not the sardonic twist or polite expression, but something genuine and unguarded.
The words were out before you could stop them: "You have a beautiful smile."
The smile vanished instantly. Ominis went very still, his pale eyes widening slightly, and you watched color creep up his neck.
"I—" you started, mortified. "I'm sorry, that was—"
"Don't apologize." His voice was quiet, careful. "I just—no one's ever said that to me before."
"Well, they should have." You were committed now, apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter completely abandoned. "Because you do. Have a beautiful smile. You don't use it nearly enough, and when you do, it's—"
You stopped yourself before you could say something truly mortifying like "devastating" or "the best part of my day."
Ominis turned toward you with that uncanny precision he had, as though he could see you despite the cloudiness of his eyes. "You're staring."
"How can you possibly know that?"
"You're quiet. You're never quiet. And I can hear your breathing change when you look at me." A pause. "You do that a lot, actually. Look at me."
Your face was burning. "I don't—"
"You do." He stepped closer, and there was something different in his expression—tentative, almost vulnerable. "Sebastian's mentioned it. Said you watch me when you think I'm not paying attention. Which is ironic, considering."
"Sebastian needs to learn to keep his mouth shut," you muttered.
"He also said—" Ominis stopped, seeming to reconsider. "Never mind."
"No, what did he say?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Ominis."
He sighed, that particular exasperated sound he made when you were being persistent. "He said you look at me the way people look at art in museums. Like I'm something worth studying. Worth..." He trailed off, jaw tightening.
"Worth what?"
"I don't know. Worth seeing, I suppose." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Which is absurd, because I'm a Gaunt. We're not particularly known for being worth much beyond our bloodline and our cruelty."
Your heart clenched. "You're not like them."
"How would you know? You've been here less than a year."
"I know because you helped me with Potions when you didn't have to. Because you stand between Sebastian and his worst impulses. Because you refuse to use Unforgivable Curses even when it would be easier. Because—" You stepped closer, close enough to see the silver flecks in his pale irises. "Because when you smile—really smile, not that sardonic thing you do—it transforms your entire face. Makes you look happy. And I don't think you let yourself be happy nearly enough."
He was very quiet. Then: "Why do you care?"
"Because I—" You caught yourself, swallowed the confession that wanted to spill out. "Because you're my friend."
"Is that all?"
The question hung between you, delicate and dangerous.
"No," you admitted quietly. "That's not all."
His breath hitched audibly. "You should be careful about saying things like that to me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm selfish enough to want them to be true." He reached out, slowly, giving you time to move away. When you didn't, his fingers found your face, tracing your features with the same careful precision he brought to everything. "And if they're true, I won't want to let you go."
Your heart was hammering. "What if I don't want you to let go?"
His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and his expression was raw in a way you'd never seen. "Then you'd be a fool. I come from a family of dark wizards and blood purists. I have nothing to offer you but complications and a surname that makes people cross the street."
"I don't care about your surname."
"You should."
"Well, I don't." You covered his hand with yours, keeping it against your face. "I care about you. The person who helps first-years find their classrooms. Who plays the violin when he thinks no one's listening. Who stands up to Sebastian when he's being reckless, even though it scares you. Who smiles so rarely that when you do, it feels like a gift."
"Stop," he whispered, but he didn't pull away.
"Why?"
"Because you're making it very difficult not to kiss you."
Your breath stopped. "What if I want you to?"
He leaned his forehead against yours, and you could feel him trembling slightly. "Tell me this is real. That you're not—that this isn't pity, or curiosity, or—"
"Ominis." You said his name firmly enough that he stopped. "I have been catastrophically in love with you since you spent twenty minutes describing the precise smell of rain on stone because I mentioned I missed it. This is not pity."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Catastrophically?"
"Completely. Utterly. Catastrophically."
"That's redundant."
"I don't care."
He kissed you then—tentative and careful and absolutely perfect. His hands framed your face and when you kissed him back, he made a soft sound of surprise, as though he hadn't quite believed you'd want this.
When he pulled back, he was smiling—that genuine, unguarded smile that you'd been collecting like treasure.
"There it is," you whispered.
"What?"
"That beautiful smile."
He laughed, and it was bright and real and everything you'd hoped for. "You're going to say that every time now, aren't you?"
"Every single time."
"That's going to be insufferable."
"You'll survive." You kissed him again, quick and sweet. "Besides, it's true. You have a beautiful smile, Ominis Gaunt. I intend to see it as often as possible."
"I think that can be arranged," he murmured, and when he smiled against your lips, you thought: yes, this is what happiness looks like.
— At James wedding to Lily, he finally admits he's known about your feelings for years and asks you to stay in his life anyway.
The wedding invitation sat on your desk.
Lily Evans and James Potter request the pleasure of your company at their wedding ceremony
You'd stared at it for approximately fifteen minutes before Marlene had found you, still frozen, still holding the cream-colored parchment like it might burn you.
"Oh, honey," she'd said, which was somehow worse than anything else she could have said.
Because everyone knew. Everyone had always known.
You'd been in love with James Potter since third year, when he'd helped you retrieve your books after you'd tripped on the moving staircases, and instead of laughing like his friends, he'd asked if you were alright with such genuine concern that you'd fallen a little bit in love right there.
You'd watched him pine for Lily Evans for years. Watched him make a spectacle of himself, grand gestures and public declarations that made Lily roll her eyes and made you ache. Watched him grow up, settle down, become the kind of person who deserved someone like Lily.
And you'd been happy for him. You had. Because James happiness mattered more than your own broken heart, and if Lily Evans made him happy, then that was enough.
It had to be enough.
The wedding was beautiful. Lily looked radiant in white, and James looked at her like she'd hung the moon, and you'd sat in the back and smiled through the whole thing because that's what friends did.
"Dearly beloved," the officiant had begun, and you'd thought: yes, that's exactly what this is. James is dearly beloved. Just not by the person who's been quietly loving him all along.
The reception was worse.
Everyone was dancing, laughing, celebrating, and you were nursing your third glass of champagne and seriously considering whether you could slip out without anyone noticing when a familiar voice said, "You're not leaving, are you?"
You turned, and James was there—James, in his wedding robes, looking unfairly handsome and happy and married and your heart cracked a little more.
"Just needed some air," you said, forcing a smile.
"Liar." But he said it gently, without accusation. "You've been miserable all night. I've been watching."
"It's your wedding, James. You should be watching your wife, not me."
Something flickered across his face. "Can we talk? Please?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"There's everything to talk about, and we both know it." He held out his hand. "Walk with me?"
You shouldn't have. You should have said no, should have protected yourself, but you'd never been able to say no to him.
The gardens were quiet, cool after the warmth of the reception hall. James led you to a bench near the roses—Lily's favorite, naturally—and sat down, patting the space beside him.
"I know," he said quietly.
Your blood went cold. "Know what?"
"Don't do that. Don't pretend." He turned to face you, and his expression was painfully kind. "I've known for years. Since fifth year, actually. Sirius told me. Well, Sirius got drunk and let it slip, and then felt terrible about it, but the point is—I've known."
You couldn't breathe. "James—"
"Let me finish. Please." He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it hurt. "I've known, and I didn't say anything because I didn't know what to say. Because I was so focused on Lily that I couldn't see anything else, and by the time I realized what an idiot I'd been, she'd finally agreed to go out with me, and I—"
He stopped, and you watched him struggle with the words.
"I loved her," he said finally. "I do love her. But there was a moment, right after Sirius told me, when I looked at you differently. When I saw you and thought, 'oh, that makes sense.' Because you've always been there. Always been steady and kind and brilliant, and you never asked for anything in return."
"James, please don't do this," you whispered, because hearing this now, on his wedding day, was a cruelty you couldn't bear.
"I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to explain." He reached for your hand, and you let him take it because you were weak where he was concerned. "I chose Lily. I chose her knowing what I knew about how you felt, and I need you to understand that it wasn't because you weren't enough. It was because I'd been chasing her for so long that I couldn't imagine any other ending."
Tears were burning in your eyes. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you're my best friend, and I can't start my marriage with this sitting between us." His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "Because you deserve to know that you were seen. That your feelings mattered, even if I couldn't return them the way you wanted. And because I need to know that we're okay. That you'll still be in my life, even though I chose someone else."
"That's not fair," you said, your voice breaking. "You can't ask me to stay and watch you be happy with her."
"I know it's not fair. None of this is fair." He squeezed your hand. "But I'm asking anyway. Because the thought of losing you—of you not being there for the stupid, important, mundane moments—that terrifies me more than I know how to say."
You pulled your hand away, standing up, putting distance between you because proximity to him had always been dangerous. "What do you want from me, James? Absolution? Permission to be happy?"
"I want my friend back." He stood too, and there was something desperate in his expression. "I want the person who laughed at my terrible jokes and called me out when I was being an arrogant prat and made me want to be better. I want you in my life, in whatever way you can manage, because losing you would—" His voice cracked. "It would break something in me."
"You're married," you said flatly. "You don't get to say things like that to me anymore."
"I know. You're right. I'm being selfish." He laughed, bitter and self-deprecating. "But I've always been selfish when it comes to the people I love. And I do love you. Not the way you wanted, but—"
"Don't." You held up a hand. "Don't tell me you love me on your wedding day. Don't make this harder than it already is."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What do you need? Tell me what you need, and I'll do it."
"I need time," you said quietly. "I need space to figure out how to be your friend without breaking my own heart repeatedly. I need you to let me go, just for a little while, so I can learn how to be happy for you without it hurting."
Pain flashed across his face, but he nodded. "Okay. How long?"
"I don't know. Months. Maybe longer."
"And then?"
"And then maybe I can come to your house for dinner and be the friend you want me to be." You managed a smile, though it felt fragile. "But I can't do it right now. Not when everything is so fresh."
James looked like he wanted to argue, to fix this the way he fixed everything else—with charm and determination and sheer force of will. But he didn't. He just nodded.
"I'll miss you," he said quietly.
"I'll miss you too." You stepped forward, kissing his cheek gently. "Be happy, James. That's all I've ever wanted for you."
"I wish—" He stopped, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter what I wish."
But you knew what he wished. That he'd seen you sooner. That he'd made different choices. That he could have loved you the way you loved him. But wishes didn't change reality, and reality was that James Potter had married Lily Evans, and you were the girl who'd loved him from the shadows and would now have to learn to love him from a distance.
"Go back to your wife," you said gently. "She's probably wondering where you are."
He hesitated, then pulled you into a hug—tight and desperate and final.
"Thank you," he whispered against your hair. "For loving me, even when I didn't deserve it."
"You always deserved it," you whispered back. "That was never the problem."
When he pulled away, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.
You watched him walk back to the reception, back to Lily, back to the life he'd chosen. And you stood in the garden alone, surrounded by roses that weren't for you, at a wedding that celebrated a love that wasn't yours.
Dearly beloved, you thought.
Yes. James Potter was dearly beloved.
Just not by his bride alone and maybe, someday, that would be enough.
But tonight, standing in the garden while his wedding reception carried on without you, it felt like the furthest thing from enough in the world.
So you did what you'd always done where James was concerned: you smiled through the heartbreak, straightened your shoulders, and walked away.
note: My love for writing angst bled in this one, so sorry!
— When Newt's Niffler keeps stealing your locket, he finally admits the creature has excellent taste.
The Niffler had stolen your locket again.
This was the third time this week, and you were beginning to suspect it wasn't entirely accidental. Newt's creatures had personalities—distinct, complex ones—and this particular Niffler had decided, for reasons known only to itself, that you were worth stealing from.
"I'm terribly sorry," Newt said for the third time, carefully extracting the locket from the Niffler's pouch while the creature chittered indignantly. "He's usually very well-behaved about only taking things from my pockets."
"It's fine," you said, watching the way Newt's fingers moved—gentle, practiced, respectful of the creature even while disciplining it. "Though I'm starting to think he likes me."
Newt glanced up, and there was something soft in his eyes. "He has excellent taste."
The words were so quietly sincere that you almost missed them. Almost.
You'd been working with Newt for six months now, cataloguing his creatures, helping him organize his research for the book he was always talking about writing but never quite seemed to start. It was supposed to be temporary—a few weeks, maybe a month, just until he found someone more qualified.
But Newt had a way of making temporary feel permanent, of making you feel essential in ways that had nothing to do with qualifications.
"Here," he said, holding out the locket. But instead of simply handing it to you, he hesitated. "May I?"
You nodded, confused, and watched as he carefully fastened it around your neck, his fingers barely brushing your skin. He was close enough that you could see the freckles scattered across his nose, the way his hair curled slightly at the temples.
"There's a charm on this," he said quietly, still focused on the clasp. "Protection magic. Old. Powerful. Did you know?"
"It was my grandmother's."
"She must have loved you very much." He stepped back, finally meeting your eyes. "The Niffler can sense it. The magic. He's drawn to powerful things, but more than that, he's drawn to things that matter. Things that are treasured."
Your heart did something complicated.
"Newt," you started, but he was already moving away, back to the Niffler, using the creature as a shield the way he always did when conversations turned personal.
"Right, yes, back you go," he murmured, gently depositing the Niffler back into its enclosure. "And no more stealing. I mean it this time."
The Niffler made a sound that suggested it absolutely did not mean it.
You watched Newt move through his case—this impossible space he'd created, full of creatures and habitats and magic that defied explanation. He belonged here, you thought. Among things that were misunderstood, underestimated, seen as dangerous or inconvenient by people who didn't bother to look closer.
"Newt," you said again, more firmly this time.
He paused, his back to you, shoulders tense.
"Why did you really ask me to stay? Six months ago, when my temporary position ended?"
"I told you. I needed help with the documentation."
"You're perfectly capable of documenting on your own. You've been doing it for years."
"Yes, well." He turned slowly, and there was color high on his cheeks. "The creatures like you."
"The creatures."
"They're excellent judges of character." He was fidgeting with his wand now, rolling it between his fingers. "Better than I am, certainly. They knew immediately that you were—that you—"
He stopped, jaw working, clearly fighting with himself.
You stepped closer. "That I was what?"
"Important," he said quietly. "They knew you were important. The Niffler steals from you because he wants your attention. The Bowtruckle only lets you hold him. The Occamy rearranges herself to fit in your hands specifically." He swallowed hard. "And I—I knew it too. That you were important. I just didn't know how to say it."
Your breath held.
"I'm not good at this," he continued, the words coming faster now, like he was afraid he'd lose his nerve. "At talking. At people. I spend most of my time with creatures because they make sense in ways that humans don't. But you—you make sense to me. The way you move through the habitats, the way you speak to the creatures, the way you organize my notes without making me feel incompetent." He finally met your eyes, and the vulnerability there was staggering. "The way you look at me like I'm not strange. Like I'm just... Newt."
"You are just Newt," you said softly.
"Most people find that disappointing."
"I don't."
He let out a shaky breath. "The Niffler steals your locket because it's precious. Because it matters. And I—" He stopped, looking away. "I keep asking you to stay for the same reason."
The confession hung between you, fragile and honest.
You closed the distance between you, and he watched you approach like you were a creature he hadn't fully studied yet—curious, cautious, hopeful.
"Newt Scamander," you said, reaching up to cup his face, feeling him lean into your touch like he'd been starving for it. "Are you telling me I'm your queen of hearts?"
He blinked, confused. "I—what?"
You laughed softly. "The Niffler steals hearts. Shiny things, precious things. You're saying I'm the thing worth stealing."
Understanding dawned in his expression, followed by something that looked almost like wonder. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes, exactly that. You're the thing worth—I would steal you, if I could. Keep you here. Not in a case, obviously, that would be terrible, but just—here. With me. If you wanted."
"What if I told you that you don't have to steal me?" You brushed your thumb across his cheekbone, watching his eyes flutter closed. "What if I told you I'd stay willingly?"
His eyes opened, wide and green and disbelieving. "You would?"
"I have been. For six months or else I wouldn’t be here."
"I—" He laughed, surprised and a little breathless. "I thought you were just being kind. Patient with the strange man and his creatures."
"You're not strange. You're extraordinary." You leaned closer, watching his breath catch. "And I'm not being patient. I'm being selfish. I stay because I want to. Because watching you with your creatures is like watching magic happen. Because you see the world differently and it makes me see it differently too. Because—"
He kissed you.
It was unpracticed and a little clumsy and absolutely perfect—the kiss of someone who'd spent more time with creatures than people but was trying, really trying, to be brave.
When he pulled back, he looked dazed.
"I've wanted to do that for four months, two weeks, and three days," he admitted. "Not that I was counting."
"You were absolutely counting."
"I was completely counting." His smile was crooked, shy. "I have a whole journal entry about the exact moment I realized I was in love with you. It was when you sang to the Mooncalves. They'd been agitated, and you just—you started humming, and they calmed immediately, and I thought, 'oh, this is it. This is the person I want to document creatures with for the rest of my life.'"
Your heart felt too large for your chest. "That's possibly the most Newt Scamander declaration of love I could imagine."
"Is that bad?"
"It's perfect." You kissed him again, softer this time. "Though for the record, I've been in love with you since the first week, when you apologized to an Erumpent for disturbing its nap."
He flushed, delighted and embarrassed. "That was just common courtesy."
"That was adorable."
From somewhere in the case, the Niffler chittered approvingly, and you both laughed.
"So," Newt said, his hands settling tentatively at your waist like he wasn't quite sure he was allowed. "You'll stay? Not temporarily?"
"Not temporarily," you confirmed. "Though you should probably warn the Niffler that he can't steal from me anymore."
Newt glanced toward the enclosure, then back at you, and his smile was pure mischief—a rare expression that made him look younger, lighter.
"Actually," he said, "I think I'll let him keep trying. He has excellent taste, after all."
— When Sirius Black's shameless flirting finally pushes you too far, your very public lover's quarrel forces him to admit he's been yours all along.
The common room had gone suspiciously quiet.
This was never a good sign where Sirius Black was involved, but it was an especially bad sign when combined with the fact that you'd just stormed through the portrait hole looking like you wanted to hex someone into next week, and that someone was currently lounging by the fireplace with studied indifference.
"Oh good," James muttered from his corner. "They're doing this again."
"Should we leave?" Peter whispered.
"Absolutely not," said a fourth-year you didn't recognize. "This is better than the Quidditch match."
You ignored all of them, your attention fixed on Sirius, who was very deliberately not looking at you. He was sprawled across the best armchair—because of course he was—looking unfairly attractive in the firelight, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he examined his fingernails like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Really?" you said, your voice dangerously sweet. "You're going to pretend I'm not here?"
"I'm not pretending anything," Sirius replied lazily, still not looking up. "I'm simply choosing not to engage with someone who's clearly having a moment."
"A moment." You laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "Is that what we're calling it when you flirt with everything that moves?"
That got his attention. His eyes snapped to yours, grey and stormy, and there was something dangerous in his expression—the look he got right before he did something reckless and brilliant and utterly infuriating.
"I wasn't flirting," he said, his voice cool in a way that meant he absolutely was lying.
"Really. So batting your eyelashes at Marlene McKinnon during Transfiguration was what, exactly? Academic interest?"
"I don't bat my eyelashes."
"You absolutely bat your eyelashes. You batted them at Professor McGonagall last week to get out of detention."
"That's different. That's strategic."
"Oh, so flirting with Marlene was strategic too?"
Sirius stood, and the movement was fluid, predatory. Several people shifted uncomfortably. When Sirius Black and his temper both stood up, smart people got out of the way.
"What exactly are you accusing me of?" he asked, too quietly.
"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm stating facts. You flirt with everyone. Marlene, that Ravenclaw prefect, the girl who works at the Three Broomsticks—"
"So?" His eyes flashed. "I'm friendly. It's part of my charm."
"Your charm," you repeated flatly.
"Yes. My charm. Which, if I recall correctly, is what attracted you to me in the first place." He stepped closer, and you held your ground even though your heart was hammering. "Or have you forgotten? Because I remember quite clearly you saying something about how my 'insufferable confidence' was somehow appealing."
"That was before I realized it came with a side of flirting with anything with a pulse!"
"Oh, that's rich coming from you," Sirius shot back, his voice rising. "You spent all of last week studying with Remus. Studying. With your head practically on his shoulder."
You stared at him. "Remus is your best friend."
"Exactly! My best friend, who you were getting very cozy with—"
"We were translating runes!"
"His hand was on your back!"
"He was pointing at the textbook!"
"This is amazing," James whispered to Peter. "They're both completely mental."
Sirius ran a hand through his hair—his tell, the thing he did when he was frustrated and trying not to show it. "The point is, you don't get to be jealous when you—"
"I'm not jealous," you interrupted.
"You're absolutely jealous."
"I'm not—" You stopped, because you were jealous, and you both knew it, and lying about it was pointless. "Fine. I'm jealous. Are you happy?"
Something shifted in his expression. "Ecstatic. Finally, some honesty."
"Don't do that," you snapped. "Don't make this about me when you're the one who can't go five minutes without making eyes at someone."
"Making eyes—" He laughed, sharp and incredulous. "I wasn't making eyes at anyone. I was having a conversation."
"You were leaning in. You do this thing where you lean in and smile and—"
"And what? Exist? Breathe?" He stepped closer, into your space, close enough that you could smell him—smoke and something woodsy and entirely Sirius. "Tell me, exactly what am I allowed to do? Should I stop talking to people? Stop smiling? Walk around with a sign that says 'taken' so everyone knows I'm yours?"
"That's not what I—"
"Because I will," he interrupted, his voice dropping low, intense. "I will do all of that and more if it means you'll stop looking at me like I'm one foot out the door. Like I'm my father, or my mother, or any other Black who's ever disappointed someone."
The common room had gone completely silent.
"That's not fair," you said quietly.
"Isn't it?" His jaw was tight, and there was something raw in his eyes now, something that looked dangerously close to hurt. "You think I don't notice? The way you tense up when other girls talk to me? The way you watch me like you're waiting for me to prove you right, to prove that I'm exactly the careless, heartless person everyone expects me to be?"
"I don't—"
"You do." He reached up, his hand cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "And it's driving me mental because I have spent months—months—trying to show you that you're different. That this is different. And you still don't believe it."
Your throat was tight. "You can't blame me for being careful."
"I'm not blaming you for being careful. I'm blaming you for not trusting me." His other hand came up, framing your face, and his voice cracked slightly. "I don't want Marlene. I don't want the Ravenclaw prefect or the girl from the Three Broomsticks. I want you. Difficult, jealous, brilliant you, who challenges me and calls me out and makes me want to be better than the name I was born with."
"Sirius—"
"I'm not finished." He leaned his forehead against yours, and you could feel him shaking slightly—adrenaline, anger, something deeper. "I flirt. Fine. I'm charming and I smile too much and I probably lean in too close when I'm talking to people. But none of it means anything. None of it has meant anything since the moment I kissed you behind the greenhouses and you told me I was an arrogant prat before kissing me back."
Despite everything, you felt your lips twitch. "You are an arrogant prat."
"I know." His smile was crooked, fragile. "But I'm your arrogant prat. And I need you to believe that."
The fight drained out of you all at once, leaving something tender and aching in its place. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "I just—seeing you with her, laughing, looking like you did when we first—"
"Hey." He tilted your face up, making you meet his eyes. "I look at everyone like that because I'm a magnificent bastard and I can't help being naturally charismatic."
You snorted.
"But," he continued, softer, "I only look at you like you're the only person in the room. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Ask anyone." He gestured vaguely at the common room, which was still watching with rapt attention. "James. Peter. Random fourth-years. They'll all tell you—I'm completely gone for you. Pathetically, embarrassingly gone."
"It's true," James called out. "He's insufferable about it."
"Talks about you constantly," Peter added.
"Made me listen to a twenty-minute analysis of the way you laugh," Remus said from the stairs, looking amused. "Twenty minutes."
Sirius shot them all a glare before turning back to you. "See? Witnesses. I'm obsessed with you. It's a problem."
You couldn't help it—you laughed, and his whole face softened.
"There it is," he murmured. "That laugh. Twenty minutes is not enough time to properly appreciate it, for the record."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're jealous. We're a matched set." He kissed you softly, briefly. "But for what it's worth—I get jealous too. I just hide it better."
"You tried to hex that Hufflepuff who asked me to Hogsmeade."
"Tried is a strong word. I succeeded. He just didn't notice because I'm subtle."
"Subtle," you repeated, shaking your head. "Sirius Black, you are many things, but subtle is not one of them."
"True." He grinned, pulling you closer. "But I am yours. Completely, catastrophically yours. Even when you're being mental and accusing me of things."
"Even when you're flirting with half the school?"
"I wasn't—" He stopped at your look. "Fine. I'll try to be less friendly."
"Don't," you said, surprising both of you. "Don't change. Just... maybe occasionally remember that I'm the one you're going home with."
"Home," he repeated softly, and something in his expression cracked open. "Yeah. You are."
When he kissed you this time, it was slower, deeper, a promise and an apology and a claim all at once. The common room erupted in catcalls and applause, but neither of you cared.
"Still jealous?" he murmured against your lips.
"Probably."
"Good." His smile was wicked. "Means you care."
"Unfortunately."
"I care too, you know. Inconveniently. Distractingly." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "So maybe next time we could try talking before the dramatic public row?"
"Where's the fun in that?"
He laughed, bright and genuine, and pulled you down onto the armchair with him, ignoring the groans from the audience who'd clearly been hoping for more drama.
"You're impossible," he said, but he was smiling.
"And you're mine," you replied.
"Yeah," Sirius Black said, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I really am."
— After twenty years of keeping promises to a ghost, Snape offers you the only vow he has left,
The letter arrived on your desk without ceremony—no owl, no fanfare, just suddenly there as though it had always existed and you'd only just noticed.
The handwriting was unmistakable. Precise, angular, each letter formed with the kind of control that spoke of years forcing chaos into order.
My office. Tonight. 8 o'clock. Come alone.
—S.S.
You'd stared at it for a full minute, your heart doing complicated things you refused to examine too closely. Because this—whatever this was—had been building for months, and you'd been determinedly ignoring it the way one ignored a brewing storm, hoping it would pass without incident.
It hadn't passed.
Now, standing outside Snape's office at precisely 8 o'clock, you wondered if you should have ignored this summons too. But you'd never been good at self-preservation where Snape was concerned, and that was becoming a problem.
You knocked.
"Enter."
His office was exactly as you remembered—dimly lit, smelling of parchment and potion ingredients, shelves lined with jars of things that ranged from mundane to disturbing. Snape himself was at his desk, quill in hand, apparently absorbed in marking what looked like a disastrous third-year essay.
He didn't look up.
"Sit."
You sat, studying him in the firelight. He looked tired—but then, he always looked tired. Snape wore exhaustion like other men wore cloaks, a permanent fixture that spoke of battles fought long before you'd ever known him.
"You sent for me," you said when the silence stretched too long.
"Your observational skills remain intact." He set the quill down with deliberate precision, finally meeting your eyes. The look in his dark gaze was unreadable, guarded in that way that meant he was about to say something he'd rather swallow glass than admit. "I require your assistance."
"With?"
"A promise."
You blinked. "I'm sorry?"
He stood, moving to the shelf behind his desk with that liquid grace that seemed incongruous with his severity. When he turned back, he was holding a small vial—the contents swirling silver and luminous.
A memory.
"I made a promise once," he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual acidic edge. "To someone who mattered more than my own life. And I have kept that promise, at considerable personal cost, for longer than you have been alive."
You knew who he meant. Everyone knew, in that vague, whispered way—Lily Potter, the lost love, the ghost that haunted every corner of Snape's existence.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I find myself in the deeply uncomfortable position of wanting to make another promise." His jaw tightened, and you watched him struggle with the words like they were a particularly vicious curse. "To you."
The air left your lungs.
"That's—" You stopped, unsure what you were even trying to say. "Severus—"
"Do not." His voice was sharp. "Do not say my name like that. As though this is some great romantic gesture, as though I am capable of being anything other than what I am—a man who has spent decades in service to a ghost."
"Then why—"
"Because you have become a complication I cannot afford and yet cannot seem to eliminate." He set the vial down carefully, like it might shatter. "You sit in my classroom and challenge my assertions. You brew potions with a precision that borders on artistry. You look at me as though I am not a monster, and that is perhaps the most dangerous thing of all."
Your hands were shaking. You clasped them together to hide it.
"I am not equipped for this," he continued, his tone clinical, as though he were discussing potion ingredients rather than feelings. "I do not know how to want something for myself without it ending in tragedy. Every person I have ever cared for has died or been destroyed, and I am the common denominator in that equation."
"So this is you pushing me away," you said quietly.
"This is me being honest." He moved closer, and you could see the tension in every line of his body—a man at war with himself. "I cannot give you poetry. I cannot give you grand declarations or romantic gestures. What I can give you is the truth: that you have occupied my thoughts with alarming frequency, that I find your presence less intolerable than I find most, and that the idea of you coming to harm causes me a degree of distress I have not felt in years."
"That might be the worst confession of feelings I've ever heard," you managed, though your throat was tight.
"I warned you I was ill-equipped." Something flickered in his expression—might have been humor, might have been pain. "But here is my promise: If you are foolish enough to want this—to want me, in whatever limited capacity I can offer—I will protect you. I will guard you as I once guarded her, but I will not make the same mistakes. I will not love you from a distance. I will not let pride or fear keep me silent when words might matter."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw.
"I will not let you become another ghost."
You stood, closing the distance until you could see the silver threading through his black hair, the lines around his eyes that spoke of years spent watching for threats.
"What if I don't need protection?" you asked softly. "What if I just need you?"
He flinched as though struck. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Don't I?" You reached up, slowly enough that he could pull away if he wanted. When your fingers touched his jaw, he went absolutely still. "You think I haven't noticed? The way you position yourself between me and danger in the corridors? How you've rearranged the classroom seating so I'm never near volatile ingredients? The fact that you brew my headache potion before I even ask?"
"That is merely—"
"Severus." You said his name deliberately, watching him close his eyes briefly. "You've been keeping promises to me for months. Small ones. The kind that matter."
When he opened his eyes, they were black and fathomless and afraid.
"I will fail you," he said hoarsely. "It is inevitable. I fail everyone."
"Then fail me." You stepped closer, until you could feel the heat of him. "But do it while trying. Do it while being here, not hiding behind a promise made to someone who's gone."
His hand came up, hesitant, shaking slightly, and cupped your face with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything he was.
"I am not a good man," he whispered.
"I'm not asking you to be good. I'm asking you to be honest."
"I have been in love with a ghost for twenty years." His thumb brushed your cheekbone, featherlight. "I don't know how to stop."
"Then don't stop," you said simply. "Love her. Honor her. Keep your promises. But make room for one more."
He kissed you then, and it was nothing like you'd imagined—not practiced, not smooth, but desperate and careful all at once, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he didn't hold on tightly enough.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven.
"This is a terrible idea," he murmured.
"Probably."
"You will regret this."
"I doubt it."
"I will be difficult. Impossible, even."
"You already are." You smiled against his lips. "I'm still here."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something closer to a sob.
"Then here is my promise," he said quietly, his voice steady despite everything. "I will try. I will fail, undoubtedly, repeatedly, but I will try. I will not let fear make me cruel to you. I will not let the past consume what we might have. And I will—" He hesitated, then: "I will let you matter."
"You matter too," you whispered.
He kissed you again, slower this time.
note: ehh, this is one of those stories where it went down a different path than what I originally intended it to go.
— When a rogue Cupid's arrow forces Ron to confess every mortifying thought for twelve hours, it surprisingly goes better than expected
The arrow hit Ron Weasley square in the arse during breakfast.
One moment he was reaching for his third helping of eggs, and the next he was yelping loud enough to startle the owls in the rafters, leaping up from the Gryffindor table with a tiny golden arrow protruding from his robes.
"WHAT THE—"
"Oh, bloody hell," Hermione muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Not again."
"Again?" you asked, watching as Ron twisted around trying to see the arrow, nearly knocking over a jug of pumpkin juice in the process.
"Last year it was the Ravenclaw table," she said wearily. "The year before, a group of third-years. Someone always thinks charming Cupid decorations for Valentine's Day is romantic instead of a public menace."
The tiny golden Cupid in question was currently hovering near the ceiling, looking enormously pleased with itself, bow at the ready. It had the chubby-cheeked cherubic face that probably seemed sweet in theory but in practice looked distinctly menacing as it nocked another arrow.
"Who's the poor sod it hit?" someone called from the Hufflepuff table.
Ron had finally managed to extract the arrow, his face already turning an impressive shade of red that clashed spectacularly with his hair. He looked at it, then at the Cupid, then—
His eyes landed on you.
And stayed there.
"Oh no," you said.
"Oh YES," said George Weasley from down the table, practically vibrating with glee. "This is amazing."
Because everyone knew what the Valentine's Cupids did. They didn't make you fall in love—that would be illegal, dark magic, grounds for expulsion. No, they did something much worse: they removed your filter entirely. For the next twelve hours, whoever got hit would say every sappy, romantic, utterly mortifying thought that crossed their mind to the first person they looked at.
And Ron was looking at you like you'd personally hung the moon.
"You're so pretty," he blurted, looking horrified even as the words left his mouth. "I mean—not that you're not always pretty, but right now you're really—oh god, why am I still talking?"
The Great Hall erupted in laughter.
"Ron," you started, standing up, but he was already moving toward you, lanky and uncoordinated and somehow endearing even as he tripped over his own feet.
"I think about you constantly," he said, louder now, apparently unable to stop himself. "Like, a weird amount. Harry says it's unhealthy. Hermione says I should just tell you, but how am I supposed to tell you when you're—when you look like—" He gestured wildly at all of you. "That!"
"That?" you repeated, caught between mortification and laughter.
"Brilliant! Beautiful! Terrifying!" He was fully red now, from his ears to his neck. "You hexed Malfoy last week and I thought it was the hottest thing I'd ever seen, and that's wrong, isn't it? I shouldn't think hexing is hot, but you did this thing with your wand and your hair was—"
"RON," you hissed, very aware that the entire school was now watching this spectacular display.
"I'm in love with you!" he practically shouted. Then, quieter, more desperately: "Please make me shut up. Hex me. Petrify me. Something."
A wolf whistle came from the Slytherin table. Several people were openly filming with Quick-Quotes Quills. You were going to be in the Hogwarts gossip columns for weeks.
You grabbed Ron's hand and dragged him out of the Great Hall, his protests of "Your hand is so soft, how is your hand so soft?" following you both into the corridor.
Once you were alone, you rounded on him. He looked absolutely miserable, one hand over his mouth like he could physically prevent the words from escaping.
"How long does this last?" you asked, trying very hard not to laugh at his expression.
"Twelve hours," he mumbled through his fingers. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—I mean, I did mean it, but I didn't mean to say it like that, in front of everyone, and now you probably think I'm a complete git—"
"Ron."
"—and I've ruined everything, haven't I? We were friends and now it's weird and you'll never look at me the same way and—"
"RON."
He stopped, wide-eyed, still covering his mouth.
You stepped closer, and his eyes went wider. "You really think about me constantly?"
He nodded miserably.
"And you thought me hexing Malfoy was hot?"
Another nod. A muffled "So hot" from behind his hand.
You couldn't help it—you laughed. And once you started, you couldn't stop, until you were doubled over and Ron was looking at you like he couldn't decide if this was better or worse than the alternative.
"It's not funny," he said, but he'd lowered his hand slightly. "I've been trying to work up the courage to tell you for months, and stupid Cupid goes and ruins it by making me say it in front of the entire bloody school."
"Months?" you asked, straightening up.
"Six months, two weeks, and three days. Not that I'm counting." He winced. "I'm absolutely counting. I know the exact moment, too. You were in the library, telling off some Ravenclaws for being loud, and you had this look on your face—all fierce and righteous—and I just thought, 'oh, I'm done for.'"
Your heart did something complicated in your chest.
"Ron Weasley," you said slowly, watching him brace for impact like you were about to let him down easy, "you are absolutely terrible at romance."
His face fell.
"But," you continued, stepping close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him, "I happen to think that's kind of charming."
"...What?"
"You heard me." You reached up, gently pulling his hand away from his mouth. "For what it's worth, I've been thinking about you too. Not constantly, because I have better impulse control than you, apparently, but... enough."
"Enough?" He looked dazed.
"Enough that when you asked me to Hogsmeade last month as friends, I was disappointed."
"You were?" The hope in his voice was almost painful.
"I was." You squeezed his hand. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to survive the next twelve hours of magically-induced honesty—"
"I really want to kiss you right now," he blurted, then slapped his other hand over his mouth. "Oh my god."
"—and then tomorrow, when you're back to normal and capable of having a conversation without confessing every thought in your head, you're going to ask me on a proper date. Not as friends."
He lowered his hand slowly. "And if I can't wait until tomorrow?"
"Then you'll have to deal with the fact that every romantic thing you say for the next twelve hours is going to be said with absolutely no smooth delivery whatsoever."
"I can live with that," he said immediately. "You're worth twelve hours of embarrassment. You're worth a lot more than that, actually. You're worth—"
You kissed him, effectively shutting him up.
When you pulled back, he looked dazed and delighted and utterly ridiculous.
"Your lips are really soft," he said dreamily. "I've thought about kissing you approximately eight hundred times and it was better than all of them combined."
From somewhere down the corridor, you heard George's voice: "OI, RONNIEKINS, DID YOU FINALLY DO IT?"
Ron groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "I'm never going to live this down."
"Probably not," you agreed, running your fingers through his hair. "But for what it's worth, I think Cupid did you a favor."
He lifted his head, grinning despite the mortification still coloring his cheeks. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You would've taken another six months otherwise."
"Fair point." He hesitated, then: "Can I kiss you again? I promise I'll try to keep the commentary to a minimum."
You laughed, pulling him down to you. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Weasley."
If he spent the rest of the day following you around saying absurdly honest things about how much he fancied you, well.
- Sebastian brewed Amortentia to study the difference between obsession and love but the real thing was the one thing even he couldn't control.
Sebastian would sooner drink Polyjuice Potion than admit he was nervous.
And yet.
The cauldron before him in the Room of Requirement was bubbling a soft, telltale pink—the unmistakable shade of Amortentia, and he was stirring it with a focus and precision that bordered on obsessive, his dark eyes fixed on the surface with an intensity usually reserved for curse-breaking and dark artifacts.
You'd found him by accident. A late-night detour on your way back from Hogsmeade, drawn by the faint shimmer of light beneath the door that shouldn't have been there. When you'd stepped inside, he'd looked up, and for one brief, unguarded moment, something close to panic had flickered across his face.
"This isn't what it looks like," he'd said immediately.
You'd raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that you'd absolutely stolen from him. "It looks like you're brewing a love potion, Sebastian."
"It's not a love potion."
"It's pink."
"Lots of potions are pink."
"It smells like—" You inhaled deliberately, and your eyes widened. Because Amortentia didn't smell the same to everyone. It smelled like the thing you wanted most. And what you were smelling was unmistakable: rain-soaked parchment, cedar, something warm and woodsy that you could only associate with one person in this entire castle. "Oh."
Sebastian had stiffened, his jaw tightening, the stirring rod frozen mid-motion. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that." His voice had been tight, clipped, the way it always was when he felt cornered—when the walls he'd built so carefully were suddenly too thin.
You'd stepped closer, and he'd watched you approach the way he watched everything: cautious, calculating, but with that undertone of hunger that Sebastian could never quite disguise. "So let me get this straight. You—Sebastian Sallow, who told me last week that romance was a waste of time and that feelings were 'inefficient'—are brewing Amortentia."
"I said feelings were inefficient. I didn't say I was immune to them." He'd set the stirring rod down with more force than necessary, crossing his arms in a mirror of your posture. "There's a difference."
"And the difference is?"
"The difference is that I know exactly what I'm doing and why." He'd met your eyes, and there it was—that razor-sharp intensity that made him simultaneously infuriating and magnetic. "Amortentia doesn't create love. It creates obsession. There's a critical distinction, and I'm studying it."
"Studying it," you'd repeated, skeptical.
"Yes." He'd turned back to the cauldron, but his ears had gone red—a tell you'd catalogued months ago, filed away in the growing collection of Sebastian Sallow contradictions you carried like contraband. "Because I wanted to know the difference. Between the potion and the real thing."
The room had gone very quiet.
"And?" you'd pressed softly.
"And it's nothing alike." He'd said it quickly, almost defensively, like he was admitting to something dangerous. "The potion is chemical. Predictable. Controllable. What I—" He'd stopped himself, jaw working. "It doesn't matter."
But it did matter. And you both knew it.
That had been two weeks ago. Sebastian hadn't mentioned the potion again, but things between you had shifted in ways that were impossible to ignore. He still showed up at your door with questionable artifacts and worse ideas. He still argued with you about spell theory until you were both breathless and laughing. He still sat too close in the library, his shoulder pressed against yours, his fingers occasionally brushing yours when he reached for the same book.
But now there was an awareness beneath it all—a current of something charged and deliberate that hadn't been there before.
Tonight, he'd sought you out again.
You were in the courtyard, wrapped in your cloak against the February cold, watching frost creep across the stone when his footsteps approached—unhurried, confident, because Sebastian never rushed anything except curses.
"I finished the study," he said, falling into step beside you as though he'd been there all along.
"And?"
He was quiet for a moment, and you glanced at him. His face was half in shadow, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones softened slightly by the torchlight. He looked younger in moments like these. Less guarded.
"Amortentia makes people believe they're in love," he said slowly, choosing each word with care. "It manufactures the feeling—makes it total, all-consuming, impossible to resist. People under its influence would do anything. Say anything. Be anything the object of their obsession wanted."
"That sounds terrifying."
"It is." He paused. "And it's nothing like what I feel."
He turned to face you, and his expression was stripped bare in a way you'd rarely seen—no smirk, no deflection, no sardonic armor. Just Sebastian, raw and a little reckless, the way he looked right before he did something irreversible.
"What you make me feel isn't manufactured," he continued, voice low. "It's inconvenient, frankly. It makes me reckless in ways that have nothing to do with dark magic. I think about you constantly, and I can't potion my way out of it, which is deeply annoying."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "You're annoyed that you have feelings for me?"
"I'm annoyed that they're real." The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smirk, but close. "Potions I can control. Chemistry I can study. This?" He gestured vaguely between you. "This is chaos."
You stepped closer, close enough to see the way his pupils had blown wide, the slight unevenness of his breathing that he was trying very hard to hide. "And Sebastian Sallow doesn't like chaos?"
"Sebastian Sallow thrives in chaos." His hand came up—hesitant, almost surprised at himself—and his fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, lingering against your cheek. "But this is the first kind that actually scares me."
"Why?"
"Because I can't control how it ends." His thumb traced your jawline, featherlight. "And I need it to end well. I need you—not a version of you conjured by a potion, not an obsession I can study and catalogue. You. The real, infuriating, brilliant version who steals my smirks and calls me out on my nonsense and makes me want to be less of a disaster than I am."
You leaned into his touch, watching the way his composure cracked just slightly—a tremor in his fingers, a catch in his breath.
"For the record," you said quietly, "I don't need a potion either."
Something shifted in his expression—relief, wonder, and something fierce and almost greedy that was so entirely Sebastian.
"Good," he murmured, and when he kissed you, it was nothing like a potion.
It was better. It was real. It was chaos and for once, Sebastian had no intention of controlling it.
— When Draco sends you a red envelope, his shaking handwriting reveals the one pure-blood tradition he's desperate to break.
The red envelope sat on your desk.
You'd found it that morning, pristine and expensive-looking, sealed with actual wax and addressed in handwriting you'd recognize anywhere. Draco Malfoy's distinctive scrawl, all sharp angles and deliberate precision, as though even his penmanship couldn't be anything less than perfectly controlled.
You hadn't opened it yet. It had been sitting there for three hours while you pretended to work on your Transfiguration essay, and you'd picked it up exactly twelve times before setting it back down, unopened.
Because red meant something.
In the language of wizard correspondence that even Muggle-borns learned quickly, red was significant. Red was never casual. Red was confession, declaration, the color of things that couldn't be taken back once spoken aloud.
Draco Malfoy didn't do red. He did silver and green, cool colors for a cool demeanor, everything carefully calculated to maintain that razor's edge of aristocratic disdain he'd perfected since first year.
Except lately, things had been... different.
It had started small. Seventh year, post-war, post-trials, post-everything that had nearly destroyed him. You'd been assigned as partners in Advanced Potions—Slughorn's attempt at house unity that everyone else had protested but you'd simply accepted with a shrug. Malfoy had looked like he'd wanted to argue but had swallowed it, jaw tight, and taken his seat beside you without a word.
The first week, he'd barely spoken. The second week, he'd made one cutting remark about your knife work that was actually, grudgingly, helpful. By the third week, you'd been working in a rhythm that felt almost natural, and you'd caught him staring at you twice—not with his usual sneer, but with something that looked almost like curiosity.
"You're not what I expected," he'd said once, apropos of nothing, while you'd been waiting for a potion to simmer.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Pitchforks, maybe. Hexes. You have every reason to hate me." His voice had been carefully flat, but his fingers had been tapping against the desk—the only sign of nerves he ever allowed himself.
"Hate takes energy I don't have," you'd replied. "Besides, you're not what I expected either."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you actually listen when I talk. You remember that I take my tea with honey, not sugar. You pretend you're not checking to make sure I'm handling the boomslang skin correctly, but you are." You'd met his eyes then. "It means you're trying."
He'd looked away first, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Don't make me out to be better than I am."
But he was trying. In the months since, you'd seen it. The way he'd stopped Pansy mid-insult when she'd started on a Hufflepuff first-year. How he'd helped repair the Astronomy Tower, wordlessly, without drawing attention to it. The careful distance he maintained from his old friends, as though he was afraid their toxicity was contagious and he was only just learning to be clean.
Somewhere in all of that, somewhere between shared stirring rods and late-night study sessions and the time he'd lent you his scarf when you'd been shivering in the Potions dungeon, something had shifted.
You'd noticed red creeping into his periphery. A red bookmark in his textbook. Red annotations in his notes. Once, you'd caught him staring at your red hair ribbon for so long that you'd had to say his name twice to get his attention.
Now, staring at the red envelope, you felt your heart doing complicated things in your chest.
You picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," you muttered, and broke the seal.
The letter inside was written on heavy parchment, and his handwriting was less controlled than usual—shakier, more honest.
I don't know how to do this. I've been taught every pure-blood custom, every proper form of courtship, every acceptable way to express interest that doesn't make me look weak or wanting. But all of those rules were written by people who thought love was a transaction, and I'm trying very hard not to be them anymore.
So here's the truth, inadequate as it is: You make me want to be better. Not the way my mother wanted me to be better—more accomplished, more powerful, more Malfoy. But actually better. Kinder. Braver. The sort of person who deserves to sit beside you in Potions and doesn't spend the entire time wondering what he did to get that lucky.
I know I have no right to want anything from you. I know my name is a stain and my past is unforgivable and I have no business writing this letter at all. But you said once that I was trying, and the truth is, I'm trying for you. I have been for months. Every choice I make now, I make it thinking: would this be good enough for her? Would she be disappointed? Would she look at me the way she looks at me in the Potions classroom, like I'm someone worth knowing?
I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to forget. I'm just asking—if you can stand it, if it's not too repulsive—if you'd let me take you to Hogsmeade this weekend. Not as partners. Not as friends. As whatever you'd be willing to let me be.
I chose red because it's the color of things that matter. And you matter more than I know how to say.
—D
You read it twice. Three times. Your hands were shaking slightly.
There was a soft knock at the door. When you opened it, Draco was standing there, and he looked terrified. His hair was disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it, his face pale, his grey eyes wide and vulnerable in a way you'd never seen.
"Did you—" He swallowed hard. "Did you read it?"
"Yes."
"And?" His voice cracked slightly on the word.
You held up the letter. "Red's my favorite color."
The relief that flooded his face was so profound it was almost painful to witness. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You stepped closer, watching him tense and force himself not to step back—still learning, you thought, still trying not to run from good things. "This weekend. Hogsmeade. You're buying the butterbeer."
"I'll buy the whole damn pub if you want it," he said, and then seemed to realize how that sounded—too much, too Malfoy, too transactional. "I mean—"
You took his hand. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly. "Just the butterbeer is fine, Draco."
He stared at your joined hands like they were something miraculous and fragile. "I'm going to mess this up," he said quietly. "I don't know how to do this without being—without defaulting to—"
"Then we'll figure it out together." You squeezed his hand. "You said you're trying. So keep trying. That's all I'm asking."
When he smiled—a real smile, small and uncertain but genuine—you understood why he'd chosen red.
— When Harry fears asking you to Hogsmeade more than facing Voldemort, his secret notes reveal the one battle he's terrified to lose.
The first note appeared on Valentine's Day morning, tucked between the pages of your Potions textbook.
Your laugh in the library yesterday made even Snape's dungeon seem brighter.
No signature. No identifying marks. Just neat handwriting on a torn piece of parchment that made your cheeks warm despite the cold stone walls of Hogwarts.
You'd glanced around the common room that morning, studying faces for any hint of recognition, but found nothing. Fred and George were too busy charming roses to sing off-key love songs. Ron looked vaguely nauseated by the whole affair. And Harry—Harry was pointedly ignoring the gaggle of girls who'd congregated near his usual chair, his attention fixed firmly on what appeared to be a Quidditch magazine.
The second note came three days later, slipped into your bag during Charms.
The way you stood up to Malfoy yesterday—that was brilliant. I wish I had half your courage when it comes to the things that actually matter.
You'd frowned at that one. You'd barely done anything, just told Malfoy to shut it when he'd been needling some first-years. Nothing compared to, well, fighting Voldemort. Speaking of which, you'd noticed Harry watching the confrontation from across the corridor, though he'd looked away quickly when you'd caught his eye.
A week passed. Then:
I'm not good at this. I've faced down dark wizards and dementors, but the thought of talking to you makes me forget how to form coherent sentences.
Your heart had stuttered at that one. The handwriting was becoming familiar now, and you'd started to notice things. The way Harry's fingers were sometimes stained with ink during meals. How he'd duck his head when you entered a room, suddenly fascinated by his shoelaces. The fact that he always seemed to be nearby lately—not obtrusively, but present. In the library when you studied. At Quidditch practice when you watched from the stands. In the corridors between classes.
You'd started testing a theory. In the Great Hall, you'd laughed at something Hermione said, and you'd felt eyes on you. When you'd glanced toward the Gryffindor table, Harry had been staring, a soft expression on his face before Ron elbowed him and he'd nearly knocked over his pumpkin juice.
The fourth note was different.
I know I should just tell you in person. Hermione says I'm being ridiculous, that I've literally died and come back but I can't manage to ask you to Hogsmeade. But the truth is, some things are more terrifying than death. Like the possibility that you might not feel the same way. Like ruining whatever friendship we have. Like being just another person who wants something from you when you deserve someone who sees YOU—not just another student, not just another girl, but the person who returns library books for first-years who are too shy to ask, who always has chocolate frogs for people having bad days, who makes the world feel less heavy just by being in it.
You'd read it three times, your hands trembling slightly.
The next morning, you'd waited until the common room had mostly cleared after breakfast. Harry was lingering by the window, pretending to watch the grounds, but his shoulders were tense.
"Harry?"
He'd turned too quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Yeah?"
You'd pulled the notes from your pocket, watching his face drain of color, then flush spectacularly red.
"I—that's not—I mean—" He'd run a hand through his perpetually messy hair, making it worse. "Okay, yes, that's me. I'm sorry if it's weird, I just thought—"
"Harry." You'd stepped closer, and he'd frozen like a bowtruckle caught in wandlight. "Why didn't you just talk to me?"
He'd let out a breathless laugh. "Have you met me? I'm not exactly smooth. I can fight dark magic, but asking you to Hogsmeade? Terrifying." His green eyes had met yours, vulnerable and honest in that way that was so purely Harry—no pretense, no hero complex, just a boy who'd seen too much but somehow still hoped. "You make me want normal things. Butterbeer dates. Study sessions. Holding hands in the corridors. And that's... that's more frightening than anything else because I want it so badly."
You'd smiled, reaching for his ink-stained hand. "Then take me to Hogsmeade this weekend."
"Really?" The hope in his voice had been almost painful.
"Really. Though fair warning—I expect more notes. Your handwriting is lovely."
His laugh had been pure relief, and when he'd squeezed your hand, you'd felt the slight tremor in his fingers—the boy who'd faced Voldemort, still nervous about holding your hand.
Some kinds of courage, you'd realized, had nothing to do with dark wizards and everything to do with opening your heart.
— When comforting Oliver after a brutal Quidditch loss, you remind him that some victories have nothing to do with the scoreboard.
The common room was suffocatingly silent when you returned from the pitch. Gryffindor had lost to Slytherin by a margin so narrow it hurt worse than a blowout—160 to 150. One Snitch. One moment. One miss.
You'd watched Oliver Wood land his broom with mechanical precision, his face carved from stone as he stalked past his teammates' attempts at consolation. He'd disappeared into the changing rooms while the rest of the team had trudged back to the tower, and now, an hour later, he still hadn't emerged.
Someone had to check on him.
You volunteered before anyone else could, ignoring Angelina's knowing look and Fred's barely suppressed smirk. Yes, you'd been dating Oliver for three months. Yes, everyone knew he took Quidditch losses like personal failures. And yes, you were probably the only person he might actually talk to right now.
The changing room smelled of leather and grass. You found him sitting alone on the bench, still in his muddy uniform, his Keeper gloves discarded beside him. His dark hair was disheveled, and he was staring at his hands like they'd personally betrayed him.
"Oliver?"
He didn't look up. "We had it. We had it. If I'd just blocked that last shot from Flint—"
"That last shot was unstoppable, and you know it." You sat beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. "You saved twelve goals today. Twelve. Their Keeper saved four."
"Didn't matter though, did it?" His voice was rough, scraped raw. "Harry caught the Snitch, and it still wasn't enough. Three years I've been Captain, and I still haven't—" He broke off, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump.
You knew better than to tell him it was just a game. To Oliver Wood, Quidditch wasn't just a game—it was architecture and poetry, strategy and passion, something that mattered in a way that made perfect sense to him even when the rest of the world seemed chaotic. It was one of the things you loved about him, that absolute conviction.
"You know what I saw today?" you said quietly. "I saw a Captain who'd drilled his team so well that every play was seamless. I saw a Keeper who threw himself at bludgers to protect his Chasers. I saw someone who cares so much about his team that he's sitting here blaming himself instead of them."
"Should've been better." His hands curled into fists. "Should've been perfect."
"You were brilliant."
"We lost."
"I know." You reached over and carefully uncurled one of his fists, lacing your fingers through his. His hand was cold, trembling slightly with leftover adrenaline. "But you're allowed to be human, Oliver. You're allowed to have limits."
He finally looked at you then, his brown eyes dark with frustration and something more fragile underneath. "I wanted to win. For them. For you."
Your chest tightened. "For me?"
"You were wearing my extra jersey." A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "The old one, with the patch on the shoulder. I saw you in the stands, and I thought—I wanted to win it for you. Wanted you to see—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Stupid."
"Not stupid," you said firmly. You shifted closer, bringing your free hand up to cup his jaw, making him meet your eyes. "Oliver Wood, listen to me. I don't need you to win matches for me. I don't need perfection. I just need you."
His breath hitched.
"I'm here because I care about you," you continued. "Not because of your save record or your win percentage or whether you lift a Quidditch Cup. I'm here because you're passionate and dedicated and stubborn as hell, because you care about things deeply, because you're you. That doesn't change whether you win or lose."
Oliver stared at you for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. The rigid tension in his shoulders began to ease, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, wondering.
"I was so focused on the game I'd forgotten," he said. "Forgotten that no matter what happened on that pitch, I get to come back here, and you're still here. That I get to hold your hand. That you wore my jersey because you wanted to, not because you were keeping score."
You smiled. "Exactly."
He exhaled slowly, and suddenly he was pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face against your neck. You held him back just as tightly, feeling the last of the tension drain from his frame.
"Because of you," he murmured against your skin, "I've already won. Everything that actually matters—I've already won it."
Your eyes stung with unexpected tears. "Oliver—"
"I mean it." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his eyes were clearer now, more focused. "Three years I've been chasing this Cup, thinking it was everything. But having you believe in me, having you here even when I fail—that's the real victory. That's what I should've been paying attention to all along."
You kissed him then, soft and sure, tasting grass and determination and something sweeter underneath. When you broke apart, you were both smiling.
"Still want that Cup though," he admitted, and you laughed.
"I know you do. And you'll get another shot at it."
"We will," he corrected, squeezing your hand. "Because you'll be there, in that patched jersey, and I'll remember what actually matters."
"What actually matters," you said, "is that we're going to go back to the common room, you're going to shower and change, and then we're going to let your team see that their Captain is okay. Because they need that right now."
Oliver nodded slowly, then stood, pulling you up with him. He didn't let go of your hand.
Fred W. x Reader
— He has never respected library rules, especially when you're trying to study.
The library was supposed to be neutral territory—a place where you could study without distraction. You should've known better than to think Fred Weasley understood the concept.
"If you knock over my inkwell one more time—" you warned, not looking up from your Charms essay.
"You'll what?" His fingers drummed against the table beside your parchment, deliberately close to your quill. "Report me to Madam Pince? Tell her I'm being devastatingly distracting?"
"Fred." You tried for stern, but his hand had already found its way to your shoulder, thumb tracing absent circles through your robes.
"Mm?" He leaned closer, ostensibly to read over your shoulder, but really just to press his lips against your temple. "Just checking your work. Very thorough. Lovely penmanship."
"You can't even see what I've written."
"Don't need to." His other hand settled on your knee under the table, warm and impossibly distracting. "Already know you're brilliant."
You caught his wrist before it could wander higher. "Some of us have N.E.W.T.s to pass."
"Some of us," he countered, tugging you closer despite the awkward angle of the chairs, "reckon there are better uses of our time." His nose brushed your cheek, voice dropping to that particular tone that made studying impossible. "My common room's empty. We could—"
"Fred Weasley, if you think I'm abandoning this essay—"
But you were already gathering your things, his triumphant laughter warm against your neck as his hands helped you pack, touched your waist, tangled briefly with your fingers.
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