Summary: With Valentine’s Day around the corner the girls are talking about their plans with their mans. You are planning to spend another Valentine’s Day single… Right?
Pairing: John Tucker x Oblivious!Reader
Warning: None. Reader is just a lil naive
Note: This is an actual story based off my friend. I’ve officially now posted a fic for every boy except Beau. I need to hop on that if anyone has suggestions for him or even Justin? Hope y’all enjoy 🫶
The living room rug was a disaster zone of pink felt, glitter glue, and half-empty wine glasses.
"I'm just saying," Allie said, holding up a crookedly cut paper heart, "if Dean thinks he's getting away with just a reservation this year, he’s sorely mistaken. I want the whole cliché. Flowers. Chocolates. The works."
"Garrett already hinted he bought something," Hannah laughed, taking a sip of her Pinot Noir. "Though knowing him, it’s probably a new pair of skates or a jersey for me."
Grace giggled as she cut out a heart. “I think Logan was planning on hot wheeling my car and taking me out for a drive.”
You smiled, carefully hot-gluing a ribbon onto a homemade Valentine's card for your mom. "Well, I think it’s sweet. You guys all have such cute plans. I’ll probably just order a massive pizza, put on some romcom movies, and enjoy having the bed to myself."
The room went dead silent.
Grace paused mid-snip, her scissors hovering in the air. Hannah slowly lowered her wine glass, while Allie just blinked at you.
"What?" you asked, looking between them, suddenly self-conscious. "Is pizza on Valentine's Day a crime now?"
"Sweetie," Grace said gently, the way one might speak to a confused toddler. "Why would you be eating pizza alone? What about Tucker?"
You blinked. "Tucker? What about him?"
"Your Valentine's plans," Hannah pressed, her eyebrows knitting together. "Are you guys doing something the day before instead? Because of his game schedule?"
"Oh. I mean, we haven't talked about it," you said with a shrug, reaching for another piece of felt. "I assume he’ll be hanging out with the guys, or practicing. I’m sorry- Why would we have plans on Valentine’s Day?"
Allie let out a loud snort, shaking her head. "Okay, very funny. You totally had me for a second. The deadpan delivery was a ten out of ten."
"I'm not joking," you said honestly, your face warming up. "Why would I have Valentine's plans with Tucker?"
The three girls exchanged a long, deeply concerned look.
"Because," Hannah said slowly, leaning forward, "he is your boyfriend."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh. "What? No, he's not! Tucker and I are just really, really good friends."
"Good friends?" Grace squeaked. "You flew to Texas with him over Thanksgiving break to meet his mother!"
"Well, yeah, because I didn't have anywhere else to go, and he's a sweetheart! He didn't want me to be alone."
"He bought you that vintage record player you wanted for Christmas," Allie countered, her eyes wide. "And he literally drives twenty minutes out of his way every single Tuesday morning just to drop off that ridiculous, extra-sweet iced caramel macchiato you like before your 8:00 AM lecture."
"Because he’s a southern gentleman," you insisted, your naive optimism completely unshakeable. "Tucker is just naturally chivalrous. He expects the best out of everyone, so I try to do the same. He’s just being a good guy."
Hannah looked like her brain was short-circuiting. Without a word, she grabbed her phone and hit FaceTime. It rang twice before Garrett’s face filled the screen. He was sitting on the Briar hockey house couch, with Logan and Dean hovering over his shoulder playing a video game.
"Hey, babe," Garrett answered. "What's up? We're right in the middle of—"
"Garrett, put me on speaker. I need a collective consensus from the room," Hannah interrupted flatly.
Garrett’s face shifted to one of pure caution. "Uh, okay. You're on speaker. Logan and Dean are here."
"Great. Boys, quick question," Hannah said, angling the phone so the camera pointed directly at you. "What is the official relationship status between Tucker and y/n?"
Dean didn't even look up from the screen. "They're dating. Obviously. Tucker’s been whipped for like four months."
"Bro, he skipped Sunday football three weeks ago just to stay in bed and cuddle her because she had a head cold," Logan chimed in, shouting over his shoulder. "Why are you asking stupid questions, Wellsy?"
You leaned into the frame, your cheeks burning. "Wait, guys, no. We aren't dating! We've never had the talk. We're just… really close friends!"
On the screen, all three boys froze. Garrett leaned so close to the camera his nose was distorted. "Wait. Hold on. Are you serious right now? Y/n, you literally sleep at our house at least four nights a week. You hold hands in public. He knows your entire five-year career plan, your worst fears, and he practically threatens to murder anyone who breathes too loud near you. You're his girlfriend."
"But he never asked me!" you protested, your voice small. "I thought… I just thought he was being really nice!"
"Oh my god," Dean muttered, finally dropping his controller. "She actually didn't know. Someone text Tuck right now, this is a code red."
Before you could scramble to grab Hannah’s phone to stop them, the front door lock clicked.
The heavy oak door swung open, and John Tucker walked in. He was wearing his Briar hockey hoodie, his hair slightly damp from the snow outside, holding a brown paper bag from the bakery down the street. He looked like a literal textbook definition of a perfect boyfriend.
"Hey, darlin'," Tucker murmured, his deep southern drawl instantly melting through the tension in the room. "Brought those cinnamon rolls you like." He paused, looking at the girls scrambled on the floor and the FaceTime call still blaring from Hannah's phone. "What's going on?"
Hannah, Allie, and Grace immediately grabbed their purses, scrambling to their feet with terrifying speed.
"We're leaving!" Allie announced. "Good luck!" Grace added. "Talk to your woman, Tucker!" Hannah yelled, hanging up the phone and sprinting out the door behind them.
The door slammed shut, leaving a heavy, bewildered silence in the apartment.
Tucker slowly set the bakery bag on the counter, his brow furrowed as he walked over to where you were still sitting on the floor. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his large hands immediately coming to rest on your thighs.
"Hey," he said softly, his dark eyes searching yours. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
You swallowed hard, looking at his beautiful, kind face. "Tucker… can I ask you a question?"
"Anything, darlin'."
"Are we… are we dating?"
Tucker blinked. Once. Twice. The easy, confident smile he usually wore completely vanished. He slowly pulled his hands back, his shoulders squaring as a shadow of hurt crossed his features.
"Are you serious?" Tucker’s voice lost its usual warmth, turning quiet and strained. "Is this a joke?"
"No! I'm not joking," you said quickly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he subtly pulled away, standing up.
"We've been together for four months, y/n," Tucker said, rubbing the back of his neck, his jaw tight. He looked genuinely upset, a rare sight for the usually unshakeable cowboy. "I took you home to Texas. You met my mama. I sleep in your bed almost every night. I haven't looked at another girl since the moment I met you." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "I thought… I thought we were completely on the same page. Do you really think so little of me that you thought I was just doing all that for a casual friend?"
"No! No, Tucker, please listen to me," you cried, scrambling to your feet and stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at you. You wrapped your hands around his wrists, gripping him tightly. "I am just incredibly stupid. I'm naive, okay? Everyone always tells me I am. I just… you never explicitly said the words 'will you be my girlfriend,' and I didn't want to assume and ruin the amazing thing we had."
Tucker stared down at you, the hurt in his eyes still visible, but softening slightly at the desperation in your voice. "You really didn't know?"
"I didn't," you whispered, looking up at him with total embarrassment. "I thought I was just the luckiest girl in the world because this incredibly handsome, amazing hockey player wanted to spend all his time with me. I didn't think it could be real."
Tucker let out a long, heavy breath, the tension finally draining from his broad shoulders. A faint, amused, yet completely exasperated smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"You are a little piece of work, you know that?" he murmured, stepping forward and wrapping his large arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.
"I'm sorry," you mumbled into his hoodie.
"Don't be sorry," Tucker sighed, resting his chin on the top of your head. "But just to make it crystal clear, so there's absolutely no doubt in that sweet, beautiful head of yours..." He pulled back just enough to cup your face in both of his warm hands, his thumb gently wiping a stray piece of glitter from your cheek.
"Y/n, you are my girlfriend. I am your boyfriend. And I'm cooking you a massive, fancy dinner on Valentine's Day. Clear?"
You beamed, a rush of pure relief and happiness washing over you as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Crystal clear, Tucker."
Tucker migrated you both from the glitter-strewn floor to the couch. He sat back against the cushions, his long legs stretched out, with you tucked securely between them. Your back was pressed against his broad chest, and his powerful arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, anchoring you to him.
On the coffee table sat the brown paper bag he’d brought, now holding two perfectly warmed cinnamon rolls, but neither of you had touched them yet. Instead, Tucker was busy tracing slow, soothing circles over your hip bones with his thumbs.
"Hey," Tucker murmured, his deep voice vibrating right through your back. "You’ve been quiet for a solid five minutes, darlin’. What’s bouncing around in that head of yours?"
You let out a soft sigh, staring down at your hands, which were resting over his large ones. A familiar wave of embarrassment and lingering guilt washed over you. "I just... I still feel so bad, Tuck. I feel incredibly stupid."
Tucker paused his hands, tightening his grip on you slightly. "We're not still dwelling on that, are we?"
"But I hurt your feelings," you said, turning your head slightly so you could see his sharp jawline. "When I asked you if we were dating, the look on your face... it broke my heart. I can’t believe I was so oblivious. You’ve been treating me like a queen for months, doing all these incredibly sweet, devoted things, and I just thought you were being a nice friend. I feel like an idiot for making you feel, even for a second, like I didn't appreciate you."
Tucker let out a soft, low chuckle—the kind that rolled from deep in his chest. He shifted, pulling you around so you were sitting sideways across his lap, forcing you to look him in the eye. His dark eyes were soft, utterly devoid of any lingering hurt.
"Look at me," he commanded gently, cupping your chin with his hand. "Y/n, you are the sweetest, most genuine girl I have ever met in my entire life. That’s exactly why I fell for you. In a world where everyone is always looking for an angle or playing games, you just... you see the absolute best in people. You didn’t assume we were dating because you’re modest, and because you didn't want to demand anything from me. It’s one of the things I love most about you."
Your heart skipped a beat at the word love, your cheeks flushing a pretty pink.
"So do not spend another second feeling remorseful," Tucker continued, his thumb wiping a soft line across your cheekbone. "I’m not hurt. If anything, it just means I get to spend the rest of our lives making sure there is absolutely, 100% no doubt in your mind that you belong to me. Deal?"
"Deal," you whispered, a tear of pure relief threatening to spill. You leaned forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the crisp, wintry scent of the snow mixed with his familiar, warm cologne.
Tucker wrapped his arms fully around you, completely spoiling you with his undivided warmth and affection. He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. "Good. Now, are we gonna eat these cinnamon rolls, or are you just gonna use me as a pillow all night? Not that I’m complaining about the view."
The sweet, emotional weight in the room began to shift, a playful spark taking its place. You pulled back just enough to look at him, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, so now you're complaining about holding your official girlfriend?"
SUMMARY It’s finally time for the first recoupling. Except this time, it’s in the hands of the fans.
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, use of y/n, love island relationship dynamics, use of pet names (baby), brief insecurities, somewhat suggestive, barely edited
A/N so sorry for the wait, but the recoupling fic is finally here!! I had the hardest time writing it for some reason so it's kinda choppy, but here it is! this is a direct continuation of this fic, so I'd recommend reading that first. also since this was originally not meant to be it's own part, I added this request in at the end. wanted to get this out a bit early bc I'm seeing the new spider-man tonight so please enjoy!
love island masterlist
The morning comes far earlier than you would have liked it to. You wake up with a crick in your neck and a “crying your eyes out for several hours” induced migraine. But that’s what you get for sleeping on the daybeds and not drinking any water before going to sleep.
After the recoupling text, you and Garrett went back to the bedroom to grab your blanket and pillows because, shockingly, you had not wanted to share a bed with Joe—(Garrett tried to insist that you shouldn’t have to do that, offering to kick Joe out of the room for you, but you weren’t quite ready to face everyone else either). Your plan was to spend the night in Soul Ties, but when you got there, you realized Tucker had already set up camp.
Through a sad smile, he explained that after your abrupt exit from Movie Night, they still had to watch the final clip behind door number five. Apparently Meg and Joe had done far more than the heavy flirting you’d seen in his clips. At this point, you couldn’t give less of a fuck anymore but the information had been hurtful to Tucker.
For the second time that night, you had to argue a man out of his chivalrous tendencies when Tucker got up to move and let you sleep in the more comfortable Soul Ties. You told him that he would not be doing that and spent the night on the daybeds instead. And thus, you wake up feeling like you got hit by a bus.
You shuffle into the kitchen, wincing as the sun hits your eyes. Tucker’s already awake when you get there, scrambling some eggs around in a pan.
“Mornin’.” He gives you a small nod of acknowledgement, smiling at you over his shoulder.
“Good morning.” You smile softly, starting to fill up your water bottle. “How you feelin’?”
“Like shit. You?”
You laugh at his candor, taking a large gulp of water. “Same. I think I cried all the moisture out of my body, my head is killing me.”
Between you, the toaster pops off, releasing two pieces of toast. Tucker plates them quickly, before shoveling the scrambled eggs on as well.
“Here.” He hands you the plate.
“Tuck—,”
“I was making it for you anyway,” he interrupts your protests with a sad smile. “I figured neither of us exactly have breakfast plans right now.”
You look down at the plate like he handed you glittering jewels, your eyes already welling up.
Setting the plate on the counter quickly, you throw your arms around Tucker. “Thank you.”
“It’s just a plate of eggs and toast,” he chuckles, but his arms tighten against you anyway.
“I know.” You pull away from him slowly after giving him one last squeeze. “But you made it for me.”
The two of you chat for a bit longer, before the rest of the Villa starts waking up and you leave him to start on his own breakfast as you head up to the dressing room to get ready for the day.
You need to take a steadying breath to collect yourself before opening the door. An uncomfortable air hangs over the room, the usually loud conversations and laughter now just quiet whispers. All the girls look up when you come in.
“Oh my god,” Allie scrambles out of her stool, nearly tripping as she rushes over to pull you into a bear hug. “I wanted to check on you last night, but Garrett said you needed some space.”
You have to hold your plate out awkwardly not to get egg on her, but she doesn’t let go. You shoot Hannah a grateful smile as she takes it from you, setting it down before she too joins the hug.
“I missed you last night, it was weird not being able to roll over and talk to you.”
“Genuinely.” Dionne nods, and now you’re being hugged tightly by all three girls in the doorway of the dressing room. “Next time you wanna sleep outside, we’re having a sleepover.”
Yet again, your eyes well up and you bury your face in Allie’s shoulder. “Guys…”
At the sound of your tears, Allie pulls away, cupping your face and wiping your cheeks. “Uh-uh, no more crying, we all did enough of that last night. Today we’re bad bitches who don’t need no man.”
You laugh, nodding in agreement.
“How are you feeling?” Hannah squeezes your hand.
“I’ve been better,” you shrug. “But Tucker made me eggs and they’re really good.”
Your eyes drift to Meg, who’s sitting at one of the farther away vanities, straightening her hair. When she feels your gaze, she looks up and forces a small, awkward smile.
“Hey…”
“Hi,” you clear your throat.
You offer nothing else, picking up your eggs again and sitting down to get ready.
The realization that Meg had not only done nothing to defend you from the way Joe was speaking about you, but had also snuck around with him behind your back had hurt more than you thought it would. Meg wasn’t your closest friend in the Villa, but you thought that you were friends enough that she wouldn’t do something like that to you. The fact that she had wasn’t something you were ready to unpack with her this early in the morning, but you also weren’t ready to pretend everything was fine. So, for now, you have nothing to say to her.
If the other girls notice the awkward tension they don’t say anything. Instead, Allie turns to you. “Okay, now that you’re here we can tell you everything that happened last night.”
“What happened?”
“Well, for starters, basically every couple is on the rocks right now. Me and Sean slept with a pillow wall—,”
“And Justin and I slept so far apart, you could’ve fit another person between us,” Hannah winces.
You send her an apologetic smile as Allie continues. “Yeah, no one was really getting loved up last night. But what we did get was a front row seat to Garrett threatening the ever-living shit out of Joe.”
Your mouth parts in shock.
“Oh, he was pissed,” Dionne lets out a breath at the memory. “I thought for sure the producers were gonna have to separate them or something.”
“Was it that bad?”
Hannah hesitates. “It wasn’t great. But maybe you should talk to Garrett about it.”
You nod thoughtfully, deciding not to push for more, and reach for your sunscreen. “Did he tell you guys about the recoupling?”
“Yes.” Allie groans, dramatically dropping her face into her hands. “I’m so fucked, dude.”
The conversation devolves into you all stressing about tonight and no one comments when Meg finishes up quickly and leaves the room.
“Favorite childhood movie?”
“...What?”
Garrett lifts his head slightly to look at you from where he’s sprawled out on one of the bean bags.
“What’s your favorite movie from when you were a kid?” You ask again, perched in a bean bag of your own.
He pushes himself up to be able to look at you from a better angle and quirks a brow at you. “Why do you wanna know?”
“I think it can tell you a lot about a person,” you sniff.
Garrett nods slowly. “What’s yours then?”
“No, you have to go first?”
“What? Why?”
“Because, if I go first, you’ll just copy my answer,” you tell him pointedly. “I’ll say mine after.”
Garrett rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but complies. He’s silent for several moments before, finally, he says, “Toy Story.”
You hum.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you smile. “It’s a good answer.”
“Yeah? You gonna tell me what it means?” He asks, rolling slightly on his bean bag to face you better.
“Nope.”
Garrett raises his brows in mild surprise, but by now he knows better than to argue with you on it. Instead he relaxes again, letting the Fiji sun warm his skin. “Fine. Are you gonna say yours now?”
“Shrek 2.”
“What?” Garrett chokes out a laugh.
“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, Garrett!” You exclaim. “And it’s one of the few times in the history of ever that a sequel was better than the original.”
“Wow,” Garrett looks deeply amused. “You’re really gonna say something like that on national television?”
“Yeah, because I’m right. America will agree with me, you’ll see.” You fold your arms over your chest proudly.
Like most since he entered the Villa, your morning had been quite Garrett-filled. But today especially, the two of you were almost inseparable—which was almost entirely Garrett’s doing when he first noticed Joe approaching you.
You’d spent the morning avoiding Joe like the plague. The few times he awkwardly approached you—hoping to pull you for a chat after everything that had happened at Movie Night—you shut him down firmly, telling him that you had absolutely nothing you wanted to say to him. And, of course, the fact that Garrett was standing less than a foot away leveling him with a pointed glare had also helped in getting Joe to leave you alone.
But now things with Garrett have also become a bit complicated. Something had changed between you last night, the secret crush you had on him since he entered the Villa now blossoming into something far more serious. And part of you felt like maybe he felt the same, with the way his gaze would linger, or when he’d sit a bit closer to you than necessary. But then the image of him and Hannah on their picnic date would pop into your head and you’d falter.
There was something about his relationship with Hannah that you couldn’t really read—and were too scared to ask about. And, while you would never be upset at either of them for exploring a connection, you didn’t want to get your hopes up if he was going to stand in front of the fire pit tonight and choose her.
With the announcement of the recoupling, you had realized that your options were looking pretty bleak. You hadn’t made a connection with any of the other guys and the fear of feeling heartbroken and humiliated for the second time in 24 hours had you forcing yourself to accept that Garrett was going to pick Hannah tonight. You decided that your best case scenario was to form a friendship couple with Tucker and hope that more bombshells would arrive before the next recoupling.
Still, when Garrett spent the whole day with you on the bean bags and looked at you like that, it was hard not to have a little hope.
The evening comes quicker than any of you are ready for and, all too soon, Ariana Madix is walking into the Villa with a professional smile, waving at you all as you stand by the fire pit.
“Hi, Islanders!”
You all give her a short form of greeting.
“I heard that last night, things got a bit… intense,” she gives you all a knowing look and clasps her hands together. “And a lot of you are in complicated places with your partners right now. But tonight, you’ll get the chance to open yourself up to new opportunities and explore different connections you may have overlooked or,” she looks between you all, “maybe it’ll show you that your current connection is worth continuing.”
Next to you, Allie shifts nervously. You try to catch her eye, but she’s too lost in her head to notice.
“Garrett,” Ariana turns to the brunet standing on his own. “This is your first chance to couple up in the Villa, how are you feeling?”
“Uh, I’m ready, I think.” Garrett scratches the back of his neck. “I know what I want, so I’m just hoping it goes the way I want it to.”
You spare a glance at Hannah and worry your bottom lip through your teeth.
Ariana smiles at him gently. “Well, hopefully you’ll leave this fire pit very happy tonight. However… Tonight’s recoupling has a bit of a twist.”
Her eyes sparkle with excitement as you and the other Islanders glance between yourselves.
“As you all learned last night, there’s a lot going on in this Villa that you don’t know about. Luckily for you, there is a group of people who have been able to see everything.” Ariana pauses in suspense. “...And tonight, instead of you choosing who you’ll couple up with, it’ll be up to them. America has been voting for which Islanders they want to see coupled up together and that’s who you’ll be leaving the fire pit with tonight.”
Soft sounds of surprise leave you all as suddenly any assurance any of you had for tonight is thrown out the window. You do your best not to drop to your knees and plead with America to not keep you coupled up with Joe.
Ariana claps her hands together, clearly pleased by the looks on all of your faces. “So, let’s get started, shall we?”
The recoupling feels like both the slowest and fastest moment of your life, and the longer you’re forced to stand there and not know your fate, the more you want it to be over. Ariana starts with Allie first, announcing that America chose to keep her coupled up with Sean. Allie almost looks genuinely relieved by this, holding Sean’s hand gratefully. Next, it’s Meg and Joe, which has you relieved because at least now you know for certain that whoever you end up with won’t be him.
Somewhat surprisingly, America chooses to couple Tucker and Dionne together. The two of them look at each other with a hesitant kind of surprise, but don’t seem to flat out reject the idea. When you catch their eye, you send both of them a congratulatory thumbs up. Dionne gives you a knowing look and mouths “Get ready, babe”.
Only five Islanders are standing single by the fire pit—you, Hannah, Garrett, Justin, and Paul. You look between Justin and Paul, trying to figure out which one of them America had paired you up with. You weren’t exactly excited about either option.
“And the last two couples America has voted for are…” Ariana lets a poignant pause hang over you all for several seconds.
“Justin and Hannah and Garrett and Y/N!”
Your eyes widen in surprise as the other Islanders applaud and you miss the smile on Garrett’s face as he comes over to you, wrapping you in a hug.
“Hey,” he greets you gently.
“H-Hey.” You have to clear your throat to get the word out, wrapping your own arms around him hesitantly.
Before either of you can say anything else, Ariana turns her attention to Paul.
“Paul, as you were the only boy to not receive enough votes to couple up with any of the girls, you are now single and at risk of being dumped from the Island.”
She says a few more things to you all—probably some advice and good luck for your couples—but you can’t really focus on it as you keep stealing glances at Garrett. Somewhere in all of this, he’s grabbed your hand, his fingers warm wrapped around yours. You feel nervous. And you try to tell yourself not to be, because it’s just Garrett, but something about being in an actual couple with him feels much higher stakes than the friendship you’ve been forming over the past few days.
It certainly doesn’t help that you became a couple through a fan vote, instead of him actually choosing you. What if he wasn’t planning on choosing you? What if he only thinks of you as a friend and the only reason he likes hanging out with you is because he doesn’t want to explore a connection? What if—?
“Hey,” Garrett interrupts your spiraling thoughts. “You wanna go talk somewhere?”
You force yourself to nod. “Sure…”
You let Garrett lead you to the Speakeasy—your hand still wrapped in his—and every step makes your body feel more and more like a live wire. You feel genuinely sick when you enter the Speakeasy, sitting down as Garrett closes the door behind you both.
“I’m—,”
“It’s okay if you just want to be friends.” You blurt out.
“—Really—What?” Garrett’s entire face scrunches in confusion, his curls bouncing slightly as he cocks his head.
You shrug timidly, looking down at your fingers. “I know that you didn’t really get to choose this, so it’s okay if you’re not, like, into it or just want to be friends…”
When he doesn’t speak for several seconds, you look up to see that he’s staring at you in disbelief.
“You actually think I don’t want you?” Garrett asks incredulously. “I—Just—Okay.” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and middle finger before returning his gaze to you. “Listen, I feel like you should know that I didn’t watch the show before coming in here.”
“...Okay?”
“No, I—Fuck, that didn’t make any sense, sorry—,” He winces, flexing his fingers, suddenly nervous. “What I mean is that I didn’t know who you were before Hannah brought me back to the Villa. Honestly, the only thing they really showed me was Hannah’s introduction video and asked if I’d want to go on a date with her—which, Hannah’s a great girl and everything—But, what I’m trying to say is that it would have been you. If I knew you were here, I would’ve wanted to go on that date with you.”
You blink as you process his words. “Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh’. And what I was going to say when we got in here was that I was happy that America coupled us up together because I was planning on picking you tonight anyway. Unless… I mean, unless you just want to be friends. Which is fine—,”
“No!” You interrupt. “I don’t want to be friends—Or I do, I’m not saying you’re a bad friend. You’re a great friend! And I really like being your friend! I just—I mean, we could—,” Your face feels like it’s on fire and it certainly doesn’t help that your rambling has caused an amused smile to grow on Garrett’s. You close your mouth and take a breath. “I’m happy we’re in a couple too.”
“Well, that’s good. Because otherwise that would make what I’m about to do really awkward.”
His eyes fall to your lips and, though it’s obvious what he’s thinking, he still leans in slowly enough for you to shut him down if you want to. You don’t—in fact, you’re a bit too eager, borderline lunging at him with enough force that it knocks you both over onto the cushions as your lips connect. You feel him chuckle against your mouth, though he quickly gets more distracted at the feeling of your hands in his hair and your body against his.
One of his hands travels up and down your back, kneading and grasping at any part of you he can reach, while his other arm wraps around your shoulder blades and pulls you in closer. His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that seems like it’s growing more and more insatiable with every passing second. His hand can’t decide where it wants to be, the one that’s not holding you to him moving from your back, to your ass, to the thighs you have thrown over his hips, to cupping your cheek, tracing the skin with soothing motions of his thumb.
When the need for air—and the very real possibility that, if the two of you continue, you may actually have sex with this man in the Speakeasy—becomes too much to ignore, you pull away. His chest is heaving slightly and his lips are shimmering with saliva and your lip gloss. You’re sure yours don’t look much better because Garrett’s thumb is gently rubbing smudged lip liner from your chin.
He smiles up at you, letting his hand move from your chin to gently grasping your jaw. “You’re an idiot.”
Your mouth drops open in protest. “I thought you were just being nice!”
“And I thought I told you I’m not nice. But it’s okay, I know I’m a better active listener than you—Hey!” Garrett cuts himself off with a laugh when you whack him with a pillow.
“You better not snore.”
“Just because we haven’t shared a bed before, doesn’t mean we haven’t been sleeping in the same room. You’d know if I snore by now.”
Your response to Garrett’s annoyingly strong argument is to stick your tongue out at him as you fluff your pillows to your liking. He takes it in stride, lifting up the corner of the blanket to get into bed and under the covers with you.
“What about you? Got any weird sleep things I should know about?”
You freeze, looking down bashfully. “I… I have–sometimes–been known to sleep talk…”
“Mm.” Garrett’s biting back a smile when you look back up.
“Hey,” you point at him accusingly. “You said you like listening to me talk—,”
“I do.”
“—So really you should be happy—,”
“I am.”
“—And not… I don’t like arguing with you if you’re just gonna agree with me the whole time.”
Garrett raises his brows teasingly, stretching an arm behind his head as he settles on the pillows. “We’re arguing right now?”
You narrow your eyes at him before flipping away from him and bringing the blanket up to your shoulders. “I’m going to bed.”
“Hey, wait,” Garrett laughs, a strong arm wrapping around your middle and pulling your back to his chest. “‘M sorry. Keep yellin’ at me, baby, I’ll be a better arguer.”
You’re glad you’re facing away from him because the pet name, paired with his gravely night voice, is doing things to you that you are stubbornly trying to ignore. “I wasn’t yelling at you, I was talking with conviction.”
“You’re right—I mean… That’s just a word lawyers made up to get away with yelling.” Garrett corrects himself.
His words cause you to snort out a laugh and he knows that he’s won, using the arm around you to help coax you to turn over and face him again. When you do so, he looks down at you, eyes softening as he takes in the features of your face and his fingers trace soft patterns on your bare shoulder.
“You look cute in my bed,” he murmurs.
You blink up at him with the same amount of softness, biting back a smile as you shake your head. “Actually, it’s my bed.” You reach between the two of you where Snowy had gotten wedged between the pillows, pulling her out and presenting her to Garrett proudly. “We were here first.”
Garrett takes the stuffed white tiger from you carefully, her body flopping limply in his grip due to the amount her stuffing had deflated over time. He lifts the stuffed animal to his ear before nodding solemnly.
“She said she wants us to cuddle tonight.”
You bark out a laugh. “Snowy did not say that.”
“Snowy most certainly did.” He turns to pretend to listen to her again, before turning both of their heads back to look at you. “She thinks you should be the little spoon.”
With the hand he has holding her head, he makes Snowy nod in agreement.
You’re still laughing as you take your stuffed animal back from him. “You’re telling me Garrett Graham isn’t a little spoon guy?”
“He’s multifaceted. But I would hate to disrespect Snowy in her own bed, so I think we should accommodate her wishes.” Garrett shuffles down so that he’s lying more comfortably flat, pulling the blanket up so that it’s better covering you both.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re grinning and scooting closer into Garrett’s warm chest as he presses a sweet kiss to the top of your head.
The rest of the Islanders settle in, everyone calling out short ‘goodnight’s as the large lights of the bedroom turn off. You close your eyes and, for the first time since you got here, go to sleep genuinely excited for what this new connection will bring.
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
summary: you and george become best friends after a poorly timed prank. george has been pestering you for weeks to stay with him at the Burrow for a weekend over the holidays, and you finally cave.
cw: smut (MDNI 18+), dead parents, pining, Percy being a weirdo, quidditch injury and bruising, george still has two ears and a twin, lots of dirty talk and petnames, equal parts fluff and smut
an: george and reader are over eighteen in this fic. timeline is def wrong. but who caaaaaaares bc it's not me!
masterlist
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
“C’mon, feathers,” George begged, shifting from his place on the couch to kneeling on the floor in front of you. “I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”
“George, I don’t—”
“Would I ever put you in harm’s way?”
You scoffed. “Well, there was the time you lit my potions homework on fire, and the time you transfigured my chocolate frog into an actual frog. Or the time you and Fred—”
“Besides that!” He huffed, resting his chin on your knees, blinking up at you with round eyes. “Pleeeeaaasssseee, y/n? Come to the Burrow with me.”
You sighed, ignoring the way the Gryffindor common room fireplace made his brown eyes almost golden, freshly brewed espresso with nutty foam. You couldn’t deny George was handsome, most girls at Hogwarts fawned over him or his twin, or both. But George was your friend, as you often repeated to yourself in moments like these, when that mischievous smirk softened to a smile just for you.
“Bloody hell. Fine!” You shoved him off of you to escape his puppy-eyed trap.
“Yes!” He whooped, jumping to his feet. “It’s about time my mum meets my best girl—shit!”
You chucked your Potions books at his head. “Not your girl,” you huffed.
“Says you,” he teased, returning the book to you before flopping back down on the red couch, legs draped across your lap.
“Read the damn pages, Weasley.”
You tried to reimmerse yourself in your studies, but can’t seem to fall back into the reading, losing track of each sentence before it’s finished. George had been pestering you for weeks to spend a portion of the upcoming holiday break with him at the Weasley household, and up until now, you’d successfully resisted. But then he found out your grandparents were going on a trip to Spain for two weeks and became unbearable.
When George set his mind to something, he was stubborn as an ox.
And, despite yourself, you wanted to spend a few more days with him. You loved the Weasley siblings you’d met at school, and heard countless tales of Molly Weasley’s unbelievable Sunday roasts. It couldn’t be that bad, could it?
You were reserved by a nature, a studious and creative Ravenclaw from a muggle household. All things that stood at odds with one, ginger-haired George Weasley. But when a prank in fourth year set for Professor Snape backfired on you, his top student, and ruined your robes, the twins felt so awful they’d taken you to the Three Broomsticks for what George dubbed a “Butterbeer of Forgiveness”.
An unexpected friendship bloomed, and you’d been close with the twin’s ever since, George in particular. You loved Fred, and had countless memories with him, but you and George connected on a deeper level. From the moment you’d met, it was as if you’d always known one another. You could read him almost as well as Fred could, and George could read you better than anyone.
It was unnerving, exhilirating, and by far the most important relationship in your young life. Which is why you squashed any wandering thought about his freckles, his jawline, the way his forearms flexed while he read, or the way his chest heaved after a Quidditch match, his hands spidered with veins after hours of gripping the Beater’s Bat.
And when he called you things like his ‘best girl’, it turned your knees to jelly, your mind inside out. There was no way you’d finish your work now.
“I’m going back to the Tower. I have no idea how you Gryffindor’s get any work done with all this gold.” You stuffed your books into you back and stood, adjusting your robes.
“I’ll walk you,” George said, tossing his book aside. It looked like he hadn’t made any progress either.
“No, no. Finish your work. I’ll meet you in the Great Hall for breakfast, bags packed.”
“It’s a date!” He called as you walk away, and you can practically hear the grin on his face.
“Not a date!” You tossed over your shoulder as you stepped through the portrait.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
“My darlings!” Molly cooed, collecting her youngest two children into a massive hug at the train station terminal. You hid behind George, hoping somehow that she’d overlook your presence entirely. But of course, George wasn’t having it.
“Mum, this is y/n!” He grabbed you by the shoulders and thrust you out in front.
“George,” you hissed, but Molly was already upon you.
“Oh, y/n! I’ve heard so much about you! It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. We were absolutely delighted when George’s letter arrived telling us you’d be accompanying him,” she chirped, fussing with your h/c hair and blue and bronze scarf.
“It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Weasley,” you said, smiling at her and her quieter husband, who was busy chatting with Harry and Ron.
George slung an arm over your shoulder, wafting his cinnamon-y cologne over you. “Shall we?”
You scowled up at him as he dragged you along behind his family, oblivious to your hesitation, or willfully ignoring it.
The crowded car ride home was chaotic, with everyone speaking loudly over one another, George and Fred the loudest of all in either ear, and by the time you arrived, you heart was thrumming loudly in your head, your chest tight with anxiety.
All you could think about was throwing yourself out of the car door and running back to Hogwarts on foot.
Everyone poured out of the car, bounding across the lawn and up to the slightly crooked, red-roofed home, smoke buffeting cheerfully from the many chimneys.
“Y/n?” George said, pausing when he realized you weren’t in step beside him. Something in your expression gave you away, and his smile fell. “Hey, what is it?” he asked, jogging back towards you and placing his hands on your arms.
“I, it’s…” words failed you as emotion pinched your throat.
“Too much?” he asked, giving you a sympathetic smile.
You nodded, shame scorching your cheeks as you looked down at your feet. The tips of his boots were touching yours, so much larger, a worn brown leather juxtaposing your shining black.
“It’s going to be alright, love,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to warm you up. “It means a lot to me that you’re here, even if it’s a bit overwhelming. But, hey—” he tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at his handsome, wind-bitten face. “They love you already.”
“You told them about me?” You asked, your nerves alchemizing from wasps to butterflies.
“Of course I did.” He chuckled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They’re probably sick to death of hearing about you, honestly.”
“Like how I’ve been tutoring you in Potions for two years?” you taunted.
“I’m sure they assumed after I told them your were the brightest witch in our year.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, ginger hair falling across his brow, and your heart gave a new sort of thump. One that made you a bit queasy with it’s intensity.
“I don’t know about brightest,” you argued as he tucked you under his arm once again, leading you toward the open front door.
“I do,” he murmured, ushering you inside and into his mother’s waiting embrace.
“C’mere, sweetheart. Help me with these rolls.” She tugged you down the hall, leaving George to be ambushed by his brothers.
“Who’s the eagle?” You heard what you assumed it be the eldest ask before you were whisked into the hearth-like kitchen.
Twenty minutes later and you were back at George’s side, sandwiched between him and Ginny at the dinner table, while everyone fought for a foothold in the conversation.
George’s thigh was warm against your own, familiar and grounding, and you resisted the urge to lean into him fully for shelter. Dutifully, he started filling both of your plates as dishes went by, allowing you to sit and take it all in. He snagged the bowl of garlic potatoes from Ron and added a giant scoop to your plate, knowing they were your favorite.
“Thank you,” you mumbled to him, and he gave your shoulder a light bump in response.
“So, y/n. George mentioned you’re a Potions whiz?” Arthur asked through a mouthful of roll.
Heat crept up your neck as everyone’s attention swiveled to you. “It’s my favorite subject, yes sir,” you answered sheepishly.
“She passed her Potions O.W.L. in fourth year,” George said proudly, beaming down at you. “She’s onto custom lesson plans with Snivelus now.”
“George!” Molly corrected, but he only laughed.
“That’s impressive,” Percy said, nodding at you from across the table. “Brilliant and beautiful.”
“I, uh, thanks,” you stutter, stuffing a forkful of potatoes into your mouth.
George stiffened, but his smile never wavered. “That she is.”
“So, what do your parents do? Were they in Ravenclaw as well?” Arthur asked.
The blood drained from your face. You had so hoped this wouldn’t come up.
George’s hand fell onto your leg, his long fingers looping around your pinky and twining your hand with his. “She lives with her grandparents. Muggles,” George said, the finality in his tone ensuring there would be no further questions.
Arthur stuttered an apology, and the rest of the table looked away nervously. But Molly smiled proudly at her son, a slightly flush to her round cheeks.
Again, your heart gave that brutal pang, and your hand squeezed his a little more tightly.
The meal continued on, and you blessedly fell into the background while the other’s talked about their work and the school year. Or, you at least thought you fell into the background, but every time you glanced up, you found Percy’s gaze lingering on you, hawkish.
You had met the third eldest brother on many occasions, as he often escorted you from the Gryffindor common room to the Tower when curfew struck. But he’d never looked at you like that. And frankly, it made your skin crawl.
You weren’t naive. You knew you were beautiful, intelligent, witty, all of the things that drew a wandering eye. But Percy was far from someone you’d be interested in. And you were here with George, after all, even if it was for purely platonic reasons.
You shifted a little when Percy’s gaze lingered a fraction too long, and accidentally alerted George to your discomfort. He leaned down towards you, his height ensuring your head barely reached his shoulder.
“Okay, feathers?” He murmured, but caught Percy flinching his gaze away at the same moment. “Percy bothering you?” he whispered, and you shook your head no. An obvious lie by the way you shifted marginally closer to George when Percy’s gaze returned. “I’ll handle it.” George straightened, slipping back into his ongoing conversation with Fred and Charlie, but you felt his hand skim past your leg, brushing against your calf as he reached for his wand.
The contact sent a tremor through your muscles, your nerves stretching towards every point of contact with him until it was all you could think about.
“George, what are you—”
He coughed something that sounded an awful lot like ‘incendio’ into his elbow, wand hand flicking under the table at the same moment. Percy leapt up, the crotch of his trousers igniting with flame.
Everyone but you and the twins scrambled up, Molly quickly tossing the cauldron of water at Percy’s pants.
“Could’ve been a little more subtle,” Fred chastised George with a smirk.
“I wasn’t going for subtlety,” George replied. “I was going for ‘burning his bollocks off’.”
You hide your snicker behind your hand, the last of your anxiety unraveling. George was with you, you were safe.
Once the fire was out, dinner was disbanded with the twins being sentenced to dishes duty, since it had to be one of them that set their brother’s trousers on fire. You were whisked off on a house tour by Ginny, who eagerly showed you the in’s and out’s of the Burrow until you were dragging your feet, eyes heavy with exhaustion. But you had to admit that you were feeling more at ease, the Burrow and it’s residents wrapping around you like a favorite blanket.
You collapsed into bed just after midnight, a flickering glow in your chest, and a red-haired trickster in your thoughts.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Two more days passed at the Weasley residence, filled with games, oversized meals, books, and antics. There was never a dull moment with the twins and Charlie around.
But the best part, by far, was watching George’s mischevious walls come down, and seeing the softer, more relaxed version of him step forth. He was a devoted brother and son, often forgoing his own needs to help his mother reach something in the kitchen, or offer Ron a bit of girl advice. He spent many hours in deep conversation with is father and older brothers, speaking to a wide breadth of subjects you had no idea he had any knowledge about.
George, that bottomless bundle of fizzing energy, seemed even more lively around his favorite people, his heart on full display. And, if you were honest, it was doing funny things to your head and heart.
You found yourself searching for his eyes across the room, smiling at silly things he’d said hours prior, ghosting your fingers over the places he’d brushed against you while passing by. You’d even take a whiff of his coat when he’d come in after a walk with Charlie and tossed it onto the banister.
He seemed older somehow, more mature than you’d ever given him credit for, and it was undoing the years of resolve you’d cultivated to preserve your friendship.
It didn’t help that he constantly referred to you as ‘his girl’, and any number of tooth-aching pet names. Could he really mean it? You always assumed it was part of some joke you were the butt of, but now…
“George and y/n!” Molly called across the dinner table, breaking you from your thoughts. “Dishes, please!”
Your heart skipped a beat. You and George hadn’t had a moment alone since you’d arrived, and you were eager to soak up some undivided attention.
“Yes, ma’am,” George said cheerfully, rising to start collecting the plates. You hopped up to join him, and everyone else filtered out of the kitchen, arguing about what game to play that evening.
You scrapped while he scrubbed, and fell into easy conversation about the past few days.
“My mum really loves you, y’know,” he said, dunking a plate under the soapy water. “Dad too. He was raving about your thoughts on electric kettles yesterday.”
“I like them a lot too,” you replied, turning to hide your blush while tossing a half-eaten roll in the bin.
“Yeah?” he asked, glancing down at you. “I really hope you’re enjoying yourself. I know I sort of forced you to come, and then you were so anxious. And I know the house is loud and drafty, and the meals are a bit chaotic, and fucking Percy can’t keep his damn eyes to himself—”
Not knowing how else to soothe his worries, you stood on your toes and pressed a kiss into his cheek, derailing his rant into stunned silence.
“I’m really glad you brought me, Georgie,” you said, holding his wide-eyed expression for a moment before reaching for another dish.
He caught your wrist in his soapy hand, turning you back towards him. Your heart leapt into your throat at the intensity of his gaze, his jaw feathering with tension as his eyes searched your face. They were so dark, nearly black from his dilated pupils. His dry hand rose slowly, as if afraid you might startle. He dragged the back of his fingers along your cheek before sliding them into the hair at the nape of your neck.
“Tell me if I’ve misread this,” he murmured, tilting your head up towards him, his lips close enough that you could feel his warm breath across your skin. “Tell me to stop.”
Your heart galloped away, your mind turning to goo as the full scope of his longing came into focus. Heat unspooled through you at the way he angled your head to accommodate his towering frame, in complete control, but giving you every opportunity to stop him.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you gave a small shake of your head. No, please don’t stop.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his nose brushing against yours as he drew you closer. You pressed your body to his, desperate for his solidity, his warmth, as you trembled with anticipation. He guided your hand to rest around his neck, and you dug your fingers into his hair.
“George,” you breathed, his name a plea, a desperate prayer.
He closed the last millimeter of distance, caressing your lips with his, a delicate, wishful kiss. More cautious than you’d ever seen him. You tightened your grip on his hair, rising onto your toes to kiss him back a bit harder.
You felt the tension in his body unwind and his hand grasped your waist, his tongue sliding along your lower lip, teasing, promising, and your bones turned to mush, your lower belly fluttering with excitement.
“Ahem,” someone cleared their throat and you sprang away from George, grabbing a plate as if they hadn’t seen what you were doing. Bill leaned against the doorway, a knowing smirk on his face. “Father has requested that y/n joins him for a cuppa before the chess tourney begins. Something about doorbells?”
“Oh! Of course!” You replied, dropping the dish into the sink and drying your hands on the towel over the stove. “Thanks, Bill!” You hurry past the eldest Weasley son, cheeks absolutely flaming.
You could barely hold a conversation with Arthur, to fixated on the way your body hummed in the wake of his son’s touch. You were eager to finish what you’d started, but by the time you and Arthur emerged from his study, George was wrapped up in a game of Wizard’s Chess with Ron.
George’s eyes tracked you as you moved into the room, perching on an armchair by the fireplace. Bill shook his head, elbowing Charlie, who chuckled into his whiskey.
“Y/n, want to play against me?” Fred asked from his spot on the floor, crisscross in front of a chessboard on the coffee table.
“Sure,” you said, happy for the distraction.
“Losers rotate out until the winners from each table play one another,” Fred explained as you sat across from him. “Percy always wins, but he’s sulking in his room.” Fred winked, and you stuck your tongue out at him.
Quickly, you lose yourself in the game, and it doesn’t take long before you have Fred’s Queen cornered, a path to victory clear. In a final move, you take Fred’s Queen and win the game in ten minutes flat.
“Merlin, she kicked your ass!” Ron shouted, and the room bursts into laughter.
You flushed under the praise and start reorganizing the pieces. Despite yourself, your eyes flicked toward George, but found he was already looking at you, a warmth in his dark eyes that made your hands quit working, and you knocked over the piece you just arranged.
“My turn!” Ginny said, shoving Fred out of the way.
“Anyone need anything from the kitchen?” George asked, rising to his feet after swiftly defeating Harry.
A chorus of no’s rang out, but you’re already absorbed into the game, finding that Ginny was much better at chess than Fred. You started to make your third move, finding an opening, when you felt a calloused hand brush along the side of your neck, sliding beneath your hair to rest heavily against your skin.
“Need anything, love?” George whispered in your ear, and the blood rushed from your head, leaving you vaguely dizzy, eyes sparkling when you blinked up at him.
“N-no, I’m fine. Thank you,” you stuttered.
“A tea would be nice, darling brother!” Ginny said, jerking you back to the present, and the move you forgot entirely.
“Coming right up.” George’s hand squeezed your neck lightly before falling away, and he disappeared into the kitchen.
The rest of the night carried on like that, lingering glances and scalding touches, the heat between the two of you bordering on incendiary.
You were taking a small break from kicking Weasley ass when Percy emerged from his room, leveling a challenging glare at George. “I’ll take next round,” he said, fixing Charlie with a look.
“Fine.” George made his final move, knocking over Charlie’s queen. “Have a seat.”
Charlie vacated the spot, muttering something about ‘fucking dorks’, and Percy sat across from his younger brother. The energy shifted in the room, going from jovial and teasing to almost hostile. Weasley’s were competitive by nature, the twins in particular, but the tension heightened considerably beyond that as they sized each other up.
Piece by piece, they started moving around the board, an even match as far as you could tell. But based on the murmurings of the family, Percy was off his game a bit, and you had a feeling it had something to do with the way his eyes kept drifting back towards you.
Interesting, you thought, rising from your place on the couch to circle their table, feigning curiosity in the game. Percy visibly tensed, his eyes darting from you to the board and back again. George, however, relaxed, his typical cocky demeanor easing back into his body language.
Thanks to your distraction, Percy missed an easy move, giving George the first upper hand of the game. You leaned a bit into Percy’s space, and his hands began to tremble. When you walked away, he compensated for his hesitation with a rash move, exposing his Queen.
You knew George noted it but he opted for a subtler move, then leaned back in his chair to watch Percy squirm, a slight smirk on his face. When Percy realized what he’d done, he flushed with irritation, his shoulders squared and tight.
And for my final move…
You leaned down to George, nearly resting your chin on his shoulder. His spiced cologne greeted you, tinged with the cinnamon punch of the firewhiskey he’d been sipping on throughout the games. “I didn’t know you were so good at Wizard’s Chess,” you murmured, close enough that your lips grazed the shell of his ear.
His smirk grew as Percy fidgeted, unable to pick a move, struggling to not stare down your sweater. “I have many talents you’ve yet to experience,” he replied, voice low enough that only you could hear him. A thrill rushed through you, so you bowed out before you took things too far, leaving George to deal the killing blow.
Shortly after, you won your final match against Bill, who you suspected threw the game in your favor, and suddenly it was you sitting across from George, the whole family crowded around the table, watching with bated breath.
“Hello, darling,” George cooed, smiling.
“Weasley,” you clipped, all business.
His eyes flashed at the challenge, and he took a slow sip of whiskey. “Ladies first,” he said, setting the glass down.
You started him off easy, confident that you had this in the bag. George was smart, but most of his skill came from his ability to disarm, not his ability to play chess. You, as it so happened, were skilled at both.
It didn’t take long for George’s cocky smirk to fall, his brow to knit together with focus as you guided him slowly into a trap of your own design.
His brow suddenly quirked up, the corner of his mouth lifting, you knew you’d been caught.
“Clever girl,” he purred, moving his Rook and collapsing the trap you’d spent ten rounds constructing. “Almost had me,” he taunted, leaning back in his chair. His legs reached all the way across to yours in his languid position, his sock feet tapping absently against the legs of your chair.
You only hummed in response, crossing your legs. While searching the board, you stretched your stocking-covered foot towards him, sliding it along the inside of his calf. His muscles tensed for a moment, his eyes widening a fraction, before he settled down, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes.
You made your move, but didn’t stop dragging your foot up and along his knee, skimming his inner thigh. He sat up a little straighter, narrowing his eyes at the board, and you expected him to make his move, when you feel a hand clasp around your ankle, his touch a brand even through your thick stockings. His eyes lifted to yours, and the hunger in them stole your breath.
You’d never seen your sweet, good-natured friend look so menacing.
“I should know better than to play chess with a Ravenclaw,” he said, making a weak play with a pawn. “Starting to feel like I don’t stand a chance.”
His family laughed, reminding you that you were, in fact, completely surrounded by his parents and siblings, and you dropped your foot. That fucking trickster, he knew exactly how to get under your skin.
“I don’t know,” you said, stealing the pawn and trapping his King. “You’re doing better than I expected for a younger twin.”
A chorus off oooh’s met your dig, and George huffed a laugh before freeing his King. “You’ll regret that,” he warned with a devilish smile.
“And you’ll regret that.” George fell right into your trap. You skirted his King, stealing his Queen right out from under him. His jaw dropped, and the family erupted into cheers.
“We have a new champion!” Molly cheered, hauling you up to celebrate.
You grinned, allowing them to parade you around. George smiled up at you, a real, proud smile, and it made your stomach somersault. Then, the grandfather clock chimed midnight, rattling the house on it’s structure.
“Alright, enough excitement! Everyone off to bed!” Molly ordered. George’s eyes locked on you, gauging what you would do next. For the first time, you cursed sharing a room with Ginny, and cursed Fred for being born.
As everyone grabbed their things and scattered off to bed, George managed to catch you at the second stair landing before Ginny’s room, startling you.
“Well played, feathers,” he said, brushing his fingertips over your forearm as he looks up at you.
“You were a formiddable opponent.” You shivered under his touch, the heat from earlier instantly flaring back to life.
He stepped up a stair, bringing himself a head taller than you, close enough that you could smell the fire whiskey on his lips.
Could I taste it too?
“Goodnight, love.” He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before breezing past you and bounding up the next set of steps to his shared room with Fred.
You leaned against the wall to catch your breath, heart pounding in your chest. This was not the turn you expected this trip to take, but you couldn’t pretend that a part of you hadn’t wished for it. That it wasn’t why you tried so hard to avoid the trip all together.
But now that you and George had crossed that line, you couldn’t imagine what you’d been so afraid of. You only wished you’d done it sooner.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
The following morning, you’re one of the last to drift down to the kitchen, having spent most of the night tossing and turning, too worked up to sleep properly. You rounded the corner and come to a stop, surprised to find George alone in the kitchen.
“Morning,” he said with a lazy smile.
“Good morning.” You padded towards him, accepting the coffee cup from his outstretched hand. “How’d you sleep?” you asked, blowing gently on the steaming brew.
“Didn’t,” he said, shifting closer to you. His hair was still a little messy from sleep, or lackthereof, his expression soft and voice gravelly.
“Why not?” You asked, taking a tentative sip before setting the mug down on the counter.
“Couldn’t stop thinking...” He dipped his head towards you, his nose brushing your temple.
“About?” The word came out breathless, the coil of want you'd been battling all night tightening with a vengeance.
“What it would feel like to kiss you again,” he murmured, kicking your heart into overdrive.
“And why don’t you?” Your hand creeped along his t-shirt, feeling the muscles along his abdomen sculpted by years of Quiddtich.
“Gotta set up the pitch. We’re playing this afternoon.” His demeanor shifted, all playful and energetic innocence. “See you out there!” He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, then hurried outside, leaving you wet and bewildered in the overheated kitchen.
An hour later, you were perched precariously on an old broom, knuckles white from gripping it so hard. Ginny rocketed past you with ease, nearly throwing you off balance.
“I think you need a new nickname,” George teased, steadying you. “Feathers may not be apt.”
You risked removing one hand to show him what a real bird looks like, and he barked a laugh before banking away from you.
Soon, the game was in full swing, with you, Ron, Fred, and Charlie against George, Ginny, Harry, and Bill. You had only ever ridden a broom in first year, so you were massively out of your depth.
You were given the role of Seeker, opposite Harry, and had no hope of accomplishing a damn thing. Harry was like lightning on his Firebolt, and you bobbed around like a lame pigeon.
Thankfully, none of them seemed to be taking the game very seriously. You were content to float around the property, occasionally remembering that you we're supposed to be looking for something small and golden.
After awhile the boys started to get rowdier, pushing and shoving and bludgeoning.. You tried to steer clear, watching George whack the hell out of any bludger that dare cross his airspace. You would not want to be on the other end of one of those.
“Y/n, watch out!” Ginny cried.
You looked back from where you were staring off into space, just in time to see George barreling towards you, a bludger about five feet in front of him.
You tried to move, to steer the broom literally anywhere, but it wouldn't cooperate. At the last second you managed to pull up, but not far enough. The bludger hit you square in the stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs and nearly forcing up your breakfast with the power of it. Stars danced behind your eyes, your grip began to slip from the handle as darkness raced towards you.
Something else slammed into you, wrapping itself around you—
“Y/n? Baby, are you alright?” George. You could tell you were moving, but couldn't seem to make your eyes focus, keep your body from trembling. Your cheeks were wet, the breeze frigid against your damp skin. Am I crying?
Then you were on the ground, blessed ground, and then you were up again, cradled against George's chest.
He was shouting at someone you couldn't see. “I swear on fucking Dumbledore, I'm going to beat you bloody with that fucking bat—”
“George!”
“Get her some ice,” he barked at someone else. “I'm right here, love, you're okay. Just try and breathe.”
You clung to his dampening shirt, the shock and pain keeping you teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. You could hear other people talking, but your whole world narrowed to two points: George's heartbeat and the blinding pain radiating from your stomach.
“It hurts,” you whimpered, barely recognizing the pitiful sound of your own voice.
“I know, love. I know. I’ve got you, I promise.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and trembling. A moment later, he laid you on the couch, careful not to jostle you more than necessary.
Molly passed something into George's hands. “For the pain,” she whispered.
George crouched down next to you, holding the edge of the cup to your lips. “Take a sip, sweetheart.” You shook your head, your Potions safety training overpowering your reason. “Please, y/n. Let me take the pain away.”
You took a small sip, the tea pungent and floral, but immediately the edges of the pain began to soften. But the relief was short-lived. Exhaustion followed close behind it, dragging you down into a dreamless sleep.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
When you come to, the Weasley house was dark around you. The only light came from the moon spilling through window panes and the smoldering fire across from the couch.
A light snore drew your attention, and you looked up to see George above you, his head lolled onto the back of the couch, sleeping soundly. Your head was resting in his lap, his sweater piled under your head as pillow, and his large hand was stretched across your stomach, fingers splayed from your ribs to your hip bones.
God, your stomach. You moved to sit up, memories of earlier filtering through the fading grogginess of the Potion Molly gave you, but surprisingly, your stomach was only a little sore. More like an overexerted muscle than rearranged organs and cracked ribs.
George stirred, lifting his head to peer at your through half-closed lids.
“What are you doing down here?” you asked, sweeping a strand of red hair from his brow.
He came fully awake then, straightening. “How do you feel?” He asked, caressing your cheek, then running his hands over your arms, your ribs, the swell of your hips.
“The Potion did its job, I feel mostly fine,” you said, catching his hands to stop their exploration, and the buzzy desire they coaxed to life.
“Are you sure?” His features softened with relief, his fingers twining with yours.
“I'm sure. Thank you for saving me.” You leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, ignoring the slight protest in your abdomen muscles.
“Always,” George said, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “I'm sorry I wasn't close enough to stop it from hitting you in the first place. It happened so fast—”
“Love, it wasn't your fault,” you shushed, reaching out to cup his face and stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.
“I just…” he trailed off, leaning into your palm. “I always want to be there to protect you. Or for whatever you else you might need. Do you need anything now? Water, tea? Are you hungry? You missed dinner—”
“George,” you cut him off. “Right now, I need you.”
Desire eclipsed the worry on his face, his eyes shading. “Are you sure you're not in pain? No fogginess or headaches—”
You leaned in and kissed him, a light, floaty peck, silencing his incessant questioning. You appreciated his concern, but there were other parts of you that needed his attention far more. He immediately took charge of the kiss, shifting his weight to lay you back onto the couch. His body rested heavily between your thighs, his mouth devouring yours in fervent, searing kisses.
His tongue lapped at your bottom lip and you opened for him, allowing him to take everything he sought. He kissed you like he didn't know if he'd get another chance, like he'd been waiting his entire life for this moment. It stole your breath, made your toes curl and your pussy pulse with excitement, slick already collecting between your thighs.
You nipped at his lower lip, earning a soft grunt in appreciation. His hips canted forward a fraction, though it seemed he was holding himself back. His lips traveled along your jaw, down the valley of your throat with teasing licks and love bites and you arched into him, a moan spilling from your lips before you could stop it.
“Shh, baby. You have to be quiet f’me.” George nudged your shirt up with his fingers, kissing along the purplish bruises marring your stomach. “My poor girl.” His thumbs traced the curves of your stomach softly, almost reverent as he gazed up at you. “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. so perfect. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long, to feel you beneath me, fuck, hear the pretty little sounds you make for me.” He was rambling now, lost in the act of worshiping your body, his hands and lips traveling gently over your skin.
“How long?” you asked, breathless, raking your fingers through his hair while he nursed a mark just under your right tit.
He looked up at you through is lashes, his lips leaving your skin with a pop. “Since that night at the Three Broomsticks,” he said, shifting upwards so he could look you in the eye.
“The ‘Butterbeer of Forgiveness’?” You mouth fell open, shock rocking through you.
He snickered. “Of course, why do you think I kept sending Fred to the bar?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” You ran your fingers over his jaw, feeling the rough stubble against your skin.
“I—” his voice caught, his gaze averting from you. “I loved you too much to risk losing you.”
Elation soared through you, and you couldn’t stop the smile that split your face. “George,” you said, bumping your nose against his. His eyes flicked back to you, watery and rimmed with red. “I love you too.”
His smile was like the first sun after an endless winter, and he kissed you like the first torrential rain of spring. The heat of summer came quickly though, and soon you were gasping for him again, your hips pressing against the hard ridge in his pants.
“Need you,” you whined into his mouth.
“I’m here, love.” He kissed down your throat again, pausing for only a moment to nip at your taught nipples through your shirt before continuing his downward decent. “Lift up for me.” You lifted your hips, allowing him to tug down your jeans, exposing your sodden red panties to his greedy eyes. “Gryffindor red, huh?” he teased, and you threw your arms over your face to hide your blush. “All for me?”
You nodded, your heart in your throat.
“It’s a shame I’ll have to ruin them.’
“What—” Riiiip! The cold air lapped against your slick pussy, chased by the heat of George’s tongue as he dragged it through your folds. “Oh, fuck—”
“Shhh,” he warned, before flicking his tongue against your swollen clit.
You bit down on the back of your wrist to keep from crying out when he switched from licking to sucking, the walls of your cunt fluttering around nothing. He moved down, flattening his tongue against your entrance and collecting the wetness that pooled there. He gave a light hum of pleasure that had your eyes crossing, his tongue delving deeper in search of another taste.
“So fucking good,” he mumbled against you, the vibrations of his low voice making your sensitive clit tingle. You tugged on his hair, encouraging him to pay attention to where you needed him most. “I know, I know.” He pressed a kiss to your clit, teasing you for just a moment longer before wrapping his lips around the bud and sucking hard.
You very nearly cried out, having to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Pleasure shot through you, singeing your nerves and liquifying your muscles. So quickly you were unraveling for him, going stupid under his ministrations.
A long digit prodded at your entrance, collecting some wetness before easing inside of you. Your cunt welcomed him gladly, clamping down around his finger.
“Merlin, baby. You're so tight,” he panted, shifting to watch you take another one of his fingers, slick already running into his palm. “Relax, love. Shh, “ he soothed, curling his fingers to pet the inside of your walls, making your mind go blank as bliss washed through you. “That's it, darling. Just like that.”
The knot in your stomach began to wind tighter, burning through you as you fought to relax, to be good for him. But your orgasm was so fucking close, just a little more—
His lips found your clit again, sucking in time with your racing heart as his fingers coaxed you open, and the knot severed. Your peak slammed into you, stealing your breath so you couldn't even cry out to warn him, to sing his praises the way he deserved. Your muscles locked, your cunt bearing down as him as pleasure tore through you until you could do nothing but shiver beneath him.
“Shit, y/n. That was fucking beautiful,” he cooed, easing his fingers out of you and lapping up the release coating him to the wrist. “You alright?” He shifted upwards, kissing your bruised abdomen before pecking your lips, your eyes still glassy and unfocused.
“I've never come that hard,” you pant, throwing your arms around his neck and raining kisses over his slick-soaked face. “What the fuck.”
He chuckled, flushing under your attention. “Happy to oblige.”
You caught the last word in your mouth, kissing him deeply, desperately. Your body was already keying itself up again, and by the twitching length against your hip, he was desperate for you too.
He hooked an arm under your back and hauled you up to straddle his lap, his back pressed against the couch. “This okay?” He asked, sliding his rough hands under your shirt to skate along your skin.
You nodded, rolling your hips to drag your bare pussy along the bulge in his jeans, a skitter of pleasure making your breath hitch.
“Fuck, y/n,” he hissed, hips bucking up against you.
“Yes, please fuck me.” You kissed along his jaw and nibbled at his ear lobe, reaching between your bodies to find his zipper.
He did the same, helping you undo the button and tug down the zipper, his cock springing free from his boxers. The head nudged against your clit, hard and heated, and you whimpered.
With an arm wrapped around your waist, he lifted you slightly, guiding the head to your dripping entrance. Slowly, he eased you down into him, your pussy more than ready to accommodate his length. A rough groan resounded from his chest, and you silenced it with another kiss. His cock stretched you open, hitting that spongy, sinful spot before sliding deeper until he bottomed out, the head nudging your cervix.
“So fucking tight, baby. Bloody hell,” he whispered, voice strained.
“Feels so fucking good,” you whine, grinding your hips against his.
George buried his face into your neck, stifling a moan. His grip loosened, allowing you to start lifting and lowering yourself, riding him slowly, savoring every inch of his cock as it dragged through you.
“M’not gonna last long if you keep doing that,” he warned, mouthing at your neck with sloppy kisses.
You smirked, bracing your hands against the back of the couch to pick up the pace, your thighs and abs burning from the exertion. But he felt so fucking good, stretching you open, the root of his cock dragging along your clit.
His lifted up again only to snap his hips against yours, his hands a vice on your waist as he started pounding into you from below.
“Oh, fuck, Georgie—”
“Quiet, love. You don't want the whole house to hear how good I make you feel, do you?”
You nodded, a whine escaping through your teeth. One of his hands came up to cover your mouth, silencing the sound and infringing on your air supply, callouses rubbing against your kiss-swollen skin.
“I’d love nothing more than for Percy to hear you screaming for me, but this is just for us,” he whispered, breathless as he fucked into you. “Gonna come for me again?”
Your fingers dug into the couch, another peak racing towards you. You bounced with his movements, desperately chasing your high, the ache in your abdomen long forgotten.
“That's it, love. Fuck, m’gonna come.” He threw his head back, a strangled groan accompanying the kick of his cock inside you, stretching your further before pumping you full of his release.
The hot surge of his orgasm sent you flying over the edge, ecstasy pulling your under while your cunt milked him dry with vicious pulls. You muffled your cry into his shoulder as he fucked you through it, until you both collapsed onto the couch, thoroughly spent and panting.
His lips found your forehead, your temple, his hands gliding along your spine, over your hips, soothing you as you trembled against him.
“I love you,” he breathed into your hair. “I can't believe you're here with me.”
You grazed the racing pulse under his jaw with your nose. “I love you, too.” It was exhilarating to say, almost as thrilling as the orgasm you just shared, a massive weight was lifted off your shoulders.
“So, can I call you my girl without being corrected now?” He teased, tickling your ribs.
“I suppose.” You giggled, pecking the corner of his smirk.
The following morning, you descended from your room to find George at the bottom of the stairs, shirtless, twirling his Beater Bat in his right hand. The same hand that brought you the most earth shattering orgasm of your life.
“What on earth are you doing?” You asked, wrapping your arms around his middle and kissing his cheek, admiring the violet mark you left above his clavicle.
“Waiting for Ron,” Fred supplied from the kitchen.
“Who’s waiting for me—oh fuck.” Ron stopped dead at the top of the stairs, still dressed in his pajamas, staring wide eyed at George, or more specifically, the bat in his hand.
“I just want to talk,” George said, gently moving you aside before prowling up the stairs towards his younger brother.
Ron took off up the stairs, their steps thundering through the house as George gave chase.
“George! Shit,” you huffed, glancing at the rest of the family who'd come to see what the fuss was about.
“I'll let ‘im get a good whack in,” Molly said, smiling at you. “Since you're his girl and all.”
Your cheeks flamed, but they only met you with warm hugs and laughter, like they'd been expecting this from the beginning.
A/N: Okay let’s pretend this part 2 hasn’t taken a year to get to. I have no motivation at all to finish it UNTIL I finally sat down and forced myself to haha.
Description: you and George deal with the aftermath of your night out in the snow
Warnings and word count: smut (fingering, f!reader) (mdni, 18+). Word count 2.1k.
part one. george weasley masterlist.
When you woke up the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky and your dormitory was empty. Everyone had already gone down for breakfast, it appeared, so you hastily threw on your clothes and pocketed your wand before hurrying out of the dorm.
It was a Saturday, which meant you didn’t have class and that (thankfully) breakfast lasted longer. But it was nearly nine, you realised with a jolt, so you’d be lucky if you could scarf down a few bites before the food vanished.
Fully intending to race right out of the common room and down to the Great Hall, you yelped in surprise when an arm shot out and pulled you sharply to the left.
“Fred? What the hell?” you exclaimed, straightening your robes and glaring up at the person who’d just snatched you to the side.
“Sorry about that!” he said cheerfully, crossing his arms. “But I was wondering how you are?”
“How am I? I’m fine,” you said suspiciously, eyeing him warily. “Why?”
“Oh, you know. After last night,” he said, giving you a meaningful look.
“You mean when your brother very rudely woke me up and dragged me outside?”
Fred grinned, nodding. “Exactly! How did it go?” he asked enthusiastically.
You shook your head, bewildered. “Uh, it went fine? I mean, it was obviously cold, but fun.”
For a second, your mind flashed the image of George’s gaze dropping to your lips. Before your face could get too red at that thought, you pushed it from your mind. Best not to risk exposing your innermost thoughts in front of George’s twin. Who was still staring at you, waiting for you to keep talking.
Fred gestured for you to go on. “And?” he said expectantly, still smiling.
“And… I was tired so that’s why I slept in?” you said slowly, bemused.
“No, I mean the other thing! You know.” He winked dramatically at that.
“Fred, what are you talking about?” you asked in exasperation. The twins were known to be quite maddening at times, but even this was getting to an extent you hadn’t seen before.
“Why are you being difficult?” he grumbled in irritation, and you scoffed.
“Me? Why are you being so vague?” you shot back, which was met with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I’m not being vague, I’m giving you the chance to tell me what happened!”
“We were chased by Filch. Did George not tell you that?” you asked, mystified. The twins shared everything with each other, which was one the main reasons you’d been trying so hard (and succeeded!) to hide your crush on George from his brother.
“No, I know about that! I mean George asking– wait.” He fell silent suddenly, brow furrowing and jaw dropping open. “He didn’t do it. I don’t believe it!”
“Fred, what is going on?! What didn’t George do?” you exclaimed, losing your patience. Fred groaned, smacking a hand to his forehead.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he muttered, and then walked off in the direction of his dormitory.
You watched him go, utterly confused. What the hell had that been about?
༺ ✧ ༻
The day passed slowly. You went out and enjoyed the snow with your friends some more, before curling up in front of the fireplace with a book. The sun had begun to sink in the sky and you were debating whether you should go down early to dinner when you heard the voices of Fred and George.
Turning to your head to the left, you saw Fred practically shoving George in through the common room door, telling him something you couldn’t hear as they made their way towards you.
“Hello?” you said in confusion when George nearly collided with the back of your armchair. Immediately, he straightened up and stepped away from Fred, who shot him a dirty look and grabbed you by the arm.
“Come on, you’re coming with me,” he announced, pulling you up and towards the portrait hole again. You barely had time to bookmark your page before you stumbled into step next to George, who was also being dragged along. You shot him an inquisitive look but he only shrugged and looked away, his cheeks tinging red.
“Where are we going, Fred?” you asked as he continued to lead you and his brother down the corridor, walking straight towards an empty, unused classroom. You hadn’t even had time to put on shoes, for Merlin’s sake, you were just walking in your socks!
Fred didn’t answer until he’d successfully shoved you and George through the door of the classroom.
“Personally, I’m tired of watching you two circle each other and hearing nonstop about how something hasn’t happened yet.”
Your stomach dropped.
“How what hasn’t happened yet?” you asked shrilly. Fred didn’t know about your crush, did he?!
He gave you an exasperated look before giving his brother a significant one. “That’s for you to answer,” he said simply, and promptly closed the door on his way out.
You exchanged a look with George before trying to open it… only to find that Fred had locked it behind him.
“Are you kidding?!” you exclaimed. “He locked us in here!”
George’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to be– FRED!”
You grimaced as George attempted to shout through the door. No one came back to open it, though.
“Alohomora won’t work,” he said in response to your unasked question. “He’s too smart for that.”
“This is ridiculous,” you grumbled, stalking around the room before finally perching yourself on a desk. “It’s freezing in here and we can’t leave. What does he want us to do? Burn the castle down trying to get out?”
“He’ll come let us out,” George said confidently, coming to join you. “He has to.”
You shot him a look. “But will it be before we’re a pile of bones?”
George winced. “Hopefully,” he said, before taking off his jumper and handing it to you wordlessly.
“What’s this for?” you asked warily. Honestly, you wouldn’t put it past either of the twins for this to be some giant prank.
“You said you were cold,” George shrugged. “I didn’t want you to be.”
“Oh,” you said, your face heating up. “Thank you.”
You pulled the jumper on, tucking yourself into the cozy wool and smiling a little at the big “G” sewed on the front. The jumper was rather comically long on you, but it would definitely keep you warm.
A few minutes passed in awkward silence. You weren’t used to things being uncomfortable between you and George, but after what happened– or didn’t happen– last night, you weren’t exactly sure where you stood.
The memory of George’s eyes on your lips yesterday also reminded you of your odd conversation with Fred earlier. And– your heart skipped a beat– why he had locked you in here. He’d insinuated that something was meant to happen between you two, hadn’t he?
“Do you know why Fred locked us in here?” you asked abruptly before you could change your mind. George looked up.
“Uh, not really,” he said, not meeting your eyes. You narrowed yours.
“Yes, you do,” you said slowly. “You have that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The guilty one!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stalled, laughing awkwardly. You shook your head, sliding off of the desk you’d been sitting and walking over to him.
“Yes, you do. You’re hiding something. What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” George told you immediately, but you caught him around the wrist.
“Tell me now, Weasley, or I’ll use the Reductor Curse on that door and tell McGonagall it was your fault!”
“Alright, alright!” George hastened to concede, putting his hands up. “I told Fred about last night.”
You frowned, releasing his hand. “I know, he asked me about it.”
George’s face paled. “He did?” he asked, sounding mildly alarmed. “What did he ask you? What did you tell him?”
“Woah, relax! There was nothing out of the ordinary to tell, other than being chased by Filch,” you said.
“Did you say anything else?” George asked, holding his breath.
You tilted your head to the side, observing him curiously. “No.”
“Oh,” he said, face falling. “Alright.”
“That being said, he was very interested in my recounting of the night, oddly enough,” you said, watching his expression closely. You weren’t exactly sure what you were looking for, but something was clearly up.
“That is odd,” George echoed, not meeting you in the eye.
“Yes, I thought so too,” you agreed. “He seemed to think something happened that I wasn’t telling him about.”
George looked very interested in an owl flying by outside the window.
“George,” you sighed, stepping in front of him so he was forced to look at you. “What is going on?”
Finally, he turned to face you and your breath caught in the look in his eyes. He looked heavenward, like he was bracing himself, before meeting your gaze again.
“Last night,” he began, looking uncharacteristically nervous as his gaze flicked around the room. “When we were laying in the snow…”
His voice trailed off. Thoughtlessly, you placed a hand on his forearm. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, but when he opened them, he met your eyes and did not even try to look away again.
“I wanted to kiss you,” he finished softly. “And I was going to ask you out on a date.”
The room spun on its axis, and you had to brace yourself against his arm. How many times had you wished he would say that? Last night was one of many.
He quickly grabbed onto your shoulders, looking at you worriedly. “Are you okay? Should I not have said that? Merlin, I’m sorry, I–”
You shut him up with a kiss.
George froze, going completely still until slowly, he relaxed into the feeling of the gentle press of your lips on his, and kissed you back.
You felt like you were flying. Every fibre of your being was humming with excitement that this was George, you were kissing George, and he was kissing you back–
He hoisted you onto the desk, stepping between your legs and deepening the kiss with the slant of your head. His hands found their way to your legs, spreading warmth across your thighs and into other areas until you knew exactly what you wanted.
You broke the kiss, gasping for air as your chest heaved. George’s eyes flicked down to your breasts, though they quickly went back to yours when you placed your hand over his, guiding it to your centre.
He let out a choked curse, his head falling against your shoulder and allowing you to hold his palm against you, wiggling his fingers experimentally. You held back a moan, instead choosing to undo the button and tug the waistband of your jeans down, urging his hands into your panties.
“Already?” he asked, disbelievingly. You simply gave him a wry look.
“After how long we’ve already waited?” you countered. He swallowed hard, pressing his lips gently to the corner of your mouth.
“I can’t argue with that,” he murmured, and then slipped his finger into your entrance.
You gasped, jerking up off of the desk a little. His finger circled you, dipping inside easily since even kissing had left you wet. He hummed, pushing against your clit with his thumb and beginning a steady rhythm, punctuating each pump with a kiss on your lips.
Soon, though, his mouth descended onto your neck and he added a second finger, thrusting in and out of you and sending you crashing towards your peak.
“God, George,” you gasped out his name, feeling yourself reach your orgasm and come spiraling down, the pressure of his lips on yours the only thing keeping you grounded. He murmured your name against your skin reverently, sliding his fingers out only when you had recovered.
“We should’ve done that last night,” you finally found yourself able to say, earning a chuckle from George and a kiss on your forehead.
“We would’ve gotten frostbite, love,” he pointed out, helping you button your jeans back up and slide off the table. You smiled at the endearment, leaning against his side and walking over to the door on slightly shaky legs.
“How are we going to get out?” you asked sleepily, holding onto George’s arm. George laughed, drawing his wand out and casting a small charm that disappeared through the door and down the corridor, presumably to find Fred.
“He’ll let us out soon,” George promised. “But if he doesn’t, I suppose we could always resume our previous activity.”
Your eyes lit up, all sleepiness forgotten.
“Then let’s hope he doesn’t come back any time soon,” you told him, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to you in a kiss.
A/N: to all my george stans i apologise but istg i can’t write him well no matter how hard i try. like the words just don’t flow very well ugh it’s annoying tbh cause i love him sm
summary: fed up with the way the slytherin boys create chaos without consequence, someone seeks to bring them down a notch by going after the one thing their strongest loves most: you.
word count: 6.6k 🫣
soundtrack: heathens - twenty one pilots
author’s note: i promise this isn't deranged, there is ample flangst and a mattheo that would burn the world to the ground for you ♡
warnings: this is relatively dark (for me anyway!) reader is attacked + kissed/touched against their will. mentions of blood, knives and violence.
If you'd heard it once, you'd heard it a thousand times.
Be careful.
He's dangerous.
You don't know what you're getting yourself into.
As if you weren't an adult, perfectly capable of making your own decisions, of reading people, of caring for your own heart.
On paper, you and Mattheo Riddle made no sense. You were quiet and calm, friendly and compassionate, quick with a warm smile and a hug. You were light and laughter and goodness.
By contrast, Mattheo was rough and edgy, quick to anger with a firecracker temper and a biting sarcasm like a venomous snake that kept everyone but his closest friends at an arm's length. But around you? He melted.
It was like you held the key that unlocked his defenses, allowing you to walk straight into the dark center of his heart. He would have mocked any guy who fell for a girl the way he fell for you: immediately, irrevocably and hard. And once he had his mind made up about you, there was little you could say in the matter (not that you were arguing).
He showered you with a depth of affection that was rare for anyone, let along the brooding bad boy of Hogwarts.
Suddenly, he was just there, beside you in class, next to you at meals, and keeping you company in the library as you studied. Before long you began to crave the feeling of his presence, of his warmth next to you, of the low rumble of his voice meant only for you to hear as he shared an inside joke or complimented you. He'd eagerly watch your face light up in return, the twinkle in your eyes, the lift of your lips and your happiness became a high for him that he wouldn't stop chasing; making you happy and keeping you happy became his mission, one that he succeeded at in every way.
Then late one night in the library you were huddled close together as a storm racked the castle outside, sending wind and rain against the large windows. Your heads were close together as you spoke in whispers. You looked at him and smiled and for just the breath of a second your eyes flitted from his eyes to his lips, and that was all the invitation he needed. He leaned in slowly, winding his hand to cup the side of your face as he pressed his lips to yours and he kissed you with tenderness and hunger, the combination of which pulled you out of your seat and onto his lap. And once he realized how bright you shined after he kissed you? He was a goner. And so were you.
There wasn't a thing anyone could say to you about Mattheo after that that you would have listened to, because he had you, heart and soul. He treated you like royalty, he protected you like treasure and he loved you with everything he had in him. What more could a girl possibly ask for?
You fell in step with Mattheo's long strides on your walk to breakfast, the early morning light beaming through the stained glass windows.
He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side, right where he always wanted you, as close to him as possible. You nuzzled into his neck and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
As usual, the sea of students in the corridor dipped and dodged out of your way, leaving a wide berth for your group out of deference and intimidation. It was odd for you at first joining the group that held the rest of the school in such rapt fear because it was immediately obvious that they were just like everyone else, they just didn't care to show that side of themselves to the world; they were fun-loving, goofy, affable and caring and they quickly adopted you as one of their own.
You rounded the corner to the Great Hall and Mattheo went crashing into a figure that hadn't had the wherewithal to get out of his way. He tightened his grasp on you out of instinct and narrowed his eyes towards Seamus Finnegan who had dropped the entire stack of books he'd been holding and looked ready to argue about it until he saw who he was confronting. He bit his tongue instead, averted his eyes, and stepped out of your way.
Mattheo moved by him without a word, the slight already forgotten, but you glanced back with the smallest ounce of pity in your eyes as Seamus knelt to the floor to gather his books and a few Gryffindors came to help him.
"M'fuckin' sick of it" Seamus said quietly once you were out of earshot. "Him, them, walkin' around like they own the school" he shot a nasty glare in the direction of the Slytherin table.
"Good luck doing anything about it" Ron sighed, resigned. "Nasty temper, that one" he added, eyes shifting warily towards Mattheo like he might actually have the ability to hear him from the other side of the loud hall.
"It's cruel is what it is! Neville is still trying to recover from Nott hexing him. He claimed it was an 'accident', but we all know the truth. He should be expelled!" Hermione added hotly, her cheeks flushing at the idea of anyone breaking the rules and getting away with it.
Seamus grimaced as he stared at your group, at the ease with which you had all carried on with your morning, laughing and joking, boisterous, without a care in the world because you knew you were all completely untouchable, above reproach or reprimand.
He knew there wasn't a thing he could do in retaliation without ending up in the infirmary or worse he thought solemly.
What I wouldn't give to take them down a notch his mind whirled, to make them feel something, to feel vulnerable, on edge, afraid like the rest of us.
His eyes narrowed.
Surely there was a weakness, a vulnerability he could find, something something to level the playing field. His eyes skated over Draco and Blaise, over Theo's large frame and Lorenzo's tall figure before they landed back on Mattheo, and finally on you.
You.
He watched the way Mattheo kept his arm around you, as he always did, keeping you close to his side like you were two parts of one whole and Seamus thought about the way he'd seen Mattheo pull you even closer when he'd run into him. He watched, really watched him turn to look at you when you talked and saw a surprising softness in his normally cold, dark eyes.
It was no secret that you two were together, Mattheo loved kissing you openly, unabashedly, anywhere and everywhere he pleased: in between classes, after quidditch matches, at meals, even in class from time to time with a complete disregard to anything the professors said about it.
If there was one thing anyone knew or had learned the hard way it was that you were one hundred percent off limits and to think otherwise was a death wish.
Seamus remembered the transfer student several months ago that had unknowingly asked you out, and how Mattheo had broken his nose over it. Twice. Never mind the time Mattheo happened to overhear a Ravenclaw compliment your outfit, and he ended up puking slugs for weeks.
Seamus shuddered.
Mattheo had an appetite for violence and a temper that never burned hotter than when it came to you, sending him into a fitful spiral.
She's his weakness he realized.
"I have an idea" he said to the group around him.
Weeks later, your feet carried you quickly down the winding stone staircase from Divination. You were first out the door, eager to spend every second of the short break you had between classes with Mattheo as you always did at this time in the neighboring stairwell of the North Tower.
You turned the corner to see him leaning against the wall, waiting for you and your face lit up as you strode toward him in the small, empty space. He stood up straighter as he took you in and he fidgeted with his hands in an unusually nervous way that had you laughing as you approached him and pressed into him, winding your arms around his neck.
"Hi handsome" you breathed against his lips before you kissed him.
But it was like kissing a statue.
His lips sat unmoving against yours, his hands awkwardly at his side.
"Matty?" you asked, pulling back to look at him to see the same look of genuine nerves on his face, his cheeks flushed.
You laughed again, totally confused at his reaction.
"Are you okay?—"
"—Y-yeah" he mumbled before running his hands slowly up your sides. "Yeah, m'so good" he confirmed before tugging you into him.
His lips met yours but something was still off, he was stiff and awkward. You moved to pull away from him again but his grip on you tightened, holding you in place until he swung you around and pushed you against the stone wall so quick and so hard your head knocked against the surface painfully.
Mattheo was a lot of things.
But careless with you was not one of them.
Your heart raced in your chest as your head throbbed. You pushed against him, but he was unwavering as he deepened his kiss aggressively, sloppily, despite your growing protests. And then he bit your bottom lip. Hard. And you tasted blood.
"Ah! Mattheo - what the fuck!" you said, shoving him hard this time as your hand flew to your bleeding lip.
He looked completely disheveled, flushed, his eyes glazed as he stared at you. Your stomach roiled.
And then you earnestly began to panic because for the first time in the year you'd been together you were keenly aware of how tall and how big he was, and how helpless you were in comparison.
Your heart began to race and your breaths came fast and shallow as you searched his face for any sign of the boy you loved and every cautionary word you'd been told came racing back to you: Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.
Those fears mixed with how fiercely you loved him in a cocktail of confusion that left tears burning in your eyes as you tried to hold back a sob.
At the sight of that he smirked and a chill ran down your spine.
You tried to run.
He grabbed you.
"C'mon dove" he said, caging you in with his arms against the wall despite how you squirmed. "I know you like it like this" he muttered as lips attached to your neck and he began to suck and bite you.
Dove?
He'd never once called you that.
You scraped against his chest. You tried to shout until he put a hand over your mouth and it was like he was intentionally trying to mark you, sucking your skin so hard you could feel the bruising as you pushed and punched him to no avail. He reached for the top of your shirt and yanked, tearing it as buttons flew off.
You were crying hard now as you fought his hands when suddenly voices echoed in a nearby corridor and he pulled away from you.
His grip loosened and his eyes flashed with fear, and then he left, taking off down the corridor without a word.
You sunk to the floor in disbelief, gasping to catch your breath as cries ripped from you and you wrapped your arms around yourself, your brain a mottled mess as you tried to comprehend what the fuck had happened to your boyfriend.
As soon as you could steady yourself, you grasped your torn shirt with shaking hands and made your way as quickly as you could to the common room through a series of passageways and abandoned corridors to avoid running into anyone.
You snuck into the dungeons, head down, desperate to get to your room, when you heard your friends' voices.
"There she is. Hey! YN!" Blaise shouted.
Shit.
You tried to ignore him, to act like you didn't hear anything.
"YN!" Theo called after you, louder. "Hang on, I'll get her" he said, standing to come after you.
You tried to walk faster, doubling your pace.
"Hey, hey!" Theo said, catching up with you easily with his long strides. "Have you seen Mattheo? He—"
He reached for you and you pulled out of his grasp, turning to face him and he stopped in his tracks, the words dying on his lips as his eyes widened and the color drained from his face.
"YN" he said quietly, intently. "What the fuck happened to you? Holy shit."
He reached for your face, taking your chin in his warm hand, his touch so soft and gentle, so completely opposite of everything you'd just experienced that you immediately began to cry.
"Bella, your lip" he said, panic slipping into his tone both at your reaction and the sight of the blood there. "Who the fuck did this?"
You closed your eyes and shook your head and he slowly wrapped his arms around you. Your head fell to his chest as you grasped him, soaking his jumper with your tears.
By now, Draco, Lorenzo and Blaise had come over and were muttering softly.
"Bloody hell."
"This is fucking mental, mate."
"Matty is going to kill them."
And at just the mention of his name, you pushed further into Theo's chest, burrowing there like you could hide from the world.
"Bella, you're going to have to tell him, you can't protect whoever did this" he said, misreading your reaction.
"Well, we'll have to find him first. He'd better hear this from us" Blaise said.
Find him?
"W-what do you mean find him?" you muttered against Theo's chest.
"Haven't seen him since breakfast. Wasn't in class this morning and didn't come for our smoke" Draco replied.
Your head ached as much from your tears as it did from where he'd pushed you into the wall as you tried to process that. What had he been doing all day? And what the hell had gotten into him?
A burst of laughter, shouts and a loud wolf whistle echoed from behind you and pulled the group's attention to the door. You peeked from the comfort of Theo's arms to see Mattheo walking in... in his underwear.
"Thank you, thank you" he smirked, bowing cockily to the group of onlookers who cheered and gawked at his half-naked body, moving to make his way towards his room until he saw your group.
"There you fuckers are" he said as he approached. "I have had a fucking day - someone's getting their face rearranged—" but he stopped midsentence when he got close enough to see you in Theo's arms.
"What's going on? What's wrong?" he asked, stepping towards you immediately.
Theo moved to let you go but you gripped him tighter, hiding yourself, refusing to move.
Mattheo stopped, startled by your reaction like he'd run into a brick wall. He stood at a distance from you, completely unmoored by the sight of you grasping onto someone else for comfort. His heart began to thump heavily and angrily in his chest and his cheeks flushed in irritation and embarrassment.
He let out a steadying breath, his jaw clenched as his eyes slid to Theo, the decided object of the brewing anger he felt.
"What. The fuck. Is going on?" he asked again, his fury palpable.
"It's not—I don't—" Theo stumbled.
"—She hasn't said anything, mate" Enzo clarified.
You could feel yourself begin to shake and a dam of pressure welled up behind your eyes at how angry Mattheo was, at how afraid you were to be near him, at what he might do or say next and yet at the same time, how much you craved his comfort, how you knew he was the only person who could truly make you feel better.
Your tears came hot and wet down your cheeks as you cried into Theo's chest and Mattheo felt something crack inside of him. He'd never once seen you like this and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him, sick over how upset you were, sick that you were in pain, sick that you didn't seem to want him or to be anywhere near him, sick that he didn't know what to do or how to help.
"B-baby, please?" he said, nearly begging as he tried to move closer.
The tone in his voice and the affectionate nickname tugged at your heart.
You swallowed and turned your head to look at him, gently, tentatively letting Theo go.
Mattheo's eyes met yours before they wandered over your face.
His face fell.
And he stopped breathing.
A cold sensation like the ooze of a cracked egg ran down his body as he looked at you.
Your mascara was smeared, caught in the tears that were running down your face. Your cheeks were red and flushed and your lip was swollen and bleeding. He catalogued the bruises down your neck and marks that looked an awful lot like bites there too that led to your ripped and tattered shirt.
Mattheo had been angry plenty of times in his life, and for good reason. But this was the first time he felt it. He could have told you where and how quickly the rage pulsed in his veins, blooming hot in his chest, pumping into his arms, into his hands that curled into fists and ached to hit something, into his stomach, his legs that wanted to run, to cause chaos and destruction until he fixed this.
But he didn't expect the next emotion that hit him like a dark wave in a stormy ocean, all consuming, nearly bowling him over: deep and overwhelming sadness.
"N-no, no no no who-who did this? Baby" his voice ached with pain as he moved to step towards you again, desperate to hold you, to make it better as quickly as he could.
You took a small, hesitant step back and looked at him with confusion, with trepidation.
And you said the next words so quietly he was certain he'd heard you wrong.
"You" you whispered.
His face scrunched in confusion.
"It was you" you said louder and all the boys turned to look at you and then back to Mattheo.
"In the stairwell? Our spot?" you said pointedly, trying to get him to remember.
"You were there, waiting for me, but you were... off. Different. And then y-you..." you gestured to yourself as you tried to keep from coming undone again at the memory.
Theo took a protective step closer to you.
Mattheo carded his hands through his hair in exasperation where they rested atop his head as he paced a step back and forth before stopping in front of you. It was taking his entire willpower not to lose his composure, and not to launch at his best friend.
"I got jumped this morning" he said patiently, evenly, though his underlying anger was still very much there. "I woke up in a broom closet ten minutes ago with no fucking clothes."
"B-broom closet?" you muttered, confused.
"Yeah, it was maddening, had to break the door down and— look, that doesn't matter. Please please tell me you believe me."
Your mind was reeling. You opened your mouth hesitantly to reply, but you couldn't find your words, your emotions, your fear, everything you felt far too raw.
He let out another deep breath and then crouched in front of you, making himself smaller, less threatening as he met your gaze directly.
"You are the most important person in my world. You know that, right? You are everything to me. Everything that is precious and perfect and right. And I would never ever hurt you."
You met his dark brown eyes that were shining intently up at you, unflinching in their truth and you nodded despite your tears and sniffles. Of course you knew that, which was why everything that happened this morning was so fucked up.
He slowly extended his hand to you, palm up, wordlessly asking you to believe him, to trust him.
"You're okay now, you're safe. No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here, okay?"
And gods you'd needed to hear that. You nodded again, more strongly now.
"We're going to figure this out. And I'm going to fix this, I can promise you I will fix this. Hey, can you look at me?"
Your eyes met his and more hot tears fell down your cheeks at the gentleness and patience in his expression, the way he was nearly on his knees begging for you to trust him, to believe that the boy in front of you in no way could have been the boy from this morning and you pursed your lips.
"I love you" he whispered.
And those words alone healed a significant part of your hurt.
You slowly placed your shaking hand in his and it was like your body immediately registered the difference in his touch, how he tenderly ran a thumb over your knuckles as he continued to speak softly to you as he stood up.
"I've got you, you're going to be okay. It's me, I'm here" he said as he slowly pulled you toward him.
You took one step, and then another, and then you curled yourself against his warm chest and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding as you grasped him. He held you tightly to him, squeezing hard, and his hand held the back of your head as he pressed his lips to your temple.
You sniffed and let out a few more shaky breaths, letting him consume you, trying to replace every memory from this morning with his touch like it could pull the fear from you as you listened to his heartbeat and took in his familiar smell.
Theo cleared his throat as politely as possible.
"Really hate to break up the moment, but if you spent the morning in a broom closet, then how the fuck were you also walking around the North Tower?—"
"—Polyjuice potion" Draco said, without missing a beat, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's the only logical explanation, would also explain why they had to take your clothes" he gestured to Mattheo's half-naked body.
"What?!" Blaise exhaled in disbelief.
"So you mean to say someone planned all of this? Went through all of this effort just to get to her?" Theo asked, and you could hear the fury rising with his tone.
Mattheo's arms squeezed around you, a subconscious reaction to the thought.
"What kind of sick fuck?—"
"—I'm going to kill them" Mattheo said flatly.
And it wasn't a turn of phrase.
He'd said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly that you nearly believed him and hugged him back a little tighter.
"Do you have any idea who it was?" Lorenzo asked.
"No you dipshit, don't you think if she knew it wasn't him this wouldn't have happened?" Draco replied, smacking him in the back of the head.
Theo and Blaise chimed in, arguing the point with one another.
"He did say something weird" you mused quietly, silencing them all as they turned to look at you. "He called me dove" you said, shaking your head at the memory, like you could make yourself forget it.
Mattheo held you that night in a way that made you wonder if he'd ever let you go again. Every minute you spent back with the real him seemed to stitch you together again, to heal and comfort you as you snuggled further into his arms.
He'd apologized no less than a thousand times by now, the guilt steadily eating away at him, even though he had nothing to be sorry for, which you continually reminded him.
"You're a fucking angel" he sighed, unable to stop thinking about it as he traced a thumb over your cheek, his expression sorrowful and raw. "Someone did this to you because of me."
"Matty, that's not—"
"—I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have been there."
"It's okay, it's not your fault. I'm okay now" you said, smiling, feeling the words as you said them, tracing a finger down the bridge of his nose.
You tried to reassure him the rest of the night, managing to coax a few smiles out of him, but his eyes never left you, like he feared looking away for a single blink would leave you in danger. And although a spell had mended your lip and healed your bruises, he continued to trace his fingers over where each mark on your skin had been, like he was reminding himself, committing them to memory.
Nothing could have prepared you for the tension of the days that followed.
The whole group was on edge, like a pack of rabid dogs, ready to snap at anyone that got too close to you. One if not all of them walked you to every class, to every meal, to every event, to Hogsmeade and back again; Mattheo even insisted on showering with you and sleeping with you every night, much to you sincere enjoyment.
The boys spent their days eyeing everyone with suspicion and their nights trying to plot out who might have attacked you. Five guys were walking around the castle with black eyes, but no one had come clean and it was slowly driving them mad; the lack of answers was taking the situation from a serious problem to a personal vendetta.
Two weeks passed. And though the tension remained, you were settling into the heightened level of protection, finding a sense of calm in the way the boys surrounded you like a security blanket. You had every confidence that they would figure this out and until then all you could do was seek a return to normalcy, to focus on the present.
You grounded yourself with the task at hand, potting bundles of dittany during Herbology class shoulder to shoulder with your friends at a long table in the warm greenhouse, the boys acting as a veritable wall between you and the Gryffindors.
Your eyes caught Mattheo's across the narrow table from you and you watched the way the spring sun caught his dark locks. He sent you one of his signature smirks and a quick wink that made you blush and smile.
Your classmates chattered back and forth quietly until a phrase wafted down the table as Seamus Finnegan leaned over to Hermione Granger.
"C'mon dove, help me out?"
And it was like someone sucked the air out of the room. The warmth in the greenhouse suddenly felt stiflingly hot and you could hear the blood rushing to your head as it whooshed in your ears.
Time slowed to seconds like the tick of a broken time-turner.
Five.
Your eyes lifted and met Mattheo's whose had lost all warmth and peace in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. They were devoid of color, clouded, jet black. His jaw ticked as he looked at you, asking you wordlessly to confirm what he'd just heard.
The trill of Finnegan's voice, the accent was all too familiar, it was undeniable and it sent you spiraling back to that morning in the stairwell in a way that had you woozy on your feet. You nodded, small and quick back to him.
Confirming what you'd thought so many times before, that there was an inexplicable bond that linked the boys together, four sets of eyes wordlessly confirmed the same.
And then chaos erupted.
Four.
Lorenzo ran for Finnegan and Theo dropped the plant in his hands, sending shattered pottery and dirt flying in his rage, hot on Enzo's heels.
Three.
Your eyes followed them both but fell to Draco who had started moving in the opposite direction, frantically pushing past classmates who were looking around in panic as he tried to reach Mattheo.
Two.
You glanced at your boyfriend.
He hadn't moved.
He wasn't making a scene, but he'd pulled out his wand, and for the life of you, you couldn't remember a time when he'd favored his magic over his fists.
Oh no you thought as you began to move towards him yourself.
One.
Mattheo stood straight and tall, brandishing his wand with unflinching confidence and surety as he pointed it directly at Finnegan's head.
"AVADA KE—" his voice boomed.
"—Not like this, mate!!" Draco shouted, grabbing his arm at the last possible second.
"Get the fuck off of me!" Mattheo roared, the contact breaking him out of his stupor as he thrashed in Draco's arms.
By now the others had wrangled Finnegan whose face was as green as the detail on their robes; he knew he was utterly and hopelessly fucked, and if you weren't sure before you were certain now that it had been him, the guilt so clear on his face it might as well have been written on his forehead. Your skin crawled.
The rest of your classmates were running and screaming, tearing by you to flee the room as your feet kept you cemented to the floor.
"You're dead! You're fucking dead!" Mattheo's voice echoed, as he screamed and thrashed in Draco's arms.
"You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it, Finnegan! How dare you, how fucking dare you!!!"
Draco was barely holding onto him as they all walked quickly towards the back of the greenhouse.
You moved to follow until Blaise came up beside you and gently reached for you, pulling you into the throng of people fleeing.
"C'mon" he said, softly but firmly guiding you the other way, back towards the castle. "They've got this, you don't need to be here for this—"
"—But this is because of me, Blaise" you urged, pulling back, frantically looking between him and the disappearing figures of Mattheo and your friends, his raging threats echoing off the glass walls in a way that amplified them.
"No, this is because of Finnegan" he said coldly, following your gaze. "And he'll get what's coming to him."
Blaise guided you quickly back to the castle, back to the common room and he tried his best to keep you company, to keep you occupied, though neither of you could properly focus on anything else.
"It'll be alright, right?" you asked quietly, for the hundredth time.
He nodded steadily. "It'll be alright, YN" he reassured you.
You sighed.
"This is just... a lot" you admitted.
"Babe, if you wanted someone to be level-headed and normal about you, you're with the wrong guy" he said in attempt to make you smile.
You smiled weakly and toyed with the fringe of the blanket that you pulled into your lap.
An hour passed.
And then four more.
You skipped dinner and sat in the secluded corner of the common room with Blaise until it emptied and the embers in the fireplace burned low, nearly out. You had sat quietly together now for hours. You were exhausted of conversation and exhausted from the wash of emotions from the day, a mix of relief, of pain in reliving the memories upon hearing Finnegan's voice, of worry about what exactly was going on.
You'd never seen Mattheo like that; he had been completely unhinged and you recalled his words the day it all happened. "I'm going to kill them" spoken like a vow, an oath.
It was beyond late before the door snicked open quietly and the four boys walked in without a sound. You and Blaise stood and they met Blaise's eyes first, nodding at one another before your friends departed, leaving you with somber smiles to be with Mattheo.
You navigated around the couches to him, your footsteps quickening to close the distance and you pulled him into your arms. His body was stiff with tension, but you felt it begin to melt away the second you touched him; he nuzzled into you and you could feel the tired on him, mixed with a burdened sense of relief.
"Come on" you said, taking his hand and leading him to your bedroom.
He sat down on the corner of the bed in the dim light and let out a sigh like he was trying to unload the weight he'd been carrying, his shoulders slumped as he ran his fingers through his hair. You stepped between his legs and reached for his hands the way you always did, ready to tend to them.
"They're fine" he croaked, his voice hoarse as he met your gaze, smiling softly at you, taking you in. You could tell he was trying to distract you and when he rested his hands on your hips and moved to pull you into him, he almost succeeded.
You pressed a quick, searing kiss to his lips and then reached to pull his hands off of your hips and he relented, sighing again.
His knuckles were badly bruised and bloodied, at least two of them looked to be broken from what you could tell and a frown crested your lips to know that the same hands that were so gentle with you could be capable of such violence.
But it was the crimson blood that stained his palms, that gathered under each fingernail that made you pause. That was new.
"Mattheo" you whispered, the question lingering in the air unspoken. What did you do?
"He's gonna be gone for awhile" he said plainly in response before his eyes met yours straight on, intense.
"And he is never, ever going to touch you again."
You pursed your lips and nodded, acknowledging that this was his way of apologizing, of making things right, of balancing the scales of justice as judge, jury and executioner.
He brought his bloody hands to your face, cupped it gently and kissed you.
Seamus didn't come back until well after spring solstice, weeks later.
Despite the rampant rumors and speculation, he didn't say a single word about what happened, like the boys had taken his very voice from him.
His face was still mottled with multicolored bruises, one eye swollen shut, evidence that even magic couldn't heal the extent of the damage they'd caused.
But even despite that, something you'd learned about your friends is that they were not quick to forgive and they never, ever forgot...
You were lounging by the Black Lake on an unusually warm afternoon, sprawled on a large blanket with your friends, your shoes and socks forgone and your skirt and shirtsleeves rolled up in an effort to catch a tan.
Mattheo himself was shirtless beside you, his eyes closed against the warm rays as you rested your head on his bicep. Theo, Enzo and Draco were sitting next to you playing exploding snap while Blaise flipped through a book, and you sighed, reveling in the rare moment of peace, which didn't last longer than fifteen minutes.
"Bit warm for a jumper, isn't if Finnegan?" Draco shouted.
Your eyes fluttered open and you turned your head to see a group of Gryffindors nearby.
Sure enough, the group was dressed like you, short sleeves, bare feet, but for Finnegan who was covered head to toe and was visibly dripping sweat. His faced flushed even redder at the comment as he averted his eyes, immediately shrinking in pure terror.
"Should take it off, mate" Lorenzo chimed in cheekily. "Enjoy the sun, no?"
Seamus swallowed but wouldn't meet their eyes.
You turned to look at Mattheo but he hadn't moved. His eyes remained closed though you could see a muscle tic in his clenched jaw.
"C'mon then" Theo said, sitting up like he meant to move. "Need our help? We'll come lend a hand."
Seamus looked like he was about to cry as his face crumpled.
You didn't know what they were playing at, but you could tell it was torturing him, and for the briefest moment you pitied him, until your memories came wading back, threatening to overwhelm you with the feeling of sickening fear and betrayal.
And it was like Mattheo could sense it, his eyes fluttering open to look at you as he tried to tug you back into his arms.
"Just ignore them" he said, his voice still scratchy.
But you saw Seamus pull his sweater over his head out of the corner of your eye and as it came away from his body you noticed the crimson lines covering his arms. Even at your distance you could feel the sickness of them, the curse of dark magic in the air and several people gasped and scrambled away from him.
You sat up and stared closer as you realized the lines spelled something.
On his left arm, MUDBLOOD in deep angry jagged letters, in wounds carved into his skin.
On his right, RAPIST.
He took one fateful look at your group and then got up and nearly tripped over himself as he ran back to the castle.
"Aww, was it something I said?" Draco cried after him.
"Bye!" Lorenzo waved cheerfully.
Blaise blew him a kiss.
And Theo watched his every move under dark lidded eyes.
But Mattheo was looking solely at you, trying to gauge your reaction, your understanding. He reached for your hand and twined his fingers in yours, pulling you back to lay down with him as he looked at you with vulnerability and caressed your cheek. Now you knew the truth. You knew just how dangerous he could be, just what lengths he would go to for you.
Your heart thumped wildly in your chest and your mind raced and for a moment it occurred to you to be scared.
Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.
You thought about broken knuckles and black eyes, of blood-stained palms and the lingering feeling of dark magic in the air. You heard his voice rattling the panes of the greenhouse with his rage, 'You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it!'
And then that same voice, from the same boy, sweetly, softly ‘No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here. I love you, YN.'
And you thought about the caress of his lips against yours on a stormy night, of his warm arms around you, of the feeling of his calloused hands on your bare skin, and the rumble of his voice in his chest as your head lay on his heart.
"It'll never heal" he said quietly, bringing you back to the present moment. "No magic can fix it. He'll wear that reminder on his skin for the rest of his life."
His chocolate eyes warmed as they looked at you, asking you, one more time, to trust him, to tell him that you understood.
You smiled softly, and traced a finger over his lips and a calm comfort settled over you, a reassurance that no matter what life threw your way, this boy would be standing by your side, that he might burn the world to the ground but would never let a flame touch you, that this was simply how he loved: deep, sincere, serious and unrelenting.
“I love you” you whispered in reassurance before leaning in to press the sweetest kiss to his lips that melted his heart and proved to him that every sin he committed along the way would always be worth it, for you.
Summary: Fred realises his true feelings for you once you are dared to french kiss George during a round of truth or dare. Draco then forces you to kiss him instead, which only results in a brawl. You then take Fred back to the common room and help clean his wounds.
Warnings/tags: violence/fighting, jealous!fred, kissing, non-con touch, Draco being a git (sorry malfoy lovers 😭), cleaning wounds after a fight trope, reader isn't in a specified house here, spicy ending (if u squint)
———
The Ravenclaw common room had never seen a gathering quite like this. The enchanted blue flames flickered in the fireplace, casting a radiant glow over the room, which today, was packed with students from all four houses.
Luna had invited everyone over, claiming that a “spontaneous social gathering” would be a great way to pass the time and forget about your studies for a while.
The usual gryffindor group, Cedric and some hufflepuffs, the slytherin trio and Cho, all decided to partake in this gathering.
And so, there you all were, sitting in a large, chaotic circle on the floor, playing a game of truth or dare that had long spiralled out of control.
The rules were simple: if you refused a dare or a truth, you had to take Veritaserum and spill your deepest, darkest secret in front of everyone. No one wanted to risk that.
So far, Harry had been dared to kiss the prettiest girl in the room, which led to him—rather sheepishly—kissing Ginny, earning a gag from Ron. But moments later, Ron found himself a stuttering mess when Hermione had been dared to sit on his lap for two rounds, her face burning red while he struggled to keep his cool.
Neville, poor thing, had been forced to recount an embarrassing moment where he tripped down an entire staircase in front of his crush, which turned out alright anyway because they went to Madam Pomfrey together and spent the whole day chatting.
And now, it was your turn.
Draco, who sat beside you, leaned in with a smug grin. “Alright Y/N, let’s make this interesting,” he drawled. “I dare you to French kiss the person sitting across from you.”
You turned your head, your stomach flipping.
And there sat George Weasley, grinning at you like he had already won.
The room erupted into cheers, and George wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “Well, Y/N, I won’t say no,” he teased, leaning back on his hands.
Your heart sank a little—not because George was a bad choice, but because you wished it was his twin instead.
Still, rules were rules.
Taking a deep breath, you stood up and took slow tentative steps across the large circle, kneeling in front of George. “Alright Georgie, just get it over with,” you muttered, cheeks burning.
George chuckled. “Hey! At least pretend to be excited.”
You rolled your eyes, chuckling lightly, before leaning in, pressing your lips to his. He kissed you back easily, bringing a hand to your neck, letting it linger a moment longer than necessary before you pulled away, flustered.
George gave you a grin then winked, and you smiled back. He was one of your closest friends, after all; teasing you came naturally to him.
"Okay that's done!" Flustered, you rose up and hurried back to your spot next to Draco.
"You guys are adorable." Cho, who was sitting on the other side of you, nudged you gently, and you laughed nervously.
Sure, George was handsome, humorous, and kind, but he wasn't Fred. To most people, they were pretty much the same person, two halves of a whole, but to you, it was different. There was something about Fred that you saw differently.
Speaking of Fred, you shot a quick glance in his direction, curious as to his whole reaction regarding the scene that just unfolded.
Fred hadn’t said a word.
He sat stiffly, arms crossed, his jaw tight as he glared at his twin. Something in his chest twisted when he saw George’s smug grin.
But it wasn't entirely George's fault. You see, no one knew of Fred's secret crush on you. Would you call it a crush? Man, feelings were a complicated mystery to Fred, he never bothered going down that lane, it was foreign to him. Best avoid all that sappy stuff, y'know.
Draco, however, was unimpressed. “That was pathetic,” he scoffed, leaning closer to you. “You call that a French kiss? It had to be longer.”
You folded your arms, tilting your head to the side. “You didn’t even say how long.”
Draco smirked. “Fine, then, two minutes. You can do it on me instead. Save you the hassle of walking over there again."
The room let out a collective “ooooh,” and your stomach churned.
"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" Crabbe, Goyle and Dean chanted.
"Wha—I already did the dare!" You countered, raising your hands in defence.
"Hmm now that Draco mentioned it, it was a bit of a short kiss, barely a French kiss, more like a Portuguese kiss." Lee agreed, resting his hand on his chin.
"Portuguese kiss? That's not even a thing you git." Angelina chortled, throwing her head back.
Before you could react, Draco leaned in slightly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers barely grazed your cheek, but it was enough to make you shift uncomfortably. He patted your head, smiling like he was doing you some kind of favour.
You didn’t like it.
But Draco was your friend, and this was supposed to be fun, so you ignored it. You didn't want to ruin the mood for everyone so you forced yourself to tolerate it.
Fred, however, wasn’t ignoring it.
His hand was clenched into a tight fist in his lap, and his usually mischievous eyes were laced with something entirely different.
Draco leaned in again, wrapping one arm around you. “Come on, then,” he murmured, his smirk widening. “Or do you want the Veritaserum?”
Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. You didn’t want to kiss him. But you definitely didn’t want to take the serum, either.
Draco took your hesitation as an invitation. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re scared.”
The crowd cheered again, urging you on.
Draco removed his arm then ruffled your hair slightly, "Don't be a wuss, I'll make it enjoyable for ya."
"Don't be scared Y/N, it's only a kiss!" Seamus encouraged, hoping to make you feel better, but it only made you feel worse.
Only a kiss? You wanted to save french kissing for someone special, not some ridiculous dare.
Draco leaned closer, nuzzling his nose into your neck. His hand brushed against your arm, he was so close that you could now smell his fresh scent. You leaned back instinctively, smiling awkwardly while brushing your arm.
Everyone was so caught up encouraging the two of you to kiss that no one paid attention to the speed at which Fred stood up from the floor and bolted to Draco, tackling him harshly.
A collective gasp echoed through the room as the two of them crashed onto the floor. Draco barely had time to react before Fred punched him, his face twisted in pure rage. The two of them were now in a brawl, wrestling each other on the ground. It was clear that no one was going easy on each other.
“Keep your hands off her,” Fred snapped, his voice low and furious.
Draco, stunned for only a second, sneered up at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
"Fred! Oi! Stop, it's just a game!" Lee's attempt at stopping Fred with his words was useless.
Fred wasn’t listening. His fists clenched, his breathing heavy as he pinned Draco down, gripping his shirt harshly.
Draco’s smirk returned. “Merlin, are you jealous Weasley?”
Fred loosened his grip, blinking slowly, "I..."
"Called it. Bet you wished it was you getting to french kiss Y/N then. Why don't you let me finish my dare with her so I can show you how it's done eh?" Draco remarked, all too obnoxiously for Fred's liking.
Fred's eyes grew darker, laced with furiousness.
He lunged again, and in a matter of seconds, they were full-on fighting.
Gasps and shouts filled the room as they tumbled, fists flying, knocking over a pile of books and scattering cards from an abandoned wizarding chess game. The flood thudded heavily, as they continued their wrestling.
“Fred! Draco! Stop!” Voices pleaded, but they were drowned out as Fred was blinded by rage. How dare Draco force himself onto you like that?!
No one listened.
You watched them in pure horror as they fought; you joined the others in yelling at them to stop, but none of them listened.
Hermione immediately went to comfort you, placing a comforting hand on your arm and sending you an apologetic look. Was this all because of you? You felt like shit for causing this, bloody hell, you should've just french kissed Draco.
“Merlin’s beard, Fred, stop!” George tried pulling his twin back, but Fred shook him off, shoving him away.
Cedric attempted to pull Draco off Fred, but Draco pushed him aside, scoffing, "Not now Diggory!"
Draco, despite being an arrogant prat, was also a decent fighter, and he managed to shove Fred back, wiping a bit of blood from his lip.
“What the hell?!” you finally yelled, eyes darting from Fred to Draco.
Fred froze.
His furious gaze met yours, his chest rising and falling heavily, as he wiped some blood off his lips.
He swallowed hard. Then, without a word, he turned and stormed out of the common room.
You hesitated only a second before running after him.
—
You found him on the astronomy tower balcony, leaning against the railing, gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white.
The night air was cold, but Fred’s skin was burning.
You took a deep breath. “Fred—”
“Why don’t you go check on Draco?” he cut in sharply. “Or George. Your boyfriends.”
Your brows furrowed. “They’re not my boyfriends. You're being ridiculous now.”
Fred let out a short, humourless laugh. “Really? You were getting pretty cozy with George back there.”
You sighed. “It was a dare, Fred.”
“Oh, and Draco just happened to be all over you?” He turned to face you, and that’s when you saw it—his bruised lip, the cut on his cheekbone, the faint traces of blood at the corner of his mouth.
"Come on, I know we're friends but I can handle myself." You assumed he was being protective as a friend, so you attempted comforting him, but failed miserably at doing so.
"Yeah, friends." He pressed his lips together.
You took a step closer wanting to reach up, but Fred’s eyes flickered elsewhere. “Don’t.”
You froze.
“I don’t need you feeling bad for me,” he muttered, turning back to the railing. His grip tightened. “I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity, Fred,” you said softly.
Silence stretched between you. The wind howled through the tower, whipping his hair slightly, but Fred didn’t move.
Your gaze drifted to his hands. His knuckles were raw, bruised from the fight.
Without thinking, you reached out, gently prying one of his fists open. He held his breath, glancing down at you.
Your fingers traced the swelling on his knuckles, your touch featherlight. “We need to clean this up.”
Fred didn’t protest. He just stood there, his jaw clenched, watching you. He released his breath, silently agreeing.
Wordlessly, you pulled his hand in yours, leading him down the spiral staircase, away from the cold, away from the fight, away from everyone else.
—
The fire crackled softly in the Gryffindor common room, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The common room was empty—everyone was either asleep or still in the Ravenclaw tower, talking about what had happened.
Fred sat on the couch, his arms resting on his knees, his head tilted slightly downward. He hadn’t said much since you dragged him back.
You returned from the bathroom with a damp cloth and knelt in front of him.
“Hold still,” you murmured, gently dabbing at the dried blood on his lip.
Fred flinched at the contact but didn’t pull away. He just watched you, his hazel eyes unreadable, though there was a glimmer of something, awe, perhaps.
His eyes studied yours, the way your eyebrows furrowed as you focused on cleaning his wounds. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, you were the epitome of beauty in his eyes, a darling angel.
You focused on cleaning him up, biting your lip. The silence between you was begging to be broken, heavy with something left unsaid. But you chose to ignore it, shifting your focus to getting Fred cleaned up.
You see, it was the way you were always so caring towards everyone, so kind, always selflessly giving your time away to help those who needed it. That was part of the reason Fred had fallen for you in the first place, your kindness.
Fred exhaled sharply as you pressed on his wound.
"Sorry..." you mutter, but he gently removed your arm, and rested it on his knee.
“I don’t know how to stop this,” he said suddenly.
You paused, looking up at him. “Stop what?”
He let out a cheerless laugh. “This. You. Making me feel like a complete idiot.”
Your heart pace increased. “I—”
“Do you know what it’s like?” His voice was raw, unfiltered, a slight rasp as he spoke softly. “Watching you? Seeing every guy in that room touch you? Kiss you?” He shook his head. “I nearly lost my mind.”
You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away.
“Never thought I'd admit it, but I’ve wanted you,” his voice low, almost trembling. “For so long, and I—” He broke off, exhaling harshly. “And then tonight, I had to sit there and watch it. Merlin, it drove me so bloody mad.”
Your hands were shaking. Was this it? The Fred you never thought would ever return your feelings, about to spew the words right out?
Fred’s eyes locked onto yours, something desperate behind this gaze.
“I hate that you don’t see it,” he muttered.
“See what?” you breathed.
His lips parted, and for a second, he hesitated.
“That I love you.”
Your breath caught, inhaling as you paused.
Fred let out a rough laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Godric, I love you. I don’t just like you, I love you. And it kills me because I know you don’t feel the same way so I just thought I'd keep it to myself but here we are."
Your heartbeat felt as though it was pounding loud enough to wake up the whole dorm.
“You idiot,” you whispered.
Fred blinked. “What?”
“You idiot,” you repeated, your voice shaking. Then, before he could react, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his with all the emotion you've held back, the words you've been dying to say to him.
It was nothing like the kiss with George.
This was everything.
Fred let out a soft, startled sound before his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, as if he had been waiting for this moment forever. His lips moved against yours, desperate, breathless. He kissed you like he had something to prove, like he needed you to know how much he meant it.
And you did.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, getting up from kneeling and he pulled you onto his lap, now straddling him in the common room, to which you were thankful that no one was around.
A soft moan escaped you, as he sucked on your lower lip, your hands tangled themselves in his fluffy hair, tugging lightly.
When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, you whispered, “I love you too.”
Fred let out a quiet, shaky laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “You better.” He teased.
You rolled your eyes, and he grinned.
“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, kissing him again as if there was no tomorrow. He smiled into the kiss, desperately needing a round two with you, his Y/N.
Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.
A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?
Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.
Best friends, even.
“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.
Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.
In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.
And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.
Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.
Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.
You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.
You looked hot.
Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.
Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.
He stared at you.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”
You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”
He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”
Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.
You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”
“It’s a postage stamp.”
“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.
“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”
Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”
Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”
You rolled your eyes.
Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."
You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."
Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"
He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"
That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”
"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.
"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."
You blinked again, "For what?"
He paused, "To supervise."
"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."
Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."
"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.
Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”
You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."
Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.
He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.
“You’re like a little sister to me.”
He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.
And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.
Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.
But you noticed.
So did everyone else.
And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.
And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.
Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground.
Every duel, a performance.
Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.
Today was no different.
You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.
But you simply smiled.
Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.
You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.
It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.
Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.
“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.
His face was a picture of panic.
Your internal grin was feral.
He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.
“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.
He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.
"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”
You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)
“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”
Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”
Little sister.
Right.
You tried not to roll your eyes.
Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.
No, it was different when it was you.
When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.
You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”
He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.
You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.
As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.
You’d get him eventually.
You were patient.
And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.
It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.
You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.
Until it wasn’t.
A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.
“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”
You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”
“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”
You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”
Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”
You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.
Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”
You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”
“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”
You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”
“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”
You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.
Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”
You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”
Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”
You blinked, “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”
“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”
“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”
“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”
He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”
You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”
He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”
That shut you up.
He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.
“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”
He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”
You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”
He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”
Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.
He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”
You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”
He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.
“You do?”
You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”
Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.
“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.
You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”
“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”
You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.
It was nothing and everything.
Just a moment. Just a feeling.
But it was these moments that truly made you believe.
You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.
The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.
You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.
A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.
“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”
Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?
It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.
You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”
You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.
But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.
So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.
The small detail you’d failed to factor in?
Your friends hadn’t come alone.
So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.
You weren’t bitter. Not really.
…Okay. Maybe a little.
You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.
Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.
He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.
Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.
You looked up as he stopped in front of you.
“Fred?”
“You look like a lemon.”
You blinked. “Charming.”
He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”
You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”
He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”
You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”
You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.
“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”
“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”
“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”
He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”
“You won’t.” You said smugly.
You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.
You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”
You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.
“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.
The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”
Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”
The boy hesitated, then walked away.
You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”
Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”
You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”
He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”
The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.
“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.
“Fred—what are you—?”
Then he dipped you.
Dramatically.
One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.
“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”
“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”
He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”
Your breath caught.
He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.
You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.
Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.
You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.
So you said nothing.
You let him hold you a little too close.
Let his fingers linger at your waist.
Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.
And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.
At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.
The both of you just lost in your own world.
Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.
Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.
“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”
You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”
He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”
“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”
He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.
“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.
Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”
He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.
“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.
“Angelina, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”
Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”
She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”
His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”
“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”
Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.
Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.
Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.
Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.
Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.
Oh.
Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.
He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.
He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.
“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.
Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”
But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.
“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”
Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”
“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”
Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”
George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”
“I didn’t—”
“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”
“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.
“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”
Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”
George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”
Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”
George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are in love with her.”
Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”
George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.
Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.
The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.
He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.
He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.
Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.
So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.
You’d gone all out.
Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.
So you did.
The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.
George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.
“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”
They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.
And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.
The real one.
Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.
And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.
When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.
“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”
He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”
You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.
Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.
Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”
“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.
He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.
Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.
His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.
“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”
Fred stared at it.
Then at you.
His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.
You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”
Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.
There was no warning.
No hesitation.
Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.
You kissed him back with everything you had.
When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.
“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”
You opened your mouth.
He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”
You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.
Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.
The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.
A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.
“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”
George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”
Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.
You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.
His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.
“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”
Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.
You just winked.
And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.
He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.
And he always had been.
Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.
Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.
Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.
At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.
George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.
“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”
Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”
“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”
Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.
This went on for days.
He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.
It was, frankly, kind of adorable.
George was having the time of his life.
On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”
Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.
Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.
Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.
Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.
Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.
You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.
When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.
Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”
Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.
“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.
Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.
Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.
“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”
You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.
“Moi?”
Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”
You just winked, utterly unapologetic.
You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.
The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.
He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.
He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”
That was when you snapped.
You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.
For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.
He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.
Again and again and again.
But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.
You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.
“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.
Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.
Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?
Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”
You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.
“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.
Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.
And now? Now he was properly wrecked.
Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.
“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”
He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—
“Oi!”
The door slammed open.
George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”
Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”
George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”
“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”
George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”
You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.
Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.
“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.
You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”
Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”
You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”
He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.
Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”
“You do.”
He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”
You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”
Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”
You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”
He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”
Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”
He did.
This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.
Bonus:
It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.
Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.
You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.
He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.
“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.
“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.
“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.
You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”
His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.
Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”
“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”
Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.
“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”
Fred blinked, “What is that?”
George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”
You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”
“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”
Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”
You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”
He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”
Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”
“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”
Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.
“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”
Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”
Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.
Bonus Bonus Scene:
It started innocently enough.
(Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)
You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along.
“You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.
Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.
By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.
Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.
You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.
You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”
“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.
You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.
Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.
You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.
Until—
“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”
You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.
Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)
Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.
For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.
Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.
Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.
Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.
Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.
“How long has this been going on?!”
Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”
Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”
You winced. Fred winced.
Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.
Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.
Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.
Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.
“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”
The room fell utterly silent.
Even George stopped laughing.
You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.
Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.
And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.
“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”
You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”
He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”
Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)
The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.
“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”
“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.
You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”
“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”
You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”
“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.
“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”
“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.
“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”
At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.
“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”
You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.
Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.
You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.
“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”
“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.
Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”
“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.
Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”
“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.
And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.
you vent in your diary, and, one day, fred weasley “accidentally” reads some entries and tries to nonchalantly return it.
♪─── warnings: friends to lovers, established friends, teenage feelings/hormones, cringe diary entries, swearing, medium paced burn, 1 time use of y/n, u being a theater kid minor subplot, follows fred for a bit, unimportant background characters, fred has acid reflux, bsf’s hot older brother trope, vaguely 6-7th year btw, casually ripped!fred, happy ending
♪─── word count: 3.7k probably
part one
Dear Notecard,
Sunday
I lost my diary.
I’ve scavenged the ends of the earth, and I simply cannot find it. My life is over. I’m moving to America, because the things I’ve said in there are vile. Maybe. I don’t remember (which is a problem).
I JUST NEED IT BACK. OH MY DAYS. IT’S OUT THERE IN THE WILD FOR ANYONE TO SEE.
I genuinely don’t know what I’m to do. Should I ask Ginny and Abby to help me find it?
WHAT IF SOME KID HAS IT?
WHY DOES IT GO MISSING AFTER I MAKE IMPORTANT REVELATIONS? COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT!!!!
I’ll probably have to burn this card later to prevent any further journal leakage.
Dear Notecard #2,
Monday
Ginny’s on the lookout for my diary. I really should’ve charmed it to appear invisible to unauthorized eyes or something. GOD, WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT SOONER? I’M SO FUCKING STUPID. ALL OF THIS COULD’VE BEEN PREVENTED IF MY IQ WAS 10 POINTS HIGHER.
What if Peeves has it? He would’ve said something by now, right? Probably would’ve taunted me by waving it in front of my face… everything seems normal.
Will saying “Accio Diary” pull it out of whomever’s grubby hands it’s currently in?
I miss you, Diary. Please come back to me.
Dear Notecard #3,
Tuesday
I genuinely don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I might give up, because Hogwarts is big and the amount of people that go here is even bigger, so it’s really a lost cause. I don’t think I wrote anything disgustingly intimate in there… besides you know what, but like that stuff is normal to a degree… my life is so over.
I need to get my mind off it. I’ll see if Ginny wants to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend, but tonight I gotta organize and clean out a bunch of stuff for Hugo.
Fred Weasley could not stop reading your journal entries. He mentally promised that the one accidental log would be it, but Fred Weasley was born nosy. Sticking his big nose in other people’s business was a guilty pleasure, and when the gossip came to him, practically served on a silver platter, Fred Weasley could not resist temptation.
For the first two days, right after picking you up from the library and a chatty dinner, he’d retreat to his dorm, flip to a random page, and start reading. Fred had learned a lot about you, more than he could ever imagine uncovering through regular conversation.
The guilt showed up as acid reflux on the third day; he hadn’t formulated a plan on how to safely return the journal, but being in possession of it was causing… minor distress to both parties.
Your eyes tended to wander into people’s backpacks and fly into every stack of books, hopeful of locating the missing diary. You jumped at the sound of your name, because you were agonized by the thought that someone knew something.
Paranoia, that’s what it was; but your intuition was following a breadcrumb trail, because that someone was Fred, and he knew way too many ‘somethings.’
I need to get rid of it, Fred ruminated. He anxiously looked around the Common Room; he was alone thankfully, but regretfully alienated in this particular endeavor.
The little black journal was hidden away in the messenger bag he clutched in his lap. Perhaps I can throw it into the lake or toss it into the fire! Watch my sins burn away! Fred bit down on his pointer finger’s nail; he felt it bend beneath his tooth and eventually tear away. He huffed and flicked it out of his mouth.
The portrait of the Fat Lady swung wide open with a pitchy squeal (from the painted subject, not the door), and Fred’s ginger head snapped towards the sound expectantly, but only found a short blonde carrying a folded up easel. Unfortunately, Fred couldn’t quite label that tanned face (um, perhaps Agatha? Or Sophie?), but he knew she was Ginny’s roommate.
He straightened his posture and peered over the couch. “Hey!” He called out. The girl’s eyes swept across the room, which was very empty, so she turned to Fred, curious. “D’you know where my sister is?” He asked.
She shrugged, “I dunno.” She pointed at the staircase to the Girls’ Dormitory. “But I can check, if you want.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Please.”
A minute or two later, Ginny emerged with rows of pink curlers rolled up in her long fiery hair and a thin layer of green goo on her face.
Fred coughed with frazzled eyes at the sight of his sister. “What’s with the getup?”
“Self-care day,” Ginny bluntly answered. She cautiously tapped her cheek, checking the dryness of her clay mask. She begrudgingly crossed her arms. “What’d you want, Fred?”
“Have you seen Y/N?”
Ginny made an indescribable face (to Fred it was a mix between common suspicion and sisterly speculation). She shrugged; her irked brow stiff from the clay. “I don’t know… maybe check the Drama Club? Rehearsals are usually after school—,”
“What now?” Fred sputtered, standing up from the ancient couch. Since when did you do theater? How come he never heard about this?
His sister rolled her eyes. “Drama Club. Rehearsals. After school,” she repeated, as she turned back to the stairs.
Ginny had only taken a few steps towards colloquial freedom, before Fred blathered on, “We have one of those?”
Ginny kept ascending towards the dormitories. “Yes,” she reluctantly called out.
Fred frowned and his forehead creased with displeasure. You had never mentioned attending auditions or even considering joining the Drama Club to him! Nor did you even write about it in the diary— well, his brows furrowed, he wasn’t reading the entries chronologically.
Fred slid the thick strap of his bag onto his shoulder. He looked at wooden backings of the portrait-way. Drama Club it is then.
This was all messed up, Fred was firmly aware, but now he knew you reciprocated his feelings! The ends justify the means, right? Good things can come from Fred’s invasive and intrusive behavior!
Fred paled, as he pulled the painting open. Oh God, this is gonna end terribly, he concluded.
The Fat Lady watched him exit the stale Gryffindor Tower. She held out her crystal wine chalice. “Where you off to, troublemaker?” She mused lightheartedly.
The boy threw over his shoulder, “Just, uh, gotta fix some stuff.”
Her thin brown eyebrows quirked mischievously. “Fix?” She echoed, placing her drink down. She cackled and clapped her pink hands. “That’s new!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m constantly evolving— puberty and whatnot,” Fred waved his hand dismissively, and he ventured off deeper into the cold castle.
Fred passed through galleries, overhearing lower class men twittering on about bogus tarot readings and overdue assignments. Laggard complaints from Ravenclaw Quidditch players about the upcoming match drowned out the soft thuds of his footsteps.
No one knew he had your diary. Not even George.
Fred’s hand subconsciously patted the cracked leather skin of his bag (which was a hand-me-down from Charlie). He felt the rectangular shape press against his palm, affirming to him of its consistent existence.
When he passed by the library, he realized he didn’t know where the Drama Club was.
Shit.
His trainers squeaked when he came to such an abrupt halt. His stomach churned and his throat stung; he squinted down the long empty corridor. A figure was quickly approaching— one tall with long flaring black robes, stiffly squared shoulders and a snobby upturned nose.
“Percy!” Fred exclaimed, lightly jogging up to him.
It was the first time Fred appeared… happy when seeing his elder brother.
Downturned lines appeared on Percy’s elvish face. The Prefect was always displeased when seeing a Weasley twin.
“Yes?” Percy snootily answered, uncomfortably shifting weight on his feet.
“Where’s the Drama Club?” Fred inquired.
It was Percy’s big eyes that squinted this time. He crossed his skinny arms. “Why do you need to know?” Percy pressed.
“I need to drop something off for my friend.”
As a dignified Prefect, he was naturally inclined to answer. But as a human with a working memory, Percy was skeptical and reluctant to inform his brother.
The younger redhead automatically sensed the hesitancy. “I’m not lying, Percy,” Fred told him. “I honestly need to return a book.”
“Since when did you read?”
“Just tell me where,” Fred begged.
Percy rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna stink-bomb their practice are you? I’ll write you up if I hear any—,”
Fred shook his head vigorously. He waved his hand, almost trying to erase the thought from his brother. “No no no,” Fred said. “I’m serious this time. I have to return something.”
Percy sighed— no, he huffed and scratched his eye in disdain. “Third floor, right across Professor Prentiss’ room,” the Prefect grumbled.
Fred tried not to eagerly smile. This might be the only time he was genuinely grateful for Percy’s birth. Fred clapped a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he chirped, before swiftly brushing past.
The Drama Club room was hot. Everyone had shed a few woolen layers and taken the liberty of tying up hair or rolling up their sleeves. The windows were all popped open and atmospheric charms were cast maybe a billion times, but absolutely nothing worked. It was grotesquely humid and mildly sweaty to your chagrin.
You were scavenging through the bulging chests for old itchy costumes, as student volunteers dug through the piles of handmade foam props and stage furniture. You had come across earthy colored smocks to flared nylon pants. There were faux golden circlets, Viking helmets, steampunk goggles, fur hats, and snake wigs all crammed into various boxes.
You pulled out a long silver robe, thematically vague to its time period, but sheer and sparkly with dozens of diamond buttons down the front. You stood up and pressed it against your body.
You looked down at the glittery fabric and held out a large Marie sleeve. “Would this work for the Lady of the Lake?” You curiously threw out to the room.
Hugo’s attention flew over. The club president pushed up his little spectacles with one hand (the other was holding a tape measure). Hugo hummed, “Yes, that’ll do.”
“I wish it was longer; it’d be more whimsical,” Loretta mused from her wooden stool. Hugo motioned for her to hold out her arms. Loretta wordlessly complied, and the boy assessed the appropriate lengths for a new outfit. “Can my dress be blue?”
“It’s gonna be green,” Hugo snapped, before jotting down a few numbers into his notebook.
Loretta’s shoulder sagged. “But that’s so… ugh.”
Hugo rolled his eyes, “It’s a sensible color for Morgan.”
“But I’m so pale, it’ll wash me out and make me look sickly.”
Hugo gestured for her to step off the chair. “Even better!” He mocked.
“How about pink?” She offered.
“Absolutely not.” He looked at you and your newfound cloak. “Let me see that,” Hugo said, nodding for you to come hither. You brought the garment over, and the black haired boy scrunched his nose. “It might be too big; I’ll have to bring in the waist.” He turned to the whole room. “Did anyone find the crowns?”
“Yes, they’re on the table by the window,” you immediately answered. You pointed in their general direction, and Hugo spotted Desmond carefully checking the tiaras.
“I’ll take this off your hands,” Hugo said. You handed over the robe, and he continued, “There should be a moonstone crown. You’ll wear that one, alright?”
Desmond, looking at the aforementioned diadem, interrupted the two with a wince. “Half the gems fell off actually…” Desmond grumbled.
Hugo’s hand slapped his forehead. He groaned, “What about the star one then?”
Loretta stopped pairing old shoes. “Oh, I wanted that,” she sighed sadly from the floor.
Desmond reached across the table, picked it up, and gently turned it around in his large calloused hands. “It looks fine.”
Hugo turned back to you, “Star one it is.”
Knock knock knock.
The abrasive sound lured in everyone’s notice, but with the door already ajar and an infamous freckled face clearly peering in, the club president grew vexed.
“Weasley, get out!” Hugo barked. His long legs strode over to the door in seconds. He attempted to shoo Fred away, but the mischievous Beater’s eyes locked onto yours, and he motioned for you to meet him in the hall.
“We don’t need any production delays!” Hugo proclaimed exasperatedly, as you stepped around open crates and hopped over fake swords and lanterns.
“I’ll see what he wants,” you mumbled to Hugo, who averted his gaze and sniffled in satisfaction.
You pressed a warm hand against Fred’s firm chest and pushed him out of the Drama Club room. “What’re you doing here?” You asked him, once the door was shut.
The back of Fred’s throat stung, and he tried his best not to gag with his stomach acid partying. “Hey,” he sheepishly croaked. You raised a brow, and his hand shakily reached into his bag. “You forgot this in the library the other day,” Fred added, before presenting to you your very own diary.
You screamed and snatched it out of his hands.
He gave no fight, and your face paled before it began to burn with bewilderment. If it were possible, your face would be blue with humiliation.
“Did you read it?!” You screeched, clutching the diary close to your chest.
Fred stared at you dumbly. “No,” he said.
You gawked at him, speechless. Oh my God. He totally read it, you internally shrieked. Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s over. It’s all over.
Fred shrugged, “I just found it.”
LIAR! LIAR. LIAR. LIAR!
You stuttered breathlessly, “Did you— did you just—,” you gulped and sucked in a hasty breath. You shook with fury and cried, “DID YOU JUST HAVE IT THIS WHOLE TIME?!”
Fred cringed; his ears prickled at the shrill timbre of your voice. “Yes,” he admitted ashamedly.
You gasped, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
“I’m sorry,” Fred managed to muster.
You smacked his arm with the journal, “What did you read? HUH? WHAT DID YOU READ?”
Fred yelped and clutched his “injured” bicep. You continued thwacking him. He hunched over, knees slightly bent and upper half concave. He tried to protect his head from the abuse. “I’m sorry! I am! I’m SO sorry!” Fred pleaded.
“Are you confessing to it?” You indignantly replied. With the warmth of the castle and the heat of your adrenaline, sweat pooled above your furrowed brow. “You STOLE and READ my diary?” You whacked the back of his head.
Fred squealed and flopped onto his stomach. He pushed himself onto his hands and knee and scampered out of your aim like a confused rat. The boy, cheeks flushed with eyes full of comedic fear, defensively held out his arms and stumbled onto his feet.
He yawped, “YES! I DID! You don’t have to forgive me; I definitely wouldn’t—,” You raised the book, ready to launch at his head, but Fred intuitively ducked before spewing, “PLEASE, DON’T THROW THAT AT ME!”
“Oh my God,” you defeatedly weeped. You lowered the diary, deflated of purpose and reason (Fred tried not to audibly sigh with relief, but he was very grateful it wasn’t becoming a flying projectile).
Another friendship ruined, you thought, this was practically betrayal. It didn’t hurt as much as Nelina, but, God, it was weirdly barbaric. You couldn’t find it in yourself to look at him— you wanted to (really really wanted to), because you secretly yearned for relishing in his guilt, but his youthful charm and gorgeous looks were sure to inadvertently sway whatever verdict you had in mind.
Fred watched your empty hand cover your eyes with dramatic dejection. “It’s not that bad,” Fred timidly suggested. He boldly took a half step closer, foolishly hopeful you’d let him console you.
You crossed your arms, diary tucked under an armpit. You glared at him, “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Weasley.”
Last name. Ouch. If this were under… normal circumstances, he’d jokingly wipe a tear from his cheek, but he knew, for certain, doing so would send him to a very early grave.
“Look on the bright side…?” Fred meekly proposed.
“Don’t tell me how to feel,” you spat.
Fred weighed all his limited options; he hypothesized all the outcomes (he had imagined them on his walk to the Drama Club), but none were sufficient enough.
Fred frowned and took a few more steps toward you. “Listen, I’m truly sorry about this whole thing,” he sighed.
“Thanks,” you retorted, in your iconic sarcastic tone.
He apprehensively gauged your reaction (which obviously wasn’t pleasant; you were ready to punch him). “But you’d never have told me all that stuff on your own,” Fred stated.
“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
He awkwardly used his fingers to comb through his hair, before he offered a pained, small, idiotic but boyish smile. “Then you’d never know what we could,” Fred reasoned lightheartedly. “And you’d never find out that I like you back.”
You stared up at him, impressively boggled, and possessed by thorough uncertainty. A surreal emotion burst in your chest like a water balloon. “What?” You whispered, as unannounced joy oozed into your veins.
“Yeah,” he reaffirmed, softly gazing down at your face. “You’re lucky I’m so invasive. I mean, if I wasn’t, it’d save me a few head injuries—,”
You laughed, and your heart fluttered. It spun, danced and somersaulted. Oh my God. “Lucky? Me?” You rephrased, baffled.
He nodded with a coy smirk on his blushing lips. “Yeah— you’re also lucky that I play Quidditch. Any other guy would’ve been knocked out from your blows— but what I’m saying is that we’d never have this conversation without me finding that little diary of yours.”
You scoffed, “Am I supposed to thank you?”
“I wouldn’t be opposed.”
You cackled, “Oh, you are vain!”
“You’re into it, and we have written evidence!” Fred defended.
You sighed wistfully, “Oh my days…”
“C’mon, talk to me; I’m right here.”
Being the person in Fred’s fixed observation was a strangely heavy burden to carry. Your eyes darted to the Drama Club room. As much as you loved the revelation, “I have things to do,” you reminded him. “I’ve already been out here a while. Hugo’s gonna be pissed.”
He rolled his eyes. “Real convenient.” Fred flexed his arms subtly (he wouldn’t be surprised if he found some bruises later), as they intersected over his puffed up chest. “We’ll talk later then. No use in hiding; I know where you usually go.”
You nodded (and tried to hide your amusement, for his confidence and ego was certainly unmatched). You put a hand over your heart. “Scout’s honor,” you pledged. “Now, GO AWAY!”
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
There’s a lot to process. Like A LOT a lot. You go missing for three days and my whole life unravels and almost collapses inward… crazy stuff. Hugo was a little annoyed since I talked to Fred for so long, whatever (they also heard me assaulting him in the hallway… Amber was scared, no big deal), sorted out my costume (got the shoes, dress, crown, sword yada yada) BUT THIS THING WITH FRED WEASLEY. He is TRIFLING. Absolutely TRIFLING.
I don’t know if you know this, but you were BOOKNAPPED by that redheaded SCOUNDREL. He kept you for THREE DAYS and thinks he can waltz into play prep to return you without any consequences. If it wasn’t a crime, I would’ve murdered him. And if I didn’t have compromising feelings.
The craziest detail— besides the fact he casually READ MY FUCKING DIARY— is that he also FANCIES ME. He tried to emotionally manipulate me into believing this whole charade was beneficial (it kinda was), but that doesn’t excuse the fact he BROKE my TRUST and INVADED my PRIVACY.
He was my friend before he was some lame love interest, so naturally I already set some standards for him to follow; standards that him and most of my other friends were issued. Standards that he totally DEMOLISHED in three days.
I don’t even know if I wanna go into further detail. What if I lose you again? What if the next peeping tom prints my entries in the newspaper? For the whole world to see?
I’ll have to ask Hermione for a concealer spell to ensure this NEVER happens again. I need to put a tracker inside the cover or hex the pages to burn when opened by a stranger. I need to do SOMETHING.
I hate knowing that he read stuff and has opinions about opinions I didn’t share with him. He knows too much about me now. He could’ve misinterpreted a bunch of things and think I’m mad. What am I gonna do???
You were gonna talk to Ginny; that’s what. It was the most logical course to take, because 1) she was in on the search and 2) her scheming redheaded brother was the red-handed culprit.
With paranoia at an astronomical all-time high, the little black journal made its way with you to Ginny’s dormitory. It carried within its thin leaflets the same giddiness, reluctancy, and indifference you felt, as you rapped on the door.
“Ginny,” you greeted, when the dewy face emerged. You lightly gasped at her bright appearance. “Your hair!” You awed.
Delicate strawberry locks rolled onto Ginny’s confident shoulders like waves. She giggled and pretended to toss her hair flirtatiously. “Just wanted to try something new,” she said.
“I like this look,” you approvingly commented. “You should’ve done this for the Yule Ball!”
“Thanks, but the back is a bloody mess,” Ginny lightheartedly indulged with a regretful head shake. She snorted at herself, “I didn’t have enough fashion sense back then.”
She waved you into the room. “What’s up?” Ginny casually asked, before sitting down on her bed.
You shut the door (which was thin, so it didn’t do much) behind you and rotated a nearby desk chair around til it faced her. Your eyes theatrically closed, and you placed a tender hand on your chest. You sucked in an exhausted breath and stashed your diary flat on the table.
Ginny chuckled at the sight. “Oh boy.”
“Good news is,” you began, slowly peeling your eyelids open. Your friend perked up with anticipation. “I found my diary,” you continued in a whisper-shout.
Her jaw dropped, and she straightened, as her eyes darted to the desk. “No way! Where was it??”
“Ughhhh,” you grunted. You annoyedly laughed at yourself and leaned your head against the top of the chair. “You’re actually never gonna believe me. It’s so bad.”
“Tell me!” Ginny urged.
You craned your head and stared her in the eye. “Fred stole it.”
Her face dropped. “No bloody way.”
“Yes, way.” You leaned forward, “He had it this whole time, Ginny—,”
“No!”
“— he read my entries, Ginny.”
“NO!”
“I was furious.”
“I’m furious for you,” Ginny huffed. She tautly folded her arms below her bosom and crossed her legs. “How’d you find out?”
“He showed up to play prep, gave it back, and tried to tell me it wasn’t a big deal.”
“That’s why he asked me where you were,” Ginny realized. She lamented, “He’s so stupid. He’s so stupid.” She flopped backward into her mattress. “Oh Merlin. What the bloody hell is wrong with him?”
“But it’s fine,” you said, to which Ginny bolted up, gawking at you. “I beat him up,” you added triumphantly. “He had it coming.”
“He had it coming…!” Ginny echoed with astonishment. Straight out of, uh, what did Hermione call it? It was like a long version of a wizard photograph— muggle picture? No… a motion picture.
“I wish I was there to see it,” she declared earnestly. “It sounds like a novel.” Admittedly, she mostly wanted to see her brother withering in pain.
The remaining undisclosed information was the most enticing. You leaned toward Ginny and held out an open palm, practically sparking with explosive anticipation. The innocuously took it in her own and gave you her ear.
“You know what he tells me right when I stop hitting him?” You rhetorically questioned.
“No…?”
“He says that if he wasn’t a little snoop… I’d never find out that he. liked. me. back.”
As if your hand was a burning blob of coal, Ginny released it with a terrified scream. She sprang onto her feet.
“WHAT?! WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?” Ginny wheezed, as if she’d been electrocuted. “He— you— Fred— YOU FANCY HIM? MY BROTHER?”
“Yes!”
Ginny paced and ruminated in wobbly ellipses. “AND HE FANCIES YOU?”
“YES!”
Her toned arms went akimbo with curls bouncing like springy coils, she was manufacturing her own personal understanding of the situation.
She grumbled incoherently (along the lines of Fred “dying a virgin” (you tried not to laugh)). Ginny occasionally shared a few strings of words (“his hygiene has been too good,” “overdoing lame jokes,” “showing off at practice”).
But her mental math wasn’t adding up. You + her brother = in love apparently? How did this happen under her nose? Where was she this whole time?
Her pacing came to a slow halt. “So… are you guys dating now?” Ginny inquired cautiously.
“No, am I supposed to ask for your blessing or something?” You harmlessly joked.
“If anything, it would be George’s.” She rolled her eyes right before she knelt down and grabbed dirty articles of clothing from the floor. “I’m totally fine with you guys dating, but he’s bloody insufferable sometimes, so you need to be prepared for that.”
A shy snicker managed to escape your glossy lips. “He’s not that bad,” you haggled, before picking up your diary. You carefully stood up and stretched your dormant arms with a cautious crack. “I probably should find him now; he wanted to have a proper talk.”
Ginny grinned, “He’s a procrastinator, so better start planning the wedding now.”
You lightly pushed her shoulder, “Oh, stop it!”
The cold doorhandle met your warm palm, and right before you left, Ginny hastily added, “By the way, my parents said they’d love to have you over for Easter. And I just got my learner’s permit, so I could totally take us to the beach in the flying car!”
Logically, the first step in tracking down the elusive Fred Weasley was to check the dormitory. While the stairs to the girls’ quarters were enchanted to contort into a slide if a boy stepped on it, there was no consequence vice versa. A few conflicting feelings brewed in your head about the overall concept, but who were you to complain, if it was beneficial right now?
The long narrow hallway smelled of smoke, dust, and minty pest repellant (which was unsurprising to you, given the nature of Gryffindor guys). Crooked nails had been drilled deep into the grey brick wall, a simple assistant to the heavy medieval tapestries hanging.
The floorboards squeaked beneath your soles (or maybe it was anxious mice), but through the thin dark doors, you could make out distant boisterous talking, some rigorous quill scratching or mellow music by The Beatles or Jarvey and the Mandrakes (one of Ginny’s favorite bands; she was very upset when she couldn’t see them on tour last year).
On each door was a golden plaque inscribed with all its “tenants.” You carefully strolled through, trying to spot an F. Weasley in boxy font.
Plan A: If Fred’s alone, you guys will have a heart-to-heart chat (or as close as Fred can humbly get). Whatever the verdict is, you promise to outwardly be civil. You knew, most definitely, that you’d be forever heartbroken if he didn’t want anything serious.
Plan B: If Fred’s not alone, then you’ll try to pull him out to talk somewhere else. This option was more likely; there’s not a lot of places to go after school and club activities.
At the very end of the corridor on the right, second plaque from the bottom, was F. Weasley. There were 3 other nameplates, you already knew he roomed with his twin and Lee Jordan, but you weren’t certain on K. Towler. You raised a balled up fist, ready to knock,
“OH! BLOODY HELL!” A shrill voice interjected (you became… perplexed). “Are you sure you’re applying the same amount of pressure??” He whined through gritted teeth (it was the man of the hour, Fred Weasley, you realized).
Lee dropped something on a wooden surface and barked back mockingly, “Shut up, you big baby! Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten your ass kicked.”
“That injury is completely irrelevant to this!” Fred snapped back.
“You willingly play as a Beater, and you’re complaining about THIS? This is NOTHING!”
“We could’ve been done twenty minutes ago, mate,” George quipped.
Enough eavesdropping— you politely struck your hand against the door.
“Go get that, George,” Lee commanded.
The other redheaded Gryffindor Beater appeared, unnecessarily tall and watery-eyed. He had ridden himself of his sweater and tie, and the top of his button-up was unfastened.
He had opened up just enough space to fit his large stature in the entryway; you could barely see into the room.
George raised a brow at your sudden appearance.“Someone’s here to see wee ol’ Freddie?” George teased gently.
You propped yourself onto your toes and peered over the boy’s shoulder. At the same time, Fred had craned his neck and spotted the top of your hair.
He was lying on his bed, hands behind his head (one was pressing an icepack against his skull), and very very shirtless. Lee sat on a stool, hunched over, holding a chopstick that had a needle taped at the end. On the nightstand was an ink cartridge, alcohol wipes and tissues.
Fred blushed and your feet fell flat on the ground. George moved, letting you brush past him, before he shut the door. A dormant furnace occupied the middle of the room, and in each corner was a red canopy bed (half were neatly made). Fred and Lee were set up on the far end of the dorm, right next to the big window.
Lee stopped poking Fred with the makeshift tattoo gun. “Did you want one as well?” He asked you.
“How many have you done?”
George snorted and leaned against a waxy post at the end of Fred’s bed.
“First time actually,” Lee answered.
At least he didn’t do Nelina’s. “No thanks, I’m good,” you sheepishly rejected. “I just wanted to check up on him,” you added, vaguely gesturing towards Fred’s direction.
You cautiously stood on Fred’s left, directly across from Lee and wary of interfering with his “work.” Peering over Fred to see his in-progress tattoo was unexpectedly difficult for you, because he was… distractingly built.
You didn’t want to objectify him, but oh my God. You always thought Fred was on the leaner side, but apparently the Hogwarts uniform concealed a lot.
Fred was rather stocky for someone his height. His arms were subtly flexed and bulging with muscles considering his current position. Bloody hell, his chest was big and his stomach was perfectly toned— you wanted to poke and prod at him, especially his Apollo’s belt.
Your eyes darted to the small strip of skin (below his right armpit, on the side of his ribs) where Lee was inking. There was a blue template of words he was outlining— only “Mischief Man” was completed so far.
“‘Mischief Managed’?” You lightly questioned.
Fred licked his lips and uncomfortably shifted his legs. “George and I are getting matching ones,” he explained.
“Cute,” You approvingly nodded. You glanced at his brother, who cheerily winked.
“How about me?”
There was a light copper happy trail leading into his waistband. Now, you desperately wished you two were alone.
“Don’t push it,” you blurted.
Lee and George gave each other a look.
“You said we needed to talk,” you said.
“We can talk now,” Fred offered.
“Pretend I’m not even here,” Lee mumbled, intensely fixated on the small tattoo.
“We aren’t here,” George corrected.
You stood up straight, hands casually hidden behind your back. “I dunno about that.”
“How about after my tattoo’s done?” Fred suggested. “Max fifteen minutes? You can just hang out with us for a little bit.”
Once Lee wiped away the excess ink, Fred sat up, grabbed his dress shirt, as George was taking off his own.
Fred raised his arm and inquisitively looked down at his new tattoo. He grinned at his twin, “Mum cannot find out, or we’re so dead.”
“What’s she gonna do?” George rhetorically scoffed.
“Get Charlie to sear it off,” Fred retorted playfully. He got out of bed and tenderly grabbed your arm with his unoccupied hand. He guided you towards the door with faithful nudges, as he weaved his arms through the sleeves.
Both of you went out into the hallway, and it suddenly felt a lot more narrow than before. “Let’s talk,” Fred said quietly, crossing his arms.
“Alright. Where do we start?” You chuckled, leaning against a scratched doorframe.
He shrugged meekly, “We like each other. There’s only one plausible option.”
Fred hadn’t bothered to fasten any of the buttons, giving you a premium viewing of his torso. You swallowed and tried not to ogle. “I guess so; it’s worth a shot,” you agreed.
“I promise I’ll make it worth every second,” Fred cockily smirked. He unwittingly licked his soft pink lips. “You coming over for Easter?”
Your voice wavered with reluctant uncertainty. “My parents will probably be okay with it, so yeah. Most likely.” You giggled, “This is like the millionth time someone’s asked me.”
“Very popular girl,” he mused teasingly. “Hopefully mine starting today?” Fred giddily urged.
Your heart fluttered, and all you could muster was a shy nod in consent. “Yeah…,” you quietly confirmed.
Fred pulled you close by the shoulder; he tilted your chin slightly and introduced his warm mouth to yours. It felt like lightning the way it was so spontaneous and had completely lit up your face.
Fred pulled away slowly and smiled. The hand on your shoulder slithered onto your neck affectionately. “You can go write about this later,” Fred whispered. You scoffed. “Dear Diary…” he began.
You attempted to frown (how can you be mad at that face?). “I’m never writing again, as long as you’re alive,” you said.
His eyes stayed locked on yours. He added wistfully, “… I almost drooled when I saw Fred Weasley shirtless today.”
You pushed him. “I’m gonna kill you.”
“I couldn’t stop gawking at his rippling muscles!”
“Oh, stop it!” You groaned, “I would never say that!”
“But it happened, don’t deny it.” Fred laughed and kissed you again.
Hii there!! Can you write something about George Weasley where he and the reader have been really good friends for a while but start secretly dating because of some stupid rule like quidditch players can’t date during the season or something like that? And they get caught by their friends being intimate after a game?
Ps: love your writing style so much, your fics are so easy to get into and beautifully written💕
thank you for the request! hope your enjoy 🫶
The No-Dating Rule | G.W.
feat. George Weasley x fem!reader
cw: MDNI 18+, light smut (heavy petting/making out), sneaking around/secret relationship, jealous!george, assault via bludger, oliver wood is a cock block.
masterlist
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You were walking down the hall with Luna, chatting about the results your divination exam, when a hand shot out and yanked you into a dark, empty classroom.
“Fancy seeing you here,” your captor said in a very familiar, cheeky voice.
“You can't just kidnap me, Weasley.” You cross your arms over your chest, jutting out a hip.
“Kidnapping is a bit dramatic.” George’s hands slide around your waist. “Can't a bloke want to spend a few moments with his girl?” He leaned down, his lips brushing along the column of your throat.
You craned your head back for him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Perhaps. But still, some warning would be nice.”
His lips connected with yours in a soft, languid kiss. “Consider yourself warned,” he grinned.
You breathed a content sigh, taking your fingers through his ginger hair while he peppered featherlight kisses along your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids. The last few weeks had been so challenging thanks to Woods new rule about dating during Quidditch season.
You and George had been circling one another since fourth year, waiting for the right moment to dip your toes into something more than friendship. And of course, when the stars finally aligned, Wood had to throw a wrench in your new relationship. So now, instead of basking in your honeymoon phase, you were forced to sneak around, hiding your relationship from everyone.
But Fred, obviously. George couldn't lie to his twin even if he wanted to.
“You're in your head, darling,” George murmured, pulling back to look at your face in the dim light.
“Am not,” you argued, dragging your hands down his chest and sliding them under his robes. The sweater beneath was soft and thick, warm from his body heat.
“What are you thinking about?” He kissed your temple, across your cheekbone, beneath your ear…
You hummed, leaning into him, soaking up his heat, his unhurried affection.
“Love?” He prodded, nipping at your ear.
“Just how much I like you,” you whispered, resting your chin on his sternum when he pulled back.
A smile spread across his freckled face. “My sweet girl,” he cooed. “I like you too.”
You pressed your lips to his, brushing your tongue along his lower lip, and his hands tightened on your waist. He parted his lips for you to delve deeper, matching every stroke of your tongue with his until you were panting, clawing at his sweater to get closer.
He backed you against a desk, his hand sliding under your skirt to squeeze your ass, notching your hips against his. A gasp squeaked for your throat when he ground himself against you, already growing sensitive.
He chuckled. “Gonna to have to be quiet f’me, love. Don't want go get caught with a Beater, aye?”
You nodded, clamping your lips shut.
The Quidditch season was only three months. How hard could it be?
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Quidditch practice ran late for the third night in a row, and you were desperate for some attention from your boyfriend.
You lurked by the Gryffindor locker rooms, waiting for George to emerge, freshly showered in his favorite hoodie and sweats. Your mouth nearly watered at the thought.
But player after player trailed out of the locker room, and no George. You were getting impatient, shifting form foot to foot when you spotted Fred walking with Ron, chatting animatedly about the match this weekend.
You grabbed Fred’s wrist and yanked him to the corridor you were hiding.
“Oi! What—oh, hey y/n.” He smirked down at you, waggling his eyebrows. “Wrong twin, but—”
“Ew, Fred! No! Where's George?”
Fred snickered. “Still in the shower. Pitch was muddy and he got a face full from Thomas.”
You grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah, he was livid. But, he's the last one in there if you want to cheer him up.” Fred winked and slipped back into the hall, leaving you to your mischief.
You scampered down the corridor and into the locker room, following the trail of steam until you found the only drawn curtain. George was humming to himself, tapping his feet on the tile floor.
You clapped a hand over your mouth to avoid laughing and ruining the surprise, and perched on the bench across from the curtain to wait.
A few moments later, the water cut off and his hand poked through the curtain, grabbing the red towel off the hook.
The curtain ripped open, and George yelped in surprise, nearly dropping the towel slung low around his hips.
“Fancy seeing you here.” You grinned.
“You little minx.” He grabbed you off the bench and into his still damp chest, kissing you fiercely. “I was just about to come see you,” he said between sloppy kisses, backing you against a row of lockers.
“Were you?” You giggled as his lips moved down your neck, sending tingles skittering across your skin. You dragged your nails cross his bare back, admiring the way his muscles jumped at your touch.
“Couldn't stand another night without you,” he admitted. He started undoing the buttons of your blouse, clearly feeling as desperate as you did based on the tent in his towel.
“Eager, are we?” You teased, hiking your leg over his hip as his hand slid into your skirt.
His middle finger swiped through your slit, teasing your clit with small circles. Pleasure pulsed through you, making your eyes roll back. “Someone is. Already soaked for me, love,” he groaned, capturing your lips in another bruising kiss as he toyed with you.
“Fuck, Georgie,” you whined, bucking your hips against his hand.
“Merlin, I missed you.”
“Weasley, you still in here?” Wood called his voice echoing around room.
“Bloody fucking—stall, now.” George slipped his fingers from you and into his mouth, ushering you into the shower stall he just vacated. The air was still humid and scented by his vanilla body wash. No, your vanilla body wash, you realized, spotting the bottle you'd been missing still sitting on the shelf.
“Still hangin’ around, Wood?” You heard George say.
“I wanted to talk to ya’ about somethin’,” Oliver said, and you saw his boots enter the shower room from under the curtain.
“Can I put trousers on first?”
Oliver snorted. “Sure, mate.”
You heard George shuffling around, pulling on his clothes.
“Fucking trousers don't hide shit,” he grumbled to himself and you had a stifle another laugh. “Alright, Wood. What's on your mind?”
“You've been distracted, Weasley. Missing bludgers, ignoring plays, it's not like you to not take Quidditch seriously,” Oliver said, and you frowned.
George sighed. “It's, ah, there's an assignment in Herbology that's gone tits up. Damn plant won't grow,” George said.
“Uh huh,” Wood answered, clearly not buying it. “Well, maybe it's time your sort out your priorities, mate. Not sure a plant is worth throwing the season, if ya’ know what I mean. We need our best Beater, yeah?”
Your stomach dropped, indignation at Woods words colliding with the newfound guilt in your mind. George loved Quidditch. You didn't want to be the reason he wasn't playing well. But also…what if that meant Quidditch was higher priority to him? Where did that leave you?
“Understood, Captain.” George's voice was cold, a stark contrast to his usual chipper demeanor, and it raised goosebumps along your arms.
Oliver clapped him on the shoulder and left the locker room, evidently oblivious to the shift in George. The door clicked shut behind him, echoing around the empty room.
George tugged the shower curtain open, startling you from your spiralling thoughts. He immediately clocked the distress on your face, the corners of his mouth turning downward. “Oh, lovey—”
“I didn't know I was impacting the team,” you mumbled, looking down at your shoes.
George tilted your chin up, his other arm wrapping around your waist. “Baby, the teams fine. Wood just has a stick up his ass. I played great today, and always do when you're in the stands watching me.”
It was true. Some of his best games had been in the last month you'd been together.
“And besides, I don't need to sort out my priorities.” He bumped his nose against yours. “You always come first, y/n.”
Your heart soared, heat creeping up your neck. “Before Quidditch?” You asked, curling your hands into his hoodie.
“Before everything.” He kissed you softly, with no real pressure, just feeling you against him, and all your anxiety fell away. “C’mon, Freddie's going to a Hufflepuff party tonight, so we've got my dorm to ourselves.”
You kissed him again, smiling. “Sounds perfect.”
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Brooms whizzed over your house’s section, whipping your scarf around your head.
“Go George!” You cheered, when he drifted nearby, twirling the bat in his gloved hand.
He flashed you a wink before banking left, whacking the snot out of bludger that was hurdling straight for Ron. It rocketed across the pitch and directly into the other houses Seeker, giving Harry the advantage.
“Woohoo!” You cheered with the rest of the student body. “Weasley! Weasley! Weasley!”
“Good game, aye?” A guy sidled up next you, leaning against the railing. You sort of recognized him from your Potions class, but couldn't be sure.
“Great game,” you replied, turning your attention back to the match and your boyfriend.
“Are you fan? Of Quidditch, I mean?”
“Mhmm—go Ron!” You cheered, tuning him out.
“I'm Gus, by the way. We're in the same Potions class?”
“Hi, Gus.” You give him a tight smile, hoping he takes the hint.
“Y’know, maybe we could study together sometime. Merlin knows Potions isn't my strong suit, but you seem pretty smart—”
“Get after it, Harry!” You roared as the Seeker flew overhead, the snitch just a few feet out in front of him.
“What do you think, y/n?” Gus prodded.
Irritation prickled up your neck. “I'm not sure I have time to tutor someone.”
Gus’ smile faltered. “Well, what about the next match, then? Maybe we could sit together.” He scooted closer you, infringing on your already limited space.
You squirmed closer to your friend on the other side of you, who was too wrapped up in the match to notice your discomfort. “No thanks, Gus.”
“Oh, c’mon. I promise I'm a nice guy.” He dropped his hand on your knees, and you wrenched yourself away.
“Don't fucking touch me—”
A deafening crack sounded from across the pitch and you both startled, turning back towards the match. A bludger was barreling straight towards your section. You screamed as it slammed into the post less than half a meter from Gus' head, ripping through the wood with a resounding boom and scattering splinters across the section.
You jumped back, falling into your friends laps, and Gus shrieked like a banshee, his face blanching white at how close it had come to taking his head clean off his shoulders.
An ear-splitting whistle interrupted the resulting chaos.
“Weasley, out!” Madame Hootch hollered.
You straightened in alarm, finding George hovering at the center of the pitch, his bat gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes were locked on Gus, dark and smug, a smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth.
“George, land!” Wood bellowed, and George finally floated back to earth. You could hear Oliver shouting, but couldn't see George from your seat.
You fought your way out of the stands, trying to push your way towards the locker room.
Gryffindor was booing the call, chanting “Weasley!” at the top of their lungs. Without George, unless Harry caught the snitch, the match was basically forfeit.
Your mind raced from the adrenaline. Did George do it on purpose? And if he did, why would he jeopardize the match like that?
You found him in the locker room, undoing the ties on his robe. He was still in his uniform, sweaty and smeared with dirt, his hair flat from the helmet.
“George,” you said, and he looked up.
“Love, what are you doing down here?” He frowned, reaching for you, but you held your ground, crossing your arms over your chest. His frown deepened.
“Did you do that on purpose?” You demanded.
“Of course I did,” he responded, not a trace of hesitation in his voice.
“Why? They won't win without you!”
“I don't care about the bloody match, y/n.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
George walked over to you, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “That guy was bothering you, yeah?”
You almost denied it, but found yourself nodding, unable to lie to him.
“And you thought I was going to sit back and let someone make you uncomfortable? My girl? Fuck no.”
You giggled, his protectiveness spurring a wave of affection and dissolving your anger. “I think nearly killing him was a bit much,” you snickered.
“Are you questioning my aim?”
“Just your sanity.”
He pinched your cheeks together in his still gloved hand, shaking you slightly. “I'll always protect you, brat. And if that makes me a madman, so be it.”
You swatted his hands away before wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him down for kiss. He tasted of salt and peppermints, his skin smelling of turf and fresh air, with a hint of that masculine musk that made your head go a little fuzzy.
He kissed you back, catching your lower lip between his teeth and sucking gently. You moaned against him, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth and taste you.
“I'm done hiding,” he murmured when you both came up for air. “And Wood can bugger off.”
The mixing shouting of the crowd filled the quiet air around you. “Ravenclaw scores another twenty points!” Lee declared, his voice notably unenthused.
George shook his head with a smug chuckle, leaning his forehead against yours. “See? They need me.”
“Weasley!” Oliver shouted, startling you both. George looked up, tightening his grip around you. Oliver didn't even bother to act surprised. “You're back in,” he sighed.
A grin split George's handsome face, making your heart flutter.
“Good man,” he replied, dropping a peck onto your lips before doing his helmet and running back out onto the pitch to the roar of the crowd.
Summary: When you thought your longtime crush, Fred, had feelings for another girl, but all along the girl was you
Warning: no use of y/n
Cw: you fell first, he fell harder
Wc: 3k+
You could remember everything about him, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the precise shade of brown in his eyes, the easy way he moved through the corridors like he owned them.
He was one of those boys who just stood out. Red hair, bright smile, the kind of person who made people laugh without even trying. He and his twin brother George were always getting into trouble, always laughing about something. They were the kind of boys that everyone had a crush on. You read books, baked pastries, and spent your free time in the library or the Hufflepuff kitchens. You read books in the corner and didn't really talk to anyone.
Except then you developed feelings for Fred Weasley, and suddenly nothing felt safe anymore.
It started small. A glance across the Great Hall. Noticing when he walked into a room. Looking at him across the Great Hall when you thought nobody was watching. The way your heart did a stupid flip whenever he laughed. The way he smiled when George said something stupid, and your best friends Lily and Maya knew about your small crush.
Your friends didn't understand.
"You have to tell him," Lily said for the hundredth time, stirring a cup of tea in the common room. It was a Saturday afternoon, and you were supposed to be studying for Potions, but instead you were listening to Lily and Maya stage an intervention about your love life.
"I'm not telling him anything," you said firmly, not looking up from your Potions textbook. The words swam in front of your eyes, refusing to make sense.
"Why not?" Maya demanded. She was sprawled across the armchair next to you, legs dangling over one arm. "Worst case scenario, he says no and you move on. Best case scenario—"
"There is no best case scenario," you interrupted. "There's only the scenario where I humiliate myself in front of a boy I barely know."
"You do know him," Lily insisted. "You sit next to him in Herbology."
"I sit near him," you corrected. "I don't know him."
Maya asked from the armchair,"Come on, what's the worst that could happen?".
"He could laugh at me. Or worse, he could be nice about it, which is somehow worse than laughing. Or he could tell everyone and suddenly everyone knows I have a crush on Fred Weasley." You felt your face get hot just thinking about it. "I'm not doing it."
"You already had one conversation with him," Lily pointed out. "In Transfiguration. You're not complete strangers."
That conversation. You tried not to think about that conversation, but apparently you'd have to.
It was early in the year, third week of classes. You'd been paired together for a project on transformation. Fred had actually talked to you. Not just about the homework, but actually talked to you. He'd asked your opinion on things. He'd mentioned his dreams about opening a joke shop with George. And you'd managed to say like four sentences before getting so nervous you had to excuse yourself.
It was so embarrassing that you'd been avoiding him ever since.
"You're being a coward," Maya said now, and she wasn't even being mean about it.
You didn't respond because she was right, and you hated when she was right. You were being a coward. But admitting feelings to someone required a level of vulnerability you weren't sure you possessed. What if he laughed? What if he was kind about it, which somehow felt worse than laughing? What if he told everyone, and suddenly your quiet existence was disrupted by pity and awkwardness?
No. It was safer to admire from a distance and imagine scenarios that would never happen. It was safer to pretend you didn't spend an embarrassing amount of time wondering what Fred Weasley was doing, who he was thinking about, whether he'd ever notice someone like you.
"I'm not having this conversation anymore," you announced, standing up. "I'm going to the kitchens. I promised the house elves I'd help with tonight's dessert."
"Of course you did," Lily muttered as you left.
~~~
The kitchens were your sanctuary. The house elves—Tippy, Mop, and Bert—welcomed you like you were one of them, which was almost true. You'd been spending time here since your second year, learning recipes, perfecting techniques, creating new desserts. It was one of the few places in Hogwarts where you felt completely like yourself.
Tonight you were making chocolate eclairs, your specialty. There was something meditative about baking. Your brain quieted. The anxiety that usually accompanied you through the castle, faded away.
"Smells incredible," Tippy said, peering over your shoulder.
"Thanks," you said, carefully piping cream into the shells. "How many do you think we'll need?"
"For house elves, maybe fifty," Mop joked. "For students, maybe a hundred."
You smiled, concentrating on getting the piping consistent. This was what you understood. Measurements and temperatures and the way ingredients transformed under your hands. Not feelings. Never feelings. Feelings were messy and uncertain and unpredictable.
You were so focused on your work that you almost didn't notice George and Fred entering the kitchens.
Almost.
"Bert said you'd be here," George announced, making himself comfortable on one of the high stools. Fred was behind him, and your stomach performed an awkward flip that you tried very hard to ignore.
"We need sustenance," Fred said, his eyes going straight to your eclairs. "Please tell me those are for us."
"They're for dessert tonight," you said, keeping your eyes on your work. Your cheeks were definitely warm. Why were they here? Fred had never come to the kitchens when you were working before.
"Dessert is hours away," George pointed out. "Surely you could spare one or two for the hardworking students of Gryffindor House."
"You're not hardworking," you said, surprising yourself with your own boldness. "You skipped Divination yesterday."
"We were testing our new Puking Pastilles," Fred said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Much more valuable than predicting the future with tea leaves."
Despite yourself, you almost smiled.
"We'll leave you alone," George said eventually, though they didn't actually leave. Instead, they sat at the counter, talking to the house elves and occasionally commenting on your work. You could feel Fred watching you as you worked, and it made your hands slightly shaky, making your piping less perfect, which made you frustrated.
"You're really good at that," Fred said at one point, and you felt your entire face go red.
"Thanks," you said, not looking at him.
Then, they left. George had something to do with Quidditch practice, and Fred went along. You exhaled a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.
"That boy likes you," Mop said knowingly.
"He does not," you said firmly. "He was just being nice."
"House elf knows these things," Tippy insisted. "He looks at you like you're an eclair."
"That's possibly the worst compliment I've ever received," you said, but your heart wasn't really in it. You were too busy trying to convince yourself that Fred Weasley didn't like you, because if he did, that meant you had to do something about it, and you absolutely would not.
Three weeks later, you were walking back from the library with a stack of books when you heard Fred's voice coming from an empty classroom. You should have kept walking. But you didn't.
"—she's so pretty," Fred was saying. "Like, she has this look where she's thinking really hard about something, and it's just... she's beautiful,"
Your stomach dropped. He was talking about a girl. Of course he was.
"And she's funny," he continued. "Not like, trying to be funny. She just says these things that make me laugh. And she's really smart, but she doesn't like, brag about it or anything."
"So basically you're completely in love," George said, and you could hear him laughing.
Fred continues on,"She's not even trying to be impressive, but somehow everything she does is impressive. The way she concentrates on things. The way she makes these little focused expressions when she's thinking. And she's so shy, but not in an annoying way, you know? It's like..."
"Mate, you're absolutely smitten," George said,"Are you going to tell her?"
"I don't even know how to start," Fred said, sounding frustrated. "She barely talks to me. That one time in Transfiguration she looked like I was going to murder her."
That's when you stepped back and accidentally kicked a suit of armor. The noise echoed through the hallway and your heart literally stopped.
You didn't wait to see if they came out. You just started walking really fast, then almost running, back to the Hufflepuff common room.
By the time you got there, your eyes were burning and your chest felt tight. Angelina. He liked Angelina. Of course he did. Everyone liked Angelina.
Lily found you sitting alone in the corner of the common room.
"You look sad," she said, sitting down next to you.
"Fred likes someone," you said, and your voice cracked a little. "I heard him talking to George. He's in love with her. Or getting there. And it's not me."
"How do you know it's not you?" Lily asked carefully.
"Because he said she was pretty and funny and smart, and that's... that's not me. That's Angelina." You felt tears start to come and you hated it. "And that's fine. That's good. Now I can stop thinking about him and just move on."
You hated how bitter you sounded. "So. Disaster averted. I never have to tell him anything because he's already interested in someone else."
"That doesn't sound like a disaster averted," Lily said carefully. "That sounds like a disaster."
"It's fine," you insisted, even though it really, truly wasn't.
Over the next week, you managed to avoid Fred completely. You sat on the opposite side of Herbology class, changed your route to the kitchens, and even skipped a Hogsmeade weekend because you were afraid of running into him. It was exhausting and ridiculous and you hated yourself for it, but you couldn't seem to help it.
~~~
The worst part was that you started noticing Fred with Angelina. The way they talked in the hallways. The way he looked at her. And it hurt in a way that was almost physical.
So you did what you always did when you were sad or nervous,you baked.
You were in the kitchens on Friday evening, making chocolate croissants, when Tippy approached you with an unusual expression.
"You have a visitor," the house elf said.
"I'm not expecting anyone," you said, not looking up from your dough.
"He's waiting by the entrance," Tippy said meaningfully.
Your hands froze. "He?"
But Tippy had already disappeared, and you had a pretty good idea who the "he" was. You considered ignoring it, just staying in the kitchens until he went away. But that was cowardly, and you were tired of being a coward.
Fred was leaning against the wall near the kitchens entrance, looking nervous in a way you'd never seen him look before. He had his hands shoved in his pockets and his hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it.
"Hi," he said when he saw you.
"Hi," you replied carefully.
"I've been trying to catch you all week," he said. "You're very good at disappearing."
"I've been busy," you said, which was a lie, and you were pretty sure he knew it was a lie.
"Look, I'm just going to say this because if I don't say it now I never will," Fred said, running a hand through his hair again. "I like you. Like, actually like you. And I know we've barely talked, and I know this is probably sudden and weird, but I heard you at the Transfiguration Project that one time, and you were so thoughtful about everything, and then I kept seeing you in the kitchens, and you're so focused and careful and you make these little expressions when you're concentrating, and—"
He stopped abruptly.
Your brain had stopped working somewhere around "I like you."
"The girl you were describing to George," you said slowly.
Fred's face went red. "How did you—oh no. Did you hear that? You heard that. You heard me talking to George. That's why you've been avoiding me."
"I thought you were describing Angelina," you said, which sounded incredibly stupid even as you said it.
"Angelina?" Fred looked genuinely confused. "Why would I be describing Angelina? I don't even know Angelina that well."
"You assumed I had a crush on Angelina, so you've been avoiding me all week?"
"I didn't know she wasn't the girl!" you said defensively. "I just knew I wasn't going to be any competition for her, so I figured I might as well accept it and move on."
Fred took a step closer to you. "You're completely insane if you think I'd pick Angelina over you."
"You don't even know me," you said, but your heart wasn't in it anymore.
"I want to," Fred said earnestly. "I've wanted to for months. I tried in Transfiguration, but you looked like I was going to murder you, so I figured I'd give you space. But I like you. And I know you're shy and quiet and you'd probably rather be literally anywhere else right now, but I had to tell you."
You stood there, dripping dough on your hands, looking at Fred Weasley, and realized that he was right. You were shy. You were quiet. And you would have preferred to be literally anywhere else. But at the same time, there was nowhere else you wanted to be.
"I like you too," you said quietly.
Fred's face broke into a smile that was so bright and genuine that you felt your chest constrict. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you confirmed. "For like... months, apparently."
"So you'll go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?" he asked. "And maybe I can finally have a real conversation with you that doesn't involve you looking like you're contemplating my possible murder?"
"I can try," you said, and you almost smiled.
He grinned. "I'll take it."
~~~
After that first date, things moved pretty fast. Fred would wait for you after classes. You'd sit together at meals. He started coming to the kitchens more often, and instead of just watching you work, he'd steal kisses and tell you jokes and generally distract you.
But the best part was the easy way Fred accepted you. Your quietness. Your love of baking. Your need for silence and solitude. He never pushed you to be more outgoing or extroverted. He just fit himself into your life, and you fit yourself into his, and somehow it worked.
One afternoon in late, you were in the kitchens working on a batch of cinnamon rolls when Fred appeared.
"These smell incredible," he said, kissing the top of your head.
"They're for tomorrow's breakfast," you said, smiling. "But I might have made extras."
"You're the best," he declared, stealing one off the cooling rack. He bit into it and made a sound of pure contentment. "Mate, these are dangerous. I'm going to marry you just for the baking."
Your heart did a flip at the casual mention of marriage, even though you knew he was joking. Mostly joking. Maybe joking.
"You can't marry someone just for their baking," you said, trying to sound normal even though your entire nervous system was currently malfunctioning.
"Sure I can," Fred said, eating another roll. "It's a perfectly valid reason. Much more practical than the whole 'love' thing everyone talks about."
"You're ridiculous," you said, shaking your head.
"You love it though," he said, and he was right. You did. You loved his ridiculous jokes and his terrible puns and the way he made you laugh at things you'd normally be too shy to find funny.
~~~
You were trying really hard to focus on your assignment—something with dragon's blood and powdered moonstone, you thought. Professor Snape had paired you with Fred, which was either the best or worst thing that could happen depending on how you looked at it.
The problem was that Fred didn't seem interested in focusing on the potion at all.
"You're really pretty when you're concentrating," he said softly, leaning close to you.
Your face went hot immediately. You could feel the blush creeping up your neck, spreading across your cheeks. Around you, other students were working quietly, and you were very aware that Fred was being deliberately distracting.
"Focus on the potion," you said, trying to sound stern but probably just sounding flustered.
"I am focused," he said, his voice all warm and teasing. "I'm focused on you."
"Fred," you said, a warning in your voice, but you were smiling despite yourself.
"What?" he said innocently. "I'm just saying you look cute. Is that a crime?"
Your nervous system went into overdrive. He was looking at you with those warm eyes, that playful smile, and you could feel your heart doing backflips in your chest. Your hands were shaking a little as you stirred the potion.
"You're being distracting," you said, which was maybe the understatement of the century.
"Good," he said, and he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like distracting you. You get all flustered and it's adorable."
That was it. Your brain short-circuited. Your nervous system took over. Without really thinking about it, you pushed his shoulder—just a little push, just enough to get him to back off and give you some space to breathe.
Except you pushed a little harder than you meant to.
Fred's chair, which he'd been leaning back in, tipped backward. His eyes went wide for just a second before he crashed to the ground with a loud BANG that echoed through the entire classroom.
The whole room went silent.
Everyone turned to stare. Professor Snape looked up from his desk with an expression of pure disdain.
Your face went so red you thought you might actually combust.
"Mr. Weasley," Snape said coldly, his voice dripping with disappointment. "Perhaps you could pay attention to your work instead of flirting with your partner."
"Yes, sir," Fred said, getting up and brushing himself off. He was grinning though, like falling off his chair was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him. "Won't happen again, sir."
You were walking quickly, trying to escape the embarrassment, when Fred caught up with you and grabbed your hand.
"I'm so sorry," you said immediately, your words tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean to push you that hard. I just got nervous and flustered and my body just reacted and—"
"Hey," Fred said, pulling you into a quiet corner near the stairs. "It was hilarious."
"It was mortifying," you said, covering your face with your hands.
"It was both," he said, gently pulling your hands away so he could see your face.
"This isn't funny," you said, but you were already smiling a little.
"It's the funniest thing that's happened to me all week," Fred said seriously. "You pushed me off a chair because I was flirting with you. That's the cutest thing I've ever seen."
"Stop saying adorable," you said, but you were laughing now too.
You hit his shoulder, and he caught your hand and kissed it before pulling you into a hug.
"I love you," he said into your hair.
~~~
Fred would jokingly flirt, just to see you get nervous and push him out of habit.He'd just laugh about it. Once you pushed him into a wall or when you accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.
"You're violent," he'd tease.
"You're distracting," you'd shoot back.
But you were smiling when you said it, and so was he.
Summary: Y/n always thought George was the sweet twin and Fred was the famous player, but all that changes when she is assigned a project with him
Warnings: cursing, mentions of loss of virginity, nudity and sex, kissing, some angst at the start but overall very fluffy unless you’re George x
a/n: No Voldemort AU where everyone lives, reader can be read as Wolfstars adopted daughter if you want :) Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think x
Masterlist | Fred Weasley Masterlist
Everyone knew the Weasley twins, they were loved and adored by all, except maybe the Slytherins and a few choice Ravenclaws. Most knew George was the quieter, sweeter twin, while Fred was a bit of a player, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him.
You on the other hand were no so well known, in fact you were pretty much invisible, and in honestly you both loved and hated it. It meant you kept off of their pranking radar and you weren’t really bullied by other houses. Everyone in Hufflepuff liked you, although some of the girls were a little jealous of yours and Cedric’s friendship their envy was shifted to Cho after the yule ball the previous year. You and Cedric had been friends you met in first year, and a year later another girl called Jess joined you, the three of you were the citrine trio.
Despite Cedric’s popularity, you remained relatively unknown by the other houses, even after he won the Triwizard tournament the previous school year. The three of you went touring around Europe using the prize money over the summer. You three would do everything together, of course now you were entering your final year and both your friends were in serious relationships you were beginning to feel a little alone.
It wasn’t their fault, you guys still spent every Wednesday evening together but every other day was spent in the library alone while they were with their significant other or at quidditch practice.
You had actually only spoke to one of the Weasley twins, since you were assigned to be their Transfiguration partner the second half of 6th year. You liked him, he was sweet and to your surprise actually helped with the project and didn’t slack off. You knew he wasn’t like his brother, George never really dated anyone, so when he flirted with you, you were surprised, you felt special.
theodore nott x reader who was promised to him at birth with pure blood politics blah blah blah
she's his future wife, everyone knows this. it's like... a blood pact, etc.
except they grow up like the bestest of friends
except they're already each other's person and they think it's just being best friends
except when they're old enough to understand romance, they're horrified at the thought of resigning to the cliche
jokes like:
"Theo?"
"Mhm."
"I'm going to hogsmeade with hermione and the others this weekend"
"No.'
"...Excuse me?"
"That group contains five Gryffindors, Weasley twins included. Statistically, you will either be arrested or blown up before you even got to Hogsmeade"
"I wasn't asking for your permission"
A lazy smirk. "Pity. Denied anyway."
"Oh my God, Theo, you don’t own me."
He finally looked up then, dark eyes glittering with amusement.
"Technically,” he said smoothly, “according to several ancient contracts, ministry-recognized family accords, and at least one magically binding inheritance law- I do, so-"
Smack.
You hit his arm hard enough to make him wince.
"OW-"
"Shut UP."
Theo started laughing immediately, actually laughing, head dropping back against the sofa while you tried not to grin.
"You truly are insufferable."
"And yet," he said, catching your wrist before you could hit him again, still smiling, "you remain legally obligated to tolerate me."
UGHHH i have an exam tomorrow but who gives a fuckkk
gracieabrams
germansingergirl
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