Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.
A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet
Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!
(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?
The Evening Prophet never did subtle.
The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.
A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.
You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.
You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.
"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.
“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.
Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.
After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.
When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.
Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.
Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.
Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.
The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.
“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.
Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”
You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.
Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.
Exactly the image you wanted.
Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”
You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”
You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.
Harry.
He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.
It made his skin crawl.
You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.
Harry looked away first.
And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.
Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.
The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.
The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.
Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.
“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”
You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.
From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.
A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.
Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.
From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.
The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.
And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”
The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.
Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.
Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.
“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.
You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”
Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"
Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”
Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”
From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.
The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.
It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.
Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.
“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”
For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.
Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”
A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”
The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.
You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.
The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.
Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.
“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”
He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”
Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”
“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”
A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”
“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”
“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”
Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.
He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.
A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”
Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”
The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.
You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.
You loved kids.
What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.
You were here because you were a woman.
As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.
You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.
You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.
“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”
“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”
You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.
Harry looked down at your hand.
Then back up at your face.
One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.
The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.
And then—
“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”
The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.
You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.
A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.
Your birthday.
Your breath caught.
“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”
Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.
“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”
You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”
She lit up like a summers day.
“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”
Your heart twisted.
“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”
Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”
“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."
She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.
You listened. Truly listened.
“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”
Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.
“I think you can, love.”
She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”
“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”
You glanced over your shoulder, searching.
“Isn’t that right, Potter?”
Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.
He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.
At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.
“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”
The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”
Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”
Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.
You met Harry’s gaze briefly.
He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.
As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.
You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.
“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”
Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”
“Got it.”
She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.
You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.
Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.
“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.
“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.
This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.
You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.
“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”
Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.
“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”
His expression shifted, “For what?”
“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”
Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”
A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”
For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.
“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”
“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”
He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.
Just acknowledging you.
And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.
You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.
That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.
The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.
And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.
“Shake hands!”
You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.
“Good luck.” He said.
The words barely registered.
Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.
The whistle shrieked.
You launched.
The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.
Puddlemere played aggressively.
Too aggressively.
A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.
They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.
But it didn’t stop.
Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.
From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.
His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.
The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.
Something in him broke.
“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”
The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.
One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”
“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”
The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.
The crowd erupted.
You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.
“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”
“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.
“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”
“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”
He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.
You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”
The whistle blew again.
You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.
The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.
Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.
Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.
You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.
Harry.
He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.
“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”
“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.
You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”
“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”
“Help who?” You asked.
He hesitated, “What?”
“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”
You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.
“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”
You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”
For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.
Instead, he exhaled.
“…Right.”
You nodded once, “Good.”
And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.
The flowers arrived the next morning.
You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.
A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.
You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.
I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it.
— Harry
You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.
Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.
“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”
You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.
You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.
Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.
So you came back.
Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.
The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.
She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.
You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.
“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”
She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”
You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Teddy.”
The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.
“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”
“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.
“I’m better.” He added instantly.
“Are you?” You asked, playing along.
It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.
“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”
“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”
“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.
You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.
You bit your lip.
You loved children.
The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.
“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”
He beamed.
You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.
“Teddy.”
You looked up.
Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.
Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”
You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.
He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”
Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”
You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.
Something warmer.
The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.
You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”
A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”
A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.
Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.
And froze.
Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.
Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.
Your stomach dropped.
What the hell?
Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—
No. Absolutely not.
You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.
“Everything okay?”
You startled.
Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.
“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”
His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.
You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”
He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.
Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.
Your breath caught.
Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”
When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.
You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.
“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”
“That’s—are you sure?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his voice.
He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”
You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.
A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.
Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.
“Okay?” He whispered.
You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”
You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.
“Stay close.” He murmured.
“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”
His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.
The air shifted.
You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.
You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.
As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.
“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—”
“Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”
You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.
Only then did Harry stop.
“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.
You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.
You knew yours did the same.
His hand was still at your back.
And neither of you pulled away.
The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.
Harry swallowed.
“This is probably—” He began, voice low.
You didn’t let him finish.
You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.
His lips met yours.
Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.
There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.
No fans. No cameras. No expectations.
Just the two of you.
Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.
“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.
The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.
And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.
Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.
“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”
You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”
Still, neither of you moved.
After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.
“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”
You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.
Harry’s fingers.
They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.
You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.
“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”
You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.
“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”
You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.
“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”
His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.
Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”
You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.
You almost drifted off again.
Almost.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.
“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”
You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."
He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.
He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.
You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.
"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.
And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.
A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.
Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.
Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.
A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.
“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”
And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.
It felt… solid.
Comfortable.
Real.
So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.
Had you left a lamp on?
You took another step inside.
No. This wasn’t overhead light.
This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.
You froze just inside the doorway.
The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.
And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—
Harry.
He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.
“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.
You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.
“…Harry.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”
He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.
“I thought I’d try.”
Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.
Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.
He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”
“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”
His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.
“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”
You laughed, bumping your nose against his.
“Oh thank Godric.”
He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.
Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.
Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.
Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.
You found him on the balcony.
The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.
That smile.
The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.
“Morning.” He said.
“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.
Brief didn’t last.
It never did.
The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.
You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.
Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.
The long lens.
The quiet click.
By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.
All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.
Intimate.
Suggestive.
Just unclear enough.
Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.
Harry Potter spotted outside private residence.
Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment.
Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker?
Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.
Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.
Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.
“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”
You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”
And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.
The flat felt smaller than it ever had.
Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.
You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.
Every headline said the same thing in a different font.
You reread them anyway.
Sources suggest.
Industry insiders hint.
Mystery woman.
Rising star.
Harry Potter spotted.
They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.
You didn’t hear the door open.
You felt it.
The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.
His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.
“We need to talk.” He said.
You stepped aside silently, giving him room.
The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.
“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”
Your head snapped up, “What?”
“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”
Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.
“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”
Your heart dropped straight through the floor.
“No.”
He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”
“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”
He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”
“For you.” You shot back.
His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”
His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”
You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”
“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
The words hung there, heavy and cruel.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.
"Here. Take it."
Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.
“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”
He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.
“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”
The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.
And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.
The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.
You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.
“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.
You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.
“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”
Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.
“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”
“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.
“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”
Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.
“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”
The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.
You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.
You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.
The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.
You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.
The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.
You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.
Finally, you stepped back inside.
The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.
That was when you noticed it.
A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.
Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.
You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.
And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.
You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.
You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.
Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.
You had your life. Your team. Your game.
And maybe, one day, he would understand.
The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.
She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.
“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”
Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”
You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.
“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.
Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”
You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.
Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.
“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."
The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.
You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."
You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.
“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.
You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”
“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.
“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”
The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.
You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”
The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.
They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.
“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.
He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”
Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”
Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”
Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”
“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.
Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”
Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”
“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”
Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”
Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”
Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”
“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.
Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.
Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”
Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"
Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."
Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.
And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.
The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.
The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.
As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.
It lingered.
Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.
“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.
The whistle shrieked.
Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.
Then, chaos.
One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.
Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.
“Harry!”
You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.
The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.
You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.
Hard.
The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.
“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.
Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.
“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.
Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.
Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.
Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.
The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.
The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.
Then, finally, a flicker of movement.
“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.
“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.
Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”
You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”
He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”
Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”
Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.
His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.
You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”
He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.
“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.
You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.
For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.
The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section
“Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”
After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.
Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.
This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.
bonus:
The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.
And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.
Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.
And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.
“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.
Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”
The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.
You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”
The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.
Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.
“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”
You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
hello! <3 i read your work toward sweetheart reader and harry (it was so adorable) and it made me question if you’d be open to write about Cedric? being a very gentle person himself i believe that approaching someone who’s also kind is natural.
in my mind, he’s used to people admiring him romantically but would feel lost when falling in love and discovering all the chaos that comes with it (they’re teens after all). that boy is a gentleman and a long time admirer i’m sure of it!!!
sweetheart!reader x cedric diggory headcanon
pairing : fem!reader x cedric diggory
genre : headcanon, fluff, slow-burn?
warning : mentions of marriage at the end
more sweetheart!reader : here 🧁
“so..you can be honest with me, who’s your least favourite professor or house member?”
“that’s quite too rude to discuss..”
COURTSHIP/CRUSHING —
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ of course, as hufflepuff’s golden boy and beloved prefect, cedric was more than used to people developing crushes on him. shy smiles in the corridors, anonymous gifts left outside the common room, awkward confessions after quidditch matches—it had become a normal part of life. yet somehow, whatever he felt whenever sweetheart walked by was entirely different from anything he’d experienced before.
.✦ ݁˖ no matter how kind or charming everyone else seemed, they simply weren’t her. there was something impossibly genuine about the way sweetheart treated others. she helped first years find classrooms, fixed broken quills without being asked, comforted crying students from rival houses, and never expected anything in return. most surprisingly of all, she treated cedric exactly the same as everyone else. she never stared, never blushed, never acted intimidated. to her, he was simply another student who deserved kindness.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ perhaps that was exactly why he noticed her so quickly. cedric himself had always struggled with quietly putting others before himself, smiling through exhaustion because people expected him to. seeing someone with that same gentle nature made him feel strangely understood, and before long he found himself hoping they could become friends.
.✦ ݁˖ unfortunately, things didn’t go quite as planned. after spending more time around sweetheart, cedric realized she didn’t view herself the way he viewed himself at all. she didn’t overthink her kindness or wonder if people only appreciated her because she was useful. helping others simply felt natural to her, as ordinary as breathing.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ one afternoon, while walking around the castle grounds together, cedric carefully tried bringing it up. he admitted that sometimes he worried people only valued him when he could offer something, wondering if she ever felt the same way. sweetheart looked at him as though he’d just started speaking gobbledegook.
.✦ ݁˖ “i mean… i suppose we’re kind of alike,” he laughed quietly, trying to explain himself.
“alike how?” she tilted her head with genuine confusion, eyes almost wide open.
cedric hesitated, opening and closing his mouth trying to articulate his thoughts. “you know… always helping people. wanting to feel needed. wanting to feel appreciated because of what you do.”
the silence that followed was almost painful. sweetheart blinked. her mouth opened before closing again. she genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. not because she was hiding her feelings. but because the idea had honestly never crossed her mind.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ the conversation ended with sweetheart politely asking if he wanted a chocolate frog because “thinking so much must be exhausting.” somehow, that only made him laugh harder.
.✦ ݁˖ after that day, cedric found himself thinking about her even more. not less. if anything, his curiosity only grew. how could someone be so effortlessly kind without expecting anything back? how could someone be so innocent that they couldn’t even comprehend his worries?
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ he started catching himself watching her during meals, smiling whenever she fed crumbs to birds outside the windows or stayed behind after class to help clean up. every tiny thing she did somehow managed to become the highlight of his day.
.✦ ݁˖ somewhere along the way, cedric quietly stopped trying to become sweetheart’s friend. he started wanting to become her favorite person instead. and that realization terrified him almost as much as it made him smile while imagining it before bed.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ but cedric also came to the rather unfortunate realization that if he truly wanted to become close to sweetheart, he would have to be patient. very patient. earning her trust wasn’t difficult, but earning a place in her daily life? that would take time, and perhaps a little luck.
.✦ ݁˖ contrary to what he first believed, sweetheart wasn’t nearly as oblivious as she appeared. every now and then, while he sat in class with his chin resting against his palm, absentmindedly watching her scribble stars and tiny hearts in the corners of her notes, she’d suddenly glance over her shoulder. for a split second, their eyes would meet before she’d give him the smallest wink imaginable and turn back around as if nothing had happened, leaving cedric staring at the back of her head in complete disbelief (& with a fluttering heart)
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ he could deny having a crush all he wanted, but there was no denying how easily she made him blush. one little smile from sweetheart was enough to leave his ears burning for the next ten minutes.
.✦ ݁˖ somehow, without either of them discussing it, cedric became her unofficial escort around the castle. he’d wait outside classrooms between lessons, carry stacks of books that seemed heavier than his quidditch equipment, and walk beside her through crowded corridors while she happily chatted about everything and nothing at all. by the end of each day his arms ached, yet he’d gladly do it all again tomorrow.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ somewhere between carrying textbooks and standing outside the library for another “five minutes” that somehow became half an hour, cedric realized this wasn’t just admiration anymore. this strange warmth in his chest every time she smiled at him had quietly become something much deeper.
.✦ ݁˖ and once cedric diggory realized he was falling for someone, he knew he couldn’t spend forever watching from the sidelines. one afternoon, as sweetheart walked across the courtyard surrounded by classmates, laughing softly at something one of them had said, he pushed himself to his feet so suddenly that his own friends jumped in surprise. without another thought, he hurried after her, weaving through groups of students until he reached her side, stopping both her and everyone walking with her in their tracks.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ for the first time in a long while, the boy who could confidently address an entire house at assemblies suddenly forgot every single word he’d planned to say.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ what was supposed to be a quiet conversation somehow became one of the most unforgettable moments in hogwarts history. students slowed their pace, whispers spread through the courtyard, and before either of them realized it, a small crowd had gathered to see what exactly hufflepuff’s golden boy was doing standing so nervously in front of the school’s sweetheart.
.✦ ݁˖ cedric could barely hear anything around him. he rubbed the back of his neck so much he was certain it would leave a mark, but he couldn’t stop. his heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that it drowned out the chatter of the crowd, leaving only the sight of sweetheart smiling up at him with those impossibly gentle eyes.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ all the carefully planned words disappeared from his mind. every speech he’d rehearsed, every clever sentence he’d practiced in front of the mirror, vanished the second she looked at him.
.✦ ݁˖ so instead, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, the truth simply escaped.
“i think i love you.” for one brief second, the entire courtyard fell silent. then came the gasps. even a few portraits inside the castle leaned forward to listen.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ sweetheart blinked once before the brightest smile spread across her face. a soft laugh escaped her lips, warm and completely genuine, the kind of laugh that always made cedric’s stomach flutter.
.✦ ݁˖ without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped him in the gentlest hug imaginable. cedric’s entire body froze as his brain desperately tried to process what was happening. for one glorious second, he wondered if he’d somehow succeeded.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ “aww… you’re such a wonderful friend, cedric. i love you too.”
.✦ ݁˖ the silence that followed somehow felt louder than the confession itself. cedric stared ahead. his friends stared at him. the crowd stared at both of them. somewhere in the distance, one unfortunate hufflepuff quietly whispered,
“…he meant romantically.”
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ sweetheart’s smile slowly faltered as she turned around in complete confusion.
“…but we aren’t dating?” cedric closed his eyes.
perhaps… just perhaps… she really was that oblivious.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ somehow, after all the confusion, awkward explanations, and relentless teasing from practically the entire school, cedric finally got the answer he’d been hoping for. it simply took sweetheart a few extra hours—and several very patient people explaining the difference between loving someone as a friend and loving someone that way.
.✦ ݁˖ that evening, after dinner, he spotted her walking through the castle corridors alone. before he could overthink himself into backing out, his feet carried him forward on their own, gently wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ sweetheart startled for only a second before immediately giggling, already convinced he was about to tickle her again. she turned around with the brightest smile, laughter still lingering on her lips as she looked up at him.
.✦ ݁˖ except… he wasn’t laughing. instead, he leaned down, closing the tiny distance between them until his lips softly met hers. everything else disappeared.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ cedric was almost certain he was going to pass out. his heart raced so quickly he thought he might actually collapse, and he was far too nervous to even open his eyes, terrified that she’d be standing there completely frozen in shock.
.✦ ݁˖ for one impossibly long second, he felt nothing. then, ever so gently, he felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robe as she leaned closer instead of pulling away. she kissed him back.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ when they finally separated, cedric opened his eyes to find sweetheart blushing just as much as he was, covering half her face with her sleeve while trying—and failing—to hide an embarrassed little smile.
.✦ ݁˖ in that moment, cedric suddenly understood why people wrote poems, carved initials into trees, and spent entire nights staring at the stars thinking about someone they loved. he understood every ridiculous love song he’d ever heard. he understood every hopeless romantic. because somehow, somewhere between carrying her books and watching her feed birds by the lake, he’d fallen completely and utterly in love. and after that kiss, he had absolutely no desire to be saved from it.
DATING —
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ once the two of them officially started dating, cedric was convinced life simply couldn’t get any better. he walked around hogwarts with the softest, most hopelessly lovesick smile on his face, greeting everyone with twice the enthusiasm he usually had. after about a week, some students genuinely started wondering if someone had slipped him a love potion.
.✦ ݁˖ the professors noticed it too. even snape gave him an odd look after catching him smiling to himself in the middle of a potion demonstration. cedric didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore; every thought somehow drifted back to his sweetheart.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ somehow, dating only made him even more gentlemanly than before. he insisted on carrying every single one of her books, bags, parchment rolls, and even the basket she’d brought for care of magical creatures. sweetheart often ended up walking beside him completely empty-handed while cedric looked like he was transporting an entire library.
.✦ ݁˖ if she reached for something, cedric had already reached for it first. if she forgot to write the lesson title before the professor moved on, he’d quietly pull her notebook toward himself and write it down in his neat handwriting before sliding it back with a smile.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ whenever sweetheart forgot about homework until the very last minute, cedric never complained. he’d patiently sit beside her in the library helping her organize everything, reminding her of deadlines and encouraging her until the assignment was finished, even if it meant staying up much later than he planned.
.✦ ݁˖ he developed the adorable habit of always making sure she had everything she could possibly need before she even realized she needed it herself. water? already poured. extra quill? already in his pocket. scarf because it looked chilly outside? somehow he had remembered to bring it.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ sweetheart once opened a heavy classroom door herself while cedric was several steps behind. he hurried after her looking genuinely distressed, insisting she could’ve waited two more seconds. she laughed so hard she nearly dropped her books while he quietly held the door open anyway “just in case she wanted to walk through it again.”
.✦ ݁˖ his favorite place quickly became wherever sweetheart happened to be. the library became more interesting, the greenhouses felt warmer, and even boring history of magic lectures seemed enjoyable if she was sitting beside him doodling tiny flowers in the margins of her notes.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ whenever sweetheart thanked him for all the little things he did, cedric always looked confused. to him, it wasn’t a chore or an obligation. loving her simply made every act of kindness feel as natural as breathing.
.✦ ݁˖ the entire school eventually accepted that if you wanted to find cedric diggory, all you had to do was look for sweetheart. chances were, he’d be walking beside her with half her belongings in his arms and the happiest smile anyone had ever seen.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ cedric had a completely unstoppable obsession with matching things. bracelets, scarves, mittens, necklaces, rings, bookmarks, socks, even tiny charms tied around their wands—if there was a matching version, he was buying it. every birthday, every christmas, every holiday that didn’t even remotely involve gift-giving somehow ended with sweetheart opening another little box and laughing because, of course, it matched something cedric already owned.
.✦ ݁˖ at this point, the hufflepuff common room had accepted that if cedric walked back from hogsmeade carrying a small paper bag and smiling to himself, it was almost certainly another matching accessory for the two of them. nobody questioned it anymore.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ he would deny it until his last breath, but during particularly boring classes, his quill had an unfortunate habit of drifting across the parchment. instead of taking notes, he’d absentmindedly write their initials together over and over before trying different combinations of their surnames beside them, staring at the letters for far longer than necessary before quickly scribbling them out when someone walked past.
.✦ ݁˖ the first time sweetheart accidentally found one of those pages, she simply smiled and told him his handwriting looked pretty. cedric nearly fainted from relief that she’d somehow missed the dozens of little hearts surrounding the initials.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ breakfast, lunch, and dinner were somehow impossible for him to survive normally. if sweetheart sat beside him, he’d spend half the meal smiling at her instead of eating. if she sat somewhere else with classmates or friends from another house, he’d glance over every few seconds until eventually giving up and openly watching her from across the great hall.
.✦ ݁˖ everyone noticed except sweetheart. she’d look over, wave happily, and go right back to talking while cedric smiled so brightly that half the hufflepuff table had to look away out of secondhand embarrassment.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ the truth was, cedric simply liked knowing she was alright. was she eating enough? was she laughing? did she have someone to sit with? did she remember her scarf? his brain somehow managed to turn every meal into a silent wellness check.
.✦ ݁˖ and heaven help the poor soul who accidentally flirted with sweetheart in front of him. cedric would remain perfectly polite, smile warmly, and congratulate them on their confidence… before spending the next three hours quietly overthinking whether sweetheart had smiled a little too brightly at them.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ he wasn’t the jealous type—at least that’s what he kept telling himself. but if someone lingered around sweetheart a little too long, he’d somehow appear beside her within seconds with the sweetest smile imaginable, gently slipping an arm around her shoulders as though he’d been standing there the whole time.
.✦ ݁˖ afterward, he’d feel guilty for even feeling possessive at all. sweetheart wasn’t something to “protect” from everyone around her, and he knew that. still, every now and then, he’d catch someone looking at her the same way he did and think, absolutely not.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ fortunately for cedric’s sanity, sweetheart never seemed interested in anyone else. as far as she was concerned, the only boy worth staring at during meals was the one already staring back at her with the softest, most hopelessly lovestruck expression in all of hogwarts.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ and honestly, how many people were surprised when cedric ended up proposing to his sweetheart at the end of their final year at hogwarts? exactly. absolutely nobody.
i was smiling so hard while writing this #livelaughlovecedric 🥹
Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.
A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.
Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.
That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.
Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.
Harry had thought it ridiculous.
Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.
By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.
Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—
And you were completely, utterly oblivious.
The irony was cruel.
You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”
You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.
You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.
You—who read people like open books.
Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.
And had been for two years.
At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.
Apparently not.
Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”
He’d nearly choked on his tea.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.
The worst part?
They were right.
Everyone had noticed.
Everyone—except you.
So Harry tried something different.
He stopped hiding.
He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.
There was none.
He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.
You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.
Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.
Not anonymous. Not vague.
A proper Valentine.
You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.
“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”
He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.
That was the day he’d given up.
You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.
And yet.
He still didn’t tell you.
He couldn’t.
Because losing you altogether was not an option.
He could survive loving you quietly.
He could survive pretending.
He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.
But he could not survive you walking away.
That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.
So he chose silence.
He chose the quiet torture of it.
And he told himself that it was enough.
It had to be.
But Merlin—
You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.
It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.
Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.
So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.
“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.
Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.
“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.
He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.
“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”
There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.
Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”
You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.
It started with a bang.
Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.
Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.
“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.
The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”
Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.
“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”
Brilliant.
Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.
Harry was scanning the staircase.
Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.
And then you appeared.
Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.
And—
Wearing his Quidditch jersey.
It swallowed you whole.
The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.
You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.
Heat crawled up his neck.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”
You blinked at him, still half-asleep.
“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”
You yawned.
Actually yawned.
As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.
Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
But you didn’t notice.
You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.
It was instinctive.
Unthinking.
Comfort.
His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.
For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.
You fit far too perfectly there.
It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.
His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.
Instead, he swallowed.
“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.
You smiled without opening your eyes.
“Like you would’ve said no.”
His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.
His.
And yet not.
You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”
He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”
You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.
McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.
Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.
You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.
Harry watched your retreating figure.
And the name stretched across your back.
Potter.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
This—this was it.
As close as he would ever get.
The only way he would ever see you with his last name.
On the back of an old, worn jersey.
Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.
“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”
You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”
Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”
You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”
Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.
He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.
Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.
“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”
Harry froze. His stomach dropped.
“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”
“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.
You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
Friend.
Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.
You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.
He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”
You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.
As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.
Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.
But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.
He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.
At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.
He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.
“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”
Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”
Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”
Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”
Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”
“You have bets?” Harry demanded.
“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”
Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”
Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”
“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue.
And then closed it again.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”
Harry hesitated.
Just for a second.
Because part of him wanted to.
Merlin, he wanted to.
The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.
He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.
No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.
With every single fiber of his being.
With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.
And then—
Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”
That one landed wrong.
A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.
Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”
The boys burst out laughing.
Harry didn’t.
Because that was the worst part.
They weren’t wrong.
His jaw tightened.
Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.
“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”
Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”
That one felt like a punch to the ribs.
So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.
Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”
“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”
“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”
Harry paused at the bottom step.
He didn’t turn around.
Worst she can say is no.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.
Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.
You’d grow cautious.
You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.
You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.
And he would lose you.
Not just the possibility of you.
You.
His best friend.
The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.
And that—
That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.
The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.
Too soft for this hour.
He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”
The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.
“Hi.” You said quietly.
Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”
You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”
Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.
“And?” He asked gently.
“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.
His heart skipped.
“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”
Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”
You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.
The air shifted.
This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.
It wasn’t new.
But something about tonight felt different.
Harry swallowed.
For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—
Why not Ron’s bed?
Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?
The question burned at the back of his tongue.
But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.
The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.
You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”
“Good night.” He said quickly.
You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.
It took less than five minutes.
Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.
Like it belonged.
Harry stared up at the ceiling.
Wide awake.
Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.
You were so close.
So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.
And you slept.
Just like that.
No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.
Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.
That was what hurt.
You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.
He wanted to wrap an arm around you.
He wanted to pull you closer.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.
He wanted to ask why him.
Why always him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.
That should have been enough.
But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—
If you knew.
If you knew how badly he wanted you…
Would you still sleep this easily?
Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?
His throat tightened.
Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.
And Harry finally closed his eyes.
Not because he was calm.
But because it was easier than letting himself cry.
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.
If he had at all.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.
You.
Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.
He released you at once.
And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.
He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.
But you didn’t.
You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly.
Why would you?
A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.
“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.
Harry swallowed, “Morning.”
You didn’t jump away.
You didn’t gasp.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.
“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.
He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.
It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.
You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
You saw him as safe.
Familiar.
Harmless.
Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him.
Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe.
Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.
You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He said automatically.
There it was again.
That warm, affectionate smile.
And then you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.
He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.
You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.
And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.
He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.
Valentine’s Day was a week away.
And he was running out of ways to survive this.
It started with the heat.
Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.
This was different.
This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.
You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.
Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.
Today, every touch felt like friction.
He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.
You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”
“Yeah.” He muttered.
He wasn’t.
He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.
You didn’t think about it.
You never thought about it.
By lunch, it had gotten worse.
The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.
Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.
Harry told himself it didn’t matter.
You laughed like that with everyone.
But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.
You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.
You tilted your head, “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
And that made it worse.
Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.
The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.
By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.
You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Nothing.”
He took the stairs two at a time.
You followed.
“Harry.”
He didn’t answer.
“Harry, wait.”
He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”
You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”
“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”
That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.
“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what is it about?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He walked away.
But you didn’t let him.
You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.
By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
You followed.
Now it was just the two of you.
The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.
You shut the door gently behind you.
“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He stared at everything else in the room but you.
At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.
He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.
Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.
You hesitated.
Then you reached for his hand.
The contact was gentle. Familiar.
It felt like static shock.
Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.
His entire body reacted before his mind did.
He jerked away.
“Just—stop it.”
Your hand froze midair.
“What?”
“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”
Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”
“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”
You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”
“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”
Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”
“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”
“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”
“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.
They echoed in the quiet room.
You stared at him.
“What are you talking about?” You whispered.
He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.
“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”
His voice wavered, but he pushed through.
“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”
His throat tightened.
“But I was wrong.”
You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”
“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”
And finally — finally — he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
“I love you.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”
His hands trembled at his sides.
“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."
His laugh was brittle.
“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”
His voice cracked.
“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”
Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.
“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”
The words nearly undid him.
“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
The room felt too still.
Too tight.
He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.
The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.
It was a burn.
And it hurt.
Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.
That might have been easier to bear.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.
He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.
“I think you should go.” He said quietly.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just… spent.
For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.
He didn’t.
He stepped back instead.
And that — that was what made your chest crack open.
You left without another word.
The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.
Everything sounded distant. Muffled.
You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.
By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.
The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.
You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.
Your heart was still racing.
Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.
I’m in love with you.
The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.
You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.
You’d thought you knew him.
But tonight had been different.
Tonight he had looked raw.
You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.
The confession replayed again.
And again.
And then—
You inhaled.
And froze.
That wasn’t your pillow.
You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.
Harry’s jumper.
Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.
You hadn’t meant to keep it.
It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.
He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.
Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.
You never gave it back.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Would you have to return it now?
The thought felt unbearable.
You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.
Your eyes landed on your nightstand.
The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.
Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.
A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.
Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.
You’d laughed.
You hadn’t asked why.
It was everywhere.
He was everywhere.
Not in grand, sweeping gestures.
Not in dramatic declarations.
But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.
Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.
There were dozens.
Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.
Not the gift.
You.
At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.
Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.
Longing.
How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?
Your vision blurred again.
You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.
You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.
Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.
And then—
You found it.
A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.
Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.
Be my Valentine?
The memory hit you all at once.
A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.
But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.
You had seen the signs.
Some quiet part of you had always known.
It’s been like this for years.
Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.
You always thought it was just that.
You and him. Best friends. A matched set.
Your chest tightens painfully.
The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.
The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.
This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.
It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.
You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.
You loved him.
Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.
And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.
You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.
At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.
You needed to know.
You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.
So you kept your distance.
And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.
He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.
He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.
It wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
He wasn’t punishing you.
He was protecting himself.
Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.
You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.
It was restraint.
And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.
Harry hated it.
He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.
It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.
A miracle.
Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.
Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.
One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.
Harry remained behind.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.
But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.
Stupid, really.
He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.
And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.
He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.
The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.
He didn’t return it.
By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.
And there you were.
Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.
His second was fear.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.
“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”
His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.
“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.
You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.
“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.
He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.
You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.
He let you have the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were small when they finally left you.
And he felt his stomach drop.
There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.
His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.
“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”
“(Y/N), hold on.”
He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.
You stopped mid-breath.
Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.
Harry swallowed.
He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.
You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.
“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”
Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”
His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.
Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.
“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”
The room seemed to still entirely.
The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.
“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”
His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.
“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”
For a moment, he didn’t react at all.
It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.
You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.
He didn’t find it.
Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.
Reverently.
“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.
You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”
The words didn’t tremble this time.
They landed between you solid and undeniable.
Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.
“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.
Just awe.
Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.
“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.
Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.
His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.
Then he stepped forward.
Hesitantly.
Cautiously.
As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.
He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.
But you were real.
Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.
The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.
The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.
He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.
It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.
But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.
All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.
You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
A/N: This was so fun to write! I got a bit carried away in writing this, spent about three days on it 😭 Since the poll's gonna be up for a while, I decided to finish this request. I hope you enjoy!
Next fic is a George Weasley one, promise! <3
Warning(s): Fluff, Cedric yearning, user is an introvert with like two friends, user is a year younger than Cedric (briefly mentioned, doesn't impact the story in any way), takes place between the first task and the Yule ball, I tried to make it as slow of a burn as possible 😭💕
Word count: 5.8k (sorry)
Dividers by @angeliicide !! Love her downn <3
Love to @p03tryv0r3 for being my pretty little beta reader
Cedric wasn’t supposed to be like this; he was better than this. He repeated the words like a mantra in his head as he bid his farewells to Ernie and Ben, practically tripping over himself to get to the library. It was the only time he ever saw you.
He didn’t know when it began, when his carefree charm began to feel intentional whenever he caught a glance of you, when his movements felt stiffer whenever he’d hear your voice in the distance. Maybe it began last week, when you smiled at him after he helped you get a book in the library. Maybe it was three months ago, when you burst into the great hall, flushed and breathless with laughter.
Maybe it was always inside him, from the moment he saw you sorted into Hufflepuff in your first year during his second, the way your grin widened into a relieved gasp when you heard it, how you ran over to the badger’s table, sat next to him without another thought. He still remembered how red he got when your knee pressed against his, how he hid his face away from yours so you wouldn’t see.
Since then, subconsciously, your figure was the first his eyes searched for in every single room and hallway. Maybe he didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help it. It was stupid, really; he couldn’t figure out what it was about you that took his heart hostage. Maybe the way your fingers brushed books like they were sacred, how you whispered to yourself in class, like your brain didn’t hear your thoughts unless you voiced them aloud.
But maybe it was because you never performed for him. You weren’t like the girls who batted their eyes at him, squeezed his biceps, or laughed much too hard at jokes that truly weren’t that funny. You were reserved, a quiet presence, like lingering perfume. Your seraphic nature drew him in and wrapped his heart around your fist.
He should’ve been embarrassed at how pathetic he was being; he was Cedric Diggory. Every single girl in the school either thought he was attractive or was hopelessly obsessed with him; even guys got all giddy at the prospect of being friends with him. Safe to say, he was liked by all. Even Victor Krum slaps him on the back and yells “Diggy!” whenever he passes him and the other Durmstrang boys.
He forced himself to slow down as he neared the library, smoothing over his tie and smiling at a girl who giggled hysterically to her friends afterwards. He let the reassurance of his effect on women calm his nerves before he pushed the doors and walked in. The quiet hum and bustle of the library enveloped him as he walked across the room, towards the back of the library, the last few shelves. Either he’d find you, or he'd have to flash his prefect badge at whatever couple currently sucking face back there.
What would he say? Did he have to pretend to look for a book? Maybe he could use the second task as an excuse—
“Shoot!” You hissed, dropping your nose-high pile of books in your arms as you collided with his very solid chest. He stiffened upon seeing you, absolutely unprepared. He didn’t even practice a line; what was he even going to say? Sorry?
Maybe start with moving, Diggory, he hissed to himself, bending down to crouch in front of you as you scrambled to pick up the scattered books. “Merlin, I’m a ditz, I’m so sorry–” you blurted out, face heating up, ears burning.
“No, no, s’alright. Should’ve been watching, no?” He said with an easy smile, deciding he needed to be extra charming to woo you. He took the books from your hands swiftly, tilting his head to the side. “Where’re you going with half the library, love?”
You stiffened, cheeks burning as you averted your eyes and took a step back. “A table,” you huffed quickly, reaching for your books once more, which made him frown. “Which? M’sure you could use some help, and as your prefect–”
“That’s fine!” You said a bit too quickly, pulling up your yellow and black Hufflepuff scarf to your nose and grabbing the pile from his hands, wobbling a bit after jerkily rushing away from him. You rushed off to a table with two other Hufflepuffs he didn’t recognize and scrambled into your seat.
Smooth.
He bit back a groan and proceeded to aimlessly wander the library so as not to make it seem that all he came here for was you. He admired the walls and the floor for what seemed like hours, glancing over to your table every few minutes to see you and your stack of books still there. You hadn’t looked up once. Hadn’t even checked to see if he was around, nor even glanced around the room.
He frowned, looking around the room. A few girls from Ravenclaw were staring at him, quickly looking away when he glanced their way. He then locked his gaze on a few Beauxbatons girls, and even they smiled and whispered amongst each other.
He was the most popular guy in school, and yet, you’d just run from him. No one did that, not even the shy ones. Even they’d nervously smile and fluster at him being the one to notice them.
Around you, he felt like Superman without his powers. You seemed so... Unaffected. Not even in the cold, unbothered way. In the way a bunny runs when it hears the crunching of leaves nearby.
He pouted to himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair and leaving the library, fighting the urge to look back to see if maybe you were watching him leave, that maybe you were playing hard to get.
He shut the doors behind him and groaned and grumbled the rest of the way to the Hufflepuff Basement.
“C’mon, Ceddy, this has turned pathetic at this point.” Ernie huffed as he dropped down on his four-poster bed, leaning back with an exhausted groan. “You’re seriously losing your mind over a girl who’s spoken to you a total of, what, maybe six times? Seven if you count today.”
Cedric just offered a glare in return, running a hand down his face, immediately regretting his decision to tell his friends about you and what happened in the library two weeks ago. “Look, it’s not like that. She’s somethin’ else, I’m telling you.” He said defensively, making Ernie roll his eyes.
“Ced, hate to say it, but Ernie’s right on this one.” Ben muttered, passing Cedric a water bottle before moving to sit next to him. “You don’t know this girl. She sits alone, almost all the time. Has she even shown interest in you?”
“Maybe she’s shy!” Cedric protested, eliciting groans from both boys now.
Ernie huffed out a laugh. “This is just masochistic at this point, Ceddy! Y’know any girl’d throw themselves at you, yeah?” He said with a snort, narrowing his eyes towards the golden boy.
Cedric just pursed his lips and sighed, his ears flushing red. “It’s- she feels different, okay?” His voice was so soft that Ernie and Ben held off from rebutting. Ben squeezed his shoulder with a sigh.
“I don’t get you.” He sighed, standing up and grabbing Ernie’s wrist. “We’ve got to meet McGonagall for Transfig’, need to ask her to extend the due date.”
Ernie gave Cedric a smirk before leaving the trio’s shared dorm with Ben, leaving the prefect there with his thoughts.
Cedric let his head fall into his hands before groaning, tugging lightly at his hair. He’d never been so desperate for someone to talk to him, never. He never had to worry about that kind of thing. If he wanted to talk to someone, there was never any doubt that they’d be glad to talk to him.
But you. Gods, you. It was unfair; cruel, almost— the things you did to his heart, his head, and his sleep. You did it all without even trying, without even thinking of him. Floating in your own world, content in your own bubble.
It felt like he had to prove his worth to you, to prove to you that keeping him around is worth it, that he’s worth it. Worth you. He doubted that you were measuring people’s values and letting them in selectively; you were reserved, he’d gathered that. You relaxed in solitude, in silence.
He’d tried everything in his arsenal, was the most charming he’d ever been, but you still never stayed to exchange more than eight words with him. He couldn’t understand where he was going wrong.
He stood up with a sigh, hands brushing over his robes as if he needed to do something with them lest he were to tug at his own hair again. He walked over to his desk, clipped on his prefect badge, and left his room for his nightly rounds. Maybe it’d distract him. Maybe he’d be occupied.
It’d be the same as always, though. He’d wander around and wonder about you. Were you sleeping? Awake? He felt his heart squeeze, fingers twitching by his sides, before he clenched them into fists.
The most charming boy in school, my arse.
You had a routine, you followed it. You woke up, did your lessons, sat for your meals, and then you spent the rest of your day in the library or in your dorm. What else is a girl to do? You didn’t have anyone to talk to but the same two people, and you couldn’t blame them. You shied away from absolutely everything. Eye contact flustered you to no end, and talking to people felt like having a clock ticking down the seconds, waiting for you to say something that’d horribly embarrass you or make you look like an utter freak. You didn’t know how to talk to people, didn’t know how to keep them interested. It was too much energy to have to assess someone and understand how to talk to them; it became easier to just stop trying, and it felt like it suited you.
Sure, it got lonely, but the silence was comfortable in its predictability, in its presence. There was no suddenness in the solace of your own presence; you were aware. You didn’t have to please anyone, didn’t have to perform. The performance is what truly exhausted you. You knew that not everyone was some narcissist trying to use your shy nature to their advantage, but your mother always told you to be careful. Never be naive, never be easy.
So you turned difficult. Not in the loud way; scowling and scoffing your way through life.
Unknowingly, unconsciously. It became harder to navigate through conversations, and you gave up with the rest of them. You had your own world, your own things to keep you busy. You skipped the parties; the noise and people proved to be more trouble than you ever thought it would be worth.
“Y/n!” Samantha hissed for the fourth time, finally snapping you out of whatever haze you were stuck in, making your cheeks flush. “If I have to repeat all that, I’ll kill you.” She grumbled, frowning now, hands on her hips. You gave her a sheepish smile, leaning back on your four-poster bed, having changed out of your robes and into your pyjamas for the night.
“Sorry, Sam. Go on, something about Arithmacy?” You tried, only to snort at her now offended reaction. “You think I spend my free time talking about Arithmacy?! No! That one bloke from Ravenclaw’s been dodging me for a straight week now! You’d think he’d reject a girl with class.” She hissed, dropping down on the bed next to you with a pained sigh.
“Or maybe just accept he’s not into you,” Shlok said from across the room, currently putting on whatever expensive cream Samantha bought all over his hands, maybe her shoot up and screech at him about it being face cream. “Oh, shut up! Shut up!” She hissed, snatching her cream and pushing him towards the beds.
“He doesn’t seem very nice, Sam.” You murmured delicately, tilting your head towards her as she aggressively sorted through her skin-care products. She was thorough, you had to admit. “Maybe you need a stricter screening process–”
“What I need–” She hissed, marching back into the room, frowning. “Is for Shlok to man up and beat him up on my behalf! What good’s being friends with a bloke if he isn’t going to beat up my shitty flings?!” She huffed, scowling at the boy who simply shrugged behind his glasses. “Can’t say I blame the poor guy, you’re sodding psychotic–” He mused before being crudely attacked by a pillow.
“Y/n! Look at him! Tell him!” You bit back a snicker, covering your mouth as you watched Shlok prepare to launch the cushion back at Samantha. “Maybe you should try dating someone in our house, Sammy. You might meet nicer people. Hufflepuffs are sweet, no?” You offered, making her scowl soften in consideration before she was pummeled by a pillow, followed by Shlok crying out, ‘Take that, devil woman!’
Hufflepuffs are sweet, you repeated to yourself, drowning out the brewing warfare baking in your dorm room. You thought back to nice Hufflepuffs you knew, though you hardly spoke to any of them. Your mind drifted to the one Hufflepuff that seemed to pop up the most. Cedric Diggory.
Obviously, you hadn’t told your friends about him; they’d torment you relentlessly about him. You weren’t daft, you knew of his reputation; the most sought-after boy in all of Hogwarts. Hail Mary of Hufflepuff. He was attractive, charismatic, and at the top of his class. You understood the appeal, yes, but you found it quite confusing as to why people lost themselves over a guy. Attractiveness shouldn’t override basic etiquette, in your opinion. Of course, you were naturally shy. Being around someone so social felt like standing in direct, burning sunlight.
You didn’t understand it, why he spoke to you. Maybe it was a prefect thing; checking up on his house. Maybe it was a popular kid thing, feeling the need to include everyone. You sighed, eyes darting between Samantha and Shlok as they started flinging anything in reach at each other, eliciting a groan from you.
Your eyes moved to the clock on the wall, 9:36 pm. Your curfew began at 10. Without glancing at either of your friends, you smoothed over your pyjamas and slid on your slippers, slipping out od the dorm without interrupting your friends' bickering. You made your way through the common room and out the door, your wand tucked into the waistband of your pyjama pants.
Hogwarts at night was your absolute favourite, though you never really let yourself bask in it, preferring your dorm over all else. You wandered through the halls, avoiding prefects purely out of fear of socialising, not bothering to let your wand light the way, allowing the darkness of the night to envelop you.
After about ten minutes, you felt the consequences of wandering around Hogwarts at night in just your jammies, the cold biting through your thin cotton pyjamas that definitely weren’t built to withstand the tundra air of the castle’s halls. You shivered for the sixth time, your entire body shaking like you’d just been crucio-d. A soft ice-wrapped curse escaped your hushed voice as you rushed down the hall to get back to the dorms before you saw something turn the corner.
To say you handled it with grace would be generous.
For some unfathomable reason, you decided that the next order of action was to cover your face in classic ‘if I can’t see them, they can’t see me’ fashion.
“Y/n?” A soft yet incredibly bemused voice made you lift your head, gaping.
Of fucking course it was him who found you. Who else?
“Diggory.” You mumbled, offering him a polite, tight-lipped smile. He frowned, swallowing down the flutter in his chest erupting from simply seeing you. “You can’t be out here.” He said gently, making you wince. “Gosh, I know, I should’ve brought a scarf or a jacket, I’m never usually this careless—”
“Er, no. I mean, you very literally can’t. Curfew. Prefect. You know?” He said, trying to be as delicate as possible; reprimanding you was incredibly uncomfortable for him. Acting like you weren’t his every waking thought. “Though I do agree it wasn’t very clever to be out here in that.” He said with a soft chuckle, undoing his scarf before stepping forward to offer it to you.
“Merlin, right, sorry.” You said quickly, heat flooding to your cheeks at the sheer embarrassment of assuming, mindlessly taking the scarf in your embarrassment before stilling and offering it back to him. “I-I’m fine. Really. Thanks.” You said quickly, making a frown pull at his lips. “As your prefect,” he started, trying to put extra emphasis on his role as head of house. “I am to make sure my house members are alright. Just wear it for the time being, I can take it from you early morning, that alright?”
You just frowned, not wishing to continue this interaction by arguing. You wrapped the yellow fabric around your neck, it already being heated from having been wrapped around him for maybe the past few hours. With a shudder at the newfound warmth, you looked up at him. “Thanks. Very sorry.” You said quickly, moving to walk past him. “Have a good night–walk–rounds.” You choked out, your heart now racing, eyes on the floor as you practically speed walked away from him, a soft ‘Goodnight’ coming from behind you as you rushed off to your house.
You groaned once you got far enough, pulling the scarf over your nose before getting progressively more flustered at the deep breath of his cologne entering your nose. You felt stupid for running off now; he probably felt offended. Maybe regretted helping you at all.
You felt your heart pound the whole way back, trying rid the interaction from your mind. It was a short one, and maybe if you weren’t in the headspace of eligible Hufflepuffs, you may have been able to. Unfortunately, you couldn’t shake the thought. Cedric was thirsted over by the entire school, you’d never batted an eye before, but his tiny act of generosity or maybe just duty, made you just a tad bit more aware of him, you could say.
Upon entering your dorm, you felt yourself pulled into a smothering hug. “Where did you go?! It’s been an hour?! When did you leave!?” Samantha shrieked, pulling you into the room where Shlok sat on the floor, green facemask on his face. You turned to Samantha to see the same facemask on her aswell. You turned sheepish, letting her sit you down and push your hair away from your face as she applied it on your face.
“Wanted to go on a walk for a bit. Figured I’d be back sooner.” You said softly, shuddering at the cold cream. “Well, you should’ve–” She began before stopping, freezing where she sat. She pulled back, turned around as if to check something before snatching the scarf around your neck. “Who’s is this?!” She shrieked, making Shlok sit up in curiosity. You felt your cheeks burn. “Hey, Sam-”
Shlok snorted and snatched it from Samantha, opening the scarf to find the stitched initials each school garment often has. “Cedric D?” He huffed, brows furrowing before he gasped ever so dramatically, throwing the scarf at Samantha, making her gasp in turn. “Diggory?!” She cried, eyes wide. “Merlin, you’re snogging Diggory–”
“No! No!” You hissed indignantly, snatching the scarf back as heat flooded your face. “He gave me his scarf cause I didn’t have one, and he’s decent!” you went on, though the justification fell on deaf ears as they grinned at each other shamelessly. “You were right!” Shlok huffed, making Samantha giggle in glee.
You could just gape in confusion, moving closer. “Right about what?” You huffed, exasperated. Samantha pulled you closer by the wrist. “Diggory totally likes you!” She squealed, making you frown. You didn’t believe it, the prospect even annoyed you. You hardly ever spoke to the bloke, hardly ever saw him.
“Har har.” You said dryly, deadpanning over to your beaming friends. Shlok snorted, poking your side. “You’ve seriously never noticed how much he stares at you?” He mused, making your frown deepen. That got your attention.
“Stares?” “Stares!”
Samantha put Cedric’s scarf on the table, still buzzing with excitement. “All the time! Every time he’s in the same area as you, he just stares! Shlok thought it was because you’re taking 6th year classes, but I knew it was because—”
“Wait. Wait, no. He can’t possibly!” You protested, your heart picking up again. It was just a scarf, how could it confirm something this massive? “He’s just a gentleman! He was just being nice.”
You gave them an unamused look, which barely changed anything as they promptly ignored your pessimism. Samantha rolled her eyes, shrugging. “He still likes you, Y/n.”
The frown on your face deepened as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Well, in all the times he’d come up to me, he’s never once flirted–”
“Come up to you?! He’s come up to you?!” Shlok basically shrieked.
Oh, the drama.
You winced as they began hammering you with questions about what he’d say, what he’d do. You told them everything, the awkward interactions, and even walked them through tonight’s interaction, word-for-word. By the time you were done, they were positively certain Diggory had it in for you. You still couldn’t believe it, the expression on your face making your disbelief horribly obvious.
“Okay–okay! How about this?” Samantha went on, sitting on the bed. “Maybe don’t instantly run off when you give him his scarf. He wakes up pretty early, no? Just wake up early and sit with him in the common room or something!”
The prospect of talking to him already made you want to collapse and die, but Shlok cut you out of the thought process. “What’s the harm, ey? If he wants to leave, he can just get up and walk off. If he wants to talk, all you’ll have to do is answer questions and sit there in front of a fire.”
That made you consider it, your scowl softening as you weighed the pros and cons. You supposed he was right. You didn’t need to do much; you didn’t even have to initiate anything.
Reluctantly, you parted your lips. “I guess—” “Lovely!” Samantha chirped, pulling you to the bathroom along with Shlok to wipe off the face mask.
A soft laugh left you as you scrubbed the dried cream off your face, Samantha already going off on Shlok for using her face wash as hand wash. You already survived crazy, you figured you could survive sitting near Cedric Diggory.
Saying Cedric woke up was questionable; he wasn’t sure how long he really even spent asleep after his interaction with you. Pathetic, really. He was near you for about five minutes, and it was all he could think about— how you looked in the darkness, bathed in nothing but moonlight. How his bigger scarf looked around your shoulders, warming your nose. How your eyes looked in the dark, the way his last name sounded, wrapped in your tongue.
Those thoughts followed him since he woke up at the ass crack of dawn, 5 am. He didn’t know why, but he preferred the quiet lull of the early morning, the ability to go to the kitchen, request the house-elves a personalised breakfast, and just sit before the fire for about an hour till everyone else began to wake up. No rush to get ready, no drowsiness in class, and he’d always be exhausted by eleven. Win-win.
He made his way downstairs from the boys dormitories, rubbing one end of the towel around his shoulder onto his damp hair moving across the common room before a figure in front of the fireplace made him do a double take.
You.
And by Merlin, if seeing you didn’t make his heart falter in his chest.
“Y/n?” He said softly, his voice rough from sleep. He neared the couches around the fire, looking as you nervously turned your head to smile towards him. “G’morning, Diggory.” You said in turn, his heart fluttering at the way the early morning softened your face.
He grinned widely, rounding the couch to sit beside you, tilting his head towards you. Still in yesterday’s pyjamas, but your hair was a bit tidier, as if you’d brushed it one too many times, and now you had a chunky Hufflepuff sweater on as well. Nevertheless, he still found you hopelessly endearing. He hoped he wasn’t giving himself away with how pathetically he was looking at you. “Morning, love. You’re up early, aren’t you?”
You flustered, hands tightening around his scarf, which you had sitting in your lap. You looked down at it, then him, offering it up. “Scarf. Your scarf. Here–Here’s your scarf.” You mumbled, making his heart swell as he reached for it, tying it around your neck. Bold move, he knew; at this point, however, he was hellbent on making sure you took a liking to him. “It’s cold this early, y’know? How about you keep it for a bit longer? I’ll snag it once you get yours on.” He said with a soft smile, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before pulling back.
You felt your face grow hot as you squirmed away from him before nodding stiffly. “Thanks.”
He wet his lips, eyes softening at your shyness. He’s never really been this close to you before, it knocked the breath from him. “I.. don’t really see you at parties often. Not your scene?” He asked softly, making you shake your head.
“Bit loud for my taste,” you admitted, turning to look at him. “Hate being surrounded in strangers, y’know?” He didn’t. He’d never really been in a situation where he didn’t know someone enough to speak to them, but he nodded nevertheless.
“What is your scene, then?” He prodded, running a hand through his half-dried hair. He wasn’t expecting much out of you, given your introvertedness, so when he saw the way your eyes lit up; it felt like the world had stopped spinning for just a beat.
“The library.” You said, smiling softly. He thought you’d stop there, go back to tugging at your sleeves.
Boy, was he wrong.
“There’s a section, near the back but not in the restricted section, because I know we can’t go back there. A lot of old books no one ever reads are tucked back there. I don’t read them either, really. Mainly biographies of old magic folk who created very popular spells and whatnot, but I sit there a lot. By myself, mostly. I like my friends, I really like them, but I often sit there and not talk and read.” You rambled, talking quickly as if you were scared he might get up and walk off mid-monologue. “—so the books I do read are mainly thrillers these days. I wore out the romance section last year, but I hear they’re going to add to the collection soon! In the meantime, through, I’ve been reading ‘Following Ms. Brighton’ and—”
Cedric sat there in stunned silence, his eyes slowly filling with more and more adoration as you began to explain the entire plot of the book, chapter by chapter, thoroughly, to him. Admittedly, he’d never been the thrilled type, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t cling to your every word like there’d be a quiz on it later.
He didn’t notice that he was smiling until you told him the ending, wetting your lips as you realised you’d been rambling for nearly thirty minutes. “It sounds amazing,” he said softly, watching the way you averted your gaze, flustering. “Do you have it? Could I borrow it?” he continued, making you nearly gasp before you beamed, nodding furiously. “F’course! It’s great, I’m sure you’d like it! I think more people should give it a read, honestly,” you told him, picking at your sleeve.
His heart fluttered as a soft, breathy laugh left him. “Merlin, you’re sweet.” He mumbled, eyes soft with a type of fondness that merged into unadulterated adoration. Your smile softened at the compliment, looking at the fire. “You’re nice, too. Thanks for listening,” you murmured over the crackle of the hearth.
He simply nods, gazing at your side profile for a bit longer before catching himself and leaning back on the couch. “Yeah, ‘course. Anytime,” he meant it, he really did. There’s nothing he’d love to listen to more than your incessant ramblings about books and plots and portrayals of modern society. The sheer joy that filled your face at being able to talk about something you enjoyed would stay in his heart and his head for weeks.
The two of you sat in silence from thereon. Relaxing into the quiet of the warm common room. He liked it, being quiet with you. He knew you’d like it too, if he gathered anything about you; silence was your thing. You stared at the fire like it was whispering secrets in the form of smoke, and you wished to decipher it. He kept staring at you, tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your neck; every twitch your fingers made was noted in his mind, as a mental list of things you couldn’t control yet drove him crazy.
It stayed like that, the warm silence. Neither broke it; neither wanted to.
The past few weeks upcoming Yule ball felt different, fuller almost.
You’d seen Cedric around more often, practically every single day. Always getting a chance to sit with you in the evenings after classes, you even began waking up earlier just to be near him in the mornings.
Samantha and Shlok noticed, of course, they did. They didn’t react how you think they would, though. They didn’t blow it up or try to embarrass you, they’d just grin whenever you came back from hanging out with him. The lack of teasing helped you melt away the awkwardness, the nervousness.
Today was an exception. You hadn’t seen him at all.
Usually on Saturdays, he’s more visible, pulling his Quidditch team to practice in the mornings; you’d always catch sight of them. You didn’t today. Not at breakfast, nor during lunch.
It bothered you, a small bundle of nerves building in your lower belly. You squirmed your way through Hogsmeade, and now you were letting Samantha and Shlok ramble on and on about their Yule ball dates. You caught the gist of it. Something, something, twink. Something, something, muscles.
You were too busy worrying about Cedric. What if he were sick? Sad? He’d become part of your daily, his absence felt like a rift in the balance. A shift in the force. A disruption of your carefully crafted routine.
It didn’t take long till Shlok was tugging you up to pull you out of the dorm along with Sam as they decided to sneak out of the castle and sit in the courtyard. You let him without protest, too wrapped up in your own spiralling. You guessed they saw how intense you looked and decided fresh air and stars were just what the doctor ordered.
They tugged you along, through the quiet halls and past lingering prefects and professors till you reached the courtyard.
You heard them mumble something about getting snacks from the kitchen, making you sigh and walk over to the fountain in the middle of the stone courtyard, sitting at the edge in wait.
The sound of the wind and the silence made the biting cold in your face subside. You were dressed warmly this time, at least; drowning in a chunky grandpa sweater and the baggiest wool pants you could find. The sounds of winter were rudely interrupted by approaching footsteps, making you ruffle your hair a bit.
“Hey, Sam, you got me those pretzels I like, right—”
“Hi.”
Your head whipped around so fast you swore you heard your neck crack. You knew that voice. You hadn’t heard it all day.
And there that voice was, dressed in a rather hideous jumper and dark loose-fit jeans, a bouquet of flowers that thankfully weren’t roses in his hand, the other nervously running through his infuriatingly perfect hair.
His smile made something melt inside you; your bones felt liquid as you stood from where you sat at the fountain. “Cedric. Hi–hi.” you mumbled, completely bewildered. His grin both widened and softened and it did horrible things to your heart.
“Sorry for doing this in the snow. Out here.” He said softly, walking up to you, cheeks flushed because of the cold and the way your eyes were bugging out of their sockets in pure shock. The cogs in your head were turning incredibly slowly.
“I’m sorry, doing what?” You breathed as he took both your hands in his one, still holding the bouquet in the other. Your breathing suddenly turned manual as you looked up at him in the soft moonlit glow of the courtyard.
His eyes softened with something impossibly fond, looking at your awestruck expression. “You make me feel stupid sometimes, you know? My tongue feels like it stops working whenever you look at me like that. Like I’ve hung the stars.”
A soft breathless laugh left him and made your heart swell. He offered you the flowers; you took them. “You can say no,” he continued, tilting his head ever so slightly. “I won’t throw a fit, I swear. I know I’m a champion and it’ll be a lot of pressure to be my date because of the champion’s dance and—”
“Cedric.” “Right, right, right. Sorry.”
His cheeks flushed red, one hand still holding yours, the other stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. “I’d love it if you’d go to the Yule ball with me.” He whispered, eyes peering into yours with an intensity that, for once, didn’t overwhelm you. “Would you like to?”
Your chest felt fuzzy, blinking stupidly up at him like your brain hadn’t quite caught on before you gasped. “Oh, yeah! Yes, yeah!” You sputtered, lips widening into a wide grin as a soft squeal left you. You hopped up and down in joy before throwing your hands around his neck.
Cedric wrapped his arms around your waist, stuffing his face into your shoulder as he let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Fucking hell, you terrify me.” He breathed into your sweater, making you giggle.
Being around someone so social and extroverted made you feel like you were standing in direct, burning sunlight.
Summary: Your agonizing courtship and Cedric’s need to spite his ex are both ailments that have a very simple cure: a fake relationship, obviously.
⤷ [1] - [2] - in which the fake first date is nearly as agonizing as the courtship you're trying to avoid.
Requested: read the request here
Pairing: Cedric Diggory x fem!gryffindor!reader
Word Count: 4.6K
Tags: reader is rlly bad with feelings so instead she's mean and hates joy, grumpy x understated sunshine kind of, banter, banter, and more banter, some profanity probably, im a firm believer that cedric would love rage baiting people and reader is easily rage baited (sue me), cedric is a smug sarcastic shit sometimes but means well, he's also a yearner, slowburn, writing feels a little rusty to me it's been a while so apologies!!!
—
“It’s a fine line, that’s all I’ll say,” Jillian Sikorsky had quipped before turning back to her book, reading with an air of feigned nonchalance. You hadn’t heard the rustle of her pages turning in what must be twenty minutes now.
“Not now, please,” you grumbled under your breath, the faint sound of the scratching of your quill upon parchment produced without pause.
The Gryffindor common room was quiet at this time of night, with the occasional sounds coming only from the crackling fireplace or the soft purrs of Jillian’s cat sprawled across her lap. All of the upper-years had gone to bed early after the Quidditch game in preparation for their exams and most of the other fourth-years had elected to enjoy a night of partying and drinking in the other common rooms. Evidently, they weren’t too worried about the stark difference in workload in fourth year versus that in third year.
You, however, were and therefore, had instead elected to finish your essay and Jillian was renownedly “retired” from partaking in further partying after a bad experience with Firewhiskey the week prior. You knew, as much as anyone did, that this retirement wouldn’t last even a full fortnight.
“You have to admit…it is rather constant. Cedric this, Cedric that,” she tried again, running a hand over her cat’s tabby fur. “You’d be termed a stalker if you were any more obsessed with the guy.”
“It’s not an obsession.”
“Oh, yes, must be love then.“
You snap your head up at once.“I am not in love with Cedric Diggory.” Your tone is firm, leaving no room for questions. “Quite the opposite, actually—“
“Hm, nice try but the opposite of love is more akin to indifference. And you’re anything but indifferent to Cedric.”
“I just think he’s entitled. And arrogant. And annoying.” And he always knows what to say, and he looks at you like he can see through you, and he’s intelligent and—
Jillian only snorts as if you’ve proposed the most absurd idea to ever exist. “He’s none of those, as much as you’d like to make it out to be so.” After a while, she adds, “Maybe annoying, but all fourteen-year-old boys are, my mum says.”
You ignore her and continue writing with an erraticness that does no favours to your handwriting or the subsequent legibility of your essay.
Jillian continues. “I was reading this Muggle romance book the other day, you know—“
“You and your bloody Muggle romance novels.”
“It was by Jenny Austen, I believe…” She pronounces Austen as if it’s German. “Anyway, it was all about this girl who is mercilessly judgemental of this man’s character and faults him for his perceived arrogance when there is none—“
“I think you’d do well to write a book report, Jill, instead of narrating this to me.”
Jillian doesn’t do much to hide her exasperation. “It reminded me of you, idiot. It’s so painfully obvious that you like him but keep trying to dissuade yourself by making all these judgements. You try to hide your feelings by—borderline bullying him, but I can see it.”
“Then you’re delusional and should seek Madame Pompfrey’s assistance before this spirals into irremediable psychosis.”
“So much for Gryffindor courage, huh? You should just tell him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Mr. Darcy was. Finally, an end to all this tension—“
“There’s nothing to tell,” you stop writing to fix her a glare. “And who the hell is Mr. Darcy?”
She ignores the question and sighs dramatically, arms going above her head as if she was something Victorian herself. “I’m just saying. You know, it normally helps if you don’t hide your feelings under the guise of unrelenting hatred.”
“No,” you mumble. You dip your quill in ink and resume writing with such unyielding pressure that you puncture your parchment. “It—“
“—normally helps if you try to ignore them,” Cedric remarks lightly as he places the Chocolate Frog back on the mahogany shelf. A Bursting Bean pops free of its cardboard confines and whizzes past. Cedric dodges it with ease and swats it down with a careless flick of his hand before it hits you.
“I can’t bloody ignore them when they’re not even trying to be subtle about it,” came your response as you shot another gaggle of gossiping fourth years by the Peppermint Toads a dirty look, the shelf sinking its angular claws into your back as you leaned against it. Their eyes flit away diffidently, but not before one of them whispers something to the others, drawing an excited squeal out of all of them at once. “Whispering like we’re part of some stupid drama.”
“Aren’t we?” he asks, the words almost too casual, his eyes still scanning the shelves.
“Hilarious,” you reply, your voice dry. “Really funny.”
Cedric laughs, airy and effortless – soft enough to seem private but still melodious enough to draw curious eyes. Namely, a pack of Ravenclaw girls by the Sugary Quills, who’ve just whipped their heads towards the sound. If Cedric notices, he doesn’t seem to show it – his eyes still casually scanning the candies adorning the shelves as his hands rest in the warm solace of the pockets of his brown jacket.
“Stop laughing,” you instruct pointedly.
“Why? Is laughing out of the ordinary when someone’s on a date with you?” He muses, sparing you a quick amused glance.
“No,” you drawl. “Because it’s like a siren song to them.” You nod your head towards the herd of girls who are now shamelessly staring, giggles and abashed smiles concealed within the huddle they’ve formed by the Sweet Seaworms.
“That seems dramatic,” he tilts his head, unconvinced, ever the beacon of modesty. Though, you can tell by his small grin that he finds this ordeal deeply amusing.
And perhaps you would have, too, under different circumstances.
Honeydukes hums around you blithely, the small shop packed to the brim, as is typical of a Hogsmeade weekend. The air is warm and sickeningly sweet, offering a sugary balm from the bite of the chilling autumn air outside. The shelves groan under the weight of every saccharine indulgence, and you, too, feel the weight of something heavier: the relentless eyes, the whispers threading through the space like invisible threads that have seemed to etch a permanent scowl on your face.
It would be foolish to say you hadn’t expected this. After all, he was Cedric Diggory.
Everything about him was worthy of front-page news: the way his hair looked under the harsh glow of Potions class, his jokes in the courtyard that had first-years swooning, the way he’d led the Hufflepuff team to victory last weekend. But most recently, the headlines read like this: his sudden breakup with the lovely Evelyn Waters, and a curious new interest in a certain Gryffindor—someone he'd never even thought to call a friend until now.
And with much reluctance on your part (and to Jillian’s immense excitement—“bloody finally”), the newest gossip filling the stone halls of Hogwarts after this harrowing affair would be this: Cedric Diggory and you, out together. On a date, of sorts. A public one, at that. Of course, it wouldn’t be of much use if it weren’t. The objective of the whole arrangement was, after all, perfectly clear.
It had been discussed with all the meticulousness that can ordinately be mustered past midnight by two exhausted – both emotionally and physically – prefects just last week. You weren’t entirely certain what sort of demon had possessed your soul to try to help Diggory out with his romantic afflictions or who had so skillfully cast the Imperius curse on you that night to make you agree to being his fake girlfriend, but it had happened and the consequences, evidently, were as just as severe as the benefits were tempting.
Posturing as Cedric’s rebound would keep a persistent Trevor Selwyn away from you (and your lips, thank you very much), while Cedric would be able to make his ex-girlfriend, Evelyn Waters, jealous enough to overcome her fickle pride. There’d be no broken hearts after a year of dutiful courting on Selwyn’s part and Cedric wouldn’t have to use some unassuming girl as a pawn in some petty plan. A good plan, in theory.
However, you soon found out that the most ridiculous of ideas usually seem the most sensible in the dead of night.
“You really do think this will work, right?” Cedric asks again, his voice casual as his fingers drift over a box of Acid Pops on the shelf.
You join him with a sigh, finally tearing your scathing glare away from a group of third year Ravenclaws, idly scanning the label on a Cauldron Cake.
“In making Waters jealous? Yes. Do you think I’d be here if I thought it wouldn’t?”
He glances sidewards at you. “And in getting rid of Selwyn?”
“Still doubtful.”
He hums in response, abandoning the box of Acid Pops and stepping closer to you, opting for a Cauldron Cake, as well. Your shoulders brush in a way that feels too natural and you instinctively think to put a sea of space between the two of you. You turn your attention to the next shelf over, lined with Assorted Sours. Cedric glances at you again. “He didn’t take it well?”
“He didn’t take it at all, more like,” you huff. “Thought I was joking. Or lying, or something. I told you this wouldn’t be believable.”
The news had been bared to the ever-perceptive Selwyn a few days after the midnight agreement between you and Cedric. Granted, perhaps disclosing such disheartening news in the middle of his Quidditch monologue hadn’t been the most tasteful route to take. Still, his initial reaction only consisted of a snort of laughter, followed by a scowl and then, a tearful accusation of lying. He then likely traversed through the five stages of grief – though you left before things got too melodramatic.
Cedric leans against the shelf now, his broad shoulders pressing into the boards, biting into the Cauldron Cake as he watches you peruse the shop. “Perhaps it’d be a bit more believable if you didn’t act like I’ve got Dragon Pox everytime I come near you.”
Surprised, you look up at him, and he meets your gaze, his wry eyes glinting with curiosity. He had noticed. You’d moved away from him subtly, instinctively, and he noticed.
You exhale a breath that teeters on the edge of a laugh. “What, you want us to start snogging in front of the Jelly Slugs?”
Cedric’s ears tinge a faint red and he breathes a laugh of his own. “What a bold idea.”
You turn your face away from him and school it back into a scowl. “I’m not that desperate, Diggory.”
He shakes his head with a fond smile as he takes a bite of the Cauldron Cake. “It’s not like you to not take credit for your ingenious ideas, you know. You’re acting like I forced you to be here when it was your idea.”
“It’s hardly ingenious, considering it involves having to spend time with you.”
It’s impressive really, the swiftness with which you were able to come up with insults for the Hufflepuff boy. You’d likely attribute your aptitude for such to your all-encompassing rivalry but of course, others had other….fanciful ideas.
Jillian’s words rang in your ears only sometimes and when they did, you did well to push them back into whatever abhorrent abyss in your mind they had crawled out of. Feelings, you’d scoff. For Diggory? Please.
“Still, if my memory serves me right, this whole act was your suggestion,” Cedric takes another bite of his cake, surrendering all credit like he hadn’t been the one to chase you through the corridors to get you to agree to the plan, too. His smugness has never looked more punchable, you notice. Hexable, perhaps?
“My suggestion,” you turn to him, affronted, “never explicitly involved this. At all.”
“It involved a fake relationship. Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“Yes, but not with me.”
“It’s funny, I was under the impression that you didn’t want to court Selwyn the Poet.”
“I don’t,” you pick up a Chocolate Cockroach only to place it back onto the shelf two spots over. “But I also don’t want to pretend to be with you.” The words come a little sharper than you intended and Cedric’s amusement conveyed through a single raised brow only makes you more flustered.
Cedric had provided you with an opportunity as golden as his Hufflepuff robes and lustrous hair, and you knew it. If it had been anyone else who had offered you something as invaluable as getting to escape Selwyn’s clammy claws, you would’ve leaped with joy. But alas, it was him. It always seemed to be him, even at times you didn’t want it to be.
“The lesser of two evils, then,” Cedric offers dipolomatically.
You grumble under your breath. “This is what I get for trying to help…” Cedric almost laughs before he clears his throat when you shoot him a look.
“And now, I’m trying to help you,” he counters finally, his tone carrying lazy, exasperated amusement. “You want Selwyn to believe it and leave you alone? Be a little more convincing.”
“Selwyn isn’t even here.”
“News travels fast,” he gestures subtly to a group of Slytherins by the door who are talking in hushed tones and failing to hide their prying eyes. He flashes a quick smile at them before turning his attention back to you. “It might help if you try smiling. I hear people tend to do that on dates.”
“I am smiling.”
“No,” he says slowly, wordlessly offering you the last piece of the Cauldron Cake. An immensely domestic gesture, an olive branch. “You’re grimacing.”
Your eyes flick to the cake and then back up to his teasing grin. “I’m fine, thanks.”
He shrugs, easy and languid. “Suit yourself. I wouldn’t want to give up Selwyn’s midnight poetry either if I were you.”
You glare at him again as he fails to stifle his mischievous smile. He knew exactly what he was doing – and he was succeeding. The mere reminder of Selwyn and his inept poetry had made you shudder.
He was right, after all. You did stand to gain something from this, too. Plus, the sooner even those as cynical as Selwyn believed this little ruse, the sooner this would all be over. Evelyn would come crawling back into his stupidly toned arms and Selwyn’s pride will have suffered bruises that will have rendered him incapable of trying to crawl back to you. You would no longer have to stand so close to Cedric that you can smell his cologne or feel the undeniable warmth radiating from his body. And that’d be a good thing. A great thing, even.
You begrudgingly step closer to him, taking the last piece of the Cauldron Cake and plastering a painfully rehearsed smile on your face. “Happy?”
“Very much so, yes.” His voice dances with the satisfaction of someone who has won, but it doesn’t last long.
Before the words can settle, his gaze flicks past you, locking onto something behind you like a piece of lace getting caught on a shard of glass. His jaw tenses slightly, almost impercitible to the untrained eye. But you’d studied this face, this boy, albeit begrudingly. You’d turn back to assess it for signs of frustration after correcting him in Potions, after besting him in Transfiguration, after every skillful manuever on your broom as you two chased the snitch on the Quidditch field.
The realization hits you before you turn.
You hear Evelyn’s laughter before you lay your eyes on the Ravenclaw girl, tangerine scarf drawn tightly around her neck, fair skin tinted the slightest shade of rosey from the cold outside, and her arm entwined with Avery’s. She talks animatedly with the Slytherin boy beside her as the bell overhead the door to the shop announces their entrance, a sound usually as pleasant as any other turned dull as Cedric stands a little straighter.
Her smile falters, though, when her eyes land on you and Cedric in the far corner of the shop. She eyes both of you curiously, as if she’s actively trying to solve an impossible puzzle, some riddle that evades all sense. Satisfaction flutters in your chest, along with something else you don’t care much to name. This whole ruse will work for one of you, at least. All it took to make Evelyn pause was one glance in your direction. If you laid it on even thicker… how quickly would she crack? How soon could you be rid of Cedric and this sordid drama? You look back at Cedric with newfound determination.
“She’s still looking?” You ask as you watch his eyes follow her around the shop with poorly concealed interest.
He sputters, as if jostled from a trance. “Uh– yeah.”
“Tell me a joke.”
He looks at you in confusion. “What?”
“Just– try to say something funny.”
“Alright– um–” he blinks, but Evelyn’s presence has rendered him unable to think.
Without warning, a laugh erupts from you. Admittedly, the sound isn’t quite as alluring as Evelyn’s laugh, soft notes that floated around the shop in an enticing dance. No, yours is more awkward, more forceful – an almost gruff sound that erupts directly from your chest. It even surprises you at first. Notably, it surprises Cedric even more.
His confusion only lasts a few palpable moments as heads turn, before it’s replaced with genuine laughter. His eyes crinkle in the corners as he fails to smother his amusement at your attempt at a staged laugh, his soft chuckles cutting through the tension in the air with canorous ease. For a moment, the weight of the eyes and the whispers around you disappears. You join with a soft laugh of your own at the absurdity of the situation – for real this time.
“Alright, stop laughing,” you chastise him, completely devoid of any bite this time.
“I think you’re the one who ought to do that,” he teases. “You scared her off with that siren song of yours.”
Your unabashed grin only grows when you turn to see no trace of Evelyn in the shop. She must have left amidst the laughing. So, it really was that easy. Get Evelyn to crack and you’re free. A light at the end of the tunnel, surely.“I told you making her jealous would work.”
He hums in agreement as he grabs a few more Cauldron Cakes, mood evidently lifted. “Oh, now you want to take credit?”
“Shut up.”
“Come on, songbird,” he calls, his hand lightly brushing your arm to lead you out of the shop. “I hear Butterbeer is especially soothing for the vocal cords.”
You nudge him through the exit of the shop with a scoff. You’re not sure if the flush on your cheeks is from the chill of the air outside or the subsequent sound of his laughter.
__
Before you’ve even settled into the booth, Cedric has taken it upon himself to stride over to the bar to order. He comes back with two Butterbeers floating in tow. The pub flickers in the lazy candlelight behind him on a gloomy day such as this one, the air imbued with the warm and familiar scent of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon. The table underneath your arm is sticky with past residue of addling concoctions and sweet beverages prepared by the lovely Madame Rosemarta, who is currently milling around the pub to attend to seemingly the entire student body of Hogwarts.
“A thanks will do just fine,” he says as he slides in opposite you and shrugs his jacket off. The warmth really is all-encompassing inside The Three Broomsticks despite the chill outside. You soon shrug yours off, too.
You take a sip, letting the sweet foam dissolve on your tongue. “After what I just did for you back at Honeydukes? I think we’re even.”
“You mean scare half the customers inside?”
You lick the cream off your top lip and set your glass down with a clumsiness that is usually uncharacteristic. “Maybe I wouldn’t have had to belch a laugh out if you could be funny for even just a moment.”
“See, that carries the implication that your real laugh is any better.”
You fight a smile. You lose spectacularly. “See, now that was a little funny. Good job, Diggory.”
“Learning from the best,” he muses. He takes a sip before he adds, unsure and determined at once. “So, what exactly… are we expecting to happen? Like–am I meant to talk to her at supper tonight?”
“No,” you say sharply. “Do not. You let her come to you.”
He frowns as he takes a sip of his own Butterbeer, leaning back against the booth. You’ve learned that he likes to fidget when he’s nervous. “What if she doesn’t?”
“Do you always admit defeat this easily? She will, Diggory.”
“Right, but what if…?”
You let out an exasperated sigh. “You have to stop the pining if you want this to work.”
“I wasn’t pining,” he refutes with a slight flush to his cheeks.
“You were,” you take a sip. “Just stop looking like a kicked puppy anytime she’s near and half the work is already done for you by all the gossip. It helps that people care more for your love life than they do about their class syllabus at this school.”
He’s quick to deny the charge. “Hardly true.”
“We’re sitting in a corner of this pub so dark that I can barely see you and I can still count about a dozen pairs of eyes trailing you.”
He shrugs, his hand uselessly tapping against his Butterbeer. “Maybe they’re looking at you.”
Your eyes linger on him incredulously. You do have to applaud the humble act, you think. It’s one thing to be irked by someone’s arrogance. How the hell do you justify being annoyed at someone’s apparent lack thereof?
Of course, you know better. It’s all an act. It has to be.
You take another sip, brush off imaginary crumbs off the table. “They’re not. Would you like to know what I hate most about you?”
He hides his small, amused smile in his Butterbeer at the abrupt change in tone as he sips. “Hm, tempting offer. I’ll accept only if you tell me what you hate least afterwards.”
You ignore his request as you lean forward across the table. “Your performative modesty. It’s hilarious, really.”
“I must say, I was expecting something much harsher.”
“Butterbeer softens me up sometimes.”
“I suspected as much. So, you’d rather I gloat more?”
You hum. “I’d rather you gloat openly. You needn’t pretend to be so humble. I might respect you more for it. Maybe your worshippers will, too. What they see in you in the first place, I’m not too sure, though.”
“Ah, the short-lived effects of the softening Butterbeer, you’ll be missed,” he purses his lips as he studies you for a moment. “Would you like to know what I like least about you?”
You make a sound of protest into your cup. “It’s ‘hate most’, not ‘like least’.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. ‘Like least’ is too cordial. We’re not there yet.”
“Oh no, the cardinal sin of cordiality,” he rolls his eyes in jest. “In any case, I’d like to stick with ‘like least’.”
“Of course you would. Enlighten me then, please.” You rest your face on your hand, propped up on the table in silent challenge. You study his face without meaning to, half illuminated by the golden sconce mounted on the wall beside his head: the faintly flushed cheeks that carry a pink hue no matter the temperature, the golden-brown eyes that glow with warmth and a glint of mischief.
“Your performative disdain for me.”
You take a sip and put your Butterbeer down. Your throat feels a lot tighter. “Presumptuous."
“I just think it’s perceptive, really.”
You narrow your eyes. Damn him and his perceptiveness. “And what about my disdain do you find performative?”
“Everything.”
“Quite precise, you are, Diggory.”
He laughs. “You’ve always done this thing–” He shifts as he leans forward as if he’s disclosing a Ministry secret. “This thing where you always act like you’re angry with me. Like you can’t stand me. Like you –”
“Like I hate you?” you supply.
“Yes, that. Very helpful, thank you.”
“No problem.”
He pauses for a beat, studying you wryly. “Considering I haven’t done anything to warrant it, I think it’s an act.”
That makes you pause. You sit up straighter, your breathing quickening the slightest bit. “Careful, Diggory, your performative modesty is slipping. Not everyone’s in love with you.”
He hums playfully. “Not what I’m suggesting. I’m not arrogant enough to believe I’ll be the object of your affections in this lifetime, don’t worry.”
Oh.
“What are you suggesting then?”
“Just that… I don’t quite understand why you pretend to hate me so much.”
“Ah, one fake date and now you think everything is pretend?”
He laughs. “No. I just think we’d be quite good friends, you know. If you dropped the act.”
“There’s no act.” Your thoughts catch on his use of friends.
“If you really hated me, you wouldn’t be here at all, helping me.”
“A necessary evil for my own good, as I’ve already stated.”
“I thought I was the lesser evil? Now I’m necessary? Flattered, truly.”
To fill the silence that follows, you take another sip of your Butterbeer. You have nothing to add because there is nothing to add. You are helping him. You agreed to this ploy, and now you’re following through.
It’s like he can see your thoughts whizz about in your mind. He grins, victorious.
“You’re insufferable. Truly.”
“Careful, we’re supposed to be on a date.”
“Careful, you’re about to be jinxed–”
“Surely, it’s not the same one you’re planning on using on Selwyn, is it? Because if so, I highly doubt that it’ll make front page news when you do use it on him–”
You decide casting a jinx via the means of magic would be doing him a kindness he doesn’t quite deserve and instead, lean over the table to hit him squarely on his arm. He laughs as he dodges it. Evidently, this makes quite the commotion – several eyes are trained pointedly at the pair of you when you finally sit back down with a quiet laugh of your own.
There’s a lull in the conversation as you both finish your drinks. Cedric breaks the silence tentatively, brows furrowed as they often are when he’s concentrating. “So, we just keep… hanging out? Talking? Shall I prepare some jokes for next time?”
You roll your eyes but nod, serious despite the show of annoyance. “Judging by today, that should do the trick. Hopefully, Selwyn will hear and be humiliated enough to have some self-respect, at last. And as for you, you’ll have your girlfriend back by the end of the week, Diggory.”
He hums thoughtfully.
You tap your empty glass. Just a week, you repeat to yourself. And then, all would be right in the world.
Cedric, however, did not have his girlfriend back by the end of the week. All was not right in the world.
Hogwarts had gained thrice as many students by the next Friday. The Durmstrang boys and the Beauxbatons girls had arrived, and with them, they’d brought the promise of something messier.
Alas, all would not be right in your world for a long, long time.
A/N: AND IT BEGINSSSSS YAY. I have so many ideas for this fics and I’m sooo excited. Also, I apologize profusely for such late updates. At the end of the day, I am a college student and finding time to write is very, very rare. Nonetheless, I appreciate all the love<333.
Part 3 coming soon! Lmk your thoughts for this one in the meantime!!!
Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me
⋆ pairing : cedric diggory x fem!reader
⋆ summary : you were hogwarts’ golden couple — both quidditch captains, both prefects, both hopelessly in love. until your family forced you to break his heart. a year later, the feelings are still there, stronger than ever, but so are the rumours about cho chang. when cedric is chosen as hogwarts’ champion, you finally speak to him again. not to win him back… just to help him survive.
⋆ wc : 4.9k
⋆ second chance romance, golden couple, aching to touch him / her
The first time she saw Cedric Diggory, they were only third years, barely fourteen, and it was raining. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it? Well, it wasn’t. She was in the middle of Quidditch practice, the rain was so heavy she could barely see, and that led her to crash into one of her teammates. He managed to cling to his broom; but she didn’t. She plummeted straight into the mud, crashing hard into the pitch. Every inch of her hurt, and when she opened her eyes after the fall, a boy with storm-grey eyes was crouched beside her, worry etched across his face.
“Are you alright?”
The only thing she managed in response was a groan.
“That was quite a fall, we should get you to Madam Pomfrey.”
She soon noticed that the entire Hufflepuff team had gathered around her, curious and concerned. Anyone could have stepped forward. But Cedric moved first. And because of that, one of the most fated love stories Hogwarts had ever seen truly began.
By the time they were sixteen, they were two of the school’s most outstanding students. Prefects, Quidditch captains, always at the top of their class. They were bright, determined, and the kind of couple people rolled their eyes and say “of course they’re together”. The golden students, everyone called them. But no one truly knew them.
No one saw the way she braided his hair when she was anxious about an exam, or how he kissed both her cheeks every morning at breakfast. They didn’t know about the silly good-luck handshake they had before every match, or the way they spoke for hours about their fears of failure, their doubts, their dreams — and how, with each other, none of it felt too heavy to carry. They weren’t just a couple, they were best friends, and they weren’t perfect. But they were safe, and in a world that demanded so much of them both, that was more than enough. For a time, it felt like it would last forever. They were always together. Truly in love.
Until they couldn’t be anymore.
Her family didn’t see love — they saw distraction. She still remembers that letter, and the threats written in it. They made it clear: people with her surname were expected to aim higher, to protect the family name, to never let some teenage boy soften her ambition. They called it a phase and a brief, foolish distraction. They gave her a choice, but it never felt like a choice. Not with the promises they made… not with the consequences they vowed would follow if she disobeyed, and she, ever the people-pleaser, did as they asked. She broke up with him.
It wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t clean. Her, sobbing in the owlery at midnight, unable to form a sentence. Cedric, heartbroken, begging her to explain. She was too shattered to hold her composure, especially not when she saw the agony in the boy she loved. And when that single tear slipped down his cheek, the only thing that left her lips was, “I’m sorry.” Then she ran, because she knew she wouldn’t survive it if she saw him cry because of her.
It didn’t go unnoticed either. The next day, she didn’t sit beside him at the Hufflepuff table, her eyes were puffy, and Cedric didn’t speak with anyone for nearly two weeks. The rumours flew, ridiculous as always: cheating, competition, and even falling out of love. All of them wrong.
That was nearly a year ago.
She spent the months since pretending it didn’t matter. Her marks stayed exceptional, her Quidditch team soared, and her family couldn’t have been prouder. But nothing filled the void.
She avoided Cedric at all costs. Dodged him in corridors, woke early to skip him at breakfast, sat at the opposite end of every shared class. She was trying so hard to convince herself that it was for the best.
But the feelings didn’t fade. They simply buried themselves deep, and recently, they’ve been clawing their way back up, thanks to the castle’s favourite subject of gossip.
“Did you see him? With Cho Chang. Heard someone say she watched him practise yesterday… and they went to Hogsmeade after. You don’t think—?”
She tries to brush it off, because they’re not together and they haven’t been for nearly a year. He’s allowed to move on, but it still hurts every time she hears his name, because no one has ever made her feel something that real. She swore she’d never speak to him again — for both their sakes, and she kept her word.
Until the Goblet of Fire changed everything.
His name is called, he’s been chosen as Hogwarts Champion for the Triwizard Tournament, and her world becomes blurry. It echoed in her ears, followed by the cheers, the applause, and she blinks, trying to understand what’s about to happen. Everyone stood up around her, jubilant. She stayed seated, feeling her heart beat as fast as if it’s going to pop out of her chest. He walked forward, proud, smiling, and then, for the briefest of moments, his eyes met hers. She doesn’t know what he saw in her expression, because she doesn’t even know what she was feeling — but her hands trembled and her chest ached, so she just looked away.
The next morning, she went to the owlery, ready to send yet another glowing academic update to her family, but just as she stepped inside, something knocked into her, and she slipped. She landed hard on the stone floor. Looked up — and there he was, just like the very first time.
“Are you alright?”
His face was flooded with concern, like that day in the rain, on the Quidditch pitch. She nodded, but her throat closed up, then he offered his hand, so she took it, and when she stood, she made sure to avoid his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Didn’t see you coming.”
“No worries,” she murmured.
The silence that followed was far from comfortable. She felt his eyes on her, pleading silently for her to meet them. The tension increases, and she doesn’t know how to act, suddenly she even forgets how to use her hands, and the letter she was holding slipped to the floor. She hurries to grab it, but he does the same, so their heads collided with a painful thunk.
“Sorry!”
“Sorry!”
They both laughed. For the first time in months, she saw his smile, and it was for her. She felt like her heart could explode right there.
“Congratulations,” she said. “For being chosen.”
“Thanks. Didn’t think it’d be me.”
Another silence threatened to form, but she broke it with a question she was eager to ask.
“Are you scared?” His eyes told her everything, but still, he answered.
“Yes.” Then, after a moment… “Are you?”
The question caught her off-guard. She couldn’t answer, it felt like her voice was stuck in her throat. So she lets her eyes speak for her.
“I’ll be alright,” he said gently, trying to reassure her.
“I don’t know. No one really knows what these tasks will be, I’ve been reading about the Tournament and there’ve been deaths, Cedric. Once, the task involved a basilisk. Do you even know what you’ve gotten yourself into?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I’d actually be chosen. But you’ve done your research — why?”
Because the moment she heard he’d put his name in the Goblet, her heart dropped, and even if she prayed he wouldn’t be chosen, her mind prepared itself for the worst. She had to.
“Curiosity.”
“You do know you were always a terrible liar, do you?”
Ever since that encounter in the owlery, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. His eyes, his smile, the way he admitted with complete honesty that he was afraid. It had felt like maybe, just maybe, not everything between them had been completely shattered.
A couple days later, she decided she would just carry on, with no distractions. It was for the best, but when she entered entered into the library and saw him sitting alone at a table, reading a massive tome on magical creatures, she couldn’t help but approach.
“That book’s outdated… look at the year,” she whispered. “They reclassified some of the creatures a few years ago. I’ve seen a more complete version somewhere in here. Green cover, gold edges, and a wampus on the front”.
“Thanks,” he said glancing up at her, a flicker of surprise on his face. “Would you help me find it?”
She knew she shouldn’t, because if anyone saw them together, the rumours would surely start to fly around. But it was late, the library was nearly empty, and they could always find a table hidden in some forgotten corner. So she nodded, and together they walked in search of the book.
They spent the evening writing down potential beasts Cedric might have to face as part of the Tournament. The library was already empty, and the silence between them would only break whenever they came across a promising creature, however, the tension between them was ever present. And that’s how it all began.
It became a quiet habit; studying together for hours, long after everyone else had gone back to their dormitories, surrounded by books and floating lanterns, Cedric’s scent lingering in her senses despite the respectable distance between them. She was only helping him prepare, or at least she wanted to convince herself that it was only that, because every time she caught him watching her, a knot formed in her throat, or when their knees brushed under the table, it felt like a jolt of electricity ran through her entire body.
Being near him made her feel calm, but also on edge. She longed to touch him again — to hold his hand, run her fingers through that soft chestnut hair, or feel the warmth of one of his hugs. Now, more than ever, it was impossible to keep those feelings buried, and the curiosity of not knowing if he was feeling the same way was just killing her slowly.
“Why are you really helping me?” He asked one evening, out of nowhere. She avoided his gaze, and closed the book in front of her. “You don’t owe me anything, and it’s not like your family would approve.”
She looked at him, and for a moment, she lost herself in the candlelight reflecting in his eyes and the perfect curve of his jaw.
“They won’t find out, and if they do, I’ll say I was just studying.”
“Well, technically you are. But that’s not answering my question.”
She sighed, and then let the truth slip from her lips.
“I never stopped caring, Ced. I want you to survive this.”
Their eyes didn’t part for a single second after that, and the smile he gave her in response made her heart feel warm. He dropped the quill in his hand, then slowly reached out, lacing his fingers with hers, gently and carefully, as though the touch itself might burn them both. She held his hand tightly, and wished she’d never have to let him go again.
The first task was only a week away, and their study sessions had become more intense than ever, but between books and scrolls, they began to give in to the pull between them more and more. They sat closer each time, held hands beneath the table, and Cedric made sure to kiss her cheek every time they said goodbye. Sometimes, when she managed to make him laugh loud enough for the librarian to hush them, the sound of his laughter stayed with her for the rest of the week. And sometimes, when she rested her head on Cedric’s shoulder, he made sure not to move an inch so she could stay there for as long as possible—just long enough for him to memorise the feel of her hair brushing against his cheek.
Despite that, they didn’t speak during the day. She had to be cautious, had to keep it secret, otherwise, her family would find out, and once again everything would come crumbling down. Cedric understood, so when she saw him in the corridors, he merely offered her a soft smile, though deep down she longed to run to him, to hold him, maybe even kiss him.
That evening, Cedric had asked her to meet him later than usual in the Restricted Section of the library. Apparently, Professor Sprout had secured them special permission to access books with more detailed information. When she arrived, Cedric was leaning against a wall, reading a thick volume on dragons.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” When he looked up, she noticed something had shifted in him. “Come on, let’s go in.”
He opened the door to the Restricted Section, let her in first, and closed it behind them. He muttered a simple “Follow me,” and strode quickly towards a specific set of shelves.
“Ced…” she called out, slightly uneasy. He seemed rushed.
“Dragons,” he whispered. “The first task is dragons.”
Her heart dropped. Her lips parted, and her expression turned visibly shaken.
“What…?”
“Harry told me. Apparently he saw them. But I’m not sure if we’re supposed to run from them, trick them, or…”
“They can’t expect you to fight a bloody dragon. That’d be mad if that’s what they’re asking.”
“If that’s what they want, I need to be ready. Ready for anything, to distract, confuse, defeat… I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve never even seen a dragon in real life, and I’ve spent the whole day reading stupid dragon books, trying to stay calm, but I can’t—I can’t deal with a bloody dragon. This was a foolish decision, I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t…”
He was rifling through all the books in the section when she noticed his breathing start to sound ragged. The words stopped leaving his lips, and his body began to tremble, so she quickly grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to face her, just so their eyes could meet.
“Ced, breathe. Just breathe. I’m here. You’re okay, and you will be okay,” she said, cupping his face gently. “Look at me—everything’s going to be fine, alright?”
Cedric blinked rapidly, trying to regain control. He sank to the floor, and she followed without hesitation. Sitting face to face, she took his hands in hers and didn’t let go. His skin was ice cold.
“I’ll help you survive this, we’ll find the perfect way for you to face the task,” she whispered, watching him carefully as he worked to calm his breath again. “I’m not going to lose you. Not again.”
At that moment, Cedric looked up, and the moment their eyes met, she felt her heart pound violently in her chest. His gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips, and slowly, he let go of one of her hands and placed it delicately on her cheek, drawing closer to her face. She, too, leaned in, struggling to contain the fire that had ignited inside her. Now her breathing was as uneven as his had been only seconds before.
Their foreheads brushed, and Cedric tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, as if trying to see her better, to memorise every part of this moment. Their noses touched, and their lips were so close they could feel the warmth of the other’s breath, but neither dared close the distance. She didn’t, because she knew if she kissed him, she wouldn’t be able to stop. He didn’t, because he wasn’t sure if it was truly what she wanted.
Cedric closed his eyes, and just as he was about to erase the space between them, she pulled away. Only slightly. Just enough to stop the kiss.
“I can’t, Ced…”
“I know,” he answered, quietly, resigned, exhausted, his desire contained and unspoken.
He let go of her face, but wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her into him, in an embrace that said all the words they wouldn’t speak.
“Thank you for helping me. Even with everything… thank you for not letting me go through this alone.”
She smiled and hugged him tightly in return.
“It would’ve broken my heart to know you were going through this on your own.”
Cedric said nothing. He simply held her in his arms, wishing this moment could last forever. And when he finally let go, she felt the cold return instantly—like being caught under winter snow with no cloak to protect her.
“We should keep searching,” she said softly.
“Yes. Right…”
They continued searching for information about dragons, but after that closeness… neither of them could truly concentrate.
There was less than a day left before the First Task, and she knew Cedric couldn’t be more ready for it. When night fell, she felt strange realising that Cedric no longer waited for her in the library, and that they probably wouldn’t speak again until they found out what the Second Task was about. She planned to go to bed early, but during dinner she overheard murmurs from people saying no one could find Cedric to wish him luck. Not even Cho Chang had been able to see him. So she immediately knew where he was.
The night was clear, which was rare for late November, and though it was cold, the wind blew very softly. She gripped her broom tightly, and when she stepped into the Quidditch pitch, she saw him in the distance, flying higher than usual. She mounted her broom and flew until she found him face to face.
“You’re not trying to get yourself killed before the task, are you?” she said, hoping to make him laugh. He looked at her and gave her a soft smile, then continued to look up at the sky, as if he might find answers there. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, everyone’s looking for you to wish you luck.”
“I wanted to clear my head, get away from everything.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll go then,” she said still playfully, and he responded with a soft laugh.
“Away from everything, except you… because I knew you’d find me,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “I still remember the first time we met, right here.”
“I remember the pain… and the mud,” they both laughed, nostalgic.
“We should go down,” he said.
She followed him to one of the stands. Once there, they left their brooms aside and sat facing each other, their knees brushing.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like myself than when I was with you.”
“You’re with me now,” she replied, trying to keep the playful tone.
“You know what I mean.” When Cedric looked at her with a serious expression, she knew it was time to stop joking. “I felt like I could do anything if you were by my side. I’ve missed this, all this time. Not just your help — you.”
She wasn’t prepared to hear that. Her heart stopped for a second, and she could feel all those repressed feelings taking over.
“I thought you’d moved on. Everyone says you and Cho…”
“No one really knows what’s going on. She’s kind and sweet to me, and I like her, just not in that specific way, simply because she’s not…”
His eyes met hers. That left her with an expression of confusion, though she knew exactly what he meant to say. Cho wasn’t her.
“Are you scared?” she asked. It was the only thing she managed to say.
“Yes, but not because of the task. I’m scared I won’t see you again.”
She felt something crack in her chest.
“Shut up, Cedric, don’t say that,” she whispered in pain. “Don’t be stupid, don’t say that, please… I already told you I’m not losing you again.”
Without even realising, she leaned towards him and held him by the shoulders. It was an impulse; the tears clouded not only her sight but her mind too. Feeling her so close, Cedric held her by the waist, pulling her gently towards him unconsciously.
“If I don’t make it through the task…”
“Shut up. You will make it. You’re Cedric freaking Diggory, the Goblet chose you for a reason. I know you’ll get through this alive, and you better, because I believe in you.”
“And that’s all I need,” he whispered, and his voice sounded like it was hanging by a thread.
She didn’t answer, just looked at him, a few silent tears rolling down her cheeks — tears Cedric made sure to wipe away. And with that, everything inside her changed completely. After months of wanting to hold him, wanting to touch him, wanting to feel like she was his again even just for a moment… she had the chance for all of it and more. They were getting closer and closer, and the freezing night began to feel warmer. When they were only inches apart, she could swear Cedric could hear her heart beating. He didn’t let go of her waist for a second, and after sharing a look heavy with emotion, she held Cedric by the neck, beginning to close the gap between them.
When their noses brushed, she made sure to be fully present in that moment she’d dreamed about so often. He leaned in, and their lips touched with hesitation, as if still asking for permission — but she made sure he knew he didn’t need it.
It was a soft kiss at first, sweet, as if they were trying to remember how to kiss each other. And once they found the rhythm, something exploded between them; months of silence, pent-up desire, pain, and repressed love. It all surfaced like a crashing wave. The kiss grew deeper, more intense, even desperate, as if they were both afraid that separating would make it all disappear. But it wouldn’t. They were there, nearly burning with longing.
Cedric slid a hand under her jumper, pulling her closer to him with urgent need, and she just kept her hands to his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. When Cedric finally moved both hands down her back, she had no choice but to sit on his lap, her legs astride him. She clung to his shirt, pulling him as close as possible, and she increased the kiss’s intensity when he rested his hands on her bum.
Their lips locked fiercely, their bodies drawn like magnets, and Cedric’s warmth clashed violently with the cold night air — yet she didn’t shiver, but only because he was there, because she was finally feeling him again. So hot, so desperate, just for her.
Cedric moaned softly against her lips when she rocked her hips hard against him, prompting her to bite his lip gently, telling him to stay quiet. She was losing control — the sweet, devoted girl vanished from her body, and in her place was someone full of desire and love for a boy. She began to leave kisses along his neck, and just when she was about to unbutton his trousers, a noise on the pitch stopped them.
Immediately, they ducked down, hiding behind the railing and trying to avoid being seen by whoever might be out there. But they saw nothing, so it remained a mystery — and a supremely annoying interruption. After catching their breath, they exchanged a look of disbelief, then smiled at the same time. She didn’t hesitate to throw herself at him in a hug. He held her by the waist, and they shared a laugh of pure happiness.
“I’ve been waiting for months…” she tried to say, but he interrupted her with a tender kiss.
“I know,” he replied, caressing her face gently and giving her a small smile. “I don’t want to lose this.”
They fell silent for a moment, wrapped in the soft breeze and the starlight. No one else in this school, or the entire world, knew what had just happened, and no one else ever would. This had been a moment for the two of them, and no one else.
“If you promise me you’ll survive the tournament, I promise you’ll never lose me again.”
“I promise I’ll make it out of this tournament alive,” he said, certain and sincere, looking at her in the eyes.
“Then I’ll make sure I never leave your side again.”
Even though it hadn’t been her name drawn from the Goblet, her stomach had been twisting with nerves since the moment she’d woken up. She had never felt fear like this before; her mind wouldn’t stop conjuring up the worst scenarios, and not even Cedric’s words could soothe her now.
Since the morning, she hadn’t been able to clear her thoughts. She knew Cedric was prepared, because they’d read every single book that might be useful, practised spell after spell, again and again. But that didn’t change the reality: in just a few minutes, Cedric would be standing in front of a real dragon, trying to steal a bloody golden egg, and there was absolutely nothing she could do but watch and try not to faint.
The stadium roared with cheers; everyone else seemed so excited they might burst. But not her, she was so worried she thought she might die.
She didn’t take her eyes off the entrance to the field. Any moment now, Cedric would appear, and when he finally did, the world slowed down. Her golden boy stepped into the arena with his head held high, gripping his wand tightly, ready to complete the task. Almost at the same time, the dragon was released — a Swedish Short-Snout. She recognised it by the silver-blue scales and the frantic, azure flames it spat into the air.
She gripped the railing tightly, praying Cedric would find a way to beat the creature quickly. As soon as the dragon spotted him, it rushed to attack him, without hesitation, and a scream tore from her throat before she even realised.
“Run, Ced! Come on, you can do this!”
Ten agonising minutes passed as Cedric tried to figure out a way to outsmart the beast. Ten minutes of ducking, dodging, hiding. Her heart was pounding, palms slick with sweat, her voice barely audible. Fear had taken hold of her body, and she was sure that if Cedric didn’t grab the stupid egg soon, she was going to break down and cry from sheer panic.
Then, he started to run — leaping over rocks, rolling away from jets of fire that nearly caught him. And when he reached a far corner of the field, he finally acted.
From there, he transfigured a massive rock into a dog on the opposite side of the arena. The dragon took the bait immediately, bolting after the illusion. Cedric seized the chance and dashed for the egg. When he finally had it in his hands, he held it up high and sprinted towards the exit, desperate to escape the nightmare.
But just as he was about to reach it, the dragon released a stream of blue fire in his direction. When the flames died down, the entire stadium saw it — the side of his face, glowing red-hot with a vicious burn.
In that moment, she wished she knew exactly how to heal that kind of injury, to erase every ounce of pain he might be feeling. And when she finally saw him make it out of the arena, the crowd exploded into cheers.
He’d done it. And she could finally breathe again.
The instant she saw him pass through the gates, she ran straight for the medical tent, desperate to see with her own eyes — to feel with her own hands — that he was still alive. But just as she was about to enter, she saw Cho Chang slip inside first. Of course. She’d forgotten.
Something inside her twisted, but there was nothing she could do about it. So she simply turned around and made her way back to the stands to watch the other champions.
She barely registered the rest of the task. All she could think about was hugging Cedric, congratulating him… maybe even kissing him out of sheer joy.
Once Harry Potter had secured his golden egg, the stands began to empty. Down below, a crowd had gathered outside the tent to wait for the champions. She joined them, just to be there when Cedric came out.
And when he did, she started clapping, cheering his name.
“Cedric, show us the trophy!” Some shouted, but he didn’t seem to hear them. He stood there, completely still, scanning the crowd.
And when his eyes found hers, he didn’t hesitate. He moved toward her with a huge smile on his face. Her heart started to race, and she thought she might burst when Cedric ignored everyone else, just to get to her.
Where’s the trophy? She hadn’t the faintest idea, because what mattered in that moment was that he just came running to her.
When he reached her, Cedric bent down, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her off the ground. She didn’t even have time to react, because all he wanted to do was kiss her, right there, in front of everyone.
And he did.
He kissed her, sweetly and tenderly, a grin tugging at his lips between each brush of their mouths. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him even closer. Cedric rested his forehead against hers, still smiling. His lips were hot, his skin marked by the dragon’s fire, and his eyes… his is eyes shone like she was the only thing he’d won that day.
And there they stood, in the middle of roaring cheers and celebration, with half of Hogwarts watching — but everything else melted away.
It was just them, holding each other in the middle of the chaos, like the world had stopped… just, and only for them.
summary: as hermione's new friend, you and harry are constantly bugging each other any time you're together. however, one day, during training for dumbledore's army, you get injured, causing harry to lash out before promptly carrying you to the infirmary.
word count: 2k
cw: mentions of blood, mostly just fluff, maybe slight angst if you squint hard enough
a/n: yet another lil sfw blurb i wrote between requests <3 hope yall don't mind, might do a part 2 if anyone wants it!
"does she always have to be invited to everything?" harry groans, nodding towards you as you continue trying to steal his scarf. you're both following behind ron and hermione through the snow on the way to hagrid's hut for tea. hermione laughs in response along with you. "yes, she does. it's nice having another girl around." she tells harry, giving you a shy smile. you return the same smile, reaching over to successfully steal harry's scarf from him. "yep, you're stuck with me, potter," you tease him, wrapping the scarf around yourself.
harry rolls his eyes, stealing the scarf back from you. "well, can't you ever bother hermione? your actual friend? or ron? why is it always me?" harry complained as he dodged another attempt at you taking his scarf. "they're not as fun to mess with," you whine, crossing your arms. hermione giggles, giving ron a knowing side-eye that he returns.
you narrow your eyes at their exchange. "what?" you ask them. hermione looks over her shoulder at you with the same smug expression before turning away and giggling again. "hermione," you warn her, uncrossing your arms. she just keeps laughing, only making you more suspicious. "nothing, [y/n]," she tells you sarcastically, shaking her head.
"yeah, mind your business, [y/n]," harry interjects. he flinches when you turn to look at him, making you laugh. "yeah, that's what i thought, potter," you say triumphantly, reaching for his scarf once more.
"seriously?" you ask harry as he takes yet another piece of food off your plate. he's holding back a laugh as he quickly eats it, giving you a devious look. "i asked if you were hungry and you said no! now keep your grubby fingers off my plate," you playfully scold him, pulling your plate closer to you. ron and hermione laugh, giving each other that same knowing look.
"oh i'm not hungry, i just know you hate people taking your food." harry says with a smirk, reaching his hand out again before you smack it away. "ow!" harry exclaims, holding his aching knuckles. "really? you steal my food all the time!"
you're the one smirking this time as you say, "yeah, but it's funny when i do it." taking another bite of your food, harry narrows his eyes at you. he waits for his chance and quickly sneaks another piece of food, successfully stealing it away as you try to stop him. "ha!" he laughs with his mouth full, pointing at you. you give him a look, which makes hermione laugh harder.
"you two are ridiculous," she sighs, taking a bite of her own food. "oh, come on, he started it!" you say with a hand pointed at harry. he pretends to bite your finger and you narrow your eyes at him, reaching to grab the glasses off his face. "no, no, no," harry warns you, frantically grabbing for the glasses to take them from your hands as you lean away from him. "ha!" you repeat after him, pointing at him as you continue pulling away from his grasp. harry leans across the table and nearly falls before he successfully snatches the glasses from your fingers. "ha!" he says again with a cocky smile, sitting down and placing them back on his face.
ron rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his drink. "i agree with hermione. ridiculous." he says with that same knowing smile. harry scoffs, giving ron a look. "whatever," he shrugs him off. "she started it," harry repeats after you, nodding in your direction as he tries to hide his smirk. you roll your eyes at him, but you're hiding the same devious smile.
"late again, ms. [y/l/n]?" harry asks you in a teasing voice as you walk down the hall towards the room of requirement. you rolled your eyes at him. "shut it, potter. just be glad i came." you snap back, giving him a smirk as you pass through the doorway.
harry followed you in, making sure no one was watching behind him. he began the meeting thanking everyone for coming back for yet another round of training for dumbledore's army, and wanted to go over defense tactics again. as he started reviewing all the different spells and wand movements from the week prior, he asked everyone to partner up and work on practicing them again.
the session was going really well, and harry was helping people individually to get the motions perfect. he was just working with a first year student when he heard a yell from behind him, followed by a crash and a crowd of gasps. harry spun on his heel to see hermione running from across the room, dropping her wand in the process. this immediately worried harry more.
he made his way to the gathering crowd in the corner when he heard hermione say your name in exasperation. harry's pace picked up and he pushed himself through the crowd of students urgently.
he found hermione kneeling at your side, blocking his view of you. only your converse-covered feet littered with rubble and dust were visible from his angle. harry quickly rushed to your other side, his stomach dropping at the sight of your unconscious body, freezing completely when he notices blood coming from under your shirt. hermione was checking your breathing and heartbeat and trying to wake you up. harry's shock flipped into anger within a second, turning to the crowd that had gathered around you.
"who did it?" he asked, his tone rough and impatient. everyone stayed quiet hearing how upset harry was. they had never seen him be anything other than shy, kind, and timid.
"well? who was her partner? huh? who the fuck hit her?" harry yells the last part, causing a few students flinch.
"harry. it was an accident." hermione snaps towards him, causing him to look back at her. he's breathing heavily, staring into hermione's narrowed eyes as she holds your hand in hers.
harry's anger subsided, if only for a moment, seeing your shirt start to stain with blood. his anger was replaced with concern, dropping to one knee and picking you up in his arms. "harry," hermione tries to stop him, but harry interrupts her. "i'm taking her to the infirmary now. i'll make up something on the way. send everyone home." he tells hermione in a rushed voice as he carefully adjusts you in his arms, your neck limp as your head falls into harry's chest.
he rushes out of the room, ron holding the doors open for him, giving him a tight smile with worried eyes. "she'll be alright, mate," ron tries to reassure him, but harry's already practically jogging to the hospital wing.
a few hours later the sun has long since set, and you open your eyes to a dark room lined with windows showing the stars outside. you try to sit up in the bed you're lying in and you're immediately hit with an intense wave of pain, making you groan and wince. you notice movement to your right and turn to see harry's sleeping body on a chair pulled up beside your cot. you hadn't even seen him at first, so you were a bit surprised, letting out a gasp at his sudden presence.
this wakes him up, his eyes snapping open towards you and standing from his uncomfortable sleeping position to come to your side. "[y/n]," he says softly, his voice still groggy, hands resting on your shoulders to lay you back down again. you groan again as you lie back, your face twisted in pain. harry winces just the same, moving the pillow under you to better support your neck.
"i know, it's okay, you're okay," he coos. you look at him weirdly, never experiencing this caring side of him so intimately. "what happened?" you ask, glancing at the IV machine attached to your arm. "am i in the infirmary?"
harry sighs, his eyes searching you carefully for any discomfort. "yes, you are. your bloody first year partner hit you with his stupefy and nearly killed you." harry informed you, his voice gradually getting angrier before stopping himself to take a deep breath. "sorry. i didn't mean that. all you got was a concussion, and a nasty scar on your stomach. but, he could've hurt you worse," harry tells you, the anger returning any time he mentions your partner. "i swear to you, [y/n], he's never coming to another practice again. and i don't care if he tells the whole school, that kid is finished."
you can't help but chuckle at how riled up harry is, earning a confused look from him. you shake your head weakly. "it was probably just an accident, potter. no need to pitch a fit." you tell him with that same smirk as always. harry's body relaxes, breathing a sigh of relief at your nonchalant reaction and usual sarcasm making its return. though he wants to roll his eyes at how unaffected you are learning about your injuries, he's too concerned to even pretend to joke.
"wait, how did i get here? i don't even remember walking in," you say in confusion, trying to recall the afternoon. harry awkwardly shifts his weight beside you. "yeah, um, well, i had to carry you." he tells you. you shoot him a look full of confusion, shock, and humor. "you? you carried me across the school?" you ask with an incredulous chuckle. "you were unconscious! and bleeding! i had to get you here quickly." harry defends himself, throwing his arms up.
you laugh and shake your head again, rubbing your face. "since when have you started caring about my well being, potter? i thought i was just a pest to you," you inquire, cocking an eyebrow at harry. he nervously blinks and looks away from you, clearing his throat. "you were under my supervision, didn't want you to sue me or anything." harry says with a smirk, still awkwardly shifting his weight back and forth with his hands in his pockets.
"right," you scoff at him jokingly.
harry sighs, pulling his seat closer to your bed so he can sit down again. "look," he says, his eyes still not quite meeting yours. "i know we joke around a lot, and, y'know, you may even actually annoy me a bit sometimes…" he trails off, chuckling to himself. you lightly slap his leg closest to you, holding back your own laugh.
"but, seeing you like that on the ground, seeing the blood, i was terrified. i didn't know if you were okay and that killed me. i don't know what i would've done if…" he trails off again, his voice caught in his throat.
you give harry a sympathetic smile, studying his tired face. he was looking towards the ground, his hair disheveled, glasses hanging low on the bridge of his nose. he looked upset as his eyebrows furrowed together in thought.
"did you stay here all day?" you asked him softly. harry looks up at you with surprise, his eyes studying yours. "yeah," he says simply. you look to your left towards a grandfather clock and see it's nearly 3 in the morning.
you give him another curious look. "harry," you start to say, but you're at a loss for words. he chuckles again, his eyes still studying yours intently. "i wasn't leaving. the nurses nearly fought me multiple times." he tells you bluntly. you laugh, wincing at the pain it causes you, but can't hold back. "harry, you didn't have to do that."
harry gives you a half hearted smile. "i know," he shrugs.
you return the smile. "well, thank you, then. for waiting and for bringing me here." you thank harry genuinely, causing him to blush and wave you off. you reach out to poke his sides in attempt to tickle him. "and i guess you really do care, hm?" you tease him.
harry squirms away and laughs, his blush intensifying. "yeah, yeah, whatever."
summary: Hermione and Ron watch you and Harry in awe from a distance as you both share a moment in the snow.
warnings: none!
word count: 0.4k
Snow dusted the cobblestone courtyard like powdered sugar, glittering under the pale afternoon sun. From beneath the Hogwarts clock tower, Ron Weasley stood beside Hermione Granger, both of them wrapped tightly in scarves and thick coats, watching as you and Harry darted around in the snow, laughing breathlessly.
You scooped up a handful of snow and lobbed it at Harry’s chest. He let out a dramatic gasp and stumbled backward, pretending to be wounded.
“She’s got an arm on her,” Ron said, eyebrows raised, a little impressed despite himself.
Hermione smiled warmly, tugging her scarf higher around her neck as Harry retaliated with a snowball of his own—one you narrowly dodged, ducking just in time.
“They’re adorable,” Hermione said softly, her eyes shining with fondness.
“You mean ridiculous,” Ron corrected, though his grin betrayed him. “Look at them. They’ve been throwing snow at each other for ten minutes and neither one’s aiming properly. It’s like watching Crookshanks try to chase a shadow.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not secretly loving it,” Hermione teased, nudging his arm with a grin.
Ron scoffed. “Secretly? I’m offended. I’m loudly loving it. Honestly, I give it two minutes before Harry slips and falls on his—oh—wait for it…”
They both leaned forward as Harry suddenly sprinted toward you, eyes wild with mock vengeance.
You let out a shriek and turned to run, but not fast enough. Harry caught you from behind and spun you around, scooping you up into his arms as your giggles echoed off the stone walls. He buried his face in your neck, kissing your cheeks, nose, and forehead rapidly while you squealed and tried (but not really) to push him off.
Ron blinked. “Blimey. If he kissed her any harder his glasses are gonna snap clean in half.”
Hermione laughed, watching fondly as Harry placed you back on your feet and placed a final kiss on you’re lips. You both were smiling like dorks as you kissed, your arms wrapping around his neck as you both break away and let out more giggles.
“He never smiles like that anymore, have you noticed?” she questioned.
Ron tilted his head and said, “You mean the smile of a bloke who’s just been snowballed into a pile of girlfriend?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. He’s happy. Really, properly happy.”
Ron glanced at them again—Harry was now wrapping his arms around your waist - whispering something in your ear that made your whole face flush pink. You slapped his shoulder playfully, which Hermione and Ron both heard a “Harry James Potter!” escape your lips. Harry laughed louder, his smile somehow growing wider.
“Yeah,” Ron said quietly. “He is.”
A short pause passed by, before Ron spoke again-
“…Also, not to be that friend, but if they start snogging in front of us again I am pelting them with a snowball.”
Hermione smirked. “Only if I get the first throw.”
Being best friends with Ginny Weasley was the easiest thing in the world. Or, at least, it had been at the start. The two of you had three simple rules.
#3. Always save each other a seat.
#2. Never lie to one another.
#1. Ginny’s brothers were off-limits.
It was rule #1 that you found yourself currently in contempt of. But how were you meant to know when you’d made that promise that a few years down the track everything would change?
———————————————————————
You had been best friends with Ginny Weasley for as long as you could remember.
It had started sometime in first year, when you found her crying in the girls’ bathroom after throwing a book at moaning Myrtle. You didn’t ask questions. You just sat next to her, pulled a Chocolate Frog from your bag, and said, “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to, I’m here.” That was the moment it began. Since then, your friendship had become a constant in both of your lives. Like the hum of the Hogwarts Express, or the steady whistle of the wind through the trees by the Black Lake.
And there were rules. Unspoken at first, but eventually written down during a sleepover at the Burrow in a notebook charmed to sparkle and float around Ginny’s room. The most sacred of them all: “Don’t fall for one of my brothers. Ever.”
You remembered the moment it was written with almost photographic clarity. Ginny had been sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed, face twisted with frustration as she doodled angry lightning bolts in the margins.
“Honestly, it’s like every girl who’s ever spoken to me suddenly wants to be my best mate the second they lay eyes on one of them,” Ginny muttered bitterly, tossing her quill down. “Lavender started cozying up to me last year and I thought maybe she actually wanted to be friends. But no. She just wanted to ask if Ron was ‘as tall in person as he looked from across the Great Hall.’ Gross.”
You laughed back then, genuinely amused and a little horrified. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were,” Ginny huffed, brushing her hair back with a quick, irritated flick. “Then there was Marietta. She was practically joined at my hip during dinner and the whole time she was working up the courage to ask if I’d introduce her to George. George!”
“She couldn’t even pretend to care about you, could she?”
“Not for a second,” Ginny snapped. Then her expression softened as she looked at you. “That’s why I like you. You’re not here for any of that rubbish.”
Back then you had smiled and laced your pinky through hers, swearing on it. Now, whenever it was even remotely brought up (like when Angelina tried to hangout with the two of you to get a date with Fred) you had to force yourself to smile, even as your heart twisted.
You hadn’t intended to fall for one of Ginny’s brothers, but sometime in the past four years, you had. Something about Fred’s clever jokes, his chaotic grin, and the way he always found time to check in on you had chipped away at your resolve. You had been entirely helpless to the painful and slow fall into irrevocable affection for the older twin, and you had said nothing, because of the rule. Because you loved Ginny.
You remembered her smile that night, soft and genuine.
“If I ever find out someone’s only in my life to get to one of them,” she said. “I’ll never forgive them. Promise me you’ll never do that.”
“Of course,” you had sworn.
You meant it, back then. You couldn’t have predicted you would genuinely fall for one of them. And you still meant it now, in your own twisted way. You had no intention of doing anything about your feelings. Loving Fred from a distance didn’t count. Did it?
But lately it had become harder to look away. He was noticing you, and not the way he noticed everyone else. Not with the performative charm or cheeky quips he tossed around like fireworks. No, he was watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Catching your eye across the dinner table. Sitting closer than he used to, finding reasons to touch your arm when he laughed. Or maybe you were imagining it.
But you and Ginny had rules.
And you were already breaking rule #1.
———————————————————————
The Burrow was as chaotic as usual. The second you stepped through the crooked front door with Ginny, the scent of fresh bread and stewed onions wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The air was humid with the smell of summer earth and something sugary baking in the oven. A breeze drifted in from the open kitchen window, carrying laughter from the garden and the sounds of someone (probably Ron) grunting as he lugged trunks upstairs.
“Welcome home!” Molly was fussing as she grabbed each one of them by the face and planted a big kiss on their cheeks.
“Gross, mum!” The boys groaned and wiped their faces with their sleeves as they came into the house.
“My darling girls!” Molly greeted the two of you, pulling both you and Ginny into a tight hug.
“Hey, Mrs Weasley,” you greeted with a warm smile. You’d spend so much time here that the Burrow had come to feel like your second home, and the Weasleys like a second pair of parents.
“Oh, how you’ve grown up since the last time I saw you!” The stout woman patted your check affectionately, then stepped back to gesture to the already set table.
“Lunch, everyone! On the table, NOW!” Molly Weasley’s voice thundered through the house with such maternal command it could’ve made a mountain walk.
You hadn’t even had time to protest when Arthur took your trunk before you were swept up in the current of Weasley children charging into the kitchen like a herd of hippogriffs. Chairs scraped, plates clattered and elbows jabbed for better positioning. It was always a game of survival when it came to getting a good seat at the Burrow’s table.
Fred emerged from seemingly nowhere at your side, grinning like he’d just won a prize. “Well, well,” he said in that voice of his, low and amused, with just enough of a lilt to make your stomach flip. “Guess this seat’s mine, yeah?”
He reached for the chair to your left, the one you’d secretly been hoping he’d take, and yet, also dreading he would. You acted on pure instinct in panic and an act of self-preservation when you placed your hand firmly on the back of the chair before he could pull it out. “That one’s taken,” you blurted out a little too quickly.
Fred raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “By who?”
And before your mouth could catch up with your thoughts, before you could invent some excuse or redirect him to the other side of the table, Ginny shoved past Fred, bumping him with her hip. “By me, you great big git. Rule #3, remember? Now move!” she snapped cheerfully, shooting you a triumphant smile as she slid into the seat beside you.
Fred snorted, placing a dramatic hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. “Betrayed. By my own blood.”
He dragged himself to the far end of the table with a theatrical sigh, collapsing into a chair beside George. You watched him from the corner of your eye as he stole a bread roll before the basket had even hit the table, catching you looking just in time to shoot you a wink. You felt heat rise to your cheeks.
Ginny leaned over, scooping potatoes onto your plate. “Honestly, you’d think they’d learn by now that we always sit next to each other. I think he did it on purpose just to mess with us.”
You forced a laugh, stabbing at a carrot with more force than necessary. “It’s exactly the completely irritating thing he’d do,” you said weakly.
But your heart was thudding too loudly in your chest to believe it. You had wanted him to sit next to you. Just a little. You could still feel the ghost of where his arm would’ve brushed against yours. How his knee might’ve bumped yours under the table. You could imagine it far too easily. Close enough to smell the spice and smoke of his cologne, to hear every stupid joke murmured just for you.
But then you looked at Ginny, happily chatting to her mum about the drive there, glowing with sun-kissed freckles and full of trust. The guilt returned with full force, crashing like a wave over your ribs. You weren’t going to mess this up. Not this.
You promised yourself right then and there: You would stay away from Fred this summer. No matter how many times he winked at you. No matter how charming his smile was. No matter how much your hands itched to reach for his under the table.
He was Ginny’s brother. And you were Ginny’s best friend. And those two things could never, ever mix.
———————————————————————
Your first few days at the burrow passed without a problem. Ron kept to himself mostly, sending letters back and forth to Hermione and Harry in between practicing quidditch with the twins. When the twins weren’t out in the field zipping about on their broomsticks, they were locked in their room. No one quite knew what they were up to in there, except for the intermittent explosion that shook the house and earned a few lectures from Molly. Percy was off on some sort of internship at the Ministry of Magic. Which of course left you and Ginny to your own devices.
Your plan of avoiding Fred had been going splendidly. The only times you would see him were during meals, and with the buffer of the whole family present there were no issues that had arisen. He’d not tried again to steal Ginny’s chair by your side. You’d worked to memorise his and George’s schedule, knowing what times to avoid the bathroom or the kitchen for snack break. You’d even taken to using the bathroom at the latest possible time, once the house had gone uncharacteristically quiet and you knew everyone else was in bed.
Hence why you were there now. The bathroom mirror was fogged with steam from the shower someone had taken earlier. You deduced it was probably Ron, based on the trail of damp footprints leading down the hall to his bedroom. You stood at the sink in your pyjamas, brushing your teeth, the tap running low to hide in the silence.
You leaned closer to the mirror and wiped a clean patch of glass to check your reflection. Your hair was a bit of a mess from a full day of hanging about the garden. Your skin a little tinged by the sun. The dim golden light from the hallway behind you spilled in from the half-cracked door, soft and flickering like candlelight.
The door creaked further open. You flinched, mid-brush. And then you nearly choked on your toothpaste. Fred stood in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing a towel over his wild and wet hair, a pair of well-worn pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. Water glistened on his shoulders. His freckles were more pronounced under the soft bathroom light, and his grin was…absolutely illegal.
You turned back to the sink immediately, hoping the toothpaste foam in your mouth would distract from the fact your pulse had just shot up like a firework.
“Evenin’,” he said casually, like this was completely normal.
You didn’t answer, mostly because you couldn’t speak with a mouth full of mint-flavoured panic.
Fred moved behind you, stepping inside without hesitation and reaching for a comb that sat on the bench. You could feel his presence, radiating a warmth that pulsed just inches away from your spine. The tension twisted tighter with each breath. You were practically vibrating.
“You always brush your teeth this agressively?” he asked, his voice low and amused. “Looks intense.”
You spat your toothpaste into the sink and grabbed your cup to rinse. “Just thorough,” you muttered, praying your voice didn’t sound like it was shaking.
Fred leaned on the counter beside you, one arm braced as he turned his body toward you. “Right. Very serious business, dental hygiene. Sexy stuff.”
You gave a tight, nervous laugh and tried not to look at his collarbone, or his chest, or the single drip of water trailing down his sternum. You tried. But Merlin, you were failing.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” you asked, drying your hands quickly, your eyes fixed anywhere but on him.
“I was,” Fred said, tilting his head. “But then I remembered the bathroom gets much more interesting around midnight.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smiled, cocking a brow. “You’ve been sneaking in here late every night like you’re hiding something. Thought I’d investigate.”
“I’m brushing my teeth, Fred. Hardly a great mystery of the universe.”
He leaned a little closer, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. His voice dropped an octave, teasing but edged with something heavier. “Well, then maybe I’m the one with secrets.”
You hated that your stomach flipped. That your legs felt suddenly unsteady. That this was exactly the kind of moment you’d dreamed about for years, and yet now it was the last thing you could afford.
You cleared your throat, stepping back. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”
“And yet here you are,” he said. “Cornered. In a bathroom. With me.”
He was still smiling. But his eyes - those gorgeous hazel eyes - searched yours with something more than just mischief. There was the weight of a hopeful question in them.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Fred, put a bloody shirt on!” The moment shattered like glass.
Ginny appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrowing immediately as she took in the scene. Fred shirtless and grinning, you red-faced and stiff near the sink.
Fred didn’t move. He just glanced at Ginny over his shoulder, as if annoyed to be interrupted. “What?” he asked, unbothered.
“You’re disgusting,” she snapped, elbowing past him. “You can’t just wander around half-naked like some trollop!”
Fred looked delighted by that. “Trollop? Really, Ginny? You wound me.”
She made a face. “Honestly, you’re like a feral cat.” Then, without hesitation, she wedged herself firmly between you and Fred, standing like a barrier. Completely oblivious to the electric tension that had just been vibrating in the room.
Fred smirked at you over her shoulder, lips twitching, like he knew exactly what he’d done.
Ginny turned to you, unaware. “Ready for bed?”
You nodded mutely. Behind her, Fred gave you a lazy wink and finally retreated, tossing his towel over his shoulder as he strolled out of the room like he hadn’t just flipped your entire emotional state upside down.
Ginny looked at you and scrunched her nose. “Honestly. He’s so weird sometimes. Sorry you had to see that.”
You managed a smile, small and tight. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse.”
But as you followed her down the hall toward the room you were sharing, your heart was still racing. Your skin still buzzed from his nearness. Your mind - the traitorous thing - kept replaying that moment when he’d leaned in, eyes soft, voice low.
And you knew then, with a certainty that made your stomach sink, that this summer was going to be really, really difficult.
———————————————————————-
It had been five days since The Bathroom Incident - a title you’d privately christened it with during your increasingly dramatic internal monologues. And for five blissful, tormenting, nerve-fraying days, Fred had been…good. No more shirtless intrusions. No surprise appearances when you were alone. No wandering conversations with too much eye contact and not enough space between your bodies.
Just casual, everyday Fred Weasley. Joking with his siblings, tinkering with George, throwing fruit across the kitchen, absolutely no more cornering you against a sink like he wanted to eat you alive.
You’d convinced yourself it was over. That he’d gotten bored of teasing you and moved on. That maybe you were in the clear.
Until this morning. You’d just woken up, sunlight stretching warm fingers across your face through the open window, when you heard it.
“We’re going into town for the Sunday market!” George’s voice rang out through the hallway. “Come on, grab your shoes!”
You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes as Ginny barged into the room already half-dressed, tying her hair up with a ribbon. “You’re coming too,” she declared, tossing your shoes toward the bed. “It’ll be us and the twins.”
Your stomach turned. Just the four of you. On a sunny day. Walking into town. All together. You, Ginny, George…and Fred.
Before you could argue, Ginny had already bolted back out of the room, mumbling something about losing her favourite jacket.
You took less than five minutes to pull on a cute outfit and brush your teeth before you waked into the hallway, trying not to look like you were internally screaming. At the bottom of the stairs, Fred was waiting.
He leaned lazily against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in a sweater rolled at the sleeves and worn jeans. Casual and comfortable has never looked so dangerous before. The second he saw you, a slow grin unfurled across his face like a cat who’d spotted a cornered mouse.
“Well, well,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was just for you. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get you all day.”
You blinked. “What?”
He pushed off the railing and took a step closer. Close enough that you caught the familiar scent of spearmint and gunpowder. “I mean, I’ve barely seen you all summer. I was starting to worry I’d developed a contagious rash and somehow wasn’t aware.”
You folded your arms. “Maybe you have. Have you checked?”
“Oh, thoroughly. I’m in top condition.” He winked, words dripping with innuendo.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a small smile. He saw it - of course he saw it - and leaned in just a little more.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’d accuse you of hiding from me if I didn’t already know with certainty that you were.”
Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest. Before you could deliver a scathing comeback - or worse, blush - Ginny’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Fred stepped away with impeccable timing, shoving his hands into his pockets and grinning innocently as Ginny reappeared with a cropped jacket and her hair now tied in a messy ponytail.
“All right,” she said, tossing her eyes toward Fred. “You better not make me carry everything again.”
“No promises,” he said, already leading the way out the door.
The walk into town was bright and breezy, the gravel path crunching beneath your shoes. Fields blurred gold and green beside you, and wildflowers nodded gently in the tall grass. Ginny was by your side for the most part, until she got into a long conversation with George about quidditch and the two walked ahead, occasionally darting into little bursts of sibling bickering. It left you and Fred side by side more than once, though you always kept just enough space to pretend it wasn’t wanted.
The Sunday market stretched along the village square in a mismatched quilt of tents and booths. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, honeycomb, spiced nuts, and something fried you didn’t dare question. Laughter floated above the hum of shoppers and merchants calling out their deals.
You kept close to Ginny, using her as a human shield against Fred’s increasingly amused glances. The two of you stopped at a table of handmade jewellery, and your fingers drifted toward a delicate pair of crystal earrings shaped like intricate flower clusters. They caught the sunlight just right.
You picked one up, turned the tag over to see a sum that was too much. It wasn’t completely outrageous like the necklace Ginny had peered at with a pigeon’s-egg-sized stone, but it was more than you could justify. You set them down gently.
“Cute,” Ginny said, glancing over your shoulder. “But you’d probably lose them in, like, three days.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Ginny laughed and moved to the next booth, where a ridiculous plaid hat caught her eye. George followed, already pretending to model one for her.
And suddenly, it was just you and Fred again. You glanced up. He was already there, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on yours. He nodded toward the earrings. “Those were nice on you.”
You blinked. “I didn’t try them on.”
“I imagined them on you,” he said easily, his voice low and teasing. “I have an excellent imagination. In fact, I can picture anyone, anywhere in just about any position.”
You rolled your eyes. “You really never turn it off, do you?”
He stepped closer, the crowd bustling around you like a river splitting. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been flirting with me all morning.”
You snorted. “I have not.”
Fred tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Okay. Not flirting. Actively ignoring me. Which is basically the same thing, just in reverse. It has the same effect.”
You laughed despite yourself, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible to tolerate.”
“And yet you’re still here talking to me.” He leaned in, voice dropping, “What does that say about you?”
You opened your mouth to retort, but then Ginny reappeared, holding up a hat so absurdly shaped it looked like a squashed owl. “Do I look insane or fabulous?”
“Both,” George said immediately.
“Perfect,” she grinned.
Fred stepped back again, and just like that, the moment dissolved.
The walk home was slower, the sun dipping lower in the sky. You carried a small paper bag of sweets Ginny had insisted on buying, and Fred whistled absently as he kicked pebbles down the lane. You didn’t speak again, but you felt his presence the entire way.
Back at the Burrow, the house had returned to its gentle, midday hum. You’d taken a shower first, and Ginny had waited until she heard the water stop before swapping places with you. By the time you stepped out, dried off, and slipped back into your clothes, it was nearly time for afternoon tea.
You returned to Ginny’s room, searching for a brush to untangle your wet hair. And there, sitting neatly on Ginny’s bed, right where your pillow had been, was a small white box tied with a black ribbon.
Your heart stopped. You looked around like someone might leap out from the closet yelling “Gotcha!”
But no one did. You approached slowly, eyes wide, and lifted the box. Inside, tucked in soft tissue paper, were the delicate and dazzling earrings from the market. With them was a folded note in crooked handwriting: Couldn’t let them get away. Thought you might wear them next time you’re trying so desperately not to look at me. - F.
You clutched the box like it might combust in your hands. Footsteps creaked from the hallway. Ginny.
You moved fast, your heart hammering as you shoved the box into your trunk, the tissue and ribbon crumpled in your fist. You nearly tripped getting the top shut before the door opened.
Ginny strolled in, towel around her hair. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the blue shampoo bottle. I think one of the boys messed with it.”
As she unwound the towel, her usually ginger locks dropped around her shoulders in a curtain of green. You forced a smile, heart still galloping, hands still tingling.
“Oh Gin,” you said, covering your mouth, every nerve in your body on high alert. “Let’s get that fixed up. I’m sure your mum will have something to help.”
You took her by the shoulders and led her out of the room, mind still stuck on what you were leaving behind. The earrings were hidden. The note, too. Your secret was safe. Though now, you were technically at risk of breaking another rule.
#2. Never lie to one another.
———————————————————————
The kitchen of the Burrow smelled like butter, thyme, and the kind of warmth only a Weasley home could conjure. The windows were fogged slightly from the heat of the cooking. You stood at the counter beside Ginny, a cutting board in front of you and a particularly potent batch of onions halfway sliced beneath your trembling hands. Your eyes stung fiercely.
“I swear, I think I’m going blind,” you sniffled, blinking rapidly as tears dripped down your cheeks.
Ginny laughed, pointing her wooden spoon at you. “Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. It’s just an onion!”
“I’m not being dramatic, my eyeballs are melting—” You let out a soft, strangled laugh, wiping at your face with your sleeve and slicing again.
The two of you had been helping Molly for the past hour, peeling vegetables, shelling peas, and listening to Celestina Warbeck crooning softly from the wireless. The afternoon sun cast long strips of light across the warped wooden table, and despite the heat and chaos of the kitchen, it was cozy. Familiar. Safe.
Or at least, it had been, until the back door suddenly burst open with a crash.
“—AND HE SCORES! WHAT A MOVE FROM THE LEGENDARY BEATER!”
“OH, SHUT IT, YOU OVERGROWN GNOME—”
Fred and George exploded into the kitchen like a pair of firecrackers, both sweaty and flushed, yelling in Quidditch commentator voices as they barrelled through the doorway. George had a quaffle tucked under one arm. Fred was lunging for it like a seeker gone mad.
Molly spun around from the stove. “Boys! Absolutely not! Not in my kitchen!”
But it was too late. Fred dodged Ginny, slipped on the corner rug, and stumbled directly into you. You barely had time to gasp before the impact jolted your arm. The knife in your hand slipped.
“OW! bloody hell!” You recoiled instinctively, dropping the knife and clutching your hand. Blood was already rising fast to the surface of your finger, running in a hot, red line down your palm and onto the floor.
“WHAT did I just say?!” Molly’s voice could’ve curdled milk.
“Fred!” Ginny shouted furiously. “You idiot!”
“Oh, shit, you’re crying!” Fred’s eyes widened as he saw your tear-streaked cheeks and the blood on your hand.
You glared at him, though your vision was blurry. “It’s the onions, you twat!”
But your voice trembled. From the pain. From the sheer overwhelming chaos of it all. And - fine - maybe from Fred being way too close again.
Fred looked properly horrified now. “Merlin, I didn’t mean to. I was just…George was…right, c’mere. I’ve got something that’ll help. C’mon.”
Before you could protest, he was already gently but insistently guiding you toward the stairs, his hand warm on your back. You wrapped a kitchen towel around your bleeding finger, trying to keep the pressure steady as you glanced back at Ginny.
“Go, go,” she called, exasperated. “Before you bleed into the mashed potatoes.”
George had dropped the quaffle and was already picking up the knife from the floor, apologizing to Molly in the most unconvincing tone possible.
You followed Fred up the stairs, your heart pounding harder with every creak of the steps. You told yourself it was just because of the injury. The adrenaline. The pain. Not because you were heading into Fred Weasley’s bedroom for the first time.
The door clicked open, and he stepped aside to let you in.
His room smelled faintly of parchment, broom polish, and something warm and boyish and entirely him. It was surprisingly neat for a Weasley. Trunks were stacked in a corner, shelves cluttered with joke prototypes, and Quidditch posters pinned crookedly across the walls. There was a pair of socks hanging off the end of his bedpost. A sweater crumpled on the floor. But it felt lived in, personal. Like stepping into a corner of his world you were never supposed to see.
You froze awkwardly in the doorway.
“You can sit,” Fred said, waving a hand at the bed. “I promise my mattress doesn’t bite.”
You managed a weak laugh and perched on the edge, careful to keep your hands to yourself.
He crouched in front of a trunk and rummaged around. “Right, here. We just finished a batch of this last week. Might sting, but it works miracles.” He pulled out a small tin with a garish orange and purple sticker slapped across it.
You squinted at the label. “WWW? What’s that stand for? ‘Weasley’s Weakest Work’?”
Fred grinned, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Close. Thirty-three percent correct, actually. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. George and I, we’re starting a joke shop. After Hogwarts.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Wait, seriously?”
He nodded, pride sneaking into his voice. “We’ve been designing products for years. We’ve got a whole trunk full of prototypes. Salves, candies, decoy spell crap. You’d love it. You’re basically our ideal test subject - easily injured and highly opinionated.”
“Charming,” You snorted. “So is that what the hexed shampoo fiasco was all about? Ginny was furious. Her hair was green for days.”
“No, that one was just for fun,” Fred sat beside you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm. He gently peeled the blood-soaked towel from your hand, and you hissed.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice suddenly soft. He dipped his fingers into the tin and dabbed the salve onto your cut.
It was cool and tingly and smelt like peppermint. Within seconds, the pain dulled, and you watched in shock as the raw skin knitted itself closed.
Your mouth fell open. “That’s…actually brilliant.”
“I know,” he said smugly, wrapping a thin bandage around your finger. “And, don’t worry. It won’t scar. Just reapply twice a day.”
“How are you not rolling in money already?”
He laughed and you smiled, until you realised you were still holding hands. Neither of you moved. And the silence that settled between you wasn’t casual anymore. It buzzed. Tense and breathless.
Fred’s eyes lifted to meet yours, his thumb unconsciously brushing over the inside of your wrist. “Why’ve you been avoiding me?”
You blinked. “I haven’t.”
He tilted his head. “You have. You’ve been dodging me like I’ve got dragon pox. Why?”
You tried to smile. To brush it off. “Maybe I just don’t like you, Fred.”
He leaned in, his voice low and serious now. “Or maybe it’s the opposite.”
Your breath hitched. He was so close you could see the golden flecks in his eyes. Count each of the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose
Before you could answer - before you even knew how to answer - the door burst open.
George stood there, eyebrows raised. “Alright, you two, break it up. Dinner’s ready. And Mum’s not in the mood to wait.”
You yanked your hand back, your face going hot.
Fred sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Cheers, George. Great timing.”
George grinned knowingly and stepped aside. You stood quickly, muttering a thanks under your breath and rushing out the door, heart hammering, head spinning.
This summer was going to ruin you. And you finding it a lot harder to mind at all.
———————————————————————
The attic smelled like dust and old wood, warmed faintly by the day’s leftover sun and lit only by a string of enchanted fairy lights that twinkled like stars overhead. The ghoul in the corner moaned softly to itself, chewing on what remained of Fred and George’s bribe - a sticky handful of Drooble’s gum and a crumpled chocolate frog box. For now, it was satisfied. Mostly.
When you climbed through the attic hatch behind Ginny, the stale air hit your face like a wave. Ron, Fred, and George were already sprawled across the mismatched rugs and floor cushions in a circle, a deck of enchanted cards floating lazily in the center.
“There you are,” Fred said as you and Ginny slid the hatch shut behind you. His eyes flicked to yours briefly and he smirked like he had been waiting specifically for you.
You tried not to react, though your stomach was already betraying you with its little flip. He looked far too smug for someone sitting crisscross in moth-eaten socks and a Quidditch tee.
“About time,” George chimed.
“Don’t push it,” Ginny said, elbowing her brother before tossing a pillow to the ground and flopping down.
You settled in beside her, your knees brushing the woven edge of the rug, directly across from Fred. Unfortunately, he was watching you. Still. And you knew he hadn’t stopped.
The bottle of firewhisky came out shortly after. Fred uncorked it with a flourish, holding it up like it was some ancient treasure.
“Compliments of the cabinet behind Dad’s broom collection,” he announced.
Ginny laughed. “Mum’s going to have your head if she finds out.”
“She won’t,” George assured her, “unless someone blabs.”
“Ron,” said everyone at once, and Ron flushed beet red.
The bottle made its way around the circle, and eventually it landed in your hands. You hesitated only a moment before lifting it to your lips. The whisky burned hot, sharp, and smoky as it slid down your throat. You exhaled, eyes watering slightly.
“Easy,” Fred said from across the circle. “Don’t want to fall asleep before the game starts.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, and passed the bottle back, straight to Fred. His hand brushed yours as he took the bottle from your grip. But instead of drinking right away, he rotated it slowly and deliberately in his hand, fingers lingering around the mouth of the bottle. Then he placed his mouth right over the spot your lips had touched and drank without breaking eye contact.
The burn in your throat came back tenfold, but for a completely different reason.
He licked a drop from his bottom lip and grinned. “Tastes better this way.”
Your breath caught. Ginny, completely oblivious, was already giggling at something George said. The cards were floating again, but your world had narrowed to that lazy, firewhisky-laced smirk and the way Fred’s eyes lingered just a beat too long.
Goosebumps erupted down your arms.
The moment passed too quickly. You tried to pretend it hadn’t affected you, that you weren’t wondering what it would feel like to close the distance between you, to feel that heat not through shared glass, but skin.
The shuffled deck split evenly amongst them and a chaotic, barely-rule-following game of Exploding Snap ensued. There were chips of lightning, minor burns, and raucous laughter as the ghoul muttered irritably in its corner. A slightly scorched card flew past Ginny’s head and she ducked with a cackle.
Eventually, the ghoul grew bored. With a loud metallic CLANG, it started knocking on the pipes behind it, clearly unhappy that its stash of goodies had run out.
“Right, time to clear out,” George said, already grabbing the cards and stuffing them into the pocket of his pajama bottoms.
“I’ll bring more sweets tomorrow,” Fred muttered toward the ghoul, who let out a pitiful moan in reply.
George and Ginny were the first down the hatch. You were about to follow when Ron knocked over an old crate, sending it crashing into a pile of dusty cauldrons.
“Shit,” Fred hissed. You all froze.
Footsteps echoed below. Heavy ones. Then the creak of a bedroom door.
“Mum,” George whispered, eyes wide. “And Dad.”
There was no time to think. There was only enough time for Ron to jump down before George scrambled to shut the attic hatch. Ginny looked back at you from below.
“We’ll come get you when it’s safe,” she whispered, and then, click. The hatch was sealed.
You and Fred were completely alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft flickers of the fairy lights and the distant, irritable tapping of the ghoul’s fingernails on wood.
Fred let out a breath. “Well, I guess we’re trapped.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous exhale. He held up the bottle of firewhisky. “Still got this. Want to play truth or dare while we wait?”
You tilted your head. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?”
“We’ve got time. And no escape.” He patted the floor beside him.
Despite your instincts yelling at you not to agree, you sat. Not too close, but close enough to catch the cinnamon-heat smell of him, firewhisky and warmth.
“Fine. But I go first,” you said. “Truth or dare?”
He leaned in, elbow resting on one knee, still holding the bottle between two fingers. “Dare,” he replied, too fast.
You rolled your eyes. “Predictable.”
Fred raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you said, drawing your knees up, “you’re always the first to take risks. Always the showman. But when it comes to being genuine? You flinch.”
A beat of silence. Fred’s smile dropped an inch. Not gone, just softened. “You think I can’t be genuine?”
You shrugged, heart hammering. “Prove me wrong, then. Pick truth.”
“Fine,” he said. “Ask me a truth.”
You studied him. The freckles, the messy hair, the too-confident posture covering something far more careful underneath. “Why haven’t you told anyone about the joke shop?”
That made him pause. The flicker in his eyes changed, turning sharper. More focused.
Finally, Fred sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Because Mum thinks it’s a waste of time. Childish. She wants us to join the Ministry. Be ‘respectable’ like dad. But I don’t want that. George doesn’t either. This—” He held up the firewhisky like it was part of the dream. “—this is the only thing I’ve ever felt is really mine.”
Your chest swelled at the honesty. “I think it’s brilliant,” you said quietly.
He looked at you, something unreadable softening his features. Then he smirked again. “My turn. Truth or dare?”
You panicked. “Truth.”
“Do you like anyone?”
Your mouth went dry. “Yes.”
His eyes glittered. “Who?”
“That wasn’t your question,” you shot back quickly, hiding your fluster behind a smirk of your own.
Fred chuckled. “Alright. Touché.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Truth or dare.”
He yawned dramatically. “Truth. And see, I didn’t even flinch.”
“Are the rumors true about you and Angelina Johnson?” you asked, voice just slightly sharper than intended.
Fred let out a bark of laughter. “What? No. That wasn’t me.”
You raised a skeptical brow.
“It was George,” he said, dead serious. “They got caught snogging in the common room, and everyone assumed it was me since I took her to the Yule Ball.”
You blinked in surprise. “Wait, really?”
“Yep. She’s more into sensative gits than charming ones, apparently.” The air between them grew charged. Thicker. He sat up straighter. “Truth or dare?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then answered, “Truth.”
He leaned closer. “Who do you fancy?”
Your stomach twisted, pulse thudding loud in your ears. “I change my mind,” you blurted. “Dare.”
He grinned like he’d won. “Thought you might. In that case…I dare you to kiss me.”
The world stopped.
“I’ll take a drink instead.” You offered, reaching for the bottle.
Fred turned the firewhisky upside down and a single drop ran from the lip of the bottle.“We’re out.” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “What a shame.”
You were frozen in place, mind trying to come up with a fourth option that didn’t seem to exist.
Then, slowly - so slowly - he leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it easy for you.”
You couldn’t breathe. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of your earring - the ones he had bought you from the market. You watched him realise it, watched his lips twitch upward.
“These suit you,” he murmured.
You swallowed hard. He was so close now. Close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the faint red in his lashes, the faint smell of firewhisky and citrus and boyish heat.
Your cheeks burned. The world felt like it was tilting slightly sideways.
Fred said softly. “All you have to do is give in.”
You wanted to. Oh Merlin, you wanted to. Your lips parted. Your eyes flicked to his. But then the attic hatch creaked open.
“Oi,” George called, voice echoing. “Coast is clear.”
You jumped apart like lightning had struck. Your skin still buzzed where his hand had touched you.
Fred stood slowly, offering you a hand. You took it before you could think better of it.
Nothing had happened. But it had almost happened. And you didn’t think you’d ever stop thinking about that almost.
Neither of you said a word on the way down the ladder. But your ears were still ringing, and yu couldn’t shake the ghost of his voice murmuring, ‘All you have to do is give in.’
———————————————————————
You never usually woke up this early, but sleep had been impossible after last night.
The attic. The firewhisky. His voice, low and teasing, asking if you fancied someone. The way he dared you to kiss him, and the way your body had wanted to obey more than it ever had anyone. You’d never felt anything like that before. That tightrope between longing and fear, between want and wariness. Between what you craved and what you shouldn’t want.
You’d almost done it. Almost leaned in. Almost let yourself fall.
The early morning air was soft against your skin as you walked through the garden behind the Burrow. The grass was cool and damp with dew, the sky still tinted with pale grey and lavender. There was a hush to the world here, like it was holding its breath, just like you were.
You moved slowly between the rows of wildflowers and gnarled trees, trying to clear your head. But all you could think about was him - the fire in his eyes, the way his gaze flicked to your mouth, the smell of firewhisky.
You shook your head, willing the memory away, when a low voice broke through the quiet. “What are you thinking about?”
You nearly leapt out of your skin. “Bloody hell—” you gasped, spinning around. But before you could scream, a hand clamped over your mouth, warm and strong. His hand.
“Shhh! It’s just me,” Fred said, his voice low and urgent as he pulled you further into the field.
You struggled instinctively, swatting at his arm until you were both well out of view of the house. He released you the second you were far enough away, and you whipped around, shoving his chest hard.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” you hissed, your heart thundering in your chest.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was tension under the smirk. “I needed to talk to you. Alone. And you’re a lot harder to pin down these days.”
You crossed your arms. “So you thought sneaking up on me and dragging me into a field was the best option?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
You glared, but the corner of your mouth twitches before you catch yourself. “What do you want, Fred?”
He exhaled, the teasing edge dropping as he takes a step closer. “Last night. Why didn’t you kiss me?”
Your throat went dry. “We’re not playing truth or dare anymore. I don’t have to answer that.”
“I’m not playing either,” he said. His voice was low now, and earnest. And he was closer. You could smell him again - cinnamon and something warm and boyish, still clinging to his skin.
He stepped forward again and gently took your arm, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. It sent a flicker of heat up your spine.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” he confessed. “So why didn’t you?”
You swallowed thickly, knowing this was a dangerous game. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Maybe not. But I think I deserve one.”
You stayed silent, your heart in your throat, body humming like live wire. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your wrist.
“You want to know what I think?” he asked, and you looked up at him, caught in that impossible gaze. “I think you’re just as interested in me as I am in you. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
You opened your mouth, but your voice barely came out. “You’re wrong.”
It was shaky. Unconvincing. Pathetic.
Fred lifted a brow, unimpressed. He leaned in until you could feel his breath brush your cheek. “No, I’m not.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Your whole body was screaming to close the distance, to surrender.
“Why won’t you just say it?” he whispered. “I’m standing right here, telling you that I…” His voice faltered for the first time, softens. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.“I care about you. I want you. I have for a while now.”
It hit you like a punch to the ribs. The tenderness, the honesty in his voice. Your chest tightened. “I do too,” you admitted, your voice betraying you. “But I shouldn’t.”
Fred frowned, still not understanding what was holding you back. “Why not?”
“Because of Ginny,” you said, the words ripping from your mouth. “Because she’s my best friend. Because I made a promise. Rule number one. Her brothers are off-limits.”
Fred blinked, then let out a sharp breath and laughed under it, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you kidding? That’s what’s stopping you?”
“It matters.”
“Not to me,” he said, stepping closer, impossibly close now. “And Ginny doesn’t have to know.”
Your breath stilled. “Fred…”
“All you have to do,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers grazing the earring he gave you, “is give in.”
You shivered as his thumb traced the shell of your ear. His touch was so soft, so gentle, it was almost unbearable. You should have pulled away. You knew that.
But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in. Just the smallest tilt of your chin. Just enough. But that’s all he needed.
Fred cupped your face in both hands and kissed you. It was everything you imagined and more. It was hungry and hesitant all at once. Warm and desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long. His lips melded into yours like he’d somehow already memorised the shape, and you melted into him without thinking.
The world fell away. There was only the sun-drenched field, the soft birdsong in the trees, and his hands anchoring you like he never wanted to let go.
And for a single, breathless moment, you didn’t want him to.
———————————————————————
The grass was still wet with dew as you and Fred made your way back to the Burrow, your fingers entwined with his, warm and certain despite the slight chill in the air. The morning was quiet. Hushed and golden in a way that made it feel like the world had agreed to keep your secret, if only for a little while.
You couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could he.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” you murmured, voice still breathless from the high of it - of him.
Fred glanced sideways at you, that lopsided grin tugging at his lips, his eyes still lazy with affection. “I can,” he said simply. “Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”
Your heart fluttered helplessly. “Have you really felt like this for that long?”
Fred nodded, squeezing your hand. “Since you called me insufferable for making that potion explode in the common room. You had ink on your cheek and told me I was going to fail out of Hogwarts.”
You laughed, a quiet sound that felt like summer. “That was third year.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the way your hands fit together so naturally, like they’d always belonged there. “I wish it didn’t feel so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said gently.
You didn’t respond right away. You just walked with him, each step soft and heavy all at once, and the closer you got to the crooked silhouette of the Burrow, the heavier your chest became.
As the back door came into view, you felt Fred’s fingers twitch against yours. You both knew what had to happen. You dropped his hand, carefully, reluctantly. Like letting go of a lifeline.
You reached the back door first and stepped inside.
Ginny was at the kitchen table, flipping through the Prophet, but her eyes flicked up the moment she heard the creak of the floorboards. They landed on you. Then on Fred. Then back to you.
She looked suspicious. “Where were you two?” she asked, casual, but not really.
You didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered too long on the space between your hands. Your stomach twisted.
“I, uh…I couldn’t sleep,” you said quickly. “Went for a walk.” You shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Fred must’ve had the same idea.”
There was a beat of silence. The paper in Ginny’s hands crackled as she slowly turned the page. Her gaze didn’t waver.
“Uh huh,” she said, noncommittal. Then she looked back down at the paper.
You forced a laugh and stepped past her into the kitchen, your heart thudding wildly as Fred moved behind you without a word. You felt his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken questions. Ones you didn’t want to answer.
Because now it wasn’t just Rule #1 you’d broken. You’d lied to her face.
Rule #2. Never lie to one another.
You told yourself it was just a little white lie. A protective one. A harmless one. But it didn’t feel harmless. It felt like the beginning of something you couldn’t take back.
———————————————————————
You’d spent the whole day glued to Ginny’s side. It wasn’t like she noticed. She just thought you were in a good mood, maybe a little extra chatty, a little too agreeable. But every time she laughed, or looped her arm through yours, or offered you a bite of the plum she was eating on the porch swing, your stomach twisted tighter and tighter.
Because she didn’t know. She didn’t know what you’d done that morning. That you’d walked into the garden one person and come out another. That Fred had kissed you like he meant it. And worse, that you had kissed him back.
Worse still: you had liked it. You had wanted it.
And now, you couldn’t look Ginny in the eye without feeling like your whole skin was buzzing with guilt.
So you stuck close. You did the dishes with her. Helped her weed the vegetable patch. Laughed too hard when she told you that joke about Seamus Finnigan and the exploding butterbeer. You didn’t so much as glance in Fred’s direction during dinner, even though you could feel him looking.
It was late now. Everyone had gone to bed. You were brushing your teeth with heavy limbs and hollow thoughts, the kind that came from trying too hard to act normal. Your eyes were tired. Your mouth still ached faintly from the press of his.
You reached for the towel when suddenly a strong hand clamped over your mouth. You gasped, but before you could scream, you were pulled backwards, into the tiny shower room, the door snapping shut behind you with a soft click as it locked.
You shoved at the hand, heart racing, until it dropped away. You spun around, your back to the wall, and saw him.
Fred. He was slightly out of breath from the effort, hair mussed, eyes bright.
You glared at him, even as your pulse stuttered. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
He grinned like he’d been waiting all day to see you. “I missed you today,” he said simply.
And then he kissed you. There wasn’t any teasing this time. No playful smirk. Just heat. Sharp and overwhelming. His hands framed your face, and yours found his shirt and fisted there, like maybe you could anchor yourself to him and forget what you’d done.
You kissed him back like you hadn’t been thinking about anything else since sunrise. And for a moment, there was only him.
But then, your hand slid up and brushed against the chain around his neck and your chest cinched tight.
You broke the kiss, breathless. “Fred—”
He looked at you with dazed affection, lips parted. “What?”
“I can’t,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I feel so guilty about Ginny.”
His brows drew together slightly, but he didn’t let go of your waist. “I really don’t think she’d be upset.”
You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I know she loves you,” he said. “And I know if she thought we made each other happy, she’d be glad for it. I think we should tell her.”
You felt the words land inside you like tiny, cruel promises. “No! We can’t tell her,” you said, voice firmer now. “We can’t tell anyone.”
Fred’s hands loosened. “No one?”
You nodded. “Promise me, Fred. Please. You can’t say anything.”
He looked reluctant. “Even George?”
You hesitated, because of course George already knew. He probably knew before either of you did. “Even him,” you said anyway. “If he knows anything already, then you need to make him promise not to say a word.”
Fred exhaled, then nodded. “Alright. I promise.”
You stared at him, heart thudding against your ribs. He reached up, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, and smiled gently.
You kissed him one more time. Slow and lingering and filled with the quiet ache of knowing this wasn’t going to get any easier.
And so it began. The start of something you couldn’t name yet. A kiss in the garden. A locked door. A promise made in whispers. The beginning of a secret.
———————————————————————
You’d gotten so used to hiding it, you almost started believing you could keep it hidden forever.
It became a rhythm. A dance you and Fred had perfected over the past few weeks. A series of glances and touches and moments stolen between the cracks of your everyday life. You lived for the quiet thrill of it. The way your heart leapt when he leaned in just a little too close in the hallway, or the way your pulse skittered when he brushed your pinky with his under the table at dinner.
Sometimes, he’d manage to sit beside you, his thigh pressed against yours beneath the tablecloth, warm and steady like a secret only you were allowed to keep. His hand would rest casually on his knee until it inched over to yours, fingers tapping, tracing lines across your skin no one else could see.
And when he couldn’t sit beside you, he’d claim the seat directly across, his foot nudging yours under the table until it became a full-on game of footsie that had you biting your lip and looking anywhere but at him. Every time your eyes accidentally met, he’d grin like he was proud of himself. Like he was daring you to keep playing.
You were hopelessly smitten. And for the first time in a long time, really happy.
Fred made you laugh when things felt heavy. He kissed you like he meant it, even in the briefest snatched moments. He told you you were brilliant, and brave, and beautiful in all the ways no one ever had before. And you believed him.
It was dangerous, yes. But it was yours. Until the day it wasn’t.
It was late afternoon, the sky hanging heavy with sun and heat, and most of the Weasleys were outside flying or napping or doing chores. Ginny had been reading on the porch when you told her you needed to grab something you’d forgotten in the backyard.
That was a lie. Fred had told you to meet him in the broom shed.
You slipped away quietly, past the rose bushes and around the back of the house where the old wooden shed waited beneath the trees. The door creaked as you opened it and there he was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.
You didn’t even make it two steps before he pulled you in.
His kiss was warm, familiar, and tasted like the honey biscuits Molly had made for tea. You melted into it, hands sliding into his hair, your body fitting against his like it belonged there.
“I’ve been waiting to do this all day,” he murmured against your mouth.
You smiled into the kiss. “What if someone finds us?”
“They won’t.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “George is on Ginny duty. We’ve got time.”
You were about to respond - about to tell him you’d missed him too - when the shed door flew open.
You jolted back like you’d been burned. Ginny stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, lips parted in silent disbelief. Behind her, George winced and muttered, “Shite.”
“I knew it,” Ginny said, her voice low and trembling. “I bloody knew it.”
You stared at her, frozen. Every part of you was suddenly cold.
“Ginny—” Fred started, stepping forward.
She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were locked on yours, betrayal carved into every inch of her expression. “How long?” she demanded. “How long has this been going on behind my back?”
You opened your mouth but nothing came out.
George stepped forward. “Sorry mate, I tried to stop her—”
“You knew?!” she rounded on George like a storm, her fists balled at her sides. “You knew and didn’t say a word?!”
“I only found out recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “And it’s not my business—”
“Not your business?!” she shouted. “She’s my best friend, Fred is my brother, and you’re my other brother! How is this not our business?!”
“Ginny, please,” you finally managed to say, your voice soft, cracking. “I wanted to tell you. I swear I did.”
“But you didn’t!” she shouted. “You lied to my face. Every single day. Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“No, Gin, I never—” You stepped toward her but she stepped back.
Her face was red with fury, her eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall. “I trusted you. I trusted you more than anyone.”
Fred reached for her, voice low. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “Don’t defend her. Don’t pretend this was nothing.” She looked at you again, and it nearly broke you. “You broke our rules.”
And then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the shed. George gave Fred a grim look, then jogged after her.
And just like that…it was over.
The warmth, the secrecy, the giddy, fluttering joy that had filled you so completely. It all shattered in the space of ten seconds.
Fred turned to you, hands raking through his hair. “Bloody hell.”
You were shaking. “I didn’t know what to say. I froze.”
He pulled you into his arms, held you like it might fix things. “She just needs time.”
You nodded against his chest, but your heart wasn’t so sure. Because you hadn’t just broken the rules. You’d broken Ginny’s heart.
———————————————————————
You tried for days. Tried to talk to her, to explain, to say something, but every time you got close, Ginny slipped away like smoke.
You followed her into the garden the next morning, calling her name as she picked harshly at the overgrown mint leaves along the back fence. She didn’t turn around. When you got close enough to speak, she stood up and walked inside without a word.
Later, you found her in the kitchen, arms folded tight, back resting against the counter as Molly spoke to her in a low voice. You hovered in the doorway, unsure, heart thudding against your ribs. Ginny met your eyes for a second - just one second - and then looked away like it hurt.
You tried again on the stairs, whispering her name as she passed. She didn’t even glance at you.
You hated this. You hated how silent everything felt. How your chest ached with things unsaid.
By the time the sun dipped beneath the hills on the third day and the Burrow settled into its evening hush, you were exhausted from trying. And Ginny still hadn’t said a single word.
You crept up to your shared bedroom slowly, quietly, like maybe she’d be soft again if you just approached the right way. You reached for the doorknob, turned it gently.
Locked.
You knocked. “Ginny?”
Silence.
You knocked again, a little louder this time. “Ginny, please. Can we just…can we talk? Please?”
Nothing. Not even a shuffle from the other side. You pressed your forehead to the wood, eyes stinging.
After a long minute, you sighed and padded back down the stairs. The Burrow was quiet now. Most of the lights were off, save for the soft, golden glow from the living room. You curled up on the couch, wrapping yourself in one of the worn knitted blankets, tucking your knees to your chest. This was where you’d been spending your nights lately, not wanting to bother Molly or Arthur about other sleeping arrangements.
The silence felt louder than Ginny’s anger. It echoed. You must have sat there for almost half an hour before you heard soft steps on the stairs.
Fred. His hair was a mess, like he’d been lying in bed unable to sleep too, and his eyes found yours with immediate concern.
“You okay?” he asked gently, already knowing the answer.
“She locked me out again,” you murmured. “She won’t even look at me.”
Fred’s brow furrowed as he sat beside you, draping his arm over your shoulders and tugging you closer. “I’m sorry.”
You let your head fall onto his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen her this mad. She’s not even yelling anymore. She just…won’t see me.”
Fred let out a breath, warm against your temple. “She’ll come around. Ginny’s stubborn, but she’s not heartless. She just needs space.”
You nodded, letting the quiet settle between you again. It wasn’t the happy silence from the shed, or the secretive warmth you were used to with him. It was heavier. But his presence still helped. Still steadied you.
He rubbed circles into your arm, resting his chin lightly against your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”
You closed your eyes. “I hope so.”
And then the bottom step squeaked. You both turned.
Ginny stood in at the bottom of the staircase, holding an empty glass. Her eyes landed on you curled beside Fred. You saw the moment it hit her. The twist of disgust, the flick of her lip curling as she scoffed softly.
She didn’t say anything. Just rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel.
You threw the blanket off and jumped up. “Ginny, wait!”
She was already halfway up the stairs, empty glass still in her hand.
“Please, can we talk?” you called, following her up.
She didn’t even pause.
“Ginny—”
She reached the bedroom door, yanked it open, stepped inside. You made it just in time to catch the door slamming in your face. The sound echoed through the Burrow like a curse.
You stood there for a moment, fingers resting on the closed door, throat tight, heart cracking a little more. You didn’t even knock this time. You just turned and walked back downstairs.
Fred was waiting. His expression softened as he saw your face. “She slammed it again?”
You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.
He opened his arms. You walked straight into them. And for the rest of the night, the two of you stayed curled up on the couch. Not saying much. Just holding on.
———————————————————————
The next morning was unbearable. You sat between Fred and George at the breakfast table, the tension thick enough to slice with a wand. Ginny was across from you, lips pressed into a thin line, her toast untouched. She didn’t look at you. Not once. She didn’t even speak. Not to Fred. Not to George. Not even to Molly when she asked if she wanted more pumpkin juice.
Fred’s knee bumped against yours under the table. You didn’t move. But you didn’t lean into him either. You were ashamed. It hurt, having Ginny’s silence weigh this heavy on your chest.
After breakfast, Ginny stood without a word and disappeared up the stairs, her braid swinging sharply behind her. The door to her room slammed moments later.
You didn’t follow this time. You knew better now.
Fred glanced at you, eyes soft. “Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”
You let him lead you outside into the warm morning light, the sun stretching long and lazy over the Burrow’s messy backyard. The garden was overgrown in the loveliest way. Wildflowers sprawling into vegetable patches, vines curling along the fenceposts. Fred brushed his fingers against yours as you walked, and when he caught your eye, his smile was crooked and bright like he was trying to make things better without saying it out loud.
You stopped in front of Arthur’s old work shed.
Fred pushed the door open and gestured inside with a dramatic bow. “Milady.”
You rolled your eyes. “What exactly am I meant to be admiring in here? The rusted rake or the giant spider in the corner?”
He grinned. “Neither. Just trust me.”
You stepped inside cautiously, brushing past hanging tools and stacks of flower pots, turning just in time to see him still grinning at the threshold.
“Fred?”
“Sorry,” he said in a singsong voice, and with a swift flick and a slam, the door shut. The lock turned with a click.
“FRED!” You pounded your hand on the wood. “This is not funny!”
But footsteps were already retreating. You waited - furious - for him to open it again. But the minutes passed. The shed was warm and full of the smell of soil and sun-dried wood, and you were trying to decide whether you were more angry or confused when the door creaked again.
You stood quickly, hope flickering. “Finally.”
But it wasn’t Fred. It was Ginny. She stepped in with a suspicious scowl, looking over her shoulder. “What—?”
Before she could finish the thought, slam. Click.
You both lunged for the door.
“FRED!” Ginny shrieked. “GEORGE!”
“LET US OUT!” you yelled right behind her, slamming your fists against the wood.
But their voices were muffled and maddening on the other side.
Fred called, “Not until you talk!”
George chimed in, “Properly! No hexes, no storming off!”
“Absolutely mental,” Ginny muttered, crossing her arms as she turned her back to you and marched to the far end of the shed. She plopped down on an overturned bucket, staring hard at the dirt wall.
You stayed near the door, arms folded just as tightly, silence stretching between you like a curse.
It must’ve been hours.
The heat in the shed grew heavier, sun filtering through the tiny window above. Your legs began to ache from standing, but sitting felt too vulnerable.
And then, finally, Ginny broke it. “If you wanted to snog my brother that badly, you could’ve at least warned me,” she said coolly, not looking at you.
You bristled. “It’s not just snogging.”
“Oh, please.” She barked a laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around like a pair of teenagers and I found you in a bloody broom cupboard. What else is it supposed to be?”
“It’s real, Ginny.” You stepped closer. “We actually care about each other. It’s not some fling, this means something.”
She turned sharply, fire in her eyes. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s worse,” she hissed. “It’s worse because you didn’t just hook up with him. You fell for him. And then you hid it from me. Lied to me. Every single time I asked where you were or what you were doing—”
“Okay, did lie,” you interrupted, chest tightening. “I did…and I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Ginny snapped. “You just didn’t want to deal with the fallout.”
“And I was right, wasn’t I?” your voice rose. “Look at how you’re reacting! You won’t even listen—”
“Because you went behind my back!” she shouted. “I told you everything. Every crush, every stupid thought I had about Harry or Michael, or whoever, and you were pining over my brother the whole time!”
You stared at her, stunned by how deep her voice cut.
“I just…I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought we were friends.”
That one hurt the most. “We are,” you said, stepping forward. “Ginny, I love you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose that. I didn’t want to risk you thinking this was some betrayal. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I know I did. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to fall for him. It just happened. And for years I kept it a secret because I refused to act on it so what was the point? And then it just got worse. And I hate that I made you feel like this. I never meant to. You mean too much to me.”
She looked at you for a long time. Then she sighed, sitting down heavily on a crate. “So…how long has it been happening?”
You hung your head low. “Since last week.”
She raised a brow. “Seriously? That’s…actually not as bad as I was expecting.”
You nodded. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but he was so persistent, and…I gave in. And it’s been…honestly, it’s been amazing.”
Ginny pursed her lips. “And he’s serious?”
“Completely,” you said. “He treats me like I’m the most interesting, maddening person he’s ever met. He actually listens. And he makes me feel—” you paused, blushing a little, “—happy. Really happy.”
She let that hang in the air. Then she exhaled. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“I mean,” she shrugged, “I still think you’re an idiot. But I can live with it.”
You smiled, hesitantly at first, and then fully when Ginny rolled her eyes and opened her arms. You nearly knocked her over hugging her.
“I’m still mad,” she warned into your shoulder.
“I deserve that,” you admitted. “Completely.”
You stayed like that for a long moment. Then Fred’s voice piped up from outside, smug and singsong: “So! All good now?”
Ginny shouted, “If you ever lock me in a shed again, I swear I’ll turn your ears into flobberworms.”
George snorted. “We’ll take that as a yes.”
The door clicked open. You and Ginny stepped out, blinking in the afternoon light, shoulder to shoulder again.
Fred looked at you like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. You gave him a small smile and nodded.
All was not perfect, but it was healing. And that was enough for now.
———————————————————————
Dinner at the Burrow felt normal again.
The clinking of cutlery, the smell of roasted vegetables and gravy, the soft hum of conversation. It was like everything had fallen back into place. You sat beside Ginny again, your shoulders occasionally brushing. She’d even nudged your arm when you reached for the salt before her, and when you made a joke about Ron’s plate being stacked like a tower, she actually laughed.
It was subtle. Soft. But genuine.
From your other side, Fred was watching you with that familiar twinkle in his eye. His foot tapped yours beneath the table like it couldn’t stand not touching you, and when you glanced at him, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.
Molly glanced between you and Ginny, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly as she set down a fresh loaf of bread. “Well,” she said, voice light, “I must say it’s nice to see you two getting along again.”
Arthur looked up from his stew and nodded. “Things were a bit frosty there for a while.”
Ginny gave a dramatic eye roll and stabbed a potato. “Yeah, well…I got over it,” she muttered, shooting you a sideways smirk.
Ron frowned and pointed his fork between the two of you. “Wait. What were you even fighting about in the first place? You’ve been whispering to each other all evening. Did I miss something?”
Fred, sitting beside you, let out a soft breath - part exasperation, part amusement. Then, without warning, he reached beneath the table and gently laced his fingers through yours. His palm was warm, calloused and familiar. It made your chest tighten, just a little.
And then, just as Ron took another bite of chicken, Fred lifted your joined hands into the air. Like some kind of victory signal.
Everyone froze. Ron choked. Ginny groaned. Molly gasped, then squealed so loudly that even the ghoul in the attic probably heard her.
“Oh! Oh, I knew it! I just knew it!” she cried, practically launching herself out of her seat. Her chair scraped back as she rushed around the table, arms outstretched like she might hug the both of you into oblivion. “You’re together?! You’re really…! Oh I’m just so happy!”
“Mum,” Fred muttered, ducking his head as you laughed and tried to brace yourself for impact. “Breathe, yeah?”
She didn’t listen. Her arms were around your shoulders in a second, pulling you into a tight, motherly hug that somehow managed to be both suffocating and comforting.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said to you, eyes misty as she cupped your cheek. “I always hoped it would be you.”
Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted her approval until that very moment.
Across the table, Ron raised his eyebrows at Fred and gave him a slow, impressed nod. “Well, you actually pulled it off,” he said, clearly trying not to smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you, mate.”
“I aim to surprise,” Fred said, squeezing your hand gently under the table again.
You leaned into his side, heart fluttering. Ginny rolled her eyes again, but this time…she smiled.
“To make myself clear, rules two and three are still applicable,” She pointed between the two of you with a warning glare that held to real heat behind it.
“And rule number one?” You clarified.
“To hell with rule number one. It was stupid anyway,” she shrugged, and you beamed.
———————————————————————
Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser @lupinsweater
summary: zuko's straight-forwardness in appreciating the attractive qualities of the lone stranger saved by aang has you curious on whether you could get him to spill on what he thinks of you. (no major movie spoilers)
"He's very attractive." Zuko admits, eyes unblinking as he stares at the unconscious stranger.
The entire team whips their heads to stare at Zuko in unconcealed shock.
"What?" Zuko mutters, gaze lingering on the surprised expressions casted onto him, before eventually landing on yours. "He is. It's all in the bone structure."
You blink, unable to process his straight-forward words that landed on you like a gut punch. You've never considered it, the fact that Zuko also found others attractive.
It seems like a completely, silly notion now that the thought has verbalised itself in your mind. Of course Zuko would notice if others were considered attractive. Maybe it just never occurred to you in all your years of knowing him—of also finding him—
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his prying gaze, confusion alight in his eyes from your taken-aback expression.
If he's unconsciously considered the attractiveness of this stranger... has he ever—no, this should not be your priority. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you, it's not like it would change a thing. He's practically admitted it non-verbally through that monotonous admission of his, that a person's looks is assessed by him in a completely, impersonal standpoint.
Bone structure? You shouldn't be curious. Knowing Zuko, he might accidentally insult your structure if you asked.
The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.
It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.
It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.
Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.
"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"
Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.
Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.
"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.
"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."
There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.
"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"
He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.
Why is he looking at you like that?
It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.
"You were saying?" He prods gently.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"
His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."
"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.
"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."
"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"
"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."
You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."
As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.
"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"
"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.
You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"
He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."
No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.
"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."
"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."
Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.
"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"
A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.
"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.
He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."
"Was the view bad then?" You prod.
"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.
Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.
"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."
The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.
"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.
He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."
Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.
"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.
"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.
Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."
"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"
Surprise colours your features.
Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.
Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.
He's— "Beautiful."
By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.
You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."
"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.
"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."
It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.
He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."
You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."
"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."
You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?
You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.
"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."
He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.
"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."
The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"
"Never."
He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"
"Who's finding who attractive?"
Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.
"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"
"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"
You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.
Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.
"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"
"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.
"Agreed." He mutters.
Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.
You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"
His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."
His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
a/n: i need to write more firelord zuko stat. he looks so good and still so awkward my childhood crush has been reignited.
I think I’ve officially outgrown tumblr fanfics, it’s hard to find decent new stuff that isn’t just another smau full of poorly written characters that are nothing like their original personalities. For fandoms like Jujutsu Kaisen all the men are written like Toji=mean+horny, Sukuna=mean+less horny, Gojo=teasing+horny with little to any more depth. Or like Tokyo Revengers where most of the guys are given the same personality depending on if they’re categorized as confident or quiet. Then they make all dom-leaning characters talk with a forced accent that they definitely do not have, sometimes it’s a blaccent other times it’s a lot of “gi’me” instead of give me or “ya” instead of you. Its gotten to a point where they straight up just won’t say full words and I cannot describe the visceral ick it gives me lol. Don’t get me wrong I’ve been able to find good stuff on here before and I don’t doubt that there are good writers in these fandoms, it’s just getting harder to come by. I stopped using Wattpad for similar poor writing and it’s sad to see it happening here now.
Edit: I don’t plan on replying to the ppl reblogging this bc most of them are not approaching the conversation with the same level of maturity as I have.
If you think that having a blank blog means that you’re not able to give criticism as a reader then you’re just wrong idk what to tell you. That’s the reality that comes with writing and posting your work, that by no means justifies stuff like harassment or bullying, but that’s clearly not what I’ve done. Sorry if you took my opinions personally bc you have a 👀certain👀 taste in fanfic and smut tho lol
