The rain began long before midnight, though by the time the ancient bells of Blackthorn Academy rang twelve slow chimes, the storm had transformed into something wild enough to shake the castleâs foundations.
Water cascaded endlessly down the gothic stone walls, spilled from gargoyle mouths perched along the rooftops and struck the enormous glass ceiling of the academy greenhouse with a steady violence. Beyond the fogged windows stretched the Blackthorn forest. Vast and dark. Impossibly old, itâs towering pine trees bending beneath the wind as if something unseen moved through them.
Most students had retreated hours ago to the warmth of their dormitories. The vampires disappeared underground before storm whenever possible, claiming thunder disrupted their hearing. The werewolves gather in the west wing near the cliffs during bad weather, where the scent of rain and pine drifting through the open halls soothed restless instincts. Witches usually remained in the libraries or observatories, wrapped in blankets and candlelight while studying spellwork late into the night.
You preferred the greenhouse.
It was quieter than the rest of the academy, tucked far enough away from the main halls that nobody came unless they needed something specific. The professors called it the oldest structure on campusâs. According to legend, the greenhouse had existed before Blackthorn itself, back when the mountain belonged to covens rather than schools. Sometimes, especially on nights like these, it felt alive in a way the rest of the academy never quite did.
Warm air thick with the scent of damp soil and crushed herbs wrapped around you as you leaned over one of the long wooden worktables near the center aisle. Dozens of hanging plants swayed gently overhead with every tremor of thunder, casting shifting shadows across shelves lined with dried flowers, potions ingredients and ancient ceramic jars labeled in fading gold ink.
The only light came from the candles floating lazily near the ceiling and the sift amber glow of your spellbook resting open beside your elbow. You adjusted the sleeves of your oversized cardigan before returning your attention to the tincture spread across the table in swing of you, carefully grinding moonlace petals into a fine silver powder with the mortar and pestle in your hands. The repetitive motion should have been calming. Usually it was.
Tonight, however, concentration felt impossible.
Maybe it was the storm.
Or maybe it was because every few minutes your eyes drifted unwillingly toward the same page of notes sitting beside your potion ingredients, where half-finished sketches of silver-induced injuries stared back at you in uneven handwriting.
Silver poisoning and magical tissue damage. Advanced healing techniques for supernatural species.
You sighed softly, rubbing your tired eyes. Professor Miriam had assigned the entire healing class restoration tonics before Friday. And while most of the other witches complained endlessly about the workload, you secretly liked assignments like this. Healing magic demanded patience rather than raw power. Patience had always come easier to you than performance. Unlike many of the students at Blackthorn, you had never cared much about becoming impressive.
You only wanted to become useful.
Outside, thunder cracked sharply enough to rattle the greenhouse windows. The floating candles dimmed for a brief moment. You glanced upward instinctively, watching rainwater stream down the curved glass ceiling in silver rivers while ivy vines crept along the iron support beams overhead. The greenhouse looked beautiful during storms. Haunted maybe, but beautiful in the sort of way old things often became after surviving for too long.
A sudden noise shattered the silence. Not thunder.
Something heavier.
A crash echoed somewhere beyond the greenhouse walls, followed immediately by the sharp sound of metal rattling against stone. You froze.
The pestle slipped slightly in your grasp. For a moment, everything went still except for the storm.
Then came another sound. Closer this time. A strained inhale. Human.
Your heartbeat quickened flimsy instantly. Students werenât allowed near the outer greenhouse grounds after curfew, especially during storms. Too many accidents had happened over the years in the surrounding forest. Blackthornâs professors had become increasingly strict about nighttime restrictions after several younger students wandered too close to the cliffs during full moons.
Slowly, you pushed back from the worktable. The stone floor felt cold beneath your boots as you moved through the narrow aisles between overgrown shelves and hanging bundles of herbs. Shadows shifted around you with every flicker of candlelight. The wind outside moaned softly against the glass like something tried to get in.
Another rough breath sounded just beyond the rear entrance. Definitely human.
You hesitated with your hand resting against the iron handle of the greenhouse door. Every sensible instinct told you to fetch a professor instead. Instead, you pulled the door open. Rain and cold air swept violently into the greenhouse at once.
For half a second you saw nothing except darkness and sheets of rain slanting sideways through courtyard garden. Then lightning illuminated the space beyond the doorway. And there, collapsed against the ivy-covered stone wall just outside the entrance, sat Abby Anderson.
Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt. Even injured, Abby possessed a kind of presence that made people instinct notice her. She was taller than most students at Blackthorn, broad-shouldered and solidly built beneath the dark clothing now drenched completely through with rainwater. Her braid hung heavy over one shoulder, partially undone and mud streaked across her boots and hands as though she had crossed half the forest to get here.
Blood soaked the sleeve of her jacket. Too much blood.
One arm pressed tightly against her side while her head rested against the stone behind her. Eyes closed and jaw clenched hard enough that the muscles there visibly tightened beneath pale skin. You had seen Abby injured before during combat classes. Nothing like this.
ââOh my god,ââ you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Hey eyes opened immediately. The change was instant enough to startle you. One second she looked barely conscious, the next she was alert, focused entirely on you despite the obvious exhaustion pulling at every line of her face.
For a brief moment something distinctly wolfish flickered through her expression-not aggression exactly, but the sharp instinct of a wounded animal deciding whether it was safe to let someone close. Then recognition settled in.
ââYou shouldnât be out here,ââ she said quietly, though her voice sounded rough with pain. You stared at the blood running steadily down her arm.
ââAbbyâŠââ
ââIâm fine.ââ
The lie would have been almost convincing if she hadnât killed seconds away from collapsing completely. Rainwater dripped steadily from her hair onto the stone beneath her boots while thunder rolled somewhere overhead. Up close, you could see how pale she had become beneath the cold. And then you noticed the wound itself. The torn fabric near her shoulder had darkened strangely around the edges. Beneath the blood something silver gleamed faintly against her skin.
Your stomach dropped.
Silver.
Not ordinary silver either.
Enchanted.
Every healing fracture you had ever attended rushed unpleasantly back into your mind at once. Silver injuries were dangerous for werewolves under normal circumstances, but magically enhanced silver could prevent healing entirely if left untreated too long.
ââAbby,ââyou said again, more firmly this time, ââyou need help.ââ
ââNo professors.ââ
Her answer came too quickly. You frowned.
ââWhat happens to you?ââ
ââI said Iâm fine.ââ
ââYouâre bleeding all over the courtyard.ââ
A faint, exhausted huff escaped her at that, something dangerously close to a laugh despite the situation. Still, she tried to push herself upright. The second she shifted, pain crossed her face so sharply your chest tightened involuntary. One hand braced hard against the wall beside her while her breathing grew uneven for a moment before she forced it back under control. And somehow that was worse than if she had cried out.
There was something deeply unsettling about watching someone hurt that badly while trying so hard not to show it. You stepped closer before thinking better of it.
ââCan you stand?ââ
ââProbably.ââ
ââThat doesnât sound reassuring.ââ
This time the corner of her mouth lifted slightly. Tiny. Barely there. But enough to soften something about her face that you had never seen before. Most people at Blackthorn described Abby as intimidating, though you had never entirely understood why. Quiet, yes. Reserved certainly. But there was a difference between someone dangerous and someone simply accustomed to carrying too much alone.
Abby had always seemed like the second kind. Even now, bleeding and exhausted beneath the storm, she looked more stubborn than frightening.
ââPlease,ââ she said finally, voice quieter now. ââJust⊠no infirmary.ââ
The word settled heavily between you. Please.
You werenât sure you had ever heard Abby ask anyone for anything before. Around campus she carried herself with careful discipline, the sort that came naturally to people constantly being watched. Werewolves already drew attention at Blackthorn because of their heightened instincts and physical abilities. Abby carried additional weight besides that. Rumors followed her constantly, about her family, her pack, the expectations placed on her outside the academy walls.
Most students kept their distance because they assumed she preferred it. Maybe they were wrong. You crouched carefully beside her.
ââLet me see.ââ
For a moment she hesitated. Then slowly, she lowered her arm. To close the wound looked even worse. Deep claw marks carved across her shoulder and collarbone, but it was the silver threaded through the damaged skin that made your pulse quicken. The burns spread outward like fractures beneath the surface, glowing faintly beneath the blood.
This had not been an accident. Something had hunted her. You looked up instinctively.
ââWho did this to you?ââ
Abbys gaze shifted away toward the storm-dark forest beyond the courtyard.
ââIt doesnât matter.ââ
ââIt matters if it kills you.ââ
Silence.
Rain hammered against the greenhouse roof behind you while wind curled through the ivy overhead. Abbyâs expression closed off immediately, not hostile exactly, but distant in the way people became when they were trying very hard not to reveal something painful. You understood the feeling more than you wanted to admit.
Carefully, you slipped one of her arms over your shoulders.
The moment you touched her, Abby went completely still.
You felt it instantly, the unnatural warmth beneath her soaked jacket, the tension running through muscles rigid with pain and restraint, the slight tremor she was clearly trying to suppress.
âYou okay?â you asked quietly.
After a pause, she nodded once.
Not convincing.
Still, together you managed to get her inside.
Warm air enveloped both of you immediately as the greenhouse door swung shut against the storm, muting the sound of rain into a distant roar overhead. Abby leaned heavily against the nearest worktable while you guided her carefully onto its edge, one large hand gripping the wood hard enough that her knuckles whitened beneath the blood smeared across them.
Only then did you realize how close the two of you suddenly were.
Close enough to smell rainwater and pine clinging to her clothes beneath the sharper scent of blood and wet earth.
Close enough to notice the exhaustion shadowing her eyes.
Close enough to realize Abby Anderson looked heartbreakingly human when she stopped trying so hard to appear strong.
I hope you enjoyed this one. Like I said English is not my first language so please be considerate with the grammar. This is not proofread. Please stay respectful.
The first time Abby Anderson came to the greenhouse, she was bleeding. Rainwater soaked through her clothes, silver burned beneath her skin and exhaustion clung to her like a second shadow as she stood trembling beneath the dim candlelight of Blackthorn Academyâs oldest tower.
Werewolves healed fast. Silver made sure they didnât. She should have gone to the infirmary. Instead she came to you.
A witch more familiar with healing herbs than combat magic. Quiet where Abby was guarded. Soft where the world expected her to be sharp. The kind of person who spent nights hidden among moonflowers and spell book while storms raged outside the castle walls. You were never supposed to become important to someone like Abby Anderson. Blackthorn Academy had rules about witches and werewolves for a reason.
But rules become dangerous things when loneliness starts to feel too much like home and Abby- quiet, careful, endlessly carrying the weight of everyone around her, looked at you like you were the first place she had ever felt safe.
(Abby Anderson x Female Reader â Modern AU, fluff, Co-Workers to Lovers)
Word Count~ around 1,9k
The firehouse smelled like burnt coffee and smoke, as usual. It was the kind of smell that clung to your clothes long after your shift had ended. A blend of caffeine, sweat and the faint tang of adrenaline.
You were halfway through your morning cup when the bay doors rolled open and the firetruck backed in. Tires hissing on the damp concrete. Through the windshield, you could see her. Abby Anderson. Shoulders squared, blonde hair tucked under her helmet, soot smudged across her cheek.
You told yourself not to stare. You always told yourself that.
But then she jumped down from the truck, pulling off her gloves with her teeth. And that quiet, tired smile hit you right in the chest like it always did.
âMorning, Paramedicâ she said, voice rough with exhaustion.
âMorning Firefighterâ you tease back, handing her a bottled water from the cooler. âYou look like you wrestled a chimneyâ
Abby laughed, low and warm. âNot far off. Kitchen fire. Some guy tried to deep fry a turkey inside his apartment.â
You winced. âPeople really do that?â
âPeople really do that.â She sighed, downing half the bottle in one go. Her throat worked as she swallowed and you had to look away before your brain betrayed you with thoughts it shouldnât have on duty.
âBet you saved the dayâ you said, reaching for the clipboard on the counter. âTeam didâ Abby corrected, always humble. Always that same quiet pride in her voice.
The station was slow that afternoon, the lull between emergencies stretching into lazy normalcy. Abby sat across from you at the worn kitchen table, reading something on her tablet. Probably another training manual. You were filling out a patient report, trying not to notice how her forearms flexed when she reached for her mug.
âYou ever take a break?â you asked finally. Abby looked up, brows furrowed. âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâre always reading or running drills, doing pull-ups like a maniacâ you said with a small grin. âYou ever, I donât know, just sit and exist?â
âI exist plenty. You just donât notice because youâre always running out the door to safe people.â
âOkay, fineâ you said. âBut when was the last time you did something fun. Like not work related?â Abby tilted her head, considering. âDoes coffee count?â
âNo.â
She chuckled. âThen itâs been a while.â You leaned your chin on your hand. âWe should fix that.â That made her pause. Her blue eyes lifted from the table, locking onto yours, searching. âAre you asking me out, paramedic?â Your heart did a very unprofessional somersault. âMaybe Iâm just trying to save you from dying of boredom.â
âRightâ Abby said, the smirk deepening. âPurely medical reasons.â
âExactlyâ
Your chance came sooner than expected. A few days later, you were both dispatched to the same scene. A car accident on a rain-slick highway. Abbyâs team handled the extraction while you stabilised a young man in the ambulance. Through the open doors, you could see her. Soaked through, helmet off, rain dripping down her jaw as she barked calm, steady orders. She moved like she was born for it. Focused, confident, heart steady while everyone panicked.
When it was over, patient loaded, scene cleared, you found her leaning against the truck. She was drenched and shivering. âYouâre soakedâ you said, tossing her a towel from your kit. âSo are youâ she countered, but took it anyway. Her hair clung to her temples, cheeks flushed from the cold.
âYou did good out thereâ you said softly. âSo did you.â
You eat her eyes and for a second, everything around you- the flashing lights, the rain, the noise- blurred into nothing. Just her. Just that tiny, unspoken thing that had been building between you for months. The someone yelled for her and the moment snapped.
A week later you were sitting in the firehouse kitchen again, when Abby dropped a small to-go cup in front of you. âLatte, two sugars.â she said casually.
âYou remembered my order?â
âI remember a lot of things.â Abby said, sitting across from you. Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were soft. You took a sip, trying to hide your smile. âSo is this the fun we talked about?â
Abby grinned. âI was thinking more of a hike. Or a movie. Or you know, something that doesnât involve broken bones and fire.â
Your chest fluttered. âAre you asking me out?â This time she didnât hesitate.â I amâ
Your first date was awkward in the best way. Abby picked you up in her beat-up pickup, the inside smelling faintly of pine and smoke. You went hiking at a nearby trail, both pretending it was just âfriends hanging outâ, even though your heart hadnât stopped racing since she smiled at your door.
The afternoon sun painted her skin gold, sweat glinting on her shoulders as she climbed ahead of you. Every once in a while, sheâd turn to offer a hand over a rock or a root. Her touch steady, warm.
âYou good?â she asked after one particularly steep section. âFineâ you panted. âYou just have way too much energy.â
She laughs. âComes with the job.â At the top, the two of you sat side by side, looking out at the city skyline. Abbyâs knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.
âItâs weirdâ you said softly. âSeeing it all peaceful from up here, knowing what we deal with down there.â
Abby nodded. âYeah. Makes you appreciate the quiet.â
You turned to her. âThis counts as taking a break, by the way.â
She smiled. âGuess so.â
For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of wind and distant traffic, the warmth of the sun, the weight of her shoulder barely touching yours. Then Abby said, almost shyly. âIâve been wanting to do this for a while.â
You glanced at her. âHiking?â
She met your gaze. âNo. This. Be here with you.â
Your breath caught. âYou could have said something.â
âI didnât want to mess up what we had.â she admitted. âYouâre kind of the best part of my day you knowâŠâ
You smiled, heart melting. âYou couldâve just said that sooner.â Abbyâs laugh was soft, disbelieving and then she leaned in. Slow enough for you to stop her if you wanted to. You didnât.
The kiss was tentative at first, careful, searching. Then deepened into something really and steady, like everything about her. When you finally pulled back, both of you were smiling like idiots.
âDefinitely counts as a breakâ you whisper.
âBest one Iâve ever taken.â Abby said.
After that the rhythm of work felt different. You still bickered playfully over who made the better coffee, still exchanged teasing remarks over the radio during joint calls. But there were different little things now. The way Abbyâs hand brushed yours when she passed a report, the way she always made sure your rig was stocked before her shift ended. The quiet looks you shared in the chaos.
One night, after a long shift she walked you out to your car. The lot was dark, your breath mistaking in the cold air.
âGet home safe okay?â she said.
âYou too.â
You hesitated, then stepped closer. âHey Abby?â
âYeah?â
You rose on your toes and kissed her, quick, soft, tasting of coffee and exhaustion and something like home.
When you pulled back, she smiled that slow, sweet smile that always undid you.
âSee you tomorrow, paramedic.â
âSee you tomorrow, firefighter.â
Months later, the station threw a joint appreciation barbecue for the firefighters and EMS crew. The sun was blazing, someone had burned the burgers, and you were laughing so hard your ribs hurt when Abby came up behind you, looping an arm around your waist.
âHaving fun?â she murmured.
âDepends,â you said, leaning back against her. âYou gonna steal me another soda?â
Abby chuckled. âI think I can manage that.â
She handed you a can, and you bumped it against hers. âTo not working ourselves to death.â
You spent the rest of the evening tangled up in laughter, stories, and the easy comfort of belonging. When the sun dipped low, painting the firetrucks gold, you caught Abby watching you with that same quiet affection that had drawn you in from the start.
âWhat?â you asked, smiling.
She shook her head. âJust thinking how lucky I got.â
You blushed, bumping her shoulder. âYou mean we got.â
Abbyâs arm tightened around you. âYeah. We did.â
And in that moment, surrounded by sirens and smoke and laughter you realized that love, for people like you and her, didnât come in grand gestures or perfect timing. It came in small, steady moments, a bottle of water after a call, a shared joke in the kitchen, a quiet hand at your back when the world felt heavy.
It came in the way she looked at you like you were worth saving too.
Hope you enjoyed this. Iâm sorry it took so long to post but Uni is really hard on me right now.
Ellie Williams sat at the edge of the park, the faint hum of the city just a few blocks away. But here it felt different, quieter. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting everything in a soft gold. It was the kind of afternoon that made everything feel right. But Ellie couldnât help but feel a little on edge.
She glanced over at you, the one person who could make her feel at ease without saying a word. You were sitting on the grass, sketchbook in your lap, a pencil between your fingers as you focused on whatever you were trying to capture. She had always admired the way you got lost in your art, how it was like nothing else existed in that span of time.
There was a slight breeze, the kind that made the air feel fresh and new. Ellie had always loved moments like these, peaceful and quiet. With you around, they seemed even better. Because for the first time in a long time Ellie realised she wasnât just comfortable in your company⊠she was alive.
The realisation hit her like a punch to the gut. Sheâd known it for a while. The way her heart raced when you smiled, the way her thoughts would drift to you at the most random times. But it wasnât until today, under the sunlit sky, that it felt like the truth sheâd been avoiding.
You looked up from your sketchbook, catching her gaze with a soft, knowing smile. âYou okay?â You asked, the concern in your voice so genuine that it made Ellieâs chest tighten.
Ellie managed a weak grin âYeah, just⊠thinking.â
You raised an eyebrow âAbout what?â
Her eyes darted for a moment, unwilling to meet yours. But the quiet pause in the air, the weight of the unspoken words, made it impossible to avoid. She knew she couldnât just sit here forever pretending like nothing had changed between them. Because something had.
Finally, Ellie sighed, dropping her shoulders as if the weight of her thoughts had become too much to bear. âI think Iâm in love with you.â
The words come out quickly, almost in a rush. But once said, Ellie felt a strange sense of relief. It was terrifying but also freeing. She had no idea how you would respond but she couldnât keep pretending that her feelings were anything less than what they were.
You blinked at her, your face unreadable for a moment. Ellie held her breath, waiting for some kind of reaction. You didnât say anything at first, just stared at her with an intensity that sent her heart pounding in her chest.
Then a smile tugged at your lips, slow and unsure, like you were processing the weight of her words. âYou mean like in love love?â
Ellie chuckled nervously, running a hand through her short hair. âYeah, I mean⊠itâs kinda obvious, right?â
You bit your lip, your eyes flickering down to the sketchbook in your lap. There was an uncomfortable silence between you, filled with all the words neither one of you knew how to say.
âI donât know what to say.â You finally met her eyes, a little hesitant. But there was something in the way you looked at her, a spark. âI donât think Iâve ever felt this way about anyone before Ellie.â
Ellieâs stomach flipped, she couldnât tell whether it was nerves or hope. â So you⊠donât feel the same?â
You shook your head, leaning forward on your elbows. Your expression softening. âNo, I do. I just⊠I didnât know you felt the same. I was kind of scared to admit it myself.â
For a moment the world seemed to stand still. The only sound the soft rustling of the leaves around you. Ellieâs heart pounded in her chest. But this time it wasnât form fear. It was from the anticipation, the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something new between the two of you.
You set the sketchbook aside, crawling over to where she sat on the grass. Your eyes never leaving hers. The space between you both felt electric now, like it was only a matter of time before something shifted. When you were close enough, you reached out, cupping her cheek gently. The warmth of your touch sending a thrill through her.
Ellie swallowed hard, looking at you with a mix of longing and uncertainty. âSo, what does this mean?â
You smiled, your thumb tracing her jawline like you couldnât quite believe the moment was real either. âIt meansâŠâ you leaned in, your lips just inches away from hers, âI think Iâm in love with you too.â
And the with no words needed, you kissed her slow, soft, as if testing the waters. Ellie leaned into it, letting herself get lost in the sensation of it. The feel of your lips against hers, the world fading away until it was just the two of you. She couldnât remember the last time sheâd felt this certain, this right.
When you pulled back, both of you breathless, Ellie rested her forehead against yours. Smiling that familiar soft smile she reserved only for you. âAbout timeâ she whispered, her voice soft but filled with that typical Ellie sass.
You laughed, the sound of it a melody that made her heart swell.
For the first time in a long time, Ellie felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Here, with you.
No more hiding of unsaid things, no more pretending. Just two best friends who had always been more, finally giving in to what had been there all along.
And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting everything in a warm, golden light, Ellie knew this was only the beginning of something great.
Had that one planned for a while, itâs not proofread
Youâve spent years locking horns with Abby Anderson, Slytherinâs unstoppable Chaser, your fiercest rival on the Quidditch pitch. Every match is a battle, every glance a spark. But when an unexpected twist after the seasonâs final game throws you together, you start to realize that hate and heat might not be so different after all. And maybe⊠falling was inevitable.
Chapter 2
The morning after the match, Hogwarts is buzzing. You can feel it in every corridor: the hum of leftover excitement, the echo of cheers in the Great Hall. The tired but satisfied ache in your limbs. Hufflepuff banners still hang crookedly from the rafters, shimmering gold in the candlelight.Â
You should be happy. You are happy, mostly. But you canât shake the image of Abby Andersonâs face after the game ended, that unreadable calm as she walked off the pitch. The faintest shadow of something like frustration, or maybe something else.Â
You push the thought aside as you pour pumpkin juice in your cup. Your teammates are still reliving the victory, reenacting your interception for the fiftieth time. You laugh along, even smile when someone raises a toast at you. But underneath the noise, a thin thread of restlessness winds tight in your chest.Â
By the time you head to class, youâre running late. The corridor to Greenhouse Four is half empty. The morning light filters through frosted windows in pale streaks. Youâre almost at the door when someone steps out of an intersecting hallway.Â
Green robes.Â
Of course.Â
âMorning, sunshine.â Abbyâs voice drips with mock sweetness bur her eyes glint with mischief. âStill basking in the glow of your stolen win?âÂ
You exhale slowly. âWe scored fair and square.âÂ
âFair and squareâ, she repeats, tasting the words. âIâll remember that next time a Hufflepuff shoulder checks me mid-pass.âÂ
âYou nearly broke Martaâs wrist last game.âÂ
âThat was strategy.âÂ
âRight, strategy.âÂ
The corner of her mouth quirks up. âYouâre cute when youâre defensive, you know that?âÂ
The words hit harder than they should. You open your mouth, something between an insult and a retort waiting on your tongue. But then Professor Sproutsâs voice cuts through the air like a whip.Â
âAnderson! (Your Last Name)! Do you two plan on standing there all day exchanging insults or would you care to explain why the corridor floor is covered in Sopophorous Bean residue?âÂ
You blink, then notice it. The mess of crushed pods across the floor. You hadnât realised youâd kicked over a crate in your verbal sparring.Â
Sproutâs sigh is long and world-weary. âDetention. Tonight. Both of you. My greenhouse at seven.âÂ
Abby groans softly. âYouâve got to be kidding me.âÂ
âDoes it look like Iâm kidding?â Sprout says briskly, already walking away.Â
You glance sideways at Abby. She meets your gaze, eyes narrowing. âGreat. Just what I needed. A romantic evening among manure sacks.âÂ
âTrust me,â you shoot back, âIâm not thrilled either.âÂ
But the truth is, a small inexplicable flicker of anticipation starts to take root somewhere inside you.Â
Evening comes faster than expected. The greenhouse smells of damp soil and dragon dung fertilizer. A scent youâve grown used to over the years. Though tonight it feels heavier somehow. Lanterns cast golden pools of light across the benches, catching in the dust motes that drift lazily through the air.Â
Professor Sprout gives you both a single, withering look before handing out instructions. âWeâre repotting Venomous Tentacula. No magic, no shortcuts. Iâll be in my office. I expect this place tidy when I return.âÂ
Then sheâs gone. Leaving silence behind.Â
You and Abby stand there, gloves on. Surrounded by dangerous plant that twitch if you look at them too long.Â
âWell,â Abby says finally, rolling up her sleeves, âthis is cozy.âÂ
You snort. âTry not to get strangled.âÂ
She smirks. âConcerned for me, Hufflepuff?âÂ
âConcerned about explaining to Sprout why thereâs a corpse in her greenhouse.âÂ
Her laugh, low, rough, genuine fills the space between you. It catches you off guard. You glance up. And for a moment you forget to look away. The lamplight throws soft shadows across her features, picking out the strong lines of her face. The faint bruise along her temple from the match.Â
You look back to the Tentacula before she notices the heat crawling up your neck. âJust grab the smaller roots first,â you mutter. âTheyâre less likely to bite.Â
âYes Captain,â she says. Voice teasing.Â
You start working in silence, the rhythm strangely soothing. Soil, roots, breath. The sound of her gloves brushing the earth. Every so often your hands reach for the same pot, fingers nearly touching. The air feels charged, like the quiet before lightning:Â
After nearly an hour, you risk a glance. Abbyâs hair has slipped from its braid. A few strands sticking to her forehead. Thereâs dirt smuggled across her cheek. She looksâŠhuman. Tired even.Â
She catches you staring. âWhat?âÂ
âNothing.â You go back to work quickly.Â
She sets down her trowel. âYouâve been glaring at me for five years. Now youâre just going to nothingme?âÂ
You shrug, trying for indifference. âJust wondering why you didnât take the Quaffle yesterday?âÂ
Her jaw tightens, the muscle in her cheek flexing. âYou really canât let that go, can you?â
âI just want to know.âÂ
For a second she says nothing, then lets out a breath. âFine. I saw you dive. You were too low. Another second and youâd have hit the ground. I pulled up because I didnât feel like watching someone splatter in front of me, alright?â
You stare at her, stunned. âThatâs it?âÂ
âThatâs it.âÂ
The sincerity in her voice leaves no room for argument. Something twists in your chest, gratitude maybe, or confusion. You mention a quiet, âThanks.âÂ
She waves it off. âDonât mention it.âÂ
But you can tell sheâs uncomfortable with the softness of the moment. She grabs another plant, shoves it into a pot a little too hard and mutters, âYouâre still infuriating.âÂ
âYou too.âÂ
Her mouth curves into the ghost of a smile.Â
The work goes on until the greenhouse has that muffled, late-evening stillness that seeps in when the rest of the castle quiets. The lamps burn lower, The air thick with the smell of damp leaves. You and Abby have found a rhythm. One of you holds the pot while the other guides a thrashing vine into place. Both of you ducking every time a tendril snaps too close.Â
It shouldnât feel like teamwork, but it does.Â
When the last Tentacula is secure, you straighten. Stretching the ache from your shoulders. Abby wipes her arm across her brow, leaving a streak of soil behind. âWell,â she says, âNo casualties. Iâm impressed.âÂ
âYou doubted me?âÂ
âI doubt everyone,â she replies easily, but the edge in her tone has dulled. She leans against the bench, the lamplight cutting gold into her hairs. âYou play like someone who doesnât know how to quit. I figured thatâd carry over to everything else.âÂ
You tilt your head. âThat supposed to be an insult or a compliment?âÂ
Her eyes flick towards you. âLittle bit of both:âÂ
For a long moment neither of you moves. Outside, rain has begun to fall. Pattering softly on the glass panes. The sound fills the silence until it feels almost comfortable.Â
âYou ever think about what youâll do after Hogwarts?â you ask, surprising yourself.
Abby blinks. âAfter?â
âYeah. Life without Quidditch. Or⊠life where youâre not trying to beat the same person every weekend.â
A laugh escapes her, short but real. âI canât picture it. You?â
You shake your head. âNot really. Feels like the whole worldâs built around this rivalry.â
She studies you, then says quietly, âYou donât actually hate me, do you?â
The question catches you completely off guard. âWhat?â
âYou said you did, once. After that match in third year.â
You remember, shouting it across the pitch after she sent you spinning off your broom. Youâd meant it then, or thought you had. Now, standing here, it feels childish.
âI donât,â you admit. âI donât even know if I ever did.â
Abbyâs expression softens, almost imperceptibly. âGood,â she murmurs. âBecause I donât, either.â
She looks away quickly, as if embarrassed by the confession. You watch the muscles in her forearm tighten as she adjusts the cuff of her glove, the way her jaw works when sheâs holding back words. Something in your chest shiftsâan ache, a warmth, maybe both.
âYouâre not what I expected,â you say quietly.
âThat supposed to mean something?â
âYeah. It means I misjudged you.â
She exhales, a small huff of disbelief. âGuess weâre both guilty of that.â
For a moment, the greenhouse feels smaller. The rain, the earthy smell, the faint flicker of light. All of it presses in around you. Sheâs still watching you, and thereâs a strange gentleness in her eyes that youâve never seen before.
âYouâve got dirt on your face,â she says suddenly.
Before you can react, she steps closer and reaches out. The edge of her glove brushes your cheek as she wipes away the smear of soil. Her touch is light, brief, but enough to send a rush of heat through you.
She realizes what sheâs done and pulls her hand back. âSorry.â
âItâs fine,â you manage, though your voice sounds unsteady even to you.
The door creaks open before either of you can say more. Professor Sprout pokes her head in, eyes scanning the tidy benches. âGood. Youâre finished. Both of you may go.â
You mutter a quick âYes, Professorâ and strip off your gloves. Abby does the same, giving a small salute as Sprout disappears again.
When the door closes, you both just stand there for a second, the moment from before hanging in the air like a held breath.
Abby clears her throat. âSame time next detention?â
You laugh, surprised by how easy it feels. âLetâs try to stay out of trouble for at least a day.â
âNo promises.â She shoulders her broom and heads for the door, pausing just long enough to glance back. âNight, Hufflepuff.â
âNight, Anderson.â
She grins, quick and genuine, before stepping into the corridor. The sound of her footsteps fades away, leaving you alone with the soft drip of rain and the lingering warmth of where her hand touched your skin.
You realize then that something between you has changed, not loudly, not all at once, but quietly, like the shift of wind before a storm.
Youâre no longer sure if you want to win the next match⊠or just see her again.
Youâve spent years locking horns with Abby Anderson, Slytherinâs unstoppable Chaser, your fiercest rival on the Quidditch pitch. Every match is a battle, every glance a spark. But when an unexpected twist after the seasonâs final game throws you together, you start to realize that hate and heat might not be so different after all. And maybe⊠falling was inevitable.
Chapter 1
The roar of the crowd hits first, thousands of voices rising in a single wave of noise that rattles through your chest and makes your broom hum beneath you.
The wind is cold and sharp, carrying the scent of wet grass and metallic. Quidditch weather. Perfect.
You circle high above the pitch, tightening your grip around your broom handle. Yellow and Black scarfs blur in the stands beneath you. Hufflepuff banners snapping in the wind. Across the field, a flash of green and silver cuts through the air. Slytherins formation, ruthless and precise. And right at the heart of it is her.
Abby Anderson.
Even from here, she is unmistakable. Broad shoulders, steady control of her broom and that infuriatingly calm face. Sheâs one of the Slytherin Chasers, a powerhouse of a player who treats every match like a duel. Youâve gone up against her three times already this season. And every time you thought you figured her out, she surprises you. Brutal, graceful, unbeatable.
You inhale, the adrenaline humming through your body. You dip your broom slightly to line up with her. The whistle blows.
And then everything explodes into motion.
The Quaffle rockets into play, you dive, following the brown blur. A Hufflepuff chaser, Marta snatches it and heads for the goal. You cover her left flank, ready for interference. You donât have to look to know Abbyâs coming.
The collision of green and yellow happens in a heartbeat. Abby intercepts the pass midair, twisting her broom so smoothly it almost looks like choreography. You swear under your breath, leaning forward into pursuit.
She glances of her shoulder, a smirk playing at her lips. The kind that makes your stomach clench.
"Too slow, Hufflepuff" she calls, voice cutting through the wind.
You grit your teeth. "Keep talking Anderson. Youâll need the distraction when I take the Quaffle back."
She only laughs, a low, rough sound that manages to be both mocking and incredibly attractive.
You push harder, your broom dips lower. Skimming the tops of the stands and then you rise sharply. Cutting her off with a sudden climb. The crowd gasps as you intercept the pass she was lining up. For a moment you see her eyes widen, just a flicker of surprise. You feel a sharp thrill of satisfaction.
You pass the Quaffle to Marta and loop around for defense, heart hammering.
When the play halts for a brief foul review, you hover near midfield. Breath fogging in the cold. Abbyâs a few metres away, tugging off one glove with her teeth. Her knuckles are scraped, a smear of dirt runs along her cheekbone. She wipes it off with the back of her hand, glances at you once, then looks away.
Something in your chest feels strange. Like the adrenaline canât decide whether to settle or spike again.
Sheâs the enemy you remind yourself. Nothing more. A Slytherin with a killer throw and a temper to match. The way she plays, relentless, tactical. Itâs everything that gets under your skin. Youâve hated her since second year, when she sent you spinning into a goalpost during your first match. She never apologised of course. Slytherins donât apologise.
The whistle blows again. You push the thought away, back to the game. Hours seem to condense into minutes. You lose track of time, lost in the rhythm of the game. The score stays tight, Hufflepuff trailing by ten. Every time you gain ground, Abbyâs there. Intercepting, blocking.
By the time the snitch is sighted your muscles ache and your hair is plastered to your forehead. You can barely hear your teammates over the rush of your heartbeat. The Hufflepuff seeker dives, so does the Slytherins.
In the chaos you see the Quaffle hurtling loose, straight toward the ground. Without thinking you dive after it. Another broom flashes beside you, green robes, the gleam of determination. Of course sheâs there.
You and Abby both reach for it. Your gloves brush, fingers trailing over the Quaffles slick surface. The impact jars up your arms as your shoulders slam together. Youâre close enough to see the edge of her jaw tighten, the flickering of concentration in her eyes.
Then she does something unexpected.
She eases off.
You catch the Quaffle, stunned and pull up before hitting the ground. You throw it instinctively toward Marta who score seconds before the final whistle blares.
Hufflepuff wins.
The sounds from the stands are deafening. Yellow scarfs whip through the air, your teammates are shouting your name. Hugging, yelling, laughing. But your gaze automatically flicks to where Abbyâs hovering. Shes already sulking, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
Later in the changing rooms, your team is loud, the kind of post-match chaos that smells like butterbeer and sweat. Youâre smiling, laughing but your mind keeps drifting elsewhere. Back to that split second when Abby could have taken the Quaffle and didnât.
When you finally step out into the cool evening, the corridors are quiet. Youâre halfway to the Great Hall when you see her leaning against the wall near the entrance. Still in her Slytherin robes, broom at her side.
You almost walk past her. Almost.
"Congrats" she says, voice low but steady. "That last dive was reckless as hell."
You glance at her, "Youâre one to talk."
A small humorous laugh escapes her.
Silence stretches, she looks at you. Not with the usual sharpness but something close to curiosity. Itâs disarming.
"Whyâd you back off?" you ask before you can stop yourself. "You had the Quaffle, you couldâve taken it."
Her shoulders shift, a faint shrug. "Didnât feel like winning that way."
You blink. "Since when do Slytherins care about fairness?"
She meets your gaze then, eyes glinting faintly in the torchlight. "Since when do Hufflepuffs assume they know everyoneâs motives?"
That lands heavier than you expect. You open your mouth, close it again. Abby smirks,not mockingly this time, but almost softly.
You should let her go. You should celebrate, revel in the win, forget her. But something keeps you rooted there, watching the way her braid catches the light as she walks away. The faint limp in her stride that she probably thinks no one noticed. You find yourself wondering how many times sheâs played injured, how many times sheâs pushed through the pain just to keep her houseâs pride intact.
You hate that you care. You hate that you noticed.
That night, sleep wonât come. You lie awake in the dim dormitory, the sound of your roommatesâ steady breathing filling the dark. Your body is sore, but itâs your mind thatâs restless. Circling back to Abbyâs face, her voice, the look in her eyes when she said those words.
You donât know what to make of it. Of her.
You only know that something between you shifted on that pitch, subtle but real.âšAnd deep down, you have the uneasy feeling that this rivalry, the one youâve built years of anger on, has just become something far more dangerous.
Disclaimer: I donât really know anything about Quidditch, tried my best
*fluff, girlfriends, farm Abby, no apocalypse, sweet girlfriends*
The sun was just beginning to dip behind the tall hills, casting long shadows across the sprawling farm Abby Anderson called home. It was a quiet evening, the kind where the air smelled like freshly cut grass and the rustling of leaves made a gentle melody in the wind.
Abby wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, the slightly sunburned skin of her arms a reminder of the long days spent working the fields. The family farm was her pride and joy, even though it was often a struggle. But it wasn't just the work that made the long hours bearable. It was the thought of seeing you.
She smiled softly as she thought of you, the once newcomer to the town who'd moved to help her father with the harvest. At first, Abby hadn't expected much. You were a city girl-quiet, soft-spoken, a bit out of place among the large fields and animals. But something about you had caught her attention from the very first day.
You were perched at the top of the hill now, holding a basket as you picked apples from the tree that Abby had spent years nurturing. The sun kissed your hair, casting a warm glow around you. Abby's heart skipped a beat every time she looked at you. Even know after calling you her girlfriend, she not once grew tired of admiring you. Waiting until you noticed.
You noticed.
"Hey, Abby!" you called out, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the evening. "I think I've got enough apples for the pie we're making tonight."
Abby leaned against the fence, watching you with a faint grin. "Need help carrying them down?"
You shook your head, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Nah, I've got it," you said with a wink.
"But... maybe you could keep me company on the way
down?"
A soft smile making itâs way onto Abbyâs face. "I'm always up for company," she said, stepping off the fence and walking toward you, her boots crunching on the freshly cut grass.
As you made your way down the hill, your conversation flowed easily-about the day's work, the weather, and the little things that made life simple and beautiful.
As the farm came into view, a warm feeling washed over you, the feeling of home and love. You both step into the small farm house, the scent of cinnamon filling your nostrils.
As you make your way into the kitchen, you can see the half eaten cinnamon rolls youâve made this morning. Abby. Of course she had eaten most of them.
"So... you said pie?"she asked, grinning like a small child on Christmas.
"Yes, but it'd be a lot better if you were helping me with the baking instead of just eating all the ingredients and apples"
Abby laughed, apple in her mouth, the sound low and rich. And for a moment, everything felt easy. Like there was no weight on her shoulders, no burdens of the world to carry.
Just the two of you, standing side by side in the kitchen, under the soft light of the setting sun.
You took your time, washing the apples while Abby admired you like you were some sort of painting. You turned toward her, the playful smile on your face slowly shifting into something softer, something warmer.
"You know," you said, "'m glad I ended up here. I didn't expect the farm life to be so... well, nice."
Abby tilted her head, her expression both curious and soft. "You think so?"
You nodded, stepping closer. "Yeah. I didn't expect to meet someone like you, though. You're..." You paused, as if choosing your words carefully. "You're different from what I imagined. In a good way."
Abby's breath caught in her throat. She looked down at the ground for a moment, trying to steady herself. "'m glad you think so,"' she said, her voice soft. "... well, I wasn't sure if I'd be good company."
You reached out, lifting her chin gently so she'd meet your gaze. "You're the best kind of company, Abby."
The way you looked at her made her heart swell, it always did. And before she could stop herself, she was closing the distance between you. Her hand hovering near your cheek, holding you firmly. She leaned in, her lips brushing yours.
It was a slow, gentle kiss, the kind that felt like it was forever. Abby felt the weight of the world melt away, the farm, the fields, all of it seemed so distant, so irrelevant. There was just you, and her, and this moment.
When the kiss broke, Abby rested her forehead against yours, breathing deeply, her hands gently holding your waist.
"Better start working on that pie. Iâm hungry"she murmured with a teasing smile.
Hope you enjoyed this guys, English is not my first language so if you seen any mistakes feel free to correct.
*fluff, girlfriends, farm Abby, no apocalypse, sweet girlfriends*
The sun was just beginning to dip behind the tall hills, casting long shadows across the sprawling farm Abby Anderson called home. It was a quiet evening, the kind where the air smelled like freshly cut grass and the rustling of leaves made a gentle melody in the wind.
Abby wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, the slightly sunburned skin of her arms a reminder of the long days spent working the fields. The family farm was her pride and joy, even though it was often a struggle. But it wasn't just the work that made the long hours bearable. It was the thought of seeing you.
Hi guys, Iâm quite new to this and donât know if I should actually post this. I love writing and thought Iâd give it a go so let me know if you would actually wanna read this.
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