cw sex in a bathroom / vague plot?
implied mortal ! reader
Fuck. You did not remember Percy Jackson ― awkward, too much energy, no off switch, loudmouth, loser Percy Jackson ― to turn into... into this. Your mouth is agape, you're sure, heated cheeks and surprised expression when you look him over. Then again, and again and... "Eh, you do remember Percy, yeah?"
Your friend smiles at you as you're reintroduced, they are not acknowledging his obvious changes ― major changes at that ! ― like, at all. And for a moment you think you're insane but, no, Percy Jackson did change. In fact, he turned... hot. Taller, more buff, hell, he looked like he fought Monsters on a daily. But that was just silly, yeah?
You merely nod in agreement, at least you think you do, but your focus is definitely somewhere entirely else, and your thoughts wander to things that you needed a lot more liquid courage for. And Percy is just ahh ― boyish smile on his face when he greets you by your name, which, you didn't think he would even remember? From all the schools he had gone to, you swear that yours was the one he'd spent the least of the years in. But you feel warm nonetheless when he says it.
The both of you find a quieter corner, then, alone. You ask him about this 'camp' he'd vanished to, and he answers vaguely, but you don't mind it in the slightest. You find other things to talk about and, quietly, you thank the lord for... all that.
Percy is smooth when he speaks, he doesn't stutter nor does he seem shy ― the only traces of the awkward kid you remember lay in the way he completely fumbled the words of a drink and the slight sarcasm that laced his every word. He makes you laugh, though, and the boy finds it all so endearing how you think he doesn't notice just how much you stare.
His face, his arms, hell, even just how his baggy jeans hang from his hips makes your mouth water ― you just know it's big. And you're more than eager to find out.
Percy Jackson doesn't even question you when your hand wraps around his wrist ― your palm barely fits around it... ― and quietly lead him away from the ongoing party and to a cramped bathroom. Your cheeky smile does things to him, he doesn't want to admit, nor cares to. You're confident, he gives you that, and it's awfully attractive. But, maybe, a small little darker part of him wants to see you wide-eyed and swallowing. He wants to see you doubt if you can handle him.
And that alone has him possessed to lock the door behind you.
Now Percy is all gentle yet commanding hands when he lifts you onto the nearest surface, slotting himself right between your parted legs like he belongs. The easiness of how he handles you has you slick with want, and Percy Jackson brushes his rough palms ( corse skin from all the training and saving the world and ahh ) over your exposed skin like a worshiper. And you get the feeling he's quite familiar with prayers and sin.
He breathes trouble and yet you feel so utterly safe, it's getting seriously ridiculous.
You can feel him through his god-damn jeans and all it does is make you even more hot and bothered, the possibilities are all laid out and your fingers find a way to his arms, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth and Percy swears you look at him like he's your prey. He's into that, he realizes ― mutual devotion makes him embarrassingly hard. And the way your greedy fingers trail down his shirt, feeling him up with a hungry gaze... he's a goner!
His green gaze is right back on your sinful face when you grab him by his belt and ask if he wants to show you all of his new improvements. And he doesn't say no, God's no !
It's all teeth and tongue when his mouth meets yours. Clothes fall away, and you're so eager to touch all of him, Percy groans, you moan, and your bare butt gets pushed against the suspiciously squeaky old wooden counter that might not even hold until the end of this. And you're breathless and clawing your way into his pants like a surprise awaits you there. Percy doesn't even let you see, when he aligns himself..., but you so feel the slight stretch. "Fuck..." a sigh leaves your lips, and the boy can't help but grin a little proudly when you more or less acknowledge his size.
He's big, okay? But... "You can take it," he promises with a condescending pat to your head, and you can only roll your eyes into the back of your head when he fully slips in. He nudges the right spot right away, and a little noise escapes your throat, almost like a sob. It's almost embarrassing, but it feels so good, it almost makes you a little emotional. Instead, though, you push yourself forward and swallow even more of him until there is literally no way you'll fit any more.
But that's fine. Percy hums at the feeling of you squeezing him, it makes his cheeks a little red and his hands strain against the counter of where he's gripping it like his life depends on it.
It's dirty and gritty, and you relish in the way you do make him at least a little shy. when you practically roll your hips against his pelvis, resulting in a breathless moan from the both of you. It's good, so, so good. Percy leans even closer, so that his face is right in front of yours, not to kiss, but to see each and every expression clearly. He needs this, he thinks, needs to breathe you in while he makes you fall apart.
Your lips are only a breath away and your gaze is locked. The air inside the bathroom quickly grows hazy with each and every drag of his cock against all your special spots ♡ He's loud, and you love that even more! Each and every whimper, sigh and moan, you gobble it up like a personal compliment. And so did he.
The scent of sweat and sex makes you hazy, more slow in your movements, and Percy is right there with you, rubbing you silly until his name sounds more like a prayer. And you're so close, that the mere feeling of him twitching inside of you has you to see stars even before your body realizes that you're coming undone right there in some stranger's bathroom..., filled with a sticky warm of a boy you used to find utterly annoying... / Just when did Percy Jackson get so hot ?
“Wait,” he says slowly, his heart somersaulting, “A crush on McLauren or me?"
Lily shoots him a pitiful look.
“Please don’t make me admit I fancy you after basically seeing you naked,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “I won’t be able to live with myself.”
Read On AO3*
Happy Shirtless (Nude?!?!?!) James Potter Month!
*This is based off of a little ficlet I wrote a long while ago that had been left to rot in one of my many Tumblr prompt collections until I ran across it the other day and decided it needed an expansion. That's why chapter one will probably look familiar to some of you---but chapter two is the new, expanded bit!
Summary: You and Fred have been friends for years, but what happens when you decide to start fooling around?
Word Count: 5.2k
A/N: okay sooooo…I intended for this to be a one-shot, but I fear it’s going to be a mini series. lmk what you think! (no use of y/n btw)
Warnings: MDNI!!! drug use (weed), sexual content, mention of sexually explicit activities, fingering (f receiving)
——
You wrapped your knit blanket around your shoulders, giggling as you and Angelina tiptoed out of the castle. It was dark, and the only thing you could see for miles were stars and the glimmer of the Black Lake in the distance.
Every Wednesday night, you and your friends snuck out to smoke a blunt by the lake. This had been going on since 5th year, and you had kept up the tradition going into your 6th year at Hogwarts.
"How atrociously late do you think the twins will be tonight?" Angelina joked, linking her arm through yours. You rolled your eyes even though she couldn't see, groaning at the twins' lack of timeliness.
"At least a quarter of an hour," you replied. "I hope they passed on the goods to Lee tonight so we don't have to wait up."
Angelina, Lee, and the twins had been your best friends since your 1st year. As Gryffindors, you spent the bulk of your time together. During summer breaks, you even made sure to visit each other. Your friend group had become like a second family.
"Those bloody boys are hopeless," Angelina chuckled. "Why do we still spend time with them?"
"I'm not the one dating a Weasley," you teased, knocking your shoulder into hers. Angelina pushed back into you, grinning.
"You wish," she poked, an eyebrow raised at you. You brushed it off with a laugh, hoping to glaze over the truth of Angelina's comment.
Angelina had been dating George since 4th year, but everyone knew by 2nd year that they were meant for each other. You were happy for them. Watching two of your best friends get together was great, but a pang of jealousy gnawed at you.
Out of the friend group, Angelina was your closest friend. You had shared a dormitory room for years, and she knew every single one of your secrets. Including your secret feelings for Fred.
You and Fred have been extremely close from the start. His fiery competitive nature matched yours, and you were constantly making a competition out of every little thing. It was an easy friendship, and you knew almost everything about each other. But you couldn't tell him this.
You had realized sometime during 3rd year that your feelings toward him weren't just friendly. Your skin tingled whenever he hung his arm affectionately around your shoulder. You tried to hide your flaming cheeks when he paid you a compliment. Those were things that only Fred made you feel, but you knew that those feelings weren't returned.
Fred was handsome. And charismatic, and pretty damn good at quidditch. These things made him quite popular with the girls at Hogwarts, especially since his twin was off the market. He had his pick of pretty much any girl he wanted, and he used it to his advantage. His attachments, if they could even be called that, were surface level. You didn't want to be another one of Fred's disposable girls.
You and Angelina made it to your favorite tree by the edge of the Black Lake. It was the same spot that your group had been smoking at for the past year. Angelina pulled a quilt out of her bag, setting it on the ground and smoothing it out before taking a seat.
You joined her on the ground, leaning your head on her shoulder. You watched the stars in silence, waiting for the rest of the group to join you.
"Are you ever going to tell him?" Angelina asked, a certain softness in her voice.
You breathed out, considering her question.
"Honestly...I don't think so," you answered, pursing your lips. Your reply felt sour in your mouth. Your feelings for Fred felt pointless, and talking to him about it would only make things worse.
"But what if he feels the same?" Angelina asked, turning her head toward you. Her cheek rested on your forehead, attempting to give you reassurance.
"Ang...please," you pleaded. "I don't want to talk about this tonight."
"Okay," she muttered, returning to the comfortable quiet that existed before her questioning.
You stayed like that for a bit, silently taking in the universe as you waited for the boys. All was peaceful until you could hear their whoops coming from the distance.
Fred was leading the pack, a diabolical grin on his face as he approached you and Angelina. The other two weren't far behind.
"Now what did you three get up to?" Angelina questioned, her voice teasing but suspicious.
George settled onto the blanket next to her, pulling her in between his knees and leaning her against his chest.
"Oh, nothing," George replied coyly, making eyes at his co-conspirators.
Fred sat next to you, and Lee settled in across from you. You rolled your eyes at Fred when he glanced at you, his lips curving into a grin once again.
"Let me guess, you boobytrapped Malfoy's broom?" you said, raising an eyebrow at the boys.
"Close," George commented, leaning his chin onto Angelina's shoulder.
"We put a portable swamp in the Slytherin quidditch team's locker room," Fred said, obviously proud of himself.
"That's swell and all, but did you bring the blunt?" Angelina asked, becoming impatient.
"Of course," Lee finally chimed in, pulling it out of his satchel. He lit the end with a flick of his wand. "Who would like the honors?"
You reached for the blunt, taking it from Lee's fingers.
"I had to help Pansy in Herbology today and I managed not to bite her head off," you gloated. "I deserve this."
You took the first drag, exhaling the smoke into the darkness. You passed it to Fred, your fingers bumping momentarily during the exchange. Even that made your skin feel like it was prickling.
Fred took a puff, continuing to pass the blunt around the circle. "I'm impressed," Fred said, turning his head to look at you. "We all know how much you love Parkinson."
Fred knocked his shoulder into yours, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. All you could do was return the smirk, giving your head a little shake.
Your group settled into easy conversation, exchanging jokes and stories from the day. Lee's story about sneaking to the bathroom to snog someone during Potions had you laughing so hard that your stomach hurt.
"You can't tell me that you've never left class for a rendezvous," Lee said, directing the comment at you. He wiggled his eyebrows at you playfully, causing you to laugh again.
"I can honestly say that I never have," you said, putting on a jokingly pretentious voice. "No boy is worth that risk."
You propped yourself on your hands, leaning back as you stretched out your legs across the circle. Angelina "hmph"ed at you when your foot touched her leg.
"Not even Diggory?" George asked, sounding skeptical.
"Nope," you replied.
Everyone in the circle seemed surprised. You and Cedric had dated off and on for the past year. At the moment, you were very decidedly "off". You liked him, but it wasn't anything serious.
"Isn't he supposed to be a legendary snogger?" Angelina asked, kicking at your foot. "All of the girls have been drooling over him since 1st year."
"Just because he's pretty doesn't mean he's any good at things like that," you commented.
Lee raised an eyebrow at you, mischief in his eyes. That look always made you nervous. He was up to something.
"So he wasn't a good shag either?" Lee asked, taking a hit before passing the blunt back to Angelina. Four pairs of eyes looked at you expectantly as you formulated your answer.
You swallowed, trying to figure out how much to reveal. On a normal day, you would say absolutely nothing about Cedric. It was an unspoken rule in the group that nobody talked about you and Cedric, as your on again off again relationship was difficult to keep up with. Plus, you only shared these sort of things with Angelina.
"He wasn't...how do I say this..." you trailed off. Your brain swirled, the effects of the blunt loosening your tongue. Without it, you would have kept your mouth shut.
"I've never finished with Cedric," you finally admitted, too high to feel embarrassed about the statement.
"Never?" George asked in disbelief, his incredulity matched by everyone else in the circle.
Angelina placed a sympathetic hand on your arm. "I'm so sorry, love. I can't imagine what that must be like," she teased.
"Shut it," you replied, nudging off her hand and giggling. "I don't know if it's Cedric or if it's me."
The glint of mischief returned to Lee's eyes. He looked at you, a smug grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"I suppose we can find out," he said, the grin growing wider. "We can do an experiment of sorts."
Your eyebrows crinkled in confusion. Knowing Lee, this "experiment" was going to be incredibly outlandish.
"What do you have in mind, shagging a bunch of blokes to see what happens?" you joked, assuming that your guess was likely not very far off from what Lee was thinking.
"Not quite," Lee replied, propping himself up on his hands. "Someone we know has quite a reputation for getting the job done."
"If you're about to say me, I am not —" George started before Lee shushed him.
"I'm not talking about you, lover boy," Lee teased. "I'm talking about your twin."
Silence fell over the circle as everyone considered Lee's proposition. You could feel their eyes on you, making your cheeks heat up. This was not what you were expecting him to say.
"Lee, that's —" you started.
"Ridiculous," Fred finished for you.
A pang of rejection rattled through your chest. You were going to say something similar, but hearing it out of Fred's own mouth was different. It's like he couldn't possibly fathom the idea of intimacy with you.
"What? It's just a bit of shagging between friends," Lee said, trying to act innocent.
You had never told Lee about your feelings for Fred, but you could tell that he had likely picked up on it over the years. If this was his attempt at setting you two up, it was going horribly wrong.
"As much as I love telling all of you about my sex life, let's hear some more about that Hufflepuff that Lee snuck out of class to hook up with," you said, trying to play off your embarrassment.
"I can't picture you with a Hufflepuff, much too nice for you," Angelina jabbed jokingly at Lee. She shot you a glance, and you silently thanked her for pushing the subject change.
The group exchanged more joking insults and speculations about Lee actually behaving more like a Slytherin. You finally relaxed, grateful to have the attention off of you. Your stomach still twisted at Fred's reply, the quickness and sureness of it leaving you feeling undesirable.
You had never let yourself imagine that Fred could fancy you. He could have any girl he wanted at Hogwarts, so why would he want you? He was there holding your hair back when you threw up after drinking fire whiskey for the first time; there was nothing seductive about that.
The conversation carried on until George mentioned going to the kitchens to get some biscuits. The group tittered in agreement, but your declining mood made you want to skip out on that excursion.
"I think I'll just head back to the dormitory, I'm exhausted," you said, stretching your arms over your head.
"Do you want me to bring back any biscuits?" Angelina asked.
"No, I'll be knocked out before you even make it back from the kitchens," you shook your head, standing up from the quilt. You tightened your blanket around your shoulders, bracing against the quickly cooling temperature.
"I'll walk you back," Fred offered as he stood from the quilt as well. "Save me some cinnamon biscuits before George eats them all."
The group bid you good night, and you and Fred began the short walk back to the castle. A silence rested between you. It wasn't uncomfortable, but there was a buzzing tension that hadn't been there before. Maybe you were just imagining it.
You were quiet for almost the whole walk back to the dormitory, but Fred finally spoke when you had reached the entrance to the common room.
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," he said, so quiet that you felt like you had imagined it.
You walked through the painting, turning to him once he made it through. "What do you mean?" you asked, unsure if he was referring to his rejection of Lee's idea.
"It's not that I....I don't...." Fred fumbled, running a hand through his hair as he formulated his sentence. "I'm not repulsed by the idea of shagging you."
His reply came out awkwardly, and you giggled at him.
"Wow Fred, how kind of you," you joked, cracking a grin.
Fred let out a laugh of his own, gripping the banister as he walked with you up the stairs to the girls' dormitories.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to shag me just because Lee says so," Fred said as you reached the landing, winding toward the door to your room.
"Trust me, I don't feel that way," you replied, eyeing him. "It was a ridiculous idea, to be fair."
You were trying to brush it off. The suggestion from Lee was embarrassing enough, and recapping it with Fred wasn't helping.
You reached your door, but instead of letting you go into your room, Fred stretched his arm across the doorway, blocking your entrance.
"But if you wanted to find out, I would do that for you," he said, leaning across the doorframe.
Your eyebrows came together in confusion. "What do you mean?" you asked.
"If you wanted to see if you can finish with a partner," he replied, sounding casual. "I'm pretty great at it. I can send you my references."
Fred smirked, his eyes twinkling as he stared down at you.
"Get off it," you said, shoving at him. He did manage to pull a small smile from your lips.
"I'm just offering," he said, finally moving out of your path. "For the sake of science."
"I'll get back to you on that," you said with an eye roll, moving past him to open the door.
"Good night love, try not to dream about me," he teased, giving you a wave from the doorway.
"Fuck off," you answered with a chuckle. "Good night, Fred."
You shut the door, grateful to finally be out of that conversation. You took a deep breath, but you could feel your own pulse racing.
Fred was willing to go through with Lee's idea? It wasn't a love confession, but the fact that Fred was open to hooking up was a revelation to you. But you were torn.
You didn't want to be one of the many girls that Fred could call on whenever he desired. If you were going to put your friendship in jeopardy by adding sex into the equation, you wanted it to mean something.
But having him one way almost seemed better than not having him at all. He was one of your closest friends, and you knew that you could trust him if you were intimate. And you were dying to know just how good he was in bed.
You plopped onto your bed, huffing out a loud sigh. You had a lot of thinking to do.
——
You scrawled notes onto your parchment, trying to absorb what you were reading out of your Potions textbook. Fred was settled next to you on the couch in the Common Room, using his wand to play solitaire in front of him on the floor.
Angelina and George were in the twins' dorm, so Fred was relegated to the Common Room. Lee was off somewhere with the Hufflepuff he had been messing around with. This left you and Fred.
You hadn't approached your conversation from last night, attempting to shake it off as Fred just saying things while he was high. Thinking about it had kept you up for longer than you would like to admit, but you didn't dare talk to him about it. Maybe he forgot.
Fred huffed, considering the cards laid out in front of him. You glanced over for a moment, watching him. With a flick of his wand, he sent the cards scattering about the room.
"Stupid game," he muttered, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and stretching his arms behind his head. "What are you working on?"
"Potions homework," you replied. "You should try it sometime. Y'know, the whole homework thing."
You teased him, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. He looked at you and narrowed his eyes, fighting his own grin.
The Common Room was relatively empty besides the second years playing chess in the corner. Fred took this as an opportunity to question you.
"Did you think about it any more?" he asked, cocking his head at you.
You felt a blush creeping up your neck. Did your collar suddenly get tighter, or were you imagining things? You cleared your throat, trying to regain composure.
"Uhm, not really," you answered, averting your gaze by staring at your textbook. "Did you?"
"Love, it's not really up to me," he said, leaning his elbow onto the armrest of the couch. He considered you for a moment, silently taking in your flushed cheeks. He chose not to comment on it.
"I just...don't want to make things awkward," you said, bringing your eyes to meet his.
"What, are you thinking that it'll be so bad that you won't want to be my mate anymore?" he joked, nudging his knee against yours.
Your chest felt tight. You wanted to be as casual about this as Fred was being, but it felt like a monumental decision. There was no going back.
You attempted a smile at his joke, but it fell flat. Fred's face changed, noticing your uneasiness. His hand came to your shoulder, gripping at the crook of your neck to try to offer you comfort.
"Love, I'm just messing with you. I'm not expecting you to say yes, it truly is up to you," he said, a softness to his voice as he held your gaze.
"Why do you even want to give it a try?" you asked, trying to relax your shoulder under Fred's touch. "I'm not...we're not...we've always been friends. This is different."
"I think we would have good sex," he said bluntly, acting like that was a normal statement. "I trust you. We have good banter. You're attractive. Objectively, all of the important things are there."
"Since when have you been a scientist?" you asked, finally giggling.
"I might not have the best marks in school, but I do have good marks with shagging," he said, smirking at you and waggling his eyebrows. "I'm confident that I could get you to finish."
You could feel the tips of your ears reddening, imagining Fred's hands on you. You swallowed, trying to push the image out of your mind.
"If I agree, what does this look like?" you asked, pulling your legs in to sit criss cross on the couch.
"Well, we could draw up a contract," Fred said, conjuring a quill and parchment with a flick of his wand. "We can set terms that we agree to and write them down here."
"You're such a scholar," you teased, pulling the quill from his hand. "I'm writing it, your handwriting is rubbish."
Fred huffed and rolled his eyes, pushing the parchment toward you.
"First rule: we don't tell anyone," you said, turning your eyes from the parchment to look at Fred.
"Agreed," he said, nodding his head. "I can't let Lee think that he has good ideas."
You chuckled, writing the first rule on the list. Fred peered at your writing, leaning closer to you on the couch. Even that proximity made the hair on your arms stand up, like Fred himself was a living lightning bolt.
"Second, we need to go as slow as I want to," you said. "I can't just shag someone right away, I need some time to figure them out."
"Reasonable," Fred agreed. "We agree to not expecting a shag every time we see each other."
"Right," you nodded, adding it to the list.
"I have one," Fred said, waiting for you to finish the line you were working on.
"Okay," you said, looking at him expectantly.
"No kissing," he said. "At least not on the mouth."
Your eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "How are we supposed to shag if we can't kiss?" you asked.
"Kissing is dangerous. That's how you start to fall in love with someone, and that's not what we're doing here," Fred explained.
You swallowed, considering his point. He was kind of right. There was something intimate about kissing someone on the lips. Romantic. And that's not what you were agreeing to.
"Alright, I'll add it," you conceded.
You could feel disappointment turning in your stomach. You had always wanted to kiss Fred. That would have to remain an unfulfilled dream.
"I have another one," Fred said as you wrote the previous rule. "If we want to start shagging or dating someone else, we have to tell each other. We don't see other people while we are doing this."
That one shocked you. You had assumed that Fred would still want to rotate through his gaggle of girls. Any one person having his full attention was a rarity.
"Fine, I guess I'll call off all of those dates I had planned," you huffed sarcastically, throwing your head to the side dramatically.
"If I have to, then you have to," he said, nudging you with his shoulder. "I'm not one to share."
"That's pretty rich coming from a twin," you replied, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Focus!" he commanded, shoving at you again. He was biting back a grin, trying to pretend like your comments weren't entertaining him. "What else?"
"No matter what happens, we need to stay friends," you insisted.
Fred looked at you, almost like he was confused. "That doesn't even need to be a rule. We both know that we'll stay friends."
"So what? It should be a rule," you replied.
"Okay," he agreed with a shrug. "I think that's good, unless you thought of anything else."
You looked at the parchment, scrutinizing the five rules that you had written down. You drew two horizontal lines at the bottom, putting your signature on one of them. You handed the quill to Fred.
"Sign it," you said, watching as he took the quill and scrawled his own name.
"We need to shake on it too," Fred said, a grin starting to form at the corner of his mouth.
"Is that really necessary?" you asked, trying not to cringe. You and Fred hadn't shook on anything in years. Now that you were older, you thought your old ritual was kind of gross.
"Absolutely," he replied, feigning sternness.
He held his right palm in front of his mouth and spit in it. You hesitated for a second before doing the same. Your hands met in a shake, sealing the contract.
——
You were leaned against the wall, watching the Gryffindor quidditch locker room door. Fred had left you a note asking you to meet him here after practice.
Your stomach was fluttering. You had made your agreement earlier this week, but nothing had happened yet. While Fred's note was relatively vague, you were hoping that this would be an opportunity for an encounter.
Two boys exited the locker room. It was Harry and Ron, chuckling about something as they came down the hallway. The pair spotted you.
"Oi, who are you waiting for?" Ron called to you.
"Your brother," you answered, doing your best to sound nonchalant. You wondered if Ron could sense the nerves radiating off of you.
"George already left with Angelina. Fred is still in the shower," Ron said. "Why are you waiting for him here?"
"Why are you so bloody nosy?" you poked, agitated at his continued questioning. Ron had become like a little brother to you, and he was able to irritate you like he was your own sibling.
"Damn, grumpy tonight, huh?" Ron commented, reaching over to try to muss your hair.
"Ronald!" you shrieked, wrestling away his hand. He had you backed against the wall, and he was determined to ruin the neat plaits that you had just done.
"Ron, hands off," Fred called, his voice carrying from the doorway of the locker room.
Ron backed off, and you caught a glimpse of Fred. Your pulse kicked at the sight.
He was in just his sweatpants, a towel slung around his shoulders. His hair was still dripping wet from the shower, and he had it pushed back out of his face. He had no right to look this good.
"Is this weasel giving you trouble?" Fred asked, approaching you and Ron.
Ron stepped even further away, exchanging a glance with Harry before they took off running down the hallway. Fred chuckled.
"Serves them right to be afraid of me," he said. "They know that they'll end up with toads in their bed for bothering you."
You still hadn't made a sound. Fred had you completely tongue tied, and you focused on keeping eye contact. You were not going to let your gaze wander to his strong shoulders, or his defined abs, or the line of muscle that led down to his waistband...
You felt a hand on your shoulder. Fred was peering down at you, confusion wrinkled in his brow.
"You alright, love?" he asked, sounding concerned.
You cleared your throat, trying to shake yourself out of it. Fred was your best friend. It's normal to see best friends in a state of undress...right?
"Yes, just...a wandering mind, I suppose," you answered.
"Where did it wander to?" he probed, leaning one hand against the wall behind you and bringing the other to play with the end of your hair.
He was flirting with you. This is what it's like to be a target of Fred's flirting? Your skin felt like it was on fire.
You cleared your throat again, your eyes lowering from the intensity of Fred's gaze. You knew that your cheeks were bright red and that Fred was relishing in the way that he could make you blush.
"Uhm—y'know, homework and...things," you replied awkwardly, cringing as the words came out of your mouth. How was he able to turn you into a pile of brainless mush so quickly?
"Do you want to tell me what kind of things, or should I guess?" he asked, his fingers wandering up the length of your plait.
You finally brought your eyes to his again. The calm hazel of his eyes was long gone, and you could see anticipation flickering in his gaze. A smirk danced on his lips. He was enjoying this.
"I bet you're wondering why I asked you to come here," he started, playing with your plait. "And you're noticing that we're alone."
Fred leaned in, muttering the words into your ear.
"I think you're even hoping that I'm going to touch you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
His nose grazed the shell of your ear and you let out a shaky breath. The control he had over you was embarrassing.
The hand on your plait came to rest on your collar. You could feel the heat radiating off of Fred's skin.
"Y'know, I could just take you right here," he said, his hand wandering even lower to ghost over your waist. "No one comes down here after practice."
"Fred..." you whimpered, unable to form any other words. Your eyes locked for a moment, reading each other's expressions.
Fred's hand on the wall moved to cradle your jaw, his thumb grazing along your cheekbone.
"You want this, love?" he asked.
"Yes," your reply rushed out.
Fred grinned. He turned your head, exposing your neck. He grazed his nose along your neck, placing a kiss just below your ear. You gripped at his shoulders, trying to stabilize yourself.
"I'll go nice and slow," he muttered, sending a jolt down your spine. His voice in your ear was enough to practically make your knickers fall off.
Fred kissed along your neck and jaw, his other hand finding the hem of your skirt. His fingers traced circles into the skin of your thigh, and you couldn't help the soft moan that fell from your lips.
"Yeah? You like that?" he asked, nibbling at your earlobe.
"Mmm," was your only reply.
You were quickly relaxing into his touch. Fred's fingers dared to wander higher up your skirt, finding the edge of your knickers. One finger teased along the waistband, and you shivered at the touch.
"Can I touch you, love?" he asked, pulling away from you for a moment to look into your eyes.
"Please," you answered, winding one of your hands into his wet hair.
Fred placed a delicate kiss on the end of your nose, making you giggle. His fingers dipped into your knickers, slowly migrating to where you wanted him most. Fred groaned as his fingers met your very wet center.
"Feeling a bit excited, are you?" he chuckled, nuzzling his head into your neck.
"Get on with it, Weasley," you commanded, feeling breathless with need.
Gently, Fred parted your legs and hiked up your right leg around his hip. Fred's fingers began moving. Slowly at first, just teasing touches. But then he found your clit, the pad of his finger working circles into it.
You bit your lip, trying to stop yourself from crying out. Fred was right; he knew exactly what he was doing.
Fred's fingers continued their work, and he pressed hot kisses into your neck.
"Being such a good girl for me, love," he grumbled, nipping at a spot along your jaw.
"Fuck," you cursed, tugging at his hair.
In only minutes, Fred had you on the brink. The kisses, the dirty talk, his fingers — the combination was making you come undone.
"So close," you breathed out, nails digging into his scalp and shoulder.
"Finish for me, love," he mumbled into the skin on your neck.
A few more moments was all you needed. A wave of electricity crashed through you, your hips jolting toward Fred against your will. You let a moan escape your lips, your head knocking back against the wall.
Your chest was heaving. You could feel sweat collecting along your back. You felt...amazing.
Fred was staring at you, his eyes filled with wonder. He gently placed your leg back on the floor, holding your hips to keep you steady.
"Damn, that was..." his voice trailed off. "We should've started doing this a long time ago."
You giggled, still trying to catch your breath. You playfully shoved at his shoulder.
"That wasn't so bad," you said, grinning up at him.
"Oh yeah?" he smirked. "Seemed like you were enjoying yourself. You sounded just like this."
Fred began to moan, attempting to mimic your own sounds. You laughed, slapping at his chest.
"Okay, okay," you conceded. "You exceeded my expectations."
Fred gasped and clutched a hand to his chest.
"Was that...a compliment? Coming out of your mouth?" he questioned dramatically.
You rolled your eyes.
"Whatever," you groaned. "I suppose I wouldn't be against continuing our experiment."
The corner of Fred's mouth turned up in a grin.
"I suppose I wouldn't be against it either," he said
all i want for 2026 is that gigantic rancid AI bubble to finally burst in such a catastrophic way that the consequences will be so good and i'll never have to see another AI generated image ever again
There are rules in this castle that never make it into your head.
Instead they live in the pauses between staircases, in the way footsteps echo differently after curfew, in the narrow seconds before a portrait decides whether it’s going to gossip or pretend it never saw you at all. Some rules are spoken. Some are inherited. And some are enforced by older brothers who look at you like the world has already sharpened its teeth.
Your brother, Oliver Wood, had never said you are forbidden from dating Fred Weasley. He didn’t need to, it was in his glare anytime the two of you would be to close for his liking, in the way Fred would make a joke only you laughed at while Oliver tried to make sense of what was so funny. You knew Oliver liked Fred. That was the worst part of it. He liked him in the way you like a thunderstorm when you’re safely indoors: impressive, useful, devastating if it ever turned toward you.
Fred was chaos. Fred was laughter echoing too loudly in corridors meant for silence. Fred was a future that looked like a question mark scribbled in ink that refused to dry. Oliver loved him on the team, trusted him with bludgers flying and bones breaking, trusted him to show up when it mattered—but not with you. Never with you. Not with the girl he still called his baby sister even when you were old enough to know better than to correct him.
He had known about your crush since first year. He had always known. Oliver noticed things like that. He had started warning you gently at first—half-joking comments over breakfast, raised eyebrows when Fred laughed too close to you in the stands while watching Hufflepuff crush Slytherin. Over the years, the warnings sharpened. Not cruel. Never cruel. Just firm.
“Fred’s brilliant,” Oliver would say, staring into his tea like it might betray him. “But brilliant isn’t the same as serious.”
You learned, early on, how to nod without agreeing.
Fred and you didn’t plan to start anything. Honest. That’s the lie people tell themselves after the fact. What really happened was quieter. He walked you back to the tower one night when the castle was breathing slow and deep, torchlight stretching shadows along the stone. He said something ridiculous—something about Filch—and you laughed too hard, the kind of laugh that slips out before you’ve checked who might hear it.
He stopped walking. You didn’t.
But honestly you felt it before you saw it: the absence of his footsteps, the way the air behind you shifted. When you turned, he was close enough that his freckles were a constellation you could trace in the dark. He didn’t touch you that night. He just looked at you, head tipped slightly, like he’d stumbled onto something fragile and wasn’t sure whether to joke or apologize.
“Well,” he said lightly. “That’s new.”
That was how it began. With one sentence that hovered between you and refused to fall.
You both agreed that it would be nothing. Just a thing. No complications. No Oliver. No explanations. A secret small enough to fit in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
Fred was very good at secrets when he wanted to be.
There were moments—tiny, stolen ones—that felt like they belonged to someone else’s life. His hand brushing yours under the table in the common room, knuckles warm, fingers careless. Passing each other in the corridor late at night, the castle emptied out, and he’d tug you suddenly into a shadowed alcove, laughter caught in his throat as his mouth found yours, quick and hungry and gone before the portraits could clear theirs.
Once, after a truly awful day—one of those days where everything goes slightly wrong and none of it is important enough to justify the heaviness—you found a Canary Cream sitting on your pillow. No note. Just the sweet, ridiculous thing perched there like a dare. You laughed despite yourself, then laughed harder when it chirped at you indignantly.
Later, Fred leaned against the doorway of an empty classroom, arms folded, watching you with that infuriating half-smile.
“Cheered you up, didn’t it?” he asked.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. He could always tell.
He still pranked you, of course. That was part of the deal. But never cruelly. He liked the sound of your laugh too much to risk breaking it. Sometimes he’d watch you laugh like he’d done something cleverer than usual, it never was.
At night—when the castle grew vast and echoing, when Oliver was asleep and the world felt briefly unguarded—you met in places no one thought to look. Empty classrooms, unused stairwells, the narrow strip of floor behind a tapestry that smelled faintly of dust and old magic.
Fred kissed like he lived: fully, recklessly, like he expected the moment to be stolen at any second. Hands warm, mouth insistent, laughter bubbling up even when his breath hitched. Sometimes it went further—sometimes your back would hit the cold stone walls of the castle and the sound of your name pulled apart in his mouth—you would leave marks along his back without meaning to and he would get wonderfully still for a moment before pressing closer, like the pain was a drug he happily took.
Sometimes he would drop to his knees and devour you as if you were his first meal in centuries. You would gasp out his name, praying to Godric he would never stop.
Afterward, he’d kneel there grinning, breath still uneven, murmuring praises under his breath as if it were all a grand prize he was still unpacking. But sometimes—sometimes—he went quiet, thumb tracing idle patterns against your wrist, as if memorizing something he hadn’t meant to keep.
In daylight, you pretended. That was the hardest part. Standing near each other and not touching. Passing jokes back and forth that meant nothing to anyone else. Watching Oliver clap Fred on the shoulder after practice, pride plain and uncomplicated, and feeling the secret curl tighter in your chest.
You told yourself it was temporary. That it was easy. That it was nothing.
But secrets have weight. They press into you slowly, the way snow does on a roof—quiet, patient, inevitable. And somewhere between laughter and stolen kisses, between sex and Canary Creams, something shifted. Something neither of you named. Something that sat in the space between you when you two weren’t touching and it felt louder than any confession.
Fred never said it. Neither did you.
You just kept sneaking through the castle like you weren’t already leaving footprints everywhere.
And the thing about footprints is that eventually, someone follows them.
~~~
(I switched to first person for some reason without even realizing it lmao and was to lazy to re-edit it all)
The pitch looks wrong when I step onto it.
Not just worn—ruined. The grass is torn open in long, ugly streaks where brooms scraped too low and bodies hit too hard, where the game stopped being about points and started being about damage. This isn’t the neat aftermath of a fast match or a clean loss. This is what happens when Slytherin decides winning matters more than playing fair.
The stands are emptying quickly now, green and silver streaming away in loud, satisfied clusters, already celebrating as if they hadn’t clawed their way to it. Gryffindor lingers. No one seems ready to move first. No one wants to be the one who admits it’s really over.
Last game of the year.
And this is how it ends.
I walk out onto the pitch with Lee, my steps slowing instinctively when I see the looks on the team’s faces. Everyone looks hurt.
Torn sleeves. Blood drying too dark against red and gold. Bruises already blooming beneath skin. Angelina Johnson is on her feet, jaw set tight, handing out towels like she might rip something in half if she stops moving. Katie Bell is sitting heavily on the grass, pressing a cloth to her mouth, eyes bright with the sort of anger that hasn’t found words yet.
“Honestly,” Lee mutters, voice low, more dangerous than his usual commentary. “I swear they’d bring a bat to a pillow fight if they thought they could get away with it.”
“Tell me something new,” George growls from nearby, nursing a bloody nose as he glares across the field to where the Slytherins had been only seconds ago.
“I don’t know why you lot are acting surprised,” Angelina snaps sharply, not looking up. “We’ve seen them only getting more aggressive as the games went by and still we decided to play fair-“
“Would you rather us play like they did?” Katie shot from her place on the grass, her cloth covered in blood. She glared at Angelina.
George looked between the two, already stepping towards them. “Guys-“
“No but we could’ve upped our game more, you know it’s not illegal to play aggressive Bell,” Angelina spat, ignoring George.
“Are you trying to insinuate something?” I turn my gaze away from my two bickering friends, my eyes catching onto the only person who hasn’t said a word since the game ended
Fred is standing a little apart, broom abandoned on the ground like he doesn’t care if it gets trampled. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood—someone else’s, I think, though it’s hard to tell anymore. There’s a cut under his cheekbone, already swelling and a split at his knuckle that’s still bleeding slowly, he hasn’t bothered to stop it.
His sleeve is torn clean down the seam, exposing a forearm already blooming purple.
And somehow—infuriatingly—he still looks handsome. Bright-eyed, flushed, dangerous in that reckless way that makes it hard to look away even when you should. He’s talking to Lee now, his expression undeniably angry. Angry in a way I’ve never seen Fred.
“—calls it accidental,” Fred sneers, voice carrying, brittle with disbelief. “Accidental! Took my arm out like he was aiming for it.”
Lee snorts darkly, trying to easy the tension. “Should’ve taken his broom in return.”
Fred huffs, his eyes catching mine from the other side of Angelina and Katie’s escalating fight. “Tempting. But I’m trying to be a reformed citizen.”
It lasts half a second—no more—but it’s enough. Enough for his expression to shift, just slightly, like something unguarded flashes through before he can smooth it away. His mouth tilts into a smile that’s different from the one he’s usually gives. Softer. Tired.
I feel it in my chest before I let myself think about it. But shake away the feeling as I glance down at the water bottles I brought for the team. I step forward and pass one to Fred automatically, like muscle memory.
“Cheers,” he says, taking it.
Our fingers brush.
The contact is brief, meaningless to anyone watching—and somehow it lands harder than the game itself. I snap my hand away without thinking, stomach bubbling with fear as I look around for Oliver.
It’s ridiculous. I know that.
That doesn’t stop it.
Oliver storms over moments later, already mid-speech, voice tight and clipped, eyes blazing with everything he hasn’t let himself feel yet.
“They controlled the pace,” he says sharply. “They dragged us down to it, and we let them. That’s on us. We don’t play their game next time. Ever.”
No one argues. No one needs to.
Fred nods along, jaw clenched, listening in that serious way he only gets with Oliver—respect written all over his posture, all jokes stripped away. Watching them together twists something uncomfortable inside me. Captain and beater. Trust intact. Lines clean.
When Oliver finally claps his hands and dismisses them, the team starts to break apart slowly, grudgingly, like leaving might make it real.
Fred steps toward me without thinking. His arms lift, easy and familiar, like this is something we’ve done a thousand times already, like the pitch and the blood and the crowd don’t exist at all. Like he forgot my brother stood only feet away.
My chest tightens, my feet moving on their own, taking a small step back. Enough to make Fred still. I shake my head.
Once.
That’s it.
The moment stills. No one notices. No one ever really does. Fred’s arms drop slowly, his expression unreadable, like he’s choosing not to say something he very badly wants to. His mouth curves into something that passes for a grin if you don’t know him well enough.
“Right,” he says lightly, too lightly. “Best get out of here before Pomfrey decides I’m a full-time project.”
I feel my heart drop slowly, regret slowly forming in the pit of my stomach, I want to reach out for him, but my arms refuse to move towards him. George glances between us, eyebrow lifting in brief curiosity, his mouth opening but after seeing the look on his brother’s face he closes it. Fred turns away before I can fix it, before I can say anything at all.
He doesn’t head toward the hospital wing like he should’ve with his injury’s. Instead he walks straight toward the dormitories. Bleeding. Bruised. Angry.
And I stand there on the torn grass, watching him go, knowing exactly why he wanted that hug—and exactly why it felt like the last thing I was allowed to give.
~~~
By the time I leave the pitch, Fred is gone.
The corridors are louder than usual, still buzzing with post-match energy, but it thins as the hours stretch on. By the time night settles into its familiar shape I’m already waiting.
When George and Lee finally slip through the common room, cloaks pulled tight and whispers barely contained, I give them a full minute before moving.
The staircase to the boys’ dormitory creaks in complaint when I step onto it, but no one stops me.
Fred’s door is ajar.
Light spills out in a thin, uneven line. He’s sitting on his bed, boots still on, elbows braced against his knees. He looks up when I knock and his face shifts into something almost normal.
“Evening,” he says lightly. “Come to congratulate the tragic hero?” I step inside and close the door behind me. The click is too loud.
“You left,” I say.
“Well spotted,” he replies. “Always admired your observational skills.” There it is. The tone. The words say one thing; everything else says another. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. His fingers pick at the seam of his glove, worry it loose, then tighten again.
I move closer.
“Is this about earlier?” I ask. “On the pitch?”
He huffs a laugh that doesn’t reach anywhere important. “Merlin forbid. Can’t imagine why that would matter.” I wait. Silence stretches. The walls feel nearer than they should.
“Was it because you lost?” I try again, softer. “Because if it is, that was a rough match and—”
He looks up then.
“Do you know what,” he says, voice still light, still careful, but just like he can’t hold in the words anymore, “I thought I was being clever. Thought I’d cracked it. Best of both worlds, right? All the fun, none of the fuss.”
I don’t interrupt him. I’ve learned not to when he gets like this—when the jokes line up neatly but his eyes don’t follow.
“I told myself I could handle it,” he continues. “Told myself I was a genius for agreeing. Because who wouldn’t, honestly? You come along and say no expectations, and I say, brilliant idea, where do I sign.”
He stands, suddenly, pacing once across the room before stopping in front of me.
“I was wrong,” he says. The word lands harder than anything else he’s said. The air shifts. I feel it in my ribs.
“I don’t want to do this in secret anymore,” he goes on, quieter now. “I don’t want to pretend I don’t know you the way I do in corridors or that I don’t want to—” He cuts himself off, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I won’t pressure you. I won’t. You know that. If you say no, I’ll… I’ll manage. I always do.”
I hear what he doesn’t say in the space after that. But my heart is pounding to hard to understand where he’s coming from. I thought he understood what this was, I thought he knew of my fears.
My mouth opens before my thoughts catch up. “I told you what this was,” I say. “From the start.”
“And I agreed,” he snaps, just enough edge to break the careful balance. “I know. I know. I just didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“Like what?” I ask, even though my hands have curled into fists at my sides, even though my pulse has picked up like it knows something I’m still refusing to name.
“Like I’m being asked to disappear,” he says. “Like I’m good enough for the shadows but not the daylight.”
The silence after that is unbearable.
It settles in the room the way dust does when you disturb an old cupboard—slow, visible only if you look at it sideways, choking if you pretend it isn’t there. Fred stands a step away from me, hands loose at his sides like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if he lets them decide. The cut under his cheekbone looks darker up close, the swelling already making his smile sit wrong when he tries to summon it.
I open my mouth and nothing comes out that feels safe.
So I do the thing I always do when the truth is too bright: I grab the nearest harmless thread and tug.
“You’re bleeding through your sleeve,” I say, pointing at his torn cuff as if that’s the emergency, as if blood is simpler than the way his eyes keep flicking to my mouth like he misses it.
Fred glances down at his arm and gives a soft, humourless puff of laughter. “Brilliant observation,”
It lands like a stone.
I step closer, then stop myself halfway, the floorboards under my shoes making that faint, complaining sound they always make in boys’ dormitories, as if they’re offended by the idea of me being here at all. My hands hover uselessly, wanting to do something ordinary—fix his sleeve, press a cloth to his knuckles, make him sit down and let me fuss at him like a person who has the right to fuss.
The wanting has nowhere to go.
“I came to check on you,” I say instead as I watch him make his way to his bed. Like he is dismissing this conversation.
“I noticed,” Fred replies. He leans back against the bedpost, and for a second he looks younger in a way that hits me low in the chest—he pushes it away with the same practiced ease he uses on everything else. “You’ve done your civic duty. You can go now.”
I blink. The words are easy, almost casual. The space behind them isn’t.
“You don’t mean that,” I say.
Fred’s grin flashes—quick, sharp, all teeth. “Do I not? That’s a shame. I was hoping it would catch on.”
“Fred—”
He lifts a hand, palm out, a mockingly polite gesture. “No, go on. Explain it to me. Slowly, if you could. I’m only a Weasley, you see, and we’re famously dim.”
His sarcasm is usually a lantern—warm, bright, drawing people in. Right now it’s a blade he’s turning in his own hand, daring it to cut.
I swallow. The room feels too hot for how late it is, for how the window glass is fogged with cold outside.
“I said I’m sorry,” I manage.
He tilts his head. “Did you?”
I hate how small my voice feels in this room. I hate how my spine knows it should straighten and still refuses.
“I didn’t want anyone to see,” I say. “It was the pitch. Everyone was there.”
Fred’s eyes flicker, bright and flat at the same time. “Yes. That’s generally how matches work.”
The air between us tightens. I can feel the words lining up behind my teeth, impatient, tripping over each other.
“I can’t—” I start.
“You can’t,” Fred echoes softly, and there’s something in the way he says it—too practiced, too familiar, like he’s repeating a line he’s been fed for years. He pushes off the bedpost and starts pacing, one slow line across the room, back again, like movement might keep him from saying the wrong thing. “You can’t hug me in front of everyone. You can’t look at me for too long in corridors. You can’t—Merlin help us—hand me a bloody water bottle without flinching like you’ve touched a hot stove.”
“That’s not what happened.”
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the grass still clinging to him, the faint metallic tang of blood, the soap from the locker room he never actually used tonight.
“No?” he says, very quietly. “Because it felt like it.”
My throat goes tight. I try to take a breath and it catches, like the air has decided it’s loyal to him tonight.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I say.
Fred’s mouth twitches, like he wants to laugh and doesn’t trust himself to do it without breaking something. “Brilliant. That’s comforting. Next time I’m stood in the middle of a pitch with half my face rearranged by Slytherin’s elbow, I’ll remember you’re not trying.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, and I hear the wobble in the sentence and hate it. “You know why.”
He stares at me for a beat too long, then looks away like he can’t bear to watch whatever expression I’ve made.
“Do I?” he says. “Because I’m starting to think I don’t. I’m starting to think you’ve invented a dragon where there’s just—” He gestures vaguely, as if Oliver might appear from the shadows the moment his name is thought. “—a bloke who yells about formations and thinks Quaffles are a food group.”
I flinch at the casualness with which he says it. The way he reduces Oliver into something easy, something laughable, because for him that’s safer than acknowledging what Oliver is when he’s family. When he’s furious. When he’s afraid.
“You don’t know him like I do,” I say, and the words come out sharper than they should.
Fred’s eyes flash. “There it is.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Fred says, voice rising just slightly, “every time I try to talk about this, you say the same thing. Like it’s a spell. You don’t know him like I do. Well, you’re right—I don’t. I don’t know what secret, terrifying version of Oliver Wood lives in your head, but I do know the one who laughs when George puts a toad in his kit bag. I do know the one who bought me a Butterbeer last weekend and told me I played ‘like a lunatic’ and meant it as a compliment.”
“You don’t see him at home,” I say, and the sentence comes out before I can dress it up. “You don’t see what he’s like when something touches me that he didn’t approve.”
Fred’s jaw tightens.
“Approve,” he repeats, as if the word tastes wrong. “That’s what this is, is it? Permission.”
“It’s not—”
“It sounds like it.” He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, the movement rough enough that it pulls at the cut on his knuckle and fresh blood beads. He doesn’t notice. Or he does and doesn’t care. “Look, I’m not asking you to stand on a table in the Great Hall and announce it to the school, am I? I’m not asking for fireworks and trumpets. I wanted a hug. That’s it. I wanted you to put your arms around me for two seconds like I mattered in the daylight the way I—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing tight, the words swallowing themselves because they’re too honest and too close to something that doesn’t have a joke taped over it.
My pulse thuds once, hard.
I take a step back without meaning to. The distance feels like a betrayal even as my body insists on it.
Fred notices. His eyes flick down to my feet, then back up, and something in his face shifts—hurt turning sharp because it has nowhere else to go.
“Right,” he says, and the grin returns, brittle as thin ice. “Sorry. Forgot my place. Silly me.”
“Fred, stop—”
“Stop what?” he snaps, and now the anger is there, contained like a spell being held back with sheer will. “Stop wanting you? Stop wanting to act like we’re not—” His voice dips. He shakes his head once, like he’s trying to shake himself awake. “Stop wanting something you told me you didn’t want.”
I lift my chin. I hate that he’s making it sound like I’m cruel when I’ve been terrified this whole time, terrified in a way that lives under my skin and hums.
“I told you what I could handle,” I say. “I told you what this would be.”
“And I agreed,” he says, softer now, and that softness is worse. “I agreed because I thought—Merlin, I don’t know what I thought. That I’d get used to it. That it would stay easy. That I could tuck it into corners and pull it out when it suited us and then put it away again like—like a joke product.” His laugh is small and ugly. “But it’s not a joke, is it?”
My hands curl tight enough that my nails bite into my palms. The pain anchors me, keeps me from reaching for him, keeps me from doing the one thing I want most because I know it will undo me.
“You’re making this into something it isn’t,” I say, and the sentence comes out wrong even as it leaves me, because it’s a lie I don’t fully believe anymore.
Fred’s eyes hold mine, and there’s something stranded in them, something that looks like he’s been standing in the rain too long pretending he isn’t cold.
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” he says quietly. “That’s really brilliant. After all this time, that’s what you land on.”
“It’s not—Fred—”
He laughs again, sharper. “No, no, you’re right. It’s nothing. It’s nothing when you slip into my room at night like you’re breaking into a vault. It’s nothing when you laugh at my stupid jokes like they’re—like they’re for you. It’s nothing when you—” He stops, like he’s about to step into a line he refuses to cross, and the restraint in him is sudden and startling.
I stand there, breathing shallow, watching him fight with himself in real time.
Then he says, very clearly, very deliberately, like he wants it to hurt so it will stop hurting later.
“Maybe Oliver’s right.”
The words hit the room like a slap.
For a second I can’t move. I can’t even breathe properly. The world narrows to that sentence and the way it sits on his tongue as if he didn’t have to force it out.
My eyes sting. I blink once, hard, furious at myself for it, furious at him for giving me a reason.
“What did you say?” My voice comes out thin, and I hate that too.
Fred’s mouth twitches, like he regrets it the moment it lands but won’t take it back on principle. That’s Fred—pride and honesty tangled together so tightly you can’t separate them.
“I said,” he repeats, quieter now but no kinder, “maybe Oliver’s right. Maybe I am exactly what he thinks I am. Good for a laugh. Good for a match. Good for… whatever this is when it’s convenient.” His eyes flick to me. “Just not good enough to be beside you where people can see.”
Something in my chest goes hollow.
I don’t answer. I can’t. If I speak, I’ll say the wrong thing—something soft, something pleading, something that proves him right about me being terrified.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I walk to the door.
“Wait,” Fred says immediately, and now the anger falters, replaced by something rawer. He takes a step toward me. “I didn’t—”
I turn just enough to look at him, to let him see what that sentence did without giving him the satisfaction of watching me fall apart.
“Don’t,” I say, and it’s the first time the word sounds like it belongs to me.
His face tightens. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach. He stands there like he’s tethered to the floorboards by his own stupid stubborn heart.
I open the door. The corridor air is colder, the torchlight harsher, the castle suddenly enormous again.
Behind me, Fred’s voice catches, quieter than I’ve heard it in a long time. “I meant what I said about staying.”
I don’t turn back. My hand closes around the door’s edge, knuckles whitening before I slam it closed. The sound cracks down the corridor, sharp and final. A portrait somewhere gives an offended gasp. Footsteps pause in the distance. Someone murmurs.
I don’t wait to see who.
I move fast, because if I move fast enough maybe my body won’t betray me, maybe it won’t fold, maybe the ache in my ribs won’t spill out onto the floor where anyone could step in it.
By the time I reach my room, my hands are shaking so hard the handle rattles.
I get inside. I close the door with a quieter click, like the castle deserves gentleness even when I don’t. I lean my forehead against the wood for one long second, breathing in and out as if that’s all living is.
Down the corridor, a door opens.
For a heartbeat, I think he’s coming. I think I’ll hear his footsteps, that familiar careless stride that always sounds like confidence even when it isn’t.
But the corridor stays empty.
And somewhere behind his closed door, Fred Weasley stays exactly where he is—hurt enough to lash out, stubborn enough to mean it, in love enough to let me run anyway.
~~~
A week can be a long time at Hogwarts when you’re measuring it in corridor-glances and almost-words.
It isn’t that we don’t see each other. That would be simpler. Hogwarts is a place designed to force you into proximity—moving staircases, shared classrooms, the Great Hall like a great beating heart you have to pass through twice a day whether you want to or not. It is impossible to avoid someone here without making it obvious you’re avoiding them, and that’s the sort of obvious I can’t afford.
So we orbit.
We pass in corridors and do that careful, practiced nothing—my gaze sliding past him as if my eyes have never learned his face, his voice going bright when anyone else is listening, like the last week didn’t happen and his door never shut in my face like a verdict. Sometimes, when there’s a crowd, his shoulder brushes mine and I feel the exact point of contact all the way up my arm, like my skin is keeping a record my mouth refuses to admit.
We talk, technically. We exchange words the way you exchange coins you don’t want to keep—quick, clean, impersonal. And if we’re forced into the same space for longer than a minute, something small and petty sparks, because it’s easier to fight about butter than to say I miss you.
The Great Hall is warm with noise, plates clattering, owls swooping low, sunlight slanting through the high windows. Gryffindor’s table is its usual chaos: elbows, laughter, crumbs, someone talking too loudly about summer plans as if the idea of leaving doesn’t make their stomach twist.
George and Lee have claimed spots early—George lounging like he owns the bench, Lee wedged between a gaggle of fourth-years, already narrating something animatedly. Fred is there too, of course.
I slide onto the bench opposite them. George’s eyes flick up, he grins as if everything is normal. “Morning,” he says, dragging it out, as though tasting the word.
Lee nods at me, mouth full, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. Fred doesn’t look up at all. He’s buttering toast with aggressive precision, like the bread has personally wronged him.
I grab a piece of bread, eyes searching the table for butter dish. When my gaze finally lands on it I let out an irritated sigh. The butter dish sits just out of reach—close enough to see, far enough to be annoying. I could stretch. I could stand. I could do anything except ask him.
“Pass the butter?” I say, keeping my voice even.
Fred’s hand pauses mid-spread. He glances up at me, expression blank in a way that doesn’t suit him. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t make some stupid comment about buttering my own toast like an independent witch. He simply slides the butter dish—further down the table.
I stare at him.
It’s so childish, so small, that for a second I can’t quite process it. My fingers hover in the air where the dish should have been, the gesture unfinished.
George’s brow lifts. Lee stops chewing, glancing at Free before his eyes shift to me. I let my hand drop slowly to the table.
Fred continues buttering his toast as if he hasn’t just moved the world two inches to make a point.
“Right,” I say. I pick up my knife, scrape at my toast with a deliberate calm that feels like holding a shaking cup steady. “Brilliant. Didn’t know we were doing this today.”
Fred finally looks at me then, and his eyes are too bright for a morning that should be soft. “Doing what?”
“The thing,” I say, and I hate how vague it sounds, how the words have to walk around the truth because the truth would set the table on fire. “The—acting like you’re twelve.”
George makes a small sound, somewhere between a cough and a laugh, like he’s trying not to get involved and failing on instinct. “Oi—”
Fred’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless. “Twelve’s generous. Some days I feel at least thirteen.”
Fred leans back, toast in hand. He takes a bite with exaggerated enjoyment, chewing slowly, as if giving me time to reconsider speaking.
I don’t.
“You know,” I say, voice still low, still controlled, “for someone who prides himself on being funny, you’re being painfully predictable.”
Fred swallows. “Predictable?”
“Yes,” I say. “Slide the butter away, refuse to look at me, pretend you’re above it all—”
“Above it all?” he repeats, and his tone turns light, the way it does right before it turns dangerous. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
George’s eyes dart between us now, quick as a Snitch. He doesn’t interrupt. He just watches, and something about that makes my skin feel too tight.
“Can you not,” George says finally, half-pleading, half-amused, as if he’s trying to defuse a skirmish he doesn’t understand. “It’s breakfast.”
Fred’s gaze flicks to George like he’s just remembered George exists, then back to me. “Fine,” he says brightly. “No arguments. I’ll be an absolute delight.”
He reaches for the butter dish at the far end of the table—leans across several plates with theatrical effort, nearly elbowing Lee’s pumpkin juice—and then, with a flourish, slides it to me as if presenting a trophy.
“There,” he says. “Butter. Triumph. Everyone clap.”
A couple of nearby students glance over, curious.
I force a smile that feels like it might crack my teeth. “Thank you,” I say sweetly.
Fred’s grin flashes. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
George looks like he wants to ask what in Merlin’s name is happening, but he swallows it down with the practiced caution of someone who’s lived with Fred too long to step on a landmine without knowing where it’s buried.
I take the butter and spread it on my toast as if its personally offended me. I feel Lee shift from his place beside me, for once not knowing what to say.
It doesn’t stay at breakfast.
It follows us into the day like a ghost that refuses to be ignored.
In Transfiguration, there are no seats left except the ones at Fred and George’s table—because of course there aren’t. Everyone always tries to sit near them until they remember what near them actually entails. I slide into the empty chair beside Fred, the wooden legs scraping softly over stone.
McGonagall’s voice is a crisp metronome at the front of the room. “Pair up. You will be working on human-to-animal switching sequences. I want precision. Not enthusiasm. Precision.”
Fred’s parchment is already out. His quill twitches in his fingers like it’s impatient.
I keep my gaze on my own notes.
We work in stiff, awkward silence at first—the kind that makes every little sound enormous: quill scratches, pages turning, the faint hiss of someone’s spell going wrong two rows over.
Fred writes quickly, decisively, as if daring the page to challenge him. It would almost be impressive if I wasn’t watching him do it with the cold competence of someone who’s trying not to think.
He mutters the incantation under his breath, wand poised. He makes a precise flick—and the mouse on our desk sprouts a tuft of feathers in the wrong place, panics, and darts under the table.
I catch it automatically, lifting it by the scruff before it can run into someone else’s experiment. The mouse trembles in my hand, feathers poking out at awkward angles like a botched hat.
Fred watches me, eyes narrowed slightly.
“That,” I say, keeping my voice quiet, “is not what we’re meant to be doing.”
He leans back in his chair. “Oh? And what are we meant to be doing, Professor?”
“Not turning it into a—” I glance at the mouse, “—whatever this is.”
“A fashion statement,” Fred says blandly. “It’s very daring.”
I set the mouse back down gently. “You did the movement wrong.”
Fred’s quill pauses. “Did I?”
“Yes,” I say. “Your wrist—”
“My wrist is fine,” he says, and there’s that bright edge again, too cheerful, too controlled. “My wrist is positively thriving.”
“You’re doing it wrong on purpose,” I say, before I can stop myself, because the absurdity of it—this smart, capable boy pretending incompetence like it’s a weapon—makes something in me tighten.
Fred’s eyes flick up, sharp as a snapped thread. “On purpose,” he repeats softly. “Interesting theory.”
I lean closer, keeping my voice low enough that only he can hear. “You’re sulking.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You do,” I say. “You just do it theatrically.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s called performance. It’s an art.”
“And I’m meant to applaud?”
“You could,” he says lightly. “It might encourage me.”
I stare at him. He stares back, unblinking, like this is a joke. The mouse squeaks weakly. McGonagall’s shadow falls over our desk like a blade.
“Mr Weasley,” she says crisply, “Miss Wood—would either of you like to share your riveting conversation with the rest of the class?”
The room goes still in the way it always does when McGonagall speaks—every student suddenly fascinated by their own parchment.
Fred looks up at her, expression innocent enough to belong to a saint. “We were discussing wrist health, Professor.”
McGonagall’s lips thin. Her gaze drops to the mouse, then to the feathers, then back to Fred. “Fascinating. Five points from Gryffindor. Perhaps if your wrist is unwell, you should refrain from using it for spells.”
Fred’s grin flashes, quick and bright. “Yes, Professor.”
She moves on. The class exhales. I keep my eyes on my parchment because if I look at him, I’ll see that tiny twist at the corner of his mouth, the one that says he’s pleased he got a reaction.
And I hate that my body still knows him well enough to respond.
By the end of the week, the stupid arguments feel like a language we’ve accidentally invented.
They never say anything that would give us away—never anything that would make anyone suspect we’ve touched each other in places no one else gets to see, never anything that would make George’s eyes narrow in that way. It’s all petty.
By Friday, the common room feels like it’s holding its breath when we’re in the same space.
A once beautiful friendship turned rotten, we’ve made ourselves look like we can’t stand each other. We’ve done it so consistently that people are starting to treat it like entertainment. Like it’s a weekly feature.
Fred and Y/N: Will they bite today?
It’s pathetic. It’s also the only thing keeping us from saying something we can’t take back.
Then the year ends.
The castle shifts into that strange, bright restlessness it gets right before everyone goes home. Trunks appear. Owls arrive in flurries. People talk about summer like it’s a promised land, and the air is full of goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.
Everyone is whispering about the end of year party the houses all hold together. It isn’t official. It never is. But older students don’t ever ask for permission; they’re just waiting for the right opportunity. And the right place where the first years won’t accidentally come in and ruin it for everyone else by grabbing a Professor.
The head of Ravenclaw opens the room of requirements, telling everyone where they can find it. Someone drags couches closer to the fire, someone charms the ceiling to scatter tiny sparks like floating embers, someone smuggles in bottles that clink softly and smell like trouble.
Fourth year and up only—old enough to know how to break rules properly. As Fred would always say.
I take my time getting ready. Because if I can’t say what I mean, I can at least walk into the common room looking like I’ve won something.
When I step through the door, the room shifts. A few heads turn. A few smiles pause. Someone’s sentence stutters.
The firelight catches my hair and makes everything warm, makes my skin look like it’s lit from within. The dress isn’t extravagant—Hogwarts wouldn’t be Hogwarts if it were—but it fits snuggly around the places it should.
I don’t search for Fred but my eyes find him anyway. He’s by the edge of the room, half-leaning against the wall with George and Lee, drink in hand, looking like he’s trying very hard to be easy. His hair is messier than usual. His sleeves are rolled. His grin is on, bright as ever—but something about it looks held up by stubbornness rather than joy.
His gaze hits me like a spell. It’s immediate. Unavoidable. For half a second, his mouth parts—just slightly—the way it does when he forgets to perform. Like he just got caught staring at something that isn’t his.
George says something, and Fred’s face snaps back into place. His eyes slide away as if I’m just another person in the room. As if I haven’t been living under his skin for months. As if the week hasn’t been a slow, ugly ache.
George and Lee drift—like they’ve decided they’re going to keep Fred penned in tonight. Every time his weight shifts in my direction, George shifts too. Every time my path takes me near him, Lee “accidentally” steps between us with a laugh and a story and a hand on Fred’s shoulder.
I roll my eyes at the attempt to keep us apart, as if I’m even willing to go near Fred tonight. I ignore them, moving around the room with Angelina, plastering a fake smile as she drags me around to talk with people I don’t care to talk to.
I drink something sweet that tastes like cherries. I laugh at a joke that isn’t funny. I let the night be light around me even as something heavier keeps tugging at my ribs.
Then someone asks me to dance. And because I refuse to stand still and look like I’m waiting for a boy who is pretending not to see me, I say yes.
I don’t even realize it’s Cedric Diggory until he pulls me closer to him, forcing my gaze to lift.
Of course it is.
Cedric is the kind of handsome that makes the room tilt without trying. The kind of boy who looks like he was carved out of the idea of “good.” He’s polite, steady, gentle in the way his hand rests at my waist—respectful, careful, like he’s aware he’s touching a person and not a prop.
“Having a good night?” he asks, smiling down at me.
“I’m surviving,” I say, and it comes out a little too dry. Cedric chuckles anyway, like he understands that kind of humour.
We move with the music—not wildly the way Fred would dance with me—just a simple dance, a simple moment, the firelight making everything soft.
I look over Cedric’s shoulder and my breath catches when I meet Fred’s eyes. His face is too still. His jaw set. His eyes lock on the place Cedric’s hand rests like he’s memorizing the shape of it so he can break it later. He lifts his drink and takes a long swallow without looking away.
Then another.
George notices. He leans in, says something in Fred’s ear. Lee appears beside them, trying to take the drink out of Fred’s grasp but Fred just shoves him away.
I hear Fred laughs too loudly when George says something he clearly did not like. It slices through the room like a crack. He drinks again ignoring the protests of his two best friends.
The music keeps going. Cedric turns me gently, spinning me once, the dress flaring, and when I face the room again Fred is no longer leaning against the wall.
He’s moving.
Straight toward us.
George gets there first, stepping in front of him, his grin gone. A look his mother must’ve given both boys a million times over plastered on his face. “Oi, Fred,” he says roughly, too rough, “what do you think you’re doing—“
Fred tries to sidestep him. George catches his arm. Fred doesn’t even look at him as he jerks away.
Lee’s hand lands on Fred’s shoulder, a little firmer than a friendly touch. “Mate,” Lee says, voice low, “don’t.”
Cedric’s hand at my waist loosens slightly. He looks past me, brow furrowing, polite confusion shifting into caution.
Fred’s eyes flick to Cedric. Then back to me. And something in him snaps, I almost flinch. He shoves past George. Not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to make a point.
“Fred,” George says, sharper now. “You will ruin—“
Fred steps right up to Cedric. Cedric straightens immediately, stepping in front of me, calm but solid, the way a Hufflepuff becomes when they stop being gentle and start being immovable. “Everything alright?” he asks, voice measured.
Fred smiles. It’s not a friendly smile.
“Fantastic,” Fred says brightly. “Just taking in the scenery.”
“Fred,” I say, warning threaded tight through my voice, because there are eyes everywhere now, and the room has gone quieter in the way it does when it senses trouble.
Fred doesn’t look at me. He looks at Cedric’s hand. Then he looks at Cedric’s face.
Then he says, loud enough to carry, “Do you mind?”
Cedric blinks. “Mind what?”
Fred’s laugh is sharp. “This.”
He reaches as if to pull me away but Cedric steps forward fast, blocking him, protective without being aggressive. George grabs Fred again, this time properly, fingers digging into his shoulder.
“That’s enough,” George says, low and furious in a way I’ve almost never heard from him.
Lee’s voice comes too, strained. “Fred, stop it.”
Fred wrenches free. And then he shouts. Not a controlled announcement. Not a neat confession. A shout—tired and furious and soaked in drink and something far more dangerous than drink.
“I’m done,” he yells. The room freezes. Even the sparks near the ceiling seem to hover. My heart slams so hard into my chest I think it might’ve broken a bone.
Fred turns, sweeping his gaze across the common room like he wants everyone to see him properly for once. His cheeks are flushed. His hair has fallen into his eyes. His drink sloshes in his hand.
“I’m done pretending,” he says, voice rougher now, less performance, and the words start coming faster, like they’ve been trapped behind his teeth for too long. “I’m done acting like I don’t—like I haven’t—Merlin, I know it started as nothing. I know that. I agreed to it being nothing, didn’t I? Brilliant plan. Round of applause for Fred Weasley, the absolute idiot.”
A couple of people laugh nervously, as if waiting for the punchline.
There isn’t one.
My breath catches in my throat, I know no one knows what the hell he is talking about, but the way people are glancing at me makes me think they’re putting two and two together. And I almost pull my wand out to shut him up. But it’s like I’m frozen in place.
He points at me.
“And then I fell in love with her,” he says and I feel as if I’ve fallen over. The silence that follows is violent.
George’s face goes white. Lee looks like he’s been punched. Someone near the stairs gasps. Someone else whispers, “Isn’t that Oliver Wood’s—”
Fred’s voice breaks through again, stubborn and bright and wrecked. “And I’m not doing the secret anymore. I’m not. I don’t care if Oliver Wood strings me up and uses me for Bludger practice. I don’t care if the castle itself throws me out. I wanted a hug after a match and couldn’t even—” He laughs once, short and broken. “I’m done being a ghost.”
My body moves before my mind can decide what to do with the humiliation burning up my spine. I cross the room in three strides. I grab the front of his collar and yank him toward me.
His grin flashes, wild and disbelieving, as if even now he can’t quite believe I’m real. “Hello,” he says, because of course he does.
“Shut up,” I hiss, and it comes out like a prayer and a threat all at once. I can’t believe he just did that.
George reaches out as if to stop me, then freezes, eyes darting between my hand on Fred’s collar and Fred’s face like he’s watching his whole world rearrange itself.
Lee mutters, “I knew it,” in a tone that suggests he absolutely did not know it and is furious about being surprised.
I drag Fred toward the exit.
He stumbles a little as we step out, because he’s drunk enough to be loose and honest, and he lets me drag him anyway, like he’s decided being hauled out by his collar is worth it if it means I’m touching him.
The corridor hits like cold water—torchlight harsh, stone walls unforgiving, the air sharp and clean after the warmth of the party. My grip is still on his collar.
Fred leans against the wall as soon as I let go, catching himself with one hand, breathing hard, grin still hanging on his mouth like he can’t help it.
I shove his shoulder just enough to make him sway and laugh under his breath.
“What is wrong with you?” I hiss anger curling around my throat.
Fred blinks slowly, eyes glassy around the edges but still painfully, infuriatingly Fred. “Several things,” he says, thoughtful. “Most of them hereditary.”
I hit his shoulder again. “You just said that in front of everyone.”
He turns his head to look at me properly. The grin softens—not gone, but quieter, less show. “Yes.” I almost take a swing but I refrain myself, taking a slow, deep breath in.
“My brother—”
“Your brother can take a number,” Fred says immediately, then sees my face and flinches into something gentler without meaning to. “No—no, I know. I know. I just…” He swallows, throat working, and for a second the drunkenness slips and something frighteningly sincere shines through. “I watched you dance with him and I thought, this is it. This is what I get for agreeing to ‘nothing.’”
“It was a dance,” I say, voice shaking at the edges despite my best effort.
Fred’s laugh is small. “Everything’s just a dance until it isn’t.”
I stare at him, chest rising too fast, the corridor suddenly too narrow, too bright. He looks flushed and foolish and beautiful in a way that makes my anger lose its footing. His hair is a mess. His eyes are too open. His mouth keeps twitching like he wants to joke because joking is how he stays standing.
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“I’ve been accused,” he replies, solemn as a judge.
“I could hex you,” I warn.
He brightens, actually brightens, like that’s the best offer he’s had all week. “See? You do care.”
I shove his shoulder again, and he laughs, low and pleased, and it makes my throat tighten because the sound is so familiar—because I’ve missed it like you miss warmth when you’ve been cold too long.
“You’re unbelievable,” I whisper.
Fred’s grin turns soft around the edges. “And yet,” he says, leaning in a fraction, voice dropping into something corny and honest and mortifying, “you’re still here.”
I stare at him. His gaze doesn’t slide away. For once, he doesn’t hide.
“I’m so madly in love with you Y/N, and if that means getting mauled by Wood, so be it,” he says, as if he’s testing the words in the air, as if saying them out loud makes them less like a bruise inside him. Then, because he’s Fred and cannot help himself even now, he adds, “Properly in love. Stupidly. In a way that should come with a warning label.”
My hands tremble where they hover at his chest.
And before I can stop myself I pull him forward by his collar again—not to drag him now, but to anchor him, to keep him from swaying away from me, to keep myself from falling apart.
“I hope,” I whisper, voice tight, “that you remember this in the morning.”
He smiles.
“I remember you now,” he says quietly. “That’s enough.”
Something in me breaks loose. I drag in a heavy breath before pulling him a little closer, connecting his lips with mine. I try to be gentle, but it fails miserably, maybe because I’m still awfully angry at him, maybe because the kiss has been trapped behind a week of petty arguments and swallowed words.
My hands grip his shirt like I’m furious at it for existing between us. His breath catches hard, delighted, and he makes a soft sound against my mouth that tells me he’s missed me too, missed me in every place he’s been pretending not to look.
His hands find my waist, firm and grateful, holding on like he’s afraid I’ll vanish again. When I pull back, my forehead stays close to his because distance feels like danger.
“And I hope,” I add, still breathing hard, “that you don’t regret it.”
Fred’s laugh is quiet, rough. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things,” he says, eyes on my mouth like he can’t help it, “but I don’t think loving you is one of them.”
Behind us, somewhere in the castle, the party keeps going. In front of us, the corridor stretches—cold, bright, real. And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, I can almost hear the future shifting its weight, preparing to come down on us.
Because Oliver is going to find out.
And Fred Weasley has never been good at surviving consequences.
But he’s standing here anyway, drunk and honest and impossibly, infuriatingly brave for a boy who gets yelled at by every professor—and I’m still holding his collar like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
As Head Boy and Head Girl, James and Lily are required to keep a meticulous record of all detentions. But what starts as mundane paperwork quickly spirals into something else when they begin leaving notes, arguments, doodles, and accidental confessions in the margins.
When McGonagall confiscates the logbook, they’re forced to confront everything they’ve written—because now, she wants an explanation.
LILY: If you ever attempt a romantic gesture in my presence, I will deduct points from Gryffindor just on principle.
series summary ➥ In which, james has had longing feelings for you—christmas holidays are nearing and james confesses his love towards you in the letter, expect you never read the letter, didn’t know it existed.
Warnings: angst, fluff, james pov, this inspired by awae (aka the best show ever), James is complicated...ofc, nothing else
#1 she ignored my letter!
➥ In which, James writes you a love letter and hides it into your luggage carrying your clothes, not knowing he put it in a pocket you never open.
#2 she can date whoever she wants to, i don't care.
➥ In which, James and you still aren't on talking terms, he avoids you, never gets too close to you, yet complains to everyone when he sees you get close to your new charms partner.
#3 this is awkward..
➥ In which, you were fed up with James, deciding to put aside your pettiness you drag him away from the gryffindor party to talk to him.
#4 what letter? sirius, what letter?
➥ In which, you never planned on talking to james ever again, not after your last encounter with him. Luckily Sirius saves the day.
authors note: using the "Oh, look at the stars! Ursa Major… so beautiful!" "We're inside. Those are just ceiling lights." prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting
upcoming content: fluff!! alcohol mention, james is drunk. food mention.
word count: 1.2k
masterlist
James is practically a furnace draped over you, all heavy limbs and warm breath against your neck. His arm is slung across your shoulders, the other flopping uselessly at his side as he stumbles through the hallway with you bearing most of his weight. Every step is an exercise in patience and balance.
"You're really strong, y'know that?" James slurs, giggling into your hair. "Like... like a dragon. No, wait. A... a really buff flower. My strong flower.”
"I wouldn’t have to be if you could walk straight," you huff, fumbling with your keys as he leans more heavily into you. "James, for Merlin’s sake — can you stand up for two seconds?"
"Standing is overrated," he declares dramatically. "Besides, this is nice. I like this." He tightens his arm around you, swaying on his feet. "You’re warm. An' soft. Like... like a pillow." He tucks his face further into your neck, standing at an angle that can hardly be comfortable given the many inches of height he has on you. Yet, he practically purrs with content as one of his hands snakes up underneath your top, fingers skating across your waist making you giggle.
"James," you try to sound firm, but the way he presses a sloppy kiss to your neck makes it come out more like a laugh. "Stop distracting me. I’m trying to get the door open."
"M'not distracting you," he says, grinning against your skin. "I’m being supportive. 'S different."
You manage to wrestle the door open and practically drag him inside, kicking it shut behind you. James stumbles over his feet and flops onto the couch, arms spread wide, looking up at the ceiling with wide eyes. He jolts up as quickly as he fell down.
"Oh look! The stars!" he gasps, pointing dramatically upward. "Ursa Major... so beautiful." James stumbled in a dazed formation, totally in awe of the “night sky” that shined above him.
You blink at him. "James, those are the ceiling lights."
He frowns, squinting. "Whaaaat? No, they’re stars. Look!" He lifts his hand, tracing invisible constellations in the air. "See? The Big Dipper’s right there, silly girl!”
You bite back a laugh. "We put those up, remember? The little glow-in-the-dark stickers you insisted we buy last month? You said every flat needed its own night sky."
James gasps, staring at you like you’ve just shared the secret of life itself. "That was us? No way. We’re brilliant,” he let out with a bewildered whisper, now sitting cross legged on the rug, his stare darting between you and the stars. He couldn’t decide which view amazed him more.
"Mmhmm." You crouch beside him, brushing a curl from his forehead. "Our apartment, remember? We can do whatever we want with it."
His face softens, and his eyes go all melty and fond. "Our apartment," he repeats dreamily, reaching out to poke your nose. "That’s so cool. You and me. Living together."
"Yes, love. That’s what happens when people move in together."
James hums contentedly, flopping onto his side and curling into the cushions. "Best decision I ever made. Apart from falling in love with you."
You roll your eyes, cheeks heating. "Alright, Casanova. Let’s get you ready for bed."
He grumbles when you tug him up, but relents when you pull him toward the kitchen, his feet dragging along the floor. He sags against you, arms wrapped around your waist, and you practically have to pour him into his chair.
"Okay," you say, carefully handing him a large glass of water. "Stay."
James salutes you with two fingers, swaying slightly. "Aye, aye."
You stifle a giggle. "I’m going to the bathroom. Will you be okay?"
"Yes, of course," James says, puffing up his chest in mock seriousness.
You raise a brow. "Really?"
"Yes!" he insists, nodding so enthusiastically that he nearly topples off his seat. "Totally fine."
You hesitate for a moment before slipping into the bathroom. The mirror is streaked in places, toothpaste flecks near the sink, and you make a mental note to clean it tomorrow. You catch your reflection, eyes lingering on the tired but content expression staring back at you. The apartment is small, your job doesn’t pay you enough, and sometimes the ceiling leaks when it rains too hard. But it’s yours. Yours and James’. And somehow, even when things are tight, you make it work. The place feels full — with laughter, with love, with him.
A loud clang makes you jump.
You rush out of the bathroom, heart racing, and find James sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, staring forlornly at what used to be a slice of cake. It’s now a sad mess of crumbs and frosting.
"James, what happened?"
He looks up at you, eyes wide and guilt-ridden. "It fell."
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. "I can see that."
"I was trying to mold it back into cake shape," he explains, pushing the crumbled mess together with his fingers. "But it’s not working."
You kneel beside him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "It’s okay. We’ll fix it tomorrow."
James pouts. "But I wanted cake."
"I know, love." You help him to his feet, dusting crumbs off his shirt. "Come on, let’s get you cleaned up."
He lets you lead him back to the bathroom, collapsing onto the closed toilet lid. "Okay," you say, guiding him onto the closed toilet lid. "Now don’t move, and I mean it this time."
James nods and bounces on the toilet seat like a child would. God, even drunk off his ass, he’s still the most endearing person you’ll ever know.
You grab his toothbrush and squeeze a dollop of minty toothpaste onto the bristles before holding it out to him. James stares at it blankly.
"You have to put it in your mouth, James."
"Oh. Right."
He takes the toothbrush and promptly misses his mouth, nearly poking himself in the cheek. You sigh, gently taking it from him.
"Alright. Open up."
He blinks at you. "You’re gonna brush my teeth for me?"
"Unless you want toothpaste all over the walls?"
He grins. "I love you."
You snort. "Yeah, yeah. Open."
James obediently parts his lips, and you carefully brush his teeth, trying not to laugh when he makes exaggerated "ahhh" sounds like a child at the dentist. His eyes stay fixed on you the entire time, half-lidded and soft.
When you’re done, he swishes some water around his mouth and nearly misses the sink spitting it out. You wipe his chin with a towel, shaking your head fondly.
"There. Minty fresh."
James beams at you, pulling you into his arms and pressing his face into your neck. "You’re the best. My best girl. My only girl."
"Yes, yes, I know. Let’s get you to bed before you pass out in the sink."
He lets you lead him to the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed like a starfish the moment his back hits the mattress. You pull off his shoes, tossing them into the corner, and tug the blankets over him. Just as you’re about to turn off the light, his hand catches yours.
"Stay."
You slip under the covers, and James immediately pulls you into his arms, his face nuzzling into your neck.
"I love our apartment," he mumbles sleepily. "I love you."
You press a kiss to his curls, smiling into the dark. "Love you too, James."
He’s asleep before you can say anything else, snoring softly into your pillow. And as the glow-in-the-dark stars shimmer faintly above you, and the faint smell of alcohol mixed with mint fanned your face, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you’re the luckiest person in the world.
“Finding time was hard enough before we took up shagging each other like mad—people will start to talk if we don’t show up to any of our classes.”
Almost predictably, he laughs, pressing his lips against a patch of red on her collar where she is almost certain an imprint of his teeth will appear.
“Let them,” he says simply as the arm wrapped around her waist tightens. “I’ve wasted too much time not shagging you. Now that I can, I don’t plan to give it up for anything.”
The NSFW oneshot set in the Method Acting Universe! (though you ABSOLUTELY do not need to read the other installments to read this one).
fanfiction is so beautiful because what do you mean i can read the same characters falling in love 92737389 times in different scenarios and not get tired of it.
germansingergirl
prguitarman
stormborns
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
kaledo-art
