bucky barnes is smug and prodigious. you’re trying your best under too much pressure. (un)fortunately, the only place the two of you can get along is in the bedroom.
so how the hell are you supposed to bring home gold when he becomes your doubles partner?
🎟️ SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: explicit sexual themes and smut, MDNI!; RIVALS WITH BENEFITS TO LOVERS; athlete!au (badminton); emotional slowburn; yearning; contains themes of golden child syndrome/perfectionism; secret relationship and even more secret feelings; mentions of romanogers
🌸 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader; reader has hair (ponytail) and is able-bodied; mentions of reader's parent
🎀 CHAPTER WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, no intoxication; mentions of winterwidow; mentions of physical injury; SMUT (semi-public sex, rough sex?, oral m!receiving, unprotected piv, facial); nicknames ("sweetheart", "pretty", "doll", "baby"); one (1) lord of the rings reference sorry i can't help it
🌸 AUTHOR'S NOTE: i love badminton. i love writing (i think). theoretically i should love writing about badminton, right?
Natasha Romanoff is never late for morning practice. She is today.
It’s been six months since you’re sequestered in this Spartan hellhole that is the United States Performance Center. To say she’s on time for any training regimen for the day is an understatement—the redhead makes it a point to arrive earlier.
Call her crazy, but everyone has to be to qualify for the Olympics. At least a little bit. You included.
Halfway into footwork drills and she still hasn’t shown. The fact makes you particularly distracted. Coach Fury, ever the watchful man, notices.
“Focus,” he barks at the room, but the words land on your back specifically.
It’s barely 7am and the Coach has already swung his metaphorical whip: you and the rest sweat through four-corner split-steps for what feels like a thousand reps. No rackets, just squeaky shoes, the Gymnastics team stretching gracefully in the far corner, and sleepy eyes—except for Steve Rogers’ bright blues.
Now that’s another psycho. He always seems to wake up bounding with energy by the crack of dawn like a touch-starved golden retriever.
There are supposed to be four of you in the Badminton contingent other than Steve: you and Nat for women’s doubles; Kate Bishop, the U-19 trainee almost too young to be here; and finally Bucky Barnes, Steve’s partner for men’s doubles—
—who also happens to be the person you hate the most in Performance Center.
Okay, maybe hate is too strong a word. There’s a thing that happened when you were young, a memory that precisely describes your feelings towards him.
Picture this: you’re in grade school, studying your tiny ass off for a test that will decide how much love you’re going to get from your parents. And you study hard—the kind that means no cartoons and even less playtime. You get an A for it. Hooray.
And then someone else in class who said “wait, we have a test today?” ends up getting an A+ and a gold star sticker.
Bucky Barnes is that someone else. The smug, effortless foil to your blood, sweat, and tears.
It was complicated feelings at first sight.
You saw him and Steve and Nat at U.S. Open a few years ago, though you knew of them before then—even got to share locker rooms and clipped greetings.
Bucky was admirable but even more enviable: where your plays embodied precision, he breezed through the Open with rough-and-tumble rhythms that tripped up opponents. It pissed you off how casually he seemed to do that, only to place first with Steve in doubles.
You went home with a hard-earned silver.
Then the Olympics draft happened and here you all are, older and maybe not so much wiser.
It was the wisdom of head coach Nicholas J. Fury that paired you with Natasha. Although one would argue it doesn’t take much to see that chemistry: five minutes into introductions, and the two of you played a doubles spar like you were psychics.
And Natasha makes the perfect partner. A lithe coil of quips and red hair that’s friendlier than she looks. Picks up birdies with you at the end of a three-set session. Knows how to turn your seething energy into competitive fuel for the game you were born to play.
But training has moved on to rackets, she’s still not here, and your anxiety is starting to show.
Steve points it out. The both of you are watching Bucky and Kate do figure-eight drills from the sidelines, water bottles in your hands.
“Worried about Nat?” the blonde looks over at you, gaze soft and warm.
“Yeah,” you wipe sweat off your forehead like it’ll erase the crease between your brows. “She’s never this late.”
Then, as if foreshadowed by words, Clint Barton from Physio bursts through the gym’s double doors and you feel your heart sink. He’s much too early for his shift—cool-downs are not until three more hours.
“Romanoff’s out of commission,” the brunet’s voice is laced with apparent panic as he paces towards Fury near the net. No more court shoe squeaks or the sounds of a shuttle—even the Gymnastics contingent has their heads turned. For one second, all you hear is the beat of your heart.
Pure shock propels you to jog towards the coach. Steve tails closely behind. By body language alone, you know he’s as surprised as you are.
“What happened?” you ask.
“Patellar tendinopathy,” Clint replies, giving you a side glance, “jumper’s knee. We’re lookin’ at twelve weeks of recovery total.”
You look at him, clearly crestfallen. Twelve weeks places her right before the qualifiers.
“But—she was completely fine when we trained last Saturday—”
The look on Barton’s face is somewhere between sympathy and pity.
“Well, it turns out she snuck in here to play against the serve machine last night.”
You curse under your breath. Last night. Sunday. She said she was going to be out at some bar in town—although alcohol is out of the question for an athlete, you didn’t stop her. Didn’t ask to go with her.
Maybe that’s why she knows exactly what to tell you.
How long has she been drilling herself, pulling unauthorized hours? A botched knee doesn’t just happen overnight.
One glance at Fury’s face, all hard lines and no emotions, and the silence blares even louder.
When he finally speaks, it’s with a tone that spells crisis control. A war directive.
“Change of plans. Rogers?”
“Sir.”
“You’re up for men’s singles.”
Your lungs lock, breath stalled. Watch as Bucky and Steve stare at each other.
Theirs has been a combo that swept up years and years worth of championship medals—to break it apart feels like a bad omen.
Then you hear your name and your chest tightens. Eyes meet Fury’s, looking straight at him as he gives you a damning verdict.
“You and Barnes. Mixed doubles.”
The sensation that sneaks up your spine is like a cold plunge, both in the initial shock and the numbness after. This can’t be happening. Not only is Fury splitting America’s winning team, he’s creating a new one that can only herald catastrophe.
The only thing you and Barnes will bring home are headlines. Likely about how pairing the two of you together should be considered an act of treason to the country.
Your gaze snaps to Bucky, hoping he’d protest, but he looks like he’s still reeling from the news. Your voice is almost hesitant when you speak up.
“Sir, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“And I don’t think this is a discussion,” Fury deadpans.
“With all due respect, sir, separating Barnes and Rogers? If you’re trying to earn us medals, that’s the opposite of what you should be doing.”
Something flashes in Fury’s good eye that makes the air conditioning dip to colder temperatures.
“And what is it you think I should be doing?”
You swallow. Ignore your sinking stomach.
“Keep the men’s doubles. Put me in women’s singles.”
The next few seconds taste like concentrated consideration: you can almost see the coach do the math in his head. But it lasts a little too long for your comfort. That in itself prepares you to clip hope’s weak wings, an act so brutal yet so everyday:
“We’re going for gold this year, young miss. Take no prisoners,” Fury responds slow and low. “And with all due respect, I’ve trained you and the generations of athletes before you—including your own father, mind you. You are not playing singles.”
Funny how you can spot disappointment from a mile away, yet still can’t break the fall.
“Then why not Rogers and I for doubles? Barnes and I—he—” you stammer, “we haven’t exactly worked together a lot.”
You feel more than see the blue blazing on the side of your face. Bucky’s glaring at you. The notion warms your skin, a sensation you try to ignore.
“So?” Fury’s voice is final. “You still have six months to get along.”
This time, you catch Bucky’s stare. He’s still looking at you, jaws stern. The dark grey of his shirt betrays a stance that signal tension, and a heat sparks at the base of your gut. Only your coach’s voice is able to break your observation.
Fury sighs, softening just a smidge. You don’t think Kate could tell at all. Poor thing is standing ramrod straight.
“I clock your play styles better than that Turkish shooter fires a gun—and I’ve only got one goddamn eye. Rogers for men’s singles. You and Barnes for mixed doubles. Is that clear?”
Despite the undercurrent of uncertainty, you steel your voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Barton?”
“Yeah?”
“I want Romanoff’s rehab plan on my desk by the end of today.”
“Done.”
“And make it nine weeks instead of twelve,” Fury adds. “If we’re lucky, maybe she’ll bag us a bronze. Now back to positions!”
There are at least five hundred athletes representing the USA in the Olympics. About a hundred of them are cloistered here, in the confines of Performance Center, Charlotte, North Carolina—a mandatory rite of passage before the world stage. The facility sprawls as wide as fifteen football fields, cradled between ocean and mountain, yet its vastness is never seen without people.
Like right now. The mess hall is especially crowded, considering it’s lunch hours. With so many hungry people in one space, surely two absentees won’t be missed.
They’re just having their meals elsewhere.
“Mmph—”
Elsewhere turns out to be an abandoned locker room in the Center’s west wing, where footfall is lower and the lights are dimmer.
“That’s it, doll, takin’ me so fucking well—”
The meal is Bucky’s cock down your throat.
His length stifles your moans—that’s his feast right there, the sound of you plugged full of him. A veiny hand grips you by your now-ruined ponytail. You’re knelt between his spread legs while he sits on a bench, fully clothed, intently watching the scene below him like it’s match footage.
Except no replay can ever get him this hard, or make him smile like that, eyes glazed, like he’s satisfied with the state he’s got you in:
You’re left in your sports bra and high-waisted shorts. Skin flushed from the morning session, lips swollen, glistening with saliva and precum. Your head bobs at the directive of his hand in your hair, pace still unhurried.
Meanwhile, you look up at him through glassy eyes, lashes fluttering. He’s a paradox above you: kind enough to take it slow, yet merciless in the way he keeps his cock so far down your throat when all of those inches are in. He pulls out just before you gag. A small charity followed by a display of greed.
This is happening because you lost the mock-match.
Tears threaten to pool at stuff of his length pulsing eagerly inside your warm mouth, but you refuse to tap out, hands pressed stubbornly against the hem of his shorts on each bulging thigh. You may have lost, but there’s still a chance he’ll lose it, too.
Still, as he sits heavy on your tongue, Bucky Barnes milks every second into a personal victory.
“Gonna come in your mouth, sweetheart,” he grins. “You’ll let me, won’t you?”
You begin to wonder how a man can be so cocky, only to realize the answer is right between your lips.
“Shut the fuck u—mmnhg!”
It should offend you, the way he holds the back of your head to thrust deeper. Instead there’s a zing that precursors a fever. The spot between your thighs throb. Your protest might be silenced, but your tongue finds retaliation without words: teasing the veins of his length, chasing his tip with a lick the moment he withdraws.
Anything to erase that smug smile on his face.
You suck on him, vengeance-fueled, cheeks hollowed. He groans, low and broken at the tightening heat around him—but it’s not enough, he keeps slamming his hips forward, readjusting his grip on your ponytail.
He gives it a small tug. You look up.
“Eyes on me,” he rasps, “need t’see you when I come down your throat.”
Then he fucks your mouth in earnest, sinking further with a strength that somehow survived three hours of rigorous training.
You dig your nails into his thighs. Whimper at the sounds he makes: breathless pants and slurred moans of “pretty fucking mouth, so good f’me”. Let him use you.
When his cock hits the back of your throat, it rips a sound you swear you’ve never made before—not without him, at least—and there they are again: the burning pinpricks of pleasured tears. You hum something unintelligible and broken while your gaze links with his.
The blue in his eyes are swallowed by black, nothing but thin rings under fluorescent lights.
As if anchoring himself more, the hand not branding his fingerprints on your scalp reaches for yours. Fingers lace. That and the smell of his slick makes you forget about the weight of kneeling: suddenly the fatigue feel worth it. You glance down at the sight.
It’s pretty—your fingers and his intertwined. His veins look more protruded this way—the ones on the back his hand, not on his cock. Those are too deep in your mouth to be visible.
A violent groan licks flames down your spine. He’s warning you, face contorted, taken over by a crest.
“Fuck, baby, m’gonna come—”
The grunt that’s punched out of him is long, hot, and heavy—much like the bursts of white he expels down your throat. You moan in response. Breathe through your nose. Let your stomach settle after it flips when he calls you ‘baby’.
You watch him watch you take it.
“Yes,” he murmurs, hazy and lost, “good girl, good fucking girl, take it, ‘s all for you—”
But then he withdraws before he’s done and it hits you: one last vindictive spurt, sticky and dripping on your face.
Moans echo in the locker room, caution be damned. A string of cum leaks out the side of your mouth, joining the one sliding down your chin.
It takes minutes that feel like hours before the fever subsides into gentle warmth. He’s the same: smoothing your hair like it’d fix the wreckage he made, tucking stray strands away from your face. You ignore the ache in your ribs and lick your lips. His residue coats your cheek still.
You wipe it off with your fingers. His breath stutters while you lick them clean.
Despite the relative peace and quiet, these few seconds are the most fatal ones in your secret rendezvous. They threaten to expose emotions that you’ve convinced yourself as a byproduct of errant imagination—a mirage that will fade once your fingers try to touch. It’s just forced proximity, you tell yourself. One of many excuses in a laundry list.
There’s danger in the way his eyes pierces. In your tangled exhales. In the span of his large hands round your waist as he lifts you to straddle him on the bench.
You find yourself wanting to cuddle. You fight the urge with words.
“Don’t call me that,” you murmur, sitting on his lap.
He’s hard again. Good. More sex means less feelings.
Right?
“Call you what?” he looks up, voice too soft to your liking. A hand snakes up the band of your sports bra to palm your tit. Then squeezes. Your voice falters when you answer.
“Baby.”
That single word could power a town, the way it charges the silence.
“Why? That wasn’t in the rules.”
“Because I said so.”
He speaks with eyes first—a whisper of a foreign look you can’t decipher—before his lips purse.
He almost appears reluctant. You try not to think about it.
Then he leans down, humming against your sweat-misted neck, lips closing over skin the way you did to his cock earlier. When he tugs you close, you feel the hard ridge of him on your core. Only he would threaten you with a hickey and tease you with his tip pressed against your panties at the same time.
Fingers skim down the length of your body, tracing your ass through yours shorts before they invade the space between your legs. The fabric is loose enough for his hand to slide in. He peels the soaked cotton of your underwear to the side—you clench at the hit of air before he rolls forward, stretching your pulsing cunt with the thick of his cock.
The two of you moan: him against your jaw, you with your head tilted back, releasing the sound into the damp air that now smells like sex.
When he sinks fully into you, your mind recalled how all of this began.
It started almost six months ago, the Olympics training kick-off. Somehow, after only seventy-two hours of orientation, you and Steve became the talk of Performance Center.
Not individually. Together.
You were quickly introduced to each other as members of the Badminton contingent. From then on, getting along with him was extremely easy.
He was the friendly face and you wore the face of “I need a friend”. Where Steve’s social graces excelled, yours felt rough around the edges in comparison—you learned what it felt like to be adopted by a well-adjusted introvert. The only common thing you had with him aside of badminton is that the both of you are stared at often, though for entirely different reasons.
Him for his broad shoulders and small waist, you for your last name.
The rumors spread quicker than they did in high school—maybe record-breaking sprinters were also good at running their mouths. The most ridiculous one you heard? The government put you and Steve together in hopes of producing prodigious badminton babies. World domination through sports. Go America!
Fucking crazy.
And sure, you walked everywhere with him, trained with him, ate with him. But it wasn’t just with him. Bucky and Natasha were there, too, for the most part.
Actually, perhaps Bucky’s and Natasha’s presence didn’t quell the fire so much as fanned it.
Because on their own, people talked. His casual genius. Her underrated wins.
Together?The populace loved it. And why wouldn’t they? Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome stares down a sultry redhead while he spots her at the gym, big hand adjusting her daintier grip on the bar.
‘Grumpy x Flirt’, ‘Guard Dog x Black Cat’, or whatever the storybook trope was called.
In any case, their energies matched so well, you’d surprised they didn’t just call it a day and get married right then and there.
Until the last day of freedom arrived.
With the end of orientation, soon-to-be Olympians of all states and sizes flooded the bars and clubs in Charlotte to drink themselves dumb before they were prohibited for the following year. The four of you chose a place with good music and beer on tap.
A night to remember, or to forget.
It was the night you figured out that Steve and Nat liked each other.
A blind person could see the magnetic force-field that surrounded them when they talked. They sat side by side at the corner of the counter: he stuns with quips that pushed boundaries of politeness; she rolls her eyes, looking away at intervals like she’s shy and trying to hide it. As if they swapped personality traits.
You slowly sipped on your drink, trading looks with Bucky. Speaking would state the obvious.
And because sitting with Steve and Nat felt like trespassing, the two of you moved to a different spot of the crowded bar, watching through rims of alcohol glasses, strangers on the same team.
You realized you’ve never been alone with him. And maybe he did, too—because then the two of you started making fun of the other athletes.
Next to a neon sign on the wall, the wrestlers laughed the loudest. You could see the handball players already halfway through the door, not looking too happy. “Probably looking for a more bougie place,” he murmured. You chuckled.
By the fifth cocktail, you tried to match-make Bucky for entertainment. You couldn’t help the amused lilt in your voice—it was for sure the alcohol’s fault.
“You know, Lena’s real pretty.”
“Lena? Yelena?” He balked. “Her sister will snap my left arm off before any sort of chemistry could happen.”
“You wouldn’t at least try?”
He thought about it for a second, and you thought he was seriously considering it, until:
“Pretty sure I don’t see her that way.”
You scanned the room of bodies again, nodding your chin towards a beautiful woman laughing with a group of friends. You couldn’t remember their sport.
“What about her? Sarah Wilson. Sat next to her on the bus. Really friendly, great taste in books.”
Bucky stared in the way you came to know as uniquely his. “Mm. Maybe.”
You huffed, dissatisfied. “Two o’clock, near the pinball.”
He sipped his drink.
“Sharon Carter. Gymnastics, I think.”
The reply was immediate. “Nah. Too uptight.” The stare you gave him was one that spelled the letters W-T-F.
It went on and on until the distance between your bodies shrunk: you leaned your head on his shoulder, he pressed closer. Smirked after shooting down yet another one of your suggestions.
“Y’know what’d be funny?”
You blinked up at him, eyes slightly hazy. “What?”
“If we got together. Get back at them.” He nudged his glass at Steve and Nat’s direction. They were still talking.
You hummed. “Like… revenge rebound? Except it’s not technically rebound.”
And instead of revenge, it was something else—an attraction to a person with the same drive as you, a strange kind of adrenaline that somehow takes the edge off. It was as unprofessional as it was widely practiced.
You pursed your lips.
He only smiled at your silence.
That was how you ended up in his dorm room, flushed and bare under the shadow of his naked body. His hand bent your knees to kiss your chest, spread them so he could pump his thick cock harder into your crying cunt. The sweat on his brow dripped onto your skin.
Wet slaps and needy groans floated freely in the dark. The dorms were empty: most residents were out partying, and if there was anyone home, Bucky fucked like he wanted them to hear.
A deep thrust sent the both of you reeling—it hit a spot that made your walls clamp down on him, hot and tight. He groaned. Your nails dug into his biceps.
Bucky held himself up above you with one arm, the other hand a stern collar round your neck, almost a leverage for his punishing hips.
“God, you’re so—fucking—perfect,” he gritted, punctuated each plunge.
Then his forehead pressed against yours, lips hovering close. You turned away too quickly and caught the glimpse of confusion in his eyes.
“No kissing,” you mouthed against his jaw, voice low, “and absolutely no telling anyone.”
To which he hummed a long growl against your temple, pelvic bone grinding into yours after sinking in. His pace was relentless until a hand drifted down to thumb at your clit—you writhed underneath him, walls clenching around his cock with a loud cry.
“Thaaat’s it,” he grunted into your ear, “good girl, milk me dry—”
Gravity shifts. You blink to meet his stare. His voice echoes a little loud.
“Where’d you go, baby?”
Suddenly you’re back in the present. Locker room. Lunchtime. His cock nudging your cervix.
“You’re distracted,” he murmurs, thumbing at your bottom lip to get them to open. “That’s why you lost the match, baby.”
Right. The mock-match.
It was you and Steve versus Bucky and Kate—three sets of thigh torture. Natasha’s injury weighed on your mind, dulling enough of your reaction time to turn the tides of the game. You felt especially guilty for making stupid mistakes while playing alongside Steve, of all people.
You’re plugged full of his cock because you lost the match. And you agreed to this—six months ago, after that first time with Bucky. It was his suggestion, said so nonchalantly, you almost laughed in his face.
“Call it a reward system: loser gives winner head, or something like that.”
Except it quickly turns into a free-for-all, sans kissing, of course. Winner fucks loser to oblivion. Hell, winner gives loser head, if that’s what winner wants.
But when the loser loves losing, doesn’t that make them the real winner?
“Bet I can still get you off.” Your losing bark wavers, weakening the bite of your words. “And quit calling me baby.”
“Not how this works,” he breathes on your neck, almost too calm. “The winner gets what the winner wants.”
Two hands clamp your hips in a stone grip. You try to twist out of his hold. It doesn’t work.
“And your legs are trembling,” he points out.
He’s right. Three hours of intense exercise followed by this, you’re not surprised.
“So just shut up and enjoy it when I fuck you, baby.”
The way he jackhammers up into you does the opposite of shutting you up, drawing a singular moan out your dry throat, the sound lurching each time he sinks his full length in with a mean thrusts. He grunts, face buried in your neck. You feel teeth on your skin. Then lips.
“Barnes, I swear, if you leave a hickey—”
Your sentence devolves into a punched-out cry when he pistons harder in and out of your cunt.
It should be shameful how quickly you change your tune when this happens; the swift drag of his cock against your walls forces you to focus on how good he feels and forget about everything else. Your voice is high-pitched now, mewling.
“P-Please… gonna—”
“Sssh, I know, baby, can feel her pulsing around me, so fucking tight,” he pants. “But you can’t. Not yet, not until I say so, ‘kay, pretty?”
Eyes widen. You shake your head. “No, c-can’t, please, I’m so close—”
“C’mon, you can,” hands slam your hips down, “always such a good girl for me.”
And he helps you hold back that wave, slowing only slightly, but it worsens the fire in your gut. The heat roars louder. Begs for more. Your body coaxes him with each clench of your cunt—he moans, stuffing you full of himself before the wide stretch when he pulls out. You sob in frustration.
“Bucky.”
God, that voice. The one that always calls him Barnes in public—Bucky only behind closed doors. Since that first night, his name has never sounded better on anyone’s tongue.
“Yeah, baby?”
He looks at you and the part of your lips, the way your lashes stick to each other from tears. There’s no objection to the foul he committed—calling you that again.
His heart thumps violently in his ears.
“Please,” you whisper above the languid squelch between your legs.
“Please what, sweetheart?”
Your breath mingles with his, charged with overwhelming need. Blue eyes study the crumble of your face: how you pout, teeth buried in your lower lip, eyelids fluttering rapidly. Telltale signs of surrender that he’ll never get sick of witnessing—so long as he’s the reason.
The thought of any other person getting to see you like this makes him want to punch a wall.
You pant against his open mouth. He claws at your hair, gently yanking you back with your ponytail. A last-ditch effort to keep himself from kissing you.
Because he wants to. So bad.
Then he feels your pussy squeezing his cock as if trapping him, your breathy plea against his face, and his will is doubly tested.
“Please, Bucky, need to come, want you to make me come—”
He growls a rough “attagirl,” then grabs your ass with both hands, ready to ruin you.
Is it pathetic that he too finds himself at the brink at the sight of you reaching yours, a mess of flesh and filthy moans bouncing on his lap? When he tells you to “c’mon, baby, come for me, give it to me,” he feels himself about to do the same, as if his pleasure is shackled to yours.
He shoves three fingers in your mouth to muffle your cries and watches you twitch past the precipice.
If only he could seal your lips with his.
One hand still spans on your body. He moves you and you obediently ride despite your shaky thighs.
Then it’s his turn to shatter, because your tongue chooses that moment to swirl round his fingers.
Eyes meet.
“Fuuuck—”
The dragged-out curse licks the skin of your temple while he pumps you full, painting your insides white.
Twin breaths remain heavy for what feels like a thousand stitched-together seconds. Through it all, his eyes never leave yours. Faces hover. There it is again, looming like a tempting shadow—
But then he kisses everywhere else except the place he isn’t allowed. Lips brush against your browbone, then temple, then cheek, slightly sticky with the taste of his cum.
You try not to melt into him.
There’s no aftercare. No real one, anyway. You feel him give it to you through a mask of nonchalance, but he’s never been good at hiding how sharp his observations are.
Blue irises trace your body like he’s finding a flaw in a play. Hands follow suit: they skim down skin, making sure you’re not hurt.
His assessment stops short at your knees. The both of you look down.
They’re red from kneeling on tile for too long.
He cups the right one with a hand.
“Next time, I’m laying down a towel,” he whispers. Each slow stroke of his fingers on you soothes the ache there, but births a new one in your chest.
He shouldn’t be touching you like this. You’re nothing but a fuck to each other.
So why is your hand carding through his hair all soft?
“Next time, I’m winning,” you murmur in return. He smiles at you.
“But we’re on the same side of the net now, sweetheart.”
Fingers stroke your hair, blanketing you with a sense of security that you find to be false. You let him drape you with it anyway.
“So we’re not doing this anymore?” You ask quietly.
There’s something in his eyes, but he kisses your neck and it’s gone.
“Mm… don’t wanna stop doing this,” he murmurs. Your heart jumps—you quickly deflate the hope—it’s just sex it’s just sex it’s just sex—while he keeps talking. “We can still count who scored the most points.”
You let out a little huff. “Like the two dudes in Lord of the Rings?”
He looks up then, grinning. “Exactly.”
It’s so hard not to smile back.
“Okay.”
You’re playing two games here: one on court and the other off of it. Bucky Barnes being involved in both is a deadly distraction that makes you forget who you are and what you’re here for.
You have to win—and now, it’s not something you can do alone.
If the daughter of Midas can’t bring home gold, is she really his daughter?
SYNOPSIS- Étoile’s y/n and Enhypen’s Park Sunghoon have been the internet’s favorite unsolved mystery for years. Every award show glance, awkward interaction, and unanswered rumor only makes people more curious about what really happened between them. But when the two idol-turned-actors are suddenly pushed under the same spotlight, their so-called beef becomes everyone’s new favorite entertainment.
CONTAINS- Idol-turned-actor reader, idol-turned-actor Sunghoon, public rivals, private chaos, enemies to lovers, fake kdrama promotions, fandom chaos, Ynellé and Sunsun jokes, internet theories, on-screen tension, off-screen denial, smau, chaotic groupchats, and two people who are very bad at acting normal around each other.
WARNINGS- Profanity, suggestive humor, unserious behavior, online fanwars, fake dating rumors, fake articles/comments/edit posts, fandom shipping culture, jokes about idols “beating the allegations,” use of faceclaims for reader, inaccurate kdrama/filming timelines, unrealistic idol-actor promotions, and everyone being way too invested in two celebrities who claim they don’t care.
SYPNOSIS ahn keonho has been chasing after you for years. just as he’s about to give up, his prayers are answered by none other than professor dumbledore himself when he’s informed that he’s been chosen as head boy—and that you’re the new head girl.
CORTIS X HARRY POTTER (MARAUDERS ERA)
WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS james potter!keonho x lily evans!reader, remus lupin! james, mutual pining, fluff and angst (?), animagus shenanigans, everyone knows except y/n
NOTE keonho is LITERALLY james potter guys i swear they’re the same person in different fonts…yes, i am the biggest harry potter nerd, yes ive read the books a thousand times, yes ive watched the movies a thousand times, YES my harry potter story on wattpad has 80+ parts and YES, it has 600k+ reads
keonho lay sprawled across his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling above him as though it had personally wronged him, while seonghyeon sat nearby looking increasingly exhausted by the dramatic rant he had been forced to endure for what felt like the hundredth time.
the room was quiet except for keonho’s endless complaining, and eventually he let out a long groan before throwing an arm over his eyes. “no, i’m done, sean. no more y/n this year. she’s clearly not into me, so there’s no point in chasing after her if all she’s ever going to do is insult me.” his voice was full of frustration, though there was something miserable about the way he said it.
seonghyeon rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they did not get stuck. after listening to the exact same speech every summer since they were eleven years old, he had long since lost the ability to take it seriously. “keonho, we’ve had this exact conversation six years in a row. seven, now. you love the girl. just admit you’ll never get over her.” he said it casually, as though stating a simple fact, which only made keonho react even more dramatically.
“no, i don’t! i don’t love her!” keonho shouted immediately, bolting upright so fast he nearly fell off the bed. his face turned bright red as he pointed accusingly at seonghyeon, who looked entirely unimpressed by the outburst. keonho let out another frustrated groan before burying his face into his pillow and screaming into it, while seonghyeon watched him with the expression of someone witnessing a particularly embarrassing public spectacle.
“alright, mate, no need to get defensive.” seonghyeon replied dryly, and that only made keonho even more offended. he was already preparing another argument, which would most likely consist of more shouting than actual words, when seonghyeon suddenly noticed movement outside the dormitory window. perched patiently on the ledge was a school owl carrying several letters, and without hesitation seonghyeon stood up, shoved keonho aside before he could continue yelling, and opened the window to let the bird inside.
the owl flew in gracefully and dropped its letters onto the nearest bed before immediately taking off again. both boys grabbed their envelopes, eager to see their seventh year information, and keonho lazily flopped back onto his mattress while holding the letter above his face. for a moment everything seemed completely normal, right up until something heavy suddenly slipped from the envelope and came crashing directly onto his nose.
a loud curse escaped him as he immediately dropped the letter and clutched his face in pain. “bloody hell!” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut while seonghyeon leaned over to investigate. whatever had fallen looked metallic, and after picking it up from the blanket beside keonho, seonghyeon glanced down at it curiously. the second he read the words engraved across the front, his eyes widened so much they looked ready to fall out of his head.
“what? what is it?!” keonho demanded, sitting upright immediately as panic flashed across his face. seonghyeon looked between the badge and his best friend before letting out a scream loud enough to wake the entire street. “you’re head boy?!” he yelled.
“what?!” keonho practically shrieked as he snatched the badge from seonghyeon’s hands. his eyes dropped to the polished burgundy pin trimmed in gold, and right there in bold lettering were the words head boy. for several seconds he simply stared at it in complete disbelief before the realization finally hit him. the next thing seonghyeon knew, keonho was bouncing wildly on top of his bed while screaming at the top of his lungs, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling as he celebrated.
seonghyeon was laughing too hard to stop him, but then he happened to glance down at the rest of the letter. curious, he quickly unfolded it and began reading the details included beneath the appointment notice. his amusement vanished instantly as his eyes landed on one particular name, and he froze so abruptly that keonho finally stopped jumping.
“keonho!” seonghyeon shouted.
still standing on the mattress, keonho looked down at him excitedly. “what?”
seonghyeon slowly lowered the letter, his grin growing wider with every passing second. “you’ll never guess who the head girl is.”
for a moment keonho simply stared at him, and then a familiar expression began creeping across his face. it started as a tiny smile before quickly growing into something far more dangerous. “is it…” he asked, barely able to contain himself.
seonghyeon remained silent for a few agonizing seconds purely for dramatic effect before finally throwing the letter into the air and screaming. “it’s y/n!”
the reaction was immediate. both boys exploded into identical screams loud enough to shake the room, and within seconds they were jumping across the bed together like a pair of overexcited first years who had consumed far too much sugar. neither of them could stop laughing as they bounced around the room, celebrating as though they had personally won the quidditch world cup.
“i’m getting the girl!” keonho screamed, pointing triumphantly at himself.
“you’re getting the girl!” seonghyeon screamed right back, matching his energy perfectly as they continued jumping around like complete idiots.
you sat inside one of the hogwarts express compartments with your arms crossed tightly over your chest while wonhee and yoonchae emptied an alarming amount of sweets between the two of them. wrappers were already beginning to pile up, yet neither girl showed any signs of slowing down as they happily passed candies back and forth while discussing absolutely nothing important.
a chocolate frog suddenly leapt from yoonchae’s fingers before she could eat it, landing directly on your lap with a soft thump. before it could escape again, you grabbed it without hesitation and tossed it into your mouth. your bad mood had been following you all morning, and unfortunately for everyone around you, it showed very clearly on your face.
“y/n, come on. keonho is really not that bad.” yoonchae said as she unwrapped another sweet, while wonhee nodded immediately beside her. “yeah, and me and him are actually really good friends. don’t kill me for saying this, but i think you and him would make a pretty cute couple. your personalities kind of compliment each other.”
you were just about to tell wonhee exactly how ridiculous that statement was when the compartment door suddenly flew open with enough force to slam against the wall. “that they do! hello, ladies!” keonho announced proudly as though he had been waiting outside specifically to hear that conversation. before you could object, he dropped into the empty seat beside you and flashed an annoyingly confident grin.
your expression immediately darkened. seonghyeon entered right behind him and made himself comfortable between wonhee and yoonchae, looking entirely pleased with the situation, while juhoon, james, and martin poked their heads through the doorway moments later. “hey! how was your summer?” martin asked cheerfully as he looked around the compartment, earning greetings from all three girls.
you actually liked most of keonho’s friends, which was probably the most frustrating part about the entire situation. james was quiet, kind, and usually impossible to find without a book somewhere nearby, while his love for chocolate rivaled even yoonchae’s sweet tooth. despite the scars scattered across his face, he always carried himself with a calm gentleness that made people naturally trust him.
juhoon was much quieter and far more reserved than the others, but he was incredibly intelligent, and you had always enjoyed talking to him whenever you got the chance.
martin was probably the closest thing the group had to a reasonable version of seonghyeon and keonho combined. he loved pranks, caused trouble almost daily, and was loud enough to rival both of them, but unlike the other two, he actually understood boundaries and knew when a joke had gone too far. beneath all the chaos, he was genuinely thoughtful, which was exactly why most people liked him.
while everyone else settled into conversation and began catching up after the summer holiday, you focused your attention firmly on the passing scenery outside the train window. unfortunately, that became difficult when you noticed keonho sitting far too close for comfort. every time you glanced toward the glass, you could feel his eyes fixed on the side of your face, and when you risked a quick look in his direction, you found him smiling at you like an idiot.
“keonho…” james called from the doorway after a while, his tone carrying the familiar patience of someone who had spent years dealing with him.
keonho completely ignored him. his eyes remained fixed on you while his grin somehow managed to grow wider, and across from him yoonchae had to cover her mouth to hide her laughter. eventually juhoon stepped forward and sighed. “we have the prefect meeting.” he reminded him.
you immediately stood up before anyone could say another word. the chance to escape was far too good to pass up, and you quickly reached for the stack of folders you had prepared for all twenty four prefects. behind you, james let out a disappointed sigh as though he had already predicted exactly what would happen next.
“how the hell did keonho manage to become head boy? don’t you need to be a prefect first to achieve that?” wonhee asked, sounding genuinely confused.
keonho placed a hand dramatically over his chest and smiled proudly. “dumbledore just saw my potential. i knew he loved me.”
“there hasn’t been a single day in the last six years where you haven’t been in detention. maybe old age is finally starting to get to dumbledore.” you replied before walking out of the compartment.
predictably, keonho followed immediately. james and juhoon remained a short distance behind since they were prefects themselves, but keonho stayed right beside you as you made your way through the train. “i know somewhere deep, deep down you love me, y/n. i know it. even your friends think we’d be perfect together. you heard what wonhee said. our personalities compliment each other.”
before you could stop him, he draped an arm around your shoulders.
you reacted instantly. jumping away from him, you smacked him repeatedly with the stack of folders in your hands while glaring furiously. “don’t touch me! you’re such a dog!” you shouted as the folders continued landing against his back.
instead of looking offended, keonho immediately burst into laughter. every hit seemed to amuse him even more, and eventually you gave up and stormed ahead before he could say anything else. “you’ve been calling me a dog for years now, my y/n. oh, if only you knew how true that is.” he said between laughs as he hurried after you.
you glanced behind yourself just long enough to see james and juhoon trying and failing to hide their smiles. for some reason, every single one of them found the nickname hilarious despite the fact that it was very much intended as an insult. “that’s not a compliment, you prat.” you replied with an annoyed roll of your eyes.
by the time the conversation finally ended, you had reached the prefects’ compartment. stopping outside the door, you turned sharply toward keonho while he looked back at you with the exact same irritating smile. behind him, james and juhoon lingered quietly, clearly interested in seeing how this would unfold.
“okay, listen carefully. for whatever reason, you were chosen to be head boy, which is a decision i personally find questionable, but i won’t comment on that. you have absolutely no idea how any of this works, and i’m willing to bet you never bothered asking james or juhoon about any of it. just stay quiet and don’t interrupt.”
keonho immediately straightened his posture and saluted. “yes, ma’am!” he announced loudly enough for several nearby students to turn around.
you sighed heavily and shook your head. “stupid.” you muttered.
“hey, i heard that. i’ll have you know i’m very smart.” he protested.
“i told you to shut your trap.”
“right.”
he straightened up even more as though he were reporting for military duty, though you missed the sight entirely because you had already opened the compartment door and stepped inside. juhoon walked past him with a deeply unimpressed expression, while james paused long enough to pat him on the shoulder.
“this year is your last chance to get with her, mate. don’t mess it up.”
for the first time all day, keonho stopped smiling.
as the compartment door slid shut behind everyone, the realization finally settled over him. seventh year had arrived much faster than any of them expected, and after this year hogwarts would be over. there would be no eighth year, no extra chances, and no more opportunities waiting around the corner. if he failed now, there was a very real possibility that he would spend the rest of his life wondering what might have happened if he had managed to make you look at him the same way he looked at you.
the past few weeks had been absolute hell for you, and at this point you were beginning to wonder if the universe had personally decided to test your patience. your classes were becoming increasingly difficult as professors buried seventh years beneath mountains of assignments, revision schedules, essays, and examinations, while the pressure of upcoming n.e.w.t.s seemed to follow you everywhere you went. unfortunately, the endless studying was only half the problem, because keonho had somehow become even more unbearable than usual.
for reasons you could not begin to understand, he had started following you around like a lost puppy. at first, you ignored him completely, assuming he would eventually get bored and find something else to occupy his attention, but instead the opposite happened.
every day he seemed more determined than the last, appearing wherever you went with that stupid grin permanently attached to his face. after nearly a week of having absolutely no peace or privacy, your irritation had steadily grown until simply hearing his voice was enough to make your eye twitch.the worst part was that you could not bring yourself to properly yell at him. normally, you had no problem putting people in their place when they annoyed you, and keonho certainly deserved it more than most, but every time you considered truly snapping at him, something stopped you. you hated that feeling.
you hated not understanding it even more.
that was exactly why you found yourself sitting beside the black lake long after midnight. according to the castle clocks, it was already approaching three in the morning, which meant that as head girl you absolutely should have been in bed setting a good example for everyone else. unfortunately, being responsible felt significantly less appealing when your thoughts refused to leave you alone.the grass beneath you felt cool as you stretched out on your back and stared up at the night sky. above you, thousands of stars glittered against the darkness while the moon hung peacefully overhead.
thankfully, it was nowhere near a full moon. the sight immediately made you think of james, and a familiar sadness settled inside your chest.the moon had always been one of your favorite things in the world. whenever you looked at it, you felt calm, peaceful, and strangely comforted, as though all the chaos in your life became quieter for a little while.
it was beautiful and reassuring in a way you could never properly explain. for james, however, the moon meant something entirely different.
where you saw beauty, he saw pain. where you found peace, he found fear. every full moon brought suffering, dread, and memories no one should have to carry, and instead of simply admiring its light, he was forced to endure transformations that left both physical and emotional scars behind.you felt guilty sometimes for how much comfort the moon gave you when it caused someone you cared about so much pain. you did not know how james managed to endure it month after month, year after year, without completely breaking apart. the thought alone made your chest ache.
suddenly, something wet brushed against your cheek.you let out an undignified scream and nearly launched yourself off the ground before spinning around in alarm. the panic disappeared almost immediately when you found yourself staring into a familiar pair of dark eyes. standing beside you was a golden retriever whose tail was already wagging happily.“goldie!” you gasped, pressing a hand against your chest as relief flooded through you.
goldie tilted his head innocently as though he had absolutely no idea why you had reacted that way. you had been seeing him around the grounds for nearly three years now, usually during nights when you slipped outside to clear your head. despite wandering around hogwarts after curfew, he was always clean, healthy, and well fed, which had convinced you long ago that someone must have secretly brought him into the castle. dogs were not allowed at hogwarts, but clearly nobody had informed goldie of that rule.
“hey, cutie.” you cooed immediately, your bad mood disappearing the second he approached. he padded closer before resting his head on your thigh and gazing up at you with eyes so impossibly adorable that your heart practically melted. “awh, did you miss me?” you asked softly.
goldie responded with a quiet whine.you groaned dramatically and pressed a hand over your face. “oh, stop doing that, goldie. you know it makes me feel bad.”
another whine escaped him.your shoulders slumped in defeat. “oh my god, fine. come here.”
the moment you leaned back against the nearby tree, goldie wasted absolutely no time. he climbed directly into your lap and practically collapsed on top of you, burying his face against your neck with a content sigh. the force of his weight nearly knocked the air from your lungs.“sometimes you act like a freaking human or something.” you complained while gently scratching behind his ears. “also, you’re really heavy. holy shit.”
despite your complaints, your fingers continued moving through his soft fur while goldie remained perfectly content where he was. eventually he lifted his head just enough to look up at you, and before you could react, he licked your cheek enthusiastically.you laughed despite yourself. “you’re not an animagus, right? because that would be kind of weird. i’d sue you.”
for a brief moment, goldie seemed strangely frozen.you smiled softly and shook your head. “of course you don’t know what that means. you’re just a cute little dog.”
leaning forward, you pressed a gentle kiss against his snout.goldie immediately let out another soft whine.“i told you to stop doing that,” you scolded while nudging him lightly.this time he did not respond. instead, he simply snuggled closer against you, looking entirely too comfortable.“don’t fall asleep.” you muttered. “i have to go back up soon.”
when you looked down a few moments later, his eyes were already closed.you sighed and reached into your pocket before pulling out the remains of a sandwich you had saved from dinner. carefully unwrapping it, you held it beneath his nose and waited. for several seconds nothing happened, and then suddenly goldie’s eyes flew open as though someone had cast a revival charm on him.“there you are.”his tail wagged furiously as you fed him the sandwich piece by piece until nothing remained. once he finished, you pushed yourself to your feet and stretched your sore muscles, knowing you could not avoid sleep forever.
almost immediately, goldie began whining again.your heart weakened instantly.“oh, come on.” you complained softly. “you know i have to sleep too. i’ll come back tomorrow.”
the whining continued.you crouched down in front of him and gently cupped his face between your hands before pressing one final kiss against his snout. “goodnight, goldie.”
his ears drooped dramatically as though you had personally broken his heart.forcing yourself not to laugh, you stood up and began walking back toward the castle. behind you, goldie remained exactly where he was, watching your retreating figure until you disappeared through the darkness, and only once you were completely gone did the golden retriever lower himself onto the grass with a long sigh that sounded suspiciously human.
a few days later, the full moon was drawing closer, and as always, you found yourself worrying about james more than he probably wanted you to. every year the signs appeared days before the transformation itself, and every year you hated seeing them. no matter how much time passed, no matter how many years he endured it, there was never a point where it became easier to watch. knowing that someone as kind as james had to go through that every month felt deeply unfair.
your arms were filled with enough snacks to feed an entire study group as you hurried into the great hall. several students glanced at the ridiculous amount of food you were carrying, but you ignored them completely while searching for a familiar face. it did not take long before you spotted james sitting at one of the tables with a book open in front of him, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading.
you immediately made your way over to him, and the closer you got, the more obvious the changes became. the scars scattered across his face looked noticeably redder than usual, as though they had suddenly become irritated overnight. his skin appeared pale beneath the floating candlelight, and dark circles rested beneath his eyes despite the fact that he had probably slept more than most students. the approaching full moon always affected him long before it actually arrived.
dropping the pile of supplies onto the table, you startled him badly enough that he nearly jumped out of his seat. his eyes widened before he relaxed upon seeing you standing there.
“hey.” you said as you slid onto the bench beside him, slightly breathless from carrying everything across the castle. “it’s the first full moon of the school year, so i thought i’d get you some stuff.”
james blinked before glancing down at the collection of snacks, chocolates, and supplies spread across the table. a small smile immediately appeared on his face as he picked up one of the boxes. “painkillers? you know we have magic for that, right?”
your face instantly turned red.
“i’m sorry.” you groaned, lowering your head into your hands. “i can’t believe i’ve known about being a witch for seven years and i still somehow forget that magic can solve almost everything.”
james laughed softly.
“don’t apologize, y/n. honestly, i appreciate the thought more than anything else.” he reached for one of the chocolate bars and smiled even wider. “and thank you for these. you got me my favorites.”
you shrugged casually, though the smile on his face made the effort feel worth it.
“of course i did. you know i’ve got your back, james.”
for a moment, he simply stared at you.
the smile on his face faded slightly, replaced by something quieter. “you don’t have to do these things for me,” he said softly. “i mean, at the end of the day, i’m still a monster.”
your expression hardened immediately.
“don’t.”
james blinked.
“seriously, stop saying that.” your voice had become much firmer than before. “it genuinely annoys me every time i hear it. you turn into a giant furball for a few hours once a month. that doesn’t change anything. the most important thing is that you stay the person you are right now. you stay kind, thoughtful, funny, and sweet. that’s what matters to me, and that’s what matters to your friends and family. stop calling yourself that word, james. seriously.”
the silence that followed seemed unusually heavy.
james stared at you in complete shock, clearly not expecting the speech.
only then did you finally notice that he was not the only one looking at you.
slowly, you turned your head.
keonho was sitting right beside you.
you had been so focused on james that you had not even noticed his presence, but now that you did, you almost wished you hadn’t. keonho was staring at you with an expression you had never seen before, his eyes wide and impossibly soft as though he had just witnessed something incredible.
it looked suspiciously similar to the way people stared at shooting stars.
your stomach immediately flipped.
what the hell.
why was he looking at you like that?
more importantly, why was your heart suddenly beating faster?
his eyes somehow looked even bigger than usual, giving him an almost puppy-like appearance, while his lips were slightly parted as he continued staring at you without blinking. there was something so painfully sincere about the look on his face that it made your ears start burning.
he looked…
cute.
your eyes widened.
what the fuck were you thinking?
you immediately shot to your feet so quickly that your leg caught against the bench.
“my love, wait!” keonho shouted.
the entire great hall turned to look.
you did not care.
without another word, you spun around and practically sprinted toward the exit.
“no! leave me alone!” you yelled while running.
behind you came the sound of hurried footsteps.
“just give me one chance, i swear!” keonho shouted while chasing after you through the hall. “i’ll love you like nobody else!”
“stop saying things like that!”
“never!”
students jumped out of the way as the two of you raced through the castle, completely ignoring the dozens of confused looks following your path. several younger students seemed concerned, while a few older ones openly laughed as they watched the familiar spectacle disappear around a corner.
back inside the great hall, james watched the chaos unfold for several seconds before calmly picking up his book again.
a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he opened it. “idiots in love.” he muttered quietly to himself.
despite his words, he looked happier than he had all week.
the next few days passed in a blur of assignments, prefect duties, and constant worrying. although james had insisted countless times that he would be fine, you still found yourself keeping an eye on him whenever possible. thankfully, he was surrounded by people who cared about him just as much as you did. juhoon, martin, seonghyeon, and especially keonho never seemed to leave him alone for long, which at least allowed you to relax a little.
you were on your way to transfiguration one morning when a familiar voice suddenly caught your attention. out of pure instinct, you looked up before your brain even had time to process whose voice it was. the second your eyes landed on keonho, you immediately regretted it.
he was crouched down in the middle of the corridor, speaking to a tiny first year girl who looked like she had been crying. tears still clung to her eyelashes while she nervously twisted the sleeves of her robes, and although you could not hear exactly what they were saying from where you stood, you could tell keonho was trying to comfort her. his voice was soft, his posture relaxed, and his expression was so gentle that it barely even looked like the same annoying idiot who spent half his life chasing after you.
without realizing it, you stopped walking.
your eyes remained fixed on him as you watched the interaction unfold. keonho smiled warmly at the little girl while listening to whatever problem she was explaining, and something about the sight made that strange feeling return to your stomach. it was the same feeling that had appeared in the great hall a few days ago, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
his smile looked different when he was talking to younger students.
softer.
warmer.
cuter.
you immediately hated that thought.
before you could stop yourself from staring any longer, two figures suddenly appeared beside you.
“see that, wonwon?” yoonchae asked dramatically. “our little y/n is falling in love.”
the smile that had unknowingly begun forming on your face vanished so quickly it was almost impressive.
you immediately resumed walking.
“i’m not falling in love.” you muttered.
“oh, but your smile said otherwise.” wonhee replied innocently. “honestly, i wish someone smiled at me the way you just smiled when you saw keonho.”
“i wasn’t smiling.”
both girls exchanged a look. it was the kind of look that instantly made you nervous.
“oh, come on, y/n.” yoonchae said. “just admit you’re finally realizing that you like him.”
you stopped walking so abruptly that several students nearly walked into you.
the crowded corridor continued moving around you while your brain completely short-circuited.
then, without warning, you let out a loud scream of frustration, ignoring the way several students seemed startled.
before either of your friends could react, you spun around and sprinted away.
the sound of their laughter echoed through the hallway immediately.
“now the next step is kissing!” wonhee shouted after you.
yoonchae laughed so hard she nearly tripped over her own feet. “after kissing, you have to get married and have children!”
“i don’t like ahn keonho!” you screamed while running.
at this point, half the corridor had stopped to watch.
“that’s what they all say!”
“shut up!”
covering your ears, you somehow managed to run even faster. eventually, salvation appeared in the form of the prefects’ bathroom entrance. without hesitating, you rushed forward, rattled off the password, and slipped inside just before the portrait closed behind you.
silence, finally.
you leaned against the wall for several seconds before beginning to pace.
“what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.” you muttered repeatedly.
your hands moved through your hair while you walked circles around the bathroom.
“i like ahn keonho? do i like ahn keonho? am i actually losing my mind? he’s so annoying. he’s literally the most annoying person i’ve ever met. why would i like ahn keonho?”
you continued pacing.
“there are billions of people in the world. why ahn keonho?”
the universe, unfortunately, chose that exact moment to embarrass you further.
one of the bathroom doors suddenly opened.
you froze.
standing there were juhoon, martin, and a very pale looking james.
all four of you stared at each other.
you were breathing heavily with your hands on your hips.
martin looked delighted.
james looked tired.
juhoon looked like he wanted to disappear.
the silence stretched for several painful seconds.
finally, you accepted your fate. “martin.” you said slowly. “why the hell are you even in the prefects bathroom right now? last time i checked, you’re not a freaking prefect.”
martin awkwardly scratched the back of his neck.
“uh…” he glanced between you and the other boys. “i got permission from keonho?”
immediately, your entire posture straightened. “do not speak of that name.”
martin’s eyes lit up. it was the exact expression people got right before making terrible decisions.
“why?” he asked, already grinning. “does little y/n have a little crush on little keonho?”
silence immediately followed after that.
james closed his eyes while juhoon sighed loudly.
martin realized his mistake approximately half a second too late.
a few minutes later, students throughout the castle were treated to the unusual sight of martin sprinting through the corridors for his life while laughing so hard he could barely breathe. behind him, you chased him at full speed with murder in your eyes, loudly threatening his existence while he continued making increasingly ridiculous comments about weddings, romance, and future children.
“i’m going to kill you!”
“i’ll be best man at the wedding!”
“martin!”
martin’s laughter echoed through the castle as he rounded another corner.
at seven in the morning, you pushed open the doors of the hospital wing and stepped inside with tired eyes and aching limbs. after staying awake the entire night, everything felt slightly slower than usual, and your body desperately wanted sleep. despite that, this had become a routine over the years. every month after a full moon, you always found yourself making your way to the hospital wing before doing anything else.
it did not take long to spot james lying in one of the beds near the windows. the morning sunlight spilled across the white sheets surrounding him while his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. he was still asleep, thankfully. carefully, you walked over and placed a bottle of chocolate milk onto the bedside drawer, followed by several chocolate bars and a short handwritten letter you had scribbled sometime around four in the morning when sleep had clearly abandoned you.
the sound of footsteps drew your attention toward the entrance. madame pomfrey entered carrying several bottles of potion before immediately noticing your presence. unlike most professors, she did not seem remotely surprised to find you standing beside james’s bed so early in the morning.
“hey, poppy.” you greeted with a tired smile.
“good morning, miss y/n,” she replied warmly. “the boys only left about thirty minutes ago. poor things. they never sleep when james transforms. every month they stay awake all night waiting for him.”
you hummed quietly in response while your eyes remained fixed on james. there were a few fresh scratches visible across his face, but they looked small enough that a handful of healing spells would likely erase them completely. compared to some of the injuries he had come back with in previous years, this was practically nothing.
“well, i brought his milk.” you said softly. “i couldn’t sleep either. i pulled an all nighter, so i’m probably going to collapse the second i get back to my dorm.”
madame pomfrey smiled knowingly.
“well, you’re lucky it’s sunday.”
“very lucky.” you agreed.
for a moment, you simply stood there looking at james. despite everything he endured, despite the pain and exhaustion that always followed a transformation, there was something comforting about seeing him resting peacefully afterward. eventually, you stepped away from the bed and offered madame pomfrey one final smile.
“i’ll see you later, poppy.”
“get some sleep, miss y/n.”
you promised that you would before finally leaving the hospital wing.
outside, however, your plans were immediately interrupted.
sitting patiently near the doorway was a familiar golden retriever.
the second goldie spotted you, his tail began wagging so enthusiastically that his entire body seemed to shake. a happy huff escaped him before he bounded toward you without hesitation.
“goldie!” you laughed.
dropping to your knees, you opened your arms just in time for him to crash directly into them. you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him tightly while he buried his face against your shoulder.
“hey there, cutie.” you murmured.
goldie let out a pleased whine.
“wanna come to my room?” you asked sleepily. “i could really use an extra teddy bear right now.”
another whine escaped him.
you rolled your eyes fondly. “i’ll take that as a yes.”
the castle corridors were mostly empty at this hour, which made sneaking back to your dormitory significantly easier. after making sure not to wake either wonhee or yoonchae, you quietly slipped inside and carefully shut the door behind you.
goldie immediately trotted toward your bed as though he owned the place.
you blinked.
“well, somebody has a great memory.”
considering he had not been inside your dormitory since the previous school year, his confidence was surprisingly impressive.
while you changed into your pajamas, goldie climbed onto the mattress and settled himself comfortably among your blankets. you completely missed the way he buried his face into your pillow while you changed.
too exhausted to question anything, you simply climbed into bed beside him.
the second your head touched the pillow, you wrapped your arms around goldie and pulled him against your chest. he settled beside you immediately while you draped the blanket over both of you, creating a warm little cocoon that made leaving bed later seem impossible.
sleep began pulling at you almost instantly. “you know…” you mumbled drowsily.
goldie lifted his head slightly.
“keonho reminds me of you.”
his entire body went still. completely oblivious, you continued speaking.
“it’s weird. you kind of have the same eyes or something. i don’t know, but i dont like it.”
goldie remained silent while you yawned. “it’s honestly really strange.”
your words were beginning to slur together as exhaustion finally caught up with you.
for several moments, neither of you spoke, then the thoughts you had spent weeks trying to avoid finally slipped free.
“i shouldn’t have fallen for keonho.”
beneath your arm, goldie froze.
you did not notice. “i should tell him, though. it’s not fair to him if i don’t.”
your eyes were already drifting closed. “but i’m scared.” the confession came out so quietly that it was almost a whisper.
“what if it was all a joke?”
goldie’s ears twitched.
“what if he never actually liked me all these years and he was only teasing me?”
your voice grew softer. “i know it sounds stupid.”
sleep continued dragging you further away. “i realized something recently. i didn’t start liking him now.”
your fingers absentmindedly threaded through the fur around goldie’s neck.
“i think i’ve always liked him.” the words barely left your lips. “i just didn’t want to become another victim of their stupid pranks or whatever…”
your sentence slowly trailed off.
a few moments later, your breathing became slow and steady as sleep finally claimed you.
silence settled across the dormitory.
goldie remained perfectly still beneath your arm. for a very long time, he simply stared at your sleeping face.
then, very carefully, he moved closer and rested his head against yours.
if dogs could cry, he probably would have.
because after seven years of chasing after you, seven years of rejection, teasing, arguments, and impossible hope, keonho had finally heard the words he had dreamed about for almost half his life.
when you finally woke up again, the room was completely dark.
for several seconds, you simply stared at the ceiling in confusion while trying to remember where you were. your head felt heavy, your limbs felt stiff, and it took an embarrassing amount of time before your brain finally started functioning properly again. slowly lifting your wrist, you checked your watch.
8:34 pm.
you immediately sat upright.
“bloody hell.”
the entire day had disappeared.
goldie was nowhere to be seen, and judging by the empty beds surrounding you, wonhee and yoonchae had left hours ago. after rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you forced yourself out of bed and got ready as quickly as possible despite the headache pounding behind your eyes.
it did not take long before you found yourself walking into the hospital wing.
the moment you entered, you spotted everyone gathered around james’s bed. juhoon, martin, seonghyeon, yoonchae, and wonhee were all scattered around the room while james sat upright against his pillows looking significantly better than he had that morning.
your relief was immediate.
however, you noticed something else almost instantly.
someone was missing.
“hey, where’s keonho?” you asked as you sat down near james’s feet.
the room suddenly became suspiciously quiet.
everyone exchanged looks with each other.
you narrowed your eyes.
“he’s not feeling well,” juhoon finally replied. “he’s back in the dorm.”
you nodded slowly. for some reason, the answer left an uncomfortable feeling sitting in your chest.
“seriously, james.” yoonchae said while crossing her arms. “you need to get this checked out. it’s honestly ridiculous that you get sick every single month.”
wonhee immediately nodded. “she’s right. every single month something happens.”
you leaned back slightly.
a familiar feeling of dread settled over you. you had almost forgotten that neither girl knew the truth.
james visibly stiffened. his fingers tightened around the blanket while his eyes dropped toward his lap. everyone else immediately noticed the tension as well, but nobody spoke.
“it’s nothing,” james said quietly after a moment. “really. don’t worry about me.”
the girls remained silent for a few moments, then wonhee sighed.
“why won’t you tell us?”
james froze.
“what?”
“you heard me.” wonhee replied. “do you really think that after seven years we haven’t noticed something strange?”
the color immediately drained from james’s face. you could practically see the panic settle into his expression.
“wonhee…” he whispered.
“every month you disappear.” yoonchae continued softly. “every month you’re injured, exhausted, or sick afterwards. everyone always avoids talking about it. we’ve noticed for years.”
james stared at them. his breathing became uneven.
for several moments nobody spoke, then suddenly his eyes filled with tears. the sight immediately made your chest ache.
“i didn’t want you to know.” james admitted quietly. his voice cracked. “i didn’t want any of you to know.”
a tear slipped down his cheek before he quickly wiped it away.
“james…” you whispered.
he shook his head. “because what if you looked at me differently?” he asked. “what if you were scared of me?”
another tear followed the first. “i know you all care about me, and that’s exactly why i never wanted to tell you.”
the room remained completely silent.
james lowered his head. “i’m a monster.”
immediately, several people groaned.
“james.”
“not this again.”
“seriously?”
he ignored them. “i am.” he continued quietly. “every month i turn into something horrible. every month you all have to worry about me. you bring me food. you stay awake all night. you look after me when i’m hurt.”
his voice trembled. “and i don’t deserve any of it.”
you immediately stood up.
“james.”
“no, let me finish.”
more tears slipped down his face. “i have the nicest friends anyone could ask for, and i spend half my time wondering why you’re still here.”
that finally broke everyone’s patience.
“because we love you, idiot.” martin said immediately.
james blinked. “what?”
“you’re literally one of the nicest people i’ve ever met.” yoonchae added.
“you helped me study for three straight weeks before my exams.” wonhee said. “do you know how painful that was?”
a small laugh escaped the room.
“you helped me learn how to ride my broom.” seonghyeon added.
“you taught me how to survive potions.” martin said.
“you’ve always been there for everyone.”juhoon said quietly.
james looked completely overwhelmed.
then you stepped closer. “james, listen to me.”
he looked up.
“being a werewolf doesn’t change who you are.”
your voice remained firm. “you’re still james. you’re still kind. you’re still thoughtful. you’re still the same person who gives people chocolate when they’re sad and stays up helping younger students with homework.”
his eyes immediately watered again.
“and if you think we’re going to stop caring about you because of something you can’t control, then you’re honestly an idiot.”
that finally made him laugh.
the tension in the room slowly disappeared. eventually, james relaxed back against his pillows while everyone continued talking around him. although his eyes remained red, he looked lighter somehow.
like he had finally put down a weight he’d been carrying for years.
hours later, madame pomfrey finally reached the end of her patience. “out.” she ordered.
everyone immediately obeyed.
once outside the hospital wing, you all gathered in the corridor.
“you guys go ahead.” you said.
everyone turned toward you.
“this late?” seonghyeon asked.
you nodded. “i have something to do.”
nobody questioned it further. after saying your goodbyes, you headed in the opposite direction.
roughly thirty minutes later, you found yourself climbing the final staircase leading to the astronomy tower.
the night air greeted you immediately.
as soon as you stepped inside, you noticed someone standing near the railing with his back facing you.
you recognized him instantly. the realization alone made your stomach flutter.
for a brief moment, you considered turning around.
wasn’t he supposed to be in his dorm?
then he moved.
keonho turned his head. the second he spotted you, a small smile appeared on his face.
your heart betrayed you immediately.
that stupid smile.
that wonderful smile.
“keep me company?” he asked.
you sighed. despite yourself, your feet carried you toward him. eventually you stopped beside the railing, standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the stars.
“why weren’t you at the hospital wing?” you asked.
keonho shrugged slightly. “i was there for a few hours.” his eyes remained fixed on the sky. “i just needed some time to clear my head.”
you nodded slowly.
silence settled between you. for once, it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was peaceful.
eventually, you looked over at him. that turned out to be a mistake.
the moonlight illuminated his face while he stared upward, and for a moment all you could think about was how unfairly handsome he looked.
your heart skipped.
then he turned toward you.
suddenly, you were both staring at each other.
neither of you looked away.
“will you go to hogsmeade with me on saturday?”
your brain stopped functioning as you stared at him, your ears immediately turning red. unable to handle his gaze, you looked away.
beside you, keonho sighed. the disappointment in his expression was immediate. he clearly thought he was about to be rejected again.
“i mean…” you muttered.
his attention snapped back toward you.
“i guess?”
there was silence for a moment, then keonho’s eyes widened so much they looked ready to fall out.
“what?!” he shouted.
you immediately rolled your eyes. “don’t make it weird.”
then you turned and began walking away.
behind you came hurried footsteps.
“wait!”
you groaned.
“y/n!”
“stop shouting!”
“you said yes!”
“no i didn’t.”
“you said yes!”
before you knew it, you were running through the corridors while keonho chased after you.
the difference this time was impossible to ignore. usually, whenever you ran from him, you were annoyed. usually, you were yelling. usually, you wanted him to leave you alone.
this time, however, none of that was true.
because as you ran through the castle halls with laughter threatening to escape your lips, a smile spread across your face. and for the first time in seven years, you didn’t want him to stop following you.
the next week passed so quickly that it almost felt unreal. after finally admitting to yourself that you liked keonho and somehow agreeing to go to hogsmeade with him, everything seemed to move at twice its normal speed. the moment you told wonhee and yoonchae what had happened, they completely lost their minds. both girls had immediately started screaming, jumping on their beds, and hugging each other as though they had personally achieved world peace, while you sat there laughing so hard your stomach hurt. despite all your embarrassment, seeing how happy they were made you feel strangely warm inside.
what surprised you most, however, was how naturally things seemed to fall into place afterward. you and keonho had always been around each other, but now it felt different somehow. breakfast, lunch, and dinner usually ended with the two of you sitting side by side while talking about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing at the same time. during classes, you somehow always ended up sharing a desk, and when everyone gathered in the common room at night, the two of you naturally gravitated toward the same couch while the others caused chaos around you. it was strange how quickly he had become such a normal part of your daily life.
before you knew it, saturday had finally arrived. instead of enjoying the morning like a normal person, you spent nearly two hours stressing over every possible detail. you changed your clothes multiple times, redid your hair more often than necessary, and spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at yourself in the mirror while questioning every decision you had made. by the time you were finally satisfied enough to leave your dormitory, your nerves were practically eating you alive.
the moment you descended the common room stairs, you immediately spotted keonho waiting near the bottom. he looked just as nervous as you felt, which somehow made you feel slightly better. your eyes immediately drifted over his outfit, and your stomach performed an uncomfortable little flip. he was wearing a pair of loose blue jeans along with a sweater and a black leather jacket, and somehow the combination suited him so perfectly that it almost annoyed you.
then you noticed the flowers.
keonho was holding a bouquet carefully in both hands, and the second he realized you had seen them, his face turned slightly pink. “i know you only like blue things, so…” he began awkwardly. “i used magic to change the color.”
your eyes widened as you looked down at the flowers. they were blue lilies, their petals vibrant beneath the common room lighting. they were beautiful, and somehow the fact that he had remembered your favorite color made them even more special. “thank you,” you murmured softly while accepting them. “they’re beautiful.” immediately, you lifted them closer to your face and pretended to smell them purely to hide how red your cheeks had become.
“give me a second,” you said quickly. “i should probably find a vase before we leave.”
before you could take more than a step, keonho awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “they don’t actually need water.” he admitted. “i kind of used magic so they never die.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke.
you stared at him as he stared at the floor. both of your faces somehow became even redder.
“oh.” you finally managed. “that’s… really thoughtful.”
keonho looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
“thank you, keonho.” you stood there for another second before your brain completely gave up functioning. “just give me a moment.” you blurted out before turning around and sprinting back up the stairs.
a minute later, you burst into your dormitory so dramatically that both wonhee and yoonchae nearly fell off their beds. before either of them could ask what was wrong, you shoved the bouquet directly into their faces.
“guys, look!”
the second they saw the flowers, chaos erupted.
“he got you flowers?!” yoonchae shrieked.
“they’re blue lilies!” wonhee screamed.
“he used magic to dye them!” you practically shouted. “and he enchanted them so they’ll never die!”
the room immediately dissolved into screaming.
all three of you were jumping around within seconds, and if anyone had walked into the dormitory at that exact moment, they probably would have assumed someone had won the lottery.
“okay, i have to go!” you announced suddenly.
carefully placing the bouquet into wonhee’s arms, you pointed at her dramatically. “keep these safe.”
wonhee clutched the flowers against her chest as though they were a newborn child.
satisfied, you immediately ran back downstairs.
keonho was waiting exactly where you had left him. “sorry.” you said, slightly breathless. “we can go now.”
his smile appeared instantly. it was impossible not to smile back. without saying anything else, he held out his hand.
you looked down at it for a moment before slipping your fingers into his. almost immediately, he intertwined them with yours, and neither of you acknowledged the way your faces warmed.
together, you began walking toward the carriages waiting outside.
students stared. a lot.
you both pretended not to notice.
after a while, keonho glanced down at your outfit before letting out a soft laugh. “we’re matching.”
you blinked. looking down at yourself, you finally noticed it.
your outfit was almost identical. you were wearing bootcut jeans paired with a sweater and a leather jacket, and somehow you had both chosen nearly the same colors without discussing it beforehand.
the realization immediately made your face heat up. “that’s cute.” you murmured shyly.
beside you, keonho nodded.
he quickly looked away, clearly trying to hide the pink tint spreading across his cheeks.
hogsmeade with keonho ended up being far more enjoyable than you had expected. despite spending years arguing with him, avoiding him, and occasionally threatening his existence, you found yourself laughing almost nonstop throughout the entire trip. somehow every conversation turned ridiculous within minutes, and every attempt at acting normal lasted approximately thirty seconds before one of you said something stupid. by the time you reached honeydukes, your cheeks already hurt from smiling so much.
the two of you spent nearly an hour wandering through the colorful aisles while examining every sweet imaginable. whenever you picked something up, keonho immediately insisted on buying it for you, and whenever he tried to grab something for himself, you stubbornly insisted on doing the same. eventually you both gave up arguing and simply started throwing random sweets into your baskets while laughing at increasingly ridiculous packaging. by the time you left the shop, you were carrying enough sugar to sustain a small army.
afterward, you decided there was one place in hogsmeade you absolutely had to see for yourself. despite keonho’s immediate protests, you dragged him directly toward madam puddifoot’s tea shop out of pure curiosity. the second you stepped through the door, both of you froze. pink decorations covered nearly every available surface, heart-shaped ornaments hung from the ceiling, and the entire place looked as though someone had attempted to weaponize romance. you stared at the room for several seconds before meeting keonho’s horrified gaze, and the next thing you knew, both of you were laughing so hard that people inside began staring.
keonho immediately grabbed your hand and dragged you back outside before either of you completely lost control. the moment the door closed behind you, your laughter only became worse. neither of you could stop picturing the aggressively romantic decorations, and every time one of you started calming down, the other would mention something from inside and send both of you into another fit of giggles.
eventually, after wandering around the village for a while longer, you settled inside the three broomsticks and ordered butterbeers. the warm atmosphere felt cozy after the chilly autumn air outside, and before long the two of you were comfortably talking while sipping your drinks. at some point you both lifted your mugs at exactly the same moment, taking matching drinks without realizing it.
when you lowered your butterbeer, keonho suddenly started laughing.
you blinked in confusion. “what?”
he pointed toward your face while struggling not to grin. “you have some...”
before you could react, he reached forward and gently wiped the froth from your upper lip.
your face immediately warmed. “you too.”you shot back before quickly doing the exact same thing to him.
for a moment, neither of you spoke.
then your eyes met.
seconds later, both of you dissolved into helpless laughter once again.
hidden several tables away, four familiar idiots were witnessing the entire thing unfold.
“do they do anything besides giggle?” james asked while watching the scene with complete disbelief.
“seriously.” juhoon agreed while shaking his head.
“we’ve got giggle and shits over there.”seonghyeon muttered.
martin immediately burst into loud laughter. all three boys instantly shushed him before he could attract attention.
roughly an hour later, you and keonho finally left the three broomsticks and continued wandering through the village while holding hands. neither of you seemed particularly concerned about where you were going, and eventually your conversation drifted into random topics that had absolutely nothing to do with anything. the comfortable atmosphere between you felt so natural that you almost forgot how impossible this situation would have seemed only a month ago.
then suddenly, you stopped walking.
keonho nearly walked straight into you. “what’s wrong?” he asked.
instead of answering, you simply stared ahead. confused, keonho followed your gaze.
the second he saw what you were looking at, all color immediately drained from his face.
standing in the middle of the street were three animals. a greyhound, a fox, and a turtle sitting on top of the greyhound’s head.
all three were staring directly at you.
you tilted your head slightly. “what an odd little friend group.” you murmured.
beside you, keonho looked moments away from having a nervous breakdown. “yup.”he replied weakly.
his eyes narrowed into a glare directed entirely at the animals. the greyhound glared back.
before the silent battle could continue any longer, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from nearby. moments later, james appeared beside you looking completely exhausted.
“sorry.” he panted while placing his hands on his knees. “my pets got away from me.”
you blinked. “your pets?”
“yes,” james replied immediately.
his smile looked slightly desperate.
keonho sighed dramatically. “james, i told you to control your stupid freaking pets.”
“i know, i’m sorry.” james straightened before turning toward the animals. “come on, guys.”
the fox immediately obeyed and trotted toward him.
the turtle remained perfectly still on the dog’s head, who refused to move.
keonho’s eye twitched. “move.”
the greyhound barked.
you looked between keonho and the dog awkwardly.
“it’s just a dog, keonho.”
“martin, move your ass!” james shouted from the distance.
immediately, the greyhound began walking away.
you stared after it.
then you slowly turned toward keonho.
“martin?”
keonho froze. “what?”
“why would he name a dog after martin?”
you could tell keonho was panicking because he looked ready to jump off a cliff.
“he just loves martin that much.”
you nodded slowly. “okay.”
awkward silence consumed you two for a little while.
“but why does he have so many random pets?” you continued. “where did he even find them?”
keonho sighed heavily. “forget about it.”
“why?”
“because james has always been weird.”
“fair enough.”
you simply smiled and followed after keonho, completely unaware that you had come dangerously close to uncovering one of the biggest secrets your friends had spent years protecting.
you and keonho wandered through hogsmeade with your fingers intertwined, neither of you paying much attention to where your feet were carrying you. the village had begun to quiet down as evening approached, and the golden light of the setting sun washed over everything around you. shop windows glowed warmly, the cobblestone streets seemed dipped in honey, and the distant hills surrounding the village looked almost magical beneath the fading sunlight.
for a while, neither of you spoke very much. somehow the silence felt comfortable rather than awkward, and every now and then you caught keonho looking at you before immediately glancing away. eventually, you noticed he had become strangely quiet, and before you could ask what was wrong, he suddenly stopped walking altogether.
you barely had time to react before he gently pulled on your hand.
your attention immediately snapped toward him.
the smile that had been resting on his face all day had disappeared, replaced by something much more serious.
for a few moments, neither of you spoke.
then keonho took a deep breath.
“y/n, before anything else, there’s something i’ve wanted to tell you for a very long time.” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual playful tone. “and i need you to listen to all of it before you interrupt me, because if you interrupt me, i’ll probably lose my nerve and throw myself off a cliff.”
despite your nerves, a laugh escaped you.
keonho smiled briefly before continuing.
“none of this was ever a joke to me.” he said. “not once. not for a single second. i know you’ve spent years thinking i was teasing you or trying to prank you, and honestly, i don’t blame you for thinking that. me, seonghyeon, and martin have the combined maturity of three kneazles fighting over a sock.”
you snorted.
“but i’m serious, y/n. i was always serious.”
the amusement slowly disappeared from your face.
“i never chased after you because i wanted to embarrass you. i never asked you out because i thought it was funny. i never followed you around because i wanted attention. i did all those things because i genuinely liked you, and every year i convinced myself that maybe this would finally be the year you’d give me a chance.”
his grip on your hand tightened slightly.
“you know what the funny part is? i don’t even remember exactly when i fell in love with you because it happened so quickly. i remember seeing you for the first time on platform nine and three quarters during first year, and i remember thinking you looked really pretty. then we got sorted into the same house, and i spent the entire first month trying to find excuses to talk to you.”
a small smile appeared on his face.
“you insulted me within ten minutes.”
“to be fair, you deserved it.” you muttered.
“i absolutely deserved it,” keonho agreed.
his smile softened.
“but then i got to know you, and somehow that only made things worse. every year i liked you more. every year i noticed new things about you. i noticed how you always helped younger students when they were struggling, even when nobody asked you to. i noticed how you remembered everyone’s favorite snacks. i noticed how you always worried about james even when he pretended he was fine.”
his eyes never left yours. “i noticed everything.”
your throat tightened.
“i noticed how much you cared about people. i noticed how brave you were. i noticed how smart you were. i noticed how you always acted tough even when you were scared. and somewhere along the way, i stopped having a crush on you and just completely fell in love with you.”
you felt your eyes beginning to sting.
keonho swallowed nervously. “there were times when i thought about giving up,” he admitted. “especially after getting rejected for the hundredth time. every year i told myself i’d stop bothering you. every year i lasted about five minutes before deciding i was an idiot and trying again.”
a laugh escaped you through the tears threatening to form. “i know.”
“the thing is, even if you’d never liked me back, i still would’ve wanted you in my life. because you’re my favorite person, y/n.”
his voice became quieter. “and now somehow you’ve given me a chance.” his eyes shimmered slightly beneath the golden sunlight. “do you have any idea how happy that makes me?”
by now, your vision had become blurry.
keonho laughed softly. “i genuinely feel like the luckiest man alive right now. every morning i wake up and remember that you actually agreed to go out with me, and then i spend ten minutes wondering if i dreamed the whole thing.”
you laughed through your tears.
“you’re an idiot.”
“i know.” he smiled at you.
“but i’m your idiot.”
a tear slipped down your cheek.
keonho’s expression immediately softened. slowly, he lifted a hand and gently rested his palm against your face.
you leaned into the touch without thinking.
“thank you for giving me a chance.” he whispered.
then he leaned forward, and kissed you.
the world seemed to disappear.
the golden sky.
the village.
the distant sounds of people talking.
all of it faded away.
the only thing you could focus on was him. you kissed him back beneath the sunset, smiling against his lips while your heart felt far too big for your chest.
eventually, keonho pulled away.
for a few moments, he simply stared at you with so much adoration that it almost made you look away.
then, strangely, he began looking nervous.
suspiciously nervous.
“now that i’m sure you actually like me.” he said carefully, “can i show you something?”
you immediately narrowed your eyes. “depends.”
keonho swallowed. “on what?”
“on what you’re showing me.”
he looked away, which made you even more suspicious. “keonho.”
he sighed dramatically. “just close your eyes.”
you stared at him for several seconds before pointing at him.
“if this is something stupid, i’m pushing you off the astronomy tower next time we visit.”
“that’s fair.”
reluctantly, you closed your eyes. for several moments, there was only silence.
then you heard a bark.
your eyes immediately opened. sitting directly in front of you was a familiar golden retriever. beside him sat a pile of clothes.
your brain stopped working.
you looked at the dog.
then the clothes.
your eyes widened. “…keonho?”
goldie nodded.
you closed your eyes, pinched the bridge of your nose, and took a very deep breath.
“ahn keonho.”
the golden retriever visibly flinched.
“you better pray to godric that you’re a fast runner.”
goldie let out the most pathetic whimper imaginable, then he turned around and bolted.
immediately, you chased after him, cursing like a madwoman while keonho slash goldie.
“AHN KEONHO!”
the dog somehow ran even faster.
for several minutes you chased him across hogsmeade while cursing at him with increasing creativity. unfortunately, goldie happened to have four legs and the athletic ability of an escaped racehorse, which made catching him nearly impossible.
then suddenly, inspiration struck.
you stopped running, and goldie stopped too.
confused, he turned around. you smiled, but not a comforting smile.
immediately, you sprinted back toward the place where he had transformed.
goldie’s eyes widened.
sitting exactly where he had left them was the pile of clothing. you scooped everything into your arms.
horror slowly spread across the dog’s face.
“have fun getting back into the castle unnoticed, you piece of shit!” you shouted.
goldie let out a sound that was suspiciously close to human panic, then he started sprinting toward you.
you immediately screamed, and ran for your life.
the entire walk back to hogwarts consisted of one girl running away while carrying a very important pile of clothes, and one very desperate golden retriever chasing after her while desperately trying to preserve what little dignity he had left.
unfortunately for keonho, he had made the catastrophic mistake of revealing himself.
Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.
A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet
Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!
(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?
The Evening Prophet never did subtle.
The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.
A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.
You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.
You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.
"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.
“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.
Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.
After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.
When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.
Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.
Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.
Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.
The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.
“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.
Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”
You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.
Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.
Exactly the image you wanted.
Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”
You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”
You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.
Harry.
He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.
It made his skin crawl.
You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.
Harry looked away first.
And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.
Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.
The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.
The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.
Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.
“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”
You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.
From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.
A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.
Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.
From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.
The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.
And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”
The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.
Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.
Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.
“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.
You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”
Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"
Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”
Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”
From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.
The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.
It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.
Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.
“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”
For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.
Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”
A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”
The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.
You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.
The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.
Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.
“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”
He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”
Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”
“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”
A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”
“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”
“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”
Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.
He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.
A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”
Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”
The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.
You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.
You loved kids.
What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.
You were here because you were a woman.
As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.
You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.
You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.
“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”
“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”
You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.
Harry looked down at your hand.
Then back up at your face.
One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.
The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.
And then—
“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”
The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.
You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.
A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.
Your birthday.
Your breath caught.
“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”
Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.
“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”
You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”
She lit up like a summers day.
“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”
Your heart twisted.
“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”
Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”
“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."
She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.
You listened. Truly listened.
“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”
Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.
“I think you can, love.”
She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”
“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”
You glanced over your shoulder, searching.
“Isn’t that right, Potter?”
Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.
He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.
At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.
“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”
The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”
Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”
Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.
You met Harry’s gaze briefly.
He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.
As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.
You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.
“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”
Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”
“Got it.”
She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.
You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.
Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.
“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.
“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.
This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.
You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.
“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”
Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.
“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”
His expression shifted, “For what?”
“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”
Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”
A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”
For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.
“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”
“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”
He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.
Just acknowledging you.
And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.
You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.
That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.
The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.
And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.
“Shake hands!”
You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.
“Good luck.” He said.
The words barely registered.
Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.
The whistle shrieked.
You launched.
The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.
Puddlemere played aggressively.
Too aggressively.
A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.
They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.
But it didn’t stop.
Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.
From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.
His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.
The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.
Something in him broke.
“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”
The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.
One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”
“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”
The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.
The crowd erupted.
You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.
“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”
“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.
“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”
“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”
He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.
You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”
The whistle blew again.
You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.
The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.
Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.
Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.
You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.
Harry.
He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.
“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”
“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.
You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”
“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”
“Help who?” You asked.
He hesitated, “What?”
“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”
You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.
“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”
You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”
For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.
Instead, he exhaled.
“…Right.”
You nodded once, “Good.”
And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.
The flowers arrived the next morning.
You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.
A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.
You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.
I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it.
— Harry
You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.
Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.
“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”
You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.
You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.
Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.
So you came back.
Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.
The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.
She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.
You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.
“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”
She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”
You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Teddy.”
The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.
“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”
“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.
“I’m better.” He added instantly.
“Are you?” You asked, playing along.
It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.
“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”
“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”
“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.
You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.
You bit your lip.
You loved children.
The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.
“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”
He beamed.
You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.
“Teddy.”
You looked up.
Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.
Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”
You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.
He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”
Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”
You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.
Something warmer.
The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.
You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”
A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”
A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.
Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.
And froze.
Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.
Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.
Your stomach dropped.
What the hell?
Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—
No. Absolutely not.
You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.
“Everything okay?”
You startled.
Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.
“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”
His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.
You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”
He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.
Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.
Your breath caught.
Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”
When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.
You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.
“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”
“That’s—are you sure?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his voice.
He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”
You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.
A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.
Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.
“Okay?” He whispered.
You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”
You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.
“Stay close.” He murmured.
“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”
His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.
The air shifted.
You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.
You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.
As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.
“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—”
“Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”
You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.
Only then did Harry stop.
“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.
You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.
You knew yours did the same.
His hand was still at your back.
And neither of you pulled away.
The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.
Harry swallowed.
“This is probably—” He began, voice low.
You didn’t let him finish.
You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.
His lips met yours.
Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.
There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.
No fans. No cameras. No expectations.
Just the two of you.
Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.
“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.
The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.
And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.
Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.
“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”
You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”
Still, neither of you moved.
After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.
“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”
You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.
Harry’s fingers.
They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.
You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.
“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”
You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.
“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”
You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.
“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”
His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.
Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”
You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.
You almost drifted off again.
Almost.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.
“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”
You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."
He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.
He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.
You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.
"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.
And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.
A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.
Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.
Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.
A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.
“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”
And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.
It felt… solid.
Comfortable.
Real.
So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.
Had you left a lamp on?
You took another step inside.
No. This wasn’t overhead light.
This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.
You froze just inside the doorway.
The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.
And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—
Harry.
He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.
“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.
You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.
“…Harry.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”
He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.
“I thought I’d try.”
Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.
Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.
He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”
“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”
His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.
“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”
You laughed, bumping your nose against his.
“Oh thank Godric.”
He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.
Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.
Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.
Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.
You found him on the balcony.
The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.
That smile.
The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.
“Morning.” He said.
“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.
Brief didn’t last.
It never did.
The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.
You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.
Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.
The long lens.
The quiet click.
By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.
All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.
Intimate.
Suggestive.
Just unclear enough.
Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.
Harry Potter spotted outside private residence.
Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment.
Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker?
Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.
Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.
Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.
“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”
You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”
And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.
The flat felt smaller than it ever had.
Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.
You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.
Every headline said the same thing in a different font.
You reread them anyway.
Sources suggest.
Industry insiders hint.
Mystery woman.
Rising star.
Harry Potter spotted.
They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.
You didn’t hear the door open.
You felt it.
The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.
His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.
“We need to talk.” He said.
You stepped aside silently, giving him room.
The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.
“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”
Your head snapped up, “What?”
“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”
Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.
“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”
Your heart dropped straight through the floor.
“No.”
He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”
“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”
He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”
“For you.” You shot back.
His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”
His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”
You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”
“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
The words hung there, heavy and cruel.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.
"Here. Take it."
Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.
“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”
He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.
“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”
The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.
And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.
The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.
You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.
“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.
You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.
“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”
Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.
“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”
“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.
“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”
Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.
“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”
The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.
You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.
You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.
The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.
You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.
The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.
You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.
Finally, you stepped back inside.
The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.
That was when you noticed it.
A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.
Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.
You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.
And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.
You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.
You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.
Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.
You had your life. Your team. Your game.
And maybe, one day, he would understand.
The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.
She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.
“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”
Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”
You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.
“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.
Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”
You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.
Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.
“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."
The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.
You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."
You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.
“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.
You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”
“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.
“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”
The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.
You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”
The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.
They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.
“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.
He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”
Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”
Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”
Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”
“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.
Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”
Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”
“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”
Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”
Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”
Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”
“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.
Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.
Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”
Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"
Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."
Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.
And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.
The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.
The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.
As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.
It lingered.
Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.
“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.
The whistle shrieked.
Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.
Then, chaos.
One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.
Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.
“Harry!”
You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.
The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.
You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.
Hard.
The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.
“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.
Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.
“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.
Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.
Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.
Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.
The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.
The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.
Then, finally, a flicker of movement.
“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.
“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.
Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”
You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”
He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”
Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”
Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.
His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.
You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”
He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.
“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.
You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.
For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.
The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section
“Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”
After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.
Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.
This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.
bonus:
The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.
And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.
Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.
And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.
“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.
Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”
The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.
You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”
The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.
Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.
“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”
You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.
A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.
Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.
That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.
Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.
Harry had thought it ridiculous.
Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.
By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.
Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—
And you were completely, utterly oblivious.
The irony was cruel.
You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”
You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.
You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.
You—who read people like open books.
Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.
And had been for two years.
At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.
Apparently not.
Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”
He’d nearly choked on his tea.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.
The worst part?
They were right.
Everyone had noticed.
Everyone—except you.
So Harry tried something different.
He stopped hiding.
He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.
There was none.
He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.
You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.
Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.
Not anonymous. Not vague.
A proper Valentine.
You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.
“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”
He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.
That was the day he’d given up.
You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.
And yet.
He still didn’t tell you.
He couldn’t.
Because losing you altogether was not an option.
He could survive loving you quietly.
He could survive pretending.
He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.
But he could not survive you walking away.
That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.
So he chose silence.
He chose the quiet torture of it.
And he told himself that it was enough.
It had to be.
But Merlin—
You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.
It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.
Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.
So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.
“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.
Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.
“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.
He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.
“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”
There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.
Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”
You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.
It started with a bang.
Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.
Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.
“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.
The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”
Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.
“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”
Brilliant.
Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.
Harry was scanning the staircase.
Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.
And then you appeared.
Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.
And—
Wearing his Quidditch jersey.
It swallowed you whole.
The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.
You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.
Heat crawled up his neck.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”
You blinked at him, still half-asleep.
“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”
You yawned.
Actually yawned.
As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.
Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
But you didn’t notice.
You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.
It was instinctive.
Unthinking.
Comfort.
His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.
For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.
You fit far too perfectly there.
It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.
His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.
Instead, he swallowed.
“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.
You smiled without opening your eyes.
“Like you would’ve said no.”
His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.
His.
And yet not.
You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”
He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”
You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.
McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.
Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.
You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.
Harry watched your retreating figure.
And the name stretched across your back.
Potter.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
This—this was it.
As close as he would ever get.
The only way he would ever see you with his last name.
On the back of an old, worn jersey.
Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.
“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”
You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”
Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”
You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”
Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.
He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.
Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.
“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”
Harry froze. His stomach dropped.
“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”
“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.
You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
Friend.
Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.
You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.
He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”
You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.
As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.
Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.
But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.
He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.
At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.
He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.
“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”
Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”
Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”
Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”
Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”
“You have bets?” Harry demanded.
“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”
Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”
Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”
“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue.
And then closed it again.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”
Harry hesitated.
Just for a second.
Because part of him wanted to.
Merlin, he wanted to.
The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.
He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.
No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.
With every single fiber of his being.
With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.
And then—
Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”
That one landed wrong.
A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.
Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”
The boys burst out laughing.
Harry didn’t.
Because that was the worst part.
They weren’t wrong.
His jaw tightened.
Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.
“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”
Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”
That one felt like a punch to the ribs.
So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.
Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”
“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”
“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”
Harry paused at the bottom step.
He didn’t turn around.
Worst she can say is no.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.
Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.
You’d grow cautious.
You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.
You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.
And he would lose you.
Not just the possibility of you.
You.
His best friend.
The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.
And that—
That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.
The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.
Too soft for this hour.
He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”
The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.
“Hi.” You said quietly.
Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”
You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”
Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.
“And?” He asked gently.
“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.
His heart skipped.
“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”
Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”
You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.
The air shifted.
This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.
It wasn’t new.
But something about tonight felt different.
Harry swallowed.
For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—
Why not Ron’s bed?
Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?
The question burned at the back of his tongue.
But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.
The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.
You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”
“Good night.” He said quickly.
You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.
It took less than five minutes.
Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.
Like it belonged.
Harry stared up at the ceiling.
Wide awake.
Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.
You were so close.
So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.
And you slept.
Just like that.
No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.
Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.
That was what hurt.
You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.
He wanted to wrap an arm around you.
He wanted to pull you closer.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.
He wanted to ask why him.
Why always him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.
That should have been enough.
But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—
If you knew.
If you knew how badly he wanted you…
Would you still sleep this easily?
Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?
His throat tightened.
Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.
And Harry finally closed his eyes.
Not because he was calm.
But because it was easier than letting himself cry.
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.
If he had at all.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.
You.
Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.
He released you at once.
And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.
He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.
But you didn’t.
You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly.
Why would you?
A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.
“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.
Harry swallowed, “Morning.”
You didn’t jump away.
You didn’t gasp.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.
“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.
He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.
It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.
You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
You saw him as safe.
Familiar.
Harmless.
Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him.
Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe.
Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.
You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He said automatically.
There it was again.
That warm, affectionate smile.
And then you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.
He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.
You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.
And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.
He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.
Valentine’s Day was a week away.
And he was running out of ways to survive this.
It started with the heat.
Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.
This was different.
This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.
You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.
Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.
Today, every touch felt like friction.
He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.
You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”
“Yeah.” He muttered.
He wasn’t.
He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.
You didn’t think about it.
You never thought about it.
By lunch, it had gotten worse.
The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.
Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.
Harry told himself it didn’t matter.
You laughed like that with everyone.
But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.
You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.
You tilted your head, “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
And that made it worse.
Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.
The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.
By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.
You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Nothing.”
He took the stairs two at a time.
You followed.
“Harry.”
He didn’t answer.
“Harry, wait.”
He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”
You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”
“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”
That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.
“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what is it about?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He walked away.
But you didn’t let him.
You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.
By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
You followed.
Now it was just the two of you.
The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.
You shut the door gently behind you.
“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He stared at everything else in the room but you.
At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.
He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.
Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.
You hesitated.
Then you reached for his hand.
The contact was gentle. Familiar.
It felt like static shock.
Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.
His entire body reacted before his mind did.
He jerked away.
“Just—stop it.”
Your hand froze midair.
“What?”
“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”
Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”
“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”
You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”
“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”
Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”
“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”
“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”
“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.
They echoed in the quiet room.
You stared at him.
“What are you talking about?” You whispered.
He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.
“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”
His voice wavered, but he pushed through.
“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”
His throat tightened.
“But I was wrong.”
You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”
“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”
And finally — finally — he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
“I love you.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”
His hands trembled at his sides.
“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."
His laugh was brittle.
“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”
His voice cracked.
“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”
Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.
“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”
The words nearly undid him.
“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
The room felt too still.
Too tight.
He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.
The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.
It was a burn.
And it hurt.
Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.
That might have been easier to bear.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.
He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.
“I think you should go.” He said quietly.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just… spent.
For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.
He didn’t.
He stepped back instead.
And that — that was what made your chest crack open.
You left without another word.
The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.
Everything sounded distant. Muffled.
You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.
By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.
The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.
You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.
Your heart was still racing.
Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.
I’m in love with you.
The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.
You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.
You’d thought you knew him.
But tonight had been different.
Tonight he had looked raw.
You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.
The confession replayed again.
And again.
And then—
You inhaled.
And froze.
That wasn’t your pillow.
You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.
Harry’s jumper.
Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.
You hadn’t meant to keep it.
It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.
He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.
Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.
You never gave it back.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Would you have to return it now?
The thought felt unbearable.
You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.
Your eyes landed on your nightstand.
The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.
Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.
A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.
Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.
You’d laughed.
You hadn’t asked why.
It was everywhere.
He was everywhere.
Not in grand, sweeping gestures.
Not in dramatic declarations.
But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.
Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.
There were dozens.
Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.
Not the gift.
You.
At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.
Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.
Longing.
How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?
Your vision blurred again.
You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.
You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.
Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.
And then—
You found it.
A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.
Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.
Be my Valentine?
The memory hit you all at once.
A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.
But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.
You had seen the signs.
Some quiet part of you had always known.
It’s been like this for years.
Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.
You always thought it was just that.
You and him. Best friends. A matched set.
Your chest tightens painfully.
The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.
The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.
This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.
It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.
You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.
You loved him.
Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.
And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.
You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.
At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.
You needed to know.
You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.
So you kept your distance.
And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.
He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.
He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.
It wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
He wasn’t punishing you.
He was protecting himself.
Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.
You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.
It was restraint.
And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.
Harry hated it.
He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.
It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.
A miracle.
Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.
Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.
One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.
Harry remained behind.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.
But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.
Stupid, really.
He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.
And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.
He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.
The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.
He didn’t return it.
By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.
And there you were.
Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.
His second was fear.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.
“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”
His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.
“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.
You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.
“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.
He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.
You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.
He let you have the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were small when they finally left you.
And he felt his stomach drop.
There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.
His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.
“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”
“(Y/N), hold on.”
He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.
You stopped mid-breath.
Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.
Harry swallowed.
He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.
You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.
“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”
Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”
His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.
Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.
“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”
The room seemed to still entirely.
The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.
“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”
His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.
“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”
For a moment, he didn’t react at all.
It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.
You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.
He didn’t find it.
Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.
Reverently.
“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.
You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”
The words didn’t tremble this time.
They landed between you solid and undeniable.
Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.
“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.
Just awe.
Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.
“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.
Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.
His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.
Then he stepped forward.
Hesitantly.
Cautiously.
As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.
He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.
But you were real.
Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.
The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.
The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.
He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.
It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.
But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.
All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.
You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
• warning(s): fluff mostly lol, harry pov, not proofread fr
• word count: 1.2k
• request(ed): “can you please write a jealous harry potter when his girlfriend starts hanging out with cedric?”
• summary: the request lol
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Every Friday after classes, Harry, you, Ron, and Hermione would find a quiet place to watch a movie on the projector Ron had snuck in. It was a tradition the four of you had come up with after finally each falling into your respective couples. You and Harry were first - you both knew you liked each other but never said anything. After a heated argument one day in the library (mostly you were frustrated he wasn’t being safe and smart with his life after an encounter with you-know-who) and he kissed you right in the middle of your rant. You two had been together ever since. Ron and Hermione finally admitted their feelings shortly after.
Tonight, you were late. Only by a few minutes, but enough to have Harry wondering where you were and how you were doing. What he didn’t expect to see or hear was your giggling followed by a deep voice coming his way. His head turned quickly to find you walking towards the group with Cedric Diggory at your side. Harry furrowed his brows and looked to Hermione and Ron in confusion. They didn’t look as worried as he was, but still offered no kind of relieving explanation. Once you reached them, he watched as you said goodbye and walked over to lean down and kiss Harry on the cheek. Cedric waved to the group before heading forward someplace else.
Harry cleared his throat. “Erm was that Diggory over there?”
“Yeah, it was,” you start, “I ran into him and we were talking about the Transfiguration assignment before we realized we were heading the exact same way.”
“Oh, hm, alright.”
And that was the end of that. Harry didn’t press any further. He didn’t see the need and he wasn’t the type. He was just glad you were at his side now and he could enjoy the movie with you.
The next day at breakfast, Harry listened to how worried you were about passing two of your classes. He tried to tell you everything would be alright but he could hardly get a word in. He didn’t mind though. He liked listening to you even if half of it wasn’t really making any sense.
“Y/N!”
Both Harry and your head turn to the noise. It was Cedric Diggory heading your way, papers in hand.
“Hello Potter.” Cedric says smiling.
“Diggory.” He nods politely.
“Y/N, here are those notes that I promised you. I was able to find them in my things from last yea I had buried.”
“Oh my God thank you!” Harry watches you exclaim. “You’re a life saver!”
Harry rolls his eyes as Cedric walks away. He’s even more surprised when you jump out of your seat.
“I have to go study these Harry, I’ll see you later.”
Unfortunately for him, later wasn’t until the night where he was finally able to see you holed up in your room, Diggory’s notes in hand. Like the good boyfriend he is, Harry brought your favorite snacks because he knew you’d want them and wasn’t sure if you had eaten or not. You told him all about what you had learned and understood now that you had the notes, and he stroked your hair and listened until you fell asleep on his chest. For some reason, even though nothing was wrong, every time you mentioned Cedric and his oh so helpful notes there was a little ball of fire simmering in Harry’s chest. Tonight he would ignore it, but he wasn’t sure for how much longer he would be able to do that.
“Do you think this Diggory thing is weird?” Harry asks Ron during a Wizard’s Chess game the next day. You and Hermione were off in the library looking for a next good read. Harry and Ron weren’t as interested in doing that.
“What Cedric? What thing?”
“Well, I don’t know. First he walks her to us on Friday and now he’s giving her notes?”
Ron stuffs his face with toast before answering, mouth full. “Well, I don’t know, sounds innocent enough to me, she’s been really stressing about that class.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
After the match, Harry and Ron make their way to the library and see you and Hermione side by side by side looking looking at a book that was thick enough that your foot could probably break if it was accidentally dropped. Unfortunately, Cedric was right in between the two of you.
“This is amazing.” You gleam. Harry watched as you smiled ear to ear looking at the pages in front of you. It didn’t help the ball of fire that Cedric was smiling too.
“Hey guys.” Hermion says. You look up and when you spot Harry you make your way over to him.
“How was chess?” you ask as you kiss him gently on the lips.
Harry kisses you back while still keeping his eye on Cedric. He notices that Cedric’s eyes haven’t left you. “Ron won. What’s going on here?”
“Y/N and I were looking for a really good fantasy book about this Herbologist and Cedric helped us find something even better since we couldn’t find the copy we were looking for. Guess it was already checked out.”
“Hmm.” Harry says.
“What’s wrong?” You ask.
Harry shakes his head as if to say nothing.
Cedric greets the boys and then bids you all goodbye. Harry thought that still his eyes lingered on you for a little too long, but nothing in your response to him gave Harry any pause. You weren’t giving Diggory any extra attention that gave any problem but still he couldn’t quite get the flames to calm down.
Harry held your hand as he walked you to your dorm. He was quiet almost the whole time and let you talk about the book Cedric had introduced you to. To be honest, and he hated, it sounded like a really good book. And Harry hated that. He knows it’s innocent and nothing is technically wrong, but still he was upset because Cedric lately has seemed to be able to help you with so many things.
“Harry?” You ask.
“Hm?” Before he knew it you had already reached your dorm, but he was lost in thought.
“What’s wrong? Honestly this time..” You ask.
“Nothing.” He says. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Harry, you’re lying.”
Harry wanted to deny and argue, but he knew that you knew him better than that and would beat the answer out of him sooner or later.
“I just, you know, Diggory has been doing a lot for you lately and the way he was looking at you today was just..ya’know I -”
“Harry, are you jealous?”
Harry’s cheeks turned a shade of pink that made you smile.
Harry leaned into you as you cupped on of your hands onto the side of his face and the other ran through his hair.
“Harry, I only have eyes for you. You don’t ever need to worry.”
You press your lips against his and he kisses back with fervor. He liked that your lips tasted like cherries for some reason and he savored it while his hands wrapped around your waist. He got butterflies when you moaned as he gently bit your lip. He loves the feeling of you against him and he just wanted to get closer and be able to be in this moment with you forever.
“That’s good to hear.” He says when you finally break away. He could feel heat in his cheeks almost hotter than the moment the two of you just shared.
“Jealousy is not a good look on you Potter. I prefer flushed instead.”
𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦: angst, yearning, obsessive love, jealousy, post-breakup drama
𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: clinginess, emotional dependency, possessiveness, refusal to move on
────────────
-Breaking up with Baku is surprisingly difficult because he doesn’t immediately believe you. You sit him down, explain that you want to focus on school, your future, and other things in your life, and he just laughs. Not because he’s being rude, but because he genuinely thinks you’re joking. He waits for the punchline. When it never comes, the smile slowly disappears from his face.
-His first reaction isn’t anger or sadness. It’s denial. You explain your reasons and Baku immediately starts trying to find solutions. If you’re stressed about school, he’ll help you study. If you’re busy, he’ll wait. If you need space, he’ll give you a little space. In his mind, every problem has an answer, so he doesn’t understand why the answer can’t simply be staying together.
-at some point he literally pouts and tells you no. Not “I understand.” Not “If that’s what you want.” Just a stubborn, heartbroken “No.” Like if he disagrees strongly enough, the breakup won’t happen. He’ll argue that couples can focus on school and date at the same time, completely missing the point because he’s too busy trying to keep you from leaving.
-the moment he realizes you’re completely serious is honestly heartbreaking. Baku has never been very good at hiding his emotions. You can practically watch the realization hit him in real time. His eyes get watery, his shoulders slump, and suddenly he looks younger than usual. Like someone just told him the worst news imaginable.
-Even after the breakup, Baku struggles to act like anything has changed. He still waits outside school. He still asks if you’ve eaten. He still checks if you got home safely. Half the time he forgets you’re technically not together anymore because caring about you has become such a natural part of his daily life.
-if he sees you carrying a heavy bag, he’s taking it. It doesn’t matter if you tell him no. It doesn’t matter if you remind him that you’re broken up. He’ll grab it anyway and continue walking like the conversation never happened. In his mind, helping you is just something he’s supposed to do.
-one of the biggest problems is that Baku never really stops reaching out. Blocking him sounds like a good solution until you realize he knows practically everyone. If his number is blocked, he’ll text from Gotak’s phone. Then Jun-tae’s phone. Then Si-eun’s phone. At some point you’re receiving messages from half the people he knows. The funniest part is that he doesn’t even try to be convincing. You’ll get a text from Jun-tae’s phone saying, “Baku is so sad! Please get back with him!” followed by crying emojis and hearts. The problem is that Jun-tae would never send something like that in a million years, so you immediately know who’s actually holding the phone.
-Si-eun eventually becomes one of the biggest victims of this. You’ll receive a completely normal message from him and then five minutes later another one saying, “You should forgive Baku.” The writing style is completely different every single time. When you call Baku out for it, he acts shocked that you figured it out.
-every message carries the same feeling behind it. He misses you. He wants to talk. He wants another chance. Sometimes the texts are long and emotional. Sometimes they’re just simple check-ins. Either way, he’s always looking for some reason to keep the conversation going.
-Baku will use literally anything as an excuse to contact you. A holiday reminds him of you. A funny video reminds him of you. A new restaurant reminds him of you. If it rains, he’s texting you. If it snows, he’s texting you. If anything remotely interesting happens, he’s texting you.
-if there’s an earthquake, a storm, or some random event on the news, expect a message within minutes. Something like: “Today’s earthquake made me realize something.” You think he’s finally going to say something serious. Then the next text arrives: “You make my heart shake too. We NEED to get back together.” He genuinely thinks this is romantic and spends the rest of the day feeling proud of himself for coming up with it.
-baku spends an embarrassing amount of time checking your social media after the breakup. He tells himself he’s only making sure you’re okay, but that’s only half true. The reality is that seeing updates about your life makes him feel connected to you, even if he’s no longer part of it.
-seeing you with another guy absolutely destroys him. He doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise. The second he notices another guy making you laugh or spending time with you, his entire mood changes. Suddenly he’s quieter, moodier, and trying very hard not to stare.
-The jealousy isn’t angry jealousy. It’s hurt jealousy. The kind that comes from realizing someone else is getting the attention he desperately wants. Watching another guy stand beside you feels wrong to him, even though he knows he technically doesn’t have the right to feel that way anymore.
-sometimes he reacts before thinking. He’ll walk over and casually throw an arm around your shoulders like he always used to. Like nothing changed. Like you’re still together. Then you get annoyed and remind him that you aren’t dating anymore, and the embarrassment hits him all at once. Deep down, he hates seeing someone else getting the version of you he misses so much.
-What makes it worse is that Baku genuinely doesn’t know how to separate himself from you. For so long, you were part of his routine. Talking to you, seeing you, checking on you—it all became automatic. Suddenly being expected to stop feels impossible.
-Gotak gets tired of watching it eventually. He tells Baku to move on. Tells him the breakup happened. Tells him he can’t keep waiting forever. Baku listens, nods, and then completely ignores every word. Half the time, ten minutes later, he’s already borrowing Gotak’s phone to text you again.
-Baku has absolutely no shame when it comes to begging for another chance. None. If he thinks there’s even a tiny possibility it’ll work, he’ll do it. Friends, classmates, teachers, random strangers—it genuinely doesn’t matter who’s watching.
-he will literally get on his knees in public and beg you to reconsider. Not because he’s trying to embarrass you, but because he’s reached the point where his pride matters significantly less than getting you back. Meanwhile Gotak is standing nearby questioning every life choice that led him to witnessing this, while Si-eun pretends he doesn’t know either of you.
-the truth is that Baku doesn’t want to move on. He doesn’t want to accept that the relationship is over. As far as he’s concerned, you’re still the same person he fell for, and those feelings didn’t disappear just because the relationship ended.
-he keeps hoping you’ll change your mind. Not because he thinks you’re cruel or wrong, but because he genuinely believes what you had was worth fighting for. So he waits. He texts. He checks in. He keeps showing up.
-because if there’s one thing about Baku, it’s that once he loves someone, he loves them with his whole heart. And even after a breakup, that heart isn’t ready to let go
Eager for each other (NSFW) (✧ You and Harry recently got together before the end of last school year. Coming back from a summer of only letters you were dying for alone time // 2.2k // established early relationship // 6th year // SMUT )
Lost and Found (✧ After a frustrating assignment was given, you rush around the castle to find a place to rest when a mysterious door opens where you swear one wasn't before. Finding a place to take a nap, Harry finds you in his cozy corner he created to escape the outside world // 1.9k // Slow burn, fluff)
Boyfriend! HC's (✧ Boyfriend! Harry Headcanons)
Taken Seriously (✧ Coming back to Hogwarts to start your 6th year, you had quite the “glow up” over the summer. You visited family over in America and may or may not have gotten several piercings. Most Hogwarts students were tame with their appearance, but you weren’t one to follow trends. How would a certain black haired boy react? Did you remind him of someone? // 2.2k // angst, altercation, fluff)
Love Language! HC’s (✧ Harrys Love language Headcanon)
Hidden In Plain Sight (✧ You’ve been secretly dating Harry, helping him figure out the clues for the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament. But when the Yule ball comes around he has to show up with a date. Would you go together or keep your relationship a secret? // 1.2k // Malfoy! reader)
Rumors and Lies (✧ Harry is frustrated that a new rumor is spreading in the hall about your relationship. You try to cheer him up in any way you can. // 972 // fluff)
NYE Headcanon (✧ HP golden era new years eve headcanons with reader)
The March into Spring (✧ Springtime came with the rebirth of nature and the energy amongst the students. With most of your time shooed away to nature, a well known wizard seemed to have bonded to you from afar // 1.3k // pining, fluff)
In The Quiet (pt.2) (pt.3) (✧ its hard for others to see past the pain and burdens of Harry and his legacy, but not for you - though the quiet connection and bond may take time to grow ~
Platform Coffee And Curious Boys (
Eager for each other (NSFW) (✧ You and Harry recently got together before the end of last school year. Coming back from a summer of only letters you were dying for alone time // 2.2k // established early relationship // 6th year // SMUT )
Lost and Found (✧ After a frustrating assignment was given, you rush around the castle to find a place to rest when a mysterious door opens where you swear one wasn't before. Finding a place to take a nap, Harry finds you in his cozy corner he created to escape the outside world // 1.9k // Slow burn, fluff)
Boyfriend! HC's (✧ Boyfriend! Harry Headcanons)
Taken Seriously (✧ Coming back to Hogwarts to start your 6th year, you had quite the “glow up” over the summer. You visited family over in America and may or may not have gotten several piercings. Most Hogwarts students were tame with their appearance, but you weren’t one to follow trends. How would a certain black haired boy react? Did you remind him of someone? // 2.2k // angst, altercation, fluff)
Love Language! HC’s (✧ Harrys Love language Headcanon)
Hidden In Plain Sight (✧ You’ve been secretly dating Harry, helping him figure out the clues for the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament. But when the Yule ball comes around he has to show up with a date. Would you go together or keep your relationship a secret? // 1.2k // Malfoy! reader)
Rumors and Lies (✧ Harry is frustrated that a new rumor is spreading in the hall about your relationship. You try to cheer him up in any way you can. // 972 // fluff)
NYE Headcanon (✧ HP golden era new years eve headcanons with reader)
The March into Spring (✧ Springtime came with the rebirth of nature and the energy amongst the students. With most of your time shooed away to nature, a well known wizard seemed to have bonded to you from afar // 1.3k // pining, fluff)
In The Quiet (pt.2) (pt.3) (✧ its hard for others to see past the pain and burdens of Harry and his legacy, but not for you - though the quiet connection and bond may take time to grow ~
Platform Coffee And Curious Boys (✧ after a while, the same charming young man keeps coming to your coffee shop alone // 564 // fluff)
Before The Game (✧ Before Harry's big Quidditch match, you notice how antsy and worried Harry has gotten // 790 // fluff)
Unfortunately Charming (✧ (7th year // non-war AU) A shy Gryffindor finds herself constantly annoyed by cocky Slytherin!Harry Potter, who insists they’re academic rivals just to get her attention. What starts as playful antagonism slowly turns into something deeper, until a stormy night and a stolen kiss change everything // 873 // Reluctant Admiration // Light enemies to lovers tension // Emotional intimacy // Cocky Harry tbh // Witty Banter vs. Quiet Sarcasm)
Bricks And Bones (✧ After the war, Harry and Y/N stay behind to help rebuild Hogwarts, finding solace in each other as they quietly heal from the past. As Harry begins to confront his repressed childhood trauma, they dream of building a peaceful life together—one filled with love, quiet mornings, and a home of their own // 630 // Angst // Fluff)
The Things We Dont Say (✧ Amidst the chaos of Order of the Phoenix, Harry pushes away his girlfriend Y/N out of fear and grief, only to realize— thanks to Luna —that his silence is hurting the one person he loves most // 851 // Angst // Hurt -Comfort)
As Luck Would Have It (✧ Liquid Luck Harry bumps into reader into what seems to have been fate all along // 1.8k // fluff)
Hidden in Corners (✧ A quiet, studious Hufflepuff becomes an unexpected refuge for Harry Potter, offering him solace in the shadows—until the night he realizes she might need saving, too // 3k // slowburn )
The Girl from Grimmauld (✧ Running from the black family tree, you hunt for sanctuary at Grimmauld place. What starts as teasing glances turns into late-night confessions, until neither of you can sleep without the other nearby // 1.2k // fluff)
Like Smoke (✧ Post-war, somewhere between moving on and never healing, Harry Potter has forgotten what is most important // angst // 1.1k)
after a while, the same charming young man keeps coming to your coffee shop alone // 564 // fluff)
Before The Game (✧ Before Harry's big Quidditch match, you notice how antsy and worried Harry has gotten // 790 // fluff)
Unfortunately Charming (✧ (7th year // non-war AU) A shy Gryffindor finds herself constantly annoyed by cocky Slytherin!Harry Potter, who insists they’re academic rivals just to get her attention. What starts as playful antagonism slowly turns into something deeper, until a stormy night and a stolen kiss change everything // 873 // Reluctant Admiration // Light enemies to lovers tension // Emotional intimacy // Cocky Harry tbh // Witty Banter vs. Quiet Sarcasm)
Bricks And Bones (✧ After the war, Harry and Y/N stay behind to help rebuild Hogwarts, finding solace in each other as they quietly heal from the past. As Harry begins to confront his repressed childhood trauma, they dream of building a peaceful life together—one filled with love, quiet mornings, and a home of their own // 630 // Angst // Fluff)
The Things We Dont Say (✧ Amidst the chaos of Order of the Phoenix, Harry pushes away his girlfriend Y/N out of fear and grief, only to realize— thanks to Luna —that his silence is hurting the one person he loves most // 851 // Angst // Hurt -Comfort)
As Luck Would Have It (✧ Liquid Luck Harry bumps into reader into what seems to have been fate all along // 1.8k // fluff)
Hidden in Corners (✧ A quiet, studious Hufflepuff becomes an unexpected refuge for Harry Potter, offering him solace in the shadows—until the night he realizes she might need saving, too // 3k // slowburn )
The Girl from Grimmauld (✧ Running from the black family tree, you hunt for sanctuary at Grimmauld place. What starts as teasing glances turns into late-night confessions, until neither of you can sleep without the other nearby // 1.2k // fluff)
Like Smoke (✧ Post-war, somewhere between moving on and never healing, Harry Potter has forgotten what is most important // angst // 1.1k)
Electric Heartbeat (✧ the girl everyone notices—bold, magnetic, untouchable. He’s Harry Potter, used to the weight of the world and the eyes that follow him. When their paths collide in the quiet corners of Hogwarts, sparks ignite, whispers start, and suddenly, nothing between them feels private anymore // 5.2k // fluff)
The Wait (✧ After years of pining, a yule ball spent alone, and a wall built in self protection.. the painful wait was worth it in the end.// 10k)
Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.
A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet
Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!
(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?
The Evening Prophet never did subtle.
The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.
A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.
You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.
You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.
"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.
“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.
Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.
After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.
When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.
Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.
Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.
Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.
The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.
“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.
Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”
You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.
Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.
Exactly the image you wanted.
Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”
You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”
You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.
Harry.
He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.
It made his skin crawl.
You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.
Harry looked away first.
And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.
Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.
The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.
The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.
Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.
“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”
You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.
From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.
A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.
Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.
From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.
The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.
And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”
The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.
Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.
Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.
“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.
You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”
Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"
Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”
Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”
From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.
The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.
It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.
Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.
“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”
For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.
Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”
A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”
The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.
You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.
The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.
Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.
“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”
He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”
Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”
“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”
A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”
“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”
“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”
Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.
He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.
A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”
Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”
The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.
You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.
You loved kids.
What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.
You were here because you were a woman.
As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.
You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.
You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.
“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”
“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”
You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.
Harry looked down at your hand.
Then back up at your face.
One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.
The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.
And then—
“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”
The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.
You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.
A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.
Your birthday.
Your breath caught.
“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”
Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.
“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”
You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”
She lit up like a summers day.
“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”
Your heart twisted.
“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”
Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”
“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."
She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.
You listened. Truly listened.
“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”
Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.
“I think you can, love.”
She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”
“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”
You glanced over your shoulder, searching.
“Isn’t that right, Potter?”
Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.
He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.
At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.
“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”
The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”
Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”
Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.
You met Harry’s gaze briefly.
He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.
As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.
You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.
“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”
Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”
“Got it.”
She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.
You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.
Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.
“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.
“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.
This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.
You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.
“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”
Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.
“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”
His expression shifted, “For what?”
“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”
Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”
A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”
For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.
“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”
“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”
He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.
Just acknowledging you.
And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.
You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.
That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.
The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.
And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.
“Shake hands!”
You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.
“Good luck.” He said.
The words barely registered.
Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.
The whistle shrieked.
You launched.
The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.
Puddlemere played aggressively.
Too aggressively.
A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.
They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.
But it didn’t stop.
Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.
From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.
His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.
The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.
Something in him broke.
“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”
The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.
One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”
“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”
The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.
The crowd erupted.
You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.
“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”
“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.
“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”
“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”
He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.
You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”
The whistle blew again.
You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.
The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.
Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.
Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.
You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.
Harry.
He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.
“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”
“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.
You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”
“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”
“Help who?” You asked.
He hesitated, “What?”
“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”
You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.
“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”
You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”
For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.
Instead, he exhaled.
“…Right.”
You nodded once, “Good.”
And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.
The flowers arrived the next morning.
You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.
A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.
You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.
I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it.
— Harry
You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.
Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.
“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”
You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.
You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.
Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.
So you came back.
Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.
The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.
She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.
You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.
“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”
She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”
You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Teddy.”
The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.
“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”
“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.
“I’m better.” He added instantly.
“Are you?” You asked, playing along.
It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.
“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”
“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”
“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.
You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.
You bit your lip.
You loved children.
The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.
“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”
He beamed.
You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.
“Teddy.”
You looked up.
Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.
Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”
You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.
He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”
Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”
You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.
Something warmer.
The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.
You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”
A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”
A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.
Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.
And froze.
Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.
Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.
Your stomach dropped.
What the hell?
Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—
No. Absolutely not.
You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.
“Everything okay?”
You startled.
Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.
“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”
His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.
You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”
He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.
Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.
Your breath caught.
Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”
When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.
You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.
“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”
“That’s—are you sure?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his voice.
He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”
You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.
A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.
Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.
“Okay?” He whispered.
You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”
You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.
“Stay close.” He murmured.
“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”
His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.
The air shifted.
You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.
You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.
As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.
“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—”
“Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”
You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.
Only then did Harry stop.
“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.
You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.
You knew yours did the same.
His hand was still at your back.
And neither of you pulled away.
The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.
Harry swallowed.
“This is probably—” He began, voice low.
You didn’t let him finish.
You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.
His lips met yours.
Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.
There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.
No fans. No cameras. No expectations.
Just the two of you.
Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.
“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.
The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.
And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.
Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.
“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”
You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”
Still, neither of you moved.
After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.
“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”
You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.
Harry’s fingers.
They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.
You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.
“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”
You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.
“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”
You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.
“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”
His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.
Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”
You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.
You almost drifted off again.
Almost.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.
“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”
You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."
He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.
He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.
You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.
"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.
And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.
A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.
Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.
Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.
A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.
“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”
And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.
It felt… solid.
Comfortable.
Real.
So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.
Had you left a lamp on?
You took another step inside.
No. This wasn’t overhead light.
This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.
You froze just inside the doorway.
The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.
And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—
Harry.
He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.
“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.
You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.
“…Harry.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”
He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.
“I thought I’d try.”
Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.
Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.
He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”
“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”
His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.
“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”
You laughed, bumping your nose against his.
“Oh thank Godric.”
He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.
Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.
Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.
Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.
You found him on the balcony.
The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.
That smile.
The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.
“Morning.” He said.
“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.
Brief didn’t last.
It never did.
The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.
You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.
Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.
The long lens.
The quiet click.
By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.
All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.
Intimate.
Suggestive.
Just unclear enough.
Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.
Harry Potter spotted outside private residence.
Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment.
Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker?
Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.
Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.
Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.
“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”
You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”
And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.
The flat felt smaller than it ever had.
Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.
You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.
Every headline said the same thing in a different font.
You reread them anyway.
Sources suggest.
Industry insiders hint.
Mystery woman.
Rising star.
Harry Potter spotted.
They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.
You didn’t hear the door open.
You felt it.
The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.
His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.
“We need to talk.” He said.
You stepped aside silently, giving him room.
The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.
“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”
Your head snapped up, “What?”
“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”
Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.
“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”
Your heart dropped straight through the floor.
“No.”
He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”
“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”
He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”
“For you.” You shot back.
His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”
His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”
You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”
“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
The words hung there, heavy and cruel.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.
"Here. Take it."
Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.
“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”
He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.
“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”
The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.
And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.
The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.
You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.
“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.
You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.
“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”
Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.
“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”
“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.
“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”
Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.
“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”
The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.
You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.
You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.
The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.
You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.
The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.
You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.
Finally, you stepped back inside.
The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.
That was when you noticed it.
A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.
Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.
You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.
And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.
You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.
You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.
Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.
You had your life. Your team. Your game.
And maybe, one day, he would understand.
The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.
She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.
“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”
Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”
You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.
“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.
Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”
You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.
Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.
“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."
The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.
You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."
You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.
“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.
You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”
“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.
“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”
The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.
You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”
The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.
They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.
“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.
He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”
Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”
Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”
Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”
“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.
Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”
Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”
“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”
Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”
Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”
Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”
“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.
Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.
Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”
Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"
Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."
Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.
And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.
The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.
The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.
As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.
It lingered.
Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.
“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.
The whistle shrieked.
Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.
Then, chaos.
One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.
Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.
“Harry!”
You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.
The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.
You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.
Hard.
The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.
“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.
Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.
“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.
Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.
Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.
Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.
The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.
The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.
Then, finally, a flicker of movement.
“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.
“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.
Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”
You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”
He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”
Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”
Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.
His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.
You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”
He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.
“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.
You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.
For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.
The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section
“Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”
After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.
Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.
This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.
bonus:
The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.
And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.
Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.
And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.
“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.
Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”
The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.
You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”
The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.
Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.
“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”
You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
These Haikyuu men have been secretly watching the cute sports reporter from the sidelines for a while now, always catching glimpses of her interviewing players after matches. So when he finally gets to be the one she’s interviewing? Oh, he's blushing hard.
He’s trying his absolute best to answer all her questions seriously—maintaining eye contact, throwing in a few jokes to impress her—when suddenly, bam! His rascal of a teammate dumps an entire gallon of cold water on him as part of their post-game tradition… but it splashes all over her too.
He immediately turns to his teammate like, “Are you serious right now?” before scolding them on the spot. “She’s working! What is wrong with you?” he snaps, before turning to her, flustered and apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry about that. Get her a towel. Now.”
When they bring it over, these Haikyuu men takes it himself and gently starts wiping the water from her face, mumbling something like, “You okay?” while giving her a small, nervous smile. He doesn’t even realize they’re still being filmed.
Trying to save face, he grins and says, “How about this—let me make it up to you. You can write an entire article about me… over coffee?”
Later that night, he’s sprawled out on his bed, still in his team hoodie, phone in one hand and a lazy grin on his face as he watches the viral clip of himself smiling like an idiot while gently dabbing her face with a towel for the tenth time. The comment section is wild—some are teasing, some are shipping, and some are dead serious about wanting to see them together.
Then his phone pings.
You: how about tomorrow lunch time? 😊
Hinata, Atsumu, Bokuto, Sugawara, Kageyama, Oikawa, Tsukishima (i have favoritism), Iwaizumi, Kuroo, Daichi, Tendou, Kenma, Ushijima (i have favoritism part 2), any other hq men you love
the entire internet seems to ship you and finn─except finn is painfully offline, so he doesn't know. you, on the other hand, decide to have a little fun with the rumors.
❪ masterlist. 2.9k words. fluff, co-stars/friends to lovers. cw: alcohol consumption. dedicated to @eviesjournal and the convo we had about how we'd do the famous thing wayyyy better than finn. silly little fic, hope you enjoy! ❫
It was somewhere around three in the morning, and you stared blearily at your screen as the bridge of Ayo Technology by 50 Cent backed a few slowed down, lovingly color-graded clips of you and Finn from an interview on your For You page. At certain angles, it looked like you were kissing.
People surely didn’t lack imagination.
You and Finn had known each other for years. Two awkward tweens when you first met on the set of the first season of Stranger Things, and you’d somehow latched onto each other. That bond only tightened over the years. By the fifth season, ten whole years later, you couldn’t picture your life without his dark and perpetually unruly hair and tall frame draped across your living room couch. There were snacks stolen between takes and clothes migrating from his closet to yours. The comfort of growing up side by side. Best friends was the obvious label. However, the internet had other ideas.
The shipping had started when you were young. You’d always been aware of it, and honestly, you’d found it more funny than anything. (Once, you and Sadie had gone on a deep dive through fanfiction websites with no shame and several shots of tequila. In hindsight, it was one of the best nights of your life. Some people were alarmingly creative.) Still, for reasons completely beyond your comprehension, the intensity of said shipping had skyrocketed in recent months. The onset of season five promo hadn’t helped. Every so often, a TikTok would ambush you, a solemnly narrated analysis of the way Finn looked at you on a red carpet, or the moment you’d collapsed in his arms laughing during an interview. Undeniable proof you’d been married for two years and owned a dog.
Okay, fine. Maybe you did act a little over the top sometimes, but you were both just clingy people. That was just… your thing.
Finn stayed blissfully unaware. You still weren’t sure how someone could be so offline, but one glance at his phone, bereft of social media and needless notifications, told you everything you needed to know. The shipping between was your own little secret (and the rest of the cast and staff, apparently… everyone except his.) You weren’t sure why you kept it that way. You just did.
So it was three in the morning, and yet another edit of you and Finn had crossed your recommended, and tiredness had enough of a hold on you to give you an idea that planted itself as the funniest thing you ever thought of.
After Stranger Things wrapped, it would take an absurd trick of fate for you and Finn to ever land on the same set again. Putting aside the idea twisted your stomach unpleasantly at the thought, the shippers would surely be in mourning, grasping at straws and the last blurry screenshots they could get. You wondered, what better way to thank them for years of unintentional entertainment than to just… fan the flames a little? A simple playful lean into the rumor mill as a send-off?
Honestly, it sounded hilarious.
You’d sent a text to Sadie then. hey, remember the Vanity Fair interview? i’m gonna need us to swap seats during that.
Her reply came fast. what are you plotting, and you could only grin at that.
The day of the interview came. The night before, Finn had slept over like he so often did with his dedicated toothbrush in your bathroom cup and pajamas folded at the end of your bed. It was basically your, plural, apartment. He’d left earlier this morning to get ready, and in his wake he’d forgotten the sweater he’d worn the day before slung over the back of your couch. A sweater you distinctly remembered being photographed on him. Your stylist had not been convinced, but gave up after a bit of verbal wrestling even though she questioned your insistence. You slipped the sweater on, paired it with a nice skirt, and headed off to hair and makeup.
When you arrived at the interview set, Sadie was already seated beside the spot she’d given to you. She zeroed in on the sweater immediately before she looked up at you with amusement dancing across her face.
“Oh, so you’re really doing this,” she laughed.
You nodded with a self-satisfied smile. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. The rest of the cast filtered in soon after, settling into their seats. Caleb shot you a knowing look. “Nice sweater.”
Finn arrived last and sat down beside you without second thoughts. That is, until he glanced over. You could practically see the gears turning in his head as you did your best to keep in your laugh.
“That’s mine,” he intelligently noticed, leaning closer and running the tip of his fingers against the familiar sleeve in disbelief. “That’s the one I left this morning.”
The touch made you shiver, but you masked it with a composed smile. “It is, actually. My stylist thought it’d go well with the outfit. What do you think?”
Either it was a trick of the light, or his pale complexion flushed a darker red. Lips pursed, he nodded. “It looks good. It suits you. You should—uh—you should borrow my stuff more often. The oversized thing, and all, it’s… it’s nice. Y’know.”
“Guys, focus, please! The cameras are rolling!”
The bubble burst and both of you snapped out of it as the interviewer launched into her first question.
Two days later, the interview dropped, and you and Sadie cackled like Salem witches sprawled on her couch as you scrolled through the corner of Twitter dedicated to you and Finn. You tried very hard to ignore the pleasant tug in your chest when someone pointed out how Finn’s gaze seemed fixed on you, and his sweater, the entire time. You quite liked the way he looked at you.
Your little scheme dragged on for a while—months, to be precise, filling the gap between Volume One and Volume Two with ideas you devised during sleepless nights. Sadie contributed when boredom struck her. The next hit was a picture taken at your local coffee shop, one fans had noticed you often went to. Sadie came with you that day, and she just so happened to have a trenchcoat that looked a lot like Finn’s brown one. Like a pair of middle-schoolers, you spent ten minutes arranging her hand just right so it could be his. You posted it to your story with a Beabadoobee song. Subtlety was not the goal. Your notifications blew up right after.
Surprisingly, a reply came from Gaten’s account. whos that lol, the text read. it’s finn btw. i stole gaten’s phone.
You couldn’t help but feel more than a little delighted.
Purely because of the fans’ reactions, of course.
Even though Finn and you had always been touchy, at least with each other, you turned the dial all the way up. In the middle of interviews, you’d lean over to fix his collar or pluck imaginary lint out of his hair. You took an unreasonable amount of pleasure in watching him flush, stumbling all over his words to scroll through the carnage online afterward. According to the internet, you were official now and dropping hints for the fans to pick out.
Nothing could’ve prepared you for Finn deciding to play right back, though.
All of a sudden, he was everywhere in your space. A hand resting casually on your thigh, an arm slung over the back of your chair, his shoulders brushing yours just enough. He started handing you his jackets, teased you more boldly during interviews, his eyes lingered longer… There was the panel incident too, in California, when—
“If I was El,” you’d said into the microphone, emboldened by Millie’s enthusiastic finger-clapping beside you. “I’d totally have broken up with the guy.”
Finn shot you an affronted look while Sadie and Caleb, who shared the panel with you, burst into laughter. He reached over and practically yanked the mic from your hands. “You’re totally exaggerating. Mike’s isn’t that bad, he’s a teenage boy! He’s just confused!”
“All teenage boys are assholes Finn. I’ve been around you wayyyy too much during that part of your life. I’d know.”
“You’re all conspiring against him,” he accused, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re doing.”
“We are not! You’re the one exaggerating now,” you argued back. Sadie leaned forward and cupped her hand around her mouth. “We are!”
Finn turned to you. “Baby, I—”
He couldn’t go any further as the audience erupted into cheers and scandalized oohs. You stumbled over air, your elbow slipping off the armrest and your mouth falling open in shock. Heat rushed up your neck, blooming across your cheeks all the way to the tip of your ears as Finn dropped his gaze, smiling bashfully at the ground. You didn’t miss the quiet laugh he let out when he looked back at you. Mortified, you shot a glance at Sadie, who was wearing the biggest, most unapologetic grin you’d ever seen.
Had she told him about your plan? He would’ve told you… right?
Or did he just want to make this a competition?
Whatever it was, you decided not to let it destabilize you. You swallowed down the blush, placed a hand on his arm as you laughed it off, and pretended you didn’t notice the way Finn’s eyes stayed trained on your fingers.
And it just kept on going. The little touches and comments, the condescending pet names when one of you messed up, or when you’d jokingly fight on set, during events and interviews. What had once been occasional became frequent, so frequent it began bleeding into your private life.
Finn started draping himself over you during movie nights, his arms winding around your waist, his head resting comfortably on your chest while your fingers carded through his hair. You found yourself rummaging through his shirts to wear at home, which he noticed and always complimented your choice. You’d cling to his arm while crossing the street even when you knew there were no paparazzis around. He fixed your hair without asking. You sat next to each other in every interview. The pet names slipped out during breaks on set.
There wasn't anyone to document those domestic instances. And for reasons unknown, you realized you liked it this way. Enjoyed the new pace your relationship with Finn had taken.
Until the wrap-up party.
Ten years of your life. Ten years of care poured into a character sealed shut with the click of a camera. The final day had tasted bittersweet to everyone. Many tears were shed, and your mascara had definitely stained Finn’s sleeve as he held you close. But that could only mean the party, two days after, would be all the more fun—which it was! That was how you all ended up lounging across the floor of Gaten’s apartment, a half-empty bottle of white wine sweating between you. You drank straight from the bottleneck, passing it around in a circle. When the bottle reached Finn, he waved it away, mindful that he was driving you home.
You smiled at him when he handed it to you, holding his gaze as the wine burned sweetly down your throat.
“Man, I’m gonna miss this,” Caleb sighed, staring at the ceiling.
Millie snorted. “It’s not like we’re never going to do this again. We’re not dying.”
“Yeahhhh, but it’s not the same, you know? We were up to so much shit on that set.”
Laughter rippled through the room as memories bubbled up, old and new. You were practically draped against Finn by then, your head near his shoulder as he leaned back against Gaten’s coffee table.
“You’re telling me,” you said fondly.“Remember when Sadie tripped over cables on her first day and fucked up the entire lighting system?”
Sadie gasped in mock outrage, glaring at you while everyone else howled. It took less than two seconds for the group to spiral into recounting every Sadie mishap from the last nine years she’d shared with you. Eventually, she raised her hands, silencing all conversations under amused eyes and pointed directly at you.
“I cannot believe you’re talking all high and mighty,” she started, her eyes gleaming, “when you’ve been doing fan service for the past few months.”
You froze. Behind you, you felt Finn straighten. You shot Sadie a frantic look, slicing a hand through the air in a silent stop, but she only met your gaze with an expression that told you, very clearly, that she knew what she was doing. Or at least, you hoped she did.
“What do you mean?” Finn asked, chuckling nervously.
“Oh, she’s been playing up your friendship because the fanbase has been shipping you two like crazy,” Sadie explained breezily, waving a hand as if she’d been asked about the weather. “It was mostly because we thought it was funny. Also, I gotta say, the fanfictions have really improved since you two started. Huge step up in quality.”
Your stomach was in your feet.
“The fanbase ships us? Together?” Finn asked, incredulous. then turned to you. You had to force yourself to lift your eyes to meet his, but the confusion in them only made you more embarrassed.
“Yeah. Yeah, they do.” You tried to sound as bright as you could as you quickly looked away.
“You didn’t know? Dude, you’re the opposite of chronically online. It’s like you live in a cave,” Gaten laughed, shaking his head. “Reminds me of that whole Sillie thing back in 2019.”
Millie barked out a laugh, brandishing the bottle of white wine. “Oh, that was a fun era.”
The night carried on with the rhythm of stories, but there was now a subtle tension threaded between you and Finn, pulled taut but still refusing to snap. It followed you all the way outside. You’d sobered up by then, the cold night air biting as you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. Finn’s car waited at the curb. You reached for the passenger door handle.
“Hey.”
You turned to see Finn had stopped, his eyes fixed on you.
“Something wrong?” you asked.
He shifted his weight, eyes flicking down and back up again in a shadow of hesitation. “So, all that… you know. The hoodies and the holding hands, that. That was a joke?”
“No,” you said immediately. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t a joke. I just thought it’d be fun to… to kind of pretend that something more was going on for the fans. Give them something, since we won’t really be seen together like this anymore.”
Quieter, you added. “And we won’t be on set together, not like before. If you know what I mean.”
“So you didn’t mean it.”
Confusion twisted your guts as you stared at him. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, blurring his expression far too much for you to make out what it was.
“I don’t know.” You took a deep breath. “Did you want it to mean something?”
A little voice in your chest you didn’t know existed was pleading. Please say yes, please say yes. Finn stepped closer, closing the distance until there was but the smallest space left between your bodies.
“To be honest, I didn’t really know people saw us like that,” he started, burying his hands deeper in the pockets of his jacket. “What I do know, though, was that I had this really stupid crush on you ever since I was, like… twelve. And when you started doing all that, I thought maybe you finally liked me back. Now, I don’t know if you meant any of it, but I—” His lips curved in a nervous smile. “I kinda hope you did.”
Your heart leaped in your chest, as if you’d just jumped off an airplane and your parachute had been delayed. Finn opened his mouth again, probably to backpedal and to reassure you it was fine, that nothing had to change if you didn’t reciprocate, but you didn’t let him. You did reciprocate.
You shut him up before he could speak—grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and kissing him.
His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you closer as he kissed you back, hard and soft all at once. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, and you laughed into the kiss when he smiled, which only made him kiss you again, and again, and again.
You finally stopped when your back hit the passenger door, Finn standing in front of you, both a little breathless as you stared at each other with starry eyes.
“And that only took us…. what? Ten years?” you teased.
Finn laughed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, not forgetting to press a kiss to your neck as he did so. “I’m forever grateful to whoever decided to write fanfictions about us. You have to show them to me now. You’re obligated.”
“And under what obligations?”
“Uh, the fact that I’m literally your boyfriend?”
You chuckled. “Wow. You’re upgrading fast. I can’t believe you—”
He kissed you again, cutting you off, and you forgot whatever you’d been about to say. You liked it better this way.
Your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket, long forgotten, with a text from Sadie you wouldn’t see until the next morning. so are yall together yet me and caleb have a bet going. it’s been nine years.
And a week later, Finn posted on Instagram—not his social media manager, himself, guys! That’s big! It was a grainy film photo of you in his shirt, hair a mess, standing in his kitchen with two coffee mugs and the brightest smile flashed at the camera.
celebrity!mingyu and small business owner!reader. check out 🛒 not for sale's masterlist. final installation for the main verse, so it bears repeating: this is always & forever @maplegyu's! 💍 official not for sale playlist
FIRST DAY ONE-COIL 18KT WHITE GOLD BRACELET
DETAILS
Ref.: 01020221
Material: White Gold
Color: White
DESCRIPTION
After the first magazine shoot where you wore my jewelry, we went out for dinner. I think that's one of the first meals we shared. There was a lull in conversation that could have been awkward, but then you suddenly blurted out, "Hey, remember the 'Snake' game on the old Nokia?" It was so out of pocket, so out of the blue, I laughed so hard that I nearly snorted my drink out of my nose. It got us talking about games and our childhood, though. Later that night, I realized you just wanted to keep the conversation going.
A VALIANT ATTEMPT 18KT WHITE GOLD BAND
DETAILS
Ref.: 11110221
Material: White Gold
Size: 59
Resizable: Not Resizable
DESCRIPTION
When I invited you to a one-on-one jewelry making workshop, I honestly didn't think you'd show up. But you did. You looked adorably frustrated for the most part. You could've given up, but you persevered despite it taking several tries. I think a lot about the look on your face when you finally succeeded at making a couple of rings. After walking you out, I gathered all your rejects and smelted them down in to one ring. This is it.
JUST MY LUCK WHITE GOLD BRACELET SET
DETAILS
Ref.: 3330221
Material: White Gold
Size: Large
Diamonds (Carats): 2.25
DESCRIPTION
In "MINGYU opens up on being named Rising Star of the Year", you talk about consistency, dedication, and passion. I whole-heartedly agree with what you've said, though there is a thing or two I'd love to add.
Here's the thing: I used to not really believe in luck. I believe in hard work and perseverance, in reaping what we sow. If I have to get my hands dirty to get something done, I'll do it.
You said in your interview that you found my page after absentmindedly scrolling through SNS. I'm sure everything that followed is a product of our own personalities, our own interactions, but that initial algorithmic push? We have to chalk it up to something.
And so maybe— just maybe— I'm a little bit lucky after all.
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike wheeler x cheerleader!reader
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike is certain all cheerleaders are evil until one sticks around long enough to ruin his perfectly cynical worldview.
part two. part three.
FUCK. SCHOOL IS HELL.
literally. hellfire is supposed to be the one thing that’s fun this week, and here he is, stuck at the table only trying to pay attention. the lunchroom is annoying, trays clattering, people yelling about sports, someone scraping a chair across the floor, the smell of mystery meat hanging in the air. he’s sitting at the hellfire club table, eddie animatedly waving his hands about some totally dumb idea for a campaign, dustin laughing way too loud, lucas trying to explain rules he’s already explained three times, and mike is just… done.
and you’re there. sitting across from him, leaning slightly back like you’re in charge of the cafeteria, hair tied up in that stupid perfect ponytail, laughing. of course laughing. at them. all of them. jason and his friends. the football idiots. you’re friends with them, probably likes them, probably laughs at them all the time. definitely rude. probably judging him too, because of course you would.
it’s annoying. of course it’s annoying. you’re popular, you’re liked, you’re beautiful. you’re probably rude. definitely rude. he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t watching you though, but he’s not watching you. he’s just… noticing. totally innocent noticing, like a scientist observing a specimen. a particularly annoying, perfect, probably-spiteful specimen.
he hates how fast his stomach flips when you glance in his direction, like you actually looked at him for a split second and he’s panicking because obviously he can’t just look back, that would be insane. who does that. you’re way out of his league, socially speaking. plus your friends are all massive assholes, and you’re friends with them, therefore you’re a massive asshole.
he’s supposed to be listening to eddie, who’s describing his rogue’s perfect escape from a trap, but he’s not. can’t. every time you talk or laugh he’s stuck internally rolling his eyes. loud, obnoxious laugh. loud enough to make him want to throw his pencil at your head. okay, not really. but almost.
he keeps rationalizing. you’re probably fake nice. you probably rolls your eyes at people when they’re not looking. probably does. maybe you’re laughing at him. definitely laughing at him. and if you’re not laughing at him, you’re definitely laughing at someone worse than him. and if you’re not laughing at anyone, you’re probably bored and he’s boring, so it balances out. not that he cares. no. he’s focused. very focused. on strategies. and pencils. and why lucas is chewing his pen like that?
he’s noticing everything he shouldn’t notice but refusing to admit it: the way your shoulders tilt when you gesture, how you lean toward the jocks just slightly, like you’re giving them the attention they don’t deserve, how you laugh at their dumb jokes. it’s infuriating. you’re nice, sure. maybe nice. but that doesn’t cancel out rude, and you’re definitely rude. friends with jason. laughing at jason. laughing at all of them. fine. he doesn’t care.
but then you laugh at something jason says and your teeth are ridiculously white and now he’s imagining his face when he accidentally looks at you, and oh no, there it is again, stomach doing flips he didn’t think boys could actually feel, ears warming, heart maybe going a tiny bit faster—definitely normal, it’s probably just because hellfire club is stressful. yes. stressful. focus on eddie’s ridiculous ideas about campaign strategies. focus on the notebook that’s probably crumpled under his fist. you didn’t even notice him staring. no one did.
he refuses to admit that it’s been like this every week since school started. none of that matters. he is oblivious. he is strong. he is rational. except now eddie is talking and he can’t concentrate, pencil tapping slowing, stomach doing something stupid again and —-
“mike, you’re zoning.” eddie says, nudging him.
“uh huh.” mike doesn’t even look. you’re laughing again. maybe at jason, definitely at jason. asshole. and okay, maybe he notices how your uniform is slightly rumpled, like you just walked here and didn’t care, like you can afford to not care, and your sneakers are clean and the socks are just right, and your backpack is sitting perfectly beside your chair like it was placed there by someone who knows exactly how to make an impression, which is obviously annoying, and probably deliberate, and maybe you’re aware he’s noticing, because why else would anyone be that good-looking in the middle of a Tuesday? but he’s not looking. hes paying attention to eddie, duh.
“mike.” lucas hisses from the side, elbow jabbing him like that’s supposed to snap him out of it. “stop staring.”
“i’m not staring.” mike replies immediately, way too fast, like the word itself could be a crime.
eddie looks way too amused, tossing a grape from his tray into his mouth. “you’re staring like a creep, wheeler.”
“i’m not.” mike says, defensive in the way that gives him away immediately.
evil, he thinks. absolutely evil.
because if you weren’t, then he’d have to deal with the fact that this has been happening every week. that he knows where you sit. that he tracks your laugh without meaning to. that his brain goes stupid and loud and defensive whenever you’re near, and that is not happening. he doesn’t like you. he’s rational. he’s in control.
he doesn’t look back for a while. long enough that he convinces himself it didn’t matter, long enough that the noise of the lunchroom starts to blur into something tolerable. long enough that eddie and dustin drift into another conversation. the bell rings. chairs scrape back. trays slide. the room shifts all at once. he looks up again without thinking.
you’re standing now, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, saying something to your friends. still smiling, still unaware. or maybe aware. he doesn’t know. he never knows with people like you. that’s part of why he hates it. you walk past the hellfire table without looking at him, close enough that he catches the scent of your shampoo again. clean. not overpowering. unfair. “come on,” lucas says, standing. “we’re gonna be late.”
he follows them out into the hallway, noise swallowing them immediately, lockers slamming, voices bouncing, sneakers squeaking against tile. the world keeps moving like nothing happened, like lunch wasn’t a whole thing.
cheerleaders have always been like this. always. he learned it early. elementary school early. the girls who got picked first for everything, the girls who were loud without getting in trouble, the girls who smiled at teachers and somehow got away with stuff he would’ve been sent to the principal for. then middle school, when everything split cleanly into groups, and the girls who would eventually become cheerleaders already knew it. already stood together. already laughed together. already looked through people instead of at them.
he doesn’t remember a specific moment where he decided cheerleaders were evil. it was more like a gradual understanding, safe in their little social bubble of doom. mike hates safe. safe people don’t lose their best friend to another dimension. safe people don’t watch monsters crawl out of walls. safe people don’t grow up too fast and then get told to calm down about it. safe people get to laugh in cafeterias and walk through hallways like the world has never once tried to eat them alive.
so yeah. cheerleaders are evil, and you fit. of course you do. popular, liked, friends with jason. laughing at lunch like it’s easy. sitting where you want, saying what you want, carrying yourself like nothing bad ever sticks. annoying. deeply annoying. he tells himself this as they walk: you’re not special. you’re a type. a category. eddie is talking again, voice carrying down the hallway, something sarcastic, something about school being a prison. dustin laughs too loud at it, like always. mike hums in response, noncommittal, present enough to pass.
he’s bored. so bored. bored of school. bored of pretending this is normal, bored of a world that keeps insisting on lockers and lunch bells and cheerleaders after everything that’s happened, like monsters didn’t exist.
he doesn’t like you. he knows exactly what kind of person you are. and if his brain keeps circling back to you anyway—well.
that’s just another thing wrong with the world.
which would be fine. manageable. survivable. if the world would just stay wrong in predictable ways. monsters, sure. portals, whatever. government cover-ups? annoying but at least consistent. but no, instead it does this, lets him get halfway down the hall toward the vending machines after school, brain already shifting gears toward campaign logistics, and then—
you.
of course you’re there. of course you’re alone for once. leaning against the lockers by the science wing, backpack on the floor, kneeling like you dropped something and decided the floor was your enemy now. productive, probably. cheerleaders are always productive. or sad. maybe sad. he can’t tell. your face is tilted down, hair falling forward, hands messing with something—papers, maybe. a clipboard. figures.
mike. don’t.
he slows anyway, not on purpose. momentum just… decreases. great. alone cheerleader. he pretends he’s just heading for the vending machine, which he is. definitely. that’s why he’s here. he puts his hand in his pocket and inserts money into the machine. he doesn’t look at you at first, just presses the button. the soda drops halfway and gets stuck, tilted, mocking him. “of course.” he mutters.
you glance up, just a little. surprise flickers across your face, then something else—recognition, probably. annoyance. or relief. hard to tell. you straighten, brush your hands on your shorts. “um,” you say, hesitant. not rude, which is irritating. “sorry—did i—are you waiting for that?”
“no,” mike says automatically. “i mean. yes. but not—whatever. it’s stuck.”
“oh, yeah. that one always does that.” you know the vending machine patterns. of course you do. “if you hit it on the side,” you add, “sometimes it drops.”
mhm. great. you’re also a vending machine expert.
mike exhales through his nose, like that might dislodge the soda by intimidation alone. it doesn’t work. obviously. nothing ever works the first time. he hits the side of the machine anyway, not where you said, because he’s not taking instructions from you.
nothing.
he hits it again, harder. the machine rattles. the soda wobbles. stays stuck. he feels you watching him. now that’s worse. “you have to hit it lower.” you say, still gentle, still polite, like you’re talking to a skittish animal.
“i know.” he says, too fast, even though he absolutely did not know.
he hits it where you pointed. the soda drops. he freezes for half a second, staring at it like it embarrassed him.
“see?”
“yeah,” he mutters, grabbing it immediately, like if he doesn’t you’ll claim credit. “lucky.”
lucky. sure. that’s what that was.
he twists the cap off, takes a sip he doesn’t want. carbonated regret. he should leave now. he should walk away, turn the corner, let eddie yell at him for being late, sit down at the table and pretend his brain hasn’t been doing this stupid static thing all afternoon.
but you don’t move. instead, you bend back down toward the floor, scooping up the papers you dropped earlier. he registers them without meaning to—flyers. bright colors. handwritten letters. something about a fundraiser. a pep rally? a food drive? some kind of school-sanctioned enthusiasm. “your friends ditch you?” the question slips out before he can stop it. immediately, he wants to shove it back in his mouth.
you pause, just for a second. then you shrug. “guess so.”
“thought cheerleaders did everything in packs.” he says, aiming for neutral, landing somewhere closer to rude.
you huff a laugh, small, tired. “we usually do.” you stack the papers, tap them against your knee to straighten them.
“so why aren’t they helping?” he asks, because apparently today is ask questions mike shouldn’t ask day.
you hesitate and look down at the flyers instead of at him. “we had a fight.”
“about…?”
“me.” you say, simple, like it’s not a big deal. that sets something off in his chest that he absolutely does not want to examine.
“right,” he says. “well. people suck.”
it comes out harsher than he means. or maybe exactly as harsh as he means. hard to tell.
you glance up at him then, really look at him, not judging, not amused, just… curious. “yeah,” you agree quietly. “they kind of do.” you stand, adjusting the strap of your bag. your uniform’s slightly wrinkled, like you’ve been sitting on the floor longer than necessary. he looks away immediately. don’t be weird. don’t be weird. “anyway,” you say, forcing a lighter tone that doesn’t quite stick. “enjoy your soda, mike.”
“mm.” he hums, already halfway turned away. automatic response. the same sound he makes when his mom asks if he’s done his homework and he is technically in the same room as it.
he takes one step.
wait. he stops so abruptly his sneaker squeaks against the floor. stupid. loud. announces him like an idiot. you said his name. just—casually, like it belongs in your mouth. like you didn’t just pull it out of thin air. he turns back, frowning before he can stop himself. “how do you—”
he cuts himself off, because asking questions is dangerous. questions lead to answers. answers lead to thinking. you’re still there, waiting, like you’re used to people freezing up around you and you’ve learned to give them a second. “what?”
“how do you know my name.” he says, sharper than necessary, because his brain has already decided this is suspicious.
“oh. uh.”
uh???
“we’re in the same grade,” you say. “and you sit like… three tables over at lunch. with dustin. and eddie. and lucas.” you gesture vaguely, as if that explains everything. it does not explain anything.
“right,” he says flatly. “so you’ve been… what. keeping tabs?”
your eyebrows knit together. “what? no.”
“because that’d be weird.” he adds, immediately, because apparently he’s committed to being unbearable today.
“i hear people say your name.” you admit. “a lot. eddie kind of shouts it.”
traitor.
“doesn’t mean you should remember it.” mike mumbles.
you blink at him, once, then again, like you’re deciding whether this is worth your energy. “okay,” you reply slowly. “sorry for having ears.”
he bristles immediately. “i’m just saying it’s weird.”
“it’s not,” you say. “it’s… school. people talk.”
“about me?” he asks, skeptical, defensive, already convinced this is some kind of setup.
“trust me mike, no one’s gossiping about you.”
“wow,” he adds dryly. “thanks.”
“you’re welcome.”
he can feel himself locking up, shoulders tight, brain flipping through its usual list of explanations. she’s messing with you. this is a joke. this is what popular people do. they poke and see what reacts. “so,” he continues, sharp, “you just go around memorizing everyone’s name?”
you fold your arms. “no. just the loud ones.” eddie. definitely eddie. “and you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “sit with them.”
“unfortunately.”
you tilt your head. “you don’t like them?”
“that’s not what i said.”
you raise an eyebrow.
“okay,” he corrects. “i like them. i don’t like… this place.” he gestures vaguely at the hallway. the lockers. the banners taped up crookedly. the stupid school colors everywhere.
“same.”
same? “don’t pretend,” he sounds annoyed. “you’re literally part of it.”
“part of what?”
“the… school,” he says, like it’s a disease. “pep rallies. assemblies. chanting. forced enthusiasm.”
“pep rallies are the worst.”
he wasn’t expecting that.
“they’re loud,” you continue. “and sweaty. and they make us stand there forever smiling like idiots while the principal yells into the mic.”
“…yeah,” mike says, cautious. “and the sound system always squeals.”
“exactly.”
his brain scrambles to patch the hole this just punched in his worldview. “still,” he says, regrouping, “you chose to do it.”
you shrug. “yeah. doesn’t mean i have to like every part.”
actually, yes, yes it does, mike decided for you. you can’t do that. “you don’t get a choice,” he says. “once you’re in that crowd, that’s it. hive mind.”
“wow. dramatic.”
“i’m serious.”
“i know,” you say. “that’s the dramatic part.”
he glares at you. you don’t back down. which is annoying. deeply. “you think we’re all the same,” you add, observational. “don’t you.”
“yes,” he says immediately. “because you are.”
“okay,” you nod. “then you’re all the same too.”
“what does that mean.”
“hellfire club,” you say. “dungeon stuff. dice. arguing about rules. hating everyone else.”
he stiffens. “it’s not dungeon stuff. it’s—”
“dungeons & dragons,” you say, smiling slightly. “i know.”
stop knowing things!
“my cousin plays,” you add quickly, like you see the shutdown coming. “he made me watch once.”
his brain stalls. he clears his throat, deciding not to acknowledge that, because that’s too much for him to unpack right now. “still weird you know my name.”
you roll your eyes. “fine. i’ll call you ‘hey you.’”
“don’t.”
“okay, mike.”
don’t.
his name shouldn’t do that. it’s a name. it’s been his his whole life. teachers say it. his mom says it. eddie yells it, apparently. dustin says it when he wants something. it has never—never—made his chest do that weird skip. this is new. therefore bad. his heart does a stupid little lurch, like when you miss a step on the stairs but don’t fall. that. sickening. nope. don’t do that. you’re not allowed.
“you don’t have to keep saying it.” he says, defensive posture engaged.
you blink, then smile a little, like you’re trying not to laugh. “your name?”
“yeah. it’s excessive.”
it’s not excessive. it’s four letters. you’re just weak. pull it together.
you tilt your head, studying him, like you’re trying to figure out how something works by looking at it too closely. stop that. i’m not a puzzle. i’m a person. a normal person who does not react to cheerleaders saying his name. “you’re really committed to hating me.” you observe.
“i don’t hate you.” he lies immediately.
you raise an eyebrow.
“i just,” he corrects, scrambling, “don’t trust you.”
“why?”
because cheerleaders ruined middle school. because they laughed at kids like him. because popularity is a disease. because if you let one in, they eat you alive.
“because,” he says instead, “people like you don’t usually just… talk to me.”
“but i am talking to you.” you point out.
“yeah, and that’s suspicious.”
“what, you think i have an agenda?”
yes.
“maybe.” he says. you step closer without realizing it. or maybe you do. he doesn’t know. he only knows suddenly you’re right there, close enough that he has to look down at you, and he hates that too. hates the angle. hates that his stupid brain immediately catalogues things: your eyes, your mouth, the crease between your brows like you frown when you concentrate. the way you smell. cheerleader pheromones. definitely a thing. he shifts his grip on the soda. the can is cold. “cheerleaders are basically a cult.” he adds.
“we have jackets, not robes.”
“same difference.”
“and you guys don’t?”
he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “we have dice.”
“dangerous.” you say solemnly.
he almost smiles. almost. he catches himself and scowls instead. “dice are serious.”
“i can tell,” you say, nodding gravely. “very intimidating.”
“you’re doing that on purpose.”
“doing what?”
“being… normal,” he gestures vaguely at you. “about it.”
“why wouldn’t i be?”
because you’re a cheerleader. because cheerleaders are supposed to be loud and cruel and dismissive. because middle school taught him that lesson very clearly and he has never, ever revisited it. because if that rule stops working, then a lot of other stuff starts unraveling too. “most people aren’t.” he says instead.
“most people suck.” you counter.
he laughs. you light up just a little when you notice. not exaggerated, not smug, just—pleased. damn it. “see,” you say. “we agree again.”
“don’t get used to it.” he mumbles, frustrated with himself.
“relax,” you say. “i’m not trying to convert you or anything.”
“good.”
“though,” you add, thoughtful, “if i were evil, this would be a great strategy. gain trust. lower defenses.”
“you just admitted it.”
you grin. “or did i?”
oh my god.
he shifts his weight, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing. closer than earlier. close enough that he has to look down at you, which he hates because it makes him feel like he’s looming. or staring. or both. “why are you still here.” he asks, not unkindly, but not friendly either.
you glance at the hallway. empty now, lockers stretching on forever. “i guess i don’t really want to go home yet.”
that surprises him. it shouldn’t, but it does. “why.”
“long day.”
fair. he nods once. “yeah.”
“so,” you say, breaking the silence before it could settle. are all cheerleaders this talkative?? “what do you actually do in hellfire?”
“campaign planning,” he answers automatically. “and arguing.”
“about?”
“rules. strategy. morality.”
you smile. “morality?”
“yeah,” he says. “like… choices. consequences. who deserves what.”
“that’s kind of cool.”
his ears warm. god. really? that did it? “it’s not,” he says quickly. “it’s nerd stuff.”
“mike,” you smile gently, “i am wearing a uniform with my name stitched into it. we all have our things.”
fuck, you’re a little funny. just sometimes. only sometimes. he won’t admit any more than that. he looks at you again without the automatic defenses fully slamming shut. notices how relaxed you seem now, how your shoulders have dropped. she’s pretty, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. like, actually pretty. not just uniform pretty.
“aren’t you supposed to be at your club?” you add, like you’re checking a fact, not poking fun.
he braces. “yeah.”
you nod. “my brother thinks it’s satanic.”
“your brother’s an idiot.”
you blink, then laugh. actually laugh. quick and surprised. “yeah,” you say. “he is.” you pause. “i should go,” you say, lifting the flyers. “good luck with… your game.”
“campaign.” he corrects, because of course he does.
you smile, just a little. “right. campaign.”
you turn like that’s it, like this was a normal hallway interaction and not—whatever this was. the flyers bend a little in your hands. he watches you take one step, then another. okay. fine. good. solved. back to normal.
except his brain doesn’t move on. it stays right there, snagged on the way you said campaign like you were trying. on the laugh. on the fact that he’s still standing here instead of walking in the opposite direction like a sane person. why did i let this go on this long.
he thinks of middle school—of lockers slammed too hard, of jason-type smiles that meant we see you and we don’t like what we see. you’re almost out of reach when it happens. the thing he doesn’t pre-approve. the thing his mouth does before his brain files the paperwork. “you can—” he starts.
you stop. turn back.
oh no.
he clears his throat, already irritated with himself. “you can come. if you want.”
his heart does something idiotic, like it thinks this matters. “come where?” you ask.
“hellfire,” he says. then, defensive, “not—play. just watch. if you want. you don’t have to.”
abort abort abort.
“you’re inviting me?” you question carefully, rightfully suspicious of the boy who seemed convinced you were evil incarnate five minutes ago.
“i’m not inviting you,” he says immediately. “i’m just—informing you that it’s an option.”
“wow. generous.”
“you’ll hate it,” he adds, grasping for ground. “it’s boring. and eddie yells. and there’s arguing. like, a lot.”
“you already said that,” you point out. “it sounded kind of interesting.”
he scowls at the floor. “you won’t get it.”
“try me.”
that does something. he doesn’t like that it does something. “fine,” he says. “but if you laugh—”
“i won’t.”
“or ask stupid questions—”
“probably will.”
“—then i’m revoking the offer.”
“okay.” you fall into step beside him like this is settled. he’s aware of everything now. the sound of your sneakers. the way your arm brushes his for half a second and then doesn’t again.
he opens the door and steps inside first, awkwardly, like he’s not sure why he’s doing this. lucas is already rolling dice, dustin’s counting something, everyone’s focused on whatever they’re doing—but then you’re there, and it’s like someone hit pause. the air shifts, not because you’re here, because you shouldn’t be, and they don’t know why mike brought you. everyone’s eyes flick up, a pause, questions in the raised eyebrows, the leaning forward of heads. mike doesn’t look at them. he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy pretending this is normal, that having a cheerleader in the hellfire club is totally normal.
you, oblivious, set your bag down, smooth out your skirt, and settle into a chair near the back. the papers you were working on before now stacked neatly in front of you, clipboard balancing carefully on your knees. you start taking it all in, curious, not really judging, just watching. mike’s hands tap a pencil, notebook open, dice still scattered in front of him. he’s too aware of you; he’s too aware of the way you lean slightly, the hair brushing the side of your face, the way your eyes track what’s happening on the table without interrupting.
he hates that he notices. hates that his stomach churns when you scribble something down and hum, like the sound is small enough to be innocent but enough to catch his attention. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then pretends to focus on his dice, on his notebook, on the little notes he’s scribbled about character abilities, strategy, alignment. everything except you.
you lean a little forward as dustin explains a roll, and mike notices you nod, like you understand it, like you’re processing the rules in your head. cheerleaders don’t do this. they don’t sit and think about rules. they don’t watch dice. they don’t care about probability or alignment or morality in a dungeon. except somehow, you do. he hates it and doesn’t know why. he’s hyper-aware of every small gesture. somehow, you’re slipping into the group without breaking anything, without disrupting, just existing, watching, listening, and he’s watching you watch them, and he hates that he’s watching you watch them.
time stretches. mike rolls dice again but can’t completely concentrate. he reminds himself cheerleaders are evil. he reminds himself this was a mistake. he reminds himself you’re probably laughing at him. but somehow, the longer you sit, the longer you stay, the easier it gets to forget that he should hate this. not fully, not consciously, not admitting, but there’s something about the way you follow the dice, nod when someone explains a rule, that makes it almost… tolerable.
finally, eddie announces a break. mike exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. you get up first. “going?” he asks. too curt, defensive. too automatic. why do i even care?
“yeah,” you say, gathering your things. “see you at school?”
he nods. don’t say more. mike stands too, automatically, walks with you out of the club, and somehow it doesn’t feel quite as wrong as it did before. maybe it’s just that you exist, that you were polite and attentive, that you fit into his world in a way that makes sense even though it shouldn’t. “you’re… welcome to come by again.” he blurts suddenly. what are you doing? why did you say that?
he immediately regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. he’s never invited anyone to hellfire before. never. he’s never wanted anyone to see this side of him. he’s not allowed to like anyone enough to bring them here. definitely not a cheerleader. definitely not you.
“yeah, maybe.”
you glance at him, just a fraction, like you’re weighing something, not quite sure if you should ask, not quite sure if you should leave it. he notices the pause. long enough to make him uncomfortable, short enough to make him paranoid. “mike…” you finally say, quiet, careful, like you’re testing the waters. he stiffens automatically.
the “yeah?” he gave came out defensive.
you hesitate. “earlier, when you asked me how i knew your name… i lied.”
he blinks. stops walking for a split second, too stunned to notice. lied? she lied? why? evil. plotting. wrong. “what?” he asks, suspicious. dry. why would she lie? this is a trap. of course it’s a trap. she’s evil. she’s a cheerleader. shut down.
“i didn’t just know because of eddie,” you admit, like it’s dangerous to say it out loud. “i’ve .. always known.”
he stops. his brain sputters. always known? what does that even—why are you saying—wait—what? “what do you mean?” he says, voice sharper than intended, heart starting to hammer.
you glance down, cheeks coloring faintly. bashful. hesitant. “i mean i’ve —- kind of… liked you. for a while. i just… didn’t… say anything.”
he freezes, backpack straps digging into his shoulder, soda crinkling in his hand, mouth open like he’s going to explain something, defend himself, insist that this is a misunderstanding—but there’s nothing. he doesn’t have a defensive line ready for this. i—what—you—hello????
“you… what?” he says finally, incredulous, not believing. not sure if he wants to believe. part of him wants to tell you you’re wrong, that you’re lying, that cheerleaders are evil, that he hates this—but another part? another part is ridiculously, embarrassingly glad.
“yeah,” you admit, looking up just enough to meet his eyes. “i’ve always thought you were… cool, i guess.” your voice is soft, almost like you’re worried he’ll push you away.
he swallows. he wants to say something clever, dry, snarky, but none of it comes out. instead, he just stands there, balancing between panic and something else. why do i like that you like me?
he just stands there. too long. long enough that the silence starts to feel loud, like the hallway itself is waiting for him to say something smart or sharp or at least coherent. nothing comes. his brain is buffering. this was not in any possible outcome tree he’d bothered to map out. his heart is going way too fast, like he just ran laps. “i—” he starts, then stops. clears his throat. tries again. “you don’t—” also bad. abort.
you shift your weight, clearly bracing yourself. not dramatic about it, just steady, like you’re ready for him to say something awful and you’ve already decided you’ll survive it if he does. that’s somehow worse than if you were defensive. or sarcastic. or mean. he knows how to handle mean.
“i just wanted you to know,” you clarify. “that’s all. i know you hate me. i know you think i’m… whatever. i just figured i’d rather say it than keep pretending.”
he frowns automatically. “i don’t hate you.”
the words come out before he can stop them. immediate regret, followed by confusion about why he regrets them. he doesn’t hate you. when did that happen? when did that stop being true?
“you don’t?”
“i mean—” he stalls, because now he has to back it up. “i don’t… hate you. i thought i did. probably. i thought you were—” he gestures uselessly. “you know. like that.”
“evil?” you offer, dry but not offended.
he winces. “yeah.”
you giggle, a small little laugh that’s more relief than humor. “fair.”
that makes something in his chest loosen. he watches you while you talk, not in the way he was trying very hard not to earlier, but openly now, because apparently all his defenses are fried. you’re nervous, but not crumbling. you’re honest without apologizing for it. you don’t hedge every sentence. you just… say what you mean, like it’s allowed.
that’s wild to him.
mike wheeler does not say what he means. he deflects. he turns things into arguments so he doesn’t have to name what they actually are. feelings are messy. feelings get you hurt. feelings make you look stupid. feelings are stupid. he has spent years being very careful about that. you just walked up and handed yours over. “you’re brave.” he notices, and immediately cringes at himself for how stupid it sounds.
you tilt your head. “am i?”
“yeah,” he says, more firmly this time. “i wouldn’t do that.”
he doesn’t know why he’s admitting that. maybe because it’s true. maybe because you already admitted something worse. maybe because the world feels slightly off-kilter and honesty is leaking through the cracks. you shrug, a little shy now. “i’ve had practice.”
you’ve done this before. you know how to say things out loud. you know how to survive the answer either way. he admires that more than he wants to. he rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor, then back at you. “i don’t really know what to say.”
“you don’t have to say anything,” you say quickly. “i’m not—this isn’t—” you stop yourself, take a breath. “i’m not asking for anything. i just didn’t want you thinking i only talked to you for some other reason. or because i was bored. or because i’m fake.”
“i did think that.” he admits.
you smile. “i know.”
that’s the thing. you always seem to know. and instead of using it against him, you just… accept it, like it’s part of the deal. “okay,” he says. “thanks. for… telling me.”
you relax a little, like that was the part you were holding your breath for. “yeah,” you say. “you’re welcome.” you start walking again, and he doesn’t hesitate before falling into step beside you. it feels different now, like something has shifted and neither of you knows what to call it yet. he’s still awkward, still stiff, still very much mike wheeler, incapable of a smooth emotional landing. but there’s something there now, an understanding. the knowledge that someone saw him, liked him, said it out loud, and the world didn’t end.
and he doesn’t hate you.
and now he’s thinking: wait. i don’t hate her. he actually doesn’t. like. at all. how long has it been since he’s felt this particular kind of not-hating? too long, really. and then, just like that, his brain decides to start justifying everything, retroactively rewriting history. maybe cheerleaders aren’t evil. maybe your friends aren’t all scheming idiots. maybe your laugh isn’t some weaponized sonic trap aimed at him specifically.
he glances at you enough to see you’re not looking at him, just staring forward, maybe thinking about something else. he likes that. your attention, or lack thereof, or… whatever. you watched him play D&D. you didn’t need to, but you did. more than anyone else. more than dustin explaining the same rule for the fourth time. more than eddie whining about dice. you actually watched mike, and now he’s thinking: okay. that’s… kind of nice. your attention. you. you’re kind of nice.
he notices your hands, how they swing a little when you walk, he notices the tilt of your head, like you’re quietly measuring the hallway, or counting tiles, or just… being you. maybe you’re kind of cool. maybe you’re not evil. maybe your friends are funny sometimes. maybe your hair just always looks better than it should for a tuesday.
and why does he feel good walking next to you? why does he like that you watched him play? do you notice him more than the others? and why the hell does that feel good? his chest feels lighter than it has in days. the panic has gone, replaced by a confusing, pleasant sort of… awareness.
why does it matter that you watched him? that you didn’t get bored, didn’t look around for someone better, didn’t laugh. you watched him, like what he was doing mattered. like he mattered.
the doors loom ahead, glass smeared with fingerprints, afternoon light bleeding through in dull yellow slabs, and suddenly the walk has an end. mike hates that. he hates endpoints. they force decisions. you slow first, of course you do. you’re better at this. at transitions. you stop just short of the doors and turn, half-smiling, like you’re already bracing for the moment to break.
he realizes, distantly, that he’s supposed to go back. hellfire. the campaign. the table. the dice. the version of himself that makes sense there. and you’re supposed to leave. walk out into the parking lot, back into your world. this is how it works.
his chest tightens at the idea.
he clears his throat, shifts his weight, looks anywhere but your face. the floor. the exit sign. why is this so hard? he’s faced demogorgons. literal monsters. this—this is just a person. a girl. a cheerleader. a girl who likes him. apparently.
“so,” he says, and immediately hates how thin it sounds. he coughs and tries again. “uh. i have to—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, toward the club room. hellfire. destiny or whatever.
“yeah.” you say, understanding. not disappointed.
he nods, swallows, then, before his brain can intervene—before logic can tackle him to the ground— “would you maybe want to… hang out sometime?” it comes out rushed, like he’s tripping over his own words. “not—like—i mean, not a big thing. just—” he grimaces.
you blink, surprised, and then your smile spreads, slow and genuine, like you’re trying not to spook him. “yeah,” you agree. “i’d like that.”
“okay,” he says too quickly. then softer, like he’s testing it out. “okay.”
there’s a pause. the kind that feels like it could stretch if neither of you moves. but the doors are still there. reality still exists. you adjust your bag strap. “good luck with your… campaign.” you say, teasing but kind.
he huffs. “thanks.”
you hesitate, then lift a hand in a small wave. “bye, mike.”
his name again. still hits. still makes his chest do that stupid fluttering thing. “bye,” he says. then, because apparently he’s braver now—or dumber—“you.”
you push the door open and step into the light, and mike stands there for a second longer than necessary, watching the door swing shut behind you. his chest still feels light. his head feels full. when he finally turns back toward hellfire, he knows one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity:
he’s going to think about this the entire campaign.
