Hellooo!
I realized only a few days ago that I've been posting on here for nearly three years now and I haven't made an 'about me' post, so here it is.
Hello, you can call me miko or mocha, whichever one you prefer, I don't mind. 🙂
I'm currently studying STEM at university, about to be done (yayyy), but that meant that my creative outlet was going to be quenched a little, so I created this blog mostly so my creativity doesn't die.
Things that I like:
⭐Kpop
⭐Harry Potter
⭐Marvel and sometimes DC
⭐Animation
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⭐writing
⭐ musicals
Things I don't like:
🖤Horror, thriller or any media of that sort
🖤no-show socks (this is a big one)
🖤the summer heat but I do love the season itself
🖤a mess
🖤I'm sure there are other things that I can't remember right now😭
What you can find on this blog:
the big one is fanfiction, mostly Harry Potter
moodboard and collages that sort of thing
I'm thinking about starting to write book reviews, lmk if that's a thing you'll be interested in.
I'm also thinking of starting a book-club of the sorts.
I also talk a lot about movies and TV shows
Harry Potter masterlist
Marauders masterlist
Kpop masterlist
Media Masterlist
link to my substack
Support me so I can keep doing what I love and keep creating content for you to enjoy: https://ko-fi.com/miko415785
Summary: Anything written on your skin appears on your soulmate’s, leaving you to wonder whether your destiny can still be rewritten.
A/N: these fuckass summaries are gonna be the death of me... also i really enjoyed planning for this fic but now that i've done my final read i actually kinda hate it
Year 2:
Soulmates were a tricky business.
No one fully understood the magic behind it—how the universe could possibly decide, from the moment you were born, that there was one person out there meant specifically for you. Even now, it remained one of the greatest mysteries of the magical world. There were no rules you could study, no spells to influence it, no way to predict it.
All anyone really knew was this: somewhere out there existed a person whose magic matched yours so perfectly that the universe itself would one day intervene and make it known.
How it chose to do that, however, was entirely unpredictable.
Some people were born with timers on their wrists, ticking down to the exact second they would meet the person meant for them. Others lived their entire lives in muted shades of grey until they met their soulmate and the world burst into colour all at once. Some carried their soulmate’s first words etched permanently into their skin, waiting for the moment they would finally hear them spoken aloud.
For others, it came later.
Marks that appeared on first touch.
Marks that only revealed themselves after years of friendship.
Marks that didn’t appear at all until it was far too late to matter.
There was no pattern. No certainty. No way to guess what form your own bond would take—or when it would appear, or who it would tie you to.
And so, by your second year, you had stopped thinking about it too much.
Well... not entirely.
Like any other girl, there were nights when you lay awake staring at the ceiling, letting your mind wander to the inevitable moment when it would happen. You imagined the first meeting in painstaking detail—how everything would fall into place like the final pieces of a puzzle, how suddenly the world would make sense in a way it never had before, as if you had finally found where you were meant to be.
You imagined what it would feel like to be close to them.
To hold their hand.
To kiss them.
To run your fingers through their hair and feel them do the same to you.
You imagined quiet moments and laughter, whispered words meant only for the two of you, a future that felt certain in a way nothing else ever did.
And sometimes, buried into your pillow so no one could hear, you’d find yourself smiling—giddy with anticipation for a life that hadn’t even begun yet.
But it was easy not to dwell on it too much.
None of your friends had found their soulmates yet—not Hermione, not anyone—and that made it easier. It meant you weren’t falling behind. It meant there was still time.
When it happened, it would happen.
And when it did, everything would make sense.
Until then, your biggest problem remained your exams.
The Great Hall was silent in that suffocating, unnatural way it only ever was during exams.
Rows upon rows of desks stretched endlessly beneath the enchanted ceiling, each one placed with careful precision—far enough apart to make cheating impossible, close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone in your misery. The usual warmth of the hall felt stripped away, replaced by something rigid and tense.
The only sound was the uneven scratching of quills against parchment, echoing faintly in the vast space like a hundred tiny clocks ticking out your time.
You hunched over your Transfiguration paper, brow furrowed in concentration, your hand moving quickly but carefully—fast enough to keep up with your thoughts, slow enough to avoid smudging the ink.
You were on the last question.
Finally.
Relief flickered through you as you exhaled quietly, adjusting your grip on your quill. You leaned in slightly, beginning to write your answer, already thinking about how quickly you could leave once you were done—how good it would feel to be free of the stifling silence, the pressure, the weight of it all.
A shadow fell across your desk.
Your quill stilled mid-word.
“Miss (Y/N).” Came Professor McGonagall’s voice, low and composed.
You looked up sharply, your pulse jumping.
She stood just behind you, posture as straight as ever, hands folded neatly behind her back. Her expression gave nothing away—no irritation, no warmth, just that familiar, impenetrable calm.
“Yes, Professor?” You whispered, instinctively lowering your voice to be mindful of your fellow classmates. The last thing you needed was Hermione scolding you after the exam for making a ruckus while she was trying to focus.
Her gaze flicked briefly to your paper, lingering for just a moment, before returning to your face.
“I’ll need you to come with me.” She said quietly.
Your stomach dropped.
“Now, please.”
For a second, you just stared at her.
Confusion hit first—sharp and immediate.
Had you done something wrong? That didn’t make any sense. You hadn’t even finished your exam yet. Your eyes darted down to your parchment, then back up at her.
“…my exam—?”
“I will take it with us.” She replied smoothly, already reaching forward.
Before you could protest, she lifted the parchment from your desk, your unfinished answer still drying on the page. You stared up at her in surprise, your quill still clutched in your fingers, ink well sitting open on the desk.
Something wasn’t right.
Slowly, you pushed your chair back, the scrape of its legs against the stone floor sounding far too loud in the heavy silence. A few heads turned at the noise—quick, curious glances—but just as quickly snapped back down to their work.
After all these were your final exams, they didn't have the time for their focus to be broken.
Your heart began to beat a little faster as you stood, a faint, uneasy feeling settling in your chest.
“Follow me.”
You trailed after her down the narrow aisle between the desks, acutely aware of every step you took, every eye you could feel flicking toward you before darting away again.
The large doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead, growing closer with every step, and with them, that strange, creeping sense that something had shifted.
You didn’t know what you had done.
Still, you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek and clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself not to cry from sheer anxiety. The past few weeks had already left your nerves stretched painfully thin.
Between late nights revising, early mornings spent cramming information into your head, and the constant pressure hanging over every second-year student during exam season, it felt as though every nerve ending in your body had been stripped raw.
Even now, as you followed Professor McGonagall through the corridors, you could feel your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You dug your nails into your palms until they hurt, desperately trying to ground yourself, but the growing lump in your throat refused to disappear.
Professor McGonagall led you into an empty classroom adjacent to the Great Hall and quietly shut the door behind you. The click of the latch sounded far louder than it should have.
"Sit."
You obeyed immediately, lowering yourself into the nearest chair while she remained standing. For a long moment she simply looked at you, her expression unreadable save for a distinct note of disappointment that made your stomach sink even further.
"Miss (L/N)," She began, her voice calm and measured, "students are made aware at the beginning of every examination period that cheating results in an immediate Dreadful. Your parents will be notified and the staff will need to discuss whether you will be permitted to sit a reexamination or whether further disciplinary measures are necessary."
For a second, you genuinely thought you had misheard her.
The words didn't make sense.
You stared up at her blankly.
"Professor... what?"
Her expression remained unchanged.
"You were found in possession of examination materials during your Transfiguration exam."
"I wasn't copying."
The denial left your mouth before you could stop it.
McGonagall's gaze lowered pointedly and, confused, you followed it.
The moment you saw your leg, your entire body went cold.
Written across the skin of your calf in cramped black handwriting were notes. Definitions. Theories. Entire sections of information taken directly from your textbooks and condensed into neat little sentences. There had to be dozens of them, stretching across your skin in dense clusters of writing.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat.
"What the hell?"
Your mind immediately began scrambling for an explanation. Had someone done this while you slept? Had ink somehow transferred from your notes? Had you absentmindedly written on yourself during a revision session? None of it made sense. You had showered the night before.
In your panic, you failed to notice that this wasn't even your handwriting.
"No."
You immediately started rubbing at your skin.
"No, Professor, I didn't write this."
You scrubbed harder, panic making your movements frantic.
"I swear I didn't."
The notes didn't budge.
Your palms were beginning to sweat, but the ink remained exactly where it was, stubborn and unmoving.
"It's not even coming off!"
The last few words came out dangerously close to a sob.
You looked back up at McGonagall, your vision beginning to blur around the edges as tears gathered in your eyes. Everything suddenly felt horribly unfair. You had spent weeks preparing for these exams. You had stayed up late memorizing definitions, quizzed yourself until your head hurt, worried yourself sick over every possible outcome.
"I swear I didn't do this, Professor," you said, your voice wobbling despite your best efforts. "I promise. Please don't fail me. I studied so hard."
The tears escaped before you could stop them.
One moment you were trying to hold yourself together and the next you were crying outright, fat tears rolled down your cheeks while the tiny amount of mascara you'd put on that morning in an attempt to look slightly less exhausted began smudging around your eyes. The embarrassment only made it worse. You couldn't remember the last time you had cried in front of a teacher, but now you couldn't seem to stop.
It was only through your tears that you noticed something change in McGonagall's expression. The disappointment that had been there moments ago had vanished completely, replaced by something that looked remarkably like realization. Her eyes flickered briefly from the notes scrawled across your skin back to your face and you watched as the pieces seemed to fall into place behind them.
"Miss (L/N)," She said, her voice considerably gentler than it had been a moment ago, "it would appear that I owe you an apology."
You blinked up at her through watery eyes, still struggling to catch your breath.
"What?"
"I believe there has been a misunderstanding."
For a moment you simply stared at her, the words refusing to make sense. A misunderstanding? Five minutes ago she had been discussing whether you would be forced to repeat the year.
"Once you've composed yourself," McGonagall continued, clearing her throat and smoothing a hand over her robes, "You may return to the examination hall and complete your exam."
The room fell silent.
You looked down at the notes still covering your skin and then back up at her, trying to understand what had changed. The writing was still there. The evidence hadn't disappeared. If anything, it seemed even more obvious now than it had before. Yet whatever conclusion McGonagall had reached was apparently enough to completely alter the situation.
Before you could ask any further questions, however, she was already moving toward the door.
By the time you had managed to stop crying and make yourself somewhat presentable again, your eyes were still red and your cheeks still blotchy. You clutched your exam paper tightly against your chest as you made your way back toward the Great Hall, still trying to piece together what had happened.
The corridor ahead was empty save for two approaching figures.
At first you barely paid them any attention.
Professor Snape was walking briskly in your direction, his dark robes billowing dramatically behind him as they always seemed to. Beside him walked another student, hands shoved into his pockets and expression thunderous enough to make most people step out of his way.
Mattheo Riddle.
At first, you barely paid attention. Then your eyes caught on the black smudges beneath his eyes—dark, uneven streaks that clung to his lashes and marked the skin beneath them. Mascara. Your mascara.
You stopped walking.
Mattheo stopped too.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The corridor around you felt strangely distant, as though everything else had faded into a muffled blur while the two of you stood suspended in something sharp and disorienting.
His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Slowly—almost visibly—understanding began to settle across both of your expressions at the same time, like the final pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.
The notes that hadn’t been written by you but had appeared on your skin anyway.
The mascara that hadn’t been applied by him but was now smeared across his face.
The reason Professor Snape was escorting him down the corridor.
His expression darkened first.
Yours followed not long after.
You had never met him before. Never spoken to him.
And yet somehow, within minutes of discovering he was your soulmate, Mattheo Riddle had nearly gotten you expelled.
As he continued to glare at you from across the corridor, looking every bit as offended by the situation as you felt, you came to one very simple conclusion.
The universe had an absolutely horrific sense of humour.
Year 6:
It was quiet in the dormitory—far too quiet for a weekday morning.
You frowned slightly, still half-asleep as you burrowed deeper beneath your blankets, turning your face further into the pillow. Usually by now the room would already be alive with noise: drawers slamming shut, sleepy complaints about unfinished homework, someone inevitably losing a sock five minutes before class. But there was none of it. No chatter. No rushing footsteps.
Which could only mean one thing.
You had woken up too early.
A pleased little sigh escaped you as you snuggled further into the warmth of your bed, already drifting back toward sleep. Maybe you had another hour left. Maybe—
“(Y/N) (L/N), FOR GODRIC’S SAKE, WAKE UP! YOU’VE ALREADY MISSED BREAKFAST!”
You bolted upright so fast you nearly headbutted the bedpost.
“WHAT?!” You shrieked, voice rough with sleep as panic shot through you all at once, “Hermione, why didn’t you wake me?!”
“I DID, YOU TEA TOWEL!”
The insult barely registered as you threw your blankets off yourself and stumbled out of bed in a frenzy, hair a complete mess and heart racing with the immediate horror of being late. Your bag was still unpacked from the night before, half your books hanging out of it as you rushed around the room trying to pull yourself together.
“Why didn’t anyone shake me harder?!” You complained, yanking your uniform shirt over your head inside out before realizing and swearing under your breath.
Hermione, already fully dressed and exasperatingly put together, didn’t even look up from stuffing parchment into her bag, “I did! It's not my fault you sleep like the dead.”
You huffed, grabbing your skirt and tugging it on crookedly as you rushed toward the mirror, mentally planning the fastest possible route to class. If you skipped properly brushing your hair and just fixed it on the way—maybe if you brushed your teeth in the bathroom nearest the Charms corridor—
And then you looked up.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you.
For a moment, all you could do was stare.
Your own reflection stared back at you in equal horror, pale and frozen and impossibly awake now, but you barely noticed the expression on your face because your eyes were locked on the red mark pressed against your cheek.
A lipstick stain.
Bright. Smudged.
Unmistakably shaped like the imprint of someone’s mouth.
Your breath caught.
There was another near the corner of your lips, blurred slightly like it had been kissed there carelessly. One against your jaw. Another lower down, just beneath your ear.
Dread began settling into you slowly, horribly, piece by piece.
“No.” You whispered.
Your hands started shaking.
“No, no—”
You turned slightly toward the mirror, fingers fumbling desperately with the collar of your shirt as you pulled it aside.
More.
Faint red marks scattered across your skin, disappearing beneath the fabric of your clothes. Some were clearer than others; some were smeared, dragged slightly, as though whoever had left them behind had done so thoughtlessly. Casually.
You stared at them, your reflection blurring around the edges as tears began burning in your eyes.
Your throat tightened painfully.
The room suddenly felt too small, too warm, your chest caving inward as realization settled fully over you.
“)Y/N), come on, class starts in—”
Hermione stopped mid-sentence.
You didn’t turn around, but you saw her expression shift in the mirror from annoyance to shock. Her eyes caught on the marks scattered across your neck and collarbone, and the look on her face softened so quickly it made something inside you crack further.
“Oh.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
A heavy silence settled across the room. Then you heard Hermione approach slowly, carefully, like she was afraid one wrong movement would shatter you completely. She stopped just behind you, her reflection appearing over your shoulder, and when you finally forced yourself to look up again you saw nothing but sympathy written all over her face.
“Oh, (Y/N),” She said softly, and somehow the gentleness in her voice hurt worse than the marks themselves, “I’m so sorry.”
You swallowed hard and forced yourself to inhale, then exhale, trying desperately to hold yourself together.
“It’s fine,” You said immediately, too quickly, your voice unnaturally flat, “It’s not like I liked him anyway.”
The second the words left your mouth, your chin trembled.
Hermione’s expression crumpled.
And suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore.
A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, and then the tears were falling all at once, hot and uncontrollable as the ache in your chest finally split wide open. You covered your mouth with your hand like that could somehow hold the sobs back, but it was useless. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you as weeks and months of buried hope came crashing down all at once.
Hermione caught you before you could fall properly, pulling you into her arms immediately.
And the second she did, you broke completely.
You cried into her shoulder so hard it hurt, fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of her jumper while humiliation and heartbreak tore through you in waves.
Your soulmate had slept with someone else.
A few mornings later, when Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, she wasn't remotely offended when the eyes of her friends immediately flicked over her shoulder.
It had become something of a routine.
Every day for the past week, someone would look up when she arrived, expecting to find you trailing behind her. Every day their faces would fall when they realized she was alone.
Just as she was today.
Harry was the first to break the silence, "She still won't come down?"
Hermione's grip tightened slightly around her spoon.
The concern on his face mirrored exactly how she felt.
You hadn't attended a single class all week. The first two days had been the worst. You had cried until you physically exhausted yourself, until your body finally gave out and sleep claimed you against your will. By the following morning, you'd developed a fever bad enough that Hermione had practically dragged you to the Hospital Wing herself.
Madam Pomfrey had taken one look at your blotchy face, red-rimmed eyes, and dangerously high temperature before ordering you into a bed and refusing to hear arguments.
Hermione had stayed beside you for as long as she'd been allowed.
She remembered watching you sleep fitfully beneath white sheets, occasionally stirring only to curl further into yourself. She remembered the way your hand would sometimes move unconsciously toward your neck, fingers brushing against skin where the marks had long since faded.
Eventually Madam Pomfrey had forced Hermione out, insisting there was nothing more she could do.
Now several days later, the fever had broken.
But you still hadn't left your room.
Hermione shook her head, "No."
Hermione sighed, reaching for her tea, though her attention was nowhere near her breakfast. Her gaze swept across the Great Hall, not aimlessly skimming over the hundreds of students filling the room, but locking onto its target almost immediately like a heat-seeking missile.
Mattheo Riddle.
He sat at the Slytherin table with his friends, laughing at something one of them had said, completely at ease, looking every bit like he hadn't a single worry in the world. The sight of him sitting there so carelessly, smiling like life had handed him every reason to, made Hermione irrationally want to march across the hall, grab him by the ears, and squeeze his head until it popped like an unsightly pimple.
He had absolutely no idea.
No idea that his soulmate hadn't left her bed in days.
No idea that she'd cried herself into a fever.
No idea that Hermione had spent hours sitting beside her, listening to her sob until she had nothing left in her, only to watch her stare blankly at the canopy above her bed as though she'd forgotten how to exist.
Her jaw tightened.
"Look at him," She muttered bitterly, her eyes boring so intensely into the side of his head that she was almost disappointed when he didn't spontaneously burst into flames, "I spent half the week consoling her, and he's sitting over there like he's the bloody king of the world."
Then, she looked back down into the untouched cup of tea in front of her, watching her own furious reflection ripple across its surface. The anger was still there, burning hot beneath her skin, but it had long since become tangled with something far more unbearable.
Helplessness.
Because no matter how angry she was, it wouldn't undo what had happened.
It wouldn't stop you from shutting yourself away in your dormitory, curtains drawn around your bed, convinced that facing four wooden bedposts was somehow easier than facing the rest of the world.
She felt the sting behind her eyes before she realized she was blinking a little too often.
"I can't believe someone like her is supposed to end up with someone like him." She murmured, her voice losing all of its earlier bite.
She absentmindedly stabbed at her pancakes with her fork, skewering a lone berry in the process without even noticing.
"She's the sweetest, kindest, most selfless person I've ever met," Hermione continued quietly, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her throat, "She'd do absolutely anything for the people she loves, and somehow..." She gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head, "Somehow he's the person the universe chose for her."
Finally, Hermione let out a slow, defeated sigh.
"How could the universe be so cruel?"
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, but neither of them answered.
Because what could they possibly say?
Afterall, they had no idea what it was like to be rejected by your soulmate.
Your head felt impossibly heavy.
When you'd finally cried yourself to sleep the night before, you'd hoped that maybe—just maybe—you'd wake up feeling even a little bit lighter.
Instead, it felt as though someone had stuffed your head full of damp cotton.
Everything was muted.
You could see the familiar shape of your dormitory around you, the sunlight spilling lazily through the windows, painting warm patches across the wooden floor, but none of it felt real. If someone had asked you to name half a dozen things in your own room, you weren't entirely convinced you could have done it. Your thoughts drifted in and out without ever quite settling long enough to grasp them.
Outside, Hogwarts carried on as though nothing had happened.
Somewhere below the tower, students laughed as they crossed the courtyard on their way back from breakfast. Every so often, a shrill whistle carried in through the open window, followed by the distant roar of voices from the Quidditch pitch.
Life went on.
It always did.
But inside your dormitory, it felt as though time itself had stopped.
Like you were sitting inside a vacuum, sealed away from the rest of the castle, where even the sound of your own breathing seemed impossibly far away.
You hadn't even realized someone was knocking.
The sound barely registered through the haze clouding your mind, so faint and distant that you mistook it for part of a dream. It wasn't until the door slowly creaked open that you finally stirred, letting out a weary sigh without even bothering to look up.
"Hermione," You mumbled into your pillow, your voice hoarse from days of crying, "Please... I don't want breakfast."
There was a brief pause.
"Well," Came a decidedly unfamiliar voice, "It's a good thing Chocolate Frogs aren't considered breakfast."
Your eyes snapped open.
Slowly, you pushed yourself upright, blinking through the fog in your head until the figure standing sheepishly in your doorway came into focus.
Messy ginger hair.
Hands buried deep in his pockets.
A crooked smile that looked like it wasn't entirely sure whether it belonged there.
"...Fred?"
The way you said his name made him chuckle softly.
Not because it was funny, exactly, but because your tone carried that slight undercurrent of cautiousness, like you were trying to work out whether you were looking at Fred Weasley or his identical twin.
"It's me," He assured you with an easy grin, "George is considerably uglier."
Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.
Fred caught it but, to his credit, didn't point it out. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and wandered further into the dormitory, his hands still buried in the pockets of his jumper as though he were only stopping by for a casual chat.
Although, you knew better than to believe that.
He was here for something.
You just couldn't work out what.
Had Hermione sent him? Had she somehow decided that Fred's ridiculous sense of humour might succeed where she had failed? More importantly, how in Merlin's name had he even managed to get into the girls' dormitory in the first place?
"...What are you doing here?" You asked.
The question left your mouth more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.
Truthfully, you didn't really care.
Whether Fred was here or not, whether he'd come to cheer you up or drag you to breakfast or simply stare at you until you spoke, all you wanted was to be left alone again. So you settled back against your headboard, waiting for whatever explanation he had prepared so you could nod absentmindedly, mumble something about still being tired, and hope he'd take the hint.
Fred scratched the back of his neck.
"I don't really know," He admitted after a moment with a small shrug, "I heard Hermione talking about you downstairs."
He finally pulled his hands from his pockets.
A handful of Chocolate Frog boxes tumbled into his palms.
"I heard she was worried." He looked down at the collection of sweets before giving one shoulder another little shrug, "Next thing I knew, I was standing outside your door."
He crossed the room and sat down carefully on the edge of your bed.
Instinctively, you tugged your cocoon of blankets out from beneath him, unwilling to surrender even that small comfort. Fred pretended not to notice. Instead, he simply dropped the Chocolate Frogs into your lap one by one.
"I figured," He said, "if nothing else, chocolate rarely makes things worse."
You stared down at them for a second before absentmindedly picking one up and peeling open the box.
"Whatever Hermione's worried about..." You murmured, carefully unfolding the cardboard, "...it isn't going to happen."
The chocolate frog immediately sprang from your hands.
You watched it bounce across the dormitory floor, disappearing beneath someone's bed but you paid no heed, fishing the card from the now-empty box instead.
Helga Hufflepuff.
Nice.
"I just wanted some time to be alone," You said quietly, your thumb tracing absent circles over the edge of the card, "Some time to think. You wouldn't understand."
Fred's smile faded.
"Oh," He said, leaning back on his hands, "Believe me."
His eyes drifted toward the window for a moment.
"I know exactly what that's like."
You froze, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the edge of the Nicolas Flamel card as you silently cursed your own stupidity.
Of course.
You had completely forgotten who you were talking to.
Everyone knew Fred Weasley's story.
It had been impossible not to.
It had spread through Hogwarts like wildfire the day the twins turned sixteen and discovered, to the absolute bewilderment of the entire school, that they shared the same soulmate mark. The same name inked onto both of their wrists.
Angelina.
No one had known what to make of it. How could the universe make a mistake? It wasn't supposed to.
Yet somehow, two brothers had been promised the same girl.
In the end, Angelina had chosen George.
No one blamed her. She'd simply followed her heart.
And just like that, Fred had become the boy without a soulmate.
What followed had been painful to watch.
Every passing week seemed to chip away at something that had once felt unbreakable. Fred and George had always existed as a pair. Joined at the hip, people liked to joke. Before that, joined by an umbilical cord. There had never been one without the other.
It had been heartbreaking watching the distance grow between the twins afterwards. Not all at once, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, until people realized Fred no longer occupied the seat beside George in the Great Hall. They stopped seeing them sneaking through corridors together after curfew. Their jokes became less frequent, their laughter less shared.
Fred simply couldn't bear to watch the girl he'd spent years believing was destined to love him fall into his brother's arms instead.
Eventually, time had done what time always did.
The sharp edges had dulled.
The twins laughed together again. They pulled pranks together. They looked, from the outside at least, like themselves again. But anyone paying close enough attention could tell they were never quite the same.
How could they be?
Their seemingly inseverable brotherhood had been eclipsed by an ineffable bond.
Soulmates.
It was no longer Fred and George, the terrible terrors. Now, it was George and Angelina, the star-crossed lovers, and Fred, who had been left behind.
"I'm sorry." You whispered, the apology slipping out before you could stop it.
Fred's eyes met yours.
"So am I."
He didn't elaborate.
He didn't have to.
And for the first time in days, you felt the glass jar you had trapped yourself in begin to crack.
This whole time, you'd convinced yourself that hiding in your dormitory was helping. As long as you stayed within these four walls, you could pretend the world outside had stopped moving. Pretend that morning had never happened.
Reality settled over you with unbearable clarity.
That was what this was, wasn't it?
Rejection.
Mattheo had known exactly who you were. He'd known that every mark left on his skin would bloom across yours. He'd known you would wake up wearing the evidence of his choices.
And he'd done it anyway.
The thought hollowed you out.
Your entire life, you'd been told that soulmates were certainty. That somewhere in the world there was one person who would choose you above everyone else because the universe itself had decided you belonged together.
So what did it mean when they didn't?
If even your soulmate could look at you and still choose someone else...
Where exactly did that leave you?
Slowly, you lifted your eyes from the card to Fred, who was sitting beside you now, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, his gaze already fixed on you.
Your heart ached.
Because the answer to your unvoiced question was written all over his face.
He was every bit as heartbroken as you were.
Just as lost.
Just as unsure of where he fit into a universe that had promised him one thing, only to hand him another.
It hurt him every time he saw George with Angelina. You knew it did. No matter how much he loved his brother, no matter how genuinely happy he wanted to be for him, there had to be a small part of him that wondered why it hadn't been him.
Why fate had bothered writing her name onto his skin at all.
And you knew, with sickening certainty, that the next time you saw Mattheo...
It would tear you apart in exactly the same way.
Fred's expression softened as he noticed your eyes beginning to fill again.
He offered you a small, sympathetic smile.
"Well..." He said, giving one shoulder an exaggerated shrug, "At least we've got each other."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was watery and quiet, immediately chased by the tear that finally slipped down your cheek. Fred grinned a little wider, looking entirely too pleased with himself for managing to get even the tiniest laugh out of you.
"I suppose the reject bin isn't completely empty."
"No," Fred agreed, "Turns out it's got surprisingly good company."
Turns out misery really did love company.
It was almost pathetic, in a way.
The only reason you had finally been able to leave your room, to walk back into the Great Hall, to sit through classes without feeling like the walls were caving in around you, was because you'd discovered you weren't the only person carrying around this strangely specific kind of heartbreak.
Your chest still tightened whenever Mattheo walked into a room. Every accidental glance across a corridor still left you feeling hollowed out from the inside, wondering how someone who was supposedly destined to love you had found it so easy to choose somebody else instead.
But sitting beside Fred somehow made it easier to breathe.
You supposed anyone watching from the outside would've found it to be the most obvious outcome imaginable.
Birds of a feather.
Two people who had somehow fallen through the cracks of destiny naturally gravitating toward one another.
Before long, spending time with Fred stopped feeling like something you consciously chose to do and instead became part of your routine. You'd find him waiting outside your classroom without either of you having planned it, or he'd drop into the empty seat beside you at breakfast as though it had always belonged to him.
Sometimes you talked about soulmates.
Most of the time, you didn't.
And somehow, those were your favourite conversations.
You hadn't realized just how grateful you'd become for his presence until one morning at breakfast when Harry slid onto the bench opposite you, looking unusually flustered and whispered, "I met my soulmate last night."
Thankfully, Hermione's excited gasp and Ron's loud, "You what?!" completely drowned out the sound of your breath catching in your throat.
For a brief, horrible second, it felt as though you had left your own body.
The conversation continued around you in muffled voices while you watched it all unfold from somewhere far away, like you were observing it through thick glass. Hermione was already peppering Harry with questions. Harry, red-faced and grinning despite himself, tried unsuccessfully to answer them both at once.
You just... watched.
Until something warm wrapped gently around your hand beneath the table and your attention snapped back. Without saying a word, you laced your fingers through his beneath the tablecloth, hidden from everyone else.
The knot in your stomach loosened.
Not completely. But just enough so that when you turned back to Harry, the smile on your face no longer felt so forced.
"Congratulations, Harry," You said softly, "I'm really happy for you."
Harry's smile faltered.
Only then did it seem to occur to him what he'd just blurted out—and who he'd blurted it out in front of.
A flicker of guilt passed across his face behind his glasses.
"Oh, (Y/N), I didn't—I wasn't thinking—"
You shook your head before he could finish, "It's okay."
And surprisingly...
It was.
Harry relaxed, offering you a small, grateful smile before Hermione immediately launched into another question, successfully stealing his attention once more.
Only then did you turn your head.
Fred was already looking at you.
Your joined hands still rested beneath the table, his thumb absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles.
"I just can't believe how much time I've wasted."
Your voice was quiet as you stared up at the canopy of Fred's bed, watching the afternoon sunlight dance lazily across the faded red fabric. Beside you, Fred lay with one arm tucked behind his head, the other dangling over the edge of the mattress. He turned his head slightly.
"Hm?"
It wasn't often the conversation drifted back to soulmates anymore.
Somehow, the two of you had become remarkably good at avoiding the very thing that had brought you together in the first place. But every now and then, usually when the castle had gone quiet around you, one of you would bring it up again.
And somehow it was always easier talking to Fred than anyone else.
"I've never even been on a date," You admitted with a humourless laugh, "Can you believe that?"
Fred's eyebrows lifted.
"I just... wasted so much time." You sighed, picking absentmindedly at a loose thread in the blanket. "I kept thinking there was no point. Why bother dating when the universe was supposedly going to hand me the perfect person eventually?"
You shook your head.
"I was so convinced that one day everything would just... happen."
A small smile tugged at your lips.
"I suppose, in retrospect, that's a rather ridiculous way to live."
Fred was quiet for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"I get it."
You looked over at him.
"Before my soulmate mark appeared," He continued, "I never really bothered trying either. I always figured I'd meet my soulmate eventually, so whoever I dated beforehand wouldn't really matter."
He let out a small breath through his nose.
"And after..." His smile turned a little sad, "Well, there wasn't much point then either."
You understood immediately.
"Everyone already had someone they were meant to end up with."
"Exactly."
He shrugged, "It felt like borrowing someone else's future."
Silence settled comfortably between you.
"I know exactly what you mean," You murmured, "Even if I'd somehow found someone I actually liked. It would've only been a matter of time before they found their soulmate."
"And then I'd just be..." You trailed off, "Temporary."
Fred didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
Because he'd spent the last year feeling exactly the same way.
You groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over your eyes, "I just want to go on a date for once."
Fred snorted.
"Is that too much to ask?" You bemoaned.
"I don't even want anything extravagant," You continued, finally sitting upright since the topic had become important enough to warrant an actual discussion. You gestured vaguely with your hands, trying to paint the picture in the air between you, "Just… one completely ordinary date."
Fred turned his head to look at you.
"I want to wear a pretty dress," You admitted, counting on your fingers, "I want to spend far too long doing my hair, even though it'll probably end up looking exactly the same as it did before. I want someone to bring me flowers."
The last part made Fred's eyebrows climb.
"...Flowers?"
You frowned at him as though he'd just said something outrageously offensive.
"Yes. Flowers."
"You've just spent the last minute insisting you don't want anything extravagant."
"They're flowers. It's the bare minimum."
A comfortable silence settled over the room again. You flopped back against the mattress with an exaggerated sigh, staring up at the canopy above while Fred continued looking at the ceiling beside you.
"I just..." You murmured after a while, your voice softer now, "I wish I knew what it felt like."
"What?"
"To have butterflies."
The admission felt oddly embarrassing.
"To get excited because someone asked me out. To spend the whole day wondering what they're going to think when they see me. To hold someone's hand because they wanted to hold mine." You laughed quietly at yourself, "I don't even care whether it's life-changing anymore."
You swallowed, the words catching slightly in your throat.
“I just wanted to know what normal feels like.”
For a moment, Fred didn’t respond.
He just lay there beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed lazily on the canopy above as though he were turning your words over somewhere quieter than conversation. The pause stretched longer than you expected it to—long enough that you almost convinced yourself he wasn’t going to answer at all, that the moment had passed and you’d said too much again.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he spoke.
“So let’s go on one.”
You frowned, turning your head slightly, having forgotten how the conversation had even ended, “...Go on what?”
“A date.”
That made you sit up a little more properly, the word feeling strangely out of place in the softness of the room, “A date?”
“Seems like the obvious solution.” He added, as though he were suggesting something as simple as going for a walk.
You blinked at him, trying to make sense of his expression, “...With who?”
Fred looked almost insulted.
"With me."
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind this time.
The air between you shifted—just slightly. You became acutely aware of the space between your shoulders, the way your fingers were curled into the blanket, the way Fred didn’t seem to notice any of it at all.
He, meanwhile, looked completely unconcerned with the fact that he had just suggested something that felt like it should be impossible to say out loud.
“I mean…” He continued after a beat, shrugging one shoulder as if it were obvious, “Think about it.”
You hesitated, “I am.”
“We’re both sitting here complaining we’ve never really dated anyone.”
“Yes…”
“We’re both catastrophically single.”
“Unfortunately.” You muttered, despite yourself.
“We both want to know what all the fuss is about.”
“I suppose.”
“So…” He spread his hands slightly, palms up, as though presenting the most logical conclusion in the world, “Why don’t we just take each other? Scratch the itch a bit.”
You looked away for a second, down at your hands where they were picking absently at the edge of the blanket, “I don’t know…” You admitted quietly.
Fred didn’t push. He rarely did.
Instead, he shifted slightly closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that his presence was harder to ignore.
“You said you wanted to wear a pretty dress.”
“I did.” You murmured.
“You said you wanted a normal date.”
That made you glance back at him again.
Your voice came out softer this time, almost uncertain, “I do.”
A pause.
The kind that felt like something was being decided inside it.
Fred’s expression didn’t change much, but his voice gentled.
“So let me take you on one.”
Even though you were almost entirely certain Fred had suggested the date as a joke, you found yourself surprisingly nervous when the day finally arrived.
Not because you expected anything to happen.
It wasn't really a date, after all.
Not a real one.
Just two rejects pretending, for a few hours, that the universe hadn't forgotten about them.
Still, you couldn't deny there was something undeniably exciting about getting ready for it.
You stood in front of the mirror for far longer than you cared to admit, smoothing invisible creases from your clothes before immediately finding new ones to fuss over. Your hair had already been redone twice, and you were currently debating whether it looked better tucked behind your ears or left loose around your shoulders.
You had practically licked your lips dry, wanting to put on just a little bit of gloss, if not to look good then at least to stop you from worrying them so much.
But third year had taught you that makeup simply wasn't worth the argument.
The memory still made you grimace.
You had gotten a tube of cherry lip gloss as an impulse purchase from Hogsmeade. The bottle was just so cute and the colour was just right and it smelt like a cherry pie.
You'd worn it exactly once before Mattheo had cornered you in a corridor, positively livid over the matching sheen that had mysteriously appeared on his own lips.
The argument had been spectacular.
You'd shouted.
He'd shouted louder.
By the end of it both your cheeks had been burning, partly from anger and partly from the sheer humiliation.
After that, you'd quietly switched to glamour charms.
You shook your head, willing the memory to leave your mind. A light spritz of perfume followed, and then another after you convinced yourself the first one hadn't been enough.
This wasn't a date.
You reminded yourself of that several times while changing outfits.
And yet, by the time you finally slipped out of Gryffindor Tower—carefully timing your escape before Hermione and the others returned from lunch so nobody could make a spectacle of it—you couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation low in your stomach.
Your first date.
Fake though it may have been.
Fred was already waiting beside the Black Lake when you arrived. The moment he spotted you, his face broke into an easy grin. He awkwardly straightened where he stood before holding out a small bouquet of hand-picked wildflowers.
A smile spread across your face before you could stop it.
You accepted them carefully, bringing them close enough to catch their sweet scent, asking with a teasing lilt to your tone, "Now whose Herbology project did you ruin by nicking these?"
Fred clutched dramatically at his chest.
"I would never."
"No?"
"I'll have you know these were ethically sourced. Well, a bit of unpaid labour." He said, showing you the slight dirt that was still left on the tips of his fingers.
You grinned, leaning to give him a quick peck on the cheek, "There, paid for in full."
"So..." You said, looking up at him, "What's the plan? It isn't swimming, is it? Because I spent entirely too long on my hair."
His eyes flicked over said hair for only the briefest moment.
"It looks nice."
You blinked.
"...Thank you."
The words came so casually that he didn't even seem to realize he'd said them aloud. Then his usual grin returned, "And don't worry. I've got something much more special in mind."
Rather than reassuring you, that somehow made you considerably more suspicious.
Fred simply laughed before turning on his heel and beckoning for you to follow. He led you around the edge of the Black Lake and toward a dense cluster of trees you'd never paid much attention to before.
"I thought we'd collectively agreed wandering into mysterious forests was a terrible idea after the centaurs last year." You remarked as you ducked beneath a low branch he held out of your way.
"We did."
"And?"
"We also established I was the worse student between the two of us."
You rolled your eyes, "Can't argue with that."
A few moments later he stopped.
Nestled between several thick tree trunks was what appeared to be nothing more than a tiny tunnel woven entirely from vines and ivy.
Before you had time to question it, Fred crouched down and disappeared inside.
You stared after him.
"...Bit brazen of you to expect a girl to get on her knees on the first date, don't you think, Weasley?"
His laugh echoed back through the tunnel.
"Oh, come on."
"I'm simply making observations."
"Get in here, (Y/N)."
Still muttering dramatically under your breath, you crouched down and crawled after him. The tunnel only lasted a few feet.
The first thing you noticed as your head emerged from the other side was the sunlight. Bright summer sunshine spilled across your face exactly as expected.
The second thing you noticed was the cold.
A sharp, winter chill immediately kissed your cheeks and nipped at the end of your nose.
You blinked.
Then looked up.
Your breath caught.
Hidden away beyond the curtain of vines was a tiny clearing unlike anywhere else on the Hogwarts grounds.
Wildflowers carpeted the earth in every imaginable colour while rabbits darted lazily through the grass, entirely unconcerned by your arrival. Golden afternoon light poured through the canopy overhead, making the entire place glow like something lifted straight from a fairy tale.
But none of that was what stole your breath.
At the very centre of the clearing lay a lake.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly frozen.
A sheet of flawless ice sat beneath the blazing summer sun as though winter itself had been trapped inside this tiny corner of the world.
"...What on earth..."
"Amazing, isn't it?"
You turned to find Fred watching you rather than the lake.
His grin was quieter now. There was still that unmistakable stretch of pride across his face as he took in your gobsmacked reaction, but beneath it lingered a hint of fondness that sent a slight flush to your cheeks, one you stubbornly insisted was caused by the cold.
"I was mucking about here in second year," He admitted with an embarrassed scratch at the back of his neck, "George and I were trying to invent a product that could make it snow indoors."
"And?"
"And... I may have perpetually frozen the entire lake."
You stared at him, "You may have?"
He shrugged, "I got scared I'd be in trouble if anyone found it."
"So you..."
"So, I never told anyone."
As he spoke, he reached out and absentmindedly cast a quiet Scourgify over your clothes, brushing away the bits of moss and leaves that had collected while crawling through the tunnel.
His fingers paused near your shoulder.
"There."
He gently plucked a tiny twig from your hair before tucking a loose strand behind your ear with absent familiarity.
"So..." You looked back at the lake, "You've never shown anyone this?"
"No."
"...Not even George?"
Fred's smile softened.
He shook his head.
"No."
Something warm unfurled low in your chest.
Warmer than the summer sun beating down on you.
You felt it.
The butterflies.
Walking back toward the castle felt strangely bittersweet.
Like stepping out of a storybook.
The hidden clearing disappeared behind the curtain of vines the moment you stepped through it, swallowed once again by the forest as though it had never been there at all. If you hadn't still felt the lingering chill clinging to your clothes, you might have convinced yourself you'd imagined the entire afternoon.
Your nose stung from the cold.
Your cheeks, however, had turned pink from hours spent laughing beneath the summer sun.
The two of you had spent hours on that frozen lake.
By the time the sun had begun sinking below the treeline, painting the ice in shades of amber and gold, the two of you had been too exhausted to do much more than sit side by side on the frozen shore, talking until the growing darkness reminded you that professors generally frowned upon students disappearing into enchanted forests after curfew.
Now, the familiar warmth of the castle wrapped around you as the heavy oak doors swung shut behind you.
The sudden change in temperature made your fingers tingle unpleasantly as feeling slowly returned to them.
A comfortable silence settled between you as you wandered through the entrance hall.
Students passed around you in little groups, chatting animatedly over dinner plans and unfinished essays, but neither of you made any move toward joining them.
Eventually, you reached the foot of the marble staircase.
You turned toward Fred.
He'd been unusually quiet for the last few minutes.
The easy confidence he'd carried all afternoon had somehow disappeared somewhere between the lake and the castle, replaced instead by something unexpectedly hesitant. His hands had found the pockets of his jumper again and he rocked back slightly on his heels before clearing his throat.
"(Y/N)..."
"Hm?"
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"So..."
You waited.
"I know..." He let out a small, awkward laugh, "I know this wasn't exactly a date-date. But…" His eyes found yours again, "I had a really good time."
Something in your chest fluttered.
"And unless I've completely misread today..." He continued carefully, "I think maybe you did too."
You did.
Far more than you'd expected to.
"So..." He took a small breath, "Unless I've made an absolute fool of myself here, I was wondering if maybe—"
"Let's go on a second date, Fred."
The words escaped before your brain had the chance to stop them.
You hadn't meant to interrupt him.
Truthfully, you'd been rather enjoying the exceedingly rare spectacle of Fred Weasley stumbling over his own words. It was oddly endearing watching someone who always seemed to have a joke ready suddenly become hopelessly tongue-tied.
Unfortunately, your own anticipation had won the race.
Silence settled between you. Fred simply stared. For one wonderfully long moment, he looked completely dumbfounded.
Then, slowly, a grin began tugging at the corners of his mouth.
It spread across his face before he could stop it, bright enough that you watched him actively try to suppress it.
"Well," He drawled, folding his arms as though he hadn't just been struck speechless, "Someone's certainly getting ahead of herself, isn't she?"
You folded your own arms in mock offence.
"Oh?"
"I hadn't even finished asking yet."
"You were taking too long."
He took one thoughtful look at you before his grin returned in full force.
"...So," He tilted his head ever so slightly, "Same time next week?"
Fred was always good at date ideas.
You knew that much by now.
Every time you met him, there was something planned—something a little ridiculous, a little exhausting, and always, without fail, something that made it impossible for you to think about anything else except how much you were laughing.
But with the July heat pressing down over Hogwarts like a heavy, unrelenting spell, even Fred’s usual energy had begun to soften at the edges.
The castle itself felt sluggish. Corridors held onto warmth long after sunset, windows stayed permanently open, and even the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall seemed stuck in an endless stretch of pale, hazy blue.
But it seemed the unbearable heat had given Fred an idea for another date.
Which was how you found yourself standing at the edge of the Black Lake in a cute bikini you’d been waiting all summer to wear, your shoes discarded somewhere in the grass behind you, watching him attempt to skip stones across the water.
He managed one bounce.
The stone immediately sank.
“Hm,” Fred said thoughtfully, staring at the ripples like they had personally betrayed him, “I’ve gotten considerably worse at that.”
“You were never good.”
“I distinctly remember being excellent.”
“That’s the heat talking. It’s cooked your brain.”
He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence.
“You wound me.”
“I try.”
He looked at you, a sinister smile on his face that gave you a feeling that he was planning something, “Well, I try harder.”
You barely had time to process the warning in his grin before you felt it—a sharp splash against your shoulders, cold water exploding across your skin.
“Fred!”
You sputtered as you broke the surface, hair dripping into your eyes just in time to see him double over laughing.
And then, before you could retaliate, he cannonballed in after you.
Every moment of calm dissolved into splashing, laughter, and half-hearted attempts to dunk one another beneath the surface. Fred succeeded exactly once before you retaliated by grabbing his ankle and dragging him under with you, emerging seconds later breathless and triumphant.
By the time the chaos finally eased, you’d drifted farther from shore, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and your sides aching from laughing too hard.
For a moment, there was nothing but gentle movement. Water lapping softly against your shoulders. Sunlight scattering across the surface in broken gold. Fred floating nearby, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like he didn’t have a single thought in his head except this.
You turned slightly, your gaze catching on something in the water near your hands.
It glimmered faintly beneath the surface.
“Oh—wait—” You said, reaching out instinctively, “I think that’s a shell or something. It's pretty."
Before you could even finish the sentence, Fred was already diving.
He disappeared beneath the surface without hesitation.
"Chivalry is dead, they say."
The words died in your throat when he resurfaced a moment later, shaking water from his hair.
In his hand, he held the shell out proudly, grinning at you, “Ta-da.”
You smiled automatically, already reaching for it, already preparing some teasing comment until your eyes slipped past his hand.
Past the shell.
To his wrist.
Angelina.
The name sat against his skin like it belonged there.
Like it had always belonged there.
Your fingers stopped mid-air.
Fred was still talking, still smiling, still looking at you with that easy warmth that had become so familiar you didn’t even think about it anymore. His voice blurred slightly at the edges, like it was coming from farther away than it actually was, and the lake around you suddenly felt quieter, heavier, as though it had decided to hold its breath with you.
You couldn’t look away from it.
Angelina.
It wasn't wasn't the first time you were seeing it. It definitely wasn't new.
And yet seeing it like this—so close, so real, so casually visible between moments of laughter—made something inside you tighten in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.
The universe’s choice.
Not you.
Never you.
A strange stillness settled in your chest, not sharp at first, just heavy, like the slow sinking of something you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your thoughts began to slip before you could catch them, drifting in directions you couldn’t stop.
Would they make a good couple?
Did she ever think about him when she looked at George?
Did she ever wonder what it would’ve been like if she’d chosen differently, if she’d taken a different path, if she’d looked at the wrong twin and hesitated just a second longer?
And worse—did Fred ever think about it too?
The shell in his hand suddenly felt irrelevant, something from a different moment entirely, like it didn’t belong in this one anymore. Like it had been part of a version of the world where you weren’t thinking about this. Where you weren’t standing in the middle of a lake watching the evidence of a future you didn’t belong in wrapped around his wrist.
You weren’t even fully aware of the shift until it had already happened.
One moment you were here, in sunlight and laughter and water that still clung warm to your skin.
The next, everything felt distant.
Muted.
As though you had stepped just slightly outside of yourself.
“…(Y/N)?”
You blinked, forcing yourself back into your body, into the moment, into the lake and the shell and him.
Fred was closer now, his expression no longer playful. The smile had faded without him even seeming to notice, replaced by something quieter, more attentive.
“You alright?”
For a second, you forgot how to answer.
Then you managed something that almost resembled normal.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
His eyes didn’t leave your face.
“You sure?”
Too quickly—too automatically—you nodded.
“Just cold.”
Even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t convincing.
Fred didn’t push. He rarely did when it mattered.
Instead, he moved closer through the water until his arm brushed yours, steady and grounding, and then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he slipped it around your waist to keep you from drifting too far with the current.
“Yeah? Well,” He said softly, almost lightly again, as though trying to pull you back without forcing it, “We can fix that.”
And for a moment, you let him.
Just a moment.
A final moment.
In all honesty, you hadn’t meant to avoid him.
Really, you hadn’t.
It wasn’t like you actively chose to turn around every time you saw Fred in the corridors, or pretend you hadn’t received his notes because you’d gone to bed early, or slip out of a room the second you heard his boisterous laughter drawing closer—the same laughter that used to send a wave of warmth flooding through you.
But every time you saw him—his warm brown eyes, shadowed by long lashes—you felt that sinking pit open up in your stomach, swallowing everything else whole. It ruined your day before it had even properly begun.
And even though all you wanted was to be near him, you couldn’t help but turn away every time his eyes searched for you.
You really should have considered the fact that Fred wasn’t going to take it lying down.
And that he knew all about the secret passageways scattered around Hogwarts.
So you really shouldn’t have been surprised when he appeared in the corridor that had been empty not even a second ago—grabbing your wrist and stopping you in your tracks.
“Fred.”
“This push-and-pull bullshit isn’t going to work with me, (Y/N),” He said immediately, “If you want to break up with me, you better look me in the eye and do it.”
Ironic.
Because you couldn’t.
Your gaze stayed anchored to his wrist—specifically, to the inked name along his pulse, peeking out from beneath his sleeve.
And just like that, the pit in your stomach returned.
“This isn’t going to work, Fred.”
His brows twitched, his grip tightening just a fraction—like he was afraid you’d slip away again if he loosened it.
“Why?”
You let out a breath, shaking your head like the answer should be obvious.
“Because you’re not meant to be with me,” You said, “You’re already… destined for someone else.”
A flicker of confusion crossed his face.
“My brother’s soulmate?” He said, almost incredulous, “I would never do that to him. And she’s already made her choice.”
“And if she didn’t?” You pressed, your voice tightening, “If she changes her mind tomorrow? If she decides you’re the one she’s meant to be with… would you change yours?”
The question hung between you.
Fred didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, his gaze sharpened.
“Well then what about you?” He shot back, “If Riddle suddenly realizes how badly he messed up—comes crawling back, begging you to take him—would you go?”
The edge in his voice hit harder than you expected.
Suddenly, you were back in your dorm room again, staring at lipstick marks you hadn’t chosen, feeling that same hollow, awful ache in your chest.
Except this time—
he wasn’t your soulmate.
You had no claim to Fred.
If he turned around tomorrow and chose Angelina, you couldn’t fault him for it.
After all… she was his soulmate.
And if he wasn’t by your side—
If Mattheo came back, asking for your forgiveness—
Would you really be able to go back to him like nothing had happened? Could you let him touch you with the same hands that had touched someone else, pretend you didn’t know exactly where they had been? Could you stand there in his arms and still feel that sense of certainty you used to dream soulmates would bring—the feeling that this was your place in the world, that you were chosen, needed, loved completely?
“No,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper as the realization settled in, “I wouldn’t.”
Your voice steadied as you continued.
“I don’t want someone who would hurt me on purpose,” You said quietly, “I don’t want someone who makes me feel like I’m something they can come back to when it suits them. Like the only reason I’m with them is because someone out there decided it.”
Your eyes lifted to meet his.
“I want you.” You admitted, your voice tightening as you realized just how true it was.
These past few weeks with Fred had been the happiest you’d been in a long time. When you were with him, it felt like you’d finally found your place in the universe.
And that terrified you.
Because he wasn’t yours.
Not really.
And if those lipstick marks had broken your heart, then watching Fred walk away from you and go back to Angelina the second she called would destroy you.
“But I want you to want me too,” You finished, “Not just because I’m there. Not just to fill some empty space.”
Silence settled between you.
Fred’s grip loosened—not letting go, just sliding from your wrist to your hand, holding it instead.
“I’ll admit it,” He said after a moment, “That’s how it started.”
Your chest tightened.
“Just… something to make it hurt less,” He continued, quieter now, “Something to not feel so bloody lonely all the time.”
He looked at you then—really looked at you.
“But it’s not that anymore, (Y/N).”
And when you met his eyes, all you saw was sincerity. It hit you in a way you couldn’t quite explain—like the two of you weren’t just standing in a corridor anymore, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere smaller. Quieter.
Just the two of you in the entire universe.
“I’m falling for you,” He said, like it scared him a little to admit it, he'd been burned before and he was scared he was going to be again, “And I want to be with you. Soulmate or not.”
You wanted to believe him.
You really did.
But the tattoo of her name lingered in your mind—a ghost between the two of you you didn’t know how to exorcise.
“But what about—”
“Fuck Angelina, alright!”
Your eyes widened and he dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate, “There isn’t a single part of me that wants her right now,” He said, “I thought I did. I thought I was supposed to. But I don’t.”
His voice dropped.
“Not like I do when I’m with you.”
You stared at him, that pit in your stomach beginning to dissipate, just slightly.
“(Y/N), please.” He said, taking your hand in both of his and pulling you closer, guiding your palm to rest against his chest.
His heartbeat was fast.
Almost as fast as yours.
“If you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s okay,” He said softly, “But don’t push me away because you think I’d rather be with anyone other than you. Because there is no one else, and there never will be.”
Something in you shifted, quiet but undeniable, and before you could second-guess it you stepped closer, your hand coming up to rest against his shoulder as you rose onto your toes, leaning in with the simple intention of pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
But at the last second, he turned his head.
Your breath caught, your lips just a hair away from meeting his, so close you could feel the warmth of him, could see your own reflection in his blown out pupils. Your gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, to his mouth for just a moment and before you knew what was happening, you had closed the distance.
You had always thought your first kiss would be with your soulmate. You had saved it, carefully, stubbornly, building it up in your mind during sleepless nights—imagining electricity in little jolts rushing through your body, feeling inexplicable heat where he would've grabbed the dips of your waist, imagining certainty, imagining that unmistakable feeling that would tell you, without question, this is it.
You thought you would feel boundless joy rush through you, a state of euphoria that made you feel tethered and floating at the same time as you kissed the person you were meant to be with for the very first time.
As your arms slid around Fred’s neck and pulled him closer, as he kissed you back, his arms looping around your waist as he began to lose himself into you, blurring the lines between where you ended and he began.
You realized—
It was everything you had ever dreamed it would be.
The Gryffindor common room was rarely this quiet.
It almost felt like you had managed to catch your foot in the rug and slip into some kind of alternate dimension. Normally, it was chaos in its purest form—laughter spilling over armchairs, someone shouting about Quidditch from across the room, first-years getting shushed for the tenth time in five minutes. But tonight, the fire crackled softly instead of roaring, and even that felt like it was trying not to disturb the peace.
You were curled up in Fred’s lap like it was the most natural place in the world, one of his arms loosely around your waist while the other lazily traced patterns against your knee. You, meanwhile, were fully invested in a crossword puzzle like your life depended on it.
“Six across,” You murmured, brow furrowed, “Ten letters. ‘An ingredient in Pepper-Up potion—’ oh, this is easy.”
Fred hummed behind you, amused, “You say that about every single clue.”
“Because I am right every single time.”
“You absolutely are not.”
You glanced up at him over your shoulder, squinting, “Are you challenging my intellectual superiority?”
He shrugged, though that infuriating smirk was still on his face, “Not at all. Oh look—twelve down. Another word for humility. Quick, how many letters in 'not (Y/N)'?”
You clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes, and moved on to the next clue, solving it just as quickly as the last one. You leaned back against him with a satisfied little grin—and Fred tightened his arm around you just enough to make you tilt into him again.
“Show-off.” He murmured.
You solved another clue, and without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his jaw.
Fred paused.
Then, like it was nothing at all, he kissed the top of your head in return.
It became a rhythm after that—clue, answer, kiss; clue, answer, kiss—soft and absentminded, warm in a way that made the rest of the world feel very far away.
Until it didn’t.
“You two are adorable.” Came a voice behind you.
You both turned slightly.
Lavender Brown stood a few steps away, arms folded, her expression somewhere between pity and smug satisfaction. Her gaze flicked pointedly between you and Fred, lingering just a second too long on the way you were sitting together.
“It’s just…” She continued lightly, “such a shame, isn’t it?”
You blinked, “What is?”
“That you’re not actually soulmates.” Her lips curled, “It’s such a shame you’ll never know what it feels like to be in your soulmate’s arms.”
Silence settled for half a beat.
Fred’s hand stopped moving on your waist.
You slowly closed the crossword book.
Then you looked up at her properly.
“Well, I actually take a lot of pride in that,” You said, voice sweet as honey, “At least I’m not like some people who the big man in the sky clearly knew wouldn’t be able to land a partner with that face and personality… so he had to shackle some poor bloke to them just to make it work.”
Fred made a sound that suspiciously resembled a cough hiding a laugh.
Lavender’s face went red instantly, “That’s— I didn’t—”
“Mm.” You tilted your head, “Anyway, good talk.”
She opened her mouth again, clearly searching for something to salvage her dignity, but nothing came. After a second of flustered silence, she spun on her heel and walked away far faster than she’d arrived.
The moment she was gone, Fred let out a low whistle.
“Good job, sweetheart.”
“Well,” You said with a small shrug, “I am the funny one in this relationship.”
Fred hummed quietly—the sound vibrating through his chest where your back was pressed against him.
“Oh yeah?” He murmured.
There was something in his voice now—lower, slower, warmer.
“S'that so?”
Something about it—the depth of his tone, the way his words seemed to slur like they were weighing on his tongue, the way he looked at you like he was genuinely drunk on you—made your stomach drop in a way you’d never felt before.
The crossword book slipped from your lap and fell to the floor.
And then you were turning fully in his arms, grabbing the front of his jumper, and kissing him properly.
Fred made a sound of surprise that quickly melted into something far more pleased. His palm slid to your back, pulling you in, and you felt yourself go slightly hollow with it—like every thought had been knocked clean out of you. Your hands moved up to frame his jaw as he kissed you back with growing desire.
And for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist at all.
Ron Weasley chose that exact moment to walk into the common room like he had impeccable comedic timing and absolutely no sense of mercy.
The door swung open with a creak, letting in a burst of cold corridor air—and Ron, flanked by a couple of his friends, froze mid-step.
Ron physically recoiled.
“For God’s sake,” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, “Can you guys stop this disgusting display of affection?"
Fred didn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looked mildly offended that Ron had interrupted his very important work of being glued to your lips.
You, still slightly breathless—and also slightly offended—were actually a little relieved he’d walked in. Because if you’d been allowed to carry on, you were fairly certain you’d be expelled for public indecency.
Ron gestured vaguely at the scene like it physically pained him, like he was about to wretch up his guts at the thought of one of his best friends with his brother, “It makes other people who haven’t found their soulmates feel bad.”
Your eyes flicked to Fred.
And before you could stop it, you both shared the same secret smile.
Ron hadn’t even realized what he’d implied.
Still, something warm and oddly sweet curled in your stomach anyway.
Fred noticed it too. Of course he did.
“Right,” He said lazily, looking back at Ron, “We’ll make ourselves scarce then. Wouldn’t want to traumatise poor, lonely Ronald.”
“Oi—”
But Fred was already standing, pulling you up with him in one smooth motion like it was second nature.
You barely had time to steady yourself before his hand found yours.
And just like that, he was leading you toward the staircase.
You glanced over your shoulder at Ron one last time, sending him a mischievous smile and a quick wink.
He responded with a face of pure disgust.
It made you laugh—but the sound faded as you climbed higher into the tower, Fred still holding your hand like he had no intention of letting go.
epilogue: (lowkey the og plan was to kill off freddie but i changed my mind lol)
Eventually, Mattheo Riddle became very good at pretending.
It was a skill he perfected over the years in the same quiet, miserable way people learned to live with old injuries—carefully, stubbornly, until the pain became less of a sharp wound and more of a permanent ache woven into everyday life.
At first, it had been difficult. Mattheo had always been a man of candor. When he wanted something, he took it. When he felt desire, he showed it, and more often than not the world bent willingly into his hands. When he felt anger, disgust, hatred—he made sure everyone around him felt it too.
But heartbreak?
Guilt?
Regret?
Those emotions sat strangely on him, like clothes tailored for someone else entirely.
For a long time, he found reminders of you everywhere. Every couple passing him in the street felt like a mockery of something he had ruined with his own hands.
But time had a cruel way of dulling even the sharpest pain.
Eventually, Hogwarts became memories instead of places. The castle faded into nothing more than fragments in the back of his mind. He stopped dreaming about you eventually. Or perhaps he simply stopped remembering the dreams by morning.
He learned how to fill his days well enough.
Work helped.
Noise helped.
Women helped sometimes too, though never for very long. He became frighteningly good at moving from one distraction to the next without ever lingering long enough for silence to settle around him properly.
Because silence was dangerous.
Silence was where you lived.
People stopped mentioning your name around him after a while.
That helped.
Or at least, that was what he liked to believe.
Years passed that way.
Quietly. Pathetically.
And eventually, he became good enough at pretending that even he almost believed himself.
Until one morning, long after he had stopped allowing himself to think about soulmates at all, Mattheo woke to faint silver lines stretching across the skin of his stomach.
For a long moment, he simply stared at them in the mirror.
Then, silently, he swallowed the pain.
And pretended he never noticed them.
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)
i saw that requests were open and thought about something quick, maybe a fred weasley x Beauxbatons!reader? Where they first meet in the schools introductions and after seeing her he’s set on taking her to the Yule Ball. Maybe her declining at first because of the way he asked (like he did in the movie) and then when he asks her again she finally says yes
Why have a ball with no balls? Fred Weasley Fanfiction
a/n: Thank you for writing this request! I enjoyed writing it and I hope that you enjoy reading what I wrote and sorry it took so long.
word count: approx. 3k
warnings: fred being an idiot, fred being an idiot for reader, the title being a reference to for the first time in forever from frozen, public rejection.
It was no wonder that his brother told him that this year would be exciting, and while Fred thought it would be exciting simply because of the triwizard tournament, something even more exciting is happening, and that something is wearing blue. While some of the other male Hogwarts students were looking where they shouldn’t as the beauxbaton’s students performed their elaborate introduction in the blue uniform with the short skirts. Fred was more focused on something else.
She was wearing the uniform better than anyone else, the blue making her shine more than any of the others. She wasn’t in the centre of the performance but it sure felt like she was for him. Ron whispered (though whispered is giving him too much grace) beside him, “Bloody hell!”
Hermione rolls her eyes from next to his oblivious brothers, George teases Ron, but Fred didn’t pay a spec of attention to the interaction between his brothers. As the students of beauxbaton’s reach the end of their introduction, Fred stands up to not lose sight of her. They conclude their performance with a bow and a smile. The boys holler with far too much enthusiasm. Fred only claps quietly, and stays standing up until George forces him to sit down.
Fred’s cheeks flush when his brothers turn to him this time. George teases him, shoving his shoulder, asking, “so who’s caught your fancy?”
The question makes more people from the table turn around to face them. It’s a rare sight to see Fred flush and look at his lap in embarrassment. Lee, Angelina, Ron, Hermione, Harry and Spinnit, all watching attentively. The persona glides back on and he scoffs, shrugging his shoulders slightly, “Don’t be silly, no one.”
His eyes still trail to where she’s still standing in the ending pose while Professor Dumbledore kisses the headmistress of Beauxbaton’s whose name he didn’t catch, too distracted. His focus is pulled only by the jarring and contrasting fire when the Durmstrang students enter the hall, but even then, he notices her reactions to the Durmstrang boys, only a little green. His brain elsewhere until the students start walking towards the long dining tables, more specifically when the students wearing blue silk start walking towards the Gryffindor table.
He smacks his hand repeatedly on his twin’s shoulder and asks, “Where are they going? Where are they going to sit?”
“Didn’t you hear? Durmstrang males with Slytherin, Durmstrang females with Hufflepuff, Beauxbatons males with Ravenclaw and Beauxbatons females with Gryffindor,” George explains quickly, as Fred’s face morphs with horror. All too knowing, George says, “Don’t worry, what are the odds that she’ll sit near us?”
The odds were apparently not in their favor (or maybe they were?) because instead of sitting in a cluster at one end of the table, their headmistress encouraged them to socialise with the students of Hogwarts, so they spread out all along the table. As luck would have it, she sat smack dab right in front of them on the opposite end of the table, smoothing her skirt with her hands before sitting on the wooden bench. She shoots everyone a smile while they all stare as if she were an alien.
“She might not even know English, it’s gonna be okay,” Fred whispers to George, trying to calm down the marching thumps of his heart. The Weasley boys don’t know how to whisper. Her head snaps towards them and in a perfect King’s English British accent, she says, “I do know English, thank you very much, no need to whisper about me.”
She folds her arm in front of her chest. Fred’s mouth hangs just enough so his lips part, it takes him too long to answer, so George takes the lead, “Sorry, we didn’t mean to be rude, what’s your name?”
Her name drips from her lips as sweet as honey and as perfect as she is, less with the scowl that she’s currently pointing towards him. George gives his brother a look and when the response is still loading, he offers their names. Just as fast as he blinks, Fred switches his demeanour. A known and comfortable mischievous grin slips on his face. He leans forward towards her and says, “So, what’s Beauxbaton’s like and what’s a Brit doing there and not here?”
“Well, my step-brother went there first because he’s French and then mom decided it’d be easier if we both went to the same school,” she shrugs, the defensive attitude melting away. Dumbledore claps his hands and the tables flood with food, the Hogwarts students note that it’s more extravagant than their usual dinners.
“Shame, I could’ve known you earlier,” Fred flirts, and she half chokes on the spoon in her mouth. She coughs twice and her eyes dart around, nervous, her cheeks flushing, the complete opposite of the guarded look she had. Fred grins satisfied when he sees the red tint to her face, completely neglecting his brother noticing his own flush. The conversation continues, “What does it look like there?”
“It’s a lot more…glamorous than here,” she says, looking around her, finally taking a good look at the hall for the first time, “Both beautiful of course, but Beauxbatons looks more like something out of an art museum. There’s ice sculptures everywhere, lots of big gardens and nymphs that sing music to us during meals.”
“Sounds like better entertainment than this,” Fred jokes, looking around and she notices that most of her friends have moved from sitting next to the older years to the younger ones. She shrugs her shoulders and muses, “This is alright too.”
There isn’t any other way to describe Fred’s reaction other than he positively beams, so much so that Ron snickers at him. Fred shoves him from underneath the table, it’s not as if Ron is any better when it comes to these matters. Fred clears his throat, “As for the gardens, I could show you around.”
“I’d like that.”
***
It’s starting to become an inconvenience. Fleur is lovely, everyone is at Beauxbatons. It’s a misconception that we all secretly hate each other, but I might consider throwing myself from a large mountain into a cold ocean if another boy from Hogwarts or Durmstrang asks her to the Yule Ball in front of me. She’s part Veela and not to mention absolutely stunning, she’s just completely magnetic, but that’s not the problem.
I’ve been asked out plenty, though not by who I wanted. Fleur’s already secured a date with Roger Davis who she’s enamoured with. Elodie had agreed to go with the best looking guy from Durmstrang, though a little bit vexed because Viktor Krum was taken. George had already asked Angelina ages ago! The Yule Ball is only a week away now and nothing! If only Fred could pluck up some of the courage his twin had.
Exploring Hogwarts in the last two months has been incredible, as well as the first challenge (Though having my friend fight off a dragon was not as enjoyable for me as it were for everyone else cheering in the arena). It also helps that I have one of the most charming (and handsome) people I’ve met show it all to me, along with a secret trip to Hogsmeade.
He arranged it in secret, led us through tunnels when it was after dinner and curfew. The cobwebs were horrible but all worth the sight of the old buildings under the night sky while Fred and I shared a butterbeer. I thought he’d for sure ask me then, when he, not so subtly, asked me about all the guys that have asked me to the ball, and not just that, he also asked me what their invitations were lacking. I replied:
“It’s not like I want something big, I would actually hate it if someone asked me in front of everyone, it would feel more like I’m being pressured, not invited. I think I’d like something more secluded, maybe just something we’d get, we don’t have to be alone or anything but it should still feel intimate. I just want to feel like they care”
After pouring my heart out, he’d simply nodded and kept walking to show me where the best sugar quills were sold. I was left flustered and it took me a few seconds before I could get my feet to follow him. Maybe it’s taking him so long because he’s planning something special…at least I hope so.
It’s too difficult not to think about when I’m on my way to a mandatory study session that Madame Maxime demanded we take with the Hogwarts students. Apparently, many of the students, myself included, in all of the schools have neglected their studies in favor of experiencing the tri-wizard tournament with all its perks.
There’s even been some talk about some chaotic parties thrown by the seventh years right after the champions were selected that had resulted in detention for a week for everyone involved.
It’s only a small up-side when Madame Maxime tells us that we can sit anywhere we’d like. Without a second thought I choose to sit with the Gryffindors, regardless of the fact that the horrible professor Snape that Fred tells me about is the one directing their session. Regardless, any time spent with Fred is better than time spent without him. It’s only slightly unnerving how much I like him.
The table is spilling students from each side, everyone cramped onto the bench, so I sit opposite to Fred instead of right beside him. It wasn’t as disadvantageous as I’m making it sound, I could sneak glances at him when he wasn’t looking; his hair, his eyes and his freckles, I could spend days just looking at them. I dream of the opportunity to be so close to him that I could count them.
Unintentionally and hopelessly, I let out a sigh. It’s just then when I’m shushed by Snape quite aggressively though I’d take it over being smacked on the head like Harry and Fred’s brother, Ron. It’s then when I realise that Snape wouldn’t let us let a whisper out, squandering my plans of sharing whispers and mumbles with Fred.
I’m not sure if he would’ve liked that, though. When I entered the Great Hall, I was greeted by his friends and family, but not him, not so much as a glance. He didn’t peek from his paper to even offer a wave and it left a pit in my stomach. He hasn’t so much as created a bit of mischief, which he’d adore, considering that it’s Snape that’s watching over us.
It seems that he’s actually studying. He hasn’t lifted his head from looking at his paper and jotting down the answers with his quill. My own studies weren’t too long. I’m nearly finished with the work when I feel something hitting me on the head before falling on my papers. It’s a- small paper ball? My face twists in confusion, another one smacks my head. Frustration bubbles inside me until I hear a familiar voice going, “PSSSTTT!”
I grin, looking at Fred. ‘What?’ I mouth, before looking back, thinking of our safety from the professor’s anger, finding Snape looking somewhere else entirely. I look back and prompt Fred to go on, nodding with my head. He grins and instinctively, I grin too. Along with some elaborate motions with his hand, and twisting his torso left and right, he half mouths-whispers, ‘Would you go to the ball with me?’
My smile drops while he eagerly looks at me. Didn’t he listen to a thing I said? It was only a few days ago, he couldn’t have forgotten? As always, the question prompts people around us to whisper to each other, some giggle and others just mumble. I can hear them speculating what my answer would be.
I flush under everyone’s eyes. I don’t enjoy being the subject of people’s discussions. I look back at Fred, his eyes wide with anticipation. I can’t keep the frown off of my face. The pit in my stomach grew and it made my eyes prickle. I reply, firmly, “No.”
I stand up quickly, gathering my items haphazardly, thinking of the absolute horror of being rejected in front of many people, and that I’d put Fred through that. With my head down, I hand Snape the papers in my hand, missing the answers to the last paper before I semi-sprint out of the Great Hall.
***
“Hey, can we talk?” Fred asks me as soon as I walk out of Astronomy. In truth, I didn’t want to talk to him. It’s only been a few hours since he’d ‘asked’ me, and I need some time to myself. Not to mention that it’s past midnight and I’m desperate for some sleep, my eyes heavy with sleep and ache. Still, my heart urges me to nod my head and follow him down the spiral steps and to the left towards some alcove, one that’s only secluded now because of the lack of students.
I chew on my bottom lip, feeling the lip gloss on my tongue. I shudder at the taste even if it does taste like vanilla. I fold my arms and lean against the wall behind me, looking at him through my lashes, waiting for an explanation. When I adjust my satchel on my shoulder, he takes it out of my hands saying, “Let me hold that for you.”
Against my better judgement, it makes all sorts of butterflies in my stomach fly that die when just like earlier today, he’s avoiding my eyes, staring at the ground, the ceiling, the wall above my head, anything, just not me. I gulp when he starts talking, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable today…”
“I just thought you liked me.”
Against my better judgement, and beyond my ability to control it, my face twists. My upper lip scrunches up and my eyebrows touch and I frown. The words are so inaccurate that it’s hard for me to believe them coming out of his mouth. I scoff, “That can't seriously be the reason why you think I said no.”
He snaps his head up from admiring his shoes and he says, “It’s not?”
“I do like you Fred, but I hate the way you asked me,” I start, and then I sigh, unfolding my arms and trying to relax my face, I touch my cheek before continuing, “I hate how you asked me. It felt like you didn’t even care, like you were just asking me for the sake of getting a date and not actually because you wanted to ask me. I told you how I wanted to be asked and you did the exact opposite!”
“I do care! I only want to go to the Yule Ball with you,” Fred admits, and the heat crawls up my neck. It takes everything in me to hold my ground, it nearly crumbles when he reaches out to hold my hand. His long fingers, encasing my hand perfectly, the warmth, exactly what I needed after the long lesson in the tall tower.
“I’m sorry…I was scared, I didn’t want you to say no to me, so I made it impossible for you to not say no,” Fred explained, and I blink a couple of times before I laugh, “Fred, that’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard in my life.”
It makes a smile break out on his face, and he squeezes my hand, “I know, I don’t understand why I get so nervous when I’m around you.”
“You? The Fred Weasley nervous?” I tease. He commands every room with ease, comfortable with everyone’s attention, he revels in it. His pranks are always done where everyone can see them and applaud. So he’s nervous? Because of me? His face turns the same color as his hair and he raises his other hand to rub the back of his neck, throwing his head back, looking at the ceiling. He chuckles, “Don’t you remember the day we met?”
“I just thought you were rude,” I say, remembering his whispers to George, but now, it makes sense. His jaw hanging and the way he let George do most of the talking. Fred laughs again at my comment. A moment passes and then he says my name and adds, “I really, really like you.”
“I like you too, Fred,” I answered in a heartbeat. The heat reached up to my ears. He takes my other hand in his and he promises, “I’m going to ask you again tomorrow and it’ll be exactly what you want.”
I nod my head and my cheeks hurt from how wide my smile is, and I can barely see his face from how the smile makes my eyes squint. It seems like he’s the same. He nods his head along the path and motions for us to start walking. He takes a big step with his long legs before I grasp on to his hand tighter, stopping him. He stumbles and I giggle before hesitantly saying, “Fred, I know this would be much more romantic after the ball, but kiss me now instead?”
It’s so fast that I couldn’t take a breath before he twists his arms around my waist and pulls me flush against him. His other hand cradles my head and he slams his lips onto mine, my own hands finding his back and shoulders. Madame Maxime would have a fit finding one of her students snogging a Hogwarts student past midnight in the middle of the hallways. He mumbles, “Don’t worry, it’ll be just as romantic when I kiss you then.”
a/n: I hope you enjoyed reading! If you think this didn’t completely suck, feel free to check out my other masterlists. You can also support the blog or buy me a coffee here.
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Checkpoints! (Part Four)
Pairing: Potter!reader love triangle with Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley
Summary: A session with Draco in the library after Ron got detention
Word count: 1.4k
Warnings: fighting, nothing else I believe but lmk
Part one
October 7th
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” I question Ron as we sit down on the common room sofa. He shoots Harry a look and I look back at Harry and accuse, “What did you do?”
“Nothing! I wouldn’t do anything! I’m an innocent person, I am a victim…” Harry rants, and I shoot him a look and he lifts his hands up in surrender. I look back at Ron and I notice no new broken bones or skin, aside from his knuckles from tryouts. Harry continues, “McGonagall gave him detention, it’s not my fault.”
“And why exactly did he get detention?”
Harry shrugs his shoulders and then looks back into the half blood prince book, and continues to read. I turn to Ron for an explanation and he says, “He told McGonagall that I punched McLaggen, and she gave me detention.”
“Harry!”
“I’m only doing what’s right by my team. McLaggen could’ve told Professor McGonagall and she could’ve taken him off the team.” Harry defends himself but I hold his gaze, scrutinising. I’m getting tired of all of this. He avoids my gaze, until I say his name sternly. He breaks, “He was doing some nasty stuff-”
“What nasty stuff?”
“He held your face, I’d be surprised if you didn’t already kiss!” Harry explains, and I look at Ron teasingly, and he flushes, looking back, hoping Harry didn’t notice. Harry looks between the two of us and his eyes widen. Harry shouts, “Did you?! Have you been snogging my sister, Weasley?”
Please say the truth, please, please, please-
“Me? No! Of course not! You’re my friend.” Ron defends himself quickly and meekly. I sighed as Ron completely avoided my gaze. I wouldn’t back down though. I counter, “So what if we did Harry? You’re not in control of either of us or our actions? Besides, you’re one to talk.”
Harry silences and flushes red, Hermione looks between Ron and Harry, knowing exactly what I meant. Ron turns his head to Harry and looks at him questioningly. He interrogates, “What is she talking about, Potter?”
“How the tables turn…” Hermione whispers, already having looked back at her book. I grab my bag and walk away and head to the library, knowing Malfoy would be waiting, ready to give me a talk about how I’m thirty seconds late.
October 7th
The library is more dimly lit than usual, and I find out why when I notice that madam Pince was plucking off candles from their stands. She always does this when she doesn’t want any students hanging around more than usual. I silently prayed that Malfoy would’ve taken this as a sign and left.
I walked around the library searching and scanning from a mop of platinum blond hair and a sour mood, and (unfortunately) found him at a table at the far end of the library. The location wasn’t very visible to others, but it was next to a very large window, letting some moonlight in. At least he made the correct choice regarding that.
I groan when I realise that I’ll have to spend who knows how much time with Malfoy and without the support of Ron too. The sound alerts him of my presence and he takes a peak behind me, no doubt looking for Ron.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases, and I purse my lips at his words. I pull out a chair, opposite to him, as far away from him as I possibly could be on the same table, and pull out my equipment. I reply, shortly, “He’s unavailable tonight.”
“Heard he’s gotten himself into detention-”
“Could you stop caring so much about Ron, and just focus on the project, unless you want to spend more hours in my presence.” I threaten him, and it’s enough for him to keep his mouth shut. I pull out a list of possible potion ideas that Ron and I have been thinking about. I say, “I already have some ideas about what potion we can make.”
I start listing them off, “A transformation potion-”
“That has already been made, a polyjuice potion is what it’s called.” Malfoy snarks, and I counter, “It would be a less complex version, allowing for small transformations, kind of the same transformations that a metamorphmagus can do.”
“That’s a stupid idea, next!” He announces, and I roll my eyes at his antics. I said another idea, “What about a potion that can grant the ability to fly?”
“We have brooms for that.”
“What about a potion that mimics the effects of legitimacy without actually having to go through the training and exhaustion that is becoming a Legitamis.” I suggest. I’ve been fascinated with mind reading ever since Snape taught Harry Occlumency last year.
“That’s actually a good idea.” Malfoy hums, and so it’s settled. I already started bringing out my quill and ink in order to start working out on the ingredients list, and a possible schedule for when we can go to the dungeons to work on the potion in the classroom. He chides, “Didn’t think you had anything smart inside that brain of yours.”
My eyes snap to where he’s sitting across from me and my lip curls into a sneer as I warn him, “You better take that back Malfoy, or else I’m going to kill you, and unlike my brother I know other spells than just expelliarmus.”
“Careful, Potter, you don’t have your boyfriend to protect you.” He blurts, and he can already tell it’s a bad idea from the way his eyes widen at his own words, and the way mine narrow. In a flash, I stood up and held my wand up against his throat. I have very little patience today, men have been disappointing me; with my brother’s stupid actions, Ron’s cowardice and Malfoy’s existence.
I threaten him, pressing my wand more tightly against his neck, “If there is anything I hate more than you, Malfoy, it would be someone thinking that I’m helpless and in need of someone to protect me. You’ll have to remember that, if you want to continue living.”
Malfoy stands up and it’s only then that I realise that he towers over me when standing even when he’s leaning from the other side of the table. It doesn’t deter me though, what does deter me is the way he grabs my wrist in his hand, effectively stopping me from being able to move my wand. He grunts, “You cannot threaten me.”
“I can, and I will.” I insist, and he pulls me closer to him by my wrist. The edge of the table digging into my stomach. The top of my chest pressed against his, but I can’t bother to notice as I look into his eyes filled with pure and utter hatred. He plucks my wand from my finger tips, despite me grabbing onto it harder. He jabs, “You seem to be forgetting that I know a few spells myself.”
I’m just about to give him a nasty retort when his finger grips onto the back of my hand. I recoil, shoving my hand away from his grip as I hold on tightly to my hurt hand. I let out a hiss and scrunch up my face in pain. Malfoy takes a step back himself and drops my wand onto the table.
I seethe as I look at the scar at the back of my hand that has the words ‘I must not tell lies’ permanently imprinted after so many uses of the blood quill last year. Malfoy leans closer to me in order to see my hand. He scoffs while saying matter-a-factly, “That cannot be hurting after all this time.”
“You’re one to talk, got scratched by a hippogriff and acted like you were a few seconds from death.” I bark, and he opens and shuts his mouth. Even he couldn’t defend his dramatic actions during third year. I continue, “Besides, you wouldn’t know, would you? Too busy kissing Umbridge’s arse last year to get one of these like the rest of us!”
I bend down to quickly grab my wand from the table, and I get my stationary. I shove them all haphazardly into my bag, huffing with each action, still feeling the sting of it on my hand. I leave the library fuming, simply unable to withstand another second in his presence.
a/n: if you want to be added to the series taglist let me know, and if you didn't think this completely sucked, feel free to check out my Harry Potter Masterlist
Part five here!
just watched twilight for the first time. It was quite possibly the most unintentionally funny thing I have ever seen in my life. Why is it written, acted, and shot like it’s a parody of the actual twilight
Pairing: George Weasley + reader
warnings: nothing I believe but let me know
Summary: You take your nephew to the zoo and you meet a lovely young girl and her uncle.
word count: 2.2k
“I want to see the Giraffes now!” my gremlin of a little nephew says, stomping his feet on the ground, ignoring the glorious elephants beside him, that he asked to see less than five minutes ago. He tugs on my hand, tilting my back towards him while I stumble to get my footing. I fold, “Okay, okay, we will go see the Giraffes as long as you act more calmly, okay?”
A satisfied grin rests on his face, and he juts his nose up to the sky and skips a few steps ahead of me towards the Giraffe exhibit. How my sister deals with toddlers I don’t know. The sun is beating down on us, just enough for a little sweat to rest on the top of my forehead. I keep my eyes on him and walk faster to fall in step with him. He stops for a second, abruptly enough that he almost tumbles forward and I reach out to catch him. His eyes fixate on something. He whispers, “woowwwww.”
The giraffes aren’t for at least two minutes, is it possible that another animal caught his fancy? I look to where he is looking, past the few people that surround us and smile. He runs off towards the little girl with the ginger hair and a beautiful little floral dress. She’s fixing her tiara on top of her head when he asks her, “Are you a fairy?”
The girl smiles back and she nods her head proudly, “obviously, I’ve got magic too!”
A man with ginger hair (related to her definitely) pants as he reaches the little girl and he chuckles nervously, “No, no, no sort of magic here.” He grabs the little girl, lifting her on his shoulders while she clutches him tightly, her legs flailing around as she excitedly giggles. His eyes take a look at Lucas and I, stumbling slightly, eyes widening. He clears his throat, straightening his back as he rests his hands firmly on her legs, keeping her secure. She says, “but you said-”
“I’ll tell you when we get back to granny’s, Roxanne,” he says, tapping her leg while his left hand. My nephew shakes his head and he looks at the man in annoyance, just about ready to roll his eyes, “You’re wrong! She’s obviously a fairy!”
The man looks at him curiously, and I laugh. He’s never had a problem with telling people that they’re wrong especially when it comes to things like these. I take a step forward, putting my hand on his shoulder, I say, “Sorry about Lucas, he loves talking about mythical creatures. Just last month I got a stern talking to when I mistook a Griffin for a Hippogriff."
Roxanne exclaims excitedly and starts, “I just saw a Griffin last week-”
“No! No, we haven’t!” the man replies quickly, his eyes shifting around and he gets Roxanne off his shoulders and back onto the ground after she wouldn’t stop moving her legs, hitting him on his chest. He says, “Except in a flim that we saw last week.”
“You mean a film?” I say, making sure that I heard him correctly. His cheeks turn pink and he nods his head. Roxanne interrupts, now bored of us, tugging on her father? Brother? relative’s hand, digging her heels into the ground to tug as hard as she can, “Come on! Come on! I want to go see the giraffes!”
“We’re going there too!” Lucas exclaims happily. He starts to run off towards the exhibit following the colorful signs posted. Roxanne follows him, dropping the man’s hand. I shout, “Don’t run too fast! Stay close to me!”
He nods his head and slows down to a jog, not too happy about the interruption. The zoo isn’t too crowded today, a strategic decision I took. Only a few people would visit the zoo at ten am on a Tuesday. Lucas could take a day off from school, but there was no way I’d take him here while it was crowded, the smell of the animals was bad enough, hard to imagine what it would be like with crowds of people.
Roxanne and Lucas start talking about giraffe facts, just barely in ear-shot:
“Giraffe’s have unique spot prints, the same way we have unique finger prints!”
“Their tongue is purple so they don’t get sunburned when reaching for leaves!”
“They only sleep for thirty minutes a day and take two minute naps.”
I listen attentively, hearing facts that I didn’t even know myself. Guess that book I bought him on animal facts for his birthday was doing some good. I remember the person walking alongside me and I shoot the man a small smile while we walked behind the kids. He says, “Hello, I’m George.”
I shake his hand and offer him my name. Or my nickname, Birdie.
I notice that the kids have stopped running and instead started ‘walking’, I say ‘walking’ because they’re taking each step with their legs stretched out as far as they can, and snapping their fingers together on each hand. I guess they’ve moved on to the topic of crabs. Next thing you know, Lucas will get bored of the zoo and ask me to take him to the aquarium.
“I take it Lucas is an animal lover too?” George asks with a brilliant toothy smile, and I nod my head, trying to show the same positive attitude when the sun is shining right into my eyes, I image it’s more a grimace than a grin, “Yes, and all types too, doesn’t matter if they’re mythical or real.”
“Roxanne is the same way.”
“Is she your kid?” I ask, the ginger hair is already a give away and he seems a little bit too old to be her brother, though they do look very similar. It’s a shame, he’s actually quite handsome. I wish I had combed my hair better. He shakes his head, “Roxanne’s my niece.”
Hmm interesting… I say, “But the both of you look nearly identical.”
“She’s the daughter of my twin, so she’s got my looks,” he explains and I nod my head. I find it hard to believe that there’s two of that face. He adjusts his bag on his shoulders, a large one, similar to the big duffle I’m carrying full of Lucas’ stuff, except while mine has lions, his has…a phoenix? A beat passes before he asks, curiously, “Is Lucas your’s?”
“No, he’s my nephew,” I say, and his grin widens, as his mouth makes an ‘o’ in understanding. Lucas claps his hands when he sees a giraffe’s head only a few feet away. He taps Roxanne on her shoulder and points at the giraffe. She exclaims, excitedly, and runs back to where we are. She grabs her uncle’s arm and pulls, “come on, you’re both walking too slowly!”
George laughs, and picks her up in his arms, running towards the giraffe. It’s a stunning yet rare sight when you see a man taking care of a kid, especially one that’s not his own. Lucas gives me a pointed look and I too hurry up my pace. He runs after the two of them, until they’re winded and standing in front of the fence. Lucas and Roxanne watch the giraffes, all three of them in awe, their jaws slack.
I notice a woman in uniform selling small bags of romaine lettuce, I walk over to her and buy two bags of them. I walk over to the kids and hand each of them a plastic bag. They both jump excitedly and Roxanne thanks me while Lucas promptly ignores me and heads over to the feeding area. George says, thankfully, “You didn’t have to do that-”
“It’s alright, look at how happy they are,” I say, watching the zoo employee helping them both feed the smallest giraffe big bites of the lettuce, giggling when the giraffe’s big and slimy tongue would touch their hands. George replies, “That’s very nice of you, Roxanne looks very happy.”
I fold my arms and swallow the compliment thankfully. George puts his arms over his chest too. He suggests, “At least let me help you carry your bag, your shoulder looks just about ready to give up.”
I laugh and think about it for a moment, consequences defeated under the pain in my shoulder. I mumble a thank you and slide the bag off my shoulder, handing it to him, fingers brushing so slightly, his warm hand a contrast to my cold fingertips. The action makes me look away flustered as if I were just a teenager. I bite my bottom lip before asking, “so, what do you do for work?”
“Umm, my brother and I, we-uh, we own a shop together,” he stutters, and I nod while he brushes the back of his neck with his fingers then rubbing his hands together. He prompts me to say my own job, eyes twinkling. I say, “I’m getting my masters, right now but I teach part time.”
He listens intently, but almost too attentive as though he doesn’t understand something I said. Lucas and Roxanne come running back after feeding the giraffes and I notice the saliva dripping off his hands. I try not to act too disgusted. George acts more quickly, bringing out a few wet wipes from Roxanne’s bag. I take them both gratefully. Lucas says, “Can we go to the lions too?”
I take both his hands in mine and hand him two of the wet wipes. He removes the saliva from his hands and I make sure that he even cleans underneath his nails. He takes a step to the side and drops both the wipes in the trash bin. I ruffle his hair, supportively and he beams at that. Roxanne adds while George is cleaning her hands, “can we also go see the zebras? Oh, oh, and also the alligators!”
“I don’t know…we don’t know how much time they’re got,” George says, before giving me a sort of sly look in passing, only looking at in between glances while he focuses on making Roxanne’s hands practically shine, “Birdie might have plans after with her…boyfriend?”
“Oh, I don’t have a boyfriend,” I reply but catch on nonetheless. I take Lucas’ hand in mine and I ask, perhaps not as subtlety as I’d like to, my voice lifting at the end of my sentence, “But we wouldn’t want to keep you too long, especially if you have something to do after with your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend either,” he says far too gleefully, “we can stay for a while longer then, Roxanne go to the map and figure out where the lions are,” he says, and I look away, momentarily, hiding the tiny blush on my face. Roxanne and Lucas go to the paper map that’s framed on the wall next to us with some folded up tiny maps hung beside it. George says, “Excuse me for a minute.”
He heads to where Roxanne is and tugs her to the side, and they start whispering. Roxanne looks at me with a suspicious smile before listening to what her uncle is saying. Lucas comes rushing back towards me and he starts to explain the route that we’re supposed to take to find the lions. He holds up one of the tiny foldable maps, and he says, “Mom told me that there is supposed to be a cub that was just a few months ago, that means that he’s around my age in ‘lion’ years!”
“That’s great, Lucas!” I say, and I take the map from his hands, inspecting it quickly before giving it back to him. It’ll be good for his brain if he’s able to lead us there on his own with the map, I’ll let him try at least. I say, “Take a good look at the map because you’re going to be the one taking us there, okay?”
He nods his head, puffing up his chest with the new responsibility and then he focuses on the map with determination, staring at it a bit too hard. I subtly snicker and then I feel a small tug on the bottom of my shirt. Roxanne standing there with a big grin on her face, her tiara falling slightly over her eyes, I pushed it backwards with my index finger, making sure not to tug on her hair. George standing behind her.
“Yes, Roxanne?” I bow down to wear her height.
“Uncle Georgie told me to ask you if you want to go to the aquarium with us next week-” in the periphery of my vision, I see George slam his hand into his face, “he says it’s because you’re pretty and he wants to know you better,” she pauses for a second before scrunching up her face in confusion, “but he told me not to tell you that part-”
“Alright, Roxanne, that’s enough of that, thank you,” George says, taking her small hand in his and whispering for her to go play with the map with Lucas. He stretches back to his full stature, and he takes a shallow breath, stroking his chin fleetingly. I laugh, it’s something deep from my chest, kids weren’t made to be matchmakers, “maybe next time, don’t rely on a kid to ask someone out for you.”
“I thought it would make my odds better,” he chuckles, tucking a loose strand of his fluffy hair behind his ear, but it falls back over his eyes anyways. I roll my eyes affectionately, it is impossible to say no to Roxanne’s huge eyes. I reply, “I’d say your odds are pretty good either way.”
“Does that mean you’ll come with us?”
“Yes, but only if we go to dinner afterwards.”
a/n: I'll be honest, I feel like this is probably my least favorite or my second least favorite birdie fic I've written till now😭. I really like the idea of it but I feel like I wrote it all wrong *tears*. But anyways, checkpoints part four is coming soon, and either way I hope you enjoyed reading, you can find my other masterlists here, specifically my marauders masterlist and Harry Potter masterlist. This one-shot is a part of the birdie masterlist. If you wish to support me, you can buy me a coffee here.
Always better than stairs (Sirius Black fanfiction)
pairing: Sirius Black + gn!Reader
word count: approx. 1k
summary: you meet a hot stranger in the elevator on your way to an interview (AU)
warnings: interviews, Sirius being gorgeous and elevators getting stuck, lmk if you find anything else
a/n: grown from my hate for stairs
“Twentieth floor, please,” I say to the man standing in front of the elevator buttons. I step inside of and stay in the left corner, I straighten my back and clutch my file closer to my chest. A woman steps inside on the first floor just when the man got off. She pressed the buttons to the eighth floor. She shoots me a smile that I return.
I let out a low smooth breath, sucking the inside of my cheek. I should try to remain calm, I’m already fifteen early to the interview, that’s enough time to get my nerves to simmer down. The elevator dings again, reaching the third floor, and…a gorgeous, gorgeous man steps inside. Instinctively, I shoot my head down and pluck my phone out of my pocket. I checked the time again, and a minute passed.
“Morning,” he says in a sleek deep voice. I whisper a reply, and he steps inside deep into the elevator too, just on the right side. I press both my lips tightly together, and I slowly turn my face to the side, sneaking a peak.
His hair was combed, and long, just above his shoulders. His jaw is sharp and his face, angular. He’s wearing a very polished suit with a briefcase in his left hand. My lips part, he's probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. He feels my eyes on him and he looks at me, I look away quickly.
He chuckles a bit and he smiles. The woman in front of us looks back at us, before the elevator door dings again, opening. Gorgeous leans forward and checks the buttons pressed on the elevator and subtly nods. He doesn’t press another button. He puts his hands in his pockets and he leans back slightly on the elevator walls. I didn’t know leaning could look so good.
I pull out my phone again, ugh, I must look so creepy staring at him like that. Pull yourself together, Birdie.
The lights flash closed and the elevator halts to a stop. My stomach lurches and I place my hand on the wall beside me. I whisper a curse, I can’t afford to be late to my interview…at least I can explain being stuck in the elevator of the same building. I turn on my phone’s flashlight and wave it around the elevator.
The man grimaces when I accidentally flash the light onto his eyes. I say, “Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he answers back and he takes a singular step towards the elevator buttons and pushes the emergency one. I didn’t notice how tall he was before. He says, “It’ll take around five minutes.”
He says it like it’s happened a million times before. He must know this place inside and out. I ask, pointing my phone to the side, enough so I can see his face but it’s still dark, “so you work here?”
“Yeah, they mentioned this would happen, they’re fixing the power lines of the building, they said they’d have to cut the electricity at some point. I just remember it being after everyone leaves…” he trails off, and pulls out his own phone. He gives it a few taps before raising it to the ceiling. He tuts, “No signal.”
“Beats taking the stairs, right?” I joke, remembering how they told me downstairs that I’d have to go up twenty floors before I promptly asked where the elevator was. The man chuckled and looked at me with a beautiful smile. My heart fluttered in my chest as he agreed, “goes without saying.”
The lights flicker back on, but the elevator stays in place. I checked my phone again, only two minutes had passed. It’s weird being stuck in an elevator with the guy of my dreams and not being able to enjoy it because I’m worried about missing an interview. I notice a hint of dust on my pristine black shoes, if there’s enough time, I’ll go wipe it off in the ladies’ room.
Not like they’d look at my shoes anyways. The lady I spoke to on the phone seemed so nice about everything, but I don’t know how nice her employer will actually be. Black enterprises are known for being cut-throat and ruthless, unfortunately, they also have the best jobs and salaries.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says, and I snap my head towards him. I clear my throat before answering with a curt smile, “Yeah, I’m coming for an interview.”
He nods his head, and then pauses. The elevator starts up and starts moving upwards. I sigh as I see the button to the twentieth floor light up. I silently sigh and check my phone, okay, I’m not late, only a minute till the interview. I sure hope whomever’s interviewing me was aware that the elevator was stuck.
We’re on the fifteenth floor now. I straighten my back as I get ready to walk out. He asks, lifting his hand up, “Your interview is on the twentieth?”
“Yes.”
“You aren’t here for the column writer position, are you?” he asks, and I frown, nodding my head. The elevator door dings open and he places his hand in front of his body motioning for me to walk out first. I step out and I question, “Yeah, why?”
He smiles but the corners of his eyes don’t wrinkle like they did when he laughed earlier. He says, “Well, it’s good to see you on time. I’m Sirius Black, do you want a moment for yourself first or should we head on with the interview in my office?”
a/n: I hope you enjoyed reading, you can find my other masterlists here, specifically my marauders masterlist and Harry Potter masterlist. This one-shot is a part of the birdie masterlist. If you wish to support me, you can buy me a coffee here.
